The Sound of the Suburbs

Watching a documentary on American cities on the box this evening, I was reminded how different their suburbs sound from those of European cities. It's the speed, number and the type of vehicles that does it, together with the traffic control.

In the US, they have V8 petrol engines that loudly growl. They have automatic gearboxes so that the engines rev quickly and loudly up to a maximum pitch, then drop again. There's a strongl throb to the engines which I find most attractive, and (so a female friend tells me) can be a real aphrodisiac. It's a very different sound from the smaller, manual-gearbox controlled diesel and petrol mix that we have, and much louder.

Has anyone else noticed this? And how will it change with the increasing price of fuel both here and there?


:0]

Avignon

Not Avalon, but still a city to thrill.

We arrived here with the assumption that the bridge would be narrow, complete, and twee; and that there would be little else to see in the city. We were wrong. Avignon's old town is a superb tourist destination, with narrow fascinating streets, history on all sides, and a cleanliness that doesn't exist here any more. Apart from the crottes. As a town for a day's proper tourism after a week of walking in the hills, it was hard to beat. Instead of taking it easy we just walked around in wonder, tiring ourselves more in the streets than we did on the trails. The food was good (in my eyes) and the reaction to tourists relaxed.

But we heard English spoken in the streets! After a week of nothing but French and each other, it was a shock to be eating in a resto and have other groups of Brits walk in, braying loudly at themselves and the waitress. And then one cafe we ate in had Duffy playing on the radio, bringing Moonface and I back to earth with a bump.

See you here in June ?


;0)

Steinbeck & Success

"The things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second."

Cannery Row.
John Steinbeck,

It's getting warmer....

Wake early.
Cycle around the Downs.
Breakfast.
Two hours gardening / groundkeeping / shovelling at the Lake, to help prepare for the new season.

Two minutes' swim. Testicles retracted as far as my throat.
Home. Lunch in the garden.
Snooze. etc.
Potter.
Cook a curry.
Potter some more.

Life's not bad, you know.

:)

Ska, summer and smells

Summer seems to be approaching at last.
Yesterday, Saturday, was warm and fine; after initial cool and overcast skies the weather cleared into a glorious afternoon of sun and light winds.

Moonface and I went for a walk into Abbott's Leigh and around the Failand area. As we had planned "just a stroll" we took neither maps nor water so we predictably ended up slightly lost and rather thirsty. I' had been unprepared for the unusual warmth, so instead of wearing a loose shirt I had taken a thick, long-sleeved T-shirt then walked most of the way bare-chested and pink scalped as I caught the sun.

For some reason, my sense of small was heightened. A bank of forget-me-nots was intensely scented and the usual grassy and farmyard odours impinged much more than usual all afternoon.

In the evening, we went to see a Ska band at the Fleece, strolling down the Gloucester Road just at twilight. Again, the smells around us were intensified. On Castle Green, this was surreal as the cherry blossom was glowing brightly in the sodium lights, yet we were surrounded by the normal Saturday night stinks of chip-fat and distant kebabs. In the Fleece, my nose worked overtime. We were standing at the back of the hall, on the route to the loos so that everyone needing to empty their bladder (which, at a Ska gig, is nearly everyone) had to walk past us. The variety of odours was fascinating and not always repulsive. There were whiffs of body odour and sweat, beer and cigarettes, perfume and make-up, kebabs, garlic and coriander. And I smelled them, leaning closer rather than away as people pushed past just to make the most of this unusually intense sense that had arrived for the day.

As an aside, the main band (the Emperials) was fun. Not exceptional, but fun and loaud and competent at playing music to bop to. The cover versions were recognisable, so that singing along was fun, too. And we arrived home well after midnight.


:o)

Ou se trouvent les bestioles?

Where are all the wild animals in France?
During our recent trip there, we didn't see a single wild mammal, either from the trains in which we travelled, or when out walking. Admittedly we did see plenty of droppings and trqaces of various sorts, which ranged from boar scrapings to badger tracks to genet and fouine spraints. But we didn't actually see one mammal.

Contrast that with the train journeys which we took to and from Southampton Airport for our flight. The travel time and speeds were roughly comparable with the train travelling times in France, but we saw so much more wildlife. On the way out, we spotted at least three small groups of deer, a fox, and many rabbits. On the return leg, which was mainly in the dark, we saw two lots of deer in the twilight, plus the ubiquitous rabbits.

So where are all the French animals? The human population density there is lower than in England, so it's not competition. Do the French shoot everything they can? Do they hunt even the smallest mammals?

:o[

James

Last night, Moonface and I went to see our first "big name" concert for years: James. It proved to be a different experience from the small, local bands that we usually see, and for me it was more akin to being at a festival in that I felt somewhat remote from the experience, rather that having the music become a visceral part of me and myself a part of the crowd.

James played at the Colston Hall, a venue that I have only been to for classical music over recent years, and the ambience and perhaps the familiarity with many of the songs from the '90's put me into the frame of mind which I often sink into when listening to classical music: a reverie of stray thoughts and odd memories dredged up from the depths of my mind.

As suited a 90's band, the audience was very much a cohort of 30-40 year olds, with a smatterieing of youngsters and oldies like ourselves. We didn't recognise anyone, though. The music itself was played exceptionally well, with a fair mixture of old hits and new songs from the recent album. It seems a trite thing to say, but the great thing about James is the specific combination of words and tune, the lyricism and clarity of the verse combines with the anthem-like qualities of the music; especially the overarching use of trumpet to provide an inspirational quality to encourage the audience to sing along.

As I wrote above, though, for some reason I became semi-detached from the emotional qualities of the music. Perhaps it was the memories brought up, perhaps it was the surrounds or the fact that we were initially seated rather than standing. Whatever the cause, the whole experience was different from the usual intimate gig atmosphere that I am used to, but most of the audience seemed to be completely in tune with the band and sang along as they should. Will I return to the Colston Hall for another band in the near future? I don't know. Let's see what's on offer.


:-]

Cameras

I'm still excited.

I'm over fifty, yet I have never before owned a camera of my own. I've borrowed them, I've used Moonface's many times, but I've never had one of my own before.

Just before our recent holiday I bought one for my own use and I've had fun. It's easy to use, has a decent zoom, and seems to take good pictures. I've taken lots. That's the great thing about digital cameras - you can make mistakes, play around, and not be worried about the cost of film or of developing. In earlier times, I remember that we were very aware of the (relatively) huge cost of photography which was very inhibiting. Of course, in our youth we were also taking pictures of the wrong things: places instead of people, landscapes instead of streets. Now we have albums of places that we don't recognise, but fewer of friends past: the important memories are gone.

So I intend to take pictures of people and of the ordinary sites around town. I recognise that Bristol has changed, so in another thirty years I want to be able to spot those changes, and remind myself and children how it used to be, how it is now. From the cars in the streets to the Banksy graffiti, it needs recording for my personal interest.

:0)

From Langogne

In 1878, Stevenson wrote so much better than I do: of his ascent from the Allier valley, he said:

"All the way up the long hill from Langogne it rained and hailed alternately; the wind kept freshening steadily, although slowly; plentiful hurrying clouds--some dragging veils of straight rain-shower, others massed and luminous as though promising snow--careered out of the north and followed me along my way."

Of course, Moonface and I had a wind from the south, blowing into our faces to force our jacket hoods up and our heads down, for protection against its chilling bite. Instead of a donkey to carry our baggage, we had a taxi to take most of our goods from hotel to hotel, although we each carried a rucksack of goods which might be needed during the day.


:O)

Chemin Stevenson, from Langogne

Just as Stevenson found, the long trek upwards and south from Langogne was made in bitter weather. For him, it was in October; for Moonface and myself, in April. The wind and rain were in our faces and as we gained height the rain turned to hail and sleet. The rim of my hat became encrusted in ice and the melting sleet trickled down my neck as we bent into the gale.

This was not how we had intended to start our walk to the flatlands of the Gard.
Nor had we intended to arrive in Langogne with nowhere to stay, but the Gite d'Etape which we had booked proved to be closed when we arrived and was still shut after we returned to it after an hour of wandering the streets. Fortunately we found a suitable cheap hotel nearby which was willing to take us as their only guests that night, and we were treated to a superb meal which was strangely bleached, being nearly all of white and meal-coloured foods. This, the Hotel des Voyageurs (?) had recently been taken over and the proprietor was unaware of the relais Stevenson as a source of guests, as we discussed before Moonface and I left in the rain that next morning.

We underestimated the distance of that first day's walk, so we prudently decided to walk the last few Ks on the road. We hitch-hiked again, and we were even offered a lift by a couple of counter-cultured women complete with piercings and dyed hair. They were kind, as we were neither clean nor dry by that time.

At La Bastide we were again the only guests in the hotel, in a town shut down for winter, as the Lightning Seeds would have sung.


:O)

Four weeks

It's been four weeks since I last wrote on the Chalybeate. There's been plenty to write about, both in terms of diary entries (things I've done) and thoughts that I should have captured; but I seem to have lost the will. I don't seem to have the motivation that I used to, but I don't know why. It's not work, although the other lacunae in the register of entries seem to show that new job = no writing. So why aren't I writing? There's certainly lots of stress at home, but that seems to be easing now.

Let's leave it a week, and see how the issue resolves itself.


:0(