Peachy tripe

Significantly, today Bluebell the 1969 VW camper overtook a vehicle for the first time on his camping trip. The fact that it was a dumper truck should in no way detract from this achievement, the gear change from 4th into 3rd then into 2nd to effect this manoeuvre was as smooth at Peachy Butterfield, so not that smooth then, but the job is done, and another notch needs to be carved on the dashboard.

Talking of significant events and Peachy Butterfield in the same paragraph reminds me of one of his comments on Facebook yesterday, where he claimed to be awaiting the arrival of the big one. I took this to mean that he was expecting a significant toilet movement, something akin to the tortoise sticking its head out of the shell, if you get my (or rather Hale and Pace’s) analogy. However it seems that what he was referring to was that he was looking forward to seeing one of his many female admirers, and the very same person whom we are expecting to commune with in deepest Chester in the UK later this month. I am told that for making this mistake, I must don a crash helmet, although for what reason I cannot fathom, perhaps it is to ensure that I am not injured when the fruits of the north begin to drop from the very few trees that venture above the wind-swept horizon?

I know, the fruits of the north is a difficult concept with which to grapple, but grapple we must when we take our lives in our hands and venture north in less than a couple of weeks time. Perhaps it is the season of the tripe? Maybe ripe tripe is about to fall from the trees? Who knows, but I am certain that the trip (or should that be tripe?) up north will be a rewarding one. If only to accentuate what a wonderful existence we enjoy in the south of France.

My photograph today was to be of the pool I was complaining about at Dali’s house yesterday, too narrow by a distance to be of any resale value. Before it can be resold, this will need attention. Instead we have Spanish fish and chips due to internet problems, thus the late post.

Potatoes bravas and boccoronies

I hear from writer David Stoyle, writer with FR2day on Facebook who seems firmly in the camp of the Dali believer. I suspect that he also believed the earth is flat.

You may have devined from all this that my hoped for few days of relaxation and recuperation was rudely interrupted by that nice lady decorator reaching her boredom threshold a little earlier than I had hoped. Three days on the Costa Brava communing with the mustachioed old charlatan Dali and his “works” was what was planned, but two days was apparently enough. I suggested that the reason she wanted to move on was because she had joined me in the conclusion that our friend Salvador was nothing more than a brilliant con man, but received the laser beam look for which she is justly renowned, the look that says discussion of a particular topic is at an end.

So we tracked back across the Franco Spanish border and arrived in the delightful town of Ceret where lunch in the form of a wonderful entrecote au poivre and rather too much cotes Roussillon was taken and an afternoon siesta was thus required.

Once again there will be no plug for Currencies Direct due to my ongoing and rather short annual vacation. Expect the plugs to begin again in August when I shall be back in the saddle in a manner of speaking. Tomorrow back to France.

Chris France