Sunday, November 29, 2009

Continental Visit

David had put his Cabot fields away for the year and come to France, so how could we not join him for a weekend in early November? We booked late afternoon passage on the EuroStar -- the fast train that goes under the English channel, and were eating mussels and drinking a fair burgundy in Paris by 9 PM! Marjorie lives in La Rochelle, has visited Vermont several times, and joined us as well.

We stayed in a fourth-floor walkup on the back courtyard at Villa Fenelon: a small and blessedly quiet hotel. Marjorie had lived in Paris for years, and was a very patient tourguide -- basically we took detailed street maps in hand and WALKED for two days. We had cool weather, but fair enough for walking the major avenues, seeing the "big" sights. It was too nice to devote daylight to indoor attractions, though we did go see paintings of Renoir in the 20th Century at the Galeries nationales in the Grand Palais on the Champs-Elysées (at 9PM!) Sorry, but neither of us will offer the kind of emotional reaction that Ellie communicated so well after we saw Van Gogh's work close up in Amsterdam last spring. Renoir moved away from his impressionism later in life, and the subjects and techniques he chose were less thrilling to us.



We went to markets and antique bazarres, fortified with strong coffee and cafe delicacies. The exhibition of historic VOGUE covers down the avenue was of great interest to those with backgrounds in haut couture. And did I say that we walked -- a lot?


We took the Paris Metro to Place de la Nation. Near there is the École Boulle, a center for study of European carving and textile techniques. (Maybe we'll be back sometime!) And of course: we shopped; rather, the two clueless men marked time while the two stylish women disappeared into countless shoe bazaars.



It seems as though the markets are open both day and night in Paris. We browsed a nearly endless gauntlet of stalls with fresh fish, fowl, produce and crafts of every description on Saturday morning. And well into the evening and night, the street vendors are there to supply the neighborhood restaurants or tempt the tourist.




The Eiffel Tower
turns 120 years old this fall; David assured us that the view from the Trocadero would be worth it. He was right, and the full moon obliged as well.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Autumn River Sport

When wind and rain lash the cottage for days, and then sunny gentle breezes unexpectedly dominate the Sunday forenoon, a stroll to see our friends the river fowl is in order.

We jump in the car for the 20 minute drive to the carpark at Hambleden End, just a short stroll from Hambleden Lock on the River Thames.
Crossing over the lockgate, we find ourselves on the Thames path, looking for the elusive kingfisher, watching the hordes of Canada geese waddling around the pasture across the water. Summer's baby greebe is gone, but mom (or dad?) is still preening and diving. There are of course lots of gulls, and the occasional pheasant squawk from the hedgerow.







Mom and Dad Swan have come upstream to the lock gate from their usual haunts, probably because the water is high: maybe 1-2 feet above normal, flooding some of their usual gravel shallow. Below the lock he (she?) can stand on a concrete step to preen while she (he?) cruises for touristic breadcrumbs.




But where are the cygnettes? We find them downstream and note for the first time how their juvenile plumage is dropping away, leaving patches of white. They've been as big as their parents for months, and by late winter or spring, they'll look just the same.

The high water has brought a new kind of creature to The River as well. Just under the wier at Hambleden Lock, where the rains of days past pour in a torrent through the gates, the white water enthusiasts come to hone their skills. Helmets and nose-clips firmly attached, a flick of the wrist makes their little craft jump into the turmoil. They balance artfully on the backwash of the standing wave just below the gate, and are finally swept away, perfecting skills at rolling their white water kyaks.




It seems like it might be a little chilly today. I tried it once, though on a VERY HOT day, on a MUCH warmer river, and a MUCH smaller wave. We watch for awhile, and then head back to Lane End for tea with Ruth.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Yanks Hike the Moor

The days were shorter and a chill was in the air, but Tom and Susannah Blachly and their son Adam(a.k.a. Hamlet) came to visit Lane End, London, the wilds of Dartmoor, and diverse other countryside attractions. One day off the big bird, they bundled into the car with us for a drive down to Ken & Daf's B&B over the hill from Widecombe-in-the-Moor, Devon, in the middle of Dartmoor Park. Ellie and I had been here in April, and were overtaken by the smell of pina colada: the gorse in bloom! But it was an autumn landscape we found: beautiful, but we were glad to have wool jumpers and a fire to come back to.

We hiked up into the foggy heather and made our way to Grimspound, a huge walled complex in a vale, with the remains of stone huts there since before human memory. What is it? a temple of the Druids, an Iron Age fort, a Roman town, a Phœnician settlement, a medieval tinners camp, a transhumance camp for shepherds, and a pound for stray cattle -- those are just some of the answers.

On a brighter day we determined to go on a goodly high moor hike. We set off on the back roads to an old churchyard, from which we would walk up to Bowerman's Nose, a rock of strange visage offering excellent outlooks. Having seen ponies and sheep grazing in the unfenced moorland expanses, we were amused by the local signage.

From the great lookout we hiked more miles: down through the heather, back up to a Tor over-run with tourists, and down a challenging trail through medieval ruins into a shaded mossy glen. Continuous consultation and comparison of maps didn't prevent some feet from getting wet; all were pleasantly tired by evening.

We had other adventures in Dartmoor; perhaps the most unexpected (and sadly unrecorded) was the finish of a hearty dinner in a country pub on the edge of the village. All were feeling sleepy when under the low sooty beams in front of the fire two fiddles started tuning. Soon joined by guitar, squeezebox and a medieval oboe (yes, we had to ask), the fiddles struck up traditional country dance music. The locals danced and clapped, enjoyed the enthusiasms of the American tourists, and a good many pints were downed by all.



Oh yes. . . we left Dartmoor resolving always to believe the wisdom of local signage.