Toulouse Or Not To Lose

I'm knackered, I've spend all day in the pink city, not admiring the brickwork (after which it gets its nickname) of the old town, nor it's varied cultural facilities, nor its famed space centre. I've been making an abortive search for an hotel within walking distance of where I want to go on Thursday next week. I spent seemingly hours driving through mile after mile of low-rise apartment blocks in the suburbs without finding one hotel. I've never been in this part of a major french town before and it seems so different from the miles and miles of suburban UK housing (or little boxes as Pete Seeger called them many years ago)

My quest started because, as usual, I've done things arse about face. I've never been to a french football match, I regularly watch football on TV and many years ago watched live footy in UK but not here. Toulouse or TFC have qualified for the EUFA cup and I thought I would treat myself to tickets for their 2 home games between now and Xmas. I've been on the Internet and ordered them and as the games end at past 22.00, the 2 hour drive is a bit much for an old fart, so an hotel is in order.

Even though a daily morning walk is necessary for both dog and health reasons this is one old fart who's not really designed for excessive walking, and as a glance at the TFC website showed a number of parking areas close to the stadium my first priority was to see if it were possible to get a space there-in. So I started my day in town at the stadium box office. I told the young thing there that I had an Internet ticket for the game against Sparta Prague and asked if it was possible to book parking. She said "not for the moment!"

I had no idea what this colloquialism actually meant ! Did she mean "later" or "perhaps later (if a cancellation)" or " first come first served on the day" ? I just can't think fast enough in french to respond to a dilemma like that so I just slunk off into the car park (empty, of course!) and invented plan "B". That's the search for a local hotel.

Plan "B(2)" was to look for on-street parking within walking distance of the stadium but on a Wednesday morn (albeit in the half term hols.) every possible inch was crammed tight and that's not an exaggeration because the reason that french cars have bumpers is that as they park so close together they have to bump their way out!

It's The Dog That Counts

I'm quite proud of the fact that my dog is a champion crapper, on the odd occasion that other people take her for the morning walk they invariable comment on both the frequency and volume of her performance. If there were an Olympic event she would definitely be gold medal potential; could be our only chance for 2012, perhaps I should write to Lord Coe about this!
I sometimes find the morning walk a bit onerous but have to allow sufficient time for the dog to finish her business, which varies between 3 and 5 squats. So on a bad morning I tended to turn for home after the 3rd crap, the dogs a quick learner and now after her 3rd she automatically turns for home even if I wish to continue

No Flies On Me

There's another gold-en-re-triev-er in the village and the two dogs play well together when they meet on the morning walk. Jean-Claude and Adrienne,who take turns in this sometimes onerous duty are friendly and we have exchanged a couple of meals and looked after each others dogs from time to time.
In the long dry season we intrepid dog walkers are much plagued by little tiny flies that seem to go for the moisture in the eyes and this season Jean-Claude has taken to plucking a large fern like leaf of bracken and using it as a fan.
I have read somewhere that the pollen or spores of bracken is one of the most carcinogenic naturally occurring substances known. I have no idea what part of the plant produces this deadly substance nor at what time of the year but wondered if I ought to warn him of the danger he might be facing. In the end I decided not to- because I quite fancy his wife.
In matters of the heart (or in this case a bit lower down) it is necessary to plan ahead !!

The Hunting Season

With the end of summer comes the hunting season, which starts off with the wood pidgeon shoot. The locals build hides high in the trees in the depths of the woods which they reach with the aid of immense hand built wood ladders and well supplied with wine,bagettes and sausage crouch there all day. It seems that mankind having origionally decended from the trees is returning to it's origins !
The other old farts tell stories of octobers in which the skies went dark as the birds passed over on their annual migration and bemoan the fact that so few arrive this year. In fact the son, who lives in Toulouse,of one loacal old fart comes down and spends his 2 week annual holiday crouched in a hide with his dad; this year he hasn't seen a single wood pidgeon. When I put it to him that it was because they'd killed them all in previous years he vehemently denied the allegation, putting the blame firmly and squarely on "Les Espagnols" who massacre them for pleasure rather than the pot.
They go to great lenghts to compensate for the scaresity of prey, their cars are hidden

Summer's Over

The summer is over, all the summer guzzlers have been and gone. July and August were for the kids, children,grandchildren and ,this year, great grandson. September and into October other family and friends, although these two seem to get fewer year on year not by natural selection but by choice. As well as restarting here I shall also start restocking the wine cellar.
The two early teen grandsons stayed on for a futher two weeks after their parents returned to the UK and fancied camping in the woods. Not brave enough to actually go down into the woods but at the bottom of the garden NEAR the woods.

The youngest lad Andrew arrived back from a summer in Spain and took his one man tent down there to join them. One night they were all sitting around their camp fire when 2 badgers came out of the woods, making lots of screeching noises and chasing and fighting each other, or so the grandsons thought ! Andrew explained to them, probably in the smutty vernacular beloved of early teens, that far from fighting they were doing something else.

Days later, after I'd taken them home, Andrew came out of the shower room and said "go and look at the mirror in there!" You know how when a mirror has steamed up you can write in it and then the message disappears when the steam evaporates only to re-appear when the mirror re-steams. Well the message left by one of the grandsons read " Andrew is a badger shagger!"