Robin Ellis's Blog, page 7
June 7, 2019
A parachute drop at noon in homage to another at midnight…
They came down out of a brilliant blue sky in almost perfect order–lining up to land within feet of each other–on an isolated hilltop north of Brassac in the alpine part of our department–the Tarn.
They were greeted by a group of Resistance re-enacters–young men and women in authentic wartime garb and equipment, who hurried forward to help gather up the parachutes–as actually occured in 1944 by moonlight.
The jumpers–a Frenchman and five Americans flown in expressly for the occasion–all Special Forces–played the game and patted their greeters warmly on the back–relieved to see a friendly face after their hazardous flight into occupied France from the American base in Algeria!
The large crowd of onlookers, after readjusting their necks, showed their appreciation with applause and whistles.
Speeches were made and thanks given.
We all sang or hummed La Marseillaise and the Star Spangled Banner and a thousand photographs were taken.
It was a memorable moment–and a fitting tribute to an act of derring-do, 75 years ago.
On August 6th, 1944 a US Special Forces team (OSS–Office of Strategic Services, precursor of the CIA) consisting of 15 men parachuted onto this same dropzone around midnight. One broke his leg in the low altitude drop and was spirited away by the maquis de Vabre to a safe house where he was hidden and received treatment.
Two of the remaining fourteen were shot dead five days later by a German patrol they had ambushed.
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Robert Spaur, on the left, was one the two who lost his life on a remote and heavily wooded French hillside. His PAT comrades in this photo survived.
Twelve remained to fulfill their mission, which was to work with the local Resistance and prevent the Nazi occupying forces from sending reinforcements to fight the Allies after the Southern D-Day landings on August 15th, close to St Tropez.
Their perilous task was a success. They blew up a key strategic train bridge. Our local town Castres was liberated fourteen days after their landing. The Nazi occupying force–4,500 troops–surrendered. The Allied landings in Provence went ahead smoothly and the end of the war moved closer.
We followed the OSS men’s route from the dropzone back down into Brassac–in our case to enjoy an impeccably-cooked traditional lunch at a local restaurant of salade de gesiers and Joue de boeuf aux carrottes et vin rouge.
It kept us in the bubble of history for a little while longer, savouring not only the food and company–but the whole remarkable and sobering story of OG Pat*.
Meredith documented the story here: http://www.ossreborn.com/files/OG_PAT_A_Fresh_LookPhotos1.pdf
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Norma LaGueux Hamilton, widow of the Captain of OG PAT, Conrad LaGueux–raises the toast to honor and celebrate those who served.
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People came from around the world to attend this 75th commemoration–from California, Florida, Washington D.C., Kabul, Paris and England.
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Two of the original PAT team, Bernard Gautier and Robert Spaur, were killed in action and are buried in France–but not forgotten.
May 27, 2019
Voting for Europe
Every time I drive past the Grand Hotel–a somewhat exaggerated description– on my way to the market in Castres, I’m reminded that the building served as local Nazi headquarters from the occupation in 1942 until the Liberation in August 1944.
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Liberation declaration, August 20th 1944 on the balcony of The Grand Hotel, Castres
It’s hard to believe that this pleasant market town best known today for its successful rugby team, Castres Olympique, saw German troop patrols and Maquis operations designed to disrupt them–in my lifetime.
The town did not suffer the physical destruction that London experienced in the Blitz, but living for years with the constant threat of betrayal to the occupiers and a knock at the door, leading to deportation and death, carried its own heavy psychological pressures.
We had this in mind when we made the five minute journey to Lautrec mid-afternoon yesterday to cast our votes in the European elections.
Voting for us has become a rare treat.
Losing the right in the UK after living here for fifteen years, meant not being allowed to vote in the 2016 referendum on whether to leave Europe or not–something that would affect us directly.
We felt sore about that.
We can vote in the local elections–but have to wait until we are granted French citizenship to be able to vote in a national election.
We remain (!) citizens of Europe–until the UK leaves–so found ourselves unexpectedly still eligible to vote.
Becoming a French citizen will not involve my magical transformation into the classic British stereotype of a Frenchman.
Beret-wearing, moustache-bearing, onion-selling, garlic-smelling, baguette-carrying Pierre from “over there’–I will always remain inescapably English.
But I will feel–even more than I do now–a sense of belonging.
En plus, I will be able to VOTE for the government to whom we pay our taxes.
This afternoon, one member of the four man crew engaged in cleaning “our” church is the German boyfriend of the daughter of Jean-Luc, our super-talented builder.
It is a chilling thought that this young man, 75 years ago, could easily have been a member a different four-man crew–a Nazi patrol, hunting the Maquis in the hills around Castres.
Happily for us–and for him–the European Union has been an agent for peace and the Grand Hotel operates now, as just that–a hotel, for visitors from all over the world, including Germany.
May 6, 2019
A rainy week in Chicago…
A rainy week in Chicago ends with two days of full sun.
It’s spring out here and the birds are excited.
They squabble round the bird feeder, competing for the special nuts that Mary bought on Amazon–and word’s got out that there’s pickin’s for all on Lake Shore Boulevard.
The squirrels are frustrated by the round shiny feeder hood Mary also purchased online–and have to settle for the discarded husks on the grass beneath.
There’s competition, though, from a single rabbit incongruously hopping around as though this is familiar territory.
Could be an escapee from one of the large family houses that face the lake along this stretch of the North Shore.
Its corpulence suggests a history of domestic comfort–not a wild animal but an animal in the wild.
It shows no sense of awareness that danger lurks; unlike the small variety we see darting from one burrow to the next in the Tarn.
Meredith says it is not long for this world–and she may be right; there are preditors roaming at night, looking for a meal.
Darters stand a chance—hoppers, less so.
Go bunny–learn a little street wisdom or your toast!
The bird feeder is a source of endless fascination, as unfamiliar species circle and swoop.
A brilliant red cardinal waits its turn as a red headed woodpecker hangs off the feeder taking its time.
A young swift—we guess that’s what it is—looks around anxiously for its mother; another innocent in the wild.
Mustn’t wag my finger too much though—every time we hit the pavement on our first day in Manhattan, I feel a little like the rabbit and the swift—an innocent on the wild side.
September 3, 2018
My Ratatouille
Summer’s defining quality is colour.
The stands at markets here are bursting with it–blindingly so.
Colour in abundance and it makes my heart sing.
This is my favorite dish this summer and will feature in my new cookbook:
Robin Ellis’ Mediterranean Vegetarian Cooking–the writing of which I am nearly half-way through and which will feature the wonderful photos of Meredith Wheeler!
Search in the fridge and in the bowl on the kitchen table for those peppers you bought a couple of days ago, and have yet to cook.
Perhaps a red and a yellow with a handful of those tender little pale green ones.
Now’s their moment!
Two smallish onions needed too.
And the multi-coloured cherry tomatoes that seduced you at seven in the morning at the Saturday open-air farmers market.
Olive oil, garlic, chili and coriander seeds—are key supporting actors.
No aubergines this time or sloppy courgettes!
This is MY version of a classic dish made many different ways around the Mediterranean.
Maybe not strictly speaking–RATATOUILLE.
A first cousin–let’s call it–to this seasonal delight.
for 2
2 smallish onions—halved and halved again and sliced
2 red peppers—seeded and cut into rough squares
Handful of small green peppers, if you can find them, seeded and cut into rough squares
2 cloves of garlic—roughly chopped
1 tsp coriander seeds—crushed
1 small fresh or dried red chili—chopped small
400 gms fresh ripe tomatoes—roughly chopped into a bowl
2 tbs olive oil
salt and pepper to taste
Heat a tablespoon of oil in a shallow pan and add the onions.
Soften them gently before adding the garlic.
Cook a further two minutes before adding the second tablespoon of olive oil, the peppers and chili, stirring them in.
Cover the pan and cook gently to soften the peppers—about ten minutes.
Uncover and check that the peppers have lost their hard bite.
When you are happy that they have softened, pour off the excess liquid from the tomatoes (saving it to another bowl) and add them to the pan, stirring everything together.
Season well with salt and freshly ground pepper.
Cook on until the tomatoes have integrated with the peppers in a delicious summer sauce.
You can add a little of the saved tomato juice as the tomatoes cook but this version should not be too mushy.
Serve with a dollop of tapinade or pesto and some green beans. Here it is served on bulgur wheat.
July 20, 2018
The story of a Type 1 Diabetic who feared going to sleep…
From The Guardian today–an amazing story which reminded me of my late mother, Molly.
Ma was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes in 1955 and on several occasions suffered hypoglycemic episodes in the middle of the night–when she would slip in unconsciousness.
She was experiencing a “hypo”– falling into a coma caused by low blood sugar–hypoglycemia.
Miraculously my father–asleep beside her–would awaken with the instinct that something was wrong.
He would call the ambulance and accompany her to St Thomas’s Hospital where they saved her life more than once.
Eventually she did die of a fatal heart attack, linked to her diabetes. (And watching my mother’s experiences is what made me take my own diagnosis of Type 2 diabetes seriously.)
Dana Lewis (see below) feared she too might fall unconscious in her sleep without anyone nearby to notice–so with the help of others she has developed a system to monitor glucose levels throughout the night and adjust as needed.
If you have Type 1 diabetes or know someone who does, please take a look:
Diabetes
Experience: I built my own pancreas
Having a computer make adjustments while I sleep is far safer than trying groggily to make decisions in the early hours
Dana Lewis
Fri 20 Jul 2018 09.59 BST
Dana Lewis: ‘More than 725 people worldwide have now built various types of DIY closed-loop systems.’ Photograph: Annabel Clark for the GuardianI was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes when I was 14. This means my pancreas no longer naturally produces insulin; and without insulin, my blood glucose levels will go dangerously high. The biggest impact was on my sleep. I used to love lying in on weekends. After I was diagnosed in 2002, I had to set my alarm for 7am to take my insulin and eat something, then continue testing my blood sugar and inject myself several times a day.
This process became a little easier when I got an insulin pump, and later a continuous glucose monitor (CGM). The pump continuously infuses insulin into my body, and the CGM sensor can report my blood sugar every five minutes. At night, I relied on the CGM’s built-in alarm to wake me if my glucose passed the threshold that required immediate action; but though I tried several CGMs, the alarms were never loud enough, and they couldn’t be turned up or changed. I talked to manufacturers, but nothing improved. Once I went to college and lived alone, this became a bigger problem; I was increasingly afraid of going to sleep at night.
The alarms on my phone woke me though–and it occurred to me that if I could send the data from my device to my phone, I could solve the problem myself. I came across someone on Twitter who had managed to reverse-engineer the software on his young son’s CGM, so he could monitor his son’s blood sugar remotely. He shared his code with me, which was a big breakthrough. With help from my then boyfriend and now husband, Scott, a computer networking engineer, I was able to send CGM data to my phone via a laptop. We created an alarm that would rouse me if my blood glucose levels were too low or too high.
From there, it was a small step to build a webpage so I could add a “snooze button” to press after taking action. This allowed me to create a remote monitoring system so that if I still slept through an alarm, Scott would be alerted and call me or drive over. Scott and I also created an algorithm that forecasted when my blood sugar was likely to become low or too high, sending alerts to my phone or smartwatch.
I was happier and no longer feared going to sleep–but this was still an “open loop” system: it was up to me to take any needed action. A few months later, working with others in the open-source diabetes community, we realised that by adding a small computer and a radio stick to the pump and CGM, we could create a system that not only processed the data, but also sent commands directly to the pump. That’s how we created what is in effect an artificial pancreas, or a “closed loop” system.
The first day I woke up after closing the loop, I was blown away by how much better I felt. I decided I was never going to leave home without it. The equipment can fit in a bag or a pocket. We designed it for safety: if something breaks or I lose it, I can go back to using my insulin pump manually.
Endocrinologists have been interested in our developments, and for me, having a computer make adjustments while I sleep is far safer than trying groggily to make decisions overnight. The system also makes small adjustments every five minutes, rather than large adjustments infrequently, as humans do.
Having created something that changed and improved my own life, and having benefited from others’ open-source work, I wanted to share our work so other people could use it. This is why we created OpenAPS – the Open Artificial Pancreas System project: to make the code, design and documentation available to others for FREE, so they can build a “pancreas” of their own.
More than 725 people worldwide have now built various types of DIY closed-loop systems, and the growing community has continued to improve the code and the systems. Many of us have no medical or engineering training and we work on improvements in the evening or at the weekend. Commercial devices similar to ours are now being trialled and gradually coming on to the market. We’re happy to be helping companies to speed up development. The most important thing is that people don’t have to wait. The fact that others now have the freedom to make that choice is something I’m very proud of.
July 10, 2018
A difficult choice
There can only be one thing Beau and Ben are thinking about today:
The semi-finals of the World Cup.
Today France (v Belgium) and tomorrow England (v Croatia).
No way of knowing who supports who, but clearly it’s something that gives pause for thought.
For now they are sitting on the wall/fence.
Meredith and I have a foot in both camps of course.
They could face each other next Sunday in the final–what a dilemma that would be for us would-be “duals”!
Though one might say it’s a win-win situation.
Either way, it’s pretty thrilling.
Allez les Bleus! Allez les Rouges!
July 2, 2018
Indomitable Gillian Lynne RIP
Dame Gillian Lynne, choreographer of CATS (and MANY other musicals) died last night at age 92.
In 1976 Trevor Nunn, as part of the Royal Shakespeare Company season at Stratford-upon-Avon, decided to direct A Comedy of Errors as a musical and asked Gillian–already a legendary modern dance choreographer–to design the dances.
This was the first time she had worked with Trevor–and soon after they went on to create the world famous production of Cats.
We had just thee weeks to put it on, at the height of the hottest summer since the war.
I was cast in the small part of Dr Pinch–a charlatan and a scoundrel passing himself off as a magician with special powers.
The composer wrote me a song which lasted seven minutes–and more or less represented my part.
Gillian was a hard taskmaster; she worked me into the ground. She had to–to get me to sing the words and dance the steps in the right order and in time with music.
Every morning before rehearsals, she insisted we all came in and did a forty minute warm-up session–not something actors were accustomed to doing. There were grumbles.
She had already done her stretches for an hour-and-a-half.
As a dancer, earlier in her career she had suffered numerous injuries–and had to do this routine in order to move fluently throughout the day’s rehearsals.
It sounds grim, but she was a performer herself and knew how vulnerable actors are when they are trying something outside their comfort zone.
She was a 100% present for us and managed to make us believe we could do it!
Hard work can achieve the near impossible–with someone like Gillian, prodding you on.
It was one of the most enjoyable and unforgettable experiences of my professional life.
Gillian Lynne was an indomitable spirit and last week the theatre where CATS ran for years was renamed for her–not before time.
The singing and dancing starts about four minutes into this overlong excerpt:
June 12, 2018
An annual act of Remembrance in the depths of rural France.
I wrote this “haiku” a couple of years ago:
Two Yank commandos
Machined gunned from a sidecar
‘Mort pour Liberté’
Robert Spaur and Bernard Gautier were members of a fifteen-strong American commando unit parachuted into the south Tarn on the night of the 6th of August 1944, as part of an allied plan to disrupt supply lines in southern France prior to D-Day in the South–scheduled for the 15th August.
On patrol, a couple of days after the drop, the group spotted a Nazi motorbike unit heading up from Mazamet towards the small village of Le Rialet to investigate an attack by local maquis–that had succeeded in killing a cow and injuring a German soldier.
The commandos decided to ambush the unit on its way down.
The plan went awry and in the skirmish two Americans, the oldest (Gautier 33) and youngest (Spaur 19), were shot and killed.
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The story of the ambush on the back of the memorial at the spot where it happened
“Can you imagine the disbelief of a Nazi patrol driving up the narrow road from Mazamet towards Le Rialet in August 1944 when they see young men in American uniforms come out of the woods to attack them,” Meredith said, as we headed up the road to the annual commemoration ceremony on Saturday.
“D-Day had happened on June 6th in Normandy and the allies were still stuck there. The Germans must have thought–‘what on earth are American soldiers doing–so far south?’.”
The element of surprise might have given the OSS commandos (Office of Strategic Services–forerunner of the CIA) an added advantage as they attacked the German column–that split-second that counts.
Meredith was scheduled to carry the Stars and Stripes at the ceremony to mark the 74th anniversary.
She is the flag carrier (Porte Drapeau) at annual commemoration ceremonies in Castres and a few years ago was asked to attend this event in Le Rialet.
We learned the remarkable story of the commando unit’s existence from Gilbert Brial–whom we met at one of the commemorations.
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Gilbert Brial with Thierry Pauthe–in the uniform of a GI.
Gilbert was 18 in August 1944 and a member of Corps Franc du Sidobre–one of several Maquis groups operating in this mountainous region of the Tarn.
The number of surviving ancien combatants has dwindled over the years Meredith has been attending the ceremonies.
Gilbert is 92 now and ailing, but has been an active campaigner to keep the story alive.
The French expression le devoir de mémoire–the duty to remember–perfectly describes Gilbert’s attitude.
Meredith had assumed the story was well known and that Gilbert must have told it to the media many times.
“Jamais!” [Never!] Gilbert said.
Intrigued and moved, she pursued the story and with the help of the American consul at the time, obtained a Fulbright grant, enabling her to record a series of on camera interviews with most of the surviving members of the Maquis–French rural Resistance fighters.
She was hoping to make a documentary of the story.
Sadly none of the American OSS commandos were still alive, though she made contact with some of their families and several have visited the Tarn.
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The OSS team’s code name was PAT.
Read her full account of the remarkable Fourteen days in August 1944, when the surviving members of the commando unit succeeded in preventing local occupation forces from rushing troops and guns to Provence, where the southern D-Day was launched on a beach near St. Tropez.
They also helped liberate our local town, Castres, from Nazi occupation.
Next year is the 75th anniversary and Meredith is hoping for a large turn-out.
At the war memorial, Monsieur Yvan Cros, one of the few maquisards still alive, laid a wreath in memory of his comrades.
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M.Cros with La Porte Drapeau Americaine
As the names on the memorial are read out, each is remembered with the spoken words–Mort pour la France for the French and Mort pour La Liberté for Robert Spaur and Bernard Gautier.
It touches the heart.
June 3, 2018
A night to remember…
Something is afoot–it’s plain to see as I drive into Castres for the market yesterday.
Blue and white everywhere–balloons and posters, flags and bunting adorn the private houses on the route into town.
A large banner hangs from a balcony on the facade of the theatre and an oversize CO shirt from a factory building.
It seems every shop has a display.
Only the austere Cathedral de Saint Benoit–remains aloof.
Allez les Bleus–Allez les CO
Go Blues–Go Castres Olympique!
Support our brave lads tonight!–they’ll need every last hurrah!
I quickly find a legitimate parking space–a rare event.
The market is relatively quiet.
There is no queue at the fishstall–mussels for lunch and monkfish for dinner.
Our friend Flo is putting the finishing touches to her beautiful stall of prime colored spices.
She looks fed up and flustered.
“Partout le monde ne parle que du Rugby.”
Nothing but RUGBY–everyone’s only talking about the RUGBY!
At the dry fruit and olive stand I’m told by an astonished marchande that this morning 44 coaches have left for Paris and an entire TGV (high speed train)–carrying more than a thousand fans–has been chartered.
No wonder the market is easier to move around in!
It is the final match of the French rugby season and Castres Olympique are the unexpected rivals to Montpellier–considered the best team of the season by a margin. (We can’t claim to be fervent fans of our local team–but our interest is aroused at moment like these)
Montpellier Herault Rugby (MHR) are automatic qualifiers for the final by finishing the season TOP of the six best teams.
They are owned by what the papers snootily call a “multi-millionaire”–with the implication that money has played a key role in their success.
CO themselves have been kept afloat for years by the local pharmaceutical company–such is the way of the rugby world these days.
They’ve had a patchy season–but have shown guts and determination to reach this far. The press have dubbed them underdogs, plucky outsiders!
Though they beat Toulouse and Racing 92 of Paris, tonight they’ll be hard pressed–is the scuttlebutt.
MHR are cruising to their first ever Bouclier (Shield) de Brennus (named for the man who designed it way back in 1892).
I turn on France 2 TV after supper and see the great sporting crucible of le Stade de France awash with blue and white.
The train was clearly on time.
The match has just restarted after the interval and I am amazed and delighted to see the score at the top of the screen.
Castres Olympique 19 Montpellier 6
I’m engaged and committed–but this is going to be a tense watch.
Castres are quickly under pressure and lose a star player to the sin bin.
The big men of Montpellier take advantage and narrow the gap to 19-13.
I begin to panic.
Castres, down to fourteen men, defend with guts and determination.
The Montpellier goal kicker is disastrously off form and misses a vital kick at a critical moment.
(The Montpellier captain, at the end, admits that Castres hardly made a mistake).
Castres, thrillingly, go on to score twice more–and CLINCH the match!
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The faces of triumph and disappointment
The stadium is awash with blue and white again– and tears flow freely on the pitch and in the stands.
A night of Rugby passion and drama!
Les Bleus ont gagnés–the Blues have triumphed–and are dubbed unlikely, but worthy winners by the press.
Sunday now and I am on my walk before lunch. As I turn for home a plane goes over–not unusual– there are two flights daily–Castres-Paris.
When a second and third go over, I realize that this not a usual day.
Must be the team and some of the fans returning in triumph to celebrate CO‘s fifth Bouclier de Brennus in its history.
The press is unforgiving:
“La nuit l’ogre de Montpellier était édentée!” [the night the beast of Montpellier had its teeth knocked out!]
In Castres today, the town is celebrating.
Our cheese merchant, Dominique,
a long time CO fan–describes the scene last night with the giant screen set up in Place Pierre Fabre–named for the founder of the Pharma company that has backed the team for years.
It was “très tendu“–very tense, he says–well, I know what he means!
Things are more relaxed now as the last of the players prepare to leave the scene–one keeping the trophy close to his chest.
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“This is ours, mate–we’ve earned it!”
May 26, 2018
Kestrels again
Just seen a red, black and white-headed woodpecker (Pileated), land nervously on the bird table.
This is a first–they are such shy creatures.
He managed a half-minute feed before a jealous Jay galumphed him off.
These jumbo jets of the bird world–recent arrivals–scatter all before them; the whole structure rocks as they land and take off.
The table has seen less activity lately.
Partly because the weather has improved–so there is food for the birds in the newly- awaked fields and hedgerows.
But there is another factor: Our kestrels are back!
Well, we can’t be sure that they are the same couple who raised their youngsters in the loft last year but we like to think they are.
The grill in the little round window that offers a shaft of light to the loft–an oeil-de-boeuf (bull’s eye)–at some stage got pushed aside, offering enough room for a cozy nest box.
Last year we saw them settled in–then missed most of the action, while we crisscrossed America during the month of May.
(Missed the Spring in the Tarn too–never again!)
This afternoon photographer Meredith stealthily caught five hatched chicks moving together in a blur of white feathers–like a mini moshpit at a rock concert.
Mum and Dad spend the day on allez-retour trips into the countryside behind the house bringing back tidbits for the new arrivals.
We watch from the terrace holding our breath, not daring to move, as the returning bird approaches.
Alice our neighbor says as long as the birds think you are otherwise engaged it will carry on regardless.
We spot the bird about two hundred meters out, floating in on the air currents–but with a target to hit.
As it gets closer to home, we see it judging the distance, using its wings for balance–like a tightrope walker with a long pole steadying themselves on the wire before skipping onto the launch pad.
Suddenly it veers off to the left.
It senses an alien presence–a sleeping Beau or two peeping-tom humans; then circles again and approaches as before.
At the last minute it veers off again–this time straight up and over the roof and out of sight.
We wait for a long minute–transfixed.
Here it comes again on a different approach–third time lucky.
This time, no hesitation–in it goes, folding itself into the opening–a brilliant soft landing.
Mission accomplished–cargo delivered.
But the mini mosh is never satisfied and a few moments later, it leaves again–and the hunt resumes.
