Villereal - slightly drier today

Wild peaches

OK, hands-up, I'll admit it. Despite the achievement of cycling from Bergerac to the Lot on Friday, there was no way I wanted to repeat the performance in reverse today, and so I very gratefully accepted a lift home. We followed my cycling route, and I was amazed how far it felt even by car. We stopped at Monflanquin to explore the square and church. Villeréal was drier, and Issigeac was closed to traffic.

Back home, the house was cold and the milk sour. With the gas heater on full blast, the house soon began to defrost. I sorted myself out and took a walk into town to stretch my legs. Later I called in at L’Enfance de Lard which was cosily warm and ready for a busy Halloween. After some very welcome aperitifs I returned home to my soup and laptop to a soundtrack of Goldfrapp, Marc Almond and Bonnie “Prince” Billy.

A trick or treater rang the doorbell in vain. They never know any good tricks.

Tomorrow, work begins in earnest. Then in eric.

Is that all? Yes, that's the lot.

You can see the Lot from here

I woke up to the most fantastic sunny day. The sky was bright blue without a cloud in sight. Down the lane, hunters fired shots at deer and the sound of hunting dogs barking filled the air. After a late breakfast we headed out by car to explore the pretty village of Puy-l’Eveque where an old fellow sold chestnuts in the car park and we contemplated buying a ruined house on a steep hill. From here we saw a signpost to Les Arques, which was the setting of a book about life in the Lot which we had all read so we headed off to find it. We passed a beautiful village and chateau on the way. The town of Les Arques itself was very pretty, and we spent some time wandering around trying to place the locations described in the book. We tried to follow three rather large French women into their kitchen to ask directions to the restaurant but thought better of it. Particularly interesting was the old church and the sculptures by local wartime artist, Zadkine.

We traced a route back towards the Lot, and then followed the road along the winding banks of the river to Luzech and then on to Cahors, which is a large, bustling metropolis in comparison to the other places we had visited.

Back to the house for another great evening of fantastic food, fine wine, delightful company and a cosy, wood-burning stove, all rounded off with cleansing lager. All in all a great day.

Les Arques - and no, you can't see Paris from here

What a lot I got

Mr Rusty in Monflanquin

Cramp without style

And so it did come to pass that on this last Friday of October 2004 the sun shone down on sleepy Bergerac and I made the decision to cycle from the Dordogne to the Lot. I rustled up some sandwiches, ensured I had emergency rations of bananas and chocolate (that’ll be my Duke of Edinburgh Award training again), rubbed the sleep from my eyes, made sure Mr Rusty was well lubricated and set off on an incroiable journey.

I crossed the Dordogne and pointed myself in the direction of Issigeac, carefully selecting small, country lanes. On and on I went through vineyards and farmland. The weather was fine, but a little cold but I was generating plenty of heat. The roads seemed to go on forever and around every corner was another hill to climb. Eventually I reached Issigeac and made myself comfortable on an old stone wall to contemplate the map. Mmm, that seemed like quite a journey in itself and I was barely quarter of the way. Well, there was no going back now so I decided to press on to Villeréal where I planned to stop for lunch.

This bit wasn’t too bad – no steep hills and I was covering the ground quite well. Then it started to drizzle. Then it started to shower. Then the heavens opened and I could hardly see where I was going. There wasn’t anywhere to shelter so I just kept on going in the lashing rain until I reached the old bastide town (I found another name for these towns before the day was out). It was one o’clock so I found a damp, stone bench under the ancient covered square to eat my now soggy sandwiches. Delicious. Intrigued French villagers stopped to stare at me as if I was some sort of alien visitor – which I suppose I must have looked like. One old woman, carrying the obligatory ubiquitous loaf of bread stopped in front of me and started yacking away unintelligibly. I smiled at her as she spoke but couldn't translate a single word. When she finally stopped her rant, I said, 'Ah, mais oui!' Fortunately she seemed satisfied enough with that response, and wandered off in the rain humming to herself. Another successful interaction with the locals.

I was getting cold sitting there in the wet, so I decided the only thing for it was to carry on with the next leg of my journey to Monflanquin. What I hadn’t bargained for when I planned this route was that all these old towns are located on the tops of hills, which means a long and gruelling ascent which Mr Rusty wasn’t designed for, despite the meaningless 'mountain bike' tag. I panicked a bit when I started to get cramp in my legs which got so painful at one stage I had to stop and do some stretching exercises which further intrigued the French drivers who probably thought I was trying to push trees over. I recovered enough to make the final, punishing ascent to Monflanquin. This was a beautiful, hilltop bastide town with fantastic views over the Lot. Now I was getting somewhere. I stopped and rested for a while on a stone bench. At least the rain had relented.

I whizzed down the other side of the hill but when I hit even more steeply climbing roads further on, my speed reduced to walking pace. I did however catch up with a grit spreader and was happily crunching along in the wake of the fresh gravel when the driver slowed down to wave me past. Pathetically I couldn't get up enough speed to overtake him and for a few moments we travelled side by side, him smiling cheerily at me, roll up permanently wedged between the gap in his front teeth.

My legs were really hurting now, but I continued with clenched teeth and steely determination. At one stage, I got the cramp pains in my legs again so I stopped for a rest, but when I got down off Mr Rusty my legs gave way from under me and I collapsed onto a heap of wet, muddy leaves and acorns. Attractive that. I was delighted to see a red squirrel scampering about in the hedgerow as I slowly pedalled onwards once more.

I descended to Fumel, crossed the Lot river (shouting ‘Whoopee-do! Yeeee-haaaa’) and then began the climb towards Tournon d’Agenais. As I did so I had the misfortune to witness the death of a red squirrel which scampered across the road just ahead of me as a lorry sped past. By the time I reached it, it was dying on the tarmac, its fiery red fur standing out against the wet road, and its beautiful bright tail twitching in the final throes of death and its fine little squirrel face staring uncomprehendingly up at me. I was devastated – I had been so thrilled to see one of these rare creatures earlier on, and now I had seen one pointlessly mown-down in front of me. Being a sensitive fellow, I had to fight back a tear or two as I continued pedalling on.

I stopped at a side turning and made a phonecall as arranged and was very grateful a little later on to see headlights flashing and to be picked up by car, just a few kilometres from my final destination. It had been hard work, but I felt quite a sense of achievement.

I was driven to a most charming, remote converted farmhouse near Masquieres and I have never enjoyed a hot bath so much. Revived on tea, beer, wine and the most splendid meal of pate, duck and tarte tatin and great company I retired to my comfy bed up in the rafters and slept solidly for ten hours.

It's so cold in Alaska

Today, like yesterday, I committed myself to writing. So I got up and I read Truman Capote. Then I tried to write. Have you any idea how hard it is trying to write anything at all that doesn't sound trite and cliched after reading this genius author? Well, in the words of the dame, it ain't easy.

After getting myself in a bit of a lather over the meaningless of it all, I made myself a ham sandwich and pressed on.

I took a walk into town and bought myself a map, because tomorrow I am going on a journey. Oh yes, I cannot be contained within the walls of this small town for long. I'm off to see the world. Well, Lot-et-Garonne anyway. I am planning to travel there upon Mr Rusty, weather permitting, so I had to plan myself a route.

Back home I slammed on Lou Reed (he wasn't complaining) and listened to what Caroline said. Why are all these people so bloody talented? Ian McCulloch, Truman Capote, Lou Reed - I am surrounded by brilliance and I feel myself sinking into a mire of mediocrity. Maybe if I read the Daily Mail for a few days I would feel better about myself. So I sat down to Tuesday's Times crossword (kindly passed to me by people who realised my lack of crossword puzzles was causing my brain to seize up) for some stimulation and even that failed to stimulate me.

This evening I was employed as washerupperer and general extra hand (ha ha) at L'Enfance de Lard. The ladies division of the Rotary Club were there en masse and we had to bang out 25 starters, main courses and desserts rather quickly. I helped where I could, but generally did my best to stop the washing-up from piling up and to ensure M&A's glasses didn't go empty for too long. At the end of the evening we sat down with some of the most important ladies from the organisation, who were absolutely charming, and drank champagne.

So, tomorrow if the weather is fair I shall be setting off for a 50 mile ride on Mr Rusty. Consequently, you may never hear from me again. Thanks for listening. You have been a great comfort to me.

All being well, I'll be back on Sunday.

I'm going from top left to bottom right tomorrow

The Killing Moon

I think there are going to be many more days like today as time goes by. It's not going to make very interesting reading I'm afraid, so I'll be brief.

Got a bit stuck into the Truman Capote book I'm reading: 'The Grass Harp'. It's one of the few stories of his I haven't read and so I've been saving it up for ages. It was worth waiting for and I can barely put it down. Eventually I did and got on with some serious writing.

Around lunchtime I was offered a lift to L'Eclerc, so seeing as the old reserves were getting a little on the low side, I set off for a supermarket sweep and some salad. After lunch I set to work sorting out my hose in the bath - the original had sprung a spectacular leak and had to be replaced. Job done, I got back to my writing.

Wandered over to L'Enfance de Lard for a natter and an aperitif before the first guests arrived then set to work on my leek (second leak/leek of the day - repetition!) and potato soup which was delicious even if I say so myself. Well, there's nobody else here to say it I can assure you, although I have found a face in the living room ceiling which is a little disconcerting late at night.

Oh - title reference! My Best of Echo & the Bunnymen CD turned up today after a long wait and it has been going round and round many times. I forgot to bring any and was getting needy for Monsieur McCulloch's dulcet tones. Feel better now.

Bring on the dancing horses

My beautiful launderette

I was trying to remember the last time I sat in a launderette, feeding coins into machines and getting vaguely hypnotised while watching the washing going round and round. It was probably when I was an impoverished student in Portsmouth, circa 1988. Well, this morning I found myself recreating the experience. I can wash most stuff by hand, but bedclothes and towels present more of a challenge.

Whilst the machines did their work and the drums filled up with soapy suds, I walked into town with André who was giving me a lesson in the finer points of French laundrette etiquette. I’m glad he was there or I wouldn’t have had a clue. We went for a coffee in a café which could have been a stage set for a David Lynch film. The cavernous, nicotine-stained place was deserted except for a line of individual men of a certain age loafing at the bar, eyes fixed on the television screen set high in the corner showing a glitzy game show. Damn fine coffee though.

Back at the launderette we dried and folded and then returned home. The sun was still shining fiercely so I was able to dry off the last of the stuff by draping it out of windows and along the balcony, shoo-ing away the resident pigeons.

The afternoon was spent catching up with my writing pursuits. I wandered around town later on to catch the last rays of sun, use the cash point and buy some cigarettes. The elderly lady in front of me in the queue won €100 on a scratchcard and there was much rejoicing, handshaking and kissing. I was so excited for her I nearly forgot what I went in for.

It was time to get my finances in order and matching how much I have spent against my budget. I made a new hole in my belt and took a sharp intake of breath.

‘’Allo ‘Allo!’ then goodnight sweetheart.

This woman could be dangerous and should not be approached.

Do you remember when I broke my leg in the Dordogne?

A fine morning of writing and ironing, before M&A arrived with the Sunday Times which we pawed over while pouring aperitifs. There followed a delightful al fresco meal of homemade soup, salad, marinated salmon, prawns, chicken and ham and some delicious tarts courtesy of L’Enfance de Lard.

It was time for Wino Jo to leave the country, so we wrestled the half-full wine glass from her vicelike grip and bundled her off to the airport. Ryan Air insist you check in two hours before the flight, but thankfully there is a pleasant bar and you can sit and watch the planes come and go. At 5.40pm we watched the RyanAir flight take-off, waving manically as it banked, turned and eventually turned into a tiny black speck and then vanished from our view. Immediately sales of rosé across the region plummeted and the French wine industry went into a nosedive.

We returned to the restaurant to wait for André’s return from the hospital where he had been for an x-ray. Thankfully no bones broken – just a tiny (though painful and debilitating) fracture. Feeling hungry we drove to Eymet for an Italian meal, for which we were joined by some friends of M&A. It transpired I had ordered ravioli with nettles. Delicious!

Well, the last few days have been a bit of a whirlwind and I am ready to get back into my daily writing routine, especially now I am armed with plenty of new material!

Pleased to see me?

Pumpkin pie

The weather is simply fantastic so I made the most of it on the terrace, and despite feeling a little weary managed to make time for some writing while Jo went off to take artistic photographs in and around Bergerac. She retuned with a baguette sticking out at a jaunty angle from under her arm.

Later in the afternoon, after lunch service had finished, we made our way over to L’Enfance de Lard for a kir royale heartstarter. Feeling fortified, we set off in the hire car to Issigeac for the annual pumpkin fair! Now if you like pumpkins, there is no better place to be. The pretty little town was brimful of pumpkins and gourds of every colour, shape and size – in fact some of the shapes would have provided sufficient 'Ooh looks a bit rude' gags for Esther Rantzen to fill a whole series of ‘That’s Life’. I have never seen such large ones either – some so big if you hollowed them out you could house a small family. Somebody should tell John Prescott.

Having had our fill of bulging pumpkin sights, we headed back towards Bergerac, stopping off at the Chateau de Monbazillac for a tasting of the famous sweet white wine, before arriving at some friends of M&A for aperitifs. We were treated to an intriguing drink, which looked and tasted a bit like real apple juice, but is actually the result of the very first pressing of the grapes in the winemaking process. It tastes delicious and kicks like a mule.

Back in the car and this time we headed west following the Dordogne to the charming little town called Tremolat which sits in the loop of one of the river’s many meanders. We were treated to pink champagne and exquisite canapés in the old chateau, followed by a tour of the beautiful restaurant and dining rooms. They had a lovely black Labrador lugubriously guarding the reception. She was just like Sammie and I came over all sentimental.

Across the road to the bistro for a delicious meal – chestnut soup and snails, cod and chocolate mousse and more champagne, while a cat stretched up to our laps for tidbits. We drove back taking the scenic route along the Dordogne where, if it had been daylight we would have seen some dramatic views. Back home for nightcaps and pyjamas.

This lot would add a scary touch to any Halloween party - and so would the pumpkins

Listen very carefully. I shall say this only once.

Phew! I’m back in the driving seat again.

Despite the previous evening’s activities we rose at 9am and headed off to explore the Saturday market once more. At this time we were unaware of André’s spectacular acrobatic feats on the stairs just a couple of hours earlier, so we were slightly confused when nobody answered the door at L’Enfance de Lard when we called by as previously arranged. We carried on regardless poking round the market - me marvelling at the sights and colourfulness of it all – and then noticing the lack of colour in Jo who was looking and feeling a little queasy. We made an emergency dash to a café for a caffeine injection and then circumnavigated the market once more, buying fresh raspberries and strawberries before returning to the house (and Jo retiring to her bed). I got on with my washing and some writing (not at the same time, obviously). It wasn't until later in the afternoon that we learned of André’s misfortunes, so I went round to inspect his injuries. Oh dear…with one hand out of action and a swollen wrist we wondered if the restaurant, famous for it’s ‘slow food served well’ would have to change the catchphrase to ‘slow food served even slower’.

We went to pick up a hire car but even this became complicated when we found the office unattended. It later materialised that we had to collect the car from the train station when the office is closed, so that involved a further journey and hanging around in a slow-moving queue in the ticket office.

Back to the house and it was my turn to cook again. I rustled up a tasty meal and then we settled down for a quiet evening with some episodes of ‘’Allo Allo!’ which were far funnier than I ever remember them being – or was that just the effect of the red wine?

Oh I do like to be beside the fountain!

Compiled by Guestblogger! This isn't Geoff talking to you...

After a rather nice lie in I got up and le soleil brille! It was glorious weather. Geoff and I toddled off in the direction of the shops as I needed to make some purchases but as we wandered past L’Enfance de Lard, Michael stuck his head out through the flaps and invited us in for an aperitif. Well……you can guess the rest I’m sure. I was on the rosé again (I do have the taste for it!) and Geoff was on the pastis. Stomachs started to rumble so we wandered across the way to Patrick’s place for some lunch. Three hours later, we were all stuffed. The boys had to go and sort out the restaurant so we hit the shops. Then back to the house, Geoff did some writing and I had a siesta (God, I’m turning into my mother and I had to cheek to moan about G and his slippers!) to prepare myself for the inevitable late night.

We arrived at the restaurant around 9ish to a full house. Had my handbag and gladrags on. Geoff had his manbag. The food was superb and wine very gluggable. Aperitifs of G&T’s were in order. After the other guests had gone, we cranked up the stereo to the delights of Mrs Miller, Nutbush City Limits and Karma Chameleon. We danced around the tables swinging our pants and took lots of photos to evidence this mad evening, some of which are on this blog. More champers materialised and I was talked out of my traditional dip in the fountain.

At some point in the early hours André, Geoff and I staggered back to the house waking up the neighbours, I conked out pretty early on so left the boys to it. I was woken up by a loud bang around 7am but didn’t know what it was so drifted off back into my alcoholic daze. I found out later that André had fallen down the stairs rather the worse for wear after sleeping on the sofa. He’s a bit bruised but no bones broken. I think he must be coming out in sympathy with Fidel Castro according to yesterday’s Guardian!

Jo had no idea the waiter was drinking her champagne when she wasn't looking

Geoff refused to handover his credit card so the chef forced him to do the washing-up

God - Patsy can put it away!

Rosé coloured glasses

Compiled by Guestblogger! This isn't Geoff talking to you...

Zut Alors! What an honour to be writing Geoff’s blog! I do hope you enjoy my entries. Wino Jo is my handle. Now where were we? Oh yes, I arrived Thursday afternoon on the daily Ryan Air flight. The landing was a little bumpy, I think the pilot may well have joined me in my traditional large Bloody Mary aperitif I have each time I fly. My case was the last one off the plane. Typical. Well, at least it turned up I guess. Michael picked me up in his lovely Smart car then it was back to the house for some champers sweetie. One….Two….bottles of champers were consumed and then it was onto the rosé wine box which was deadly as you have no real idea how much you have drunk. So after looking at the world through rosé coloured glasses I felt very chilled out.

As a thank you to Mr Bones Wobbly and Mr Moron (yes - we had a discussion about the worst variations of our names that we had been called and these won along with Miss Torndraws and Mr Smell!) I gave them a Halloween gift to go in their restaurant which is decked out in witchy paraphernalia. It was a vibrating toy that sang. I’ll say no more. It was gratefully received and now sits next to the witch that farts. Thankfully I managed to get it through Customs without any trouble! Thursday night ended chilling out on rosé to the early hours.

Champagne Charlie

Must’ve had a dodgy pint. A little on the fragile side today - and that sums up the morning.

Around about lunchtime Michael picked me up in the Smart and we tootled off to L’Eclerc to pick up some provisions – namely champagne which somebody must have stolen last night. I must put a lock on the fridge as this keeps happening.

Back home I ploughed on with some writing, hoovered, dusted and cleaned and prepared for the arrival of my first guest. Plumped up cushions - that sort of thing.

We assembled on terrace for a traditional champagne welcome to Bergerac. I cooked and appropriate noises were made.

You’re all bored of me now, I can tell. So I am going to hand over to my visitor to provide a ‘guest-blog’ edition starting from tomorrow. That ought to perk things up a bit around here.

Fish are masculine in French - not a handbag in sight

Just a liquid lunch for me Mrs M

In the wilds of Borneo

Satan rejected my soul and the bin men rejected my rubbish

The recycling procedure here is nothing short of impressive, as is the rubbish collection service. Rubbish is taken from outside the house every morning except Monday. You get two types of bag. One is yellow and is for recyclable stuff – paper, card, packaging, cans and plastic bottles – and the other is for general waste. Glass bottles you have to take to the bottle bank yourself – and I am well due a trip! Well, they took my recyclable stuff but my general waste bag had been opened up and inspected and left behind. Is there something I need to know? However, isn’t funny how quick we are to assume that the French are not bothered with any of this green agenda stuff, when in actual fact, even in a relatively small town like Bergerac they are running a better system of recycling waste than London! We should hang our heads in shame. (That should provoke some comments – Ed.)

I got up at 7am and waited until daylight before taking Mr Rusty out for a spin. This time I headed up into the vineyards of Pecharmant and found a myriad of lanes to explore and some great long downward hills to blow away the cobwebs. Given the opportunity of a steady slope Mr Rusty can reach some quite breathtaking speeds, despite my concerns in the stopping department. There’s always a grassy ditch to tumble into should the need arise. The sun broke through the clouds and lit up the countryside, and I chose myself a house to buy – in my mind. Anybody want to invest some cash in French property? With the sun and a warm breeze behind me I kept on going until I eventually came across a sign which pointed me back in the direction of Bergerac. One of these days I am going to get hopelessly lost, but so far so good. Anyway, there are worse places to be lost.

Back home for a hot shower, a vat of coffee and some writing before an appointment with lunch. I came across M&A already sitting outside the little restaurant on the old square which serves excellent salads and ice-creams – but not on the same plate. Fortified with a glass of kir we set about demolishing a delicious lunch and all the rosé they had. So we moved on to red.

It was such a glorious sunny day André took me on a guided tour of Bergerac, walking along the banks of the Dordogne and taking in his old school, open-air swimming pool, and other landmarks. Appetites reactivated, we stopped off at the fishmongers behind the cathedral where we bought a platter of oysters, prawns, shrimps and langoustine. Whilst that was being prepared, we looked around an antique shop and inside the cathedral itself. Picked up a bottle of Chablis and then back to the place I call home for champagne on the terrace.

Good food, a steady stream of champagne, excellent company and Maria Callas warbling in the background (I don’t know who invited her) and a good time was had by all until the wee small hours of the morning.

If you could see what I can see

OK, I’m going to come clean. I can’t stand it anymore. I’ve had enough. It’s just too bloody awful. Day after day exactly the same thing over and over again. Dreary and dull. The unending monotony - it’s driving me insane. If I have to endure anymore of this I think I will literally go stark-raving mad. I need more than this – I need something interesting, challenging, inspirational. It’s just empty, mundane and soul-destroying.

But that’s quite enough about French radio.

Apparently, pop music is Phil Collins and Genesis, Simply Red, Elton John, Sting, Dire Straits and U2. I have been listening to Radio Sud in an attempt to subliminally pick up bits of French but this playlist of MOR music is just the pits. I have become trapped in a continuous loop of late 80’s pop dreariness. They play better music in Asda. Make it stop! I’ve put on Scout Niblett, turned up the volume and instantly feel a million times better.

Well the damp weather seems to have set in for a bit, and the temperature has taken a turn in the direction of down. At the moment this is a bit of a problem because I can’t get the central heating to work, despite desperately pressing buttons, turning knobs and shouting ‘Why don’t you work you bastard!’ Consequently, I am writing this wearing nearly all the clothes I have which makes me look like an over-inflated Michelin Man. Can’t quite see my breath yet but I’m keeping an eye out for it.

After a morning’s hard slog at the laptop, I set off to L’Eclerc with Michael to buy a gas cylinder and some salad. Oh and some champagne for the imminent arrival of a visitor who is partial to a drop of the effervescent stuff according to local records. Back home to light the gas fire and…doh, wrong connector. Michael very kindly went off to find the right one and I made some soup to warm the cockles. He came back and we made fire. I can feel my toes once more!

Here’s a funny thing. The person living in the house opposite has stuck a little piece of notepaper up in her upstairs window which is opposite to my bedroom. I can only just make out what it says in French, but I think a rough translation is ‘This is a window too!’ What does that mean? If it means that she can see in as well as me seeing out, then she must be spending her time manically peering at me through my nets. How embarrassing! Oh what the hell. I’ve got nothing to hide and she shouldn’t be looking. At her age too! How shame-making.

More writing until evening then I took a stroll over to L’Enfance de Lard. The restaurant was in full swing and the kitchen was going like the clappers. Apart from mixing the occasional (ahem) drink I was neither use nor ornament so I came home for me tea. Later on I donated the champagne bought earlier to the restaurant as they were having a run on it. Ain’t that just too bad!

My new best friend

Vous allez dans la mauvaise direction

Time to take some exercise, so I coaxed Mr Rusty outside and set off in an easterly direction. I had a vague idea where I was going, but the plan I had in my head from studying the map failed to materialise in real life and I ended up blindly peddling along country roads enjoying the unfolding landscape.

I have found it pays to be a little careful where I stop to study the map. If I stop anywhere near houses, every dog in the neighbourhood comes running towards me in a barking frenzy. Soon afterwards, their owners come out to see what all the fuss is about and then they call out to me. Now I’d like to think they are saying something along the lines of ‘Are you lost?’ but I have a paranoid feeling they are actually saying, ‘Get lost!’ I say something like, ‘Ça va bien merci’ which is probably completely inappropriate and quickly move on.

I cycled to St-Germain-et-Mons via Cours-de-Pile and then on to Mouleydier (very picturesque) and then back along the north side of la Dordogne, through Creysse and eventually back to Bergerac. It was a fair old distance which I felt was necessary considering the size of yesterday’s lunch. Unfortunately the batteries in my camera were flat, so I am unable to show you how pretty it all was.

I was distraught to learn of Marc Almond's horrible motorbike accident. Very upsetting. The world is definitely a much better place with Marc Almond in it and I hope he pulls through.

Spent all afternoon bashing away on my laptop.

The management team in front of L'Enfance de Lard

Seafood diet

Ah, the day of rest! Sunshine this morning so I made myself comfortable on the terrace with coffee and a delicious slice of tart rescued from being disposed of at the end of last night at L’Enfance de Lard. I’m still reading Thursday’s Guardian – I never knew there was so much in it! Certainly getting my €2.80’s worth. Please would somebody send me some Guardian crosswords though – preferably not already completed?!

I set off for lunch around midday. When I left the house I walked straight into the middle of a party of elderly folk, who were being given a guided tour of Bergerac. I have noticed before that they stop just outside the house – I wish I could understand what the guide was saying. Anyway, I had to negotiate my way through the group to get along the road, and the guide stopped what she was saying to say ‘Bonjour monsieur’ to me. The whole party of about thirty people turned to look at me and said ‘Bonjour’ as one, and rather red-faced I said ‘Bonjour’ back. It was only then that I realised I was still wearing my slippers.

We went to a very nice little restaurant within walking distance. After a kir aperitif, I shared the largest fruits de mer starter with André. It was incredibly fresh too – oysters (yes, I am eating oysters again and loving them so there!), mussels, langoustine, crab, whelks, winkles, cockles and prawns. We seemed to end up with more shells than we started out with, but it was all thoroughly delicious. Filet de Bœuf with a cream and cêpes sauce was also excellent, as was the plenteous quantity of rosé, rounded off with a couple of glasses of champagne.

It was a sunny afternoon, so after lunch I found myself a comfy spot next to the Dordogne and sat in the sun for a couple of hours reading. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday.

It's all about glamour!

A church house gin house

Persistent rain has set in and it doesn't make me feel particularly inclined to venture outside into the big old world. Nevertheless, I thought it would be pleasant to take a stroll around the Saturday morning market. So I did.

There's a very happy atmosphere around the market stalls with people greeting each other and gossiping and stallholders enthusiastically talking to customers as they ply their wares. In most cases you can tell that these people have grown or produced the items they are selling themselves, and they are proud of them too. The stalls present an overwhelming smorgasbord of gastronomic delights. The dazzlingly colourful arrays of locally produced fruit and vegetables - including varieties I have never seen before - are a million miles from the sterile displays in Waitrose and Sainsbury's. The produce looks and smells real. For example, the apples are pock-marked and come in all shapes and sizes, and the root vegetables are covered in real mud, and you sense they were probably yanked from the ground only hours earlier. Locally produced honey in jars of varying sizes, chickens with feet and head intact, skinned rabbits, pigeons, walnuts, wines, cakes bulging with fruit, swollen duck livers, deadly-looking mushrooms, piles of cheeses and fragrant strawberries. I wanted to take some photographs but felt strangely intrusive - this was a real market with real people working and buying - and I did not want to reveal myself as a snap-happy tourist.

It was raining quite heavily so I came back to the house, put a pot of coffee on and got on with my writing task.

Later in the evening I went round to L'Enfance de Lard as I had a booking for washing-up duties, the restaurant being full. Fortified with G&T's I set about my work, the smell of fois gras and goosefat filling the small kitchen. Time passed quickly - washing up to a soundtrack of Tina Turner's 'Nutbush City Limits' never seems like such a chore.

A glass of champagne to round off the evening and home soon after midnight.

Can you tell what it is yet?

L'Enfance de Lard in all its Halloween glory

This is home - inside looking out

The view from 'my' balcony

The old man is snoring

You are so not interested in reading what I do each day, so I've started off with a load of pictures to whet your appetites. Not a lot to say now I'm in full writerly flow - I can't say much about that because it would give the game away. Not that I'm on the game you understand.

So, a brief synopsis of my day and then you can just look at the pictures - steady yourselves now! No pushing at the back. Don't forget to breathe.

Synopsis of day: Read for ages drinking gallons of tea, had breakfast, walked around town, bought yesterday's Guardian (hey come on - I've held out for a week!), drank a gallon of coffee, finished the crossword in three minutes (ugh?) then wrote like a demon, had salad and wrote like a thing possessed until 7pm. Oh - did washing inbetween then it rained a lot. Went round to L'Enfance de Lard and observed fantastic creations in the kitchen while creating G&T's and W&C's (think it through - whisky and coke) for the workers before I could stand the tempting foody smells no more (nor stand no more) and came back to feed myself.

I have no idea why the pictures sometimes appear at the top and sometimes at the bottom of each entry - it is totally random and scrambled - much like my brain.

Just when you least expect it, just what you least expect

I lost my mobile somewhere in the west wing last night so I had no alarm clock and woke up when it got light - properly light that is (!) at 8.30am. Oh sod the planned early morning cycle ride, a cup of tea and back to bed to read Alan Cumming's 'Tommy's Tale' which is nothing short of unputdownable.

I eventually hauled the old carcass out of bed and had a fruit and fibre breakfast before squeezing into my lycra and straddling Mr Rusty for a spot of crossbar action. This time I pointed my front wheel uptown (still stuck in Manhattan speak) and peddled over the railway and off up into the countryside. Some punishing hills nearly finished me off but I just kept on going. No idea where. Peddling on and on - what was that? Ste-Foy-des-Vignes I believe. Whatever - just kept on going. Beautiful countryside all around, and I spotted a magnificent black hen surrounded by all her black little chicks pecking around in the dirt like one happy chicken family. After about an hour and a half I realised I was completely lost and that felt vaguely exhilarating. I kept going until I hit a road with a signpost, studied my map and worked out a route home. Eventually arrived back wet but pumped full of endomorphins.

Michael picked me up in his Smartcar and after disposing of a magnificent collection of bottles at the recycling centre we went to L'Eclerc for a spot of shopping. Suffering withdrawal symptoms from my normal hit of filter coffee, I splashed out on a filter-coffee maker and some salad.

Back home I put Madame Butterfly on and set about some writing. Suddenly it all came together and I was away. This is it - it's happening. I'm having a baby. So excited I danced all around the house like a banshee. I hope the neighbours can't see through the nets.

Popped over to L'Enfance de Lard this evening. Lashings of gin and tonics, some mighty fine and authentically French onion soup and a magret de canard that I can not find words to describe and delicious red wine - and I only popped in to say hi. It's a miracle I can still walk, let alone type.

Just around the corner from me is the old square - that's L'Enfance de Lard with the long blue shades on the left

Bring me sunshine

The sun came up and all the clouds disappeared leaving a lovely sunny day so I decided to set out my stall on the terrace and enjoy it while it lasts. Breakfast. Writing. Lunch and wine. Dozing. Reading. More writing.

I took a walk along the Dordogne and spent some time sketching as the sun went down and the Ryanair flight to Stansted passed overhead - best place for it really. Back to the apartment for more writing - I was on a creative roll today. I was on a cheese roll yesterday. Quite possibly a forward roll tomorrow.

Michael and Andre popped round for cocktails this evening. They are the proprietors of the highly acclaimed L'Enfance de Lard restaurant, which is the equivalent of The Ivy in this part of France. If you're ever in the region you should visit. Now do I get my discount?

The sun going down over the Dordogne

The house with the white shutters is where I be

Up the hill backwards

Perhaps the jetlag syndrome has finally worn off as I slept like a log and didn’t wake up in the fireplace. I can say I got up at daylight – which has a certain heroic ring to it – but 7.30am is not that early. A high energy breakfast and then off into the rain on Mr Rusty. I crossed the over the Dordogne and after a couple of false starts found a little road which wound along through vineyards and climbed up to Monbazillac. Quite a climb too – despite the preposterous number of gears Mr Rusty has to offer I still had to stop twice to get my puff back. Motorists passing in the opposite direction peered at me incredulously through their wet windscreens. Perhaps cycling helmets aren’t the norm in rural France – or they thought I was John Cleese. I finally reached the chateau and took a photo to prove it. I completed a circuit and then hit the downward road. Weeeee! The heady scent of the fermenting grapes still hanging on the vine mixed with the comforting smell of wood smoke billowing from the chimneys of cosy, remote little houses. I was whizzing down one hill at a speed which was possibly on the wrong side of sensible when an enormous hare leapt out from between a row of vines. I wobbled all over the road in an attempt to avoid him. He blinked, twitched his nose and bounced off into the vineyard. Very Donnie Darko. You don’t get that on Cable Street.

Back home damp and energised I set about writing, jug of coffee to hand. Mmm, this bit isn’t so easy. After several hours and with self-doubt mounting I made myself some lunch and downed a couple of glasses of rosé. Feeling much better I ploughed on with my task. I took a wander around town later and resisted the urge to go into one of the many beautiful patisseries.

Evening spent writing, cooking dinner and sampling a bottle of Pecharmant (purely medicinal you understand) which put a completely different perspective on my artistic output.

Chateau Monbazillac - sweet heady stuff

A hare jumped me here but I won the race

This wasn't my idea - but who gets it?

Mr Rusty outside the front door

Qu'est-ce que vous voulez boire?

Another trip to the supermarket to pick up some essential items - like a bicycle lock and puncture repair kit. Oh - and a bit of a milestone here of which I am particularly proud - I bought my very first pair of slippers! Wey-hey - middle-age here I come!

It had been a little showery this morning but by lunchtime the sun was shining again so we went for lunch outside on the old square. I went for le plat de jour which was lapin (well, flopsy had had a good innings) served with prunes and stuff and washed down with kir, rosé, followed with a crépe with prune and Armagnac ice cream and an Armagnac chaser with coffee. Delicious.

Saw H off at the airport, returned the hire car and then battled home in the wind and rain on my trusty little bike like Mr Rusty. That's a good name for the bike come to think of it. I thought I'd be clever and cycle back from the airport to Bergerac via some tiny lanes which weaved between the vineyards but predictably enough I ended up getting hopelessly disoriented and so just peddled away following whichever way the road took me. Low and behold, I ended up in the right place.

First time alone in this big old house and it feels slightly strange, but I think I'll get used to it soon enough. Spent the evening getting some notes organised. Poor old H is in a right old pickle because although the RAC came to fix Tittikaka at Stansted, the old crock packed up again as soon as he got onto the motorway, and he's had to pay cash to be towed home. What a downer on an otherwise great weekend.

Writing to you from...

Bonjour Bergerac

Friday

I’ve been told these blog entries are getting too serious and people are switching over to the other side in their droves – and there’s nothing worse than a drove – except a druv, but let’s not even go there. I’m not sure what’s happened and I’d like to take a moment to apologise – it all started off so whimsically. I guess, like any romance, we’ve started to take each other for granted. Anyway, from now on I promise to lighten things up a little for the sake of my readership (you know who you are).

Yeah, so France! Blimey O’Reilly, one minute I’m living the American dream in the Big Apple, being eaten by bedbugs and quaffing Stolichnaya like the day after tomorrow that time forgot, and the next minute I’m in this lovely old town in the Dordogne (well, more on the side of it on account of the damp) called Bergerac.

Flew in from Stansted on the luxury carrier that is Ryan Air. It nearly didn’t happen though as our dear old Fiesta (otherwise known as Tittikaka) practically conked out on the M11. Picked up a hire car from the delightful AVIS people at Bergerac International Airport (it’s a runway with a shed at the end), popped to the supermarket for some provisions and Bob’s your auntie. Beautiful house to stay in, fantastic weather, bottle of chilled Champagne on the terrace and life is sweet.


Saturday

We walked up to the market around the cathedral and perused the tempting stalls filled with locally produced (and seasonal!) fruit, vegetables and everything else. Had a quick trawl around the local shops to see what was new, and had a glass of rosé with old friends. Off to L’Eclerc to shop for stuff – toaster, juicer, eggcups, er…a broom, teasmaid, fondue set, heated rollers and cuddly toy. Oh – and some food.

Aperitifs on the terrace and dinner at a restaurant not two doors along the road – how handy is that? Lovely food and a bottle of Pecharmant to wash it all down. Those size 28” jeans have been put in mothballs.


Sunday

Beautiful sunny morning and a splendid breakfast before heading off to Razac-d’Eymet to call in on our lovely friends where we stayed in the summer who have very kindly loaned me a bicycle. I had prepared myself to cycle back (quite a distance but not impossible) but as luck would have it the bike fitted snugly in the back of the car, so we were able to partake in a little light liquid refreshment and several hours passed sitting in the sunshine and chatting. Back in Bergerac I couldn’t wait to get out on the bicycle. I set off along the banks of the Dordogne and peddled merrily along. After about an hour I stopped to look at a map, and realised I had travelled over 7 miles – so I turned around and pedalled back again. Wonderful scenery and it felt great to be getting around under my own steam again.

What now? Well there’s a bottle of rosé in the fridge with my name on it and two veal chops waiting to be cooked. So, not much to grumble about really.

Cybil - enjoys a tipple

London calling

Monday thru Thursday

Whirlwind few days in London meeting up with people and getting myself into some sort of order for France. Highlight had to be champagne at Claridges and watching Cybil Sheppard make a complete twat of herself at the Soho Theatre – hilarious. My kinda gal.

Keep their teeth nice and clean

Sunday in the park with...me myself and I

Sunday

Good heavens – an early alarm call! We had to be out of the apartment by 10am. J set off for the airport soon after 9am and then I just had to check out and kill time for five hours. I thought I would take the opportunity to explore some more art galleries in Chelsea so I walked up to 25th Street between 9th and 10th Avenues before realising the flaw in my plan – private art galleries are closed on Sundays. Doh! I walked along to 7th and 28th and took the subway up to 42nd Street and Times Square, bought myself a coffee and sat in Bryant Park for an hour or so writing. I then followed Broadway up to Central Park and found a pleasant rock on which to bask, watching a man on a unicycle go around and around. Eventually it was time to make a move so I took a subway back down to 14th Street (sitting opposite a man with a parrot on his shoulder), picked up my suitcase from Chelsmore Apartments and hopped in a taxi to Newark International Airport. I felt strangely nostalgic as the taxi drove me through the streets, past the cafes, bars and landmarks which had become so familiar. Through the Holland Tunnel and out onto the freeway across New Jersey above container parks and shopping malls. I checked in at the airport and then found a bench outside in the sun where I sat and wrote for an hour or so, with the Manhattan skyline twinkling in the sun on the distant horizon. Reluctantly I queued to go through security (shoes off) and down to the featureless departure gate. Thank goodness for mind-bending prose of Ben Okri.

The flight was totally full. I was fascinated by an elderly man in an adjacent row who looked just like the character from ‘The Vicar of Dibley’ who says: “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Yes.” He was persistently kicking a bag that the woman sitting in front of him had put under her seat. Each time she rearranged the bag, he kicked it away again. This was repeated about five times. Just before take off he got up and extracted a three-quarters empty litre bottle of Absolut Vodka from his overhead locker. He disappeared to the galley and came back with a plastic glass and proceeded to pout himself a drink. The steward came over and told him he could not consume his own alcohol on the plane and asked him to surrender the bottle. The man refused. At this point it became patently clear that the old fellow had consumed the rest of the bottle between the duty free shop and getting on the plane. Let’s just say he was a trifle tipsy. The steward in charge came over and there followed all kinds of high jinks – resulting in the plane missing its departure slot, the police being called and the time-consuming removal of the man and his luggage from the plane. If only he had waited a few more minutes before retrieving his bottle! Felt a bit sorry for him – seemed like a nice old chap. He was just partial to a drop of your finest.

I watched ‘Dodgeball’ (amusing), ‘Before Sunset’ (touching) and something about the day before yesterday but after tomorrow – which, warned the guide, “Contains scenes of aircraft in severe conditions”! Everybody else seemed to be fast asleep but, as usual, I didn’t get a wink.

Heathrow Airport – delays at passport control leading to knock-on delays at baggage reclaim. Delays on the Heathrow Express due to an earlier incident. Paddington Station – underground closed due to God only knows. Taxi queue a mile long and the wait even longer if your destination doesn’t line up with their ‘taxi-share’ arrangement. Welcome back to London! London is officially broken! It doesn’t work! After a month of services which just happen – I was back to this chaos and incompetence we call London.

Finally arrived home, a £30 taxi fare lighter, and Sammie did a triple backward somersault.

Mansize Rooster

Saturday

Got up with a heavy heart and a heavier liver. It was finally time to pack everything in the apartment into a few bags and get organised for imminent departure. With mixed feelings of sadness at the month in New York being over and also looking forward to going home, I successfully completed my project without a plan.

Went out for a stroll down 14th Street to Washington Square Park but with my immaculate sense of timing I managed to walk right into a massive downpour, and being brolly-less got a right old soaking. There was some kind of book fair being held in the park but it all looked a bit washed out. I came back to the apartment via a street market on 8th Street and a browse in the Barnes & Noble bookstore on 6th Avenue.

This evening held in store a Supergrass gig. The venue was just below Union Square so easy walking distance. When we arrived we had to go through the whole rigmarole of proving we were over 21 years old before we were entitled to a wristband which enabled us to purchase beer – jeez! Supergrass came on soon after 9pm and played a stellar set of songs including an acoustic version of ‘Caught By the Fuzz’ which was startlingly good. Back to the apartment for pizza (there was a shed-load from last night filling the fridge) and leftover beer. Old presidential election debates played out on the telly – intriguing to witness the various approaches of Bush the elder and younger, Clinton and Gore. Pure pantomime.

The fragrant Macy's

'Seinfeld' and 'The Simpsons' on a loop

Friday
The sun had got his hat on today and consequently it was very hot. Enjoyed a late brunch at the Waverley diner and then followed 8th Street across to Broadway where I took the subway up to 34th Street. Somebody had been taken ill somewhere so the subways were up the shoot - it happens here too. I'm still battling with the cold so I didn't feel like being particularly adventurous. What better than a couple of hours trawling around Macy's department store? Around every corner lurked somebody with a fistful of fragrances waiting to spray you to death - I found the best way to get oxygen was to crawl along on all fours keeping my face close to the floor. I was lead into temptation at the Jean Paul Gaultier counter.

Plenty of shops to look in on Fashion Avenue. I ended up at Penn Station and went in to check the train times back to Newark Airport - all very confusticating. Non the wiser, I walked back down 7th Avenue to the apartment.

We were meant to go out in Brooklyn this evening but colds overruled that, so a pizza the size of a dustbin lid and a drop of red with telly instead. Packing tomorrow. How gloom-making.

You owe us a cup of tea godammit!

Hallelujah it's raining...ladeez?

Thursday

I got up today with the very best of intentions - but they left without even a thank you. I had intended to go to the Whitney this morning...but it just wasn't happening for me. I gave myself a diagnosis - oh mama - I think I've got myself a bit of a chill. Took some Advil and a handful of vitamins and began to rattle.

My sleeping had been somewhat affected by a mosquito the size of...a mosquito...going mmmmmmnnnnnnnnnzzzz in my ear every two minutes. After doing the foxtrot with it on my bed several times between 2am and 5am I finally crushed it to a bloody-pulpy mess between my palms at 5.30am.

I went out in the pouring rain to Radioshack to buy some CD-R's and then slumped on the sofa with some coffee and the fantastic 'Family Guy'. This would not do - some retail therapy was called for so we trawled along to Broadway. Circled David Bowie's apartment twice but...oh really that man is so rude! Not even an invitation upstairs for a plateful of Iman's hotpot - and after all we've been through together - The Glass Spider Tour, Tin Machine, Labyrinth - come on we've stuck with him through thin and thinner - he owes us godammit! In 'Le Chateau' I bought some jeans - 28" waist. What's happening to me? Eating fried food continuously and I'm shrinking! Must eat more cookies! J bought some rather lovely shoes and I bought a very (very) special present for H...no clues!

We wandered out to the Meatpacking District tonight to a lovely old French style diner called Florent - delicious food and plenty of Champagne, a bucket of Ricard and a chirpy Pinot Noir to wash it all down. Afterwards we went to our favourite lesbian bar to guzzle vodka - the venue certainly put J and I on an equal footing. For some reason the ladeez had no interest in us. What is the matter with them? I felt like part of the furniture.

Back home for...not only is the last G&T of the tour, but it's the last G&T we'll ever do. Hey - we made two litres last a whole month - that's practically wartime rationing surely?