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!!

Who’s Who in our little patch!!

I guess this is the only way I’m ever going to get into Who’s Who, however I’m jumping the gun a little, because really this isn’t about us but those close to us, physically rather than emotionally!!  We now know most of the people by name but these have been omitted for reasons of privacy!

Our petite tranquil hammeau consists of nine houses, and innumerable plots of land which I shall make no attempt to unravel as French inheritance law divides land up in strange ways which is why we have a plot of 1000m² about a kilometre from our house!  Back in the hamlet, at the moment two of the houses are windowless, although they do have roofs and electricity.  The first shell is the first house at the top of the road, and has just been put up for auction as part of a liquidation sale; a small house (three rooms downstairs and potentially two upstairs, but with a staircase that goes nowhere as there is no upstairs floor) on a small plot which might just be ripe for development.  Certainly the guide price is so low it could leave a potential buyer with a lot of surplus cash for the renovations!   

The second, next down the road, is owned by a couple who live in another small hamlet just down the road.  He is English (but has lived in France for much of the time since 1984 and full time for the last ten years or so) and she French. They got married last year, and their house “in our patch” they are going to do up as a long-term rental, but due to problems with the purchase – basically the first time they bought it the seller didn’t own it (due it would appear to bankruptcy) so they had to buy it again with the renovation money, so it’s a bit on hold at the moment!!  Then attached to this is a pleasantly renovated house, which might have been two initially, owned now by a single lady, formerly married to a helicopter pilot, an actress who has lived there for nine years.  

Behind these three houses is a second row of three houses, both rows may in the past have been cottages tied to the farm at the bottom of the road.  The first from the top in the second row is empty and up for sale, but recently (18 months or so) lived in. It is very small (one up, one down and a bathroom in need of updating!) and built in such a way as it occupies one corner of the next house. The next house is lived in by a friendly French couple, who have lived there for about eighteen months, he an internet estate agent seemingly semi-retired and her a retired nursing auxiliary, the house is fairly small but rambling, with various out-buildings and alterations making it rather like la maison du lapin, or a rabbit warren!  The main living room / kitchen / diner is jammed with heavy ethnic furniture and interesting knick-knacks collected by the owners on various travels.  They have a camper van and have just returned from an extended visit to Morocco.  Previously this house was owned by an English couple who had lived here for something like sixteen years, it appears quite simply and primitively, there having been no heating upstairs and just a log burner downstairs and an earth floor in part of the downstairs.  But with advancing years, worries about health and a growing number of grandchildren, they decided to sell up and move back to the UK.

The house next to this one was owned by  the brother of the Englishman next door and used as a holiday cottage, but he sold it (last year) when his brother and sister in law returned to England, to a young Welsh family (Mum, Dad and seven year old daughter).  The parents of this man own a house the other side of Fontenay le Comte and a number of gîtes and spend their time between Le Vendée and North Wales.  The new owner’s father is busy renovating the house, whilst also getting his gîtes ready for the season, and it will be used as a holiday cottage for the family and possibly a holiday let.

Then there’s us, the house in the middle on the traffic island as it were – roads on three sides and commune owned land and a footpath on the other.  Not really a fair description as one of the roads is a little used parking area – for us, the Welsh family’s holiday cottage and the actress, another road down the side of the house is the road into the hamlet with minimal traffic and in many ways a dead end, and the one along the front peters out into a little used farm track a little way (30 metres) along which is our garden!

In front of us are the final two houses, one a very pretty and beautifully kept gîte, with Gîte de France rating, although seemingly only really used in the high season and holiday times like Easter, as well as by occasional walkers who pass close by on one of the many branches of the Santiago de Compostela pilgrim route.  You can follow from here to Santiago in northern Spain or “backwards” to Brittany.  This gîte is an old water mill with some of the original features evident and built on the edge of what previously had been the mill pond dam, now drained with just the river running through the field which is at the bottom of our garden.

And, almost finally, the “big” house, which although tall, obviously the main house and quite imposing is actually not very big.  It is lived in by a delightful old French couple, who also own the gîte and have made us very welcome, instigating a series of apero’s (early evening get togethers), the first at their house to welcome us to the hamlet, which is how we have started to glean so much information about our neighbours!   They also own much of the surrounding land and a large number of outbuildings, some more attractive than others!  They also, despite we think being in their 70’s, although we were originally told 80’s, work very hard at keeping everything as it should be, including tidying up after the fauchage man (village handyman) when he has tidied up!!  When we moved in they were very welcoming, but were quick to tell us certain things about what needed doing to our house!!  But it was simply their chance to have their say, about things we knew needed doing and by and large have been done or are in the pipeline.  We have worked very hard in the nine months or so since we moved in and before that in the garden and they appear to be suitably impressed, (but less so with our command of French!) although now much of the work is completed we will not be working so hard!!  That’s when our new hidden courtyard will come into its own as “le petit pause” as madam calls our tea breaks can become “grand” without her seeing and passing some comment!!!   

But, that’s not really quite it, as I said above “almost finally,” as relatively close, up the road and to the right is a large farmhouse and associated buildings, lived in and worked by one of six of the previous farmer’s children.  The farmer also drives the school bus during term time and is married to an accountant and they have, we think, three children – a boy late teenage /early twenties, an older teenage girl and a boy of about 10 or 11, seem all to belong!  Then, just around the corner, the retired farmer and his wife live in a spectacular, architect designed house overlooking an enormous flooded stone quarry which we think they own and is now no longer used for stone but for irrigation water, much (we are told) to the annoyance of the local water company, as they undercut their price!!  This couple are extremely friendly (when we first met him he lent us a handheld translator to help us with our French!) and invited us in for a drink on Easter Sunday when all 23 of their family were visiting, some of the younger ones were pleased to use their England and although the retired farmer speaks some Dutch and German, he maintains that English is too hard to learn!  To which I tell him that’s my problem with French!  However, the first time I saw him in his green boiler suit he looked like something out of the Walton’s, and limping in such a fashion that he rather drags a foot, so as to make me joke that he looked like a mad axeman – on the second occasion he was carrying a large curved sickle, which rather added to the effect!!!  He also seems to be fairly accident prone, and although retired won’t stop wielding sickles, strimmers, chainsaws and the like, and is often bandaged up or sporting various cuts and bruises often on his head and hands.  So now if we walk by and he’s in charge of a dangerous implement, we try not to draw attention to ourselves, not fearing for ourselves but worried he might wave to us with disastrous consequences!!

So that’s a little who’s who of those within spitting distance of our new abode, the only others being a large house that the owners use very infrequently at weekends and holidays which is next to a long low ex-mill building that has been converted into an amazing holiday cottage, sold just before we moved by Parisian owners, who seemed to have integrated better than most Parisians.  Generally, the Parisian’s are the butt of many a French joke, in much the same way as the English are prone to talk about the Irish, the only difference being the French mean it and usually accompany the “joke” with a angry spit.  It’s supposedly so bad that Parisians would, when car registration numbers identified the area the owner came from, register their cars in the area of their holiday home to avoid being run off the road!!   The new owners are also apparently Parisian, so we’ll have to wait and see.  Then, about a three minute walk past these houses, there’s a somewhat untidy farm which is actually in the next commune, the river being the boundary, and the owners of this we know nothing about.  But, just past this and back over the river so back in our commune is one final “nearby” house, owned by good English friends, previously Lancastrians, although I suppose still Lancastrians through and through – you just have to hear them talk!!  That’s fine by me but the wrong side of the Pennines for Linda!!!  But it certainly leads to some good banter and as they are rugby fans, but as far as I’m concerned the wrong “code” that adds to the repartee!! 

And, as they say “That’s All Folks!!” or should that be “That’s All of the Folks!!” – well at least for the time being as a new house has just been granted planning permission and been marked out ready for the diggers!  It’s situated just above the two rows of houses and along a bit, a reasonable size for a family, so some young blood may be on the way!!               

Pour le poisson, c’est necessaire la rivière,

or indeed ...... Se prendre le chou

Paul our neighbour teased me the other day when I was sitting out at the front cleaning some window fittings to recycle them.  No, it wasn’t the recycling, it wasn’t the fact that as soon as the sun shines, we’re outside eating often when the locals are done up in hats, scarves and thick jumpers and it wasn’t the knobbly knees we expose when we sit outside in the sunshine dining al fresco, or as Paul et al think al arctic!  But I was hurt and somewhat taken not only aback but also by surprise, although it made a change from the normal greetings and exchanges about the weather – yes I know stereotypically it’s the English who talk about nothing but the weather, but with the French, particularly in rural farming communities, it seems quite a popular topic of conversation and has certainly helped us to get away from simple hellos and good-byes!

No, I was sitting outside scrapping the old paint off these window fittings, admittedly wrapped up in an extra fleece as it was quite early and the bright sunshine still had not got much warmth in it, so quite prepared for a cheery hello, isn’t the wind cold today and to think a couple of weeks ago you could sit outside for dejeuner et dinner!, well if you can’t beat them laugh with them!!  When Paul suddenly pointed at our remorque (trailer) which is currently parked on the terrace at the front of the house as we have started the long haul of clearing Roger’s Retreat, our thousand square metres of virgin jungle, well at least head high and higher brambles and wild roses with the biggest thorns I have ever encountered and ever had to remove from various parts of my anatomy.  When you take a slasher, the correct and recognised (except by google spell check!) term for a long handled billhook-like implement, which is fantastic for bramble bashing from a far, when the brambles and wild roses have grown rampant and unchecked for many a year and are several metres long, they have a nasty habit of creeping up behind you and going for the posterior!

But, back to the remorque, having heard a number of recent stories about a growing number of thefts of garden implements such as débroussailleuses (brushcutters) and tronçonneuses (chain saws) – French gardening can be somewhat difficult and I mean the language not the digging, planting and weeding (creusement, plantation et le désherbage)!!, I decided that like French men the world over, well certainly in France, I would be bereft and totally at a loss if my trailer were to go missing!  I suppose it would save lots of work as we wouldn’t have to keep going backwards and forwards to the déchetterie or tip!, but no doubt we would end up borrowing a friends or using the insurance money to replace it, both causing more hassle than simply safeguarding our present trailer.  Consequently, I had it chained to a substantial post with a heavy duty lock and chain, and it was this that was causing the mirth and merriment than I was taking so personally!!  Here perhaps I should explain that Paul has extensive sheds and outhouses along the track from their house all open fronted and full of tools, although the more expensive items such as the débroussailleuse are locked away at night even if often lying around in various parts of the smallholding during the day.  He found it quite hilarious that I had locked up the trailer and I suppose that as trailers (and little white vans) are really extensions of the male assemblage and as such untouchable by other males perhaps it was a little over the top.  In a weak and perhaps unpatriotic (albeit true) attempt to save face I said that it was necessary in Angleterre, to which I think he responded and I possibly concurred that England is full of thieving ... voleurs.  I would have gone on and blamed the recession, the government, the media, unemployment, the breakdown of society and family values – indeed the “big” lack of “society” and also corrected his misconception that everyone in England is a thieving voleur (actually it doesn’t mean what some of you are no doubt thinking, it means robber!!), but at this point overcome by his cruel onslaught and feeling very distressed, my French vocab let me down!!!!

However, not one to hold a grudge, a couple of days later, I saw Paul walking up the track outside his outbuildings carrying his fishing rod, which he proceeded to cast along the track and to play with the line.  I think the visitors we had for tea were somewhat bemused when I said I needed to go and put Paul right, they know just how limited my French remains!  But, I quickly strode across to where he was fishing and called his name; he turned around perhaps surprised at my boldness at instigating a conversation when there was little “weather” to comment on, at which point I simply said “Paul, pour le poisson, c’est nécessaire la rivière” indicating the distant water course at the bottom of the hill!  Fortunately, he understood and turned around with the twinkle that is usually evident in his eye and answered with a bemused “Oh, really!”

I returned to our terrace and after having discretely punched and air and uttered “touché,” I then had to explain my bizarre behaviour to our tea drinking visitors, but at least felt a certain amount of honour was restored!!

Oh, and se prendre le chou (taking the cabbage) along the lines of taking the mickey, which I read in Connexions, an English language French newspaper, the day after this was written!!   In this article it explains that being a race of jardiniers, each with their amazing potagers, and as the article says “many everyday expressions have their roots in the vegetable plot(!)” , there’s even a new book by Julie Amerlynck called Phraséologie Potogère – Vegetable Phraseology!     

Just a quickie tonight!

A couple of nights ago was a two French letter night.  No, I’m not even going there, however much I hear you saying “Oh, go on .....!!”

No, these were of the written variety and two very different letters they were too!  The first was to the company that recently fitted our new “mini-station” fosse septique, or septic tank to those of you not in the know!  The ins and outs of the fosse, in relation to the salesman (“how you call it ‘sheet’”) and the workings of this new type of system, may follow in another piece, but for tonight I will explain why we came to be writing to the company.

Generally we are delighted with the new compact system that lies hidden under the terrace at the front of our house; the merest hint of a gurgle, during quiet periods, the only clue to what lies below, and we’ll just tell our family and friends, that it’s quite simply a hidden underground stream, springing up where you would least expect it – in reality it’s the aeration that is helping the bacteria to attack and treat the ..... well, how you call it “sheet!”  Somehow, sitting out there in the warm spring sunshine enjoying a glass of wine, the more romantic notion of the underground stream is more appealing!

Well, apart from the slight delay due to inclement weather, first rain and then snow, the ordering and installation went very well.  We had a reasonable, albeit “bread and water for the next year” quote and knew from the outset that it was likely that once they started digging they would hit rock and need to call in the rental services of “Le Pic,” which at the time I thought would come in the shape of a large and noisy JCB with pick attachment, enough to rock the very foundations of the house, as the five cubic metre hole was to be dug within a couple of metres of the house!   However, initial progress with their own mini-digger and scoops was quite encouraging, and the chasm opened up before our very eyes, and indeed before our very front wall of the house!!  But, just as we thought we might get away without “Le Pic” which I forgot to tell you comes in at the staggering price of €520 plus tax for a day, at eighty centimetres they reached the solid granite bedrock on which our house is built, obviously by a very wise little piggy!! So, it was on the phone for “Le Pic” which duly arrived at about 3.00 p.m. and could be heard growling its way down the road from some distance!  It was almost a disappointment when it became obvious that the low-loader, enormous lorry was the growling bit, and there dwarfed in the middle of the low-loader trailer was another mini-digger, the same size as the that we already had gracing the terrace, but lying ominously on the trailer, in front of the mini-digger was the “business part” the revered, spoken about in whispers, “pic” attachment, which was soon put to work.

By just after lunch the following day, “Le Pic” had done its work and was ready to collect.  Imagine then our dismay to be told that as “le Pic” had been with us on two days, the rental charge would be TWO DAYS - €1040 PLUS TAX!!  Well, something of an argument ensued and finally we reluctantly agreed to pay for a day and a half on the promise that the salesman would go back to the firm and plead our case.  Having heard nothing for just over a week, a letter was needed if only to express our disappointment at having to pay so much for nothing, due to inefficiency on behalf of the company.  To date the letter appears to have fallen on deaf ears, much as we expected it would, but at least it made us feel better and it is left that although we would recommend the system to others, we would warn prospective buyers to be careful of “hidden” and unfair costs!!  I guess they might not be sending any prospectives to see us!!  

The second letter was altogether a more pleasant one to write and in fairness I suppose it was really a card.  Those of you who visited us at La Loge, may well have met Mickaël, the local farmer’s youngest son, who turned 40 on the second summer we were there and seemed to have possibly been left on the shelf – his brother and sister both married with families, incidentally three girls apiece, settled down in modern houses on the edge of the farm and Mickaël seemed to have a flat attached to the farm house, and from afar it seemed that he simply worked too hard, at all hours leaving little time for courting!

Well, just before we moved to our new house, Mickaël appeared first with a little girl (about 10) who we didn’t recognise and was introduced as Marie, daughter of a friend.  Then, riding shotgun on the tractor was a little boy (about 7) wearing a mini version of Mickaël’s work boiler suit and who we discovered was called Mathis and was Marie’s brother, and Mmmm... if you notice a pattern emerging, when Mum, Mickaël’s friend arrived riding shotgun, we weren’t surprised to find out her name was Myriam and she spoke a little English which left us in no doubt, but pleasantly surprised, to find out that she was a good friend of Mickaël’s and he had indeed moved in and she was making sure he came home at a reasonable time!

Just after we moved, we were driving down passed La Loge to check the post box, with some local friends in the car, when we turned the corner and came face to face with Mickaël in one of the large farm tractors and instead of the normal friendly wave, he stopped and shot out of the cab and round to the car, excitedly asking us how the move had gone and were we now all settled!  But, there was obviously something else and quickly with the broadest grin imaginable on his face, he told us he was going to be a Papa!, the baby expected in March.  The next time we saw him to speak to, was in early February, he was en famille at a concert of hunting horns in one of the local churches and Myriam was looking very pregnant and on saying not long to go, thinking March was only a couple of weeks away, with feeling she said that the baby wasn’t due until the very end of march, still some weeks away!

Then, a couple of weeks ago we received a birth announcement card in the post, designed by Marie et Mathis and welcoming Maélie into the world!, and informing us that Papa and Maman were fous de joie, overjoyed, and Marie and Mathis veillent sur moi, watching over her.  We were honoured and delighted to be included in the happy occasion, the card being sent the day after she was born and quickly sent one of my homemade teddy bear cards welcoming Maélie into the world!

“Oh alright then .....!! To finish just a quickie, to square the circle and let you know that whereas we know them as French letters the French know them as capote anglaise or English hood, although I guess not in evidence in this case!!!