Pa's Tale

Eurosport coverage of the Tour de France, with the pictures, always elicits memories. The Tour passed near Saintes Maries de la Mer in the Camargue, which was our first long range trip after arriving in France. We stayed there in a cheap hotel, where we ate baked beans in our room because we couldn't afford to dine in the restaurant. Next morning we went down to breakfast, to be greeted with cheers by the local French blokes because we had beaten les Boches in the World Cup final.

I have no idea why we took that trip; it probably seemed quite adventurous at the time. Well, it was.

Then the Tour has been via the old, real Provence (in the Ancient Roman sense) to Montpellier. We passed through the town in about 1974 on our way to Spain, and next morning the old Peugeot's engine gave up. I drove slowly to Béziers with the big-end clattering, and there we found a garage with the same model of car for sale. It had to be the same model for the roof-rack to fit. So I bought it, and we went for lunch while our camping gear wes transferred.

Then off we went to Playo de Aro in Spain. I found a pic from that trip

It must be Kate in the pushchair; it is certainly Helen on the horse.

On the way home we took a circuitous route via the limestone uplands, visiting the Cirque de Navacelles and the Grotte des Demoiselles (probably because they had Michelin "must visit" stars). And I remember a lovely hotel off the beaten track near Avignon on the way home. It makes me tired just to think about it. And there were four kids in the car, a Peugeot 404 Familiale with fold-down seats in the rear. But at least we didn't take the dog - that came later when we had the VW Minibus.

Back to the Tour. I am enjoying watching the Columbia team and their skill in getting Cavendish into position for his great sprint finishes.

Since you may like to know, my golf has been OK recently. Billy Wilson held his 70th birthday bash on Monday, and I came second. Not too bad again today either, so I will have to play in tomorrow's competition, if only to see how long it will last.

The thunderstorms this afternoon have cut off both Sky and broadband. I was (inevitably) reminded of life in semi-rural France forty years ago, when the first peal of thunder used to put the lights out. We had candles in the bathroom just in case.

I blame the Tour for dragging me back down Memory Lane. There will be more, I'm sure.

I hear more thunder so I'll save this before I get cut off.

Well, that's what I do. Watch it on TV, I mean. And play a bit of golf - quite decently this week, so perhaps the Wheel of Form is turning upwards.

The England women's cricket team are world champions at all forms of the game and have just won three matches in a row against the Aussie women. If only our men can do the same.

I saw a bit of Brett Lee bowling high speed swinging yorkers - scary!

It's odd how quickly tennis has changed. Not long ago, Wimbledon was worth watching because of the variety, drop shots and lobs and volleys at the net. Now it's all baseline walloping, except that Roddick did play some drop shots and completely bemused Murray with them.

It's like golf, in that technological "improvements" are tending to spoil the game at the highest level. Make 'em play with Dunlop Maxply wooden rackets, then we'll see how good they are.

And the Lions whacked the Saffers, as they almost did in the previous matches. Violence as a way of softening up the opposition seems to be the Boks' method.

And the Tour has started. There will surely be less doping this year because of the testing. Armstrong has done a crazy thing, coming back as he has done. Mont Ventoux will find them out.

The BBC filmed much of Glastonbury and let us watch some of the acts until today. Names I have seen mentioned were there. Florence is shouty. Lady GaGa is a daft music hall act. Kasabian sounds like old-fashioned rock. Call me reactionary, but I did enjoy the Boss's show the best.

And while on music, I came across a rather good Carmen on Sky Arts. One of my little projects has always been to work on a translation of Mérimée's book. Years ago, when our flight was delayed in Grenoble (or somewhere near there), I bought a copy of the book and a notebook and passed the waiting time very nicely.

The 40th anniversary of the moon landing reminded me that we took little Tom to the IOS club to watch television coverage of it. He was too young to know what was going on, but at least he saw it.

Helen is dropping in for lunch in an hour so I had better rustle up a salad. She is going to Cotignac next weekend and offered me a seat in her car. The idea was to cruise the Route Napoléon with the top down, but I have stuff arranged. Nice idea though.

The Dog Days are upon us. I recall with horror that I used to have to go to work in this stuff. It wasn't too bad in France, but here it's the sweaty masses in the overcrowded tubes and trains that make it horrible.

I seem to manage to get round the golf course though. Yesterday I played in the High Elms GC veterans' Stableford, and was equal best visitor (came second on countback), so things may be picking up. The course is very dry and even a mishit balls runs along nicely, as I kept checking. But it has a wonderful collection of trees. It is said that the previous owner of the land (his family, the Lubbocks, later gave the land to Bromley Council for the recreation of the inhabitants) used to walk with Charles Darwin, who lived nearby in Downe, and they planted trees together. True or not, it makes a nice story.

A very pleasant day, and I even won a bottle in the raffle.

I have the awning down and the back doors open all day, but the result is that the inside and outside temperatures are equal - 27º in the shade. There's no hiding place.

Terry Plumber came this morning to fix my drip. It didn't take long, but the bill will reflect the fact that he turned out. A bit like the dentist really, who starts his meter running the moment you sit in the chair. Fair enough. If you can't (or are disinclined) to do it yourself, you pay. I asked about replacing my 25 year-old heating boiler, a dream question for most heating engineers, but he says that it could see me out (he didn't put it quite like that, but I knew what he meant). He reckons he could fit a replacement oven and gas hob, so I will start looking around - not for a "bargain" but for one that will be the right one. After all, when your oven is as old and filthy as mine it has to be changed.

A brief pruning session just now has persuaded me to stay indoors out of the sun. Not hard to do, because this is where the beer fridge is. I have just been looking at the family tree of a man whose ancestor married the widow of my great-great-great grandfather Henry Wood, who died in 1804 at the age of 25. We're all related in the last analysis, and it's Adam and Eve's fault.

There will be screeching and grunting tennis ladies on the box, so I won't bother. I saw a few minutes of one of them who even screeched when her opponent hit the ball. Gag 'em is what I say.

Golf in the morning, then a weekend off for a change.

That's what they used to call it when I were a lad, and the Met Office is promising 31º on Wednesday, when I will be playing in a competition at High Elms. Fortunately I am acclimatised after my Italy trip.

Another quiet weekend, which is just as well, as I am greatly lacking in energy. The Guardian has been obsessed by the death of Michael Jackson, reported all over the front page on two days, plus a special supplement. Iran and UK politics have gone away in favour of something really important. And the BBC website - "The world mourns". Daft, I call it.

The brutal Boks got lucky against the Lions thanks to a stupid minor offence by O'Gara in the last minute. The two Welsh props, who dominated the scrums in the first half, were quickly smashed after the interval and had to go to hospital. It reminded me of the premeditated and criminal attack on O'Driscoll after two minutes of the Lions First Test in New Zealand. Rugby used to be the game for ruffians played by gentlemen (football being the reverse), but those days are long gone.

Then I watched some tennis. I'm not mad about the game, but I was impressed by Murray. He covers a lot of ground at high speed and serves a lot of aces. I read somewhere that there is one Aussie man at Wimbledon, and only one in the world top 100. Laver, Rosewall and Hoad and the rest must be wondering what went wrong. After all, it's not as if the best Aussies are all playing cricket.

While the TV was at Wimbledon,we were shown another example of the lunatic waste of money - the very posh Royal Box - used by Her Maj's cronies and assorted hangers-on for a few days a year.

Then we had a splendid thunderstorm, crash, bang, wallop and a deluge of big hailstones. It stayed dry at the tennis though.

I received a new style of Phishing email today, purporting to be from HM Revenue and Customs saying that I was due a tax refund. Click here etc. It got me going for a minute, then of course the penny dropped. I bet a lot of people will click without thinking. But not Old Smartarse.

There is a nice Solo's golf holiday in Spain in September. I might be ready for a break by then, so I have bookmarked it.

I recorded Springsteen's set from Glastonbury last night, so that will be my entertainment tonight.

Kate and Sami are back from RSA, while Nisar is on a field trip in Somaliland (which is supposed to be less lethal than Somalia. Let's hope so.)

Here's a pic of the pink climbing roses. They are full of bees rolling around gathering pollen, though I don't think they are honey bees.

... there was lots of big sport, which our hotel was unable to let us see. So I have been catching up through the BBC website. The England women's 20/20 games against Australia and New Zealand, of which I have watched the summaries, were thrillers, especially the beating of Oz by 8 wickets.

It seems that Lancs lost two county matches. Their batting isn't good enough. And the Lions were out-muscled by the big Boks (a friend found a bar in Lucca which had it on - he told me that the ref was dodgy, but I dunno).

Montecatini Terme is a Victorian era spa town, where most of the buildings are Belle Epoque small hotels, which accommodate people who come to take the waters. So the in-house bar and music were not up to much. But the golf courses were very good, especially the one designed by Arnold Palmer - lots of water and bunkers, but offering lovely classic views of the Tuscan countryside.

Bloody expensive though. I'm just spending my pension euros, so don't have to convert, but prices in the posh shops are just daft. No worries. On one of our no-golf days a few of us took the (cheap, fast and on-time) train to Lucca, a walled town in the Tuscan manner, wandered round the Centro Storico, lunched in a shady hidden courtyard. Very nice. And my Italian is still serviceable.

My golf was inadequate again, but so was that of some of the others, and nobody minds because we're on holiday. On the last day I played with a 5 handicapper. On a par 3 I hit my best 5-wood - a crisp smack to the middle of the green - and John hit a wedge to two feet from the pin. What can I say? I've got more hair than him, so ya-boo.

I arrived home yesterday on an easy BA flight from Pisa, and an easy drive on the M25. This morning I thought about laundry and stuff, then went up to the golf club just because it is there. And I played quite well.

Then I cut the grass back and front, did the laundry, watched a bit of tennis, and I have something out of the freezer getting ready for supper. I'm planning a restful weekend, which I need to recover from the usual pisshead week away with the Solo's mob.

No time to post pics of my bank of pink ramblers. Later. Sorted for now.