At the Port de Versailles, River Erdre, Nantes

I visited the place of the dukes of Brittany, of which Nantes was long the capital.

The palace is guarded inter alia by dragons.

The moat

is also guarded.

Carefully took Mathilde's bike on a tram ride to a bike shop for minor treatment, carefully rehearsing the required vocabulary. Alas I failed to think that, it being a Monday, such commercial establishments would be closed. La belle France has her own way of doing things. 

Near here is an Espace Simone de Beauvoir, with many advertisements for discussions of feminism, lesbianism, feminism, lesbianism etc. As it was also closed today, I was spared the decision whether to enter.

I have taken advantage of a slight indisposition of my back to have a couple of bone-lazy days, during which I have been reading three books simultaneously--or alternately, or rotatingly: Dan Brown's Inferno, Edward Rutherfurd's Paris and another thing called Inferno by some Eytie poet or other. 

Nearby is a backwater of the River Erdre, with a heron and a scaringly large storks' nest: I hope I'm not around when the parents are looking for a morsel for the baby.

Patterns

It’s moments like that that remind you of the mediæval belief that men did not have as many ribs as women, because God had taken one of Adam’s to make Eve. I was trying to buy a new simcard in Bordeaux, city of beautiful trams, and was told I needed to supply a rib. I duly went round to a branch of the Crédit Lyonnais, my bank, wondering if they had rules as in the Merchant of Venice, whereby flesh could be taken but no blood spilt. I discovered that it meant some banking code, so neither bone nor blood. Even so, having given the rib to the telephone people, I was not allowed to set up a regular top-up to the simcard by my bank, because I did not have a French address. So all that trouble was in vain for nothing.

Above is a picture of a rib.
It was pleasant to return to Bordeaux and to admire its amazing reptile life.

I am now floating at Meilhan aboard a boat which I washed by high-pressure spray, amazingly effective. Mathilde no longer looks like part of Fangorn Forest, trailing lichen, moss and green beards. A bit different from last year, when I was packing me and preparing Mathilde for hibernation: then I had to get any work in the cabin done by about 11 a.m., after which it became unbearably hot.

Excitement was provided yester at 5.30 p.m. and again this morning at 8, when a loud siren attached to the nearby bridge loudly sirened, as though a whole fleet of RAF bombers was coming. In fact it was a flood warning for the Garonne River, which is some 80 metres away and flowing strongly, at a level well above that of last August, when I swam in it. People here are saying that there has been a lot of rain, which could mean the flooding of parking areas and possibly the camping ground. Fortunately the canal on which we are floating is well above the river, and nobody is suggesting that it is likely to reach anywhere near this level. Plus Mathilde plans to escape to the Loire next week. It’s still an exciting siren. Pics show evidence of strong winds overnight and Mathilde washed on the Canal de Garonne, with the River Garonne flowing swiftly in the background.

I'm still haunted by the Lady with the Hood, though at 23,000 years, she's even older than Froufrou. I see Sydney Opera House borrowed its decoration from her.

We may go for a little cruise over the next day or so. We won’t go far, as we have little petrol and there is no point buying any here before the trip by truck next Thursday. Speaking of Thor, I’m enjoying reading the Dark Age tale the Hammer and the Cross by Harry Harrison, though some of the interactions between the Vikings and the English are not very kind. I’d like to attempt the book Cloud Atlas, having seen the film courtesy of Singapore Air. I’m also doing some editing for my nice client.

Disability in Singapore

Watched a couple of good movies en route to Singapore: The Master, which wasn't at all about Scientology, and Cloud Atlas, and the FSM knows what that was about—but I look forward to watching it again on the next leg. It was a tour de force, with settings including an ante-bellum cotton plantation, a dystopian future with Tom Hanks living a Stone Age existence (some people might approve that fate for him), Hugh Grant as a nauseous politician, Jim Broadbent trying to escape from a walled residence for the aged of whom their families were tired, Hugo Weaving being evil, and TV John going slightly mad. Actors played several roles, so that Hallie Berry (how do you spell that?) was a modern journo and a Stone Age lass on a mission not from God—or was it?

The master in the movie did not write science fiction, so far as we know, but had a great gift for manipulating people—memorable party scene in which everyone was naked, except for the men—and attracting the needy and vulnerable. I assume that his arrest for embezzlement and his acolyte's violence against critics were features of the life of L Ron Hubbard, even though the film was not about Scientology. 

When checking in on Bencoolen Road i was feeling fine, thinking i had coped with the flight quite well but the hotel staff were clearly not impressed, as I was assigned to a room with unfamiliar layout, in which one enters from the corridor straight into a large bathroom, with two emergency buttons, i.e. designed for a person with disability. So far I have refrained from pressing.

While Adam is doubtless enjoying the air-conditioned hotel,  I am lurking in the shade in Singapore's amazing Gardens by the Bay, with stunning artificial trees. Next time I'll make sure to come by night, when there is a light show. Also, the sun will be less strong.

My disability in Singers is in coping with the heat.