Missive 34 ~ Reality, the end of the beginning!!

29^th November 2011

Dear All

Sorry, but attached is the longest missive to date - Missive 34, please don’t be put off by the size, as it’s in easy sections!!

Basically, there are things that needed saying and with changes afoot after the next couple of missives (watch this space!), I need to get it in now!

However at 7794 words, the website I’ve just been looking at will tell you it just nudges over the 7500 word upper limit for a short story, thus making it the length of a very short novelette the upper limit of which is 20000!!!

Love

Roger 

rogerhiggs@hotmail.co.uk

Mes chers amis

Reality, the end of the beginning!! ~ Missive 34

 “Reality leaves a lot to the imagination.”

John Lennon

“One person’s craziness is another person’s reality.”

Tim Burton

“Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.”
Søren Kierkegaard

It's short sighted not to view the education of a future generation of Americans

as a priority for all Americans.
Mel Martinez

This missive includes the end of the beginning, if that’s not a contradiction of terms, but in this case the last chapter from the first section before we set off on our “voyage dans l'inconnu” or “voyage into the unknown.”  But as you’ll see in the section below “Not PC for FC!” we’re a long way along the voyage now!

However, as the last quote doesn’t seem to fit in, and apologies it’s from across the pond but equally apt, I should explain.  As many of you will know, Gloucestershire County Council in their wisdom; well with narrow minded, short sighted, money grabbing, ill thought through, short term, intentions if not indeed rank stupidity with a total disregard for the wonderful work that has been done before and could have been successfully and memorably continued for generations to come, have closed The Wilderness and Plump Hill Outdoor Education Centres.  Sorry it’s a bit of a rant but once these places go they won’t return, like public libraries, and the crux of it is the world will be a worst place without them.

This missive is therefore dedicated to this tragic loss, although there does remain a glimmer of hope that the Friends of the Wilderness Centre (www.friendsofthewildernesscentre.org) may stop the disaster.  But in dedication to this wonderful place, I reproduce below part of the dedication and introduction of another project I am working on, that for me, brings back the magic of this amazing place, that has over the years given countless children incredible experiences, that may well be lost to generations to come – shame on the present County Council and let’s hope that the perpetrators are soon left wandering in the political wilderness.

To Gino

for

listening and ...

asking the question

 You may wonder who Gino is, and hopefully if he were to read this now; firstly he would recognise himself and remember the occasion  and secondly, as he’ll now be grown up, he’ll forgive the slight deception, but read on and “All will be revealed” as they say!!

“On the second evening, (of our storytelling residential at The Wilderness) there were more stories to tell and we were asked if we would like to use the Anglo Saxon house, where we could light a fire and try to keep warm – I forgot to mention that the trip was during a particularly cold and frosty February, with night time temperatures plummeting well below freezing.  But, the thought of sitting in an Anglo Saxon house, warmed at least on the front, with the flames of the fire casting eerie shadows amongst the rafters was too good an opportunity to miss, at least for a short while, before returning for a warming cup of cocoa and bed!

 Gino’s Night

At the appointed hour, well wrapped up against the piercing cold, we took our torches and ventured out into the night.  The moon was full, and being still low in the sky seemed magnified and cast an almost warming light, had it not been so perishingly cold!  The sky was completely clear of clouds, but as the moon was yet to reach its brightest, there were quite a multitude of stars twinkling in the cold night air, just visible through our own clouds caused by the animated party breathing out and chattering excitedly.

The route took us through a dark piece of woodland, down a short track, which had the ground not been turned to iron by the deep frost, would have been quite muddy, through a wooden gate and onto the field in which the wooden house had been built and now, despite the dark, stood out sharply in the moonlight as well as being silhouetted by the distant lights of Gloucester town.  The true majesty of the scene unveiled itself as we crossed the field; as the moon hung low in the sky above the silvery line of the far off river, etched along its length by the moonlight, which underneath the moon turned the river into a golden pathway – who needed an Anglo Saxon house, with the flames of the fire causing shadows to dance magically around the rafters, surely the scene before us was inspiration enough, but it was mighty cold and the thought of at least a little warmth from the promised fire was too much to resist and had us fumbling, with the all too modern key to unlock the heavy wooden door.

Inside, was some respite from the cold, as it at least stops a gentle breeze, that you almost didn’t realise was there until being sheltered from it made you realise that icy fingers were no longer creeping into any tiny chink in your cold weather armour!  The Centre staff had left a fire made up in the central hearth, ready for a match to hopefully make it spring into life, the paper ignite the kindling and kindling catch the bigger sticks and logs from which the warmth would, with a bit of luck, emanate.  Despite my cynicism, quite quickly we had a reasonable blaze and even a little warmth, or was it simply that the mind being a powerful thing, equates flames with heat!!  Sorry more cynicism, but actually the springing of the fire to life, magically transformed the interior of the house we now sat in and I for one was transported back in time!!  Having not been in the house before it was interesting to use the firelight and torches to look around and discover what seemed to be a very faithful reproduction of an Anglo Saxon dwelling, complete with; primitive furniture, cooking pots and utensils and a sleeping platform above where no doubt the families animals would have slept, perhaps adding a little warmth as well as an odour or two!!  Now animals of a different kind inhabited the space and most of them seemed to appreciate at least something of the magic of the place – certainly a stark contrast to warm cosy homes that seemed a million miles, as well as nearly a thousand years away, but in reality, which almost seemed to have been suspended, were only a few miles and less than an hour over the river!

Some of magic rubbed of and having viewed our surrounding, one or two stories from our visit’s work were shared, the atmosphere of the place adding a certain something to even the humblest of offering and the flickering flames helping to add expression and animation to the plainest of faces.  A good time was being had by all , and then the bubble burst, when some bright spark, one of the animals (sorry children) not something from the fire, found a small piece of raw wool lying abandoned from the weaving that a previous group visiting the house had done, and wondered if it would burn!! You might think that said miscreant was Gino, but not so!  He might similarly know who he is and at this particular point was far from popular, as we discovered that wool does indeed burn and produces the most foul smelling thick acrid smoke that despite efforts to remove it from the fire or at least remove the choking smoke, by opening the door, proved unsuccessful and we were forced to abandon the relative warmth of the house and sit instead on the logs outside, bathed now in brighter but no warmer moonlight taking in once again the splendour of the crystal clear and sparkling night hoping that given a short time the air in the house might clear enough for us to return.  As it was taking its time and indeed so awful was the stench that an early return seemed unlikely; so enjoying the spinning of a good yard myself and certainly inspired by the location, I quietly asked the assembled crowd who had now almost stopped haranguing the wool burner, whether they would like me to tell a story, to which there was general agreement, as my assembly stories usually met with approval.

Having made the offer, I had to think quickly; a story I already knew sprang to mind, but there was a danger that I may have told it them before and so interest might be lost or the story wouldn’t reflect the splendour of our surrounding (would “How the leopard got its spots” or “Three Billy Goats Gruff” work sitting outside on a freezing cold February night?) or should it be a new one, premiered on this night inspired by the surroundings.  Due to the storytelling theme for the visit, it really had to be the latter, so I launched into a story at the time with no idea where the journey would take me, and in nautical terms, well I had launched into the story, sailing very close to the wind! 

To buy myself a little time to think, I started to tell the children about the previous Anglo Saxon inhabitants of the house, made up names and talked about how they lived a simple life, that was until a handsome prince happened by and became transfixed by the beauty of daughter of the house and in an instance vowed to marry her – you know the sort of thing, and had by now the children not become huddled and enthralled, it might there and then ended happily ever after.  But no, there needed to be more and the daughter, bolshie by nature, was having none of this being taken out of simple, poor life to live in some posh guys jewel encrusted palace, with servants at her beck and call!  Well, it called for a journey, a quest, to incur various hardships and danger to bring back some small token, to prove to the beautiful peasant girl that he truly loved her and it wasn’t just some short-lived whim!!

The story wove its way through many a traditional storyline, the journey involving the meeting of various people who bestowed various gifts on the Prince, not immediately useful, but surprisingly useful when later he faced some adversary and needed a quick fix, again I’m sure you know the sort of thing – a phial of liquid smashed to the ground that becomes a raging torrent of water washing away everything and certainly any pursuer, far far away.

The upshot was that he did prove his love and after a sumptuous, but rather truncated wedding ceremony, the couple did live happily ever after.  Why, I hear you ask did the prince stint on the wedding celebrations?  Well, suddenly that nip in the air I mentioned earlier found its way through a chink and I suddenly realised that the log I was sitting on had mysteriously turned to ice – but that’s another story.  The children, including a couple who had been lulled off to sleep, were although still thoroughly engrossed and proving to totally belie the description of the class as “a lively bunch!” were in fact beginning to turn blue and in desperate need of a warming cup of cocoa and a cosy bed.  A quick look at my watch told me that the journey we had just been on together had gone on for the best part of an hour – not surprising that I couldn’t feel my feet, and other parts of my anatomy as we cajoled the weary children back to the Centre, reality and warmth!

You might be forgiven for thinking that the piercing cold had numbed the children into submission and had it not been for a conversation I had with one of the children who had sat very close to me, mesmerised by the intricacies of the story, as we made our way back across the field, trying to force some life back into our frozen limbs, I might have thought the same:

 The conversation went something like this:

“Mister ‘iggs?”

“Yes Gino?”

“How did you remember all that long story?”

I was just about to say “Well actually I made the whole thing up as I went along!” when, in the moonlight I saw Gino’s face looking up at me, and just managed to stop myself from spoiling the moment and with just a touch of deception said:

 “Years of practice Gino!”

To which he replied, with a certain amount of wonderment:

“Oh!”

Now you know and at the time he was none the wiser!!  And once again, sorry Gino!

February 2010

 I also have a lot to thank them for, as without overcoming my worried, nay fears, about enclosed spaces and heights, whilst caving and abseiling with The Wilderness Centre – really a combination of great friendly encouraging instructors and feeling that I couldn’t ask the children to do something I wasn’t prepared to do myself has meant that I could, albeit with the odd nightmare, clear out and put new insulation in our tiny loft space, as graphically portrayed in an earlier missive and now I’m spending lots of time up a ladder and up on the roof, but more of that later!!  

Reality! ~ Chapter 5

The last chapter, Winding Down, you may remember didn’t quite get to the end.  There was one final afternoon to get through before it really was “reality” and whatever emotions that might bring!

Traditionally, the end of the Christmas Term was an afternoon of festive fun, with carols, Christmas songs and poems and readings, to which parents and friends were invited and was another thing to organise on my “to do” list.  The staff were always great, at this incredibly busy time, at getting the children to practise the songs, but I traditionally sorted out the programme, readers, seating etc etc.  But this year it had been more difficult, not so much because of everything else that was going on, but it was really difficult to pin everyone down to what they were doing, what songs were being offered and the like, so I could draw up the programme – but with a little badgering I just managed to get it together at the eleventh hour, and so we were all in the hall – the children, the staff and a good number of parents and friends, everything was organised and I started my final event, playing a not particularly seasonal song , a poem called “The Roads Go Down” by Gloucestershire poet Frank Mansell and set to music by Johnny Coppin an amazing singer-songwriter from Gloucestershire.  Why this song, well it was the song I had first played in a Moat Primary School assembly, when I had amalgamated (with a great deal of help from a very dedicated, hard working and focussed bunch of people) the previous two schools – infant and junior and I admit there was a catch in my voice as I explained the reason for playing it, but the show was on the road and I pulled myself together.

 But why this particular song, well perhaps the first verse will explain, as I was moving from a Headship up in the Stroud valleys to one in the big county town!?:

The roads go down to Gloucester town

And Severn seeks the sea;

But what road leads where I’d be gone,

What river flows to thee?

Rather apt at the time I felt and now seven and a half years later, with other roads about to be travelled, a necessary albeit difficult choice as the memories flooded back with the melody, but I had my programme or running order and all I had to do was announce each item  and sit back and enjoy!  As the last notes of the song faded, I rose to my feet and started to announce the first item, only to be somewhat forcibly interrupted by my Deputy Head, Ann, saying that actually that wasn’t what was going to happen and for once I had to sit down, listen and only speak at the right time.  Having worked with her for so long she knew me so well, and for once it seemed appropriate, as it would be the first and last time, to roll over like a pussy cat and do as I was told, albeit somewhat difficult!!

I was then shown to a chair, no ordinary chair I hasten to add, but a beautifully carved Eisteddfod chair a family heirloom from Ann’s house and I sat back and enjoyed, marvelled and squirmed a little as there followed a series of presentations including such items as a French beret, a string of onions and a French Flag amongst others, and then speeches, songs, a rap which I had to join in and poems, all hugely enjoyable, somewhat emotional and certainly very memorable as I sit here writing this amazingly about three years down the line.  But it wasn’t all over then, as for the finale, the lights dimmed and a DVD started, called simply “Roger Higgs and Moat School” consisting of a slide show of the highlights of my time at Moat, including many of the varied events that everyone threw themselves into with rarely a second thought, other than perhaps “Oh no! It’s another of his hair brained ideas!”  But credit to the wonderful team they joined in with gusto, even when as documented in the last chapter, we quite literally ended up sliding down the hill behind the school, which had by a torrential rainstorm been turned into a series of mudslides.  At that point there were muttering of never again, but I kind of figured out that in time we would do it again and we did several times but thankfully never in quite such atrocious conditions.  The photos were accompanied by the haunting melody of a French song, which I have since discovered is called Je viens du sud (I come from the south) sung by Chimène Badi.

I was now totally relaxed, enjoying the memories and marvelling at how much had happened over the years, lulled by the haunting melody, which after some time faded as a final picture of smiling me on the final of our whole school walks “Up the Hill” filled the scene and also faded with the dying last chords and a moment of silence, which seemed interminable, was broken first by applause and then for me by the realisation that this was actually it, the end and I now was expected to say something and although a rare event I was rendered emotionally speechless!!  Perhaps the next few moments are best summed up by quoting my letter of thanks I sent everyone at the beginning of the next term, the relevant paragraph is fairly obvious:

Dear All

 Happy New Year to you all and I hope that you had a good and healthy Christmas and have returned to school raring to go and full of energy!  Without putting too fine a point on it, I realised as I got up on Monday, to a white world, that the whistle would just be being blown!!  However, although tempted (I had been sorting and packing until gone two o’clock in the morning!?!) I didn’t turn over and go back to sleep!

 It was something of a strange day and I found myself looking at my watch, at various times and thinking about you all, and thinking how sitting down at the table for lunch with my Mum and Dad was certainly more peaceful than the dining hall!!

 However, the purpose of this letter is not to gloat (!), but rather to pass on my heartfelt thanks for the wonderful send off I was given at the end of last term.  Thank you all; children, staff, governors, parents and friends for your kind words, cards and gifts that I received, and I really look forward to choosing a suitable bench for some sunny patio in France, where I can relax whilst tending the barbecue, supping a fine wine and having time to watch the sunset and find interesting shapes in the clouds..... yes I know I’m not gloating, but it’s worth milking for one last time!!  Also, as I said at the time, hopefully many of you (perhaps not all at once unless you bring your own tents!) will find a chance to come and sit beside me and share the bottle!!

 You also managed a first, after several previous emotionally charged departures from other schools. As the lights came on at the end of the fantastic “Mr Higgs and Moat School” DVD and it became obvious that proceedings had come to an end and it was now my turn (finally, I did wait my turn, apologies Ann for not waiting my turn at the other times!! – I must be hell to work with!!!!!), for the first time I wasn’t able to hold it together and as the child on the front row correctly observed “Mr Higgs you’re crying!” – it’s amazing how strong the string of onions were, even with their peel still on!!  Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings!  I blame it on catching sight of Michaela sobbing on the back row and realising that she wasn’t the only one!!  At times like that it’s rather humbling to realise the love and affection that people feel for you, and you begin to think, “What have I done!”  And although certainly at the moment “Je regret rien!” the feeling of love and affection is certainly reciprocated, and I have left with very many fond and happy memories of my time at Moat, that I will take with me into the next phase, indeed adventure, in my life. 

 So a final heartfelt, Au revoir, and many thanks to all of you for being such a big part of these memories and all the very best for the future, both personally and for the ongoing success of Moat Primary School and hopefully, I’ll be remembered for being a small part of this?

This was written just after the next term started and I wasn’t part of it a really strange feeling, but although on that last afternoon in many ways it was all over and funnily enough, often the end of the Christmas Term felt like that, Christmas was over and done with, the tree came down and then when you got home and got over all the excitement, you had to start all over again at home.  But this time it was sort of final!

That said, school hadn’t finished and because of all that had been happening I hadn’t been able to sort out my office and leave it ready for my successor, who thankfully, despite the relatively short notice I had been able to give, had been appointed and was due to meet me just before the new year, to go through the final handover and relinquish the keys as well as the responsibility!  And although having got over the excitement of the end of term and a family Christmas needed to happen, I did spend much of the next week and the week between Christmas and the New Year in school, surrounded by quietness and memories, but with little time to reminisce, as it’s amazing what you amass during nearly eight years as Headteacher of a primary school, particularly one like me who liked to be involved in as many projects and activities, for the benefit of the children, as possible.

Finally, after what seemed like an interminable ten days or so of sorting, packing, throwing away and generally tidying up, I got to the day of handing over the keys and leaving the premises for the last time as Headteacher, responsible for the day to day smooth running of a vibrant and fun-filled place of learning and gosh it was hard – reality hit me as I drove out of the gates, not needing to stop and lock up and as I drove home, and I can’t deny with a tear or two in my eye, there was also a lifting of a weight and a tremendous feeling of both; “What have I done” and “What adventures lie ahead!”  Then, I realise as I write this that before that adventure starts, there’s a whole forgotten chapter that you’ll have to wait until next time for!!

But, one of the things I had to do before setting off on that journey into the unknown, was to thank very many people for the amazing send off we received from so many people.  The letter I sent to school is reproduced above but I’ll finish, maybe somewhat wistfully, with a couple of extracts from other letters that I sent, as Chapter 6 developed and reality set in!

To the Gloucester Headteacher group:

......since our decision in February to relocate and become FPF (Free from Papers and Forms or French Peasant Farmers: not sure if the two go together but at least the wine will be cheaper when the forms need filling in!!), I have often driven to meetings or courses thinking that it would be good to come away thinking that I would miss whatever we had been discussing, whilst sitting in the shade of a French apple tree with time to watch the sun set and marvel at it’s colours without worrying about Section 3 of the SEF!  Sadly, this happened very infrequently, but the rebirth of the Excellence Cluster into The GSP, is one of the things that seems to me an exciting, useful and sensible development in otherwise bleak times, not least as there is a truth behind the saying: “strength in numbers!”

Many of you will know my real worries about where Education in England is going and concerns about a system that is over reliant on testing and scores and less concerned about real people and issues of equality and life chances.  So in the end I have become rather like the sad clown in a circus, unable to keep up all the juggling balls at once, and those that I have started to drop are the ones that I believe are the most important.  Therefore, for those of you who remember my presentation to the Excellence Cluster entitled:

                                
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"What we said we would die fighting for –                          well perhaps not quite, there's always an olive farm in the south of France!!"              led by Roger Higgs

in many ways sadly, the “olive farm” won.  The heart?  (Should be a pink heart above the title but it won't load!!!!) Susan being creative as the presentation took place on Valentine’s Day!!

And to The Gastrell’s Ramblers, initially a school group, but then a group of very good friends who for many years I organised an annual caravan / camping weekend:

...... I never have been one for farewells and as a child when visiting friends and relations, when the time came to say good-bye, I would often hide or sneak out into the car, just wanting to be whisked away.  Unfortunately, that probably meant then and certainly now that important things were left unsaid, so here goes …………….

...... Thanks for the fantastic caricature and kind messages in the card, it will certainly find pride of place somewhere in a French farmhouse in the not too distant future, and a very special thanks to Andy for the fantastic Eiffel Tower vase which will similarly grace our new abode and both bring lots of memories flooding back each time we pass them.  It also didn’t go unnoticed that there was such a great turnout of people this year and that Kate, Denise and Martyn abandoned their families to freeze in a Welsh field with us for one last time!!!

...... Once again, a really heartfelt thanks for the gifts, they will be treasured in our new French home, as we get the need to live abroad out of our system and hope to share our dream with any friends who want to make the journey.  So as they say, it’s not Good-bye but Au Revoir (rather apt in this case!!) and ……. thanks for the memories!

 P.S:  I’ve just, three years on, tracked down the lyrics of the song on the DVD mentioned above – Je viens du sud.  I wonder if the producer of the DVD knew what the words meant, or if simply, as it does, the haunting melody fitted in so well?  But here’s an extract:

I have somewhere in the heart

Of melancholy,

The desire to reset the time

The clocks in my life.

A path in the mountains

When I need water,

A garden in the countryside

For my days off.

A stone house .....

How very apt, there’s also a bit in the song about “A very old lady in black, Illuminated for me” whichdoes so remind me of the two ugly sisters in the pantomime that the staff sprung on me as told in the last chapter, you know who you were!!!!!!!!

The House! 

You may remember the “answers on a postcard” quiz about the name of our new house, well they haven’t exactly flooded in, indeed the only sensible suggestion (I’ve made several others such as Maison Corset – look up Henri Boutet, an artist who lived close by to our own little hamlet, on Wikipedia and you might think it’s not such a silly suggestion – just not sure what the neighbours might think!!), but I think that this evening’s research into French song lyrics, might just have sorted it!

We have finally found our own Maison pierre, but then in the cold light of day the next morning I realised that actually at least three of the other houses in the hamlet also show the stone from which they are made, so it’s back to the drawing board!

There is also the strong possibility that this is going to be the longest missive to date so I’ll be brief about the house, the bulk of the work consisting of the roof outside, although the shutters continue to change colour (to date 5 down 3 to go!), the insulation (first layer) is in the loft some coat hooks have gone up together with a freshly painted free standing rack we picked up from a nearby house clearance, the workshop is tidier and the pipes are boxed in in the lounge.

But as I said, with the weather largely set fair and for much of the month unseasonably warm, work outside has been the order of the day.  The roof and all the rafters that are coming out in the hidden courtyard have been finished and the walls largely capped to protect the top and look like the roof is still there.  Then the garage roof has been stripped of tiles, several rafters and roof boards replaced, the top has been beetle treated and the tiles have started to go on today.  Unfortunately, the bit I’m working on at the moment is very public, particularly as regards any visitors to our neighbour’s cave, which in reality seems to be a steady stream and so earlier today there I was up the ladder cementing on the first row of tiles in the long process of reroofing the garage.  Along comes my neighbour with two of his cronies, heading towards the cave for a verre (ou deux) de l’amitié, but first they start to inspect my handiwork, particularly commenting on the one tile that wasn’t really in line!

I explained that there was a problem underneath with one of the rafters and this was graciously accepted. I then asked the three of them if what I had done so far was OK, as it was the first attempt at roofing.  One of the friends, who spoke a little English, inspected the work closely, uummed and aarred a bit before saying: “It’s OK, not brilliant, but it will be better the second time!” and I was left wondering if this was a little bit of French wisdom or a veiled insult.  I’m still not sure, but I was subsequently asked to join them, although the “pinching of the throat” sign I initially misread as being a comment that the fact that the lovingly grown FC whiskers had been severely trimmed, partly to avoid recognition should I bump into one of the children of this parish, but also for comfort as after a while long beard locks get a little irritating, for me at least!

Perhaps, however, the drink invitation was by way of commiseration for the tiling, but after a couple of glasses of rosé and a rather one sided conversation about muscles, injuries and mushrooms amongst other things, when I later emerged from the subterranean drinking den the ups and downs of the tiling did seem to have levelled out a bit!!!   Although, carrying the tiles and the bucket of cement up the ladder, well it was still only 4.30 p.m!, seemed more difficult, as the ladder seemed to have more steps and at least one of the other visitors had gone back to work driving a tractors and handling a chainsaw – how do they do it without lots of drink related accidents!!  

Quilleham, Hammquille or Bouhenri

A few missives ago (26 ~ Friends Along the Way to be precise, my avid reader, usually the first to respond and indeed my “French Mistress” replied rather out of character in English!   The opening line of her email said: “Lovely to read your 'Clochemerle courrier'! Such fun to hear of all the garlic dripping chins, apéritifs, kissing (4 times in Brittany!), la chasse etc etc. Wonderful stuff.”  To which I quite quickly replied:“I'm definitely a urinophile, as there's never one when you need it, although at least for the men in France it doesn't seem to matter!!! Also, by an amazing coincidence the ones next to our Mairie are going to get a face lift this year!!!

It appears that there is a large part of the population that will know exactly what I’m talking about and perhaps an equally large number who will be completely in the dark.  I’ve also got to admit that I was one of those who as you read this will have a blank look on your face – I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about!!  But, thanks to the wonders of modern science a quick typing into the search engine of the word Clochemerle and a whole new world opened up!  For all the details type it in yourself, but in a nutshell Clochemerle is a 1934 French satirical novel by Gabriel Chevallier. It is set in a French village in Beaujolais inspired by Vaux-en-Beaujolais and deals with the ramifications over plans to install a new urinal in the village square.  It subsequently became a 1972 BBC television serial with Ray Galton and Alan Simpson adapting the text. Filmed on location in France, it starred Cyril Cusack, Wendy Hiller, Kenneth Griffith, Roy Dotrice, Cyd Hayman, Micheline Presle, Bernard Bresslaw, Hugh Griffith, Nigel Green, Madeline Smith and Wolfe Morris with narration by Peter Ustinov and on all accounts ended up with something of a cult following.  Now where was I in 1972, because it totally passed me by!!

Well, once the cat was out of the bag as it were and it became known that the fictitious Clochemerle was indeed based on a real place, Vaux-en-Beaujolais, I’m sure that initially all hell must have broken out in the village for real, those wanting to remain an anonymous French village in a popular wine growing region and those wanting to cash in on the success of the story.  If you go on the website for the village it seems that the latter won the day, although what fighting there was in the streets I can’t tell you.

But, at this stage to avoid the glare of publicity and indeed any nastiness, for reasons of missive confidentiality our little hamlet is to adopt a “nom de plume,” or to be more exact 3!!  Yes, that’s right if you come across one of the three names in the title of this section, in a future missive you will know where the action takes place!!  The first two are a play on our “hammeau tranquille” or quiet hamlet and the other a play on the name of a famous artist who lived not a million miles away in the eighteen hundreds!  Also, any likeness of any character to a living person will be purely accidental and involve a good degree of imagination, and all names will be changed to protect the identity of the person who is not the likeness of any living person, or something like that!!!

However, due to limited space “Le homme avec le pinceau” promised at the end of the last missive will simply have to wait his turn. I am also slightly worried that the “pissoir planté” mentioned in the last missive and not only named as such by my “French Mistress”, who for reasons of confidentiality will in future be referred to as “Madame Fifi” or simply “Fifi”!!!!, but was also called a “novel” idea by her and may well split the inhabitants of Quilleham down the middle and end up as a long running saga ~ perhaps there’s even a book in this or would that be plagiarism!?!

Suffice to say at this stage that hopefully confidentiality will be maintained and a quick on my computer search engines for the three names, throws up “no results containing your search term” for the first two names and only a few sites for someone called Bouhenry for the other, so hopefully the stage is set!!   

“Ici devant nous!” Two blokes (any prudes amongst you might like to jump to the next section!!! – this is a public decency announcement!)

You may have detected that over the last few missives the original idea for this section has, to say the least, been somewhat overlooked.  But what the hell, it’s going to be again!!  Here I am reproducing, very loosely translated, a conversation “overheard” between two local gentlemen, who were certainly here before us and I suppose each to their own!!

Whilst working on the roof the other day, in our quiet hamlet of Hammquille(!), a car pulled up outside and Bloke 1 gets out and greets Bloke 2.  Bloke 2 then peers into the car and the following exchange loosely takes place:

Bloke 2:  “Cor! She’s a bit of alright then, where did you pick her up!”

Bloke 1:  “Yeah, something of a cracker isn’t she!”

Bloke 2:  “Wouldn’t mind a bit of her!”

Bloke 1:  “I’ve got it on a plate like!”

Bloke 2:  “Whor! Bit of oil and a sweat on, like the sound of that!”

Bloke 1:  “Yeah and a bit of sausage, know what I mean!!”

Closer examination would have shown you that in the car was a magnificent white headed (the two blokes were quite elderly!), in the peak of condition champignon, or mushroom to you and me!!  And ... the sausage mentioned a nice bit of boudin noir or black pudding!!!

And, before you all get on your high horses and flood me with complaints, I have never been too good with tenses, but I do know “she” should have been “he” – le champignon – but a bit of poetic licence makes it sort of ring better, amazing what a little bit of gender realignment can do!!

My original “thought!” Not PC for FC or PN 

This should have been called “Sexy Santa” but for my younger readers it may have spoilt the seasonal fun of a strange bearded fellow, dressed in red coming down the chimney bearing gifts!  Hence FC or PN as he’s known in these parts and if I’m rumbled by my younger readers use the excuse given some 21 years ago, when one of Victoria’s playgroup friends rumbled me, but fortunately kept it quiet until that evening when he said to his father “I know who FC was today, it was Roger!”  His quick thinking father, also a Headteacher, simply said “Well it’s like this son, sometimes at this time of the year FC is so busy he has to get some kindly soul to help him out!!”  He never said anything to me, but that evening Victoria told me all about how frightened she had been of FC and how she wouldn’t go up to him for her present!!!

But back to now!  Feeling something of a turncoat having for many years filled the role for “Fifi” who organised a seasonal fayre each year and enlisted my services and then I moved to France and despite being told by Linda not to volunteer for anything when we went to the AGM of the village leisure group, she sort of pushed me forward to take on the role from a rather small, skinny and beardless predecessor!! Double standards I call it, don’t volunteer and then volunteer someone else.  But it was done, I’d agreed and then the palpitations started.  What would the assembled children think about the fact that last year he could speak fluent French and this year he couldn’t!  Deciding that maybe the fact that I looked more the part, I wasn’t sure how to take the comments about how I wouldn’t have to wrap the suit around me several times like my predecessor, might have made the children overlook the language barrier!!

But, to be sure, I decided to enlist the help of Madame Fifi and emailed her, somewhat tongue in cheek, to ask if she would be my elf!  She however missed the tongue bit and was most apologetic that she couldn’t fly out to help, the next morning she was organising her own seasonal bash complete with the man in red!!  She did however give me some good advice, the best of which was to “remain mysterious!” as well as some simple key questions, remembering to use tu not vous so as not to come over as “distant, cold and unfriendly!”, some hope more likely bumbling, terrified but at least smiling!!

Avoiding sleepless nights by hard work on the roof meaning I was simply too exhausted to be sleepless, said evening arrived and as arranged I arrived just after the “spectacle,” (this year a magic show) had started  at 8.30 in the evening!  Yes, even the tiny tots were still up watching the show and waiting for my appearance!  I was able to slope into the back of the room, in mufti a scarf covering the beard and a hat the sticky out ears, watch some of the show and then the plan was that I could go to the little salle and change ready for my grand entry!!  So in plenty of time I escaped to the kitchen, not least because the hat and scarf were causing me to overheat, to find the little room to change in.  In the kitchen were three ladies from the committee overseeing the refreshments, amongst them one known to wear tight black leather trousers and high heeled boots and who is often late for meetings, not uncommon in France but I’m sure in this case for the enjoyment of making an entry!!  You see we’re not the sleepy little village that you’d all imagined and unfortunately I’ve got into the habit of calling this young lady (well actually she has a 16 year old daughter, who like mother like daughter could be seen flirting with FC later on in the evening!!) Miss Whiplash – sorry I tried to translate this into French for reasons of moral sensibility, but Whiplash Mlle didn’t help much!!

Anyway to cut a very long story, not particularly short!, I asked where the room was to change in and other than the meter cupboard, that I could just get into and not close the door, they had no idea and said it would have to be quite literally “the smallest room” and they didn’t think there was a lock on the door and every likelihood that one of the children could be caught short and I could end up being caught out!

In the end there was nothing for it but to change in the kitchen, so using sign language to get the ladies to avert their eyes, off came the jeans to be replaced by the red almost tights like FC trousers, and when they turned back, I’m sure you’ll know which of the three ladies, with a slow intake of breath, and a somewhat seductive voice said “Oh! sexy Santa!”  Now I wouldn’t swear to it but I don’t think it was the tight fitting red trousers but the sneaky peek as I removed my jeans that did it and then she rushed off to get her camera and started to take multiple pictures of me in all sorts of positions or should that be locations!!  Now, no-one could accuse me of being a prude, but finally we’ve arrive at today’s thought - is it PC to peek at Santa in his boxers?, particularly as I was worried enough about the language difficulties without having to worry about my modesty!!  Suffice to say it was never like that with Mme Fifi!!   

Oh and how did it go?  I remained mysterious and despite the incident in the kitchen, composed, managed just to climb over the language barrier, ho ho ho in the right places and distribute all the presents and ended up due to another language barrier, in this case the chair of the committee’s limited English, being booked to appear again “LAST” year!! It’s the magic of Christmas, and I think that’s the first time I’ve used the “C” word and it therefore seems just about appropriate, with December looming and this being probably the last missive before the big day to wish all my readers a “Joyeuse Fêtes” a cover all for have a good Christmas, New Year and anything else happening thereabouts – literally “Happy Holidays!”    

Kind regards, Best Wishes and Love,      

Roger and Linda

And, next time, in Missive 35 ~ The Forgotten Chapter and further adventures of .........,