Back to camp

What I really mean is not back to camp but back to THE Camp, ie the Roman Camp.  There are basically two routes to the Camp.  One is by way of a public footpath running from Ditchling Road across the golf course, the other from a car park further along Ditchling Road, across 39 Acres, through a patch of wood at the top of the Wild Park, then up behind a hole (12th?  14th?) on the golf course.  Unless the golf course is closed because of snow or some such, I always use the 39 Acres route when walking the dog.  The walk on the remains of the ramparts round the Camp is one of my favourites.  Given reasonable weather, there are views across the South Downs to the east, the west and - principally - to the north.  To the south one looks over the city of Brighton to the English Channel while to the south-west there is sometimes a faint glimpse of the Isle of Wight, some 50+ miles away.

A drawback to the walk across 39 Acres - which is a field owned by the council and left almost completely untended for public recreation - is just that: the field is untended.  That means that the grass grows to quite a considerable height, which Fern loves, but it also means that there are millions of seeds in the autumn and those seeds cling to Fern's fur, which is both fine and long.  Ridding her of those seeds is a lengthy process so I usually avoid this walk at that time of the year.  However, once a year the council have the field mowed, very roughly, and from then on the walk is available to me once again.  As it was this past weekend.

Today's picture was taken on the western rampart where there is a trig (or triangulation) point.  These concrete pillars were erected by the Ordnance Survey in order to make their highly accurate and detailed maps.  Nowadays, of course, trig points are obsolete and maps are made and checked using satellite photography.

St Barbara

Although I can't get in a lather over Sunday trading, I do try to avoid visiting any shops on that day.  Except for Sundays in France, when I will happily visit the boulangerie to buy fresh bread.  And so it was, exactly a week ago, that I found myself buying bread at my favourite boulangerie in Pouancé.  (I also bought some patisserie which later proved to be delicious, but that's a digression.)  As I left the shop, I noticed a police van approaching at slow speed with blue lights ablaze.  It was then that I heard the band.

(Why is it that French bands sound so discordant to my English ears?  It's almost as if they are playing off-key or slightly out of tune.  To somebody brought up on the music of the bands of the Royal Marines and the Brigade of Guards, French military-style bands just don't cut the mustard.)

As the police van passed me and the band approached, I was immediately transported to a December day three years ago.  That was when the Old Bat and I were in Châteaubriant and I was trying to take a photo of the château reflected in the windows of the Glass Theatre. (It didn't work.)  On that occasion, what seemed like the entire manpower of the local fire station, led by their band and all their vehicles, came marching up the hill and off, we assumed, to the nearby war memorial.  (If you are feeling sufficiently masochistic, you can read about it here.)

After the police van came the tricolor, escorted by a fireman and a firewoman, each carrying a fire axe, then the discordant band, followed by a mass of men and women in uniform.  Given that the population of Pouancé is little more than 3,000, I was surprised how many people there were marching.  Presumably some were full-time firefighters while others were part-time volunteers (which might explain why some were wearing traditional French caps and others red baseball-style caps).  They were followed by a van, a fire engine and an ambulance (French firefighters are also trained paramedics).

 Being on my own and not in any great hurry, I joined the throng of camp followers and tagged along behind.  Our destination was the local war memorial.  After some time while the fire brigade got themselves sorted out, the buglers sounded a short fanfare and the big cheese, accompanied by a man dressed in scruffy civies, marched up to lay a wreath.  Another fanfare (the same tune as before), and then it was time to present awards and so on.  I drifted away.

That afternoon we were invited to take tea (or coffee or beer) with Jacques and Brigitte.  While we were there, I asked Jacques about the parade.  He explained that this was to mark the feast of St Barbara (which was actually two days later) who is the patron saint of the French fire brigade.  And miners.  And artillerymen.  And the US Navy and Marine Corps Aviation Ordnancemen (according to Wikipedia).

Fermeture definitive

"Permanent closure" is the strictly literal translation, although "closing down" would perhaps be a better known expression this side of the Channel.  But "fermeture definitive" is what the notice said.  I wondered, when I saw how empty the car park was, if the store was closed on Monday mornings.  But it would not be just Monday mornings that Mr Bricolage would be closed.  Mr Bricolage closed down!  I found it difficult to take in that my favourite DIY store in all of France was no longer in business.  My friend Chris and I have spent many hours wandering the aisles of the store picking up the odd bits and pieces we needed for the work we were then undertaking at les Lavandes, the French hideaway that the Old Bat and I had bought almost ten years ago.  They sold everything from artists' materials to ready-made staircases, from ride-on lawn mowers to floor coverings.  They had the biggest range of drawer handles I have ever seen, and a veritable rainbow of self-coloured skirting boards.  Over the years, Chris and I had bought screws, drills, a tile cutter, a window shutter kit - all manner of things.  So familiar was I with the store that I could have found the screws even if I had been blindfolded at the entrance, but this time I had come in search of an alarm clock.

The Old Bat and I are very recently returned from a trip to stock up the wine cellar for Christmas and we had been plagued by power cuts.  Now, I have to admit that a power cut in the village of la Prévière is not at all an uncommon occurrence; in fact, they are quite the opposite, but it is unusual for them to occur as frequently as they did during the first three days of our visit when we had four or five.  I suppose calling them power cuts might be over-egging the pudding a tad as the only indication that the power had gone off was the flashing of the time display on the alarm clock in the bedroom.  Maybe they were simply hiccups, interruptions in supply, but sufficient to stop the clock.  Two of those interruptions had occurred on consecutive nights, thereby ensuring that I was not woken by the loud buzzing of the alarm.  You might - quite rightly - say that is hardly the end of the world considering that the only pressing business of the morning - indeed, the only pressing business of the whole day - was a visit to the boulangerie to buy the lunchtime bread.  However, an early start is needed on the day of our return to England, so an alarm clock is essential.  Ideally, we needed an old fashioned, wind-up alarm clock.  But where to find one?  It's hard enough in Brighton, but the shops of Pouancé, Châteaubriant and Segré (the three towns closest to us) are unfamiliar territory - apart from the boulangerie, charcuterie, supermarkets and Mr Bricolage.

Serious consideration was needed, the sort of consideration that would have been described as "a two-cigarette think" in the days when I was still an active smoker.  Having given that consideration to the matter, I had come to the conclusion that the most likely source of the apparatus we required was one of the big supermarkets in Châteaubriant.  There are three large supermarkets in the town and I was quite content to leave to She Who Must Be Obeyed the decision as to the order in which they should be visited.  So I drove to Hyper U, the larger version of Super U, our local supermarket.  We did manage to buy some felt-tip pens to add to our granddaughter's Christmas present, but alarm clocks?  We found none at all.  It just so happens that the Hyper U and the Mr Bricolage sites are contiguous (at least, I think they are) so I suggested that we check out Mr B before going on to Leclerc, the second supermarket on the list.

I have yet to break the news about Mr B to Chris - not that we have undertaken any renovation work or other improvements for several years.  Neither have we any planned.  He will, I am sure, be just as astonished as I was to learn of the closure of what seemed to me to be a thriving store.

I did manage to buy an alarm clock.  Leclerc had a good range.  Although none were of the wind-up variety, I found a cheap electric one which has battery back-up so that the settings are retained in memory in the event of a power cut.  I just hope we don't have one over the time the alarm is set to go off!

~~~~~

Thinking of early mornings, this was the dawn at la Prévièreone day during our recent visit - at 8.45am!  Perhaps I should crop the picture to remove the lens flare, but I rather like it as it is.

What's up, Doc?

Or, what's been happening while I was away?

We actually arrived back in Brighton quite latish on Wednesday but as I had been well aware of just how much catching up I would have to do, reading all the blogs I follow, sorting out the trash emails from those I really wanted to read, dealing with the post and phone messages and so on, I left another post "on the schedule" as it were.

We learned at one of the French motorway service stations that not only was the Duchess of Cambridge pregnant, but also that she had been rushed into hospital.  The news might well have been covered by French newspapers but this service area sells the European edition of several English papers.  I refuse to pay the exhorbitant prices demanded for them and content myself with glancing at the front page headlines as I wait for the Old Bat to emerge from the ladies.  I could not help but notice that the Daily Mail was offering a "Royal Baby Special" on pages 2 to 14.  Eh?  !2 - no, 13 pages devoted to an embryo whose sex isn't yet known, let alone the name?

I was pleased to discover yesterday that Sgt Danny Nightingale (I mentioned him here) had his sentence reduced to 12 months suspended and was therefore freed immediately after his appeal against his sentence.  He has also been given leave to appeal against his conviction.  The justice machinery really did sort that out very quickly, probably because of the enormous swell of public opinion. "joke"

Reverting to Kate, I can't understand why two Aussie radio (or TV - I don't know which) presenters thought it so hugely funny to telephone the hospital pretending to be the Queen and Prince Charles.  And I'm not just being an anti-republican royalist when I say that.  It just seems so utterly puerile and the sort of "joke" that even my 9-year-old grandson would think infra dig.  God help Australia if that really is the level of their humour.  But I can't imagine it is.

Eh bien, I must get ready to take the Old Bat to her Friday oxygen treatment.

~~~~~

There's just time to upload another picture of Christmas decorations in Chateaubriant, this one being a new picture.

Plan B

The Plan B that Chris and I devised involved laying joists of three inches by two inches, fastening them to the existing boards with metal angle-brackets. On top of the joists we would fix loft panels, with underfelt and laminate flooring to finish. It was a shame to do away with what were, I thought, the original floor tiles, but they were breaking up and the floor was becoming dangerous.

Back in England, I e-mailed Chris with the room dimensions and, to help with my own calculations, I drew a scale plan on a large sheet of paper. I visited several do-it-yourself stores to get the measurements of their loft panels, all of which were the same. At least this meant that if I had to use several stores to obtain sufficient for my needs, there would be no problem with differing dimensions.

I took great care over my calculations as I realised that there was just one chance of getting this right. No way could we wing it once the tiles and sand had been removed. I had several telephone conversations with Chris in which we decided which way the joists would be laid (at right angles to the floor boards), which way the loft panels (at right angles to the joists) and which way the laminate flooring pieces (at right angles to the loft panels). By this time I felt as though my head was going round in right angles.

Having agreed the basics, we then needed to calculate how many lengths of timber would be needed, how many angle brackets, how many screws, how many loft panels. The timber could be bought in France, but the angle brackets, screws and loft panels would have to be bought in England as we didn’t fancy our chances of being able to pick up exactly what we wanted at any of the French do-it-yourself stores in the area, let alone in sufficient quantity.

Rather surprisingly, especially as neither of us is a quantity surveyor (or could it have been because of that?), both Chris and I came up with the same figures. I made several trips to B & Q to buy loft panels – no way could I get all I needed into the car in one go – and sourced a supplier of the hardware, which I duly ordered over the internet. As there was no way all this could be transported at once, I had to make a special trip to take about half of the materials. About half the remainder could be taken over when I went to remove the old floor and the rest when I went over with Chris to lay the new floor.

I was astonished when my neighbour, Tom, expressed interest in coming with me to clear the old material. I did warn him that it would be hard, dirty work, but he was still keen to come – and I wasn’t going to decline the offer of a free slave.

~~~~~

Still in Chateaubriant  but now with Christmas decorations.

Skip for hire?

The new plan for the floor in the upstairs bedroom would involve lifting all the tiles and digging out all the sand on which they were laid. If the boards beneath were in as good a condition as those I had already exposed, then they could be used as a foundation on which to lay joists and, on top of those, a new floor. In preparation for this, I would take careful measurements of the dimensions of the room.

I also decided to find out where I could hire a skip to dispose of the old tiles and the sand. A visit to the post office was needed so that I could study the local Yellow Pages. This was not terribly successful as there didn’t appear to be any company in the area which hired out the sort of builders’ skips we have in England. All I could find were giant, industrial-sized monsters, but, just in case, I noted the addresses of all the companies supplying these. Mrs S and I then spent several days touring the industrial estates and back streets of every town and city within a forty mile radius. I might have saved both time and fuel if I had bought some street plans. I’m sure there was one back street in Laval that I drove along three or four times, and the number of times we lost ourselves on vast industrial complexes verged on the ridiculous.

But the search proved fruitless. France doesn’t have builders’ skips. I wondered if this was a business opportunity, but then I remembered that practically every car in our village has a tow-bar and every car owner has a trailer. That was how they disposed of unwanted sofas, mattresses, bikes and the like.

I did consider having a tow bar fitted and buying a trailer myself, or borrowing one from Jean-Paul or Jacques, but decided that the cost of the tow bar would be more than I wanted to spend. The materials for the new floor were going to be expensive enough. I would just have to think of some other way to dispose of the remains of the floor.

~~~~~

The church at Chateaubriant again.

Think again

Mrs S and I were in France before Chris and I were due to go over to work on the floor in the upstairs bedroom and I took the opportunity to reassess the job. I lifted a few tiles in one area to check that they were indeed laid on sand and to see just how deep the sand was.

It was then I realised that, if the job was going to be done at all, we would need to re-lay the whole floor in order to even out the ridges in the sand. If we didn’t do that, the cracks would soon reappear. I also became concerned about the weight of sand we would need to use, fearful that the ceiling of the downstairs bedroom might collapse under it.

I dug out some of the sand where I had lifted the tiles. It varied in depth from two inches to four inches, and was laid straight on top of rough sawn planks that had gaps between them of anything up to an inch. How on earth could we stop the sand falling through the gaps? Come to that, how had the original builders done so?

It was becoming more and more clear that the original plan would have to be scrapped and that we would need a major rethink. Despite the cost, I phoned Chris for a discussion and Plan B was developed.

This was how it looked after I had cleared a corner.