Une petite pause sur la terrasse

Quel est ce monde, si plein de soins,

Nous n'avons pas le temps de se lever et regarder. 

William Henry Davies ~ Leisure

What is this world, if full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No apologies for using this quote once more, but it is just so apt and reminds me how lucky I am to have the time!  I’ve also translated it into French and it still scans quite well, now I just need to learn it sufficiently to retort to our neighbour the next time we are sitting outside having a very English Tea break and she passes with a somewhat surprised “Ah, une petite pause!” hence the title of this small piece.

At a recent petite pause, we were far from idle, as there was just so much birdlife to see, and at times to duck from; as the swallows, who in many ways stole the show, used the space between the buildings as a wall of death repeatedly flying round and round in close formation, as many as six at a time.  Then, one or more would peel off and either rollercoast down towards us and backwards and forwards between the house sometimes seeming to play chicken with us, who would duck or swerve first!, or they slalom in and out of any open door or window – barn, garage or indeed house – before a tighter wall of death sequence and back out into the general mêlée.  Who needs animals in a circus when you have nature’s own fantastic antics?  And, the swallows don’t stop there, as not only are they the aeronautical acrobats but they also do a mean high wire act (although when the young are just learning to fly it can be a little tentative, the less confident staying nearer the supports!), as well as clowning around just for the pure joy of chasing each other or laughing at the strange English couple sitting drinking their tea below.  They have also sent the odd “custard pie” our way, but it might be tempting fate to say they haven’t scored a direct hit – YET!!

But, it didn’t stop there, as in the time it took to drink the cuppa and force ourselves back to work we witnessed even more visually as well as audibly!  There was a blackbird and a little woodpecker who repeatedly flew, with a purpose, from the wooded bank behind the neighbour’s house to the garden of another neighbour and back.  They were obviously intent on something, which we later discovered was the rapidly ripening and equally rapidly disappearing cherries on the neighbour’s tree!

Distant mewings alerted us to a pair of huge buzzards soaring high above the hamlet on the warm currents rising from below, as mere specks high in the azure blue of the cloudless day, they were far too high to be hunting, even their keen eyesight wouldn’t have spotted a tasty field mouse from such a far-flung vantage point.  No, they were simply having fun and finding time to stop and stare, albeit aimlessly, well fed and happy on this warm sunny day.  With our own lunch looming fairly rapidly, we really ought to have dragged ourselves away from this remote display, but the languid mewings were cut into by the closed and louder sounds of the hoopoe – hoo poe, poe, poe, poeee .... and the nearly repetitious cuckooing of our neighbourhood thug, although our particular one has the tendency to add an occasional extra cuc – cuc koo, cuc koo, cuc koo, cuc cuc koo!!, in no obvious pattern, having the time not only to stand but also to listen, we spent some time trying to work out if the extra cuc was regular or erratic (OK, ‘er indoors is bound to pick up on that line and say that actually it was only me, not her!!)  Having just decided that the pattern was irregular, not to be outdone, and maybe trying to grab my attention, the hoopoe started to miss out the poe!!

Finally, there were the chickens noisily scatting around for any tasty morsel, behind the nearby barn, the cooing pigeons passing backwards and forwards further down the drive and the redstarts, who had successfully reared their brood in our open barn, bopping up and down with their squeaky warbling competing with the scolding chuckles and short twitters of the blue tits who had successfully nested in a small hole by our garage door. 

What with the pigeon piazza, the swallows multilayered spaghetti junction and the blackbird / woodpecker boulevard / motorway and all the various tweets and twitters, I’m tempted to say that thankfully there wasn’t a mobile phone in sight to shatter the peace, even though it wasn’t all that quiet.  And .... with so much going on there was a real danger that the petite pause would become somewhat grand!, and once we have our cour cache (hidden courtyard) très grand.  But, although this might stop our immediate neighbour from noticing us slacking, we will still, as during the recent weather, dine in the company of 1000’s of passersby, if the multitudes of vapour trails criss-crossing the sky are indicative of the evening rush hour.  Hopefully however, like the buzzards, they’ll be too high to really notice and certainly too far away for us to hear the unspoken tut-tuts or to see the nearly raised eyebrows as we have yet another petite pause.  But to that I’ll simply say -  Pas le temps de voir, en plein jour, Streams plein d'étoiles, comme un ciel de nuit. ~ No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night. A little more of that wonderful poem!                  

One can but hope!

Okay, it’s July 14^th in rural France, a bank holiday to remember Bastille Day, July 14^th 1789, the start of Liberté, égalité, fraternité (Liberty, equality and brotherhood) and so as you can’t forget the Revolution, this tripartite motto is liberally plastered on every public building and beyond.  But, that apart and from me normally so laid back and tolerant (unlike her indoors!), the man featured below was an out and out prat, who should have lost his liberty, it would be hard to find his equal and there was little brotherly love evident in the assembled crowd and I came mighty close to telling him!  I think all that stopped me was the worry that an outburst from me would have been “water off a duck’s back” as I am sure I wouldn’t have been the first and highly unlikely to be the last or it might simply have inspired the crowd into an impromptu lynching!!

As in many communities the length and breadth of Metropolitan France and beyond in areas referred to as Overseas France, this day warrants celebration.  Indeed, in our own small commune (parish) there had been a very sociable aperitif  laid on by the maire (mayor) and conseil municipal (municipal council) at which this year mention was made of our commune’s gold award for citizenship and was followed by a picnic and games afternoon – predominately the women and children playing board games or cards and the men outside playing the local game of palets, where teams throw small metal discs onto a heavy lead plaque laid on the ground, the scoring and principle being I guess a little like tiddly winks!!   Proceedings were then brought to an end by the presentation of the gardening awards for the year and a further verre de l’amitié (glass of friendship) or two soaked up with thick slices of the local brioche (soft sweet bread).

Then, this year it was back home to sleep off the rich brioche as much as the several glasses of friendship, including a very small and very strong absinthe fabriqué a la maison of a friend down the road.  A strange tasting and lingering liquor it certainly was; my English drinking partner deciding it was a little like a very peaty but also very sweet whisky, which we decided went better in the coffee that was subsequently poured into our empty, albeit syrup lined glasses.  We both felt the taste had lingered, when some hours later when we picked up our friends to go to one of the nearest towns for this year’s Bastille Day feu d’artifice (fireworks), it was still there!   

My ever roving ears first picked him up out of the crowd, although he would have been better suited to the gutter, after we had parked the car, had a glass of wine from the outside bar, under the beautifully floodlit tower of the church whilst awaiting the lantern procession, which we dutifully joined to walk to the fireworks.  He and his friend joined the procession just behind us and as I have a tendency to eavesdrop, shortly picked up on his slightly bizarre conversation with his female friend.  Herein would appear to be the root of the problem, to which quickly I would happily have taken an axe had I one handy, as you might have guessed by now this guy really irritated me and by the looks and comments all around, not only got to me but also a lot of others!!  The problem seemed to be his need for requited love and he had obviously decided that the only way into her ..... heart, I guess, was to be a loud brash show-off, fuelled it would seem by a drink or two as well as the being egged on by the object of his affections who tantalisingly waved in front of him her ..... heart, I suppose that would be!!

The strange conversation behind us involved some over the top advice on whether the object of his desires should have a life of her own or visit her mother whose own life seemed to be rapidly diminishing.  The advice seemed from a distance to be rather self centred; after all he was trying to get into her ...... heart, or something like that, and rather oddly seemed to suggest as she had the rest of her life ahead of her and her mother had had her life, she the object of his desire, should give up on her mother and life her own live to the full, and he was more than happy to help her with her ...... heart, which seemed slightly surprising in view of the rather heartless appearing advice.  Happy, he was well on the way to entering her ...... heart passionately, as we arrived at the fireworks and he announced loudly to the person of his heart’s desire and anyone else who happened to be within a considerable radius how exciting it all was and hopefully it would rise to his considerable expectation and not be a damp squib!  Then, the surrounding street lights went off to darken the night and make the forthcoming pyrotechnics even more striking, to which said gent firstly made an over the top suggestive “Ooooh, it’s gone all dark!”  The darkness was quickly followed by the first salvo of fireworks, the accompanying musical soundtrack all but drown out by the ooohs and aaarghs of the strident suitor, who kept up a noisy running commentary, with lots of ooohs and aaarghs of growing intensity, loud dismissive comments, when after a few initial bright loud bangs that lit up the night sky and surrounding countryside, he sneeringly said “Well, is that it then!”  What it seems he hadn’t realised, as well as how irritating he was being, was that at occasions such as this the French pull out all the stops and displays are organised with seemingly scant regard to the cost.  This meant that having been determined that it was all going to be a short, hardly worth stopping drinking for affair, giving him a chance to get back to his own quest, he needed to become even more outrageous if only to save face.  Unfortunately, the worse he became the more his intended seemed to help him rise to the occasion (all the alcohol could have made it difficult without her help!) and the brash, dismissive and scathing comments grew more and more intrusive and irritating, to the extent that when the finale exploded into the night air, it was almost a relief that his ill-chosen words, comments and lusting would now stop.  The spontaneous and rapturous applause at least drown him out and I couldn’t help but wonder how many of the surrounding watchers and enforced listeners were applauding extra loudly with a mental picture of someone on the inside of their hands, in the hope that this might have a similar effect to a voodoo doll, and I’m sure most of us would have stoically born the pain of sticking pins in the imagined effigy!

Needless to say we didn’t hang around and made sure that we weren’t anywhere near the annoyance as we went back to the car, I’d have hated it to get ugly, which might just have spoilt his chance of worming his way into her ...... heart – I’ve always been a sucker for a happy ending!!    

And finally ..... what was it that “One can but hope?”  Quite simply that the man in question, or should that be questionable man and indeed his partner who encouraged him and played along, are tourists here on holiday and will shortly be going home.  Well after all, somewhere on the list of reasons for moving to France must have been to get away from pratish Englishmen, particularly those on holiday – but, somehow that doesn’t quite work!!

An really finally, an uncanny postscript:  This afternoon we had an invite to afternoon tea in the chateau, to find during the course of the conversation that Monsieur is in the middle of transcribing onto the computer a children’s fairytale he has written.  When I confessed to also being a writer, I proceeded to tell him the rough synopsis of what you have read above, to which he responded, near bursting with excitement, that he too, on the same day had been writing in the fairy story about Liberté, égalité, fraternité, now how strange is that!?!  Almost as strange as the conversation that ensued, dissecting the motto, deciding that it was rather dated and in real terms somewhat impossible, but as an underlying principle it probably still hits the spot.  You see our conversations cover a lot of ground and at times become quite deep and philosophical, in our quest to put the world to right!!! 

When was the last time?

(This time was Saturday 23 June 2012, but only just!!

OMG, the smell of the greasepaint, the lights, the buzz of the audience, the butterflies, the making it to the end of the song and the subsequent rush of adrenalin, were all there, well maybe not the greasepaint – little now covers the weather-beaten wrinkled face!

It wasn’t however a case of midsummer madness and since the loss of my captive audience during school assemblies the chance to “perform” with the associated buzz has been sadly lacking.  But recently, as the house has come on and particularly when the roofing has gone well or the sun has shone, I’ve found myself busting into song and revisiting my past song book!  I’ve even digitalised it, with the sole purpose of being able to enlarge the script; the eyes aren’t what they were! 

But it was just a couple of nights after midsummer’s eve, a time when across France there are scores of Fete de la Musique, showcasing local talent, be it the local music school, the Association Musical or just locals keen to do their “party piece!”  Indeed, the events are not only encouraged by the government, money is made available to sponsor such events.  On midsummer’s eve, we had attended such a fete, put on by one of several local music associations, where members of the commune are encouraged to join the choir (children’s or adults), or play an instrument as part of a group or solo, and most importantly are encouraged (warts and all) to perform as soon as they can, and despite mistakes and wrong turnings there never seems to be any ridicule, they have certainly adopted the sentiment behind that classic poem by Dorothy Law Nolte – Children Learn What They Live, the following seem to be the salient lines:

...... If children live with ridicule, They learn to be shy......

...... If children live with encouragement, They learn confidence.....

If children live with praise, They learn to appreciate......

If children live with approval, They learn to like themselves......

Increasingly during recent times when I have watched musical performers there has been that urge to be up there doing it myself, you know the frustrated rock star syndrome; well in my case folk star!  Tonight, in a small village nearby the urge peaked and towards midnight I uttered to the friends we had met up with that I wanted to sing, the shy and retiring bit of me needing help, a  push, someone to say to the organiser – “we have a friend who can do a turn!”  I needed that someone to put my name forward, but at pushing midnight after a glass or two of wine, it was a case of making sure that they knew I was serious and it wasn’t just a case of “oh I wish I was up there doing that!” and it wasn’t just the drink talking, although we had a conversation about Dutch courage!!  They did indeed think I was joking, but eventually they realised I was deadly serious and on their part perhaps it was the glass or two of wine that gave them the confidence in me – never having heard me utter a musical sound previously!!  Bravely, or they could have been thinking foolishly, they went in search of the organiser and secured me a spot, still I’m sure thinking I would back out and quickly retire!  But, the seed was sown, the adrenalin kicked in and the French introduction I had been mulling over for some time was revisited and slightly panicked about.  I suggested perhaps I needed a minder to translate my “Frenglish” should the need arise, although I have always found myself to become fairly “fluid” in French after a glass or two!!

Suddenly, it all moved very quickly and with my bi-lingual helper at my side I was on after the present turn had done his next song.  As his song finished, I was hastened across the tarmac to the stage steps, up the steps into the lights and introduced.  I muddled through my introduction about the song being from Scotland; a love song where the lady thinks the man is trying it on and has no money or indeed joie de vivre, but then discovers he is a wealthy count and so madly falls in love and gets married!, the ficklity of song and life (!).  Then it’s that first crucial note, and as an unaccompanied singer, it is a bit of a case of make or break, pitch it too high and you squeak and too low and you growl miserably.  Fortunately, the five second tuning up before once more treading the boards, had paid off and the note although perhaps not perfect, was as they say in the profession; “Close enough for folk!!!”

It was only during the second chorus that I suddenly thought that the lady in the song was called Lyndsey, the same name as the daughter of the friends we were with, who had taken that great leap of faith, or possibly stupidity, and effectively vouched for me despite never hearing me sing previously.  A strange and rather fitting coincidence!  Fortunately, there ended up with no egg on anyone’s face and all the old buzz was there and the amazing feeling when even those people at the bar had stopped their conversations and turned in amazement, astonishment or even agony at what was going on on the stage.  But, I felt I was back, I’d done it with a little help from my friends and not only did it feel good it felt right.  The buzzing went on all night it seems as I had the most restless night I can remember in a very long time!  It may have been only one song, but hopefully it will lead to many more to audiences other than; Linda, the shower nozzles and anyone who happens to be in earshot when the windows have been thrown open to let the summer sun in!! 

An earlier act had done Edith Piaf’s “Je regret rein”; moi, Je regret deux points, my latest “debut” had taken so long to happen and after so long a period of absence hadn’t been on the home turf of St Laurent de la Salle, but I suppose thinking about it I had sung at our Christmas party in Le Boutet, but rather informally without the need for lights or indeed the greasepaint and with an audience of five – hardly an auspicious re-launch of my singing “career,” but in true “the glass is half full” optimism, it could only get better as even the shower cubical has 6 nozzles!!  

And in answer to the title, I couldn’t actually remember the last time; on stage with lights and a “public” audience until I started to write this and it came back to me - February 22^nd 2008, the day before my birthday, at The Grove Folk club in Leeds, an old student haunt and incidentally the longest running same venue Folk Club in the world.  Where on an eventful week, several years previously, I had returned to revisit the past at a time when the future was due to change dramatically and to also relive past glories.  It was the week we finally made the momentous decision to move to France and were busy spilling the beans to family and friends!  How strange is that!

A couple of Roger’s short ramblings!

Some prat just phoned!

Must just tell you this one, but first a little background.  Good friends of ours, who may well read this but will remain anonymous to all but those who know them – it will be obvious!

They used to own a rainforest, but facing outrage, fury and indignation they have cut it down, lock, stock and barrel or should that be; trunk, Tarzan and chip!  What’s more much of it, shock horror, has gone or is destined for a local charity so no chance of the “phoenix rising from the ashes!”  I should explain that this rainforest was a small part of a small Gloucestershire town, in which our friends had created said rainforest in their sitting room!!  It almost defies description and it is some time since I have sat on the tiger skin throw on the settee clutching a drink in one hand and a furry gorilla in the other, having been known to have long meaningful, late night discussions with this dark beast with even darker knowing eyes!  But, for those not fortunate enough to go jungle trekking, I’ll attempt to give you just a flavour of this iconic room!

Not a huge room but filled to overflowing with anything jungly, be it ornaments arranged on any and every surface or hanging from the camouflage net that hung covered in felt leaves billowing from the ceiling – blow up snakes, wooden animals, soft toy animals, pictures, plastic nicks and nacks “carrying on the theme” or simply gaudy, plants (real or otherwise), animal skin rugs, an eclectic mix of furniture – ethnic, colonial, animal themed, gaudy and certainly not beige and functional!!  You might be beginning to build a picture, but exaggerate it a lot and you’ll be on the way!  The whole of the end wall contained a specially commissioned jungle scene with ruined buildings, trees, creepers and all things atmospheric. Then opposite this was originally a window and later opened onto a conservatory, which you might by now have realised, was certainly not conservative, the jungle creeping into it!  In the corner, one side of the opening into the conservatory was a curved and relatively gaudy bar, the top of which under the counter had a glass fronted illuminated display cabinet full of items that continued the theme, all looked over by a life size Tarzan painted into a scene on the wall behind the bar.

Every other bit of wall space was covered with a multitude of pictures and artefacts all “in keeping” with the general theme and the diverse, miscellaneous, zany totality of this room of pure escapism.  I still feel I might not be doing this extravagant work of pop art due justice!  Suffice to say, I remember the first time I visited, and although having been pre-warned, I walked in and was quite simply blown away and amazingly for me momentarily lost for words!!  It was that arresting, impressive, eye-catching, striking and stunning – thank you thesaurus!

However, you might wonder why I’m briefly (!) telling you all this, well it’s to set the scene!  Having been told by mutual friends that the jungle had been deforested, and once more been rendered momentarily speechless, I decided that the only course open to me was direct action!  Putting on my best “early evening canvasser” voice, I phoned the perpetrators of this dastardly, environmental disaster and simply asked “What are your views on the cutting down of the rainforest?”  Fortunately, phoning from France comes up as an international call and has more than once made people a little suspicious, thinking call centres in India no doubt, so my cunning disguise worked a treat.  However, I wasn’t expecting the next chain of events, when my friend obviously taken in hook line and sinker, quite rudely (a man after my own heart when it comes to evening telephone canvassers!!) said: “I thinks it’s a great idea and should be done more often!!  He then put down the phone on me before I got the chance to come clean!!

I phoned him straight back and to avoid a further tirade of his unenvironmental rantings, said quickly as soon as he picked up the phone – “Hello, it’s Roger!”  To which he replied, in all seriousness, “Thank goodness for that, I’ve just had some prat on the phone talking about deforestation and I gave him short shift about how I think it’s a great idea and how they should do more of it  and I can’t stand it when these pompous do-gooders phone up in the evening and pontificate about this, that and the other ............,” and after several minutes of unevironmental and probably non-PC rantings, with me trying to get in I finally did manage to say “That prat was me!!”   It rather took the wind out of his sails and his wife chuckled loudly in the background.

But, alas I then found out it was indeed true the jungle was gone, the house about to be sold, but was relieved to learn that the next house somewhere nearby would not just be any old house it had to feel right – I’ll just watch this space!!  Perhaps, as they’ve vowed never to set foot in France again after a somewhat eventful holiday, might I suggest a French boudoir theme; I could then visit and have a late night meaningful conversation with a French ...............

Poodle!?!, and then maybe a French bistro for the kitchen, where I could enjoy becoming acquainted with a French tart or two!!  

And whilst on matters French .......

Missed opportunity 

I recently read this in a book and couldn’t help but feel it was a little surprising that the French weren’t making a little more of this during the current Euro crisis and as entente hasn’t recently perhaps been as cordiale as normal!

In pre-Revolution France and originating from Roman times, livres and sols were coins in common usage and with the smallest coin then being a denarius, from which comes our pre-decimal “l  s d,” pounds (£), shillings and pence, rather than a hallucinatory substance!!

As if that isn’t enough of an affront!, when the Normans came to England, they used their own coinage marked with a star.  The Norman French for star was “esterlin” which in turn became the origin of Sterling!  That’s another in the eye for Harold!! 

Full Circle                                                     

Ever since we arrived in France to live, now although hard to believe, over three years ago we have been aware of strange nocturnal “goings on,” and although maybe the French are right up there with the Italians in the amorous stakes, that’s not what I’m talking about!

The first occurrence happened shortly after we moved into are first house, converted farm worker’s cottages just over the entrance drive to the chateau, which we always joked was in our back garden as we could see it from the rear windows!), from where the home farm had been.  This farm had some years previously fallen into disrepair and been demolished and a small lake dug on its site.  It was in the murky waters of this spring-fed lake that the first “goings on” occurred!  Despite being only late spring,  the evenings and nights were warm for the time of year and so our shuttered window remained open all night, and incidentally as the weather that year was generally exceptional stayed thus until into October, which meant that we could hear the night sounds all around.  The nightingale might have sung in Berkeley Square, but it also sang outside our window sometimes dueting with a beautiful barn owl that was for a time a regular visitor to the roof of the wonderful curved Victorian cast iron greenhouse, sadly then somewhat neglected, but sitting at the back of the house, like an upturned boat.  But, there were times when the gentle avian singing of these two glorious birds was totally upstaged by the frenzied quacking of a number of seemingly rampant ducks, well it was spring, the sap was rising and “frogs” are well ...... amorous. You only have to walk down the street of any self respecting small town and there sitting provocatively beside the boulangerie, boucherie, office postale and the coiffure will be what could at first glance be a “naughty knickers” shop along the line of Ann Summers, and you all thought that there was going to be a “lady of the night” sitting outside these shops, I’m beginning to read you all like a book!!  It’s only on closer inspection, so I’m told, being far to prudish to look closely at the rather skimpy, lacy and racy coloured pieces of satin or silk, that would barely cover the top of a jam jar, to keep the flies off (we’re currently plagued by the b-----s!, hence the analogy!), to notice the rather plain functional garments, Bridget Jones style for her and Y-fronts for him, tucked away in the bottom corner to add a little sobriety to the otherwise rather erotic, at times tucked into the bottom, display!  But, as I said you’ll have to take other peoples’ word for it as I couldn’t possibly vouch for all that detail!!

Now, where was I before I got carried away (another quick aside here as “her indoors” thinks I might be at any moment, by men in white coats!!), ah yes the nocturnal quacking of the ducks!  And here in lay a mystery as said featured creatures of the canard variety, so obvious and up front during the hours of darkness, were nowhere to be seen during the day!  We’re not here talking about a couple of breeding pairs who each morning at sunrise decided to do a bit of sightseeing around the very many neighbouring lakes and ponds, no from those frenzied squawks of seemingly unbridled passion, there must have been hundred of them.  First, I thought that perhaps they were a French nocturnal breed, then that perhaps they had read the guidance for the local chasse (hunt) that only allows for shooting during the hours of daylight, but then remembered that it hadn’t been the hunting season for some time and surely by now some of the wariness would have worn off and the more cocky birds started to come out to play during the day!

Then, to add to the mystery the frenzied quacking started to happen during the day, all around the lake, but without the ducks!!  So I started to think that these here French ducks are rather canny and have perfected, in the face of adversary, the art of being the antipathy of Victorian children – heard but not seen!!!  Well, I suppose I didn’t really, it just makes for a good line!  It was however then, on closer inspection that quite literally the bubble burst and we discovered that the loud quacking was indeed frogs croaking, obviously with a French accent!!  I should at this point pick up on those of you who were worried about my use of the word “frogs” above, and were deriding me for daring to sit deep in the French countryside and refer to my friendly neighbours in such derogatory terms, it was simply there to hint at what might have been to come, and just maybe some of you might have got there before we did!!

Other strange, but eventually explained, “goings on” over the intervening years I will briefly fill you in on, before our latest, most up to date, conundrum is unfurled!  First, there were the ruthless whines, late at night in the middle of a nearby wood, droning on well into the wee small hours and sufficient, had the moment now not passed for our amorous amphibious neighbours, to have drown them out!!  We were later to discover it was a night meet of the nearby scrambling club on their “barely floodlit” track!  Another night, strange thunderous thumpings were accompanied by bright lights scoring the sky like wartime searchlights and went on deep into the night.  Again centred it seemed in the middle of nowhere, which we then placed as Le Village, a large nightclub, quite simply in the middle of nowhere, which therefore has to bus its clientele in from all over Le Vendée and beyond.  Normally, we hear nothing although the sweeping lights are often evident, but it was an exceptionally warm night so just perhaps the well sound-proofed doors had been opened to preserve the clientele!!

On another occasion towards the end of the summer, a night time walk would be accompanied by loud buzzing and if you looked towards the still light night sky, it would seem that the SAS were mounting a full scale attack of our little bit of the Vendée, and occasionally it seemed like you had been shot as you were hit hard by a flying something, so hard in fact as to cause a friend’s daughter to               fall off her bike, more I feel through shock that physical force!  But, on closer examination it turned out to be the flight of the giant staghorn beetles, huge fearsome looking creatures with terrifying, but harmless to humans, pincer like claws extending at times by up to half the creatures body length.

Then, despite mentioning above that the strange nocturnal goings on would be explained, the next mystery, incidentally diurnal as well as nocturnal cannot really be explained.  Just occasionally in our lonely spot we would clearly hear voices over the wall, indeed once our delightful landlord, the owner of the chateau heard them when sitting outside with us having a cup of tea.  He was incensed that there were people in the chateau grounds without permission and stormed off to confront them, only to find as we had previously, not a sole in sight!  Puzzled he returned to finish his tea and we told him this was not the first time that this had happened much to his astonishment!  We then reminded him of a conversation we had had when we first met him and he told us that he spent most of his time in Spain.  We had asked if anyone lived in the chateau or nearby stable block, wondering if perhaps there was a resident housekeeper or caretaker, to which the response was no, if you hear anyone it will be the ghosts of my ancestors – so well ...... I suppose that one is also explained!

The final conundrum has happened more recently, since we have moved on and into our nearby new abode.  For a number of nights we had been hearing a strange bird call from the conifer tree in our neighbour’s garden just opposite our bedroom window.  We had put it down originally to a strange owl variety, but admittedly unlike any we had heard previously, but there remained a nagging feeling that it was something else!  After several weeks of this strange call, which I decided was like an old windup toy that had been left in the toy box and suddenly for no apparent reason sprang harshly and loudly into life!  Then, remembering the frogs, those with the edible legs before you ask, I started to think that perhaps the call wasn’t a bird at all, but rather an amorous toad (hence the loudness and harshness!) in a damp spot under the aforementioned nearby evergreen.  But, I’ve got to say I wasn’t convinced!

Several days later, I was sorting through a pile of cuttings that needed filing and came across an article about a nightjar and thought wouldn’t it be funny if they described the bird’s call as like an old windup toy ........ Sadly, it didn’t calling it instead a “drawn out churring” sound that can be heard up to half a mile away!  Interesting it said the evening’s musical entertainment might start with the male “coo-ick”ing a sound not dissimilar to a frog!, before finding a perch for an indeterminate bout of “churring,” audibly clapping its wings above its body as it goes.  It seemed the problem had been solved as all the components were there!  However, to be sure the internet came to my rescue in the form of the RSPB website, with a convenient “press here to listen to a nightjar” button.  Suddenly the room was filled with the very same sound that had been coming in through our bedroom window during the preceding weeks.  The conundrum was indeed solved and just to confirm it a few evening later sitting outside in the twilight we caught “a glimpse of the enigmatic nightjar” with its distinctive flight pattern – “hovering, fluttering and swift sorties” as described in the article.

And, really finally should you need the information for that vital quiz question at the next quiz night down at the local – it’s also known as a whip-poor-will, nighthawk and goat sucker as erroneous it was thought to use its wide mouth to suck milk from goats.  Actually, the mouth is used like a sweep net for catching the insects on which it feeds, flying slowly with its mouth gaping wide open.  And for the bonus point, it’s called an engoulevent in French, which rather fetchingly translates as “ghoul in the wind!” and that must be worth $64,000!!  So things that go bump in the night are not always what they seem!!      

Bad Call

La Rochelle is probably the most cosmopolitan and upmarket seaside town within striking distance of our house and during the summer much of Paris shifts there for the season and indeed on one memorable autumn Saturday, it was invaded by hoards of Cherry and White (Gloucester Rugby Club) supporters, in town for a game against La Rochelle – but that’s another story that has been told elsewhere!  But back to the summer exodus from the French capital, which is reflected in the many chic boutiques and upmarket shops that out of season either close down or are largely devoid of customers, with their glamorous or handsome “designer” assistants draped wearily over the counter awaiting the sunshine, whilst manicuring their nails – men and women alike!

That said, we like nothing more than to stroll around its ancient streets, particularly early or late in the season when the weather is fair and the crowds have largely gone, admiring the architecture particularly the streets of old merchants houses, fronted by arched walkways which are great, during the summer, as retreats from the blazing sunshine.  And indeed there is a certain buzz all year round at the weekends, particularly Sunday when the French like to luncheon out.

Then there are the harbours, starting in the first basin where there are the tourist boats that ply their trade between some of the nearby islands, ferry people to the other side of the river, take trips around the inlet or further afield to circumnavigate a Martello type tower built out in the sea to previously defend the harbours of Île d’Aix and Rochefort, but now owned by France 2, a French TV channel.  It is called Fort Boyard, which is also apparently the name of a popular TV game show, similar I’m told to The Crystal Maze.  Some of you with satellite / cable TV may be familiar with the show, which has a UK spin off? (Once more thank you Wikipedia!).  This tidal harbour is also home to smaller yachts and motor launches, which seem in many cases to be actually used, I guess largely as day boats to potter up and down the immediate coastline!  The next harbour, with the water held back by lock gates as the tide falls, is more upmarket with medium sized but highly priced ocean going vessels, which sometimes do, but seem often to be nothing more than a status symbol and a handy place to entertain and impress one’s friends with sleeping accommodation right in the heart of town!

After this you pass through a recent development of weather boarded, Scandinavian-style terraced chalets, painted pastel colours and containing shops, restaurants, bars, hotels, accommodation and the tourist office, beyond which is the Maritime museum and the “big boys!” a mixture of corporate yachts, yachts owned by foundations such as one aimed at giving underprivileged youngsters an experience of a lifetime and those owned by people where money means nothing and a crew are always on standby to sail wherever is required, some I guess being capable of going just about anywhere in the world!

Well, that’s the bit of La Rochelle we know, as well as the market area – daily markets in the old market hall that spill out into the surrounding streets, but to visit them means an early start as they are all over by lunchtime! 

It was on one of our leisurely strolls, with friends after a leisurely lunch in our “favourite of the moment” harbour side restaurant that we came across a line of boats for sale, lined up on the water much like second hand cars are lined up on a garage forecourt. I like to look, but it never ceases to amaze me just how expensive boats are and that’s before the annual maintenance and anchorage charges – certainly it would take many nights in a nearby luxury hotel, with en suite and king-size bed that doesn’t pitch and toss, well not involuntarily!, to come up to the price of even the more modest of vessels.  It was however, then that I espied a small fast looking speed boat at the end of the line.  It had seen better days, and was certainly in need of much tender loving care, but once I spotted the name the neglect and lack of a willing purchaser was explained.  I felt it was rather a bad call to name the boat “Tsunami” and it’s unlucky to rename a boat, so with events in the Pacific a few years before and in the wake of a terrible storm that just the previous winter had wreaked havoc and great loss of life along the nearby coast, prospects of a quick sale seemed remote!     

I suppose it would be a little like bringing out a new Porsche called a Porsche Carnage, which my friend reliably informed me is actually in full production – only I haven’t been able to track it down on the web!  I was only gullible enough to think it unlikely but still checked it out!!

However, my research did encounter some interesting worldwide products with unfortunate names:

·       “Pee Cola” drink and “Shitto” hot pepper sauce from Ghana

·       “Ayds” diets candy from the 1980’s

·       A Greek soft drink called “Zit,” and

·       “Swine” chocolate and “Pansy” men’s underwear from China,

And these were only the ones suitable to mention!

R4JCV

No not a new personalised number plate – Roger for Junior Councillor Vendee, but rather an acronym for a fantastic walking festival held recently at nearby Chantonnay.  It actually stands for Randonnee 4 Jours en Chantonnay Vendee, or Walking 4 Days in Chantonnay Vendee and is an international walking event under the IML or International Marching League banner and is indeed the sole French event in an annual calendar of 25 similar events all over the world from Japan to Chantonnay, in two regions – Europe and the Pan Pacific.

First a little bit about the IML, (but for a full history type IML into your search engine) an organisation some of you may be familiar with.  It was set up in 1987 in Tokyo, Japan by representatives from Austria, Belgium, Denmark, Ireland, Japan, GD Luxembourg, The Netherlands and Switzerland and now has 24 members including the UK (represented by Wellingborough).  Its aim is to encourage friendship between people of the world by organising international, non-competitive walking events.  The IML has a complex and thorough system of individual awards (Certificates, medals etc), that participants are able to purchase, that take into account the number of events carried out by a person in the various member countries.  Their motto is “Nos Iungat Ambulare” which means in English “May Walking Bring Us Together,” A sentiment I am sure most would agree with?  They also have an IML song that echoes this sentiment:

The International March (Hello, My Friend)

Hello, my friend, we meet again today.
Coming together from places far away,
To share a walk, and build a friendship true,
And make this a better world for me and you.

We come from many places,
But here our hearts are one.
The further that we walk,
Then the more we're having fun.

So come with me, and we'll see something new,
As we tell a walking tale or two.
When we are here and when we're back at home,
Our friendship is strong where ever we may roam.

But, why am I telling you this?  Well, a few months ago I was browsing the “What’s On in the Vendée” website, a really good English language website that does as the title says, and came across a request for English speakers to help at said walking festival, with the rider that it was not necessary to have a good command of French.  So an ideal opportunity for me to return to the volunteering fraternity, just down the road, and with dates fortunately not coinciding with any visitors.  So, I quickly send off an email volunteering my services, got a phone call some days later explaining briefly what is involved, signing me up with the promise of contact nearer the time and a get together just prior to the event to go through practicalities.

Two weeks before the event I’m invited to a brief meeting at a large communal hall, Salle des Congrès, in Chantonnay - the event nerve centre, together with the Parc Clemenceau next door, during the four walking days and the couple of days before for registration.  With upwards of 3000 walk days it’s a big organisation and promised to be very hectic at times. But as this was “The 13^th Edition” the organisation was not only impressive but well honed.  The meeting was very brief, but ended up with me signing up for duty for parts of four days and 2 further whole days, for which I would receive a free bright yellow tee shirt and a plentiful supply of refreshments including lunch on the full days and large quantities of “Easter” chocolate, obviously old stock donated from the various shops in the locality and a plentiful supply of drinks – coffee, but usually something stronger!  I was also entitled to one free walk on which again refreshments were plentiful and a filled baguette, apple and glass of wine were presented on arrival back in the park.  Then to come in a few weeks time is a walk and dinner the invite of which is headed “OBJET: REMERCIEMENTS AUX BÉNÉVOLES” (Thank you to volunteers) to which Linda is also invited.

But, first back to Day 1 (Tuesday), when there was a two hour evening session for registration, to beat the crowds on either the following day or on the mornings of each walk.  Each day there were four walks of about 12, 21, 28 or 42 km, along a linear route with participants bussed out to the start and following well signed and marshalled routes back into town, but more of these later.  Arriving for my first duty, looking bright if only dint of my new bright yellow tee shirt, I was presented with my official badge hanging on a bright yellow lanyard and it’s here I feel a joke coming on!!  “What do you call an Englishman with a very limited command of the French language?” Answer: An Interpreter!! And yes I still have the badge to prove it – HIGGS ROGER INTERPRETE!  At this point I suggested to Nigel, the person who had enlisted me and who incidentally speaks fluent French, Dutch, German and a smattering of other things as well as English, that I was not only feeling a fraud but had also perhaps been recruited under false pretences!!  He however assured me that it was just a title and I would be fine as much of our “work” involved directing people to the loo, the tourist office, the correct registration desk and the like!  This indeed proved to be the case and over the following days there was much standing around chatting, during which Nigel and I discovered we had amazingly been to the same school, as had his 5 brothers (he tends to tell people that he has 3 twin brothers and two brothers who each have four twin brothers – work that one out!!) at least one of whom was a contemporary of mine and another a contemporary of my brother!  There was also a good amount of people watching as people from quite literally all over the world, in all shapes and sizes registered for the various walks, needing to walk at least 20 km on each of the 4 days for it to quality as IML participation.  Participants included several people who qualified for their 75 walk event medal and one man who had just completed 225 walk events, not only a huge commitment physically but also financially.  The highest medal currently available is for 600 events and with only about 23 / 24 events possible yearly (sometimes dates clash!) that will take something like 25 years to achieve and cost a huge amount of money, and you even have to buy your own medals the 600 event one costing in excess of £25!

Perhaps, the funniest experience was on the first evening when an elderly Japanese couple arrived, needed help with their registration and were directed to us.  They spoke good English, but so grateful were they for the help that every sentence was liberally punctuated with a short bow, when I came home I told Linda I hadn’t done a lot, but still had a cricked neck as the nodded bows were catching and they kept coming back to find out more information!!  Even on the following day despite already being registered and having received their bar coded “Rando-Pass” which was scanned before, during and after each walk to ensure everyone was safe and accounted for – I did say it was well organised!, they came back for more bowing, oh and information!

The other surprising thing was how the French speakers on the registration desks panicked, not only when people didn’t speak French but also if they spoke French with a slight accent and the interpreters were urgently summoned with much shouting, arm waving and occasionally physically grabbed and pulled to the desk!!   So it transpired that I wasn’t only there for the English speakers, but the Japanese, Dutch, German, American, Belgian et al, most of whom fortunately spoke English and somehow my basic mispronounced French passed muster with the registration desks – it must have been the cool calm outward appearance, but like a swan I was paddling madly under the water!!

I decided to sign up for two walks, a nocturne (night walk) on the Friday evening (14 km)  and a short walk (13 km) on the Sunday morning allowing me to be back in time for the afternoon events, purchasing of awards, presentations, food and drink and more drink – I had to pace myself as I was driving!!  A short piece about these two walks and the walks in general will reinforce the immense and thorough organisation that goes into this event.  In total there are over 300 bénévoles (volunteers) carrying out various jobs; registration, marshalling, check points, refreshments, interpreters(!), announcers etc etc, the list is long!  There are also 4 teams responsible for the 4 days of walks and possibly another for the night walk.  It is their responsibility to plan the route, in conjunction with landowners where the route is over private land, making sure there are suitable areas for checkpoints / dropping off points.  They also make sure the routes are passable, cutting grass, overhanging trees, gaps in hedgerows and the like, as well as waymarking the route, indicating where it crosses private land and putting up warning signs for motorists where the route crosses roads and then ......  collecting them up again.  In addition on the night walk every road crossing and turn had a marshall and where on a road a car either side with a flashing orange light to warn and slow down passing motorists.  There was also a troupe of hunting horns to set the walk off, and they also popped up in a couple of places on route and at the refreshment stop, on the lawn behind a chateau there was a son et lumière and a company of actors acting out an historical pageant.  Other places on route included a small dry stone built “maisonette” consisting of two small low rooms, used as a small agricultural dwelling  - this was open to walkers with someone giving information, an interpretation board and a candle burning inside, and other buildings were illuminated to add to the fun.  I walked with a charming Belgian couple, who I had interpreted for earlier in the week!, the man spoke perfect English and wanted to practise and it was only half way around the walk I realised he was conversing in French with his wife, but it was French with a Flemish accent which was why my services were needed at registration!  We arrived back at about midnight to a “party in the park” and sat eating a supper of Vendée ham and mogettes (delicious local beans) which my new Belgian friends thoroughly enjoyed but were a little concerned about what effect they might have – they were staying in their camper van!!, listening to an accordion band filling the warm night air with music.

The walk on Sunday morning followed a very wet Saturday, making some parts a little muddy, but fortunately stayed dry until I returned with a fellow interpreter, a recently retired secondary Maths teacher and deputy head from a school in the Midlands, now living close by and accompanied by two Dutch friends he had made in the village.  Just to make me feel worst he speaks fluent French, Polish (useful for talking to the IML guest of honour from the Czech Republic, Czech being similar to Polish in the spoken form!) as well as English, although I have promised those I worked most closely with that next year I’ll speak more French!!  This walk was to the west of Chantonnay, the other three days being south, north and east, and covered some beautiful scenery, much of it similar to the Cotswold area of England, of which I am very familiar, and was clearly marked and most enjoyable.  The food on our return was tasty and then a short time afterwards, as I was staying for the day I received my meal and drink ticket, although lunch came with a glass of wine and aperitif if required, the drink ticket being for a further drink at the bar later!!  Sadly, the rain came back during the afternoon but did little to dampen everyone’s enthusiasm as we waited for the last walkers to return looking rather bemused by all the razzmatazz.  The finishing post was lined by a loud marching band and dancing girls who had been deafening us to such an extent that we thought next year the entertainment group should book a mime artist, and a large group of volunteers had met the stragglers out in the street with flags from all the participating nations – so much for slipping in unnoticed at the end, but it is all not competitive!

Everyone safely back and it was time for the presentations; the youngest walker (3), the oldest walker (83 from Japan – more bowing!), medals for various numbers of events completed 75 or over being presented on the podium and a special award for a local who had hoped to get to 75 on home turf at Chantonnay, but had met with an accident at the last event and ended up with a broken arm and possibly leg making it impossible to take part here!!  He took it all in great spirit and with much cheering and applause from his many friends and I’m sure he’ll be back to walk another day and get his medal!  Then after a number of speeches and thanks to all involved, there was a volunteer team photo and it was all hands to the clearing up.  We helped for a bit and were about to leave, our official stint over, when we were told there was a last thank you drink in the marquee and we couldn’t go without it, but could we please move a few more crash barriers first!!  In true French fashion we finished the clearing up and stood around for some time waiting, before a quick further speech of thanks from the Association President and we were served green cabbage (le chou vert) and Port, together with some more nibbles to soak it all up!  I should explain, the chou vert is a toxic looking bright fluorescent green drink, made we were instructed at great length out of; alcohol, white wine, orange juice, passion fruit, water and a green liqueur called curaçao.  There was a danger that we might have ended up being rather late as it is one of those things that different people have different recipes for, but we were spared the comparing of notes as the first informer was adamant that his was the definitive recipe and would listen to none other!  Contrary to the somewhat noxious look about it, it tasted better than it looked!!  The port was from one of the volunteers who was celebrating her birthday and it would have been uncharitable to have refused!!                  

It seems that once in, unless you seriously blot your copy book you become part of the volunteer group, as when we left our ears rang to many au revoirs, à bientots, bonsoirs and more importantly à prochaine année (until next year!) assuming that you’ll be there, but it was a great week and I certainly intend to be there and maybe my French will be more respectable and people won’t have the impression they might have got this year; that I’m the strong silent type!!