the skinflint philosopher

Attempting to thrift our way to a better life, with a toddler in tow!


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Sore fingers and sore toes: France #3

After our brief sojurn into the ex-pat territory in the north Dordogne area, we headed into medieval France with the hilltop village of Pujols. As we continue our ‘out-of-season’ break, we again reap the benefits of a relatively deserted tourist hot spot. One of France’s designated most beautiful villages, its wooden beamed houses, narrow alleyways and tumbled down ramparts are a brief glimpse into what replaced the original fort that perched on the summit. The view of the wide valley below is stunning, and we treat ourselves to crepes and cafe au lait and sit in the sunshine in the pedestrianised cobbled square, in complete peace as we have clearly hit the long lunch time when we appear to be the only people in the world.

Although the village is full of art shops and workshop galleries, selling expensive ceramics mostly, the highlight is hidden behind a heavily laden sharon fruit tree behind the church. This is Le Maison de Jouets, an insiprational wood and natural objects den of fun. It is full of toys, instruments, and automatons all crafted from carefully selected found objects. The young curator tells us it is part of the lifetime work of an old man, who he says sees the world in a different way to everyone else. There is no charge, nothing for sale, and we are invited to play and handle the toys as much as we like. Tiddler is in seventh heaven, and Digger and I are not far behind in astonishment and amusement.

Leaving the Jouets behind eventually, we wander into the church and realise we are at one of the posts of the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route. We take a moment to stop, and reflect. Tiddler stamps her hand with the scallop shell print, and lights a candle.

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We end up staying more night at the Pujols campsite than intended. I turn abruptly in the confines of Leo, and catch my toe on the edge of a board. I hear a crack. It is not the board. My toe is clearly broken. Having broken the big toe on the same foot two years ago I know the signs, and also know there is no point seeking medical advice. I strap it up (the compulsory first aid kit coming in handy after all) and limp around the campsite. Digger had cut a couple of bamboo poles from the side of the road a few days earlier with the intention of making a sun shade, and now I take one with me for support like some sort of jungle Gandalf. Tiddler runs around semi naked with the other pretending it is a sword, or a wand, or a blowpipe. We get a few strange looks from the elderly clientele in the neighbouring pitches, but that is okay, we are English, and therefore expected to be a bit eccentric.

Digger takes the opportunity to take Leo to the garage. There has been a squeaking whine on the back wheel for a few days, which we have avoided dealing with so far by switching the radio up louder. A couple of hours work and €43 later and the whine has gone. The exact problem the mechanic could not translate for us, but it is solved now no matter what the language.

We take the opportunity to get the guitar out. This has sat in our attic for about four years, always with the intention that we would learn. Life happens of course, and you don’t find time. Despite taking up valuable space in Leo, we were determined to bring it with us. Again, we need to apologise to our camping neighbours as the sounds of our poorly constructed chords and slightly out of tune singing filter out in the afternoon sun. Fortunately for everyone, at this early stage of learning my fingers can’t cope and I have to stop before too long and give my hands a rest before blisters develop. Tiddler wades in with the tambourine and warbles a fairly decent rendition of ‘muckle in tyre’ in an attempt to copy my Mull of Kintyre, which has to be the easiest song ever to play on the guitar, if even I can manage it. Then peace returns.

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Next post: travelling on a shoe string, warriors and the Med.

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