Earth Mother by Leslie Duncan

Tuesday 25th September

Maybe I dismissed the myriad D’s too swiftly.  I almost forgot the remarkable Lesley Duncan, a backing singer who became a singer, songwriter in her own right.  Elton John recorded her song ‘Love Song’ for his ‘Tumbleweed Connection’ album where she duetted with him.  At the time she had her own album out ‘Sing Children Sing’, which barely caused a ripple with the record-buying public but it was with the LP ‘Earth Mother’ that she really found her voice and style.  The title song is a warning about the dangers of environmental destruction, a common theme now, but back in the early seventies this was almost unheard of.  Chris Spedding played guitar and gave her songs a sharp edginess which her voice managed to smooth out beautifully.   There is also a song about how the record business works – ‘Fortieth Floor’, plus a few lovely love songs.  The album has an honesty which is quite typical of early seventies albums, which you don’t tend to hear so much today.   Back then artists weren’t so aware of their careers, most simply loved making music.

Lesley never achieved fame or even much critical acclaim in her lifetome and she died in 2010.  But though a few of her albums were re-released on CD in the early years of this century they have suddenly become much sought after and on Amazon are selling for over a hundred pounds.  So there must be some demand out there.  Maybe she is one of those rare artists that though no-one has heard of them and they never really made it in their lifetime, they have a strange after-life.

I simply know that Earth Mother is one of my very favourite albums of all time, and if I were ever to lose my CD copy I would happily pay the Amazon price for a new copy.

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Time seems to go slower here

Monday 24th September

I am sure that it is some sort of an illusion, a trick the brain plays on itself, but time itself seems to move slower here.  During the working week I am always hurrying, scurrying here and there – there never seems a moment of quiet. I usually go to Walton-on-the-Naze at weekends, and although the hour and a half journey can seem particularly tedious, the time seems to go quite quickly there too.  London, of course, runs on its own time.  It is almost impossible to amble along London streets, and there is a momentum in the crowds on the Underground that forbids tarrying too long.  And you just get swept up with it.  But here, in France, and particularly this long weekend has unwound so slowly.  I keep glancing at my watch and thinking, surely it must have been longer than ten minutes since I last looked at you.  Perhaps it is the close vicinity of the town; it is literally less than five minutes to the square, or the river, or one of the bars that you are back home almost before you set out.  Perhaps it is also to do with the time difference.  Our TV has a UK Sky box with freeview, so you keep getting caught out; switching on to see the football results at 4.45 on Saturday to discover that it is still 3.45 in the UK.  So you are also thinking in two time zones, which can be a bit disconcerting to say the least.

But none of that begins to explain the languid atmosphere that has overtaken me these few days.  I have just been out for a walk along the river, and I thought I had walked for ages, but it was only a half hour and I was back home.  There was hardly a soul about, just a few ducks gently swimming on the water. And it was really idyllic, the trees not yet affected by Autumn winds were still in full leaf, and hung right over the river in places.  One always forgets how vast France is, they have so much land, and a smaller population than us, so there seems to be much more left to nature.

As I said maybe it is all an illusion, but one I am prepared to enjoy as often as possible.

Sitting outside the Café de Paris

Sunday 23rd September

It isn’t so warm today, but not so cold either – just pleasant, if no real sunshine.  I am sitting outside the Café de Paris simply watching the world go by.  A glass of Hoegarden on the table beside me; I don’t really need a drink, but you can hardly sit here with nothing.  On reflection I should have maybe asked for a ‘jus d’orange’.  Life in Eymet seems so much more relaxed than in England.  Everyone isn’t shopping for a start, in fact apart from market day you hardly see anyone shopping.  Quite often you can wander around a supermarket and be quite on your own.  French familes are out for a casual stroll and middle-aged English couples pass by too, taking in the beautiful old buildings and the square, which apart from allowing cars in, probably hasn’t changed that much in a couple of hundred years.  I can see the church, which though only 19th Century seems to fit in, and the ruins of the old castle which are at least from the 1200’s, as is much of the town too.  Almost all the buildings are that slightly yellow stone colour of southern France, with touches of dark and lighter grey, and occasional outcroppings of stone or pale brickwork.  And the old timbers are unpainted and a pale wood colour, unlike the black painted beams you find in England, as if they have just been spruced up for the tourists ‘And here we see a typical Tudor house.’

No-one seems to care especially about preserving the past here, but are content to live inside it, without changing very much at all.  So it doesn’t have that stilted chocolate box glow about it, but rather a dusty dowdy slightly faded look that just fits on beautifully with the landscape.  Occasionally a car will pass by the church, or more likely a scooter, and the pub’s TV showing French rugby is a constant reminder that we are not in some time warp.

But I know if I come back in a month’s time or next year or even a few years time it will still be much the same.  The church, the ruined castle, the river just down the road and the Café de Paris still open with those small round tables and chairs outside.  I just hope I will still be there too.

Back in France – Still Lovely

Saturday 22nd September

Just popped over for a long weekend, which was so easy.  About four hours door to door, and not too expensive either; which is an issue to be confronted if our politicians ever become serious about the environment and the amount of pollution that air travel causes.  Ironically, George Bush of all people came up with the solution, though for all the wrong reasons.  He simply did not want to confront the issue and said that we didn’t have to worry because ‘Technology will find a solution’.  However without political pressure the technology will not be implemented or perfected.  I have long thought that Tony Blair missed a real opportunity on being elected in 1997, and with such a big majority.  He could simply have insisted that car manufacturers have say, 15 years to significantly reduce petrol consumption or not be able to sell their new models in the U.K.  Airplane makers could have maybe been given 25 years.  Instead they did nothing, insisting that a Europe wide approach was the way forward.  Well, we haven’t come very far forwards at all, as far as I can see.

But it is lovely to be back here in France again, and the weather, though not quite as warm as it was, is still very sunny and much better than in England at the moment. I was painting (windows – not canvases, sadly) this morning and will be doing some writing this afternoon. As usual, the French opening hours are as confusing as ever.  Half the shops are shut and you really have no way of telling if it is the wrong time of day or if they are shut all day.  The ‘Heures d’Ouvert’ on the door bear little resemblance to what is actually happening.

And I have just been for a little walk down by the river Dropt, enjoying the late summer sunshine, and the totally relaxed atmosphere of our second home.  A pity I have to go back on Sunday, but then just a month until we are here for a week.

The Troubled Man by Henning Mankell

Friday 21st September

I bought this book by mistake.  Actually just in the wrong order; I mistakenly thought that this was the second book in the Kurt Wallander series, but it is in fact the last to be written.  None of which diminishes from its brilliance.  Kurt is now in his early sixties, and on his own and miserable as ever, and he is constantly re-assessing his life, his career and his relationships with his colleagues and his daughter.  The story is brilliant too, with quite a few twists and turns.  But as usual it is the descriptions of simple things such as the food Kurt eats, his dreams and of course, the Swedish landscape that make it so readable.  I was hooked early on and read it at every opportunity, only to feel bereft and at a loss as the percentage on the kindle finally got to 99%.  By the way, it never gets to 100% even on the last page, which may or may not intrigue you.  It is never quite the same feeling as the physical book in your hand, as you occasionally turn it on it’s side to see how much you have read and how much still to go.

I won’t tell you any more about the story except to say that it involves people very close to Kurt, and the roots of the story go way back into the cold war itself, and throws a different light onto Sweden’s relationship with both Russia and America, as they were supposed to be neutral at the time.  The book really makes you think, about the world, politics, ageing and the personal politics of betrayal and familial love.

A really great read – and I now have to go back and find out which book was actually the second in the series and buy and read that.  Eight out of ten I would say.

D is for all the D’s that didn’t make it

Thursday 20th September

Deacon Blue, Sandy Denny, Dexys, Dire Straits, Thomas Dolby, The Doors, Donovan, Nick Drake and Dusty amongst others.  Deacon Blue – another great 80’s band emerged from Scotland with a bunch of excellent songs and an edgy sound – best album by far was Fellow Hoodlums.  After that they seemed to fade from view.  Sandy Denny started in Fairport Convention, and before that the Strawbs and for a while a solo artist.  She had the most beautiful voice, clear and emotional and strong and gentle all on the same track.  She died from complications after a long history of drug abuse, another of rock’s victims – but she has recently had a renaissance and posthumously is probably more famous than when she was alive.  Dexys Midnight Runners burst on the scene in 1979 with Gino and had a number one with Come on Eileen.  The band was really a vehicle for Kevin Rowland’s voice and musical muse, which has wavered over the years with long gaps while he tried to get a band together or a record contract.  Dire Straits – another 80’s band who had a string of great singles and albums, the best of which was ‘Brothers in Arms’  – the lead guitarist and singer Mark Knopfler went solo and is still making very competent music.  Thomas Dolby had a couple of exciting singles and a handful of brilliant albums before he just seemed to stop making music altogether – a pity as he had a beautiful voice, and was obviously a genius.  The Doors were once almost as famous as the Beatles, before their lead singer Jim Morrison became another famous rock casualty in the early seventies, but he left behind some lovely music like ‘Riders on the storm’.  Donovan, was, well just Donovan – a very English elfish singer songwriter who emerged about the same time as and was rapidly eclipsed by Dylan – some sweet songs though like ‘Sunshine Superman’ and ‘Try and catch the wind.’   Nick Drake, another singer sadly no longer with us.  He made just three sad and haunting delicate albums which have sold consistently after his death but were completely ignored when he made them. He died in 1974, a suspected suicide.  And Dusty, possibly the greatest English vocal talent of the sixties and early seventies, she had a string of hit singles but never seemed comfortable with fame itself.  She drifted in and out of fashion before dying in 1996 of cancer – it hardly made an item on the news.

So, sadly, so many of my favourite D’s are either no longer with us or have stopped making music altogether.  I could also include , and who could forget Ian Dury, irreplaceable wit and great lyricist who is also sadly gone.  But they all pale into insignificance beside the greatest D of all – Bob Dylan.

Large people, small seats

Wednesday 19th September

It sometimes happens in the theatre; you are eagerly awaiting the performance and in your seat early browsing the expensive programme.  The house lights start to dim, and then you realise that someone is arriving late and you will have to stand up so that they can squeeze past you.  It is a large person, in fact it is a very large person.  Usually a man, well over six foot and almost as broad.  You brace yourself against your upturned seat and breathe in.  The monster of a man slides past, and then to your horror, he stops and your heart sinks as you realise that the seat next to you is vacant and he will be sitting there, right next to you.  The sheer physical bulk stops you from relaxing, besides they insist on sitting with their legs apart (maybe that is the only way they can sit) and so invading some of your space.  To avoid contact you sit as far away from them as possible, squeezing yourself into the other half of your seat.  And suddenly a pleasant experience turns into a nightmare; no possibility of moving or changing your position, no use of the arm rest (you cannot even see the arm rest anymore), and this overwhelming presence by your side to distract you.

The same thing happens on flights if you are unlucky, and on buses and the tube.  And there is no easy solution – people come in different sizes, and the makers of seats cannot really be expected to cope with this anomaly.  And maybe these large people are just as annoyed that the seat they are allotted is so small that they are overflowing into other’s space.  I have even found myself physically wedged into a tube seat, one where there are no real arm rests – just a slightly raised plastic divider, by two large people, one either side and you hardly dare breathe out for fear you will all be locked together forever, and you are just hoping that one of them has to get off before your stop as there is no way you can release yourself unaided.  So, seat designers, think about it – just how do you deal with large people and small seats.

Cycling is the new jogging

Tuesday 18th September

I was never really bitten by the jogging bug – everyone I knew was out there running and running into problems too.  In the end I too succumbed after a lot of nagging by friends, but though I quite enjoyed it, the freedom, that mild exhilaration and sense of achievement at running a couple of miles, one by one though my friends gave up citing ankle and knee problems, and so too my sporadic jogging came to an end.  You still see quite a few out in the early morning panting round the park, but the real sport that is taking off now is cycling.  It has been slowly growing over the last few years, but I think the Olympic successes in Beijing and now of course in London have been driving this new form of ‘jogging.’

And it doesn’t come cheap; a good bike leaves little change from a thousand pounds, and all that shiny Lycra gear, gloves, helmets, even special cycling trainers and socks and wrist bands that are so trendy must cost a tidy sum.  And in a funny way I think that that is a large part of the attraction.  There has never been anything to stop anyone getting their rusty old Raleigh out of the shed – ‘pump the tyres up and a dab of Wd40 on the chain, slip your trouser clips on and away you go.’  But by buying all the gear, and the more expensive the better of course, you are joining an exclusive club of fellow devotees who spend their weekends racing along in packs, stopping at roadside diners to admire each other’s Nike and Adidas outfits or 32 gear paraphernalia, or ultra thin radial tyres and  special lightweight backpacks.  It must all be terribly good fun.  And I am almost jealous of them until I see a fellow sixty year old, whose varicose veins are protruding from his lycra leggings, and is panting furiously as he tries to keep up with the pack, that I realise that I am just happy to watch them all speeding past into a bright new future.

Grey is the new white

Monday 17th September

For a short while it was black, but now it is grey, and a funny silvery dense grey at that, not even a wispy pale grey, or that grey that you cannot quite discern from blue.  In the trade they have always been known as ‘white goods’, fridges, washing machines, tumble dryers and now dishwashers, but if you happen to be wandering around an electrical store over half of them are this muddy non-colour of grey.  Of course unless you are buying new ‘white goods’ you are hardly likely to be browsing through them anyway.  Almost nobody nowadays buys a new fridge or washing machine or whatever unless they are moving house, or the old one has just broken down.   But I can remember when they were desirable items, when they weren’t absolute essentials that everyone had anyway.  They even used to be advertised on the telly back in the sixties.  We had a fridge and a twin tub long before most of our neighbours.  My mother was always an excellent saver, thrift was elevated to a high science in our household.  I can even remember my mother showing her twin tub off to admiring neighbours (elegantly swinging the mangle rollers from the sink over to the tub) – something you would never dream of today.  I suppose things have shifted upwards and you might just invite the neighbours round to look at or even to sit in your hot-tub, though I certainly would neither have one, nor having bought one actually admit to it, and ask others to join me for a winters evening dip, but there is no shaming the young.

Recently our washing machine broke, it was about time having just passed its warranty date.  Without question we hot-footed it to Curry’s for a replacement, and guess what – the only one they had in store and that we could take away was a grey one.  How infuriating that the models you see, and think are reasonable value, having discounted all the extra’s you don’t need which seem to double the price – these models are always out of stock, or are in a central warehouse and can be delivered in two weeks time.   We didn’t really mind as we keep our machine in the cupboard under the stairs, and no-one ever sees it.  But if you really cared about these things would you then have to change your fridge and dishwasher and tumble-dryer for grey ones to match.

September always was the best month

Sunday 16th September

Even as a child when September inevitably meant the end of the long holiday and back to school, September was something to look forward to.  After that brief week or so of absolute freedom, those six weeks would begin to pall, and the thought of school, or meeting your school-friends, would begin to seem attractive again.  Maybe humans cannot actually stomach too much of a good thing, we are much happier when time is limited and we have to make the best of it in the time remaining.  The prospect of never-ending rest and relaxation may seem attractive until it actually happens and then you will be crying out for a bit of hardship.  And August is not the best month of the summer, by far.  May and June have a freshness about them, with the ever-lengthening evenings and promise of more good weather to come, and July starts off okay, but too often is a harbinger of August rain.  August is the second wettest month, after January, and seldom fails to pour down.

And then just as you think the summer is drawing to a close along comes September, and usually brighter sunnier days, without that oppressive heat of mid-summer.  So, enjoy this splendid month while it lasts, and October too, never as bad as you think it will be, before November mists and cold envelop us as we hunker down for winter again.