There ya go SW . . . must confess to laying off the hops for once.
There's a good supply of Leffe about but I'm deferring to the indigenous produce by way of being friendly and trying to minimise the spare tyre inflation :o
Here's an example of the throat singing . . . hypnotic stuff.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
that's an amazing sound, I don't suppose the guy gave you any quick lessons in how to do it?? the cello thingy does indedd look like a chinese one, but I think the ones we saw had three strings? Must remember to look at the holiday pics.
Don't blame you laying off the Leffe, effects of which can be positively hypnotic, especially when drunk to slate a thirst in hot weather
Whilst on my travels in la Belle France the pump on my fish pond suffered a catastrophic failure. It transpires the electrical circuit that runs our outdoor lights, pump and various garden-related electrical outlets went down. The good people looking after our menagerie mistook the appearance of the fish at the surface of the pond for sunbathing. It was only when they started to appear belly-up that the alarm was sounded. By the time a new pump was procured and fitted the three largest fish had lost their struggle for air. Goldie, The Bronze and the Mighty Monty are sadly no longer with us. On a happier note the installation of a temporary pump did save the remaining fish and I'm most grateful to Captain Tom and Jenny for their valiant efforts.
I suffered my own oxygen depravation on my return to the hills this morning. The combination of a late start, a warm muggy morning and my first incline of note for two weeks was always going to be a test. Two weeks of close to a hundred kilometers of dead flat roadwork had kept the legs in good shape but I was shocked at the strain on my lungs. I huffed and puffed my way up and down familiar landmarks, coming home in a commendable 43:41 having stopped the watch at Blackcap to flop around in ungainly fashion, forcing air into my chest and oxygen into my starving muscles. The pain reminded me of what a horrible way to go slow asphixiation must be, and I thought of my beloved fish gasping their last, eyes bulging, tails wafting ever slower as they succumbed. I cursed my lack of foresight - a little harshly perhaps - for they were in my care and I can't help but feel I failed them, having left nothing more than feeding instructions for the hapless house-sitter.
A burial service will be held this afternoon at Chez Sweder.
After I've visited Jenny and Tim to deliver my thanks and a large bottle of Pineau of course.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Not his best work but here's a clip of Matthias Duplessy, the fellow we cohabited with in Gemozac. The piece displays the throat singing well; sadly the cello accompanyment is a little dour; he played some much more energetic stuff for us. I'll see if I can upload some more footage later.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Captain Tom and I had spent a fairly successful couple of hours that evening with our respective sons, fishing for mackerel .
The plan was for us to each go home to gut our quarry, later we would meet up and hit Lewes for a couple of celebratory Wets.
Imagine my delight having arrived at Toms, when I learned that in fact we couldn't go to the pub because Sweder's pond pump had packed up and we had to grovel around in the dark in his garden to attempt to rig up an ancient, cobweb covered pump as a temporary replacement that Tom had mysteriously produced from the depths of his shed.:mad: :mad:
"Oh well", I thought. "At least we can raid the bugger's beer fridge whilst we're there".
.....or so I thought. The office beer fridge was actually filled with poncy champagne and wine. Not a beer in sight. Nitto.
Sorry Sweder, but the heinous crime simply had to be shared. :p
A flat run in the hills. Eh?
Oh, you know what I mean. Monday's run, whilst a little breathless at times, was full of return-home bounce. This morning saw a workaday outing, tired legs joining heaving lungs to form a disorderly queue in the complaints department.
Fabulous conditions though; cloudless sky, cool breeze, bright early sunshine - near perfect. A smidgeon over 46 minutes for 4.98 uneventful miles. Track du jour the incomperable Doors with Light My Fire.
Wonderful stuff.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I stood in my bathroom watching the sun rise over the Lewes cliff and reckoned I be best advised to don a white shirt for what would surely be a scorcher. Ten minutes later, toiling up the first hill of the day, I fixed an eye on the armada of heavy grey cloud sweeping in from the west; so much for my forecasting skills.
Actually it was pretty nippy out there today, a factor not unrelated to a decent run in a hair over 44 minutes. Bent double outside my house, mustering the courage to start stretching as the sweat pools grew on the paving slabs below, I recalled Moyleman's suggestion that a sub-40 should be within my gift. Not a chance, at least not in this shape. I ran well today, hurtling back (wind assisted) in something close to 7:30 minute miles; that's pretty much flat out for me.
Still an enjoyable last hurrah before the fleshpots of Aberdeen. I head north this afternoon to join my colleagues at Offshore Europe. I'll be packing runners, togs and the barest thread of hope for one, maybe two outings in the week ahead.
Track of the day? I wasn't going to nominate one, mostly because much of fare on offer was pretty mediocre. Then up popped a beautiful song, beautifully sung; Desperado by The Eagles. And to think that came out in (gulp) 1973 . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
![[Image: 250px-]](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/c1/Mongolian_Musician.jpg/250px-)
At what time? 
when I learned that in fact we couldn't go to the pub because Sweder's pond pump had packed up and we had to grovel around in the dark in his garden to attempt to rig up an ancient, cobweb covered pump as a temporary replacement that Tom had mysteriously produced from the depths of his shed.:mad: :mad: 