Bunked off my Italian class this morning to watch Andy Murray play Rafael Nadal in the Australian Open and what a good decision that was. It was a great match. Murray won the first set in the tie-break and was 4 - 1 up in the second when he lost the plot. He came back strongly to win the third but then failed to capitalise on a significant number of breakpoints especially in the early games of the fifth set but all in all he played a stormer. Given that two years ago we had never heard of him his rise in the rankings has been phenomenal. Surely at some point in the near future he's going to be the first home grown Wimbledon winner since the ice age.

Back in the rehearsal room our one-act is coming on. Everyone has a pretty reasonable grasp of the lines and we've got various props out to help the action. For an ex-smoker blowing rather than sucking to produce smoke from an imitation fag takes a little bit of getting used to. Of course I failed at one point yesterday and got a mouthful of cotton wool and some obnoxious powder.

Failed too to see a documentary about Leonard Cohen after the rehearsal. It was sold out by the time I got there. That's the second time this week I've missed a film. Clearly need to do a bit more in the advance planning line.

I got some Labour party junk mail today. It was pretty self congratulatory in tone throughout as these things tend to be. For example they beat their breasts with satisfaction at reported praise for Lothian buses. Not sure to what extent the Labour party has played a part in providing our good bus services but if they have, all credit to them. It set me musing a little. It may be a great service but they have the weirdest shift patterns. Is it that my natural travel rhythms match driver changes? I was on three buses yesterday and on each occasion experienced a change of driver. Such a 100% hit rate is unusual but I suspect that my daily average is around 50%. What's the statistical probability of that do you suppose? Is it like tossing a coin, 50/50 every time? Or like love at first sight, 100 to 1 against?

Answers on an electronic postcard please.

I thought I had better put in my tuppence worth to commemorate the passing of the Act of Union by the Scottish parliament on 16th January 1707. A lot of books have been published this year analysing the events that led to the Union, assessing the strength of opionion for and against at the time and evaluating the benefits that have or have not accrued to the two countries since. I confess that I have read none of them despite intentions to the contrary.

There is lively discussion in the media on both sides of the border about where the Union goes from here. Will the SNP win in May? Would the Scots vote for independence if it were offered? Is there an answer to the West Lothian question? Do the English want a parliament of their own?

The Scotsman has published some good stuff and they are sending a van round the country to take what they call "The Nationhood Debate" to the people. I'm planning to go to a couple of events at the university in March to hear what various luminaries have to say.

Personally I have no problem thinking of myself as Scottish, British and European more or less in that order and while I have no doubt that Scotland could thrive as an independent state I don't see independence as particularly desirable. Should we not be looking for ways to come together in the modern world rather than draw apart? Devolution has given us the opportunity to go our own way in building a society for daily life in accordance with our own values, traditions and ambitions. It seems to me that we should develop that opportunity to the full and at the same time draw from and contribute to the British state and the European Union.

The flag images came courtesy of World Atlas.

At Barbansais we have a large expanse of grass. Quality-wise it's more of a field than a lawn. You can be sure that efforts to remedy that would be frustrated by moles. Every so often we stand in dumb rage staring at their nocturnal ravages and rush off to finger the multitude of anti mole potions and devices on the DIY shop shelves. There are so many to choose from and all are declared useless by those who have tried them. According to neighbours strychnine soaked worms are the only sure solution although one friend swears by clobbering them with bricks.

You can imagine then how much I sympathise with the poor German chap who electrocuted himself this week when he connected a high voltage power supply to a row of metal stakes that he had driven into the heart of the moles' galleries. In case you get the wrong impression it wasn't our moles he was after.

Some years ago I was kept awake by grey squirrels running around in my loft. It took months and the failure of lots of cunning catching devices before the problem was solved by blocking every orifice with inedible glass fibre to keep them out. It was illegal to kill them so even if you did catch them you had to let them go and of course they would just make their way back into your nice cosy loft. I've loathed the little creatures ever since.

I was surprised then, but pleased, when gunshots around the cottage I was in with friends near Hawick turned out to be the local gamekeeper exterminating grey squirrels. It seems that if you are in an area where red squirrels are being driven out by grey ones you can kill the little beasts. I call that enlightened. I wonder if there's a bounty?

Back in the land of culture and refinement the mini movie I appear in in Charmaine's pursuit of a Bafta (well a sort of mini Bafta) is now on the web. Go to Bafta 60 Seconds and browse the film gallery (Scottish region) to marvel at "Cold" by Yerkelmarr. The comments viewers have left are at least as entertaining as the film.

If the film seems short don't worry she's planning a "director's cut" and these as I'm sure you know are always much longer, and naturally much more satisfying - for the director at least.

I had a very pleasant few days in the Borders with some old school friends. We've got into the habit of meeting up every so often. Sometimes just for a meal, sometimes for a couple of days, and most elaborately a year or so ago for a week together in Croatia.

We did nothing very active. Most of our time was spent loafing about the house drinking and chatting. The girls inspected various cashmere outlets and I found myself, after a disappointing visit to Hawick's Saturday market (more of a car boot sale) having a potter around the town with Bob and Caroline that included factory shop visits. They bought a few things but despite being sorely tempted by some of Pringle's delightful golf shirts I resisted. I must sneak back sometime when the budget allows.

One evening we ate a good dinner, served in a warm, comfy dining-room by friendly staff at the Mansfield House Hotel. The place seemed to be empty apart from us. Let's hope that this was unusual else they'll be out of business before long and I can't think that they deserve that.

I got back to Edinburgh on Sunday in time to start rehearsing Work In Progress. It's the Grads entry for the SCDA One Act Festival. The most exciting thing about the rehearsal for me was that I discovered that the one member of the cast I didn't know was the daughter of a girl I was at school with. One of those small world moments.

I've been trying to post since I came back from Keswick after Christmas but Blogger has been out of action. It's up and running this morning but I'm off to Hawick shortly for a few days with some school chums so there's no time to write much.

Let me just wish anyone who reads this a Happy New Year and leave you with a picture of the Lake District countryside that I was able to take on the one day the mist rose above ground level.

Last week's highlight was undoubtedly the arrival of my sofas. Something comfortable to sit on after twelve weeks of hard wooden folding chairs. I'm celebrating by having some friends round for dinner on my birthday. Let's hope they don't spill their wine.

With the approach of Christmas social events pile up and I had three outings for food and drink including one with Arkle, a local amateur drama group, where they announced their programme for 2007. The only one that seemed to offer a possible role for me is in the Fringe and I'm not likely to be here to rehearse in time for a Fringe show. However I have been cast in a one-act play that will be the Grads' entry for the SCDA one-act competition in February. I'm playing a Philip Marlowe type private eye. I see it as challenge that will hopefully be helped by some cunning make-up and costume.

The golf course does not beckon in this weather and I've been missing the exercise it offers. I'm not a fan of chlorine laden pools and don't much like swimming anyway so this afternoon I thought I'd try the ice-rink. When I was a kid I loved skating and it came in useful once to get my own back on a lad who bullied me a bit. But during the last 50 years I can only remember skating on a handful of occasions and the last was about twenty years ago so I was very pleased to find that I could get round the ice. I even managed a reasonable turn of speed but essential manoeuvres like avoiding other skaters were more difficult. Skating backwards proved tricky and a nice sideways slide to a halt remained a dream. I can do it on skis why not on skates. One other difference from skiing - ice is a lot harder than snow to fall on. Ouch.

I met up for dinner with some of my former FI/Xansa colleagues about ten days ago. The torch on my mobile phone came in handy to supplement the faintly flickering candles but once the menu had been read we were able let our tired old eyes relax. The food and the company, not to mention the wine were very agreeable. Try The Outsider yourself sometime.

A production of Scrooge starring Ian Aldred who played in Caucasian Chalk Circle provided a very enjoyable musical evening to open the run up to Christmas and the following night I went to a Grads improvisation show. Teams of three or four actors are given a small number of parameters by the audience and have to build a sketch with them. Nine times out of ten they produce amazingly inventive and entertaining results. The first time I saw anything similar was in Paris and I was very sceptical when the friend who was in that group assured me that it was not rehearsed. Now I know that while not rehearsed they do have something of a structure to work in and they practice a lot but that knowledge has not dimmed my admiration. I prefer a nice solid script to work with myself.

The weekend finished for me with a double bill of black and white classics at Filmhouse. Riffifi is a great crime movie with an absorbing dialogue free safe-cracking scene. Morality triumphs since even the best of the baddies dies in the end. Dialogue is the star of Raymond Chandler’s Farewell My Lovely, confusingly called Murder My Sweet in the opening credits. Unfortunately I missed rather a lot of it because I dozed through much of the film. I couldn’t even summarise the plot. Still what I did see and hear was cracking stuff. It’ll be on the tele some wet Sunday I expect.

Had the Dicksonfield Owners and Residents Association AGM been longer I might easily have dozed off but it was very short. There was hardly anybody there and not much business. It’s a pity that something of a festive nature had not been organised. I know that social interaction is not the object of the organisation but maybe socialising would create some community spirit which in turn would help achieve the objectives. I should get off my butt and do something about it I suppose.

On Tuesday I went down to Manchester. It rained cats and dogs almost all the time I was there but I had a good time. The highlight was probably the Royal Exchange'sproduction of Cyrano de Bergerac. It’s an absolute joy of a space and the company always make terrificly good use of it. Proscenium theatre seems so distant and unexciting in comparison. Caucasian Chalk Circle is a good example. Claire extended the use of Adam House’s stage and auditorium as far as I’ve ever seen done but it still wasn’t a patch on theatre in the round for impact.

In addition to visiting Alan the plan was for Karl, in town for a conference, and I to meet up with Pam and Ron, who live in Harrogate, in Leeds for a meal. I made the final arrangements with Karl by email, copying the emails to Ron. Karl and I met, walked briskly to the station and got on the earlier of the trains that I had told Ron to expect us on. I rang his mobile from the train with no joy. They weren’t in Leeds when we arrived and there was still no mobile response. It turned out they were still at home having not read their email for some time. A shame but Karl and I had a good Italian meal and then re-crossed the Pennines.

That was a train ticket I could have done without but at least I got some value from it. Another ticket has proved entirely worthless. I bought tickets for Connor and I to go to the Lakes at Christmas but he is now down south and will travel from there. Virgin refused a refund so I thought I’d try selling them on e-Bay. Blow me but they’ve zapped my listing. Apparently Section 129 of the Railway Act of 1993 makes it a criminal offence for me to sell a ticket. Doesn’t seem fair does it? I’ll just have to wrap them up and give them to Connor for his Christmas.

While in Manchester I spent a wet afternoon in the Museum of Science and Industry looking at lots of fascinating stuff including a demo of various machines involved in the cotton business. I came away with a pocketful of samples of material produced at different stages of the journey from plant to cloth. The evidence of the great wealth generated from the cotton industry is all around in the shape of buildings, not least the Royal Exchange where Cyrano was played, but what a hell on earth for the workers.

I visited the Whitworth Gallery to see an exhibition of wallpaper through the centuries. They claim to have one of the largest collections of wallpaper in the country if not the world but judging by the quantity on display they must be big fish in a small pond. However I liked the wallpaper a lot more than Douglas Gordon’s installations on show at the National Gallery in Edinburgh that I gawped bewildered at in the hour I had to spare before I left for Manchester. That Turner prize has a lot to be ashamed about.

When a show is over life can seem a bit dull for a while so it was good to shoot off to Poland so soon. It was also I'm sure a welcome relaxation for those who, unlike me, had been doing fulltime jobs at the same time as the play.

We arrived in Katowice in the dead of night and taxied into town passing through some rather dark and ominous tumbledown streets to get to our hotel. The area didn't seem nearly as threatening the following morning when I went out for a stroll before breakfast though it did have a touch of that bleakness that I associate with eastern Europe under communism.

I came upon a funeral and was most impressed by the undertaker's men's outfits. As they took the coffin into the church a trumpeter played a suitably mournful tune. It was a pity he wasn't also dressed for the role.
We took the train to Krakow later in the morning and found a perfectly lovely city. There are lots of pictures and information about the city here so I shan't strain my limited literary powers to describe it.

We had a very pleasant little flat a few minutes walk from the main square in the sort of building that is typical throughout continental cities but just doesn't exist here. I suppose it goes back to the basic Roman villa where the accommodation is built around a central courtyard.


Krakow is crowded with attractive bars and cafes where we enjoyed delicious meals and snacks. Here's a typical offering from one of the city's oldest establishments in the cloth hall which takes up a large part of the centre of the main square.

In between eating cakes and washing down delicious meals with malty Polish beer (which I hope is available from my local Polish deli) we naturally did some sightseeing. The castle and cathedral were well worth visiting. The only disappointment being that the fire-breathing dragon who lives in a den deep in the bowels of the hill on which the castle stands hibernates. To see him in action you need to get there between May and October. There was a very interesting theatre museum and a fair bit of theatre going on. If our Polish had been up to it we could have chosen between "No Sex Please, We're British" and "Endgame". It wasn't so we made do with the museum and another museum where the work, including stage designs, of a Polish polymath was on show. He painted, wrote plays, made furniture, designed this that and the other. A talented chap called Stanislav Wyspiański. There are lots of other museums if you can stand the pace.

This is a view of part of the complex of buildings on Wawel hill. The picture is mostly cathedral but there's a bit of castle.
Our chum Wyspiański had big ideas about enhancing the hill with the addition of a hippodrome and a Greek theatre to create what he saw as a Krakovian Acropolis but didn't get any further than we did with Edinburgh's Parthenon.

Of course the museum that everyone who goes to Krakow has to see is Auschwitz, though I have to say I didn't think of it as a museum before I went. We were accosted at the station by a young man called Daniel who persuaded us to let him take us by car. He took us straight there, waited while we went round, took us on to Birkenau, waited again and then ran us back to Krakow. That was a lot easier and more comfortable than the train/bus route and in to the bargain he was friendly and informative. It reminded me strongly of how my tame taxi driver in Cairo would run me miles out of town to a golf course and just wait around till I was ready to go home.

In Auschwitz there are various displays in the buildings, piles of forlorn artificial limbs, stacks of suitcases and so on purloined from the prisoners and retained long after their owners were disposed of. The mechanics of everyday life and death in the camp are spelt out. Individual countries explain how their citizens were affected. The French for example have a very fine display detailing how Jews were rounded up and shipped off. One room is full of family photographs, mostly of children all of whom were systematically put to death.

Going around Auschwitz is clearly not an especially jolly experience but I found Birkenau much more chilling. The fact that it was previously an entirely respectable military barracks lends Auschwitz an air of normality which is missing from Birkenau where the buildings are more like battery farm sheds and were constructed specifically to house people destined for extermination. With all its displays and explanations Auschwitz is very much a museum whereas Birkenau is left almost unlabelled to speak for itself and you feel could have been abandoned by its masters only yesterday.
You can see in this photo how desolate the place appears. It's a view probably familiar to you from films and documentaries of where people spilled out of cattle trucks after an airless, foodless, waterless journey of several days to be herded into huts or straight to the gas chambers. The strange thing was that when I stood there I found it easier to imagine how proud the Nazi overlords must have felt of their work than to imagine the despair of the damned.

The hope in keeping these places intact is that they will act as a reminder of how awful man can be and prevent future massacres. To date with the Balkans, Ruanda, Darfur and countless other genocidal conflicts we can't say the policy has been too successful. I heard on the radio this morning an apposite quotation from Brecht. In speaking of Hitler he said "The bitch who bore him is still in heat." Alas.

The last week has been dominated by The Caucasian Chalk Circle despite the fact that it has occupied only a few hours of each day.

The second dress went pretty well as did all the performances. There were a few hiccups here and there, some of them to be laid at my door but on the whole the show felt good every night and the audiences while small were very appreciative.

Obviously I didn't see much of it but I was able to watch and listen to a very beautifully presented and performed scene towards the end of act 1 as I waited to stumble down the aisle to spend the interval on stage. If much of the rest looked and sounded as good then Claire has done an excellent job.

For the interval to start just as a new character appears on stage clearly offers scope for confusion in the minds of the audience. It also caused a little consternation in the more traditionally minded front of house staff. I don't know which of these situations Claire enjoyed more.

One cast member's parents decided that my interval activities, which included darning and doing an imaginary crossword and falling asleep fell into that ultra modern category - performance art. Didn't I just love that.

So show over. Director is catching up on her diary of the production. When she's finished I must read it all at one sitting.

I've spent the last two days at the cinema watching Italian films. Tonight was three hours of La Dolce Vita in black and white. You got your money's worth forty six years ago. Made today it would doubtless feature lots of sniffing but these people managed to be hedonistic and vacuous on no more than fags and booze.

I'm off to Poland this evening for a few days so hope to have lots of interesting things to report on my return. I don't want to have to fall back on the story of my hunt for extra curtain rings.

Readers will see that the previous post gave rise
to a comment which, inter alia, takes me to task for the infrequency of my postings. That’s fair and I again promise to do better but I can’t help thinking that it is the finger of irony that points out that I have not yet shared with you the story of the warped table.

The table whose arrival I have already reported was fine until after a few days the central portion of the top started to curl at the edges. After a few more days it rocked when you put your elbows on it; bad manners I know but a tabletop should be able to cope. After a week lots of daylight was clearly visible between the top and the frame, as you can see in this picture.

I went off to Habitat to complain. They were as good as gold and promised me a new one without hesitation. I admit I was relieved because I had not relished an argument over what degree of warping might qualify as acceptable in their eyes.

Lo and behold after a few more days the table started to uncurl. By Saturday last it had reached a state I felt was ok so I popped into Habitat on my way to the Lyceum and cancelled the replacement. I suppose it was just coming to terms with its new environment.

I was on my way to the Lyceum to join a Grads group going to see Schiller’s Marie Stuart. I was disappointed. I liked the austere setting but the cast failed to move me. Years ago in Kitwe I was in a production of the play that I hope communicated more emotional intensity than this one did. Of course it may have been the Heisenberg principle at work so that I cooled it down while it stayed on the boil for others.

Though I can’t remember too clearly I think we had an on-stage execution which was surely more fun to watch than the genteel procession down a stair to offstage oblivion that the Lyceum gave us. And doesn’t history tell us that she went to her death in a blood red robe? I’m sure our Mary slipped off an outer garment to reveal a red robe as she mounted the scaffold. The Lyceum gave us a trace of red peeping out under a white dress.

Here’s what one site has to say on the subject. Points for historical accuracy to Kitwe I’d say.

Much more engaging was the production of Shadow of a Gunman by Sean O’Casey that I saw at the Citizens in Glasgow the previous week. The final scene that leaves the tenement room and its inhabitants looking like a shipwreck to which humanity barely clings was brilliant.

I’ve also seen some art recently, and been to Red Road, the film that won plaudits at Cannes and lots of Scottish Baftas. It was good but must surely have had little competition to win so many.

Hallowe’en is long past now but I revived my fifty year old skills in tumshie lantern carving and dressed up to go to Claire’s party where we were treated to delicious but foreign fare in the way of pumpkin soup.

Back home there is still nothing soft to sit on but my shelves are up. The few books I didn’t give to Christian Aid last winter are in place and all my CDs are sitting comfortably waiting for me to invest in a player. Yes I’ve given that away as well. It was rather old and getting a bit noisy and what’s almost as important was too bulky for my slimline shelving.

The Caucasian Chalk Circle is almost upon us. The technical rehearsal last night was lots of fun. That’s the first chance lights and sound have to practice their art and the actors get to blunder around the stage. It may seem a bit shambolic to the outsider – “Do you see that sky getting red over there?” It says “Yes” in the script but I hate to lie. By some miracle though it will all be sorted out by opening night. We have the luxury of two dress rehearsals, mitigated somewhat by the fact that not all the cast can do both.

I was provided with handcuffs last night for one scene but they’re flimsy plastic gadgets which don’t look convincing and which I’m bound to break so I bought a length of chain this afternoon to add weight to the performance. It will be handy for the director to beat us with if we fall short of her artistic vision.

It's been several weeks now since I posted anything. It's laziness I'm afraid and illustrates why I've never successfully kept a diary in the past for any significant length of time.

Must do better, just for my own satisfaction. Like the box of Kitwe Little Theatre memorabilia that I stuck in the loft the other day I'll gain enormous pleasure from browsing through it at some distant future date.

Yes this flat has a loft. That was one of it's strong points in my eyes and I've laid down some flooring and put a dozen boxes of not wanted on voyage material up there already. Most of the boxes are fresh from spending seven years in the loft at Mountcastle. That's despite the enormous clear out I had last winter when I sold the house. I have plans for some of the stuff, like digitizing my slides for example but I fear some may spend many more years in oblivion before finally being put to good use in fuelling my funeral pyre.

Another strong point about this flat is access to the rest of the city. Buses run up and down Leith Walk heading for all parts at satisfactorily frequent intervals. How different from anxiously keeping an eye out for the number 5, missing one and cursing the service interval. Now I generally get where I'm going earlier than I need to. Lethargy as well as laziness is another of my sins. I could have been in a convenient location like this twenty years ago.

I've spent a lot of time looking at furniture and yesterday the first new piece arrived. It's a table so henceforth no eating on my knees or bending down to an old coffee table or picnicking on the carpet. The carpet is still there. I've deferred change in that department for the moment but all three of my oriental rugs have been deployed so the floors look a bit different. Seating is on order. Part of a shelving arrangement arrived yesterday. Because the seller's computer system can't cope with a slash in a house number field it went to the wrong flat but I recovered the two boxes when the occupier came home in the evening. The third box missed its bus somewhere around Watford but is now in Edinburgh winging its way towards me, or perhaps towards my neighbour again. I hope that by Christmas I'll have everything organised.

I've been out and about a bit enjoying some of Edinburgh's cultural offerings and a few of its pubs. I've bumped into at least three old acquaintances in the street and am looking forward to catching up with more. I'm making new acquaintances at the Italian class with which I start the week on a Monday morning. Of course rehearsing Caucasian Chalk Circle is taking up a lot of my time. I'm enjoying it but rehearsals would be even more fun and the quality of the work being done would certainly be greater if we could rely on all the actors turning up. It's going to be one of those shows where the first time the entire cast put in an appearance is on opening night or, if we are really lucky, at the dress rehearsal. See the director's blog for more.

The weather when we set out from Barbansais was foul and the rain persisted all day. The traffic around Paris was awful. One boy racer dodging in and out of lanes spun his vehicle in front of us on the wet road but by a miracle nobody, least of all us, collided with him. We weren't so lucky just 20 kilometres from journey's end at Zeebrugge when I ploughed into two cars at traffic lights thanks to brakes which it has to be admitted were not in peak condition.

The drivers were philosophical about it and the Belgian police were positively charming and we still caught the ferry so it was not all bad.

The car has now gone off for inspection and I suspect the insurers will decide that the economic answer is to scrap it rather than repair it.

The first week back has been pretty good. I've started redecorating the flat with Connor's help. Curtains have been thrown out and the carpets are scheduled to follow. With fresh paint on the walls in addition the lingering smell of tobacco from the previous occupants will soon be gone.

I've started rehearsing Caucasian Chalk Circle. The production has suffered various cast losses so it's a bit fraught and I didn't do the director any favours by being out of sorts one evening for reasons having nothing to do with the show but I hope to make amends.

Connor is meeting considerable obstacles in what you would think is the simple matter of opening a bank account thanks to the UK's anti money laundering regulations. The fact that he has no money to launder doesn't seem to count.

We went to the RSNO's first concert of the season last night. It was a splendid rendition of Mahler's Resurrection symphony. Very large forces were marshalled with the chorus filling the organ gallery to overflowing. Lovely music but as Connor pointed out no tunes to hum as you head for the Filmhouse bar afterwards.

I've been a bit busy over the last ten days fitting in "final" games of golf and dinners and drinks with various friends who were kind enough to want to entertain me before I left for the winter. I also had a fleeting visit from Karl and Lissie who were so charmed by the area last year that they came back for a week's hiking around and about the valley of the Creuse. I picked them up in Anzème at the end of a hard day's walking, took them home, fed and watered them and dropped them off the following day near La Celle Dunoise.

At the weekend I was in Paris visiting Sylviane who is an old friend from my Institut Francais d'Ecosse days. She was performing in an evening (it was actually a whole day but I only went for the evening) of short plays. Hers was A Bourgeois Wedding by Brecht and was the best prepared of those that I saw. I thought the others could have done with a bit more rehearsal. Many of the actors in them were a bit shaky on the lines and gave me a far more amateur impression than I had expected. It was after all a professional theatre although most of the actors were amateurs.

Connor joined me in Paris. Sightseeing there was not altogether up his street but he did enjoy the food. He's been charmed by the Creuse however.

Up at the crack of dawn tomorrow for final water draining and suchlike then it's off to Zeebrugge for the ferry.

Edinburgh on Saturday and winter life begins. I'm sure it will be as enjoyable as summer has been. Vive la différence!

This is Germanicus's triumphal arch at Saintes. It may be that he mastered the course there rather better than I did or on the other hand maybe he triumphed by raping and pillaging since that was considered more fun than golf at the time.

To get there I chose a route that took me through much of the area that we explored when we were looking for a house. There are some lovely spots but on the whole I think we are better off here. During the few days I was there I managed to visit the coast and dabble my tootsies in the Gironde estuary. The weather at the beach was gorgeous and since the season is essentially over it was not overcrowded.

On the way back I took in Cognac and Angouleme. I was very struck with the wynds and alleyways of the latter. A very pleasant place to wander around.

Until the other day I had been congratulating myself (undeservedly since the happy circumstance surely was not my doing) on there having been no wasps (I really mean ZERO) in the house or garden all summer long. Last year we had to get the fire brigade in to clear a nest from the roof and the year before the wasps commandeered an old mole hole in the garden and we had to have the nest dug up by an intrepid wasp catcher. In parentheses I should say, with apologies to Kenneth Grahame, that mole is public enemy number 1 and what we desperately need is an intrepid molecatcher.

Now I have seen two wasps in as many days. Perhaps this is the result of the recent resurgence of fine weather. July was a scorcher but August rather cooler and damper than seemed proper until its final days. Not cold though I did put on a pair of trousers one morning instead of shorts. By early afternoon I was regretting that decision but by then I was on the golf course and not in a position to change matters.

Although this morning is rather overcast my neighbour assures me that September's weather is forecast to be fine so the last three weeks of my villégiature, as the French have it, should be pleasant.

One creature other than the mole that we are not short of is the spider. It's an ongoing struggle to clear the house of webs. I grew quite fond of this one. He's on the large side compared to most. I suppose a two to three inch legspan. He spent the summer quietly in my bedroom lazing the days away behind the wardrobe and settling down at night by my bedside presumably to feed on passing insects or to digest those trapped in his web during the day. Ultimately though in a frenzy of housekeeping he has gone. I'm sure the winter would have killed him off anyway.

After some twenty years Connor has left the USA. He's been mulling the idea over for a while but it seems that from decision to action took about 48 hours. He gave away or abandoned 99.9% of his belongings, drove Ewan's car down to Houston and got on the plane.

Nobody looked beyond page 1 of his passport or asked after that pretty little green form they staple to it when you enter.

By a truly amazing coincidence he chose to arrive at Gatwick on the very morning that his mum was catching a flight from Gatwick to Edinburgh. They met there, she flew north and he got a lift home from André (who has not been able to go to Edinburgh after all).

I'm expecting Connor out here shortly and we'll travel back to UK together in late September.

I took another step further into the digital age this week. I was listening to a programme being presented by Arièle Butaux, someone I think of as the Sean Rafferty of France Musique. Like him she has a lovely voice, gathers an eclectic mixture of music and musicians and chats with them in a relaxed and lively style.

I particularly enjoyed one piece and had a look for the CD on the web. I found it easily enough at around 18 euros plus postage but I also found it downloadable at 99 cents a track or 9.99 for the complete album.

Given our dial-up connection here downloading the album was a non-starter so I picked one track (the one I had heard on the radio). According to the licence rules I can make 7 CD copies and 5 MP3 player copies for my 99 cents.

It took about an hour to get the 4 minutes 33 seconds of music but I have it and I've transferred it to CD. Admittedly the CD won't play on David's machine but I have hopes that a younger machine might cope.

With broadband I can't see a better way of buying a CD. Who needs sleeve notes?

The album by the way is Bach to Beirut by Trio Rhéa. Here's an extract.

My Spanish friends left for home on Saturday having thoroughly enjoyed the Creuse. They took with them a large collection of long stout sticks gathered on various walks. The area is awash with walks; through woods, along river valleys, up and down slopes of various degrees of steepness. They did several from a guide that I have and I went along on a couple.

The sticks were not, as you might have thought, an obsession of Diego junior’s but were gathered by Chus to support her tomato plants at home since sticks are as rare as hens’ teeth in the plains around Valladolid.

One place we started a walk from was the village of Masgot where the houses and walls are decorated with little granite sculptures like these. The man who did them is long gone but the village does a thriving trade in stone-carving holidays on the back of his little hobby.

I had the opportunity to learn a little more about Diego junior’s little hobbies one day. He regaled me with a description of his various collections. He’s got fossils and beetles and feathers and other oddments from the natural world all catalogued and stored at home. One particular joy is his collection of the bones of small mammals. Well, you might say, kids collect all sorts of weird items. True, but it gets weirder.

He collects these by unravelling the balls of hair and bone that form in the stomachs of tawny owls when they have had a good nosh of mice and shrews and suchlike. The undigested matter is balled up and vomited forth for Diego to get his hands on. The balls are soaked and painstakingly taken apart with tweezers and a pointed instrument and the bones cleaned up. It seems that the hairy gunge that held them prisoner is not very collectable.

One last and tangible souvenir of their visit is this portrait. Notwithstanding the fact that one of the party, Antonio, is an artist the portrait is the work of the little collector.

The roof repair man turned up on one of the days I was away. A day or so later it rained heavily and no water came through. Relief all round.

So now it’s back to golf and gardening, or to be more accurate golf and grass cutting with the occasional episode of trimming the more exuberant growths that threaten to take the place over.

Here’s the latest in this year’s short line of golf prizes – a magnificent champagne bucket. Now that I own one I can’t understand how I have managed for so long without. I see it coming into its own at those intimate little supper parties after the opera where my etchings are on view to selected lady guests. Such sophistication must surely overcome all reserve.

Saturday was transhumance day from old gîte to new via lunch at Barbansais. We lost only one vehicle en route but thanks to cellular technology the loss was not permanent. My friends are now 50 miles nearer home but still in that bastion of bucolic beauty, the Creuse.

An interesting contrast between the two gîtes: the first one was part of the farm or smallholding where the owner’s parents spent their lives. The lounge had been the cowshed and the place was chock a block with family mementoes and the sort of ancient objects that figure in “antiquarian markets” throughout Europe. It still seemed like a home.

The second was also a former farm building in a group that we might call a steading, but restored for the tourist trade. A very good quality restoration, comfortable and well equipped and done what’s more by a man who thirty years ago studied English in Edinburgh. Despite such a glowing provenance it lacked the character of the other.