A PASSION FOR OLD VEHICLES

I am happy being around old cars and motorcycles. This may be because I spent a large part of my childhood in a sidecar attached to an old BSA or Velocette. With my father riding, my mother on the pillion seat and me safely tucked away in my little metal box, we travelled hundreds, probably thousands of miles, bouncing along the roads of England and Northern Ireland.

Once my dad could afford a car, they were ancient old things that constantly needed tinkering with. Add to that his passion for steam engines of any kind - steam trains and steam rollers - noisy, smelly, oily engines have been such a big part of my life that I still enjoy them. (I did once drive a steam engine - but that's another story!)

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As a little girl we used to go to Derby on the steam trains for shopping trips (yes, I am old enough to remember that) and I loved it. Also, during the school holidays, I used to cycle to the station at Cromford with my male cousins for a spot of trainspotting and general messing about. Then I would get home all sooty and smelling of smoke from standing on the footbridge as the trains came in and out of the station. I was often in trouble for that.

So, when we discovered that there is a very active "Association Rétroméchanique" in Le Grand-Pressigny, we were very interested (I managed to stop short of saying excited, not wishing to sound too much like an anorak). At the end of May they have an annual run out and it happened just after we arrived in the village that week in 2008.

We were sitting on the terrace enjoying an aperitif with Barrie when we heard the unmistakable rumble of old vehicles coming into the village. We dashed down to the square to see the procession as it came up the road and turned into Grande Rue.

Dusty was with us on this holiday, the only time that we took her to France.

It then did another lap and ended up at the Salle des Fêtes. Whilst the public (us) could amble around all the lovely old cars, bikes and tractors, a certain amount of jolly chatter and clinking of glasses could be heard coming from inside and, all in all, everyone had a lovely time.

We have often come across gatherings and processions of old vehicles all over France and it's nice to know the French are just as barmy about them as we are in England. Just one more reason the love the place.

HOW LONG UNTIL SUMMER ?

In the middle of the February doldrums, what I really need is something to remind me of summer - to reassure me that - yes, summer does come every year, eventually. Looking at these pictures, all taken on very hot days last summer, I can almost feel the heat already.

The church in Le Grand-Pressigny

A watering-hole opposite the church - the PreHisto

The river at L'Isle Bouchard

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Descartes on the day of the Comice Agricole

Some flowers and our pond at home in Derbyshire.

(Yes, summer happens here as well !)

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EXTREME DIY

Now that we had a room full of lovely furniture, we couldn't wait to go back again and enjoy it at the end of May, the UK Spring bank holiday. We had a whole week off work and intended to spend most of it chilling out and enjoying ourselves, having a bit of a break from the DIY.


However, we were expecting visitors towards the end of the week - our neighbours from home were coming to stay for two nights on their way to the gite they had booked in the Auvergne. That meant we had to get the other bedroom tidied up to receive them and, if we had the time and inclination, we would try to get our new shower cubicle fitted in the "salle d'eau".


Towards midweek, Nick was beginning to get twitchy about fitting the new cubicle. We had considered leaving it until our friends arrived to give us a hand but he was keen to get on with it so it would be fitted and working for when they arrived.





When we saw the house in August 2007, there was a grotty little shower tray with a spectularly tasteless shower curtain - made of clear plastic with a pattern of pandas on it.




When we took possession of the house in November, the curtain and the rail for it had gone, along with everything else that was even vaguely useful. We replaced it temporarily with a new rail and slightly better curtain but there's something fundamentally unpleasant about shower curtains - it's the way that within moments of getting lathered up the thing gets sucked in towards you and clings to your anatomy. Horrible. Still, the shower itself worked extremely well - there was always plenty of lovely hot water and the water pressure in the area is phenomenal.





Nick had decided to buy the shower cubicle and tray in England and bring it over on the van with the furniture. That seemed sensible as he could be sure of what he was buying and following the instructions (perish the thought) if necessary. He had weighed up the compatibility of the UK fittings which would have to fit to the existing French pipework and was confident he could tackle it.


Things went well at first. The old shower tray came out easily and the new one went in without a hitch. The pipework matched up perfectly and Nick made a good job of replacing some tiles around the top of the tray. So far, so good.


Next we had to assemble the cubicle. This is where things went pear-shaped. He screwed the mounting framework to the walls and we tried to put the thing together. It just would not go. We had arranged to have lunch at the hotel in the village with Barrie and Lucie and when they turned up to walk down the hill with us, the cubicle was still in pieces, Nick was at the end of his tether and I had taken the dog for a walk to "get some air". When I got back, all three of them were pushing and shoving, turning it this way and that, balancing it on the furniture to get a different angle and a bit more purchase. I noticed that they had even opened and apparently consulted the instructions but to no avail. No amount of head-scratching, cursing or pleading would persuade it to go together and stay together.



We gave up and went to lunch. After an excellent and "bien arrosé" lunch we tottered back up the hill and, without even changing out of our good clothes, got stuck into the assembly problem again, determined that this thing was not going to beat us. Within five minutes it had gone together perfectly. There's a moral in this somewhere.



Nick fitted the assembled cubicle to the rails, sluthered plenty of sealer all over the important areas and we looked forward to our first shower in the morning, the day that our visitors would arrive. It looked magnificent.





Nick was first in. Happy sounds of suds and singing escaped from the bathroom. I was next. As I stepped into the shower I noticed a little puddle of water on the floor. Why are husbands so messy in the bathroom ? I showered in my usual neat and methodical fashion and as I stepped out there was an even bigger puddle. There was no escaping the fact - that our new shower cubicle leaked. Damn.



With every subsequent holiday we would spend ages trying to work out where the water was coming from. The pipework was fine. We had used masses of sealant to bung up every possible gap. We thought maybe it was the way we threw our elbows about inside the shower and water was getting out through the door. Even more puzzling, it didn't leak every time. Still, at least it worked and we could shower properly - we just had to do a bit of annoying mopping-up every time.


Eighteen months later, on New Year's Eve, we discovered the cause of the leak. Nick spent yet another ten minutes scrutinising the cubicle and emerged triumphantly from the bathroom to announce that he had the answer to the problem. "We" had put it in upside down. The panels had sealing strip right up to the very top where it was not needed but the sealing strip at the bottom appeared slightly too short leaving tiny gaps, therefore indicating that they were in the wrong way up.


I thought it diplomatic not to enquire whether there had been any clue in the instructions as to exactly which way was up !!

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