Andre finally decides on his outfit for Christmas Day

Deck the halls

Today I had an invitation to lunch which was rather splendid, so I skipped breakfast and got on with some writing. Mid-morning I cadged a lift to the laundrette and emptied two bags of assorted items into washing machines. That’s all you have to do – you turn up a few hours later and it’s all dry and neatly folded away. What a fantastic service.

Lunch was at a local restaurant. We had to walk around the block a couple of times before they had a table available for us. I went for the menu de jour, which consisted of a tureen of watercress soup, followed by a visit to a sumptuous salad buffet, then choucroute au garnie (I think I’ve probably misspelled that) which was a huge pile of white cabbage with two types of pork sausage, a pork chop and a hunk of what tasted like gammon. It was huge and I couldn’t do it justice. A vast ice cream and pear dessert with lashings of chocolate sauce finished me off – I could hardly move – to say nothing of the pastis, Bergerac white wine and champagne. I was taken out on a stretcher.

More writing during the afternoon, and then this evening I gave a hand where I could, putting up the decorations at L’Enfance de Lard. The banister on the staircase was festooned with a garland of pine, twinkly lights, apples and clove-studded oranges, dried oranges and grapefruit slices, bundles of cinnamon sticks and dried fennel, and terracotta pots filled with moss. The same treatment was given to the mantelpiece. André had made miniature trees out of chestnuts, walnuts, bay leaves, moss and cloves for the tables and in the window boxes were planted with miniature fir trees. I took some of the leftover decorations back home with me. On the way, I passed a drunken group of English tourists who looked at me curiously as I hurried along nonchalantly swinging a basket full of golden cherubs.

The decorated mantelpiece

After being kidnapped, I was forced into a white truck and driven to a secluded wood where two strange men dressed in blue threw logs at me

The truck driver and his mates

Broken fingernails, calloused hands, aching back and dirty shoes - that's what you get if you stay in Bergerac too long. I got up with the snark and got myself ready for early morning collection in a filthy great open-back truck - my life is so glamorous. Clambering up on to the front seat and clutching a tart (yes, really - but of the flan variety) we rattled off to a beautiful chateau set in vineyards near Pomport. Bizarrely, there was a car museum there, and we peered through a window to catch sight of Al Capone's car which the French chateau owner had bought in Chicago - it looked a bit of wreck. We were here to collect another load of vine roots for the restaurant, and after locating them at the end of a muddy track, and some nifty reversing by Michael, we began clambering on top of a huge pile of wood and flinging the soggy lumps into the back of the truck. It was quite an operation. Once the back of the truck was full, we drove to André's mother's house where we transported the load to the back garden in wheelbarrows.

We were due to repeat the operation, but we were forced to break for aperitifs and lunch. Dejeuner consisted of pot au feu. We started off with soup (the liquid from the pot au feu) followed by beef and veal meat, potatoes, carrots, turnips and leeks served with plenty of mustard and gherkins. It was very tasty. André's mother appeared from the kitchen holding a huge bone, the kind of thing you would normally give to a dog, and I thought,'Oh my God what are we going to have to do with this?' as she began to pick out the slimy marrow with a fork. She then proceeded to blow down one end of the bone and the entire jelly-like content landed in her dish with a splat, like the result of a productive sneeze. I thought I was going to be sick, but to my great relief the resulting slime was not passed around the table and she tucked in to it quite happily by herself.

The abundance of red wine at lunch made the afternoon's chore much more bearable, and we were soon back with another lorry-load of vine roots. We then cleared a load of branches from the garden and put it in the truck, returned to Bergerac and collected dozens of empty bottles from the restaurant and went sightseeing and bottle-slinging at the municipal dump, before returning home.

This evening I had visitors from Lot-et-Garonne and L'Enfance de Lard, and a fine time was enjoyed. Now I'm the one who needs to go to the bottle bank with a truck!

I'm a lumberjack and I'm OK

Mickael lends a hand (once all the work was done!)

The medieval town of St Emilion yesterday

Supermarket sweep

I crawled out of bed and made my way on all-fours to my local boulangerie for fresh bread and croissants for breakfast. Afterwards, we set off to find a supermarket that was open on a Sunday to buy assorted goodies to export to the UK, and some delicacies for lunch. We arrived five minutes before it was closing, and dashed around like maniacs plucking things off shelves while an officious little French chap chased us around with a broom.

It was a fine day for a drive in the country, so following one of my well documented cycle routes we pootled along country lanes to Cours-de-Pile and Verdon and ended up in Mouleydier where we took a stroll along a little footpath beside the Dordogne, peering into the many manmade caves which seem to tunnel beneath the riverside town. We began a fruitless search for petrol, and even the 24hr stations spat our credit cards out with venomous disgust.

Back home we dined on a smorgasbord of local delights, and all too soon it was time to return to the airport for the departure of my splendid guests. An ignorant Frenchman did his best to impede out journey by blocking us into a parking space and then sit in his vehicle watching our frustrated attempts to manoeuvre the car out – pig-headed bastard. We then got stuck behind a tractor.

A few drinks in the bar, and they were off. I waved at the plane as it took off into the early evening rainy grey sky.

Back home all was quiet, and I took a long soak in the bath before spending a few hours trying to finish chapter three of this book I am supposedly writing. It's a corker.

I distinctly asked for a room with a view

My favourite saint

The weather experts didn’t know what to forecast, but I was pleased to wake up to decent weather and pulling on my gumboots and oilskins went out to buy bread, croissants, pain au chocolat and a flat-pack greenhouse. After a hearty breakfast we set off to explore the Saturday market and G bravely purchased endives, tomatoes, peppers and radishes. D hunted around for attractive tarts, and I settled for a bit of rough…pâté de camp…de campagne and a crusty French stick.

We bumped into a large bush of bay leaves, which turned out to be André in disguise, and we steered him into a nearby coffee shop for a cup of something strong and black.

Back home we tucked into endive salad with all the trimmings. The sky was blue-ish and the sun had got his hat on so we piled into the Citroen and pointed ourselves in the direction of St Emilion, which is on the road to Bordeaux – about one hour’s drive.

Beautiful place, and empty of all the usual tourists and ye olde gifte shoppes selling trash, it was a joy to behold, and looked stunning in the stark autumnal afternoon sunlight. We were coaxed into a wine shop where we were dazzled by a huge array of wines of the region (and aghast at the prices) and then felt duty bound to try a few. I always find it difficult to judge red wine as tannic as these were, without any food – even a bit of bread would have helped – and they were chilly too which made it even more tricksy. Anyway, we selected a fine vintage to save for Christmas Day lunch. We revisited the terrace of a hotel restaurant where many moons ago we had supped pink champagne overlooking the extraordinarily beautiful town as the sun went down, before dining in the Michelin starred restaurant and spending more money on food than was strictly sensible. Even Michael Winner’s face would have fallen upon sight of the bill – oh sorry – you’re right, it already has.

We returned to Bergerac and had a wander around the shops (I was desperate for aftershave and refuse to lower my standards) before finding a bar down by the Dordogne for a pick-me-up heart-starter.

Another bottle of champagne, and another evening of fine dining at Le Poivre et Sel which is literally 100m from my front door. Didn’t bother with a taxi on this occasion. Twelve delicious oysters, followed by a beautifully cooked entrecote with sauce forestiere and a dessert (the name of which has escaped me) kept me quiet, and the delicious wines complemented beautifully. By the way, I am now the size of a small barn and I’m looking into getting the front door widened. Now, where’s my walking frame?

I'm prepared to go along with local customs, but this did seem more than a little odd

The arrival

Have I mentioned that the weather is getting colder? Well, today it was officially bloody cold, and it was a long time before I managed to summon up enough courage to emerge from beneath my duvet and face up to my responsibilities, such as they are. I spent the morning and early afternoon writing like Barbara Cartland (and I’m talking prolifically as opposed to craply – I think), before taking a walk around the chilly streets of Bergerac to purchase some fageroolas.

Bang on time, Michael arrived and we drove to the airport. There was time for one round of drinks before Ryanair safely delivered my weekend visitors to Bergerac International Air Shed. Avis came up trumps with the car (the queue for Hertz went around the block) and we somehow found time to squeeze in another drinkette even with our pressurised schedules.

We returned home to Rue L’Ancien Pont in our fine silver Citroen and after a tour of the estate we settled down to champagne and gorgeous little nibbly bits. We arrived promptly for our reservation at L’Enfance de Lard and feasted upon a most marvellous menu, including a special of deep-fried Camembert for H, and a popular choice of magret de canard. Pecharmant, Monbazillac, as well as aperitifs and digestifs flowed in perfect proportions. A fine time was had by all…and nobody noticed how late it had become. I’m sure that restaurant exists in a different dimension, for five hours at a table there feels like just the one Mrs Wembley.

We met a charming old lady who was very friendly, but knew some filthy jokes

All ship shape and Bristol fashion

How clean is your house?

Another success for my new alarm clock – I was up with the lark and it was still dark outside. Not only was it dark but it was brass monkeys out there too, but indoors all was cosy. I thought it was high time I embarked on some serious housework so I spent the entire morning sweeping, mopping, dusting and hoovering until the place shone like a new pin. I’m sure Pink Floyd had a lot to do with my sudden rush of energetic cleansing (Shine On You Crazy Diamonds et al), but whatever it was I am now ready to receive visitors. I even cleared away the latest batch of fallen leaves on the terrace. How is that for thorough?

I was vacuuming under the coffee table when I saw what looked like a large ball of black thread. I went to pick it up and saw it was a curled up spider. Having no fear of creatures of the arachnoidal persuasion, I picked it up in my hand to release it on the terrace. I was horrified when it unravelled itself to become the size of a rich tea biscuit (don’t know why I chose that as a comparison – oh well, it works) with fat hairy legs and a bulbous body, and a proper spiderlike face with massive mouthparts which it proceeded to clamp into my palm. I dropped it in fright (giving a little manly shriek) and ran to grab a tumbler to trap it in the time honoured fashion. Inspecting it through its glass prison, I could see these horrible pincer-like mouthparts (are they called mandibles or something?) opening and closing at me in anger. It was like something you see in the aquarium at a zoo. Needless to say I threw it as far over the rooftops as I could (not that far – have you ever seen me throw?). Downstairs in the hallway, the whole ceiling was blanketed with cobwebs and it gave me a certain pleasure as they disappeared up the nozzle of the hoover with a satisfying ‘ferlomp’ sound.

My gas bottle was completely empty so Michael kindly picked me up with my metal canister to fetch a new one. In L’Eclerc I stocked up on goodies to keep my guests fed and watered during their stay.

It was overcast and dull today, and the temperature stayed in the chilly zone so no strolls along the riverbank for me. Just an afternoon of merry tapping away on my laptop, a G&T or two in the kitchen of L’Enfance de Lard, and an evening in the comedy company of René and Edith.

Who werd lierve in a hearse loike theyerce? (Appalling attempt at a phonetic Lloyd Grossman - sorry)

Do you think my photography is improving?

A river runs through it

OK, so finally I have been asked how a fly can land on a ceiling. Remember – I posed the question last Wednesday? Well, there are two theories.

The first theory is that insect flies close to the ceiling until its first two legs can be put over its head to touch, and adhere to, the ceiling, bringing the rest of its body up to leave the creature on the ceiling and facing the opposite direction.

The second theory, which is the one I prefer, was the result of intensive study by an American convict. After many years of observation he said that, in the process of landing on the ceiling flies always perform a half-upwards loop. To prove it, the convict invented this way of catching flies: nearly fill a glass with soapy water, beat up a bit of a foamy head on the surface and raise the glass slowly from directly beneath the fly. Once the surface of the foam is about an inch and a half from the fly, it is doomed. In completing the interrupted loop, the fly cannot but dive into the foam! Splosh.

I am happy to admit that the above is unashamedly lifted from the pages of a copy of last weeks Guardian, in case anybody has any plagiarism/copyright issues.

Next question for heated debate: Who was Larry and why was he so blinking happy?

Anyway, back to normality. Today I overcame my phobia of…going into a French launderette by myself and negotiating a service wash without being able to use a word of English. Howsabouthathen? I’m sure my French was utterly pitiful, but the main thing is I managed to explain what I needed (including discussing temperatures and pre-washes, drying times and expectations of dryness, when to collect and prices) and it all worked. Two hours later, I returned to collect all my clothes (except what I was wearing today, of course) and bedlinen, and there it was - all washed, dried and folded – for just €13 – I returned home triumphant in my colossal achievement. I was so pleased with myself I wanted to go back and do it all again, but there was nothing left to wash, except the nets but I think they’ll see out the season. But I’ll be back.

The morning mist had cleared by early afternoon so I went for a stroll around as is my wont. It was beautiful down by the river, so I popped back and collected my notebooks and spent the rest of the day sitting beside the Dordogne basking in the sun like the lizards which scuttled across the warm stones all around me.

An old drunk came and sat next to me and I smelt trouble…and some fairly toxic alcohol fumes too. Still, not wanting to be rude I embarked on my second French conversation of the day. His complete drink-sodden state probably meant I had a slight advantage, but we had a bit of a chat. I started to get nervous when he kept shifting closer to me, his head lolling around like a bladder on a stick, trying to see what I was writing. He said he wanted to watch me write, so I explained that I could only write when I was by myself…alone…seulement! He got the hint, and stood up, took a few steps then collapsed onto the grass verge in an unconscious heap. I have this effect on people it seems. He was still there two hours later when I got up to leave, bless his heart. I did check to see he was still breathing before I walked away – just in case you think I’m completely heartless. He wasn’t. No, of course he was. No – he wasn’t! Yes he was.

He was dead.

No he wasn’t!

There’s also this thin woman with big hair and a fur coat cut like a poodle who keeps parading herself up and down the riverside. Not sure what’s going on with that…but I’ve got an inkling of an idea.

When the sun went down, it became almost instantly chilly and so I came home to make the bed and do the ironing to the monstrously fantastic prog rock soundtrack of Pink Floyd. It’s great ironing music – don’t knock it until you’ve tried it I say.

A swift aperitif or two at the restaurant and then home to a steaming bowl of cassoulet au canard! Mmm-hmm.

Take a punt

I saw something nasty in the woodshed

High in fat, low in fat, dust.

The alarm clock worked! At seven-thirty there was a sudden blast of ‘wahhh wahhh wahhh wahhh’ etc. in my ear and I jumped out of bed like a thing possessed thinking my nightie was on fire. Well, at least I was up and that was the idea.

It was a very cold morning, and a heavy mist hung over the Dordogne like a frozen floating blanket. I met M&A in the square, and sitting upfront in a white van we headed off to collect dried vine roots for the restaurant fire. We drove through mist shrouded countryside and vineyards until we finally found the address in a little town called Saussignac. In a dark old outshed we hauled dusty old pieces of root into a pile and transferred them to the back of the van wrapped in an old quilt. The woman who owned the place offered us aperitifs which we knocked back while her Pekinese yapped around our ankles, its pink tongue permanently stuck out. Then we travelled back to André's mother's place for lunch prior to moving all the vine roots around to the back garden into storage cages. Lunch was a multi-course affair: soup, pork and pasta, salad, cheese, pain perdu (bit like sweet eggy-bread) and coffee and bottles of local red plonk – well, we had earned it.

Tonight, a Chinese restaurant across the bridge beckoned…MSG and flied lice. But no - a delicious meal with fantastic company! Infact, we stayed so long they served us little cups of saki (not sure if that's how you spell it?) with extraordinarily rude pictures at the bottom - goodness knows why I ended up with all of them in front of me. Every picture tells a story allegedly.

Hey presto! But which one's Debbie McGee?

The pictures at the bottom of these cups don't leave much to the imagination....why have I got them all?

Just your average evening down the Chinese

Mathilde proudly modelling her new Chicago Bears cap

The old square this afternoon

Wakey wakey! Are you up yet?

I am getting really pissed off with myself for sleeping in every morning and…one, two, three – altogether: ‘Wasting the best part of the day!’ So I decided it was high time I invested in an alarm clock rather than relying on the pathetic little squelchy noise my mobile phone makes, which has so far failed to stir me from my slumber.

Another glorious day, but no excursions en velo pour moi, for there were heaps of fallen leaves to clear up on the terrace which I set about to the strain of Graham Coxon’s album ‘Happiness In Magazines’ which is my current favourite. Then it was off to L’Eclerc to purchase the aforementioned alarm clock together with a few bottles of your finest in readiness for my weekend visitors, and some cassoulet.

I had to get outside in the sun this afternoon so I took a walk around the town until the sun went down on me. Finally I got on with some writing – very pleased with myself. Aperitifs at L’Enfance de Lard, a mushroom omelette and more writing and then a couple of episodes of 'Frasier' to round off the day.

The open road, the dusty highway.

Mr Rusty rides again

A magnificently sunny morning with a spotless blue sky meant there was only one thing to do: have a lie in. When I finally surfaced, I just had to get outside – so that meant it was finally time to coax Mr Rusty out of retirement.

I followed a route I had used before towards Cours-de-Pile, crossing the Dordogne on Gustav Eiffel’s wobbly metal bridge – the metal plates on the cycle path wobble and creak as you ride over them which does not inspire confidence. As I climbed towards the village, a little car tooted as it passed me and I turned to see a golden retriever in the driving seat, one paw hanging out of the window. Then I remembered this was France, and that wasn’t the driving seat.

I continued on to St-Germain-et-Mons and then headed south to Verdon. This was a punishing climb – but totally worth it for the fantastic views from the top. Absolutely stunning scenery, and completely silent everywhere except for the birds. I chose three more houses to buy. I then whizzed at reckless speeds down to St-Agne and Mouleydier, finding a quiet route back to Bergerac on the south side of the Dordogne. That was nearly three hours, twenty-five miles – and a great ride.

After grabbing some lunch I walked back along the Dordogne to the spot I found yesterday and spent the rest of the sunlight hours writing and being gawped at by Sunday afternoon strollers - clearly I must look completely out of place. I have to say that I saw some of the most monstrously garish and unecessarily vulgar coats that it has ever been my displeasure to lay eyes on walk past. Maybe if I had one too, I could blend in. It was like a summer’s day, until the sun began to set and the temperature dropped like a stone, and I scurried back to my bunker.

Verdon - pretty little place

The Dordogne at Mouleydier

The town of Mouleydier

The market today

Messing about by the river

Up went the shout and I met André next to the fountain for our weekly foray to the market. The sky was as blue as you like and the sun shone brightly upon us as we circumnavigated the market around the cathedral, not once, not twice but three times. A woman with a beard stopped us to remark on the quality of André’s baskets, which gradually filled up with leeks, chestnuts, fish, foie gras and all manner of other goods. We went for coffee and croissants at a very fine chocolaterie.

I returned home for lunch and to write, but it seemed such a waste to be sitting indoors when the weather was so beautiful. So I gathered up my notebooks and took a long walk beside the Dordogne, eventually finding a secluded bench high up overlooking the river. It was fantastically warm and completely silent, and I sat there writing for nearly three hours. Occasionally strollers would pass by and observe me curiously. I gave them a nod and a wink. A little dog appeared from nowhere and hopped up on the bench beside me and put his chin on my lap and stayed there for several minutes until an old dear came along looking for him. She started chatting away to me, so I just nodded and smiled. Seemed to do the trick.

Aperitifs at L’Enfance de Lard, then back home to cook liver and bacon and watch my new DVD ‘The Grass Harp’ – but the thing bloody buggered up on the last scene which somewhat ruined the ending.

It's a solitary business

Beside the Dordogne

Mmm, nice!

I woke up to the persistent pitter-patter of rain against the window, and I decided that I wasn’t going any further than my writing desk this morning.

Later on, the rain stopped, the clouds cracked apart and the sun came out, so I took a stroll down to the bottle bank (yes, just the one journey thank you) and then walked along the banks of the Dordogne before making a circuit back into town. Back home I decided it was time to take stock of where I am at with all this writing, so I now have it broken down into fifteen chapters – with a foreword and an afterword! Hurrah. It’s taking shape – although I feel the gestation period may be a little longer than I had anticipated.

When you get invited to dine at L’Enfance de Lard twice in one week, you begin to wonder when you are going to wake up. You have to pinch yourself, because nobody else will.

It was jazz night, and the full drum kit, double bass and electric piano took up about a third of the restaurant. All tables were full, and the music was fantastic – what talented guys they were – creating a unique atmosphere – you just had to be there to know what a wonderful evening this was. Incroiable – I felt very privileged to be there. You could pay a fortune to get this sort of thing in London, and it wouldn’t be a patch on what was going on in that little French restaurant last night. It goes without saying that the food was equally sensational – smoked salmon and endives to start, oven-roasted breast of duck in orange sauce with potatoes dauphinoise for main, and crème brulée tart to finish, served with lashings of Beaujolais Nouveau (which is actually not at all bad this year - definitely bananas) and Monbazillac. The music continued until the wee small hours, and so did we. Sensational. Unforgettable. Magical.

I shared a table with three very lovely English people. Imagine my surprise to discover the person on my right was called Trevor Snelling!

I know a rooky spot where the gin is cold and the piano's hot

Some leaves today

Beaujolais

It was one of those cloudy days when it starts of dull, then stays dull until it gets duller. I cleared up the fallen leaves on the terrace, and replanted the bulbs that my blackbird friend had helpfully excavated while I’ve been away. That done, I pressed on with my writing.

The cupboards were a little on the bare side, so a visit to L’Eclerc was called for. I am now well stocked up on fruit, cheese, meat and vegetable – and salad.

I made a vat of pumpkin and leek soup, for this evening I was entertaining the proprietors of L’Enfance de Lard. So, soup to start (turned out very pleasant) followed by lamb chops with roast potatoes and green beans, and a nice bit of tart. We were also awash with Beaujolais – for ‘tis the season!

Nobody knows what the HELL is going on!

Bitty!

It’s not easy being me. I flew back to Bergerac from Stansted courtesy of Ryanair (yes, I know) and had a gin and tonic reception at Bergerac International Airport – just when I had resolved to be good – what can you do?

The house was as chilly as an ice pop in a freezer box in Antarctica (are you sure? - Ed), but M&A had very kindly invited me to feast upon their victuals. I sat with Jean-Claude – which was great because he spoke not one word of English (which forced me to attempt my faltering Franglais in an ‘’Allo ‘Allo!’ stylee which kept the entire restaurant amused – in fact in stitches - when I say stitches I mean on the floor - when I say on the floor I mean falling off the floor) and dined on scallops followed by duck hearts. Duck hearts sounds like something you would say should you ever get a speaking part in Coronation Street: “Alwight my duck ‘arts? Listen, aintchore lunchower over yet me darlings? – Cumoorn, daant spin it owt, back to the factowy the lottovya!” Or something like that, especially if you have a speech impediment (apologies to Nancy Banks-Smith of the Guardian – a neighbour, in case you are interested, except a bit of a bone to pick because she keeps sticking notes through the letterbox saying the window cleaner is coming tomorrow (bit like ‘The Iceman Cometh’) but never see sight nor shammy of him). The windows can wait. Have I closed all the brackets by the way? – got a dreadful feeling I opened one too many back there – I love a bracket, I love a bracket, ooh I love a bracket – I do, I love a bracket.

Read (say ‘red’ not ‘reed’) a fascinating article in the paper (ahem, Guardian, ah-ah-ah-ahem) about how a fly can land on a ceiling. This wasn’t a headline by the way. But think about it – how does a fly land on the ceiling? Does it fly upside-down or loop-the-loop first? Answers on a postcard to: Blue Peter, BBC Television Centre, London W12 8QT. By the way, I know the solution – just ask me.

I also know more than I should about where saffron comes from. Near here actually if you were wondering. Again, I have enough material to bore the pants off a pants fetishist. So go on – test me.

Shall I go now?

Canary Wharf station today

A new do

What a kerfuffle - walking Sammie and so on in time to get into town to for a haircut at 10am – that is too early for me these days. Met up with D&H from City Hall – lovely to see them…but not so lovely to be updated on developments. It made my head hurt quite frankly. Too early to be thinking about all that.

Back into town to meet D&B for drinks in Soho and lunch at Browns on St Martins Lane. Most pleasant – the afternoon whizzed by. It feels weird to be out and about in the West End after all this time. I can’t say I’ve missed it so much – that must mean something.

Caught an episode of the new series of ‘Little Britain’ which had me chortling into my Madeira. ‘Bitty!’

Apparently...

Take a leek

Another early morning walk with Sammie in the frost this time. Back home with the papers, mugs of tea and Breakfast with Frost. Dreadfully civilised.

In hunter-gatherer mode I went out in search of leeks. Empty leek shelves at Asda meant a long walk to Waitrose – and there they were, winking at me. Carrot, leek and coriander soup anybody?

Spent the evening in Soho with G: drinks at Rupert Street (where the boys from the US series ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’ were hanging out) followed by Balans Café for a spot of late dinner. Sunday is the new Saturday apparently – everywhere was full to bursting.

Have you got my ball or what? Sammie - the amazing two-legged dog.

Sammie's Farm

H set off for London City Airport at 7.30am to catch a flight to Amsterdam, and Sammie and I set off for the farm at the same time. Turned out nice again, and Sammie put me through my paces, jumping over fences and swimming through brackish ditches.

At home I sorted out the crazy world of my bank account and shifted some debts around to keep everybody on their toes. Checked under the mattress, but nothing there. Not even two bed bugs to rub together. Anybody want to invest in a struggling writer?

I had a list of chores to complete and I set about them diligently, including taking down precarious light fittings to change bulbs, and tidying up the garden which involved pruning a vicious rose bush with huge woody thorns which got me in the end - no, not that end thank you. Leave the jokes to me. I think some kids had played trick or treat with my terracotta pots, for they were in many many pieces. Little bastards.

Sammie and I went for our evening stroll along Old Father Thames and some kids (there’s a lot of them about – must be something in the water) set off some very loud fireworks near us which turned Sammie into whirling dervish, pulling me this way and that along the footpath, like we were in some Benny Hill sketch. A quiet evening in with a few cans of your finest, due to an earlier cancellation. Tomorrow I must make soup to last H through to the New Year – but I can’t find any blinking leeks – not even for ready money. Probably because they're in season - plenty of stuff from Egypt and Kenya mind you.

A farmyard scene, today.

Nice bit of thicket...now spot the dog

Sammie: fully-working legs. And that's her bone incase you were wondering

A few of my favourite things

Back to the early morning dog-walking routine. Sammie is completely on form and no sign of the arthritis which crippled her at the beginning of October. She dragged me all the way to the farm and back again. Took a walk up to Canary Wharf for lunch and a spot of shopping – saw more human beings in a few minutes than I’ve seen the whole time I’ve spent in France.

An evening’s stroll along the Thames to Island Gardens with Sammie to gaze with awe once more upon Wren’s floodlit Royal Naval College, followed by sirloin steaks, French & Saunders and Jonathan Ross on the telly. Nice.

Homeward bound

This morning I packed my satchel and headed off to L'Enfance de Lard for a most enjoyable lunch. Then off to Bergerac International Airport to join the throng of Daily Mail-reading English people heading back to the UK. Ghastly bunch they are, on their way back to middle-England no doubt, to campaign against asylum seekers and relaxed liquor licensing hours. Fell asleep during the flight - that might have had something to do with the last bottle of Monbazillac with lunch. Who can say?

Terrible traffic all the way back from Stansted - oh it's good to be back in gridlock city. Sammie went berserk when she saw me - I have this effect on animals. There's no place like home.

View from upstairs today

Writing home

Another day of wall to wall scribing - this is like having a job. Gloomy weather wasn't inviting me out to play anyway. Not much else to say...I'm all written out!

Aperitifs at L'Enfance de Lard and home in time for tea and the incredible animated film: Belleville Rendezvous. It's French you know, so purely educational.

Flying home to Londonland tomorrow for a few days, so must pack my toothbrush. Toodlepip.

Turning leaves to flame

Rainy days and Tuesdays

Lunchtime plans were cancelled which gave me the opportunity to have a day of uninterrupted writing. Outside the rain dripped down through the fading leaves and down the roof tiles, occasionally dislodging soggy lumps of moss which hit the ground with a soupy plop.

Inside all was warm and cosy. I took a walk along the Dordogne and round town to get a bit of fresh air. The sun made a brief appearance, lighting up the grey clouds, then the rain set in again.

Having achieved more today than I have for ages, I decided to relax a watch a film. I don’t think my choice of movie was particularly appropriate for my mood: ‘The Passion of the Christ’ had me squirming squeamishly on the sofa. After the gruesome crucifixion scene, I paused the film and made something to eat; thinking the next bit in the garden of Gethsemane would be a little more uplifting. I restarted the film, the stone rolled away and that was the end. Oh well, ‘’Allo ‘Allo’ cheered me up.

Had the tripe sausages for tea - remember I said I'd try anything once? Well, once was more than enough on this occasion!

The Hunger II

Fiddler's Dram

I finished reading ‘The Grass Harp’ by Truman Capote this morning. I wanted it to go on forever, but like all good things…

The day was overcast and chilly but indoors it was all toasty so I spent the whole morning and afternoon writing, without having to do star jumps every ten minutes to keep warm.

In the evening I had been invited to L’Enfance de Lard to make up the numbers for a music evening. Don’t panic, I didn’t get out my penny whistle. I was seated at my usual corner table, armed with yesterday’s Sunday Times and a large gin and tonic. The musicians, a violinist and a cellist played before dinner, between the starter and main course and then after dessert and coffee. The acoustics in the restaurant suited the instruments (which were both antique – of course) superbly and I felt very privileged to be there listening to, amongst others, pieces by Haydn, Bach and a short piece by Tchaikovsky called ‘Old French Song’ which I recognised instantly as it is one of the only pieces of music I can play confidently on the piano. They played ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ especially for me (yes, I know) and Danny Boy at the end, for Michael. It goes without saying that the food was delicious too, but I will say it dammit - smoked salmon with endives, roast beef (as rare as you like) with pasta and cepes and a delicious slice of tart; Bergerac red to complement.

At the end of the evening I was given a brief demonstration of why women like to play the cello. Let me just say good vibrations and leave it there.

The flea market comes to town

Send up the heat

What a fine morning to explore treasures in the flea market. This takes place just along the road from me on the first Sunday of the month. I perused all sorts of odds and sods, including fox stoles with heads and feet intact (mmm…Christmas present ideas), a row of coat hooks made out of deer feet (tasteful) and all manner of other artefacts. I wondered what gems might be hiding amongst all the bric and brac if only you had the eye for it.

I returned to the house for coffee and scribbles.

Brunch was served in a traditional English breakfast stylee at L’Enfance de Lard and we feasted on Lincolnshire sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs, tomatoes, baked beans, mushrooms, potato cakes, fried bread and toast washed down with plenty of frothy bucks fizz and tea. Even a bottle of HP sauce and a pork pie was available. Absolutely delicious – honestly, you can’t top it.

This afternoon turned out to be quite a historic time for me. Unless you have spent more than a few days in a cold house you can not appreciate how obsessed with warmth one can become. I was obsessed. During brunch I had learned that by dialling 3103 on the telephone you can check if there are any messages. Curious to see if I had any, I did this when I got home and heard a message from the person from the estate agent who had arranged the sale of this house back in the summer. She had intervened to find out from the previous owner how the heating worked and left me a series of instructions which I immediately put into action and eureka! The boiler burst into life and heat began to fill the house. Oh joy! I gradually began to remove the layers of clothing I have become accustomed to modelling.

I watched Pedro Almodovar’s ‘Talk To Her’ on my laptop. Such a beautiful and moving film. Then I made a few phone calls to tell all the concerned parties of my good fortune with the boiler and parties broke out across the land. Spent the evening writing without shivering and put the winceyette nightie back into mothballs.

I'm doing it, I'm really doing it

Hands that do dishes as soft as your face…

Saturday is market day so off I went to find A who was already there swinging his baskets. We went around twice, collecting prunes, quinces and courgettes amongst other things. The baskets got heavier and heavier. Then we went back to L’Enfance de Lard for coffee and croissants.

I spent all afternoon writing, which is a good thing n’est pas?

This evening I was employed washeruperer in the restaurant and four hours passed very quickly keeping up with the constant stream of dishes, plates, cups and glasses – oh and pouring drinks naturellement. Tomorrow the flea market comes to town. I hope they have a circus.

Andy Monument looks a scream

Fly my pretties, fly!

I have fallen out with a blackbird of the feathered variety. This cheeky little rascal hangs around the terrace all day, watching me with beady eyes. He hides behind some leaves where he thinks I can’t see him and will sit there for ages carefully choosing his moment. Then, just when he thinks I am not looking, he hops down onto the flower bed and within a few seconds, he’s pecked leaves off plants, sent earth flying every which way, unearthed dahlia tubers and several bulbs. I shoo him away and he flies off over the rooftops cackling at me. But soon he’s back, watching and waiting once again for an opportunity to pounce on my pansies.

Today, as well as falling out with a bird, I have fallen in love with the music of Sufjan Stevens and have been playing the two albums I own all day (apart from first thing this morning when I had a Mahler moment and wept into my All-Bran during the Adagietto of Symphony No 5). So here’s my recommendation to you: ‘Seven Swans’ and ‘Greetings From Michigan The Great Lake State’ by Sufjan Stevens. They are truly beautiful recordings, in a modern day Nick Drake-y kind of way, and I urge you to give them a listen. Can you send me the money now please Sufjan?

It was lovely and warm and sunny today (once the sun had come up that is) and I sat on the terrace writing and gently thawing out after what had been a rather chilly night. It must be nearly time to dig out my winceyette nightie I think.

Later on I took my empties down to the bottle bank (nearly broke my back) and wandered into town to by fags and browse through CDs. M very kindly delivered my champagne order for this evening – fantastic service that – better than Acado.com! I thank you. More writing during the afternoon – I’m on a roll at the moment. My writer’s block has been surgically removed – what a relief. Received a lovely thing in the post from the equally lovely J. There's a clue in the picture - "Say what you see!"

Later, as I was expecting guests (as opposed to twins - that was last week) for aperitifs before we went to L’Enfance de Lard, so I set about tidying, hoovering stairs, cleaning toilets and bathrooms and generally plumping up cushions or anything else that need a good old plump. Don't stand in my way when I'm plumping! I met my lovely guests at the quayside and we walked back to the house for champagne and nibbles. It was great to have the house so full of laughter – I have got so used to being here all by myself. After conducting the obligatory tour of the estate (I know it’s not my house but I can pretend can’t I?) we went to eat. To save blushes, I think I’ll just say we had a rather fabulous evening and leave it there. All the necessary components were present – great food, great wine and above all fantastic company. My only regret is the evening went so quickly. I was very nearly kidnapped and taken back to the Lot in the boot of a car at the end of the night.

By the way, I have some rather intriguing photos from last night but I was asked not to post them here, and I am a man of honour. Honor Blackman.

The family jewels

Let them eat cake

Good golly Miss Molly – there was a fair old nip in the air this morning. I felt like Scott of the Antarctic when I finally crawled out from under the duvet.

A morning of writing and then a trip to L’Eclerc for a change of scenery and the purchase of a can opener, a box of rosé and some tripe sausages – well I’ll try anything once. Back to L’Enfance de Lard for aperitifs and a trip to the launderette. M&A gave me a notebook with Marie Antoinette on the cover, all sparkly and done up like a dog’s breakfast. It’s very lovely.

When the sun comes out it’s really warm – yeah, funny that. I sat on the terrace and had some lunch and then got back into author mode until it was time to crank up The Thrills and have me dinner with more ‘’Allo ‘Allo!’ you stupid woman. I’m an addict.

Pansies bedded in

In the market today...

Up at the crack to go to the market to buy stuff. Went for a coffee first – this was ten o’clock in the morning and guys were drinking lager in the café. The market was smaller than the Saturday one, but still lots of stalls. We walked around twice before A decided on some chestnuts and two kilos of walnuts he liked the look of. I was tempted by the beetroots – they look fabulous in a beetrooty way – and some jus de pruneaux (poor man’s colonic irrigation I call it), but managed to resist.

I had wanted to buy some herbs to plant a wee herb garden on the terrace, but there were none to be had, not even for ready money. Not in season you see. Oh well, bought ten pansies instead and carried them home aloft.

More writing, followed by lunch. It seemed to warm up a little this afternoon so I rolled up my sleeves and set to work outside. I should have taken a photo before I started so I could have done a before and after makeover thing, but I forgot. Still, I think it looks very nice and it gives me a lot of pleasure vicar. I'm thinking it needs some heather and something with a bit of height. Ooh hark at me – I’m having a Titchmarsh moment!

Quiet evening in tonight methinks, feeling a bit jaded after all this gallivanting around.

It's a look! Sweetcorn does get stuck in your teeth it's true.

Lost bread and burnt cream

I woke up trying to remember what time train we were catching to Bordeaux, and what time we had arranged to meet, but my brain had stopped working. Anyway, I took a guess at eight-something so set off into the fog.

Got to the station in time for the 0855hrs to Bordeaux, but it was running late (happens here too apparently) so we waited on the chilly platform for fifteen minutes before we were on our way. Less than an hour later we stepped off the train at Bordeaux.

We wandered into the centre of town, and found a small café with walls covered in Cubist artworks, for coffee and croissants. Nearby was a flea market around an old church, so we browsed for some time, inspecting knicks and knacks and bric and brac and the occasional fridge. Taking the main pedestrian street into town we arrived at the opera house and went in to get a calendar of the season’s productions. Might get tickets for Tosca next year – nothing like a bit of Puccini to lift the spirits. Inside the opera house (in the foyer areas) there was an exhibition of costumes used in productions, and a whole load of stuff about references to food and drink in operas. That Rossini was a bloody big bugger. We peered through a door that had been left ajar, into the rehearsal room where the ballet dancers were being put through their paces in a blur of tights and tutus.

After that, we walked further still down pretty little streets until we came across a bistro style restaurant which A was keen to revisit. Shall I go into AA Gill/Michael Winner/Fay Maschler mode again? Sod you, I will anyway. Pastis aperitifs to whet the appetite, a starter of warm and velvety black pudding with baked apple and salad accompanied by a rosé from the south of France, a main course of tender grilled pork with creamy potatoes and a delicious jus, and a local white wine which was excellent. A historic crème brulée to finish. We were the first to arrive and the last to leave!

After lunch we sauntered around a few antique places choosing gorgeous little things but buying nothing. We then went to the Musée d’art contemporain de Bordeaux. There was an exhibition on called Hors d’œuvre which was…yeap, all about food. Bit of a theme running through today I think. The first thing we were confronted with was a tin of La Merde d’Artiste no.31 by Manzoni. There was all kinds of stuff on show – photos of insipid looking meals prepared with food of the same colour; video installations including one with a bubbling saucepan of alphabetti-spaghetti where the words ‘I have a headache’ gradually appear spelt out by the pasta letters as it boils away; lots of stuff with chocolate both melted and solid, a section of floor covered with tens of thousands of gold wrapped sweets; giant, mouldering pizzas on the floor; photos of mouths with sweetcorn, beans and things instead of teeth…shall I go on?

Reeling from that, we wandered back to the main street and called in at a florist, as one does. We took refuge in a bar to have a drink or two before catching a taxi back to the station. We boarded a train with only minutes to spare…and then it didn’t leave on time. We had managed to pick a train which stopped at every gate and lamp post, so it took much longer to get back. The train was very full. I don’t know what the matter was with the two women sitting opposite us. One was reading a book on gardening and then she started to cry. The other one was reading some sort of text book then she started to well up. Very emotional people the French.

Back home and tired, I spent the evening writing away until the wee small hours of the morning.

A fridge in the market today

Lunch was partaken of here

Merde d'Artiste - does what it says on the tin

Pizza anyone? Not sure if it has a stuffed crust though.

Just a little bit of...

Still life (in the old dog)