Some
recent events and observations
Superman-like
surge
No, it says surge not
urge, I haven’t started to inexplicably wear my underpants on the outside of my
trousers, but I did recently get close to that “is it a bird, is it a plane
......” Superman moment.
With the long light
evenings of summer we usually take Fergus out for a walk after dinner,
theoretically, in the cool of the evening but recently this hasn’t been
happening, the evenings and nights staying rather warm.
As is often the case
when some noteworthy event happens, this particular evening I was walking
alone, except for the dog, and even he wasn’t there to confirm my story as
explained below, although the reason said surge remained there for all to see
for a number of days afterwards, as also described below!
It had been a very
pleasant walk over the bridge by the ford, or in the dog’s case through the
ford, up the hill on the track through the fields, or in the dog’s case all
over the fields as he still chases his shadow and still it refuses to stop and
play! Then, along the track that goes
through the edge of the wood, with the lowering sun causing all sorts of wild
animals to loom amongst the trees which all needed chasing, before retracing
our steps and returning home a slightly different way, down the track that
comes behind the mill, which is now a rather picturesque gîte, and passed our
garden.
Fergus, as now he is
older and wiser, is usually very good, running off and periodically returning
for the odd “high five” and a couple of meaty treats before busily exploring
the area again, unless he has a better offer and then he becomes selective with
his hearing (typical male I hear all the ladies amongst you say – to which I
say NO! It’s a typical trait of the
Irish Setter, which in Fergus’ case is his mother’s half!)
Well we were nearly
home and just as we turned the final corner before Fergus sits obediently
waiting for his lead to go on before walking back into the hamlet, he had a
better offer in the shape of a hare which took one look at Fergus and took off
with him in very hot pursuit! Well, he’s
been known to get mighty close to bagging us a tasty dinner, although I think
if he caught one he’d not know what to do and would probably simply want to play
tag, and this time the poor hare had barely a head start. Fortunately, it had the presence of mind to take
evasive action and dart through a thick hedge through to the cow field
beyond. Well, although quite capable of
crashing his way through most of the local hedges, Fergus is a bit of a wimp,
but a canny one at that as he quickly retraced his steps went through the
nearby gate and back along the other side of the hedge in a flanking movement
that was rather late. The prey had well
and truly gone, but Fergus found himself in a cow field and is rather partial
to what they leave behind, not putting too fine a point on it, he either eats
it or rolls in it!!! At this stage he
started to run down the field, with something other than meaty chunks and his
lead in mind.
Now, I mentioned the
gîte earlier and as we’re very much in the height of the season it was occupied
by a couple from Reunion, a French department which is an island in the Indian
Ocean, who for the last couple of years have based themselves here for 3 weeks
to a month and had various family come to visit them during their stay. Well, it was Saturday night and lots of
family were visiting and a party was well under way in the warm evening outside
the gîte, the wine had been flowing for some time and subsequently the volume
of conversation had risen. So, here was
Fergus heading down the field towards the gîte and if there’s one thing he
prefers to cow dung it’s socialising with lots of people, he’s quite the party
animal!
Drastic action was
needed, as if I didn’t manage to head him off at the bottom I had visions of an
upturned barbecue with Fergus licking up the spilt meat and introducing himself
to the surprised company. So in a moment
of panic I surged off to intercept him, but this was only a simple surge, not a
superhero one, there was more to come.
As I ran headlong down the track, calling Fergus with the promise of
semi-moist meaty chunks instead of succulent barbecued steak and sausages, in
mid air between strides I took my eye of the dog and there curled up on the
ground, with my leading foot heading towards it was a large snake. Hence the Superman-like surge, as although I
was already in a down trajectory, I flew just like Superman, without the aid of
a telephone box, and landed a safe distance away having uttered a rather loud
“oh my god!” or possibly something worse.
Momentum carried me on my way, adrenalin helped me catch the dog before
he gate-crashed the party and with racing heart, in this case not caused by
physical exertion, I very gingerly retraced my steps to see if the serpent was
still there.
Surprisingly it was, as
it was neatly coiled up but dead, something having appeared to have squashed
its head. Maybe the last person to run
by didn’t have superhero powers, just the luck of the Irish to have trod in
just the right place!!
As I said before, the
evidence stayed there for several days, and each time I walked by the heart
beat a little faster, even though I knew it was dead and I was mightily
relieved when finally it had gone. Just
for the record it was only a grass snake, a relatively small one at about 120
cm or four feet, but rather surprisingly, as I soared above it, it looked
altogether alive and bigger and they do bite!
I
picked up some litter today
Now on the face of it
that might not seem that big a deal, indeed over the years I have taken part in
a number of “litter picks,” blitzes to tidy up an area that has become clogged
with litter, be it lay byes on the A46 towards Bath from Stroud, local picnic
sites or school fields. On these
occasions I have at times been surprised and disgusted at just what people will
leave behind, so as not to go into too much details let’s just stop at soiled
disposable nappies!
There was also another
occasion, when with a group of other countryside wardens, we ended up helping
the police with their enquiries, as we had apparently cleared an area that the
police thought had been the site of a recent murder and wanted to know if any
of us remembered finding a gentleman’s shoe or wrist watch. Unfortunately, we weren’t in fact much help
with their enquiries as all we had cleared away was the “normal” sweet
wrappers, crisp packets, plastic bottles, tins and the odd nappy!
But no, this was not an
organised litter pick, I was simply out walking the dog and saw a discarded
wrapper for some item of fishing tackle called a “Stop Flott Gummi Stopper”
which initially I had no idea what it was for, not being a fisherman, until I
read the packet. My limited French leads
me to believe that it is a piece of kit that helps to keep your float upright,
but being no expert I’m happy, if necessary, to be put right on this.
So what is unusual
about this? Quite simply that on a
fairly popular walk that I regularly do, and takes me about one and a half
hours, seeing any rubbish at all is quite unusual. It seems that particularly in the countryside
the French quite simply don’t throw rubbish on the ground. It does happen and towns can be worse, but it
is relatively uncommon and generally rubbish is either taken home or put in the
bins provided, which are regularly emptied, or in urban areas street cleaning
is an all too obvious priority. This to
some extent dispels the myth commonly expressed in the UK that to provide bins
tends to act as a catalyst for rubbish, where overflowing bins merely attract
more and more rubbish. The crucial
elements here, I believe are that where bins are provided they need to be
regularly emptied and civic pride, something I’ve written about before, is
often much stronger in France than the UK, it is something the French seem to
expect from the payment of their taxes.
I’m
taking it as a compliment
Earlier in the month
(July) we dined at L’Assiette Gourmand, the restaurant in the nearby small
town, that a couple of years ago, moved across the road from a rather small premises,
where in many ways it was like a bar that served food, to much larger premises,
the converted old fire station.
Supposedly, the major refurbishment was made possible by a loan from the
Mayor’s office, and now the local town boasts a large modern vibrant
restaurant, tastefully decorated and with a good sided terrace built out over
where the fire appliances rolled out of their garage onto the road.
It was a Monday night
and so we were a little worried that we would be dining alone, just Linda, my
Mum and myself, which although not a big problem, I do feel that fuller
restaurants have a greater ambiance.
But, we were pleasantly
surprised to find two French touring cyclists sitting having a drink on the
terrace waiting for their food to arrive and inside, where we choose to sit as
the warmth of the day’s sun was beginning to fade, a French couple at the bar
and an English couple and their two dogs, one recently rescued, who we had met
just a couple of weeks before having English Fish and Chips from a mobile van
that parks each week outside a number of local bars. They were sitting waiting to order chatting,
in best pigeon French, with an older Frenchman from the village.
As we chatted with the
English couple, whilst ordering an aperitif and our food, a family of three,
possibly Dutch people arrived on the terrace to dine and a French lady came
inside, on her own with a small pug-like dog, with whom, after the dogs had had
a little tiff, we exchanged pleasantries, initially in French, but then found
she was able to converse well in English.
The English couple,
relative newcomers to the village, having lived there about two years, were
very chatty and we found ourselves swapping stories between the courses, and
involving the French lady periodically in our conversations. And, being in France, with the wine flowing
some of the conversation became quite animated, with the other man telling the
French lady how beautiful she was and me complimenting her on her excellent English.
Having finished her moules (mussels) and had a brief café (coffee), she finished before us,
as we were having the three course fixed menu, she got up to leave, tried
unsuccessfully to get the dogs to make up after the earlier tiff, and
approached our table. Before wishing us
a bon nuit (goodnight), she told us
that when she had been having her English lessons, her professor (teacher), had
told her she was the class bavarde or
chatterbox, but she felt that the other Englishman and I were far worthier of
the designation than her, and with a cheery chuckle, a bon nuit and an à bientôt
see you soon), she left.
I certainly took it as
a compliment, as the French so often accuse the English of being somewhat
reserved and though I suspect many of you may find it hard to believe, I used
to be shy and retiring, and ‘er indoors will vouch for that!! (‘er indoors:
“Certainly not now!)
Corks
popping, ropes breaking, Bastille Day ended with a bang
Bastille Day, or to
give it its proper title of Fête de la Fédération (French National Day), takes
place each year on 14th July, and is a big occasion and much
celebrated across the nation. It is the day that in 1798 the infamous French castle,
arsenal and prison, La Bastille was stormed and destroyed during the French
Revolution, effectively a symbolic day that caused the end of the absolute
monarchy.
Many communes (similar
to English parishes) celebrate the day with a variety of events, culminating in
impressive firework displays, which due to the time of year and the long
evenings, often don’t start until close to midnight.
Our own commune has for
a number of years held a number of activities on the day. The last couple of years this has started
with a morning commune walk or bike ride with a refreshment stop part way round
– water, juice, cake, fruit, chocolate and wine, remember it’s still about
10.30 a.m.!, that ends up at the football ground for a an aperitif or two
provided by la municipalité (parish council) and where many of the other
inhabitants join in, then most of the people sit down for a picnic they have
bought along on a long trestle table with a plastic table cloth, usually
advertising a bank!, stretched along it.
The various picnics are grand affairs, often with china plates extra
table clothes and several courses of food, frequently ending with large flans
or tarts being offered around. All this
is liberally washed down with wine, naturally in real glass glasses, and
habitually offered to neighbours, so it’s quite a boozy affair!
For the last couple of
years, once the eating was finished a near neighbour of ours has come around
with a small dust encrusted bottle of homemade absinth, an evil brew with a
taste that doesn’t go away for some hours, in this case long into the evening, and
which another of our neighbours found himself strangely craving for more! But bizarrely this year, a new trend seems to
have started and there seemed a steady stream of people coming around with
bottles of almanac, cognac and various homemade concoctions of a similar
type. This is all the more strange as
the French taste for such liquors as a digestive after a meal has dwindled, at
the same time as the French seem to be drinking increasing amounts of whisky,
largely as an aperitif before the meal!
With a degree of
trepidation there followed a games afternoon, as after the lunchtime
refreshments there was a slight worry that getting up might prove rather
difficult, and I almost felt that a quiet sitting down game of French Scrabble,
as being set up by the older contingent, might be preferable! But no, tradition we were told meant an
afternoon of frivolity, and to ensure maximum participation and to mix us all
up we had to draw a name from a hat and find the right partner for the first
games; a tournament including a sack race, a three legged race and an egg and spoon
race with the spoon held in your mouth and a table tennis ball instead of an
egg!! Well, the pairs it transpired were
all royal couples from Europe: William and Kate, Charles and Camilla, Albert
and Charlene (from Monaco, not Victoria as I thought), Elizabeth and Philip and
so on.... Strangely the French are
mildly obsessed with royalty and often know more about the UK monarchy than I
do! It was a neighbour, the one who produces
the absinth, that commiserated with me when Camilla’s brother died unexpectedly,
and I’m sure they knew each time Kate went into labour long I even knew she was
expecting!!! Suddenly, whilst writing
this, I just seen the irony of this; using royal couples to select partners for
games on the day France celebrates becoming a republic and the end of their
absolute monarchy!!!
But, let the games
commence! I have to admit that my
Charlene, yes I was Prince Albert of Monaco, cheated and used chewing gum in
the egg and spoon race, however it was worth it to see the bemused look on the
faces of a number of rather merry villagers, puzzling as to how we could run so
fast balancing a table tennis ball on a steeply angled plastic spoon!! Still it
was just for the fun of it, no prizes just merriment and ridicule! I should say at this point that these games
were largely for the adults who were young enough and fit enough to
participate, the children had a bouncy castle and a football, the old people
were playing scrabble and other board games or the fiercely complicated local
card game called belot, and for those of such a disposition the fishing lake
next door to the football ground was freely available.
Then, things turned
serious, a long rope was stretched across the football pitch and two teams,
children against the rest lined up to do battle with the tire à la corde or tug
of war. It’s amazing how strong a group
of children can be, particularly when helped by a number of strong young
adults, but on the first pull after the initial shock, age and experience won
over and with a final heave we pulled the ribbon over the line and ended up in
a heap on the ground. The second pull
somehow we failed to regroup sufficiently and the youngsters equalised! But, by the third pull we had their measure
and won handsomely and perhaps we all should have settled for the best out of
three, as on the next pull whilst making good ground we all, on both sides fell
into a heap, the stout rope having broken in the middle!! Not to be thwarted, the young farmers decided
to tie the two ends together at first not very successfully, until taken in
hand by someone who must have been in the scouts, and managed a good secure
knot, well tested by the group of young farmers. So battle was able to commence, but was
quickly over as once more with the older and wiser team digging deep and making
good progress, the rope broke again in a different place, well at least the
knot held!!
After that things
quietened down and it was time for the traditional sweet Vendéen brioche to be
passed around, and yes I’m sure you’ve guessed it, complete with a verre de
l’amitié / a glass of friendship, not a cup of tea in sight!!
Surprisingly, later
that night after admittedly a bit of a snooze, we were back out again for the
fireworks at the nearby town, preceded by a typically haphazardly lantern
procession, where all the local children follow a minibus with its back door
open and a loud sound system blaring out.
The children follow with paper Chinese lanterns on short sticks each
containing a burning night light – yes a naked flame and not a risk assessment
in sight!! At least for the last couple
of years the local pompiers (firemen) have decided against their wheeled
handcart containing powerful Roman candle like fireworks, quite simply spewing
out enormous flames in all directions all over the crowds lining the route! What a shame to spoil the fun!
Shortly after the
procession returned, having it seems avoided setting light to anyone, the most
amazing fireworks roared, banged, whizzed, screamed, flashed and cascaded into
the night sky for at least ten to fifteen minutes, and I couldn’t help feeling
that it was quite sufficient fire power to have razed La Bastille to the
ground, if it hadn’t already been done 217 years before! Good to know, France still celebrates after
all this time, and indeed to be part of it!
Roger
you’re so strong!
As a quick postscript I
must tell you of a further compliment I was recently paid. Having done my bit in the blazing sunshine,
to pull the young village upstarts across the football field by means of a think
long rope, as well as helping to break said rope, as documented above, I
returned somewhat sweaty and exhausted to my seat. My exhaustion and lethargy
as I plodded wearily back was immediately forgotten as our neighbour, Yvette,
jumped up off her bench as only a lady of about eighty can do and called to me
“Roger you’re so strong,” and as I stood proudly upright, previous fatigue all
but forgotten, I noticed her four or five females cronies all of a similar age,
all animatedly agreeing with her! Well,
although I say so myself, I always have been one to turn the lady’s heads,
albeit normally to look the other way!!
