Some recent events and observations

Superman-like surge

No, it says surge not urge, I haven’t started to inexplicably wear my underpants on the outside of my trousers, but I did recently get close to that “is it a bird, is it a plane ......”  Superman moment.

With the long light evenings of summer we usually take Fergus out for a walk after dinner, theoretically, in the cool of the evening but recently this hasn’t been happening, the evenings and nights staying rather warm.

As is often the case when some noteworthy event happens, this particular evening I was walking alone, except for the dog, and even he wasn’t there to confirm my story as explained below, although the reason said surge remained there for all to see for a number of days afterwards, as also described below!

It had been a very pleasant walk over the bridge by the ford, or in the dog’s case through the ford, up the hill on the track through the fields, or in the dog’s case all over the fields as he still chases his shadow and still it refuses to stop and play!  Then, along the track that goes through the edge of the wood, with the lowering sun causing all sorts of wild animals to loom amongst the trees which all needed chasing, before retracing our steps and returning home a slightly different way, down the track that comes behind the mill, which is now a rather picturesque gîte, and passed our garden.

Fergus, as now he is older and wiser, is usually very good, running off and periodically returning for the odd “high five” and a couple of meaty treats before busily exploring the area again, unless he has a better offer and then he becomes selective with his hearing (typical male I hear all the ladies amongst you say – to which I say NO!  It’s a typical trait of the Irish Setter, which in Fergus’ case is his mother’s half!)

Well we were nearly home and just as we turned the final corner before Fergus sits obediently waiting for his lead to go on before walking back into the hamlet, he had a better offer in the shape of a hare which took one look at Fergus and took off with him in very hot pursuit!  Well, he’s been known to get mighty close to bagging us a tasty dinner, although I think if he caught one he’d not know what to do and would probably simply want to play tag, and this time the poor hare had barely a head start.  Fortunately, it had the presence of mind to take evasive action and dart through a thick hedge through to the cow field beyond.  Well, although quite capable of crashing his way through most of the local hedges, Fergus is a bit of a wimp, but a canny one at that as he quickly retraced his steps went through the nearby gate and back along the other side of the hedge in a flanking movement that was rather late.  The prey had well and truly gone, but Fergus found himself in a cow field and is rather partial to what they leave behind, not putting too fine a point on it, he either eats it or rolls in it!!!  At this stage he started to run down the field, with something other than meaty chunks and his lead in mind.

Now, I mentioned the gîte earlier and as we’re very much in the height of the season it was occupied by a couple from Reunion, a French department which is an island in the Indian Ocean, who for the last couple of years have based themselves here for 3 weeks to a month and had various family come to visit them during their stay.  Well, it was Saturday night and lots of family were visiting and a party was well under way in the warm evening outside the gîte, the wine had been flowing for some time and subsequently the volume of conversation had risen.  So, here was Fergus heading down the field towards the gîte and if there’s one thing he prefers to cow dung it’s socialising with lots of people, he’s quite the party animal!

Drastic action was needed, as if I didn’t manage to head him off at the bottom I had visions of an upturned barbecue with Fergus licking up the spilt meat and introducing himself to the surprised company.  So in a moment of panic I surged off to intercept him, but this was only a simple surge, not a superhero one, there was more to come.  As I ran headlong down the track, calling Fergus with the promise of semi-moist meaty chunks instead of succulent barbecued steak and sausages, in mid air between strides I took my eye of the dog and there curled up on the ground, with my leading foot heading towards it was a large snake.  Hence the Superman-like surge, as although I was already in a down trajectory, I flew just like Superman, without the aid of a telephone box, and landed a safe distance away having uttered a rather loud “oh my god!” or possibly something worse.  Momentum carried me on my way, adrenalin helped me catch the dog before he gate-crashed the party and with racing heart, in this case not caused by physical exertion, I very gingerly retraced my steps to see if the serpent was still there.

Surprisingly it was, as it was neatly coiled up but dead, something having appeared to have squashed its head.  Maybe the last person to run by didn’t have superhero powers, just the luck of the Irish to have trod in just the right place!!

As I said before, the evidence stayed there for several days, and each time I walked by the heart beat a little faster, even though I knew it was dead and I was mightily relieved when finally it had gone.  Just for the record it was only a grass snake, a relatively small one at about 120 cm or four feet, but rather surprisingly, as I soared above it, it looked altogether alive and bigger and they do bite!

I picked up some litter today

Now on the face of it that might not seem that big a deal, indeed over the years I have taken part in a number of “litter picks,” blitzes to tidy up an area that has become clogged with litter, be it lay byes on the A46 towards Bath from Stroud, local picnic sites or school fields.  On these occasions I have at times been surprised and disgusted at just what people will leave behind, so as not to go into too much details let’s just stop at soiled disposable nappies!

There was also another occasion, when with a group of other countryside wardens, we ended up helping the police with their enquiries, as we had apparently cleared an area that the police thought had been the site of a recent murder and wanted to know if any of us remembered finding a gentleman’s shoe or wrist watch.  Unfortunately, we weren’t in fact much help with their enquiries as all we had cleared away was the “normal” sweet wrappers, crisp packets, plastic bottles, tins and the odd nappy!

But no, this was not an organised litter pick, I was simply out walking the dog and saw a discarded wrapper for some item of fishing tackle called a “Stop Flott Gummi Stopper” which initially I had no idea what it was for, not being a fisherman, until I read the packet.  My limited French leads me to believe that it is a piece of kit that helps to keep your float upright, but being no expert I’m happy, if necessary, to be put right on this.

So what is unusual about this?  Quite simply that on a fairly popular walk that I regularly do, and takes me about one and a half hours, seeing any rubbish at all is quite unusual.  It seems that particularly in the countryside the French quite simply don’t throw rubbish on the ground.  It does happen and towns can be worse, but it is relatively uncommon and generally rubbish is either taken home or put in the bins provided, which are regularly emptied, or in urban areas street cleaning is an all too obvious priority.  This to some extent dispels the myth commonly expressed in the UK that to provide bins tends to act as a catalyst for rubbish, where overflowing bins merely attract more and more rubbish.  The crucial elements here, I believe are that where bins are provided they need to be regularly emptied and civic pride, something I’ve written about before, is often much stronger in France than the UK, it is something the French seem to expect from the payment of their taxes.

I’m taking it as a compliment

Earlier in the month (July) we dined at L’Assiette Gourmand, the restaurant in the nearby small town, that a couple of years ago, moved across the road from a rather small premises, where in many ways it was like a bar that served food, to much larger premises, the converted old fire station.  Supposedly, the major refurbishment was made possible by a loan from the Mayor’s office, and now the local town boasts a large modern vibrant restaurant, tastefully decorated and with a good sided terrace built out over where the fire appliances rolled out of their garage onto the road.

It was a Monday night and so we were a little worried that we would be dining alone, just Linda, my Mum and myself, which although not a big problem, I do feel that fuller restaurants have a greater ambiance.

But, we were pleasantly surprised to find two French touring cyclists sitting having a drink on the terrace waiting for their food to arrive and inside, where we choose to sit as the warmth of the day’s sun was beginning to fade, a French couple at the bar and an English couple and their two dogs, one recently rescued, who we had met just a couple of weeks before having English Fish and Chips from a mobile van that parks each week outside a number of local bars.  They were sitting waiting to order chatting, in best pigeon French, with an older Frenchman from the village.

As we chatted with the English couple, whilst ordering an aperitif and our food, a family of three, possibly Dutch people arrived on the terrace to dine and a French lady came inside, on her own with a small pug-like dog, with whom, after the dogs had had a little tiff, we exchanged pleasantries, initially in French, but then found she was able to converse well in English.

The English couple, relative newcomers to the village, having lived there about two years, were very chatty and we found ourselves swapping stories between the courses, and involving the French lady periodically in our conversations.  And, being in France, with the wine flowing some of the conversation became quite animated, with the other man telling the French lady how beautiful she was and me complimenting her on her excellent English.

Having finished her moules (mussels) and had a brief café (coffee), she finished before us, as we were having the three course fixed menu, she got up to leave, tried unsuccessfully to get the dogs to make up after the earlier tiff, and approached our table.  Before wishing us a bon nuit (goodnight), she told us that when she had been having her English lessons, her professor (teacher), had told her she was the class bavarde or chatterbox, but she felt that the other Englishman and I were far worthier of the designation than her, and with a cheery chuckle, a bon nuit and an à bientôt see you soon), she left.

I certainly took it as a compliment, as the French so often accuse the English of being somewhat reserved and though I suspect many of you may find it hard to believe, I used to be shy and retiring, and ‘er indoors will vouch for that!! (‘er indoors: “Certainly not now!)

Corks popping, ropes breaking, Bastille Day ended with a bang

Bastille Day, or to give it its proper title of Fête de la Fédération (French National Day), takes place each year on 14^th July, and is a big occasion and much celebrated across the nation. It is the day that in 1798 the infamous French castle, arsenal and prison, La Bastille was stormed and destroyed during the French Revolution, effectively a symbolic day that caused the end of the absolute monarchy.

Many communes (similar to English parishes) celebrate the day with a variety of events, culminating in impressive firework displays, which due to the time of year and the long evenings, often don’t start until close to midnight.

Our own commune has for a number of years held a number of activities on the day.  The last couple of years this has started with a morning commune walk or bike ride with a refreshment stop part way round – water, juice, cake, fruit, chocolate and wine, remember it’s still about 10.30 a.m.!, that ends up at the football ground for a an aperitif or two provided by la municipalité (parish council) and where many of the other inhabitants join in, then most of the people sit down for a picnic they have bought along on a long trestle table with a plastic table cloth, usually advertising a bank!, stretched along it.  The various picnics are grand affairs, often with china plates extra table clothes and several courses of food, frequently ending with large flans or tarts being offered around.  All this is liberally washed down with wine, naturally in real glass glasses, and habitually offered to neighbours, so it’s quite a boozy affair! 

For the last couple of years, once the eating was finished a near neighbour of ours has come around with a small dust encrusted bottle of homemade absinth, an evil brew with a taste that doesn’t go away for some hours, in this case long into the evening, and which another of our neighbours found himself strangely craving for more!  But bizarrely this year, a new trend seems to have started and there seemed a steady stream of people coming around with bottles of almanac, cognac and various homemade concoctions of a similar type.  This is all the more strange as the French taste for such liquors as a digestive after a meal has dwindled, at the same time as the French seem to be drinking increasing amounts of whisky, largely as an aperitif before the meal!

With a degree of trepidation there followed a games afternoon, as after the lunchtime refreshments there was a slight worry that getting up might prove rather difficult, and I almost felt that a quiet sitting down game of French Scrabble, as being set up by the older contingent, might be preferable!  But no, tradition we were told meant an afternoon of frivolity, and to ensure maximum participation and to mix us all up we had to draw a name from a hat and find the right partner for the first games; a tournament including a sack race, a three legged race and an egg and spoon race with the spoon held in your mouth and a table tennis ball instead of an egg!!  Well, the pairs it transpired were all royal couples from Europe: William and Kate, Charles and Camilla, Albert and Charlene (from Monaco, not Victoria as I thought), Elizabeth and Philip and so on....  Strangely the French are mildly obsessed with royalty and often know more about the UK monarchy than I do!  It was a neighbour, the one who produces the absinth, that commiserated with me when Camilla’s brother died unexpectedly, and I’m sure they knew each time Kate went into labour long I even knew she was expecting!!!  Suddenly, whilst writing this, I just seen the irony of this; using royal couples to select partners for games on the day France celebrates becoming a republic and the end of their absolute monarchy!!!

But, let the games commence!  I have to admit that my Charlene, yes I was Prince Albert of Monaco, cheated and used chewing gum in the egg and spoon race, however it was worth it to see the bemused look on the faces of a number of rather merry villagers, puzzling as to how we could run so fast balancing a table tennis ball on a steeply angled plastic spoon!! Still it was just for the fun of it, no prizes just merriment and ridicule!  I should say at this point that these games were largely for the adults who were young enough and fit enough to participate, the children had a bouncy castle and a football, the old people were playing scrabble and other board games or the fiercely complicated local card game called belot, and for those of such a disposition the fishing lake next door to the football ground was freely available.

Then, things turned serious, a long rope was stretched across the football pitch and two teams, children against the rest lined up to do battle with the tire à la corde or tug of war.  It’s amazing how strong a group of children can be, particularly when helped by a number of strong young adults, but on the first pull after the initial shock, age and experience won over and with a final heave we pulled the ribbon over the line and ended up in a heap on the ground.  The second pull somehow we failed to regroup sufficiently and the youngsters equalised!  But, by the third pull we had their measure and won handsomely and perhaps we all should have settled for the best out of three, as on the next pull whilst making good ground we all, on both sides fell into a heap, the stout rope having broken in the middle!!  Not to be thwarted, the young farmers decided to tie the two ends together at first not very successfully, until taken in hand by someone who must have been in the scouts, and managed a good secure knot, well tested by the group of young farmers.  So battle was able to commence, but was quickly over as once more with the older and wiser team digging deep and making good progress, the rope broke again in a different place, well at least the knot held!!

After that things quietened down and it was time for the traditional sweet Vendéen brioche to be passed around, and yes I’m sure you’ve guessed it, complete with a verre de l’amitié / a glass of friendship, not a cup of tea in sight!!

Surprisingly, later that night after admittedly a bit of a snooze, we were back out again for the fireworks at the nearby town, preceded by a typically haphazardly lantern procession, where all the local children follow a minibus with its back door open and a loud sound system blaring out.  The children follow with paper Chinese lanterns on short sticks each containing a burning night light – yes a naked flame and not a risk assessment in sight!!  At least for the last couple of years the local pompiers (firemen) have decided against their wheeled handcart containing powerful Roman candle like fireworks, quite simply spewing out enormous flames in all directions all over the crowds lining the route!  What a shame to spoil the fun!

Shortly after the procession returned, having it seems avoided setting light to anyone, the most amazing fireworks roared, banged, whizzed, screamed, flashed and cascaded into the night sky for at least ten to fifteen minutes, and I couldn’t help feeling that it was quite sufficient fire power to have razed La Bastille to the ground, if it hadn’t already been done 217 years before!  Good to know, France still celebrates after all this time, and indeed to be part of it!

Roger you’re so strong!

As a quick postscript I must tell you of a further compliment I was recently paid.  Having done my bit in the blazing sunshine, to pull the young village upstarts across the football field by means of a think long rope, as well as helping to break said rope, as documented above, I returned somewhat sweaty and exhausted to my seat. My exhaustion and lethargy as I plodded wearily back was immediately forgotten as our neighbour, Yvette, jumped up off her bench as only a lady of about eighty can do and called to me “Roger you’re so strong,” and as I stood proudly upright, previous fatigue all but forgotten, I noticed her four or five females cronies all of a similar age, all animatedly agreeing with her!  Well, although I say so myself, I always have been one to turn the lady’s heads, albeit normally to look the other way!!