pumpkinstrokemarrow

Today's factoid from 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' - a book which I have never read but about which I was reminded by a review of a fancy edition in NYRB. It seems that to be sold down the river is to be sold from a relatively benign establishment in the middle reaches of the Mississipi - say Kentucky - down the river to the brutal establishments in the lower reaches - say Louisiana. Establishments where someone not used to the regime might easily be borne down in the course of a year or so. The book itself is something of a tear-jerker but quite readable. Don't yet see that it is a good thing that to be called Uncle Tomist should be such an insult - although I do see why it might be.

Today's outing was Hampton Court Palace - and it stopped raining enough for us to enjoy the outsides, free at this time of year. There was a flock of what I assumed to be starlings trying to do their formation flying thing, but not quite making it. Maybe there were not quite enough of them. Impressed by the giant vine - the branches of which we are told run to 200 feet or more. Must have a very efficient circulation system.

Today's tea boiled beef followed by steamed jam pudding. Very proper sort of meal for the first day of new time.

Day 5: walked to Gare d'Austerlitz. Had intended to take in the Musee d'Orsay but failed to turn North up the Rue Vaneau at the vital moment and wound up in an enclosed garden called the Jardin Catherine Laboure. Splendid thing to have in the middle of a residential area (including sundry nuns and soldiers (these last living in an interesting clutch of identical thirties blocks called batiment 1 through 6 or whatever)). We also learnt that the French have the idea of giving their more fragile bits of grass a holiday in the Autumn. Something, perhaps, that the trusties at places like Box Hill and Hengistbury Head might pick up on. Another wheeze they go in for is putting the hearts of famous people in fancy pots and exhibiting said pots in eminent positions. Which seemed rather an odd proceeding for a Catholic country which went in for resurrection of the body. Picked up some very good Brie and some not so good bread in a street market along the way which were consumed in the sculpture garden running along the river to the North of the station. Sculpture not anything special but quite warm enough for a picnic by the river when one found somewhere out of the wind. Then to the special service at the La Pitie-Salpetriere chapel to mark the arrival of the relics of one Sainte Therese for a week's visit to Paris. Central space more or less full; a choir (dressed much more casually than I think would be the case in a comparable English affair); lots of older ladies; some families; and, a scattering of the odd folk that accumulate at affairs of this sort. We arrived just as the elaborate (and heavy) treasure chest containing the relic was being delivered in the back of an entirely ordinary small hatchback. In due course it was processed in, with the assistant bishop in charge. A very smooth and capable gent, at least he seemed to be in so far as I could pick up on his French. At the end of the service (about an hour and a half) many people rushed to the front so as to be able to place their palm on the chest.

To a young persons' trendy cafe for dinner somewhere to the South West of the Place Cambronne. (Found having a compass quite useful. Never seen an urban tourist with such a thing but it can be an excellent dispersant of confusion, especially in the dark after a glass or two). Relegated, as is proper for older tourists, to a sort of non-smoking cupboard well away from the main eating area. But served by a very energetic and competant waitress who spoke good English. I suspect her father was a US serviceman, but she was a bit coy on that point. Started with a brown fish soup, not too spicy. Followed by something I think was called a cassoulet - which rather to my surprise turned out to be a sort of ready mixed fondue. Small personal white china cauldrons containing a rich cheese sauce full of all kinds of vegetable and meat lumps. Felt rather full at the end of all this. Returned to the hotel to admire the flat screen television in our room: being flat screen made it a lot less intrusive than a cathode ray tube job would have been in our rather small room. Quite a good selection of channels, some of which talked English (or at least Skye).

Day 6: attempted to get to Versailles, having worked out a route from the Michelin. But got stuck at Javel where it appeared that trains to Versailles were running at something like 2 hour intervals rather than the usual Sunday service of half an hour (looked like a ten minute service during the week). So gave up and decided to hoof it to the Bois de Boulogne. So having climbed up through a solid residential area wound up at the Square Tolstoi. The whole place a sort of cross between Wimbledon Common, Crystal Palace and Sandown. Lots of very earnest joggers. Wandered through to something called the Pre Catalan where we had our picnic. Were not able to get into the outdoor Shakespeare theatre which had finished a run of something Moliere the day before. Over to the Cascade - a sort of fairy tale grotto with lake and waterfall - which rather put the grotto at Painshill to shame. Up through the Bagatelle and onto Defense, getting there through what must have been an outer suburb old town called Puteaux - the inhabitants of which presumably had rather mixed feelings about this Canary Wharf thing being built on their door step. Tremendous view from Defense down to the Arc de Triomphe. And the best musical fountain I have ever seen - although to be fair the only other one I can remember is the rather tawdry affair at Annaheim Disneyland. But then there was a very odd thing. The Defense arch itself, spiffing though it was, was not aligned with the Arc de Triomphe. The paving underneath it was, but there were spacers at the side making up for the fact that the arch was about 10 degrees out of alignment. Now why would they do that? Is it really a device for predicting eclipses of the moon or sunset at the winter solstice? The security guards did not even know that it wasn't aligned until I asked them why and Google has yet to throw any light on the matter.

Dinner at the Cafe de Commerce in the Rue de Commerce. Excellent thirties style place with lots of mirrors, wood panelling and waiters in long white aprons. Grilled pig's ear to start followed by veal cutlets. Chickened out of the pig's trotters. More white Sancerre. BH had a large grilled half squid instead of the ear. Best meal of the lot. Slightly marred by slovenly chap from the US who made a great palaver of sending his veal back.

Back at the hotel wound down with an Italian serialistion of War and Peace, episode 1. Excellent casting for Natasha, Sonia, the Countess Rostov (and older ladies generally) and a spendidly awful Prince Vasili. Being a book I know fairly well got on quite well despite not understanding a word.