Hangover from london and into France

The apartment in Pechboutier, we have the left hand end for the next couple of weeks

Hangover from London and into France

Hi....this blog is out of date sequence. The blogs underneath are more current as we are presently in the Dordogne in France. However I wanted to give you quick run down on the hi-lights of our last week or so in Lomdon before hitting the continent.  
WELLCOME COLLECTION : Henry Wellcome's museum full of things relating to our universal interest in health and the body. They presently have an exhibition on 'Brains- The Mind as Matter' with some rather startling pieces. You can watch a clip of someone receiving 'electric shock treatment' or a petrified Inca Indian with aside order of Japanese sex gizmos. Henry Wellcome must have been a riot at dinner parties.
ORBITAL CONCERT:  Well this was one of those ' stab in the dark' events. We really weren't sure what this techno, funk band was all about but the write-up intrigued us. Held at the Royal Albert Hall this show had the most amazing laser light show ever,in the perfect venue for a full -on effect. 
Of course as a novice for this type of music I just couldn't my head around the two weird guys with search lights attached to their goggles who look like Sci-fi creatures pushing buttons & dials on stage, all under the guise of music. The event was a real eye-opener when the audience took off with crazy dancing, arms waggling over head & I thought for a moment that we had been teleported to a disco in Ibiza. We're pleased to say we have recovered our hearing and even more pleased to announce to the world  at large that that was our first and last techno funk experience.
THURSDAY PUB NIGHT. As we had started this day sedately with a wander though the Portrait Gallery we decided to crank things up a bit in the evening. So we set off to slip into the historic pub Ye Olde Watling in Holborn. Designed and built by Christopher Wren in 1668 using ship timbers this pub's top floor was Wren's office whilst designing and building St Paul's Cathedral. The workmen from the cathedral worksite drank downstairs with Wren at the end of the day.
Our second watering hole was a surprise. A wine bar located in the inner courtyard of the old Royal Exchange Building in Bank. Fabulous venue.
Third stop at The Golden Fleece for light refreshments, a completely forgettable place.
Then, John pulled one out of the hat....The Blackfriar next to the newly reopened Blackfriars tube station. The Art Nouveau interior dating back to 1905 alone, is worth a visit. A little Gothic but unique.
WESTMINSTER  CATHEDRAL. We just had to check this one out as we had passed by it so many times. Located near Victoria Station with a tower and viewing gallery 64metres up. We were escorted up in the elevator by a delightful Irish priest who raved on about the 360 degree view. Unfortunately the view wasn't that good due to ordinary town planing. Lots of cranes which made me of think of Chch, road works around Victoria, but very little to catch my breath.
CATE BLANCHETT in a Barbican Play ' Gross und Klein'. This rates right up there with the best experience so far. Sitting only two rows from the front we were blown away by her sheer brilliant acting talents and this surreal play. With Alice in Wonderland overtones where Cate's character Lote is either too big or too small for her situation or surroundings. Half-time interval brought us closer the glitterati and a few famous faces from the acting world, all decked out for the after show soirée. Recognised Richard Grant standing next to us while we licked our over-priced ice creams. 
NARROWBOAT restaurant is located on Regents Canal and for our Sunday outing what better place to wander down the tow path and perch yourself beside the canal. Returning to Islington is always a rush for us and restomping our old haunts is comforting.
SAINT GEORGES. An unusual experience. John had read that the 15th floor of this hotel had a magical view of the city. The hotel, located next to the BBC in Langham Place and described as tired & dated but frequented by reporters & journalists sounded like it needed investigating. It was exactly as described but with a twist and it was also a dump. Things happen in this bar. It doubled as a meeting place and pick-up joint for alternative life-stylers, if you get my drift.

Now we are settled in Pechboutier near St Cyprien in the Dordogne. We are staying at Le Chevrefeuille in a gorgeous apartment which is a converted barn on what was a walnut farm. Very scenic area of France with beautiful villages.
Now I'm in French mode....tomorrow I will be throwing myself into a one day cook school and heading off to the local market first thing to buy the ingredients. So we buy, we prepare, we cook and then tomorrow night we eat. Sounds like good French fun! Bon appetite! 

I knew this nirvana was on borrowed time

These Turkeys warrant their specially dedicated Slow Lane at Check Out

I knew this nirvana was living on borrowed time

OK, I give up. I've finally stumbled on a ritual that is interfering with our idyllic lifestyle and it has come in the form of queuing at the Carrefour supermarket check out in St Cyprien.
What is it with these French and their mania for a glacial like pace when it comes to the check out. It's not just in St Cyprien, it's a countrywide disease.
We went through all this stress-testing back in 2010 in Beaune, and nothing, but nothing has changed over the last two years.
For starters, the check out operators all appear to be on happy pills and have signed a collective agreement to work at a pace that wouldn't embarrass a snail.
Then it's the shoppers. Why can't they simply plonk down their goodies, pick up same on the other side of the cash till, throw a few Euros in the general direction of the cashier and get the hell out of the way.
John, Julia, you must be bloody dreaming.
It starts with the unload process. Every article is treated like its fragile china and as such is gently lowered onto the conveyor belt with a 5cm gap in all directions to ensure no product rubs up against the next.
The cashier in turn meanders through the check out process at a pace which immediately generated very dark thoughts in someone such as yours truly.
I'm starting to think about zapping this woman with a cattle prod. Why the hell can't she just crank things up and get on with it.
Then it's down to the ponderous routine of reloading all groceries into bags (noting that French supermarkets don't go in for cheap plastic bags) and everyone pulls a great assortment of their own carrier bags.
The loonies in front of us, a precious overweight ten year old with a frizzy red hair style like that starlet in the film "Annie", the father who looked like an old rock star of about sixty five who appeared to have had the life sucked out of him and finally, his mother who looked about ninety  and  was using a supermarket trolley that doubles up as a zimmer frame (you have to love these French, they think of everything in this Socialist society ).
Finally these three obviously dysfunctional characters eventually realise they haven't purchased enough carry bags , so we wait another five minutes as they perform the twenty second task of purchasing two additional €0.15 bags
I thought at this stage we were on the home straight.
No such luck.
It appears that the French are simply unwilling to settle supermarket bills in cash. So we now move onto the ritual of either writing a cheque or paying by credit card.
Mother and son set to discussing who is going to pay for what.
There is immediate disagreement so half the groceries are then unpacked, discussed at length then repacked in exactly the same bags they were originally stowed in.
This whole scene is doing my head in. I want to scream!
But I don't. I simply sit down and proceed to take a photo as proof that we were there during this crazy thirty minute episode.
No, it's not over,the son's credit card is Ok for payment but his mothers is short on funds.
So off she shuffles to an ATM to transfer some funds.
Here she comes, now this has to come to an end.
But no, she failed to hit the right digits and didn't transfer enough.
Back she goes to the ATM.
The rock star and his spawn have disappeared and leave Nana to cart,drag and juggle a large yellow melon, 3 bottles of wine under her weak wings as well as one very overloaded plastic Carrefour carry bag. 
A minute later we are centre stage, we do our thing, we pay our cash and we exit the doors whilst the previous customers are having a mother, son and grandson domestic outside about who is going to cart the groceries to the car in the rain.
I am now safely back in our accommodation in Pechboutier. I can tell you it will freeze in hell before we return to that .....place!

Cheers

Bordeaux

Our favorite bar. that is, until we find something better tonight

Bordeaux

Bordeaux. Julia lived here for a couple of weeks back in 2010, visited it again in 2011 and simply raved about the place.

We have been here a couple of days and I have to say I’m very impressed.

It’s pointless drawing comparisons with London, Paris or wherever as all cities have their strengths and weaknesses.

Whilst I love London and Julia prefers the likes of Bordeaux, La Rochelle or Paris, it’s interesting to compare a few key drivers.

Cleanliness. Bordeaux has it all over London in spades, though it is apparent that London has been doing its level best to clean itself up. In Bordeaux the streets are clean and in the central city they are all washed down overnight. Everything about the place sparkles. The population are well dressed, even the beggars.

Shops and restaurants are clean. Bar toilets look like they have just passed a hygiene test unlike their London counterparts. The buses are all new and tidy and basically the whole central city exudes pride in itself. The hi-tech, space-age trams glide silently throughout the city.

Food. Time to come clean. When it comes to London we love the stodge that is served up in most restaurants and especially in the pubs. Fish with chips, sausages and chips, Steak Pie and chips, Steak and chips, salad and chips, Turkish, Indian, Arab and Thai food with chips, Chips with chips, we love it all.

However, Bordeaux food is in an altogether different league. It doesn’t matter if you are having a little something with your morning coffee, a late lunch, a bite with your first evening drink or a full-on dinner. At every turn when your mouth touches the food you can guarantee you are in culinary heaven. Every day is a new high on the food front. This whole food thing is fast turning into a religious experience.

Drink. We can’t really get the most out of London’s pub scene as we don’t drink beer and to avoid cash flow issues we have to stick to the likes of Chilean Pinot Gris at around sixteen quid a bottle (three quid in Sainsbury’s).

The bars in Bordeaux are simply stunning. You can order cheap house rouge or if you are in the mood throw down twenty euros and nail a fantastic bottle of red. This is a wine drinkers paradise and we love it!

Technology. The French have quite justifiably chips on both shoulders when it comes to the rest of the world stealing their ideas and inventions, then claiming them as their own. Our three star hotel room is a great example of French innovation. Apart from the fact that everything works, as it should, the general layout, the Nescafe coffee machine, the four-way shower, the advanced lighting system, the hi-tech bathroom-magnifying mirror (a must for people our age), this hotel has got it all. At less than half the price of it’s London equivalent. And unlike London, when you turn the air-con on in this hotel your first thoughts don’t stray to the possibly of contracting Legionnaire’s Disease from a clogged-up and wet air-con system.

General Atmosphere. The thing about the English is that they are forever being polite to you. If the average Englishman (or woman) apologises for no good reason less than two hundred times a day I would be surprised. The French on the other hand simply don’t get into that nonsense and simply speak as and when they actually have something to say. All that aside, I personally prefer all that English banter over the rather quiet way the French go about things.

Just when we thought it safe to venture out

The best thing about this shot is Action woman in the foreground

This has to be an all time low in the French art world

I wonder what Saatchi would think about these masterpieces 

Richard Long's 1990 retirement fund "White Rock Line"

Just when we thought it was safe to venture out

It's a little hard to believe but I reckon Charles Saatchi, the  plonker of the London Modern Art world actually has a French cousin living in Bordeaux.
When we left London one of the benefits was that we would no longer have to read or listen to endless articles about how Charles Saatchi had done the world a favour when he gave the aspiring Damien Hirst a leg up way back when.
If its not bad enough that Saatchi has erected a gallery, named it after himself ( Of Course! ) then filled it with overpriced idiot friendly junk, he has also inflicted on the world a guy who suggests that a stuffed shark floating in a glass tank filled with formaldehyde is where it's all at.
Anyway we were free of all this nonsense once we hit Frog soil, at least that was until 1142 hrs this morning when we entered the front doors of the Musee d'art Contemporain.
I just have two basic questions now washing around in my head.
1) How in God's name has the Art Lighting Bolt managed to strike twice in our
   lifetime?
2) it is time for me to reassess my option of Frogs at their art? Up until late
   this morning I thought they were on top of their game.
3) Where is this Saatchi cancer going to strike us next? In Vevnice, Florence, 
    Berlin?  Is any place safe?
I suppose I could do the old left-leaning British art critic thing and start waffling on about "new thought" or whatever. However, at the end of the day a couple of poorly carved wooden animal heads, a 1960's Simca with a two metre neon light tube stuffed in the rear side window, hunks of white cardboard stuck against a white wall and 0.20 x 1.50 x40.00 metre  load of limestone rocks  strewn along a alleyway, to my mind are just "take the mickey out of the punters" territory.
I fervently hope that the art director of this facility dies of boredom.

Cheers

Why can't these types check in behind us

And she even gets here own minder

More theatre at Check-In

What is it with some passengers when it comes to utilising a cut price airline?
What part of "Please read all the instructions" don't they understand?
Today was a classic!
We are flying from Gatwick to Bordeaux on EasyJet.
Even a half-wit would understand that you have to pay for a check-in bag, over weight and oversize is extra. In fact anything that breaches the rules is a potential area for a hefty surcharge.
And when it comes to a cabin bag, well the dimensions are there for all to see and the strictly enforced limit is one cabin bag per person, end of story.
Now we come to the woman directly in front of us in the "Bag Drop Off Only" queue.
You only had to take one look at this idiot to realise that we were about to witness the sort of check-in drama that would be great for one of those airline reality shows.
For starters her check-in bag was the size of a small Elephant with weight to match.
Her cabin bag was twice the maximum permitted size and as a result simply wouldn't fit into the box they have at check-in to measure maximum allowable dimensions.
Two large hand bags and a big plastic bag completed her personal effects .
For starters, her check-in bag was simply too large and too heavy to either fit on , or be measured by the scales . The result was that said woman was turned away from the counter , only to reappear ten minutes later with two bags she had just purchased  to squeeze her stuff into. She then proceeds to throw all her stuff onto the area in front f the check-in then proceeds to repack in a very random fashion.
I can confirm that we agreed at this point that the woman really needed a reality makeover from that TV star Gok. Another problem was her floor length winter scarf dangling from her neck getting caught up in the action. We saw this scarf being hurled behind her in her frenzy to repack her bags.
So far so good, she gets one bag for free and pays a steep surcharge for the second bag.
Then the drama began in earnest. The check-in woman simply states in a very cool and intimidating voice that the passenger will be restricted to one cabin bag of such and such a size.
At that point the woman is then forced to hand over her cabin bag for check-in
"Ka-ching" this third check-in bag is also slugged the mandatory excess bag fee.
By this time the passenger is pretty near bursting point, aggravated  by a combination of a) total embarrassment b) anger c) frustration and d) the thought that she has just handed over a small fortune in excess baggage fees.
Then as a parting shot, the check-in woman tells the passenger , that when she approaches the departure gate she would have to ensure her two remaining hand bags and the large plastic bag she was holding, would all have to be presented as one single article.
The passenger is now in a blinding rage and  proceeds to let rip at the check -in woman, then having vented her spleen ,exits left, handbags in tow.
As she storms off in the direction of departures all those passengers who had been held up by this nonsense (us included ) burst into a loud and sustained round of applause.
It was brilliant!
Live check-in theatre , you just can't beat it.
If this is what it's like with EasyJet I wonder what's in store at Ryanair?
I can't wait....

Cheers, 
Postscript, today was definitely not one of this woman's finest. Having arrived at Bordeaux airport she, along with a shifty looking middle eastern guy were hauled out of the passport line for a full interrogation. 
Maybe next time around she will settle for a long weekend in Bognor Regis.

The 2012 London Marathon

Our man Alain (with cap) 500 meters from the line and gliding with grace

Now this guy knows the meaning of pain, real pain

The 2012 London Marathon

First things first. The sun was shining, it wasn’t too cold, so off we went to catch up with our friend Anne, who along with husband Alain had flown into London from Coffs Harbour (apparently it’s some upmarket place in Australia).

Alain and his mate George (the Hummingbird coffee king who lives in Christchurch) were battle ready for the big one.

This is Alain’s ninth marathon, not a bad effort for a guy getting close to sixty.

George was a first timer, though he had competed in a number of half marathons.

There are a number of basic ground rules when you are turning up to a race with something like 38,000 competitors and 200,000 plus supporters, all of whom seemed to have congregated in the general vicinity of St James Park.

Get there early, like maybe three hours before your favourite runner is due to sprint, saunter or stumble past you.

Grab a possie hard up against a railing so you have both a great view and something to lean against.

Don’t give any ground. You have fought hard for this position. Don’t give an inch to any late-comers, especially your softly spoken elderly women who are forever asking you if it would be OK for their precious grand-daughter to stand directly in front of you.

And, especially don’t take any nonsense from toffee-nosed well-dressed female socialites who try to worm their way into your direct line of view.

And last but not least, for God’s sake don’t drink anything.

If you were forced to find a toilet the experience would be an absolute disaster.

As for the race, it was a fantastic experience and one we will take in again.

Drama, heroes, runners in wild get-ups, chaps having massive cramp attacks right in front of you, wild cheering, it was just brilliant and yes, everyone’s a winner.

And as for the trip home, getting from St James’s Park to the Westminster Tube would be best described as a test of endurance.

We didn’t care about the delays; hundreds of thousands of us just went with the flow.  

And as for our friends Alain and George?

Well Alain, having aimed for 4 hrs 20 min managed to hit the tape maybe twenty minutes further down the track. A very fine effort.

I think George’s wife Sue had reservations about her husband’s ability to complete the course without blowing a valve. She needn’t have worried.

This gutsy Christchurch Boy’s High old boy is built of the stuff that makes Cantabrians great. George started off in second gear, never changed his revs, never slowed to a walk and hit the tape in front of Buck House in 5hrs 47min. Now there’s an effort to admire.

Post match dinner for all at a great Turkish restaurant in St Christopher’s Place just next to the Bond Street tube.

What a great day!