The Tragedy of Memory Loss

Writing this blog has made me realise the importance of memory. Like other senses, it is something we take for granted - until we lose it.   Seeing someone you love lose their memory is a very scary thing.  Almost overnight I have seen my father change from being the human equivalent of a Sat Nav into someone who can't remember the geography of Ireland.  When he goes somewhere out of his own environment he is disorientated and confused.  He now relies on my mother fully and follows her around like a small child, getting distressed if he loses sight of her for a second.

They say that Alzheimer's deletes short-term memory and that long-term memory is not affected.  In my father's case this is true up to a point.  He tells us the same stories from the past over and over again but yet he would have difficulty remembering what he had for lunch.  My early memory is terrible and my sisters are always surprised when I say I don't remember things they do.  However, I was blessed with a photographic memory at school.  Something that often got me into trouble.  Seeing my father's memory deteriorate has shocked me into trying to remember the past.  

Apparently memory is like a muscle that needs a work out.  Challenging your brain and your memory keeps it fit and active.  My mother is a great believer in this and regularly does crosswords and reads through her school poetry that she had to memorise as a schoolgirl.  She amazes me when she can still recite verbatim a Shakespeare sonnet learned probably 60 years ago.

I have found that writing has definitely improved my memory.  I wish I had paid more attention in school to grammar and punctuation or maybe I did and can't remember it.  I robbed my mother's copy of Eats, Shoots and Leaves and have learned so much from it. But I have a long way to go.

This is the real "Raison d'être" for my blog.  Invariably, I have found that the memories I find easiest to recall are food-related.

The Length of France

The ferry sailed on a Wednesday evening from Rosslare.  We crossed a pond (literally) arriving on a Thursday evening in lovely sunshine in Cherbourg and hit the road quickly for the start of a long drive to the south.

Chartres Cathedral

The year before we had stayed in Alençon so decided to stay there again. Next day we drove through three cathedral cities Chartres, Orléans and Bourges, making time for a quick visit to each magnificent cathedral. We stopped in Chartres long enough for lunch after a walk around the cathedral. It was memorable in that we did not want the "plat du Jour" so asked for an omelette (on the menu).  Waiter told us we would have to wait 20-30 minutes for it.....and we did.  Talk about customer service. 

Orléans

The Cathedral at Orléans

After lunch it was on to Orléans. It is a magnificent city and statues of Jeanne d'Arc are everywhere.  Apparently it is the 600th anniversary of her birth and lots of celebrations are planned.  We had a walk about and then a coffee in a big square underneath her statue. Then into the cathedral.  I had recently read Ken Follet's The Pillars of the Earth which gives an insight into the difficulties they experienced building these monumental structures with the limited resources they had at the time.  Cathedrals are fascinating to me and a real tribute to the men who slaved over so many years to build them.  I love to wander about inside and try to visualise how they lived at the time and what their lives were like.  Orléans is a beautiful city and one I would like to visit again and spend a day or two in.

Bourges Cathedral at dusk

That night we stayed in Bourges. We found a little restaurant and had a fabulous meal and great wine.  We stayed in the same hotel my son had stayed in on his way back to Ireland last November.  It was central, luxurious and the staff were really friendly and most importantly spoke to us in French.

Approach to the Millau Viaduct

 Then the final leg - the longest part to Pezenas, the lovely old medieval city deep in the heart of the Languedoc over the stunning Millau Bridge (the tallest in the world) passing through the  Massif Central en route.  We drove through miles and miles of agricultural land with acres of rape seed in full bloom. From fruit in the north to gradually vineyards in the south.  When we eventually got to the south the vines hadn't even fully leafed up. 

Clamouse

It was a tiring but very enjoyable few days. Saturday night was spent catching up with old friends and a very boozy meal. The next day Sunday, we were very hungover and everything was pretty much shut.  We went for lunch in a really lovely crêperie and then we spent a pleasant few hours in Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert stopping off for a tour of the caves at Clamouse.

Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert

On Monday we went for a drive in the Montagnes Noire where the already low temperature of 10 degrees plummeted to 1.5 and the ice warning came on in the car.  Other cars coming down out of the mountains had snow on the roofs.  The scenery was stunning but it was way too cold and miserable to get out of the car to take photos.  We had lunch in Neffies in L'Escampette, a stunning meal and the best of the trip, cooked for us by a friend of my son who had just moved back to France having worked in Ballyfin, Co. Laois under Fred Cordonnier.

Canal du Midi at Narbonne

View from Béziers Cathedral

 Tuesday we drove to Narbonne for lunch and had a walk along the Canal du Midi looking at all the boats and barges moored alongside.  Then onto Béziers to yet another magnificent cathedral and views out over the whole of the Languedoc to the Pyrenees. On Wednesday it was back home flying from Carcassonne.  Sad to leave France once again and my son but looking forward to the next road trip.

Sarkozy and the Cup on the Sill

February 2012

We used to gallop down the lane.  It was an old farm access lane  with some abandoned cottages and old farm buildings on it.  For a long time it was perfect for galloping as it had a grassy middle bit and was not surfaced, so was easy on hooves.  Then the Celtic tiger stalked into this rural backwater and people realised that they could sell sites to townies and get big money.  All of a sudden old cottages had signs put up outside that they were seeking planning permission for big ugly dormer bungalows, double-fronted garages, septic tanks etc.

The old disused cottage at the end of the lane before the sharp turn was one such.  The kids used to laugh at the cup left on the window sill.  They used to wonder who had left it and how long it would last.  Surprisingly it lasted years.  It lasted long after the sign seeking planning permission had yellowed and gone brittle.  The sign is still there weathered and faded. 

The kids grew up and grew out of horses and I was busy at work.  Our last dog had been knocked down on the road and I swore I would get no more.  The lane was forgotten.  Then a dog reappeared in my life and I realised how much I had missed having one and getting that welcome when you return home only a dog owner can understand.  Another dog followed and I had to think of routes to walk them where I could let them off the lead to get some serious sniffing and exercise in.  I remembered the lane.  By now it had been partially surfaced and had a huge house built on it.  But the old disused cottage was still there with the mug on the sill. 

On one of my walks I discovered a donkey in it's garden.  He was alone and was only contained by a rope strung loosely across the front of the property.  I called him, not expecting him to react but he ambled over and I spent a few minutes rubbing his ears and talking to him.  I got to enjoy stopping to have a chat with him and tried to remember some carrots or apples as a treat.  I felt he was very lonely.  One day last summer it was hot and when I arrived I saw he had pushed in the front door of the cottage and was lying in the hallway.  It was obviously cool there.  The dogs startled him and he jumped up, skidded and ran out around the back.

Then one day I passed and I couldn't see him.  I ducked under the rope and walked around the back - no sign.  I went into the house and there was a newspaper on the table faded and dated 1974.  There was a cheque book and a few bills on the window sill. But there was no sign of the donkey.  I came out and walked back down the lane in the direction of home.  Surprisingly, I discovered the donkey standing forlornly at the gate of the big, new house.  There were horses in the paddock at the front and he was looking in at them.  His feet were like platform wedges and I realised he had trouble walking and appeared to rock from side to side.  I continued on and met the farmer at the other end and asked him did he know anything about the donkey.  He said the descendants of the owners of the cottage had emigrated to England and were very annoyed at the donkey in their garden as no one had asked to leave him there.  I asked him for the number of the people in the big house.  I returned home and got my car and drove back down.  The donkey was still standing there.  I rang the house and the woman told me she could not let him in as he was a stallion and she had mares.  I said I would take him home but I no longer had a horse box.  I told her he needed to have his hoofs trimmed as he was having difficulty walking.

She then offered to put him in one of her stables overnight as her blacksmith was coming the next day.  I told her I would pay for his feet to be dressed.  Next day she rang and said he was done, so I walked down with a head collar and rope to collect him.  She offered her French au pair to walk behind him and shoo him along.  I put him in the field at the back of my house and he seemed really happy to have company and action.  But then at night, when he was lonely the bellows started and the long foghorn "hee-haw" struck up.  The sound was so loud and echoing I was sure he could be heard in the village over a mile away.  What the neighbours thought is another matter and I was worried they would start to complain.

I asked a friend to lend me a pony to put in with him until I found a home for him.  The pony arrived and the bellows subsided.  I contacted the Donkey Sanctuary and they sent out a lady who explained to me they were full up and I would just have to keep him until they had a vacancy.  Then one day, he and the pony got out on the road and I was terrified they would cause an accident or get injured.  I thought of Twitter and tweeted I needed to find a home for the donkey, who by this stage I had named Sarkozy.  The reason being, he was small, was well-endowed and when I first got him he appeared to have high heels (his feet were so bad).

Sarko meeting Halfpint

The tweet was not noticed so I sent it to a well-known restaurant critic and food writer asking him to retweet it.  He duly did and another food writer messaged me to say she might have someone who would be prepared to take him.   She gave me the name of a man who had a garden centre in Cork and said he would give me a call.  I knew straight away by talking to him he was genuine and Sarkozy would have a good home with him.  He said he would put him in with calves initially and would then try to get a friend for him.  He wanted to put a petting zoo into his garden centre in order to attract more business.  But most importantly he used to have horses and lived on a farm.

A week or so later he arrived to collect Sarko with the food writer and her husband.  They loaded him up and very kindly returned the pony to his own home en route.  They then called in for a cup of tea and we had a great chat.  They promised me they would keep in touch and let me know how he was getting on.  As promised, they have kept me updated with photos of Sarko - at Christmas in a crib in the garden centre, up to his knees in straw with lambs beside him.  He looked so happy and it was a far cry from a cold, lonely cottage garden.

I went down to visit him last February and he recognised me.  He was standing in a field and when I went over he nuzzled me the way he always did looking for treats in my pockets.  Then when I went to leave he followed me.  I was sad to leave him but so happy that he had at last found a good home.  He looked so well in contrast to when I had found him (he had lice and his coat was very patchy from scratching and his skin was inflamed.)  I had treated him before he left me but I hadn't seen the results.  He now had a full, fluffy winter coat. 

Lots of animals have been abandoned and forgotten now the Celtic tiger has slunk off to better pastures and there are abandoned cottages all over the country.  Sarkozy was a lucky donkey to have been abandoned in a cottage with a cup left on the sill, an action that had struck a chord with us all those years before.

Part of the lane remains as it was all those years ago

The cottage boarded up now and the cup is gone

Planning permission sign still up