Unexpected adieux

This sunny Sunday morning sees me setting off for a couple of weeks of TEI workshops, one in Paris, one in Graz. Nothing unusual there, nor in the fact that one is better prepared for than the other. But it has been an unusual week all the same, with two deaths and possibly a new beginning. The deaths first, since they are more difficult to write about. They perturb habitual patterns, making me confront and try to articulate parts of life that are hard to fit into a public blog, yet belong there in the absence of any other personal journal. (I say « public » but doubt that anyone except me reads this).

On Tuesday morning, I received from my friend Guy in Italy a text message saying that his partner Daniela had suffered a stroke and was in a coma; 24 hours later came another announcing her death. It is hard to react adequately to such events at a distance, and particularly so by text message, so I am waiting for a later less painful time to talk to Guy. I learned from a mutual friend that the funeral was yesterday. I dont want to obituarize but Daniela was a very generous and very affectionate person, as well as a fiercely independent one. I am very glad that she did not stay long in her coma, nor return from it badly scarred; I am also very glad that the last time I saw her was at a joyful family occasion in London.

On Saturday evening, yesterday, I received an email informing me of another death, also coincidentally on Tuesday: Chris Sheppard, in whose company I passed my adolescence and early twenties, chasing the same girls, crashing the same teenage parties, growing up to pursue not the same but similar academic careers. Chris was the first person in my school to know where to buy Levi 501s and how to shrink them to fit (in the bath). He introduced me to the works of Raymond Chandler and the collection of cigaratte packets. He was far too cool to take fashionable drugs at Oxford, but was on good terms with those who did. It was largely following his example that I returned to Oxford to take my masters degree in 1969, a year behind him. As graduate students we shared a rented hovel in Stanton St John (chemical toilet, coal fire, wall to wall books) for a year during which Chris taught me almost everything I know about literary scholarship and the love of books, not by precept, but simply by example. I was best man at his wedding back in 1976, but our paths diverged thereafter. At his retirement a couple of years ago, he was head of special collections at Leeds University’s Brotherton Lribrary, where I  emember visiting him and being shown some of his more recondite treasures (a lock of Mozart’s hair, Conan Doyle’s photos of faery folk); I think the last time I saw him in person must have been at a lunch with P.N.O. Pullman some time in the 90s. Now of course that it is too late, I regret bitterly even the dwindling flow of Xmas Card exchanges and the fact that my last email with him was more than six years ago.

As to the new beginning — well, it seems a small thing in this context, but I am now feeling quite positive about the idea of buying a house some distance from the back of beyond in rural France. A specific house, that is, of which perhaps more anon. But for now, I will go back to worrying about tomorrow’s training course at the EPHE in Paris, and that in Graz a week later.

A trip to La France Profonde

So this week I have mostly been not thinking about writing academic papers at all, which may or may not be a good think. Instead I spent the first part of the week tidying up materials for the next TEI training course, which is now pretty well polished, and also for the one after that, which is not. The process of thinking about what materials to use follows a fairly recognisable pattern in which ambitious optimism (I’m going to completely revise this bit, make up something new and exciting, strike out into unknown territory) has to eventually give way to pragmatic opportunism (I’ve got this already, it just needs checking, minor tweaks, translating). When I am preparing two courses which are due within a few weeks of each other, this means that the first course moves on to the second stage while the second one is still rejoicing in the first stage. Which was the case this week. Oh, and about the only thing I have in common with Sam Beckett is that I can no longer say whether my material is originally French translated into English or the reverse, since most of it has been through the process both ways several times.

Aside from that, I spent most of the week on trains, or other forms of transport, on an expedition to La Vergne, returning at the weekend via Nottingham. As follows:

depart arrive
Weds 27 Aug home 0910 on foot/bus
Oxford to Paddington 1001 1130 train
London St P to Paris Nord 1225 1547 eurostar
Paris Austerlitz to La Souterraine 1652 1921 Ic 3655
Thurs 28 Aug
La Souterraine to Gueret 930 1005 ter bus
Gueret to La Vergne 1100 1130 taxi
La V to Bussieres Dunoise nice walk
Bussieres to La Souterraine 1445 1615 taxi
Frid 29 Aug
La Souterraine to Paris A 1038 1318 ic3620
Paris Nord to St Pancras 1513 1640
Kings Cross to Grantham 1719 1827
Grantham to Nottingham 1857 1934
Sund 31 Aug
Nottingham to Oxford 1310 1546

And what have we learned? It’s possible to get to and from La Vergne by train within a day for about £400 pounds return (less if you cash in some Eurostar points). There’s not much happening in La Souterraine , and even less in Bussières-Dunoise. Guéret seems like a decent sized town though and is accessible by train from at least two different directions. Generally speaking, the Creuse is not the back of beyond: it’s behind the back of beyond. There are many cows, and many hills. There are probably no decent restaurants for miles. There used to be a railway to transport potatoes and beef to Paris, but they took it away years ago, and now all that’s left is a rather nice rural track which has the merit of avoiding most of the aforesaid hills. And there’s a lake behind the house, where you can fish but not (allegedly) swim.