Life in the Middle of Nowhere

Of Trees, Cats and Neanderthals

2008-01-31T18:02:00.000+01:00

Timber

It’s tree pruning and felling season again and over the past month we’ve taken down a lot of wood, cut it, stacked it and shredded the unusable bits. As you might imagine, cutting down sizable trees with a chainsaw is not a risk-free business. For some years I’ve been intending to buy a hard hat but haven’t got round to it. So this year I diligently added ‘hard hat’ to our shopping list. Blow me down but the very next day a tree trunk fell on my head! It’s true! It was quite a small one really but capable of doing a bit of damage. What a pity I hadn’t been to the shops since I wrote ‘hard hat’ on the list. So the damage – a mere scalp wound – was done. But guess what; I’ve got a hard hat now!

Terminator 2 – The Liquid Phase

We’re pleased to report that Maisie has now settled in. She has now realised that this is in fact her house and at the slightest sign of boredom or hunger, one or both of the human occupants will drop everything to attend to her needs. She’s been very gracious in allowing to keep our old bedroom and to get a few hours sleep each night but otherwise she’s a hard taskmistress.

She was quite poorly over Christmas and New Year with a really horrid cold (although this didn’t stop her beating the living daylights out of the Blessèd Virgin Mary on the Christmas tree on a daily basis – a true Protestant our cat. The poor old BVM must have been relieved when she was returned to her box on 6 January. As the photo shows, Maisie ‘helped’ us to take down the decorations).

She spent days sneezing over everybody and everything in sight, a truly organic experience. Eventually she had to have some hideously expensive trips to the vet. Unfortunately, the antibiotics designed to dry her up at the front had the opposite effect at the other end! We preferred the exploding nose to the erupting rear. Happily she’s fine now and utterly adorable (a considerable shock for the previously cat-indifferent Mr A and a huge change from her predecessor).

Gymknacka

Thanks to our local free monthly ‘Creuse News’ we discovered that a new gym has opened in our local town. This, we felt, was really good news.

In England we’d been members of an excellent gym for 10 years or so and we found it great for keeping fit and for managing stress. Although we thought that a gym would be unnecessary here – our outside work keeps us reasonably fit and stress is not exactly present at the same levels as before – we did try the municipal gym a few years ago. This was not a success. Not only were many of the machines in poor repair, some of them could only be used when a member of staff was present. Since this amounted to only about 10 hours a week, that wasn’t much use to us. The final factor was the clientele. All gyms have them, the young male body-builders. You know the type, the mouth-breathers with the ridge over the eyes and the knuckles scraping the ground. Unfortunately, this gym had a preponderance of them and, frankly, they’re a bit off-putting, especially to Mrs A.

The opening of a new, well-equipped gym with a membership comprising mostly homo sapiens sapiens was therefore of some interest, especially to me as I don’t get out much these days. So I took out a month’s trial membership and off I went. I was quite nervous since it’s a good 6 years since I did any serious aerobic exercise but I was pleasantly surprised by how much I could do. I soon returned to a routine of 3 visits per week doing 40 minutes of running, skiing, cycling and rowing per session. And it didn’t take long before this healthy exercise began make its mark. I’m now sitting at home with a calf strain. B*gger!

Of pet shops and Christmas activities

2007-12-17T11:04:00.000+01:00

It’s an Aladdin’s Cave! Since Maisie arrived (see last blog and picture) we’ve found ourselves visiting a shop

which specialises in items for pets. We haven’t had to do that for 20 years are our eyes have been opened. It’s not just the vitamin pills, the food for cats with delicate stomachs, the compounds and formulae to strengthen teeth, the several varieties of special cat-litter. We were absolutely intrigued to find toys (e.g. a ‘cat tree’ which has a little niche for curling-up and sleeping at ground level surmounted by a ‘trunk’ which doubles as a scratching post and which has a viewing platform at its summit) costing upwards of 50 euros and which the cat will almost certainly ignore completely. How can any self-respecting cat be seen out without a designer-labelled collar? Say goodbye to pet halitosis - buy a toothbrush and some toothpaste. (You'll probably also need elastoplast and Savlon if you are going to try to use these on your cat.) Want to stop your dog from destructive chewing? No problem; buy it a large bag of dried pigs ears (honest)! Going away for a few days and don't want your cat to (a) starve and (b) get lonely? Buy an electronic cat-feeder and record a message to be played to the cat each time it eats! But best of all are the clothes for dogs. Ranging from waterproof anoraks in a range of tasteful fabrics and colours to knickers (chastity-belts?) for females in heat, you can fritter away a fortune on haute couture for your little darling. It’s great!

As Christmas approaches, we have engaged in two of our traditional pre-Christmas treats. On Saturday we went to Clermont Ferrand to visit the Christmas market and to have our ‘Office Christmas Lunch’ in our

favourite restaurant. Both were great but the undoubted highlight was the journey. The weather has been VERY cold here recently but we’ve had no snow so far. However, in the high areas we cross between here and

Clermont, they’ve had snow to go with the temperatures. The volcanoes look stunning in the snow. (In case you aren’t aware, if you click on the photos, you can see them at full size.) And it certainly was cold there. As we reached the Col des Goules (970m) at around 10 a.m. it was still only –8°C. That had moderated to a balmy –6°C on our return journey.

Yesterday we went to a local Christmas market, in Moutier d’Ahun. Again it was very cold but we’re not sure even that justified this lady sticking her head up a sheep’s bottom!

TERMINATOR 2

2007-11-30T14:30:00.000+01:00

Some 4 months after the demise of Gin, our cat of 20 years’ standing, a rush of blood to the head has seen us acquire another. Meet Maisie, a real troublemaker if ever we saw one.

We found Maisie at a rescue centre. Apparently, very large numbers of animals are lost or abandoned in this part of France. The rescue centre had 40 or 50 cats, half-a-dozen dogs, three goats, several ducks and a goose, all of which had been rescued. All of the cats were kept indoors and we’ll leave you to imagine the stench.

Because Maisie has spent virtually all her life with all these cats and has come into contact only with the two people who have fed her, it took almost three weeks before she would let us touch her. Prior to that, if we tried to touch her she hid In a cupboard (good) or displayed extremely effective use of her claws (very bad).

Now that she’s discovered the joys of being stroked, she’s become obsessed. There are, however, two drawbacks to this. One, she insists on being stroked under the kitchen table or one of the kitchen chairs. This is a bit inconvenient but bearable. Two, she gets so carried away she almost always farts. This is not at all bearable!

She’s outside now so I’m just off to take the clothes peg off my nose.

Time to Kill and other stuff

2007-10-29T11:56:00.000+01:00

Time to kill

There‘s no doubt about it, when you move to another country there are elements of the local culture which take some getting used to. France, of course, is no exception. Double-parking outside the Boulangerie or the Tabac; not indicating on roundabouts and driving all the way around the outside of them; parking on roundabouts; surly and unhelpful shop assistants; the sudden disappearance - for weeks on end – from supermarket shelves of staple items; the inordinate length of time necessary to complete relatively minor road-works are among many things we’ve had to adjust to since we moved here but, except on bad days, we cope with them quite well now. However, there is one difference in particular that we, well at least Mr A, has not been able to adjust to: NOTHING starts on time.

Take last Friday as an example. We decided we’d go to a concert given by a Ukulele Swing Jazz Band. The concert was advertised to start at 8.30 pm. When did it start? At 9.10 pm. This is quite normal. In fact, our French friends often ask us if we’ve become used to ‘Le petit quart d’heure Creusois’ or ‘Le petit quart d’heure Limousin’ (the little Creuse/Limousin ¼ hour), their way of referring to the fact that nothing starts less than 15 minutes later than advertised. Well the answer, at least in Mr A’s case, is a resounding ‘No!’

Mr A, of course, is a well-known fighter of lost causes, a sort of modern King Canute who is unable to recognise that the considerable force of his will cannot change the ingrained habits of thousands of people. He therefore burns hundreds of calories and raises his blood-pressure pointlessly by fuming when a film starts late because people are still arriving, or when he has to sit in an uncomfortable and stiflingly hot/freezing cold church waiting for a concert to start.

‘Don’t people realise’, he is wont to rant, ‘that as long as they hold up the start for the late-comers, people will never learn to arrive on time?’

And as his words just melt into the air, Mrs A gives a little sigh and wonders how many more times in her life she’ll have to listen to this.

Migrants

They’re off. For the last couple of weeks the cranes have been flying overhead, heading towards North Africa and the Iberian Peninsula. It’s always a wonderful sight but, of course, it heralds the cold days of winter. They’ll be back in February though.

A load of old bull

Mr A and Miss A encountered this fine figure of a Charolais bull when walking recently. Doesn’t he look friendly?

Nuts

Mrs A was amused to find some hazelnuts and nesting material in one of her hiking boots in the barn the other day. We doubt if this little visitor was the culprit but it would have been something equally furry and cute.

A Summer Summary – Not Too Summery!

2007-10-01T10:08:00.000+02:00

I find that more than a month has passed since I last posted. I’ve no idea where the time has gone but here, to catch up, is a little summary of our summer.

June:- In the house the highlight was the replacement of 20 windows with new, wood-framed double glazed units. In the garden, in between spells of rain, we stood and watched all our tomato plants die from blight and listened to the grass growing at a rate of an inch a day. Socially, June is the pinnacle of the choir’s year and we sang in 5 concerts and had the end of year party. Mrs A played the ‘cello in a couple of ‘School of Music’, or ‘Conservatoire’ as we now have to call it, concerts, one of which Mr A attended and thoroughly enjoyed. Our friends Sue and John spent a night here on their mini-tour of France.

July:- In the house, Mrs A started staining the new window-frames. Unfortunately the new backdoor for the kitchen was not made before the factory’s annual closure in August so we had to spend the whole month with a mattress stuck in the gap with the consequent loss of light. In the garden, the wet, cool weather continued to impede the progress of virtually everything. However, we did have the compensation of finding a blackbird nest full of youngsters under the eves of the barn AND we saw two golden orioles flying around in the garden. We often hear these beautiful summer visitors but rarely see them. We also saw a hoopoe when we out in the car one day. We said goodbye to our cat of 20 years when we took her on a one-way trip to the vet. The quality of her life had deteriorated so much it was the kindest thing to do. Socially, we had David and Anne for a week at the beginning of the month and our mothers for fortnight later. Poor David and Anne. They’ve only been once before and had a week of rotten weather in the middle of an otherwise decent summer. This year they had a very patchy week in the middle of a rotten summer. As usual, our mothers had the best weather of the summer, not that that’s saying much.

Aug:- See previous blog.

Sep:- The backdoor is fitted. Whoopee! In the garden, we find that deer are now regular and unwelcome visitors. The garden is now festooned with dead CDs and carrier bags in an attempt to ward them off. We were delighted to find that we have a resident glow-worm. Not much by way of social life but we did have a GREAT week away in the Cévennes. It was sunny, hot and wonderfully relaxing. Discovered that Mrs A will be working again this year. We had mixed feelings about that but it does help us with the dominant issue we’re facing at the moment (see next blog).

There, you're up-to-date. Now watch out for the big stuff in the next posting!

There's nothing like a nice, relaxing holiday...

2007-08-29T12:00:00.000+02:00

We’ve done it again. Ten days after returning from our summer holiday, we’re still suffering from exhaustion. How do we manage so often to come back from holidays even more tired than when we went? Here are a few handy tips.

Make sure that you leave home at a spectacularly stupid time of day. We had to rise at 4 a.m. for this particular holiday. That itself would have worn us out but…

Try to arrange for a particularly long journey to your destination, ideally by a very tiring form of transport. We left the house at 5.30 in the morning. We arrived at our destination at 8.30 p.m. the following day. We passed the 39 intervening hours in a car (20 hours) and on a ferry (19 hours). The ferry, while not bad, was quite old and not

fantastically comfortable. We were a bit nervous when we saw the captain (pictured) but couldn’t find out any more about him. We tried to get some information out of Tom the cabin boy, but he just smiled and said nothing. (This probably means something to older British readers!)

Arrange an itinerary when you arrive which means spending several hours in the car each day, seeing some wonderful sights, but having little time to get out and enjoy them. Make that special by having the driving duties dumped on you without notice, ensuring that you spend hours behind the wheel of a elderly left-hand drive people-carrier on some of the narrowest, drive-on-the-left roads in western Europe.

Best of all, go away with 8 other people with whom you have to spend virtually every minute of every waking hour. To add extra spice, make sure that 3 or 4 of them are completely batty and have an approach to food, organisation, personal space, peace & quiet and share of work during the holiday diametrically opposed to your own.

Finish the holiday with a return journey as punishing as the outward trip. Returning home to find an acre of knee-high grass and horrible cold, wet weather just adds the final touch!

We’ve recently been to Ireland. We went with two French families with whom we are very friendly and with whom we spent a week in Provence last year. These are lovely people who are generous of spirit and mean no-one any harm. However, we did find a fortnight a bit of a strain this time. We travelled in two cars, neither ours, and by Irish Ferries to Roslare and then spent a week in Kerry and a second in Sligo.

In truth, we tried to do far too much sightseeing although there was so much to see that none of us wanted to miss anything. Unfortunately, one of the families lost their nerve about driving on the left so Mr and Mrs A spent too much time observing the scenery from behind the wheel of a car or while navigating.

What a spectacularly beautiful place the west of Ireland is and what a fantastically expensive country it has become. One of our group was expecting to find Ireland unchanged since she last visited, 31 years ago. She was sorely disappointed with respect to prices. (The prices don't seem to have scared away the tourists though. Everywhere was very busy and we were struck by the omnipresence of French people in large numbers.) However, there is still much to enjoy, not least the endless opportunities to drink a pint of Guinness while listening to some excellent diddley-aye music in the pub.

Mrs A and I will definitely go back and when we do, we’ll definitely go ON OUR OWN! In the meantime, we’re having a week away soon to get over it all.

Spoilsports

2007-07-03T10:02:00.000+02:00

Governments eh! What are they like? They just can't seem to cope with the electorate enjoying itself.

Back in the UK, the ban on smoking in public places came into force on Sunday. From 2008, a similar ban will come into force in France. You see what I mean? The wholly innocent pleasures of sitting in a pub, staining the ceiling and your lungs brown and making sure that your clothes and hair, as well as those of all present, reek of smoke are now deemed unacceptable by our over-centralised, po-faced, Governments. As people are wont to say, 'They've done this off their own back. It's the nanny state gone mad. It's all part and parcel of modern life, and, without a doubt, rightly so. It mustn't be allowed to happen in any way, shape or form. At the end of the day, let's hope it's a damp squid.'

Worse than this outrageous attack on people's human right to smoke is the French Government's attempt to make car journeys much less interesting. At present, all private cars have a number-plate on which the final two digits identify the Departement (county) the car comes from. As well as providing a useful tool for quasi academic research, e.g. how many Creusois, the people of our 'middle-of-nowhere' departement, ever widen their horizons by travelling, and of giving you some idea where you are (the majority of the cars you see carry '43'? You're probably somewhere near St Etienne.) it also provides the means for hurling much more inventive abuse at drivers who upset you on the road. 'Stupid berk' (if you'll pardon the rather extreme language) can be replaced by 'Stupid Breton berk' or 'Just what you'd expect from some sun-addled nit-wit from the Côte d'Azur'. I think you'll agree that these more specific forms of words are just so much more cutting.

The official reason for this measure is, unusually for France, to reduce bureaucracy. Currently, if you move from one departement to another you have to re-register the car. This provides loads of jobs, and opportunities to be unthinkingly officious, to the vast army of 'fonctionnaires' (civil servants. Roughly one in four people in work in France work for the Government.) However, I suspect a different motive.

To say that Parisiens are unpopular might be a world record-breaking understatement. Their perceived arrogance and 'flashness' is a constant irritant to those outside the 'Ile de France' region. Believe me, if you thought my examples of the invective which might be directed towards those from St Malo or Nice were shockingly harsh, you should hear some of the stuff hurled at those bearing the tell-tale '75' on their number-plates. The driver of the Twingo parked next to the Scenic registered in the Creuse (above) probably had to wait until dark to return to the car.

From 1 January 2008, the requirement to have the departmental numeric code on the number-plate will be removed for new registrations, although individuals may add the code to the plate if they wish. In her book 'Journey to the South', Annie Hawes notes that in similar circumstances in Italy, voluntary declaration became the norm. The question here is whether Parisiens will volunteer. And if they don't, will everyone without the code on their plates be assumed to be Parisien and have to suffer the consequences? We shall see.

Postman Pat

Cars such as this one are reasonably commonplace in our neck of the woods. Despite what you might expect, they are not electric but diesel-powered. The typical engine size is 400cc and they are slooooow. Sixty kph (40 mph) seems to be about their top speed but since, oddly, many of them seem to be the transport of choice of enormously fat people, they usually only reach those speeds going downhill. I call them 'Postman Pat' cars, not because they are all red - they come in a variety of colours - but because they are not much bigger than the 'Postman Pat' rides kids love in supermarkets.

More Beasties

Further examples of our local wildlife. Note that the shrew is hunting in quite small-calibre gravel. That gives you an idea of how tiny it was.

La Fête de la Musique

2007-06-23T13:53:00.000+02:00

We British call 21st June 'Mid-summer's Day', the French call it the first day of summer. Given the state of the weather over the past 6 or 7 weeks, let's hope it's they, rather than we, who are correct. However, in France 21st June is also the National Music Festival. In virtually every town and commune in the country there are musical events in the streets.

In past years we've taken the up-market option of going to Aix-en-Provence for a few days. Aix has a week of

free events in the streets as well as a top-of-the-range series of musical events for which you have to pay. However, this year for the first time we passed the Fête in our local 'big town'.

Our 'big town' is the Departmental (county) 'capital' but is nevertheless quite small, with a population of 15000. Normally, after 7 in the evening the streets are empty. On Thursday, however, the streets were, by its standards, heaving.

We started at a concert of schoolchildren, supported by a few adults (above). After that, our choir sang for about half-an-hour in the Mairie (town hall). We then set off into town, passing an all-female (students of one of the Lycées or grammar schools) rock group singing in extremely profane English. What was left of my hair curled at the lyrics which, presumably, the French folk of most ages - young children through to grandparents - couldn't understand.

In the market place a group from the local Evagelical Protestant Church was singing Gospel music, surprising many French Roman Catholics who are used to a rather po-faced experience of religion. Further down, outside the inevitable Irish Pub, a Trad Jazz Band was playing swing music to the audience seated on tables outside the pub.

The atmosphere in town was really great and, despite it being a relatively cool evening, apparently the festivities went on into the small hours.

More Creatures - Footnote to our previous post.

Every September/October so far, Mr A has been attacked by some unknown, and unseen, creature which has produced very painful blistering on his ankles and lower legs. Recently, friends have told us that these are almost certainly caused by the 'aoutat', a tiny little critter which is parasitic in nature. Subsequent investigations have revealed that in the UK this monster is called the 'Harvest Tick'. In the US it's the 'chigger.

This horrid creature, only .25mm across has now taken to attacking Mrs A. Although her blisters and level of suffering are, naturally, much less impressive than those of Mr A, they are nevertheless not to be welcomed.

On a different scale, we found this little beastie in the barn the other day. It looked as if something, perhaps an owl?, had dropped it. Could this be one of the mysterious 'things' that scrabble around in our roof?

Springwatch – The Alternative View

2007-06-19T09:57:00.000+02:00

What is it with the animal kingdom? You spend your life being nice to animals – apart from moles, which get all they deserve – and what do they do? I’ll tell you what they do. They go out of their way to wear you down.

Let’s get the moles out of the way first of all (and how I wish we could). Our garden this year is riddled with mole runs. It’s impossible to walk around the garden without sinking, sometimes almost ankle deep, into the turf. OK, that’s hardly the end of the world. It makes maintenance difficult and the molehills make a bit of a mess of the garden but that’s just about bearable. However, when they get in amongst the food crops and/or expensive plants they become a real problem. Consider our poor tomato plants. Tomatoes form a very important crop for us. Not only do they provide a lot of our food in summer, thereby giving us fresh, healthy, chemical-free food on the doorstep as well as reducing our shopping bills, but they also go into pasta sauces, soups etc for the winter. This year, growing them has been a real struggle. The very warm and dry April has been followed by cool and damp weather throughout May and so far in June. Consequently, the poor things are really struggling. However, several have died off completely due to being undermined by mole-runs. This is just the sort of sabotage that we’ve come to expect from the despicable mole and explains our zero-tolerance approach.

What about the other creatures though? Apart from flies, mosquitoes and ants (don’t get me going on ants), we’re nice to everything. We feed the birds in winter, we give carrots and apples to donkeys, we talk to the cows(!), we make a fuss of dogs, we leave wild areas for butterflies, hedgehogs and other creatures. How are we rewarded? We’re rewarded by constant noise and disturbance, that’s how. OK, during the day you expect dogs to bark a bit, but it really would be nice if our local West Highland White didn’t yap almost continuously. Butterflies are very beautiful and interesting, except when they have no difficulty finding the open windows on the way into the house but can’t find a way out. Consequently there are often dozens of them fluttering around the house and scaring Mrs A to distraction.

It’s during the night that we really suffer though. The cattle, especially the bulls, can make a fearful racket in the middle of the night. Owls are always hooting and screeching. Donkeys ee-or regularly. ‘Things’ scrabble around in the roof spaces. The cat has noisy disagreements with pine martens. (On top of that, she knows when we can have a lie-in, or grasse matinée - fat morning - as we call them here. If we have to get up early, she's a quiet as a mouse - not that she'd know what one of those was. However, if we can lie-in, she's screaming outside the window from 6 o'clock onwards.) But in May and June, the pinnacle of noise creation is the dawn chorus. For unreliable sleepers such as yours truly, there’s nothing quite like being awoken at 5 a.m. every day for two months. Hundreds of the little, and not so little, beggars seem to line up just outside our windows to welcome the day, impress the opposite sex, argue about politics or whatever it is they do. It’s just as well I’m a fairly phlegmatic person or I could get quite grumpy about it all.

I’m off to bed while the little swine are reasonably quiet!

The Hole Story, and other bits & pieces

2007-05-29T14:53:00.000+02:00

Although we’re gradually returning things to normal, the house is a tip. Dust is everywhere, ‘things’ are everywhere and it’s all getting a bit too much for us. The reason? We’re in the middle of a series of works designed to improve the thermal efficiency of the house and to make it a little more comfortable in winter.

First, we’ve had the insulation in the roofs improved. However, this is not a question of laying further material in a loft. In our house, the inner sides of the roofs form the ‘ceilings’ in the lounge and in our bedroom. So we’ve had to clear out of those two rooms while the inestimable Pascal and Didier clad the ceilings with another layer of insulation and a ‘tongue-and-groove’ finishing on top. This has resulted in furniture and clothing being scattered throughout the house and a huge quantity of dust being spread everywhere. Fortunately, that part of the work is now finished so we’re gradually reclaiming those rooms.

The second stage is to replace all our characterful, but thermally useless, windows with handmade, double-glazed, wooden-framed units. As part of that work, we have decided to convert a window in the rear wall of the kitchen into a door. To achieve that, Didier’s father-in-law, José, and brother-in-law, Carlos, came around one day and

knocked seven bells out the wall. Unsurprisingly, this has left a charming new aperture which will eventually be filled by a new, double-glazed door. In the meantime, security is provided by external shutters and two mattresses stuffed into the hole.

Bank Holidays

We’ve had four Jours Feriés (Bank Holidays) here this month. I’ve just looked up the weather for these:- 1st May – wet; 8th May (Victory Day) – damp; 17th May (Ascension) – wet; 28th May (Pentecost) – appalling. Thank goodness there are no more for a while.

A Wet Weekend

We’ve just come back from a couple of days in Sarlat in the Dordogne. This is our second visit this year (see blog in January) and, apart from having a break, our main motivation for going was once again to visit a garden. For a relatively dry three hours during what was a shocking weekend meteorologically, we wandered around the fantastic

gardens of Erygnac. After visiting the gardens of Marquessac in January we were quite prepared to be disappointed by Erygnac. We needn’t have worried, they were wonderful and, because of the weather, very quiet.

The countryside, as many of you will know, of the Dordogne is wonderful and we were treated to some wonderful

flying displays by kites swooping over the valleys.

We also treated ourselves to some Perigordian cuisine. Concentrating on duck and goose, this is dangerous territory for those of us with raised levels of cholesterol but with a bit of care we were able to eat very well without, we think, Mr A doing himself any damage.

A Sight for Sore Eyes

Images of Jean-Phillippe Smet are to be found everywhere in France. Wander around any French market and you will see his face staring moodily at you from the backs of T-shirts and leather jackets, both on sale and being worn by middle-aged men. Jean-Phillippe is perhaps the best-loved living Frenchman and has even maintained his popularity while engineering a move to Switzerland to avoid France’s high tax regime. However, as a supporter of little Nicolas Sarkozy, he may yet return.

You‘ve never heard of him? Well possibly his real name is a barrier. He is better known as Johnny Hallyday, the ‘French Elvis’. The durable, 64-year-old M. Hallyday is the most bankable French singer alive as well as being a bit of an actor on the side. He is widely used in advertising campaigns and this ‘two Johnnys for the price of one’

advert clearly shows the benefit of dark glasses. His eyes, it has to be said, are not his best feature.

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité (Again)

Mrs A reported that she was quite appalled by the arrogant behaviour of a schools inspector towards her and a group of experienced primary school teachers she's helping on their training to teach English. She was even more horrified by their subservient attitude towards this pompous twit. However, it wasn't long before we found out why. Apparently these people have the power to transfer teachers anywhere within France. So, you can be nicely settled in the Creuse, with your partner working and your kids happy in school when, out of the blue, you can be ordered to transfer to a banlieu in Paris or a 'difficult' suburb of Marseilles. It's no wonder these inspectors can behave the way they do. Everyone is terrified of upsetting them. Blimey!

Spiders from Mars 2

2007-05-13T17:34:00.000+02:00

Last November I metioned the incredible scenes we'd witnessed in the Charente Maritime. The sky was full of drifting spiders webs which were attaching themselves to people, dogs & cats, cars and, most spectacularly, lying in thick curtains in fields. At the time, this site wouldn't accept the high resolution photographs I'd taken but now it will. So, arachnophobes, here it is.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible

2007-05-07T17:24:00.000+02:00

To the two or three of you who care, our apologies for the month of silence. We really have been extraordinarily busy. Here's a short one to be going on with.

We thought that some of you might like to see this little chap.

He's really lovely, isn't he?

One of the many things we like about living around here is that there are lots of horses in the fields and they're 'proper' horses. They're big, solid, heavy horses (such as the percheron) and each spring there are several foals about. They're gorgeous. However, this is a two-edged story because, sadly, a lot of these horses are reared for meat. Now we know all the old arguments about why not horses if we use cattle as food but nevertheless, for us there is a cultural norm which is mildly offended by the thought of these beasts ending up on the table. And yet, we have to recognise that if it weren't for the meat trade, a lot of these breeds of horse would effectively die out. On the whole, we'd rather they existed, even if we feel uncomfortable about the purpose.

Speaking of little chaps, here's another one.

To no-one's great surprise, Sarkozy romped it. As Irving Berlin wrote in one of his most famous songs, 'There may be trouble ahead'.

Oh, we do like to be beside the seaside

2007-04-12T15:44:00.000+02:00

We spent Easter weekend in Charente Maritime with our friends A & B for the second successive year. (Be careful, A & B, this is in danger of becoming a tradition!) This suits us greatly because not only are we able to spend a wonderfully relaxing, and usually side-splitting, weekend with our friends, we also gain the benefit of attending the main Easter services (Good Friday and Easter) at our Anglican church. These are celebrated in English and there are good old traditional Easter hymns so we get much more out of them than if we went to our local RC church. There is also a more worldly advantage as there is a wine producer in A & B's village who sells a rather good, and remarkably reasonably priced, white wine of which we've become rather fond.

The weather was gorgeous over the weekend and we weren't at all sorry when A & B suggested an outing to La Rochelle. As well as being remarkable beautiful, La Rochelle has one of the best climates in France with more days of sunshine than even the Côte D'Azur.

We weren't let down; the weather there was fantastic. We found, miraculously, a parking space right by the port and, after strolling through the craft market, we ate moules frîtes in the Café Leffe on the waters edge and then had a good stroll around town.

The place was packed and we were able to spend a pleasant half-hour over a drink watching people enjoying the sun, not to mention an ice-cream or two.

As usual we we were royally looked after by A & B and, although we always enjoy getting back to our chateau, we were sorry to leave. We did, however, remember on this occasion to take a photograph of some fun sculpture in one of the towns we pass through on our journey.

The High Chaparral

2007-04-03T16:20:00.000+02:00

Despite repeated attempts throughout history, Britain was never able to conquer France fully or permanently. However, quite recently we British have come up with a cunning plan; we're buying it.

On Friday we completed the purchase of 2900 sq.m. of land from our neighbour, taking our total land holding to about 8000 sq.m.

Our neighbour decided to move home a while ago and since this parcel of her land was both contiguous with and overlooked our existing land, we decided to ask to buy it rather than risk someone moving in next door who wanted to do something on it which destroyed our privacy or tranquility. So, for a small purchase price and a small fortune in the solicitor's fees, we now have the best part of two acres.

Of course, new land means new neighbours, and here they are. It has to be said that their personal hygiene leaves a little to be desired and their conversation, if sparkling by comparison with the cat, is limited. Still, since the Limousin breed is famous for the quality of its meat, we're intending to have them for dinner on occasions.

Of course, new land means a new view and here it is. Our chateau, with the slate roof, is on the right and the view extends over the valley of the Creuse. We're thinking of putting a summer house with a bar up there!

Of course, new land means new work. At the moment our only real plans for it are an orchard and a small arboretum. However, we have to face the fact that 2900 sq.m. of grassland, previously well-manured by the neighbour's horse, is going to give us a maintenance challenge. We're therefore thinking, with degrees of seriousness which vary according to mood and alcohol consumption, of buying or giving free grazing to a few sheep and/or goats and/or a donkey or two. Watch this space.

It's Official! Summer has Gone

2007-03-30T08:44:00.000+02:00

She's back inside again! (See posting of 16 March.) Mind you, this was the scene outside this morning (30 March). Good grief!

A Flying Visit

2007-03-29T09:40:00.000+02:00

When our former boss and good friend Mr DJC invited us to attend a celebration to mark his passing the age of 70, I was really torn. We both very much wanted to attend but, sadly, Mrs A was unable to come with me as her work once more put a crimp in her social life. Right up to the deadline for accepting/declining I blew hot and cold but, in the end, I decided that the opportunities to see Mr & Mrs DJC, as well as some other old friends, and to see our daughter, Miss A, were too good to miss. So, hanging my environmental head in shame, I flew across to England last Friday, returning on Sunday.

What a good choice I made. The journey went without a hitch. I had a lovely time with Miss A (including spending some time, and money, in a genuine London pub drinking genuine Young’s Bitter). I thoroughly enjoyed wandering around my old haunts in West London and re-visiting the campus where I spent 20 years of my working life, marvelling at all the wonderful new buildings my ex-employer has built with the money I (!) so carefully shepherded. I even had time to drive through the village in which we used to live.

The celebration itself was great. I re-encountered several old friends/colleagues – the hosts, Mr DJC and H, of course; Mr PDB and H; Mr JGW and M; Mrs HMN & A; Mrs DC; Mrs EP; Mr CRB and S to mention but a few – and thoroughly enjoyed a warm and friendly 4 hours or so with friends and family of Mr DJC.

Given that my footwear was, from time to time, a subject of comment when I worked at the University, I was quite pleased that no one appeared to notice that I was wearing a very unsuitable pair of worn and grubby brown Dr Marten’s boots. This deeply unfashionable choice of footwear was rather forced upon me. I discovered that morning that the pair of black shoes I had packed in my suitcase was actually one black slip-on (left) and one brown lace-up (right). What an eejit. However, I rather wish I’d worn them now!

Although I was in England but a few hours, the following really made their mark on me:-

How strange the commercial world has become. For reasons too boring to relate, I needed to lay my hands on close to 2000 euros in cash. Imagine my surprise when a fairly sizeable branch of my bank in W. London told me they couldn’t meet my needs but directed me to Marks & Spencer instead. I wandered past ready-made meals, corduroy trousers and bras and knickers (why do I always have Father Ted flashbacks when I do that?) to the travel department where a friendly young man handed over a large pile of notes. In future, will I have to go to NatWest for my socks?

How much money there is sloshing about. I was stunned by the number of people who, in a branch of Tesco near the university at 5pm on a Saturday evening, were buying hundreds of pounds worth of electronic equipment. Flat screen TVs the size of tennis courts were being wheeled out of the shop in their dozens, often being transported to BMWs, Mercs, big 4-wheel drives etc. It all felt very uncomfortable to me.

The new Wembley stadium. From the M1 and North Circular at least, the new stadium looks fantastic, especially at night when the arch is illuminated.

Masticating in public. As in France, a significant proportion of the population seems to be addicted to chewing gum. It may just have been because I was among large numbers of people for the first time for ages but the constant movement of jaws, accompanied by slurping and chomping by those who chew with their mouths open, was really striking. I’m sorry if you are one of the addicts because I have to say I find it nauseating.

The activities of Big Brother. While filling up at a service station near Stansted, I noticed a sign on the fuel pump asking my understanding for the delay in the delivery of fuel. This, it said, was to allow the police’s automatic number-plate recognition system to log my car details before I filled up. Is this for real? Dear me, Tony, what is going on? I fear for our liberty.

It’s Official! Summer is Here.

2007-03-16T10:16:00.000+01:00

For the past 20 years, Mrs A and I have had the dubious privilege of sharing our home with our cat, Gin. She was one of two cats we acquired in 1987. The other, hold your sides to prevent them splitting, we called Tonic.

Tonic was a character. She was intelligent (by cat standards), great fun to have around and always wanting to play. Gin was, from the very first day, frankly, not very nice. When she wanted to be affectionate, she was always just too cloying. When she didn’t want to be affectionate, which mercifully was most of the time, she was just plain bad-tempered. She was always very greedy and prone to yelling loudly when she wanted food, or to be let in or out. She was also a bit thick.

Unfortunately Tonic, being an adventurous creature, decided that playing on the far side of the busy road outside our house of the time was much more fun than staying in our (large) garden. The consequences were as inevitable as they were sad and she was pushing up the daisies before she was 5 years old.

Gin, on the other hand, appears to be indestructible, despite her tendency to walk behind the car when we’re reversing. She is now the human equivalent of about 92 years and, apart from being a bit stiff and wobbly (for which we have to give her tablets: cue much wailing, struggling etc.), deaf and even more stupid than ever, is in fine health. However, her personality has not changed over the years. She now has two modes, ‘bad-tempered’ and ‘asleep’ (and for all we know, she’s bad-tempered while she’s asleep). She has taken to waking us up with loud wailing in the early hours. She can’t really wash herself properly so apart from being a bit sticky and smelly, she can’t rasp out the dead hair in her coat so she looks a bit like a charity shop fur coat. We, of course, have to brush out her coat for her (cue much wailing, struggling etc.). Because she doesn’t move much, and gave up hunting a couple of years ago, her claws never get worn down and we have to cut them (cue much wailing, struggling etc.). All of this means that she’s pretty high maintenance. Whoever reckoned that cats lower your blood pressure obviously never encountered Gin.

Gin can be seen mostly in the three poses in the photographs. First is ‘waiting to be fed’. This takes up about two hours of her day and usually involves quite a lot of prowling around the kitchen when we’re busy. Frequently, therefore, she gets trodden on (cue much….). Second is ‘feeding’. This used to take about 1 minute of her day but she’s a bit slower of late. The third is ‘unconscious’. This is her favourite activity, taking up about 20 hours each day. Not illustrated are ‘yelling’, about 2 hours, and ‘leaving smelly presents’, usually just beside the driver’s door of the car. We’ve no idea how long she spends doing this and don’t wish to know.

What has all this got to do with summer? We’re glad you asked. Well, one remaining aspect of Gin’s personality is that it is well and truly split. Lurking inside that ‘bag of rags’ body are in fact a summer cat and a winter cat. We must say that she does change from one to the other so consistently close to the equinoxes that there must be some mechanism at work inside her. One day it can be sunny and 15°C and she can’t abide being outside. The following day it can be sunny and 15°C and she loves it.

The defining characteristics of the winter cat are that she sits outside the front door screaming to be in. Once in, she lies by the fire and sleeps for hours. Contrast that with the summer cat. That version sits inside the front door screaming to be out. Once out, she lies in the sun and sleeps for hours.

Well, despite what the weather forecasters are telling us about the next week or so, Gin decided a few days ago, about a fortnight before the Vernal Equinox, that she is now a summer cat. No amount of snow and ice will change the firing of the neurons in her walnut-sized brain until around the end of September. So there you are. Enjoy the summer everyone.

Sick as a Parrot

2007-03-03T11:45:00.000+01:00

‘Make God laugh; tell Him your plans.’

This posting was going to be about our much-anticipated trip to Paris. We were going to write all about the wonderfully comfortable, and remarkably cheap, train journey up there; how much we’d enjoyed seeing our old friends M. et Mme. Fudge (http://6eme-etage.blogspot.com) for the first time in five years; the wonderful time we had wandering the streets and sitting on café terraces, watching the world go by; the marvellous restaurants we went to and the fantastic museums we visited.

You’ve guessed by now, haven’t you? We didn’t go. Our non-refundable rail tickets and our (first-night non-refundable) hotel bookings were arranged weeks ago but, sadly, the normally unsinkable Mrs A was laid low by some foul (we hope not fowl) virus.

Mrs A suffers from ‘hay fever’ in February, March and April. I ought to be more precise as a French doctor rebuked her when she said it was hay fever. It is ‘une allergie de la saison’. For a while we were deeply puzzled by what could be causing this. February and early March are, after all, usually deepest winter here. We eventually reached the conclusion that catkins on our numerous hazelnut trees were the villains of the piece. At this time of year we are pruning/coppicing the trees and the catkins give off clouds of pollen as we’re working. This turns Mrs A into one of Kleenex’s biggest customers overnight.

Without wishing to be too graphic, coughing, sneezing, wheezing and nose-running are quite the norm at this time of year so, when Mrs A started feeling very wheezy and suffering from tightness of the chest, we both assumed she needed stronger anti-catkin medicine. We were wrong. It turned out that some hideous virus – which was about as welcome as a rattlesnake in a bran tub - had installed itself and had settled in for a long struggle. Ten days after she returned home from work in the guise of a shivering, quivering, coughing waif she’s a bit better but still struggling to stay upright and awake for more than a couple of hours at a time. For the first four or five days she was sleeping for 19 or more hours a day. Anyone who knows Mrs A will agree that she could never be accused of carrying spare weight but she’s managed to lose about 2½ kg (5 to 6lbs) in a week.

Of course, it’s at times like this that we can rely on the French health service to swing into action and, sure enough, the doctor came up with the goods. After a quick tour of Mrs A’s chesty regions, he pronounced that it was, as we suspected, a virus. He told us he wasn’t going to prescribe antibiotics, as the infection was not bacterial. It is essential for any French doctor to make declarations like this because French people expect to be prescribed antibiotics for every malady, both real and imaginary, known to humankind. He did, however, give Mrs A a prescription with four different items on it and we were staggered to discover that two of the items were paracetamol and cough mixture.

Since for the vast majority of people, 70% of the cost of visits to the doctor and of prescribed drugs is reimbursed by the state (the balance being reimbursed by the private health cover that almost everyone has) we can now see one of the reasons the French health system is so expensive. Why would you buy your own paracetamol and cough syrup if you can get it for free by taking up the time of your GP every time you have a cough or a cold? It also explains one of the reasons that paracetamol and other ‘everyday’ painkillers cost ten times as much here as in the UK. If you don’t pay, you don’t care. (The other reason is that pharmacies have a monopoly on the sale of such items. You can’t drop into the local equivalent of Sainsbury or Tesco and buy cheap aspirin here.)

Still, as long as you've got your elf! (Or a gnome to go to.)

There, I’ve got that off my chest! (If only Mrs A could get the bug off hers.) I bet you wish we’d written about Paris, don’t you?

TIMBER !!!

2007-02-19T11:32:00.000+01:00

Our Sunday afternoon walks over the past few weeks have revealed the impact of the very heavy snowfall of 23/24 January. Apart from numerous power lines which, while still functioning, are touching the ground where they have become detached from their supports, the most obvious feature is the huge number of trees which have been broken by the weight of the snow.

Those of you with a romantic notion of the tranquillity of the countryside might be surprised by how noisy it is in reality. Tractors, bellowing bulls and dogs barking are all part of the (pleasant) cacophony we live with. But in January and February the predominant sound is that of the chainsaw. All over the countryside, wood is being harvested, cut to length and stored. This year, the whole process has been expanded to cope with the huge number of trees that have been brought down or badly damaged by the snow.

In an earlier posting we mentioned that one of our fine old apple trees had lost some big branches in the snow. However, we discovered recently that we had another significant casualty. We have a ‘part-time’ pond with, by extension, a ‘part-time' island in the middle of it. Growing on the island is, or rather was, a gnarled old willow. We noticed that the snow had caused some branches to break but it was only a few days ago that we decided to don the wellies (our spell-check suggests 'willies', 'bellies', 'jellies', 'tellies' and 'weeklies' as options for this exotic and unrecognisable word) and paddle across to see the extent of the damage.

We found that it was done for. Huge cracks extended down the trunks to ground level so it had to go. Cue a day-and-a-half of backbreaking work with the chainsaw. After all the major trunks had been felled, we had to cut them into useful lengths for storing for future use and then drag all the useless wood across the pond and cut them into shorter lengths ready to put on a bonfire. Still we now have quite a decent amount of fuel for winter 2008/9 and the prospect of the tree re-shooting and providing us with more wood in the future. Unfortunately, Mr A now has a sprained body.

HAS SPRING SPRUNG?

The woodpeckers are hammering away at the trees like mad things. This is not a search for food but an effort to attract a mate by demonstrating a very hard head. (Sounds like Newcastle on a Saturday night.) The crocuses are in bloom; bluebell leaves are in evidence; bees and birds are checking out possible nesting sites; the days are warm and smell beautiful; the parsnips we’ve yet to dig up are beginning to shoot again (must get on with that!); the fruit bushes are in bud; hedgehog droppings are in evidence in the garden; the cranes are back. To cap it all though, we came across a field of sheep yesterday with loads of newborn lambs. Ah!

DO THE FRENCH LOVE TO DEMONSTRATE!?

From ‘The Connexion’: In Nantes on New Year's Eve, marchers displaying banners saying ‘No to 2007’ and ‘Now is better’ urged the UN to ‘stop time’s mad race’. As clocks struck midnight, undeterred by the apparent failure of their campaign, the demonstrators simply changed their chants from ‘No to 2007’ to ‘No to 2008’.

We love it here!

Grateful Dead

2007-02-13T11:21:00.000+01:00

One of the popular attractions for tourists in Paris is, believe it or not, a cemetery. This is not just any old cemetery, however. The Père Lachaise cemetery in the 20th arrondissement is, we suppose, Paris’ equivalent of Highgate Cemetery but with several knobs on. Père Lachaise is the final earthly resting place of, amongst others, Edith Piaf, Abelard and Héloïse, Proust, Ingres, Delacroix, Bizet, Balzac and Verdi. The most visited grave is that of Jim Morrison of ‘The Doors’. It’s not unusual to find someone, often a young woman born years after Mr Morrison’s substance abuse assisted death, sobbing by the tomb. The headstone of Oscar Wilde’s tomb, carved by Epstein, is something to see. It’s a winged, naked angel which when erected (apparently that is an appropriate word) it was considered so shocking that the offending member was removed by the cemetery warden and used as a paperweight.

Well, needless to say, we don’t play host to such a range of luminaries in our quiet corner of France. Nevertheless, our cemeteries have a striking style which always causes a reaction from visitors.

Being English, our mental stereotype of a cemetery is the verdant surround of a pretty country church in which headstones of various ages stand, lean or lie on gentle mounds of grass which sometimes, but not always, has a little bowl of flowers at their foot. It therefore came as something of a culture shock for us to encounter our first local cemetery.

Whether it’s just a result of the local (hilly) topography or a conscious cultural statement, the local cemeteries tend to be built on slopes, often quite steep, outside of the town. Grass is only to be seen as a weed growing through the gravel or concrete pathways surrounding the family tombs and graves. The plots themselves, sometimes owned in perpetuity but more often fixed-term tenancies, often have pretty sizeable structures built on top of them. The ‘greenhouse’ structure is the most popular, presumably proving shelter from the rude winter elements. Shelter for whom though? The permanent residents might be thought to be beyond caring. (Mr A has often thought of taking a few seed trays down to the local cemetery in the spring. Mrs A, perhaps wisely, has so far managed to talk him out of this.)

Virtually all graves and tombs are decorated with fake flowers and with photographs and plaques celebrating the favourite pastime or the work of the deceased. (In the accompanying photograph, the person concerned obviously enjoyed hunting.) We understand that placing photographs on graves is soon to be permitted in the UK. A mistake we feel. They all look a bit gruesome here but that’s just our taste and culture we suppose.

All of this ornate, and hideously expensive, celebration of the dead does make us wonder a little. It seems to us inevitable that there will be an element of keeping up with, or outdoing, the neighbours and we do sometimes, in our hard-bitten way, wonder whether the deceased were made as aware in life of how much they were loved as these monuments seemed designed to prove posthumously.

One of our local cemeteries does, however, have a very moving tribute to those from the commune who died in the wars. Many rows of simple crosses stand at the highest point of the cemetery ‘looking out’ over the valley below.

We recently discovered a couple of interesting facts about options for disposing of our mortal remains (long, we hope) in the future. First, with permission from the Mayor, it is possible to be buried on your own premises. This is not too uncommon, certainly in Protestant regions of France, although we feel it might have an adverse effect on the resale value of the house. However, that will be our legatees’ problem, not ours. Second, there are tight rules governing disposal of ashes here. (As France is, at least nominally, a Roman Catholic country, cremation, or ‘incineration’ as it’s known here, is much less common than in Britain.) Apparently, ashes must either be buried in an approved grave plot or interred in a columbarium. They may not be handed to the family for scattering. This rather scuppers Mr A’s intention of having his scattered in the goalmouths at St James’ Park (to ward off away team goals) or, more seriously, on the Northumbrian Coastal Path between Craster and Dunstanburgh. Ah well.

Phew! What an opposite-of-a-scorcher.

2007-01-30T10:28:00.000+01:00

Well, Mrs A did manage to get home safely (see last posting) but reported that the roads and conditions generally were worse in our local town – the departemental ‘Prefecture’ or administrative capital. It did look as if there had been more snow there but the standard of clearing of roads, parking spaces and footpaths was abysmal.

Our post lady, who managed to get through to us 2 or 3 days after the big fall, told us that the attitude and efficiency of the commune is fundamentally important to the quality of road clearing. Our tiny commune (about 175 people) is very good but we are surrounded by others not as effective. So, as Mrs A drove into town, she went from quite good roads here through very poor roads in the next commune and pretty good ones in the one after that, to lousy ones in town.

Temperatures varied quite a bit on her journey too but we can’t blame the communes for that. When she left here the temperature was –10.5°C but she passed through –16°C in some of the more exposed places.

Fortunately our concerns about losing electricity and/or telephone were unfounded. We were very lucky. EDF (Electricité de France, a company which owns a few electricity supply companies in the UK) has come in for a lot criticism for its apparently slow response to the situation. Certainly, people we know were without electricity for at least 3 days; a serious situation in the temperatures we’ve been experiencing.

On our way into town, we pass a small airfield not too far from us and Mrs A reported a larger than usual number of helicopters coming and going last week. We now think we know why. According to the radio, many people in the Limousin and the Auvergne were completely cut off for several days and were having food and other essentials delivered to them by helicopter. What a thankless task that must be! We can hear the housewives now.

“You know, those sheep brains weren’t a patch on the ones I usually buy from our local butcher. The foie gras was rubbish too. I tried to give it to the cat but even she wouldn’t eat it. And don’t get me started on the wine. The Chablis was at completely the wrong temperature and even an Englishman wouldn’t have drunk that claret!”

Well, things are gradually returning to normal. The snow is gradually sublimating and we had a positive, just, daytime temperature yesterday. Much to her disgust, the cat was reintroduced to the outside world last night and the forecast suggests slightly warmer weather over the next few days.

We absolutely love the snow and cold days (as long as they are crisp and clear) but you can have too much of a good thing. It will be nice to recover the normal pattern of our lives.

I must go and cut some wood!

Winter Draws On

2007-01-25T10:58:00.000+01:00

We hear that the south of England has been suffering wintry weather. Ha!

We returned home from our little sojourn in the Dordogne (the subject of our previous posting) feeling reasonably relaxed but relishing neither the return to the daily grind nor the colder weather which were to come.

Mrs A headed off to work on a decidedly chilly Monday morning and Mr A got stuck into the Monday chores, making a mental note that during the afternoon he ought to cut some more wood in case the weather really did become cold. That ambition, sadly, was frustrated when it began to rain after lunch. Cutting wood, which ought to be kept dry, with an electric chainsaw, which MUST be kept dry, is not sensible in such conditions. By the time Mrs A returned home towards 7pm, the rain had turned into sleet.

‘Wouldn’t it be great’ said Mrs A, ‘if we were snowed in tomorrow. I could spend my birthday here instead of at work.’

Imagine our delight when we awoke on Tuesday to a snowy wonderland. About 10cm (4 inches in old money) had fallen over night and it was still snowing. Our drive was clearly impassable, partly because of the depth of the snow and partly because the weight of the snow in the trees was causing branches to bend over, effectively preventing us getting the car out. And, it was still snowing heavily. Delighted, we set about relaxing and deciding what we’d do with our day.

We sat snugly inside, relaxing in front of the fire, while it snowed, and snowed, and snowed. The 10cm grew to 15cm (a sight which caused the cat to announce that she would report us to the authorities if we put her out. Off we trudged to the barn to dig out her long abandoned litter-tray). During the afternoon, we heard a loud crack and turned to look out of the widow just in time to see a huge branch fall from one of our beautiful old apple trees.

Still it snowed, and snowed, and snowed. Another loud crack and down came another branch. Mr A was forced to go outside and beat the telephone wire with a long pole to shake off the huge collar of snow wrapped around it. And still it snowed, and snowed and snowed.

Reports began to flood in on the radio of havoc being caused by the snow. Major roads were closed and huge numbers of people were without electricity and telephone. (Yesterday we bumped into an English couple we know from the next village. They had travelled to Limoges on Tuesday to collect a visitor from the airport. The journey usually takes an hour each way. It took them 3 hours to get there and 8 hours to get home. And the visitor’s flight was cancelled due to the state of the runway!) And still it snowed.

We awoke yesterday to snow lying between 25cm and 30cm deep. Friends who have lived here for decades and who always say that we don’t get the hard winters of the past have told us that they’ve never experienced so much snow in 24 hours. Mercifully, we still have electricity and the ‘phone, although our ‘phone line has become detached from one of its supports and is being held up only by the trees it has become entangled in. Apart from a short walk, we spent all of yesterday clearing our drive of as much snow as we could and of overhanging branches which were bent, or broken, to the ground. We also had to clear a neighbouring road which our damaged and bending trees were blocking. We’ll have plenty of free wood for the future but our supply of cut wood is dwindling.

Mrs A struggled into work this morning. She says the town is a scene of chaos as none of the car parks is cleared so people are parking all over the place. Lorries are stuck on one of the big slopes on the way into town, blocking the road completely. It looks as if I might not see her again until the thaw, predicted for sometime next month!

OK, I’d better post this now before the telephone line gives up the ghost. Wintry weather in southern England: don’t make us laugh!

A Weekend in Ex-Pat Land

2007-01-25T10:16:00.000+01:00

After our agreeable but tiring trip to the UK over Christmas and New Year, Mrs A & I decided to have a weekend away to relax and to celebrate, a few days early, Mrs A’s birthday. Being reasonably centrally located in France we’re not short of choice for venues for short breaks but we decided that to avoid wearing ourselves out even more, we’d go somewhere reasonably local. It really wasn’t too difficult to choose Sarlat in the Dordogne, which is less than three hours away.

Those of you who have holidayed in the Dordogne will almost certainly have visited Sarlat – la – Canéda (to give it its full name) and know that it is a beautiful ancient town. You will know that it is usually heaving with tourists who are taking advantage of its many restaurants and, perhaps, its huge Saturday market. You will also remember that you heard at least as many British and Dutch voices as those of the natives. Well, in deciding to visit on the weekend of 19,20 & 21 January we expected Sarlat to be very different from that experience and in some, if not all, respects it was.

The biggest differences were first, the numbers of people in the town and, second, the numbers of restaurants open for business. By comparison with even the relatively ‘low’ tourist seasons of June and September, let alone the ‘high’ season of July and August, the town was quite deserted. This was wonderful from our point of view as it gave a real opportunity to explore and view the lovely buildings without being constantly barged and pushed. We don’t think that as June and September tourists in the past, we’ve ever been able to appreciate the beauty of the place so much as we did last weekend. On the other hand, the very small number of restaurants that were open for business might have caused us a problem in finding something that suited us. Fortunately, a combination of pre-visit research and a wonderful recommendation by the hotel receptionist led us to two excellent restaurants to enjoy the typical cuisine of the region. This is best described as being a delight for the taste buds and a nightmare for the heart.

To our surprise, however, the proportion of British voices and the size of the Saturday market, which we’d previously assumed was aimed heavily at the tourist influx, weren’t significantly different. The Dordogne is, of course, prime ex-pat land where they probably sell as many copies of the ‘Daily Telegraph’ per head as they do in Surrey, so we encountered quite a few pristinely dressed and coiffed ladies with their cavalry twill and cravat bedecked husbands (Ooh, Mr A. You’re such an inverted snob!) chattering loudly in rich English tones as they did their shopping and sipped their coffees.

We were blessed by very mild, if grey, weather and spent Saturday walking around in shirtsleeves. There were actually quite a few people eating outside at lunchtime on Saturday.

On Saturday afternoon, we ventured out down the River Dordogne, passing through the beautiful La Roque-Gagéac, to visit the magnificent gardens of Marqueyssac. This is one of two or three gardens in the region which are open all the year round and it is well worth a visit. However, as it is the most visited garden in the region, it’s probably best to avoid the busiest months.

A good weekend and a good rest. It set us up nicely for the trial that was to come and which is reported in our next posting.

HAPPY NEW YEAR

2007-01-08T11:46:00.000+01:00

A little late in the day, or should that be year, we wish you all a Happy & Healthy New Year.

We have now returned from our visit to the UK. We spent three weeks visiting family and friends, spending Christmas in the Northeast with both our mothers and our daughter. In geekmans terms, we spent 50 hours (i.e. more than 1 out of every 7 waking hours) at the wheel of the car, driving 3800 km (2375 m) at an average speed of 76 kph (47.5 mph) and achieving 5.5 ltrs/100 km (51.7 mpg). We just knew you would you would be thrilled to learn that. (We spared you a list of the roads we drove on and of the French departements and the English counties we passed through!)

Wonderful though it was to see everyone, it’s not difficult to understand that by the time we got home, we were both very tired and glad to be back. Life is now gradually returning to ‘normal’. Mrs A is back into the swing of work and Mr A is staring gloomily at the long list of things that need to be done.

Before leaving for England, we took the precaution of ordering for our return a ‘Galette des Rois’ (Cake of the Kings) from our favourite patisserie. One of the many fine traditions we enjoy in France is the ‘a cake for every occasion’. While not the world’s most enthusiastic eaters of sweet things, we do enjoy looking at the wonderful confections which appear at certain times of the year. The ‘Galette des Rois’, however, is our major exception. This cake, to celebrate the Christian festival of the Epiphany, is in fact a flattish puff pastry ‘pie’ with a frangipane filling (there are other fillings but there is only the one we’d ever go for) and for us it’s irresistible. However, it does come with two minor problems.

First, the galette traditionally has a ‘fève’ hidden inside it. Those of you who have some French might express a little surprise that a cake’s filling might incorporate a broad bean but, mercifully, ‘une fève’ also means ‘a charm’. The person who finds this charm inside his/her slice receives a cardboard crown to wear for the rest of the day. This, presumably, is to take the mind off the broken tooth!

The second is the size. ‘Galettes des Rois’ come in a number of sizes, the smallest being for two people. Well, we can only say that half the two-person galette sinks us without trace for the remainder of Sunday. This is a food for those who are serious ‘gourmands’. ('Gourmand' is an adjective which means both ‘sweet-toothed’ and ‘greedy’. Both meanings apply to the preceding sentence.) Thank goodness Epiphany only lasts, as far as patissiers and gourmands are concerned, until the end of January.

OK, it’s time to do a thousand sit-ups so I’ll close now. However, before I do, I'll make a plea for your help. It has come to our notice recently that our feeble efforts are being closely monitored by the Poole branch of the spelling police. If you happen to spot any errors, please feel free to tell us so we can correct them before they get picked up by ‘Big Brother/Sister-in-law/Nephew!!

The invasion continues…

2006-12-11T14:01:00.000+01:00

…and other news items

We’ve collected a few snippets of news recently, many from our excellent monthly English-language newspaper ‘The Connexion’, which tickled or otherwise intrigued us. The first four demonstrate that the British invasion of France and the growth of Anglo-Saxon influence continue.

Tour of London

The 2007 Tour de France will start from London. Apparently Ken Livingstone sees this as matching his greener vision for the capital. From London, the competitors will head for Canterbury and then, presumably after donning water wings, for Dunkerque.

You wouldn’t believe your mince pies

The owner of the ‘A La Crème Anglaise’ food shop in the Brittany reports a surprising number of French people buying mince pies – ‘Twigletts’ are also popular. We hope they are not labouring under a misapprehension as ‘mince’ in French means slim. If so, they’re in for a shock next time they get on the scales. What next, we wonder: Shepherds Pies, Russian Spies?

Continuing the Christmas theme, a butcher who supplies turkeys to none other than Delia Smith has begun trading in France. He has encountered a problem he didn’t suffer from in England. Pine Martens appear to like his turkeys as much as Delia does.

President Canute

President Chirac was irritated that in the lead-up to the invasion of Iraq, the 24-hour international news media was dominated by CNN and the BBC which presented to the world an Anglo-Saxon (in Jacques’ mouth that is definitely a swear word) view of the situation. Three years later he has his wish of an international 24-hour news channel which presents a French view of the world. France 24, which broadcasts simultaneously on different channels in French and English, hopes to roll back the tide of influence of those accursed Americans and British. Ha! Having had a quick look at both, we reckon that Al Jazeera English is much the better bet.

How typically British

Doing our bit for the take over by stealth of France, we had five friends around on Saturday night for a traditional British meal. After aperitifs with dry roast nuts, pistachio nuts and chilli-flavoured tortilla chips, we sat them down to a choice of four different Indian dishes, with side dishes and chapattis, followed by a sherry trifle. Pascal, who has very conservative tastes in food, said the trifle was the only English dessert he has enjoyed. Our only failure was that we couldn’t persuade them to drink four or five pints of lager with the curries.

Haven’t you got a gnome to go to?

Limoges appears to have emerged has the HQ of the French Garden Gnome Liberation Front (FNLJ). Owners who discovered that they were gnomeless were left notes saying that due to the heat wave the gnomes needed fresh air. Seventy-nine of these little people were found on a riverbank, 86 in a school playground and more were found beside a swimming pool.

Our suspicions confirmed.

We heard on the radio that researchers have discovered that cats can suffer from a form of dementia very similar to Alzheimer’s disease. We could have told them that.

Seasons Greetings

This will be our last blog of 2006 so we would like to take this opportunity to wish our millions of readers a Happy Christmas and a Fruitful and Healthy New Year.

Back on the treadmill

2006-12-07T10:55:00.000+01:00

Reference has been made in two previous blogs to Mrs A having found a job. It’s now time to report a little more on this.

When we first decided to come across here, Mrs A had two concerns. The first was that, still being young and having enjoyed her work, she would miss being gainfully employed. The second was that, bless her, she felt sensitive about not making a financial contribution to our life out here. So, shortly after we arrived, she went to the local education department to enquire about the possibility of working as an English Language Assistant in a local school. The response was disappointing, with reference being made to her lack of teaching qualifications and the existence of many qualified French people searching for such positions.

Imagine our surprise when, more than four years later, a friend who works in the education department approached Mrs A and told her that they were short of a language assistant this year and if she could get an application and CV, both in French of course, in within five days, she would stand a good chance. Well, to cut short a long story, two weeks later, without interview, references or training, Mrs A was turned loose on the first of her groups of 8-year-olds!

The job is for 9 months working in 4 schools and a teacher training establishment for 12 hours a week. Once preparation, travelling and ‘dead time’ between lessons are taken into account, that expands to around 30 hours.

For the most part, Mrs A quite enjoys working with the children although each class has a few children, boys of course, who present challenges to the maintenance of discipline. It has to be said, though, that Mrs A, once so concerned about missing work, now finds that being tied to other peoples timescales and prioirities is an infringement of her personal liberty. It seems that after nearly five years, Mrs A’s strong work ethic is now firmly directed to the home and to our voluntary work. Now that’s what I call a positive change!

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité

2006-11-17T11:23:00.000+01:00

The French people and the French State are, for the most part, extremely proud of their revolutionary history and the motto of the revolution – Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood – lives on as the motto of France today.

Yesterday the French Socialist Party elected Madame Ségolène Royal as its official candidate for next year’s presidential election. The fuss surrounding her candidature over the past year has been, or should have been, a real eye-opener for those who take the ‘equality’ bit of the motto at face value. Comments from old stalwarts in the Socialist Party have included such gems as ‘ if she becomes President, who will look after the children’!

Ok, you might not be too shocked by that. It’s all part of the knock-about of politics isn’t it? Well yes, but the issue goes much deeper than that in French society. As examples, women in France were awarded the right to vote only at the end of the Second World War, 20 years later than in Britain. In France, only 4.5% of company directors are female. In China the figure is 20%. The Assemblée Nationale (the National Parliament has only 71 female representatives out of a total of 577. In a league table of female inclusion in national politics, France lies 74th in world, behind – and this is truly staggering – Iraq and Afghanistan.

And yet, the people we talk to seem quite unconcerned about this. One intelligent, and ambitious young woman we know, when faced with the comment about who will look after the children said that they had a point. Our local education department has been full of anxiety recently because the old boss is leaving. There’s nothing unusual in that until you hear that most of the anxiety has arisen because the new boss is female. And when you hear that most of the anxiety has come from female employees, what can you say?

Of course, the lack of gender equality in the workplace, in the boardroom and in politics is only one manifestation of a questionable commitment to equality. There are many other serious examples surrounding ethnicity, the ruling classes etc. However, I quite liked a relatively trivial one we encountered recently. When Mrs A was applying for her job, she was advised that because she was writing to ‘the big boss’, she should sign off ‘With profound respect’. Dear oh dear. I guess if he – and it will be a ‘he’ - enters the room you are expected to prostrate yourself.

Howay Ségo!

Spiders from Mars…

2006-11-06T11:42:00.000+01:00

… and other ‘petites choses’

Toussaint

The Christian Festival of All Saints (1 November) is big news for chrysanthemum producers. The tradition in France is that on this day, or the nearest Sunday, everyone buys chrysanthemums and places them on the family tomb. For many, of course, this involves a lengthy journey from their current place of residence to their family roots. It also means that for days beforehand you can’t move in shops and markets for great pots full of chrysanths.

Toussaint is also a ‘jour ferié’ (bank holiday) and the point at which the schools have half-term.

Spiders from Mars

We decided to spend part of the half-term in the Charente Maritime. We were able to do this thanks to our friends A & B who kindly allowed us to use their holiday home for a few days. The weather was fantastic and unseasonably warm – 28°C in the lovely town of Saintes on the afternoon of 27th October – and we were fascinated to find that the air was full of drifting spiders webs, some carrying small spiders. These were sticking to cars, trees and, most irritatingly, people. How we smiled when we saw an immaculately dressed, made-up and coiffed lady pass by, streaming behind her long webs. Smiled, that is, until we realised we were doing the same. By the Sunday, whole fields were covered in webs. It really was a spooky sight. (Unfortunately, we were so excited by all this that all the photos we took were too high resolution for this site so you’ll just have to take our word for it.)

Bucking the trend

One reason we wanted to go to the Charente was that it provided an opportunity to visit our nearest Anglican Church community. On Sunday 29th there was a special service for those recently bereaved and, as that applies to us, we wanted to be there. The service was wonderful and we were glad to have had the opportunity.

We are used to reading about declining church attendance in Britain and in France too. This English-speaking church is definitely bucking the trend. About 10 years ago, an English couple who had retired to France began holding house groups for about 10 similarly-minded friends. The demand grew to a point where about 5 years ago they approached the Intercontinental Church Society and asked it to provide a Chaplain (to be funded entirely by the congregation). Regular attenders now number towards 300 and the Chaplaincy, which has expanded its territory into the Vendée, has trained 2 people for the priesthood and has more in the pipeline. Remarkable!

Currying Favour

The Charente area has a very large number of British residents and holiday home areas. We therefore weren’t too surprised to come across a sizeable shop in Saintes selling lots of things the British seem to miss like the dark chocolate Bounty, curry pastes and Ruddles County. We were a little more surprised to find on a market an Englishman selling his home-baked cakes and another selling curries.

Extreme Music

Mrs A is searching for a music-related injuries clinic. She has developed tendonitis from over-vigorous bowing of her ‘cello. (It’s true.)

What a Beemer!
An Englishman recorded travelling at 225 kph (140mph) on our local motorway (speed limit 130 kph) has had his new, 100,000 euro BMW M5 confiscated by the Courts. He was said to have dissolved into tears when he heard the verdict. Who thinks the French have lax rules of the road?

Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness

2006-10-24T09:30:00.000+02:00

We love autumn here. Despite the attractions of hot, sunny summers, of cold and crisp winters with real snow and of spring bringing back life just when we think winter, for all its charms, is going on a bit too long, autumn is probably our favourite season. Normally the weather is quite soft and, because of the millions of trees around here, most of them in mixed woodland, the autumn colours are stunning.

This year, as elsewhere in Western Europe, autumn is unseasonably warm (although our weather data suggests that last October will have been warmer) and the garden is reflecting that. Roses are still flowering, the fruit bushes are covered in big, fat buds and we’re still getting a very decent daily crop of strawberries and raspberries.

One of our favourite events, a plant sale at a local arboretum, occurs each autumn. The plant sale is particularly attractive as it provides a range of plants difficult to find elsewhere. There is a world of difference between the approaches to gardening in France and Britain. While British gardeners tend towards a wide variety and large number of plants in the garden, the French seem to prefer lawns with carefully placed single trees or shrubs. The variety of flowers in a French garden is very limited. So it is that when we visit the sole local garden centre, there are masses of geraniums, busy lizzies, asters etc. but not much else.

The trip to the plant sale also gives us the opportunity to see the arboretum – a particularly beautiful spot – when the autumn colours are, or should be, at their best. Unfortunately, both this year and last, the unseasonable weather has resulted in the full gamut of colours arriving a little later than normal so we didn’t have high expectations when we set off last Saturday.

We needn’t have worried. There was still sufficient colour around to leave us open-mouthed in admiration and the plant sale was as good as ever. We passed a very enjoyable 3 hours there and left 70 euros poorer but very pleased with our three lovely roses and a wisteria.

Oh yes, that’s another difference between gardening in Britain and France. Plants are very expensive over here.

Smashing Pumpkins

2006-10-19T17:10:00.000+02:00

Sunday was one of a number of days on which we are committed to a programme of music training. This extremely expensive course, 10 euros each for a minimum of four full days with a professional teacher, has two objectives. The first is to improve our breathing and singing techniques and therefore, we hope, our singing. The second is to teach us music theory. It’s great fun, if very tiring, but since it always takes place at the weekend we have to forego other events which clash. This Sunday, for example, we were unable to give our full attention to the Pumpkin Festival in our neighbouring village.

This being an agricultural area, celebration of all things rural is a major part of cultural life. Throughout the year we have many festivals related to agriculture and horticulture. We reported on the Mushroom Festival a couple of weeks ago. Keep your eyes open in the future for our writings on the Apple Festival, the Donkey Festival, the Horse Fair and the Potato Festival to mention just a few.

Being relative newcomers to the area, we had assumed that these fares and festivals were deep-rooted parts of the local heritage. In fact, many of them are no more than 20 years old. It was only a determined attempt by the local authorities to boost the local sense of heritage and, thereby, tourism which led to the establishment of what now seem to be long-standing traditional activities. (If, like me, you have difficulty believing that a Potato Festival provides much of a boost to tourism, watch this space. We’re determined to visit one next year.) So it was that our neighbours in the next commune decided, not more than four or five years ago, to hold an annual Fête de la Citrouille or Pumpkin Festival.

If you’ll allow the expression, pumpkins are big around here. All gardeners worth their salt have an area set aside for them and many village entrances and exits are decorated with pumpkins growing in containers. For the most part they are grown for the table and the varieties are relatively common, divided between those for savoury dishes and those for sweet. But judging by the bewildering variety on display at the Festival, there are enough people around who enjoy growing for show and for fun.

We managed to call in on the way back from our course. The place was heaving and everyone seemed to be having a great time (the French really know how to party). As well as the exhibitions, competitions and decorative displays, there were loads of stalls selling everything from the usual cheap tat (football scarves etc) through pumpkin-related produce (jams, chutneys etc.) to foodstuffs made from snails and from nettles. To ensure the party atmosphere was kept at full pitch, an Oom-pah band was going full tilt.

Although we couldn’t spend as much time there as we’d have wished, we’re really glad we got there.

Rat In Mi Kitchen

2006-10-12T17:10:00.000+02:00

It’s OK. Relax. It’s not true. We just thought that the UB40 song provided a useful headline for today’s topic.

We like our house. We think it is, in property-speak, quite a des. res. The trouble is, so does much of the wildlife around here.

Now don’t get us wrong. We love the wildlife we encounter in the garden and surrounding countryside. It is a constant source of pleasure for us. Consider the salamander (pictured). This rather striking beasty can often be found lurking near the front of the house or in the long grass around the garden. Usually, they are only in evidence at night but it’s always a thrill to come across one.

Lizards abound here. They’re everywhere in the summer and every time we go for a walk we hear them scurrying off into the undergrowth as we approach. They have the most fantastic fights; lizards without a tail or a tail partly re-grown are commonplace and they really must be most remarkably tough and/or stupid as they leap to catch bumble bees for lunch.

Snakes too are reasonably common and Mrs A found three different sorts in the garden in the space of a few days. The first, a sort of grass snake, about 60cm in length and as thick as my thumb, could be found sunbathing by our part-time pond every morning. The second, a variety of aquatic snake, slender with a pink collar and about 30cm long was spotted in a similar place. The third, a viper, was lounging on the drive one day when we returned home.

Pine Martins, a fox and a hare are fairly regular visitors and as long as, in the case of the last of these, they don’t eat our vegetables, they’re most welcome.

However, where we draw the line is when those creatures which belong outside decide they want to share the house with us. Every year we find ourselves fighting battles against ants which, despite making no contribution whatsoever to the household budget, decide that regular access to all floors, even to the point this year of building a nest inside the house, is theirs by right. In our first couple of years here we had to take firm action to prevent first bees, then wasps and then bats (pictured) setting up home in various parts of the house.

At the moment, as far as we know, all is secure. However, we are suffering a related problem. The inner-skin of our roof is made of compressed polystyrene sheets (which form both the insulation and the sloping ceiling in our bedroom and the lounge) and the gap between it and the outer skin, the slates on the roof, has become a nocturnal playground for ‘Things’. This, we hardly need say, is not conducive to lengthy, untroubled sleep so we’re both a bit bleary eyed at the moment.

We can’t be entirely sure but we suspect these ‘Things’ are the very cute but incredibly pestilential ‘Loirs’, also know as the Edible Dormouse or Glis Glis. We can’t be sure because there is no way we can see them. However, given their reputation for eating through most materials, we expect one to be dropping in on us very soon. Now that will disturb our sleep!

Marsh Mellow

2006-10-09T11:20:00.000+02:00

Mrs A has got a job (of which more at another time) and therefore, naturellement, needed to go shopping for clothes. Unfortunately our local town, the largest in our Departement, is sadly deficient in clothes shops to suit Mrs A’s style. So whenever we need to go looking for clothes we have to decide which town to visit. The largest shopping centres within easy reach are Limoges and Clermont Ferrand but on this occasion we opted to go to Bourges, the ‘capital’ of the Departement of Cher and of the area traditionally known as Berry.

One of our reasons for choosing Bourges was that it has an area, Le Marais (the Marsh), that we have wanted to visit for some time. Well, what a good decision that was!

Unlike the fascinating district of the same name in Paris, the Marais in Bourges is still a large wetland. True the rivers which have created the marsh are now channelled and controlled but, to our eyes at least, despite this management and shaping of nature, the area is absolutely beautiful, overlooked as it is by Bourges’ imposing cathedral.

The almost 400 hectares of the marais are crammed with gardens which, despite their unusual setting, would be instantly recognisable to Britons as allotments. Virtually all of them were bursting with fruit, vegetables and flowers, had wonderful sheds and sitting areas and, on this Saturday afternoon, were hives of activity. The allotment holders were harvesting, mowing, fertilising, building with the sort of intensity you find on a warm sunny autumn day, all doubtless trying to get everything shipshape before winter.

Gardening in the marais brings a benefit we can only dream about. The gardens are surrounded by water. The rivers and channels give a year-round supply that must be the envy of all other gardeners in central France. However those very waterways create their own issues, not least that many of the gardens are accessible only by punt. Not only does produce have to be brought out of the gardens by boat but, of course, lawnmowers, water butts, sheds etc all have to be taken over that way too.

The whole visit was immensely uplifting for us both and we will definitely revisit. And, to complete the success of the day, Mrs A’s shopping expedition was successful too!

And Now For Something Completely Different.

We have to smile. It’s only a matter of a few months since some Home Secretary or another (Dr John Reid, the scariest man in Britain, we suspect) was boasting that Labour was locking up more people than Michael Howard (his predecessor as Scariest…) ever did. (Surely that’s an admission of failure, not success.) Now he’s got nowhere to put them all. What were those slogans? ‘Tough on crime and the causes of crime’ and ‘Joined up Government’. Don’t you just love politicians?

A Fête Worse Than Death…

2006-10-02T11:29:00.000+02:00

…or one which saves your life?

Yesterday we visited the annual Fête Mycologique at a nearby town and, as before, it was a fascinating, if scary, experience.

Mushroom gathering is a big part of the culture around here, as indeed is collecting any free food. For several weeks from early October the fields and woods are populated with people searching for mushrooms and signs appear at the roadside advertising mushrooms bought and sold.

It’s simply not done to ask people where they find their mushrooms. The best sites are closely guarded secrets, often passed down from generation to generation, and enquiry is never accepted as just casual interest.

So far we’ve talked vaguely about ‘mushrooms’ and that’s perhaps not surprising from a pair of English people brought up in urban environments. For us there were always two types of fungi, mushrooms and toadstools. Mushrooms were those white-topped, pink-gilled field mushrooms which are widely available in shops and were definitely edible. Everything else was a toadstool and, if not poisonous, was definitely not considered to be eating material. Being told that puffballs, for example, were delicious and safe impressed us not one jot. Since we moved here, of course, we have discovered a vast number of fungi are both edible and delicious, if you know what you’re doing. And therein lies our difficulty.

Our first attempt at mushroom hunting was not, we must confess, crowned with success. Our guide inspected our basket at the end of the morning and pronounced, with much ooh la la-ing, that the whole lot had to be thrown away and that we must wash our hands thoroughly before putting them near our mouths or touching anything we were going to eat. Apparently those delicate, harmless-looking beauties we had collected were a deadly form of Amanite. But did we let this destroy our confidence? Of course we did.

The Fête Mycologique displays a bewildering number of different mushrooms, some of which are delicious, some OK, some not nice to eat, some indigestible, some poisonous and some deadly. And the trouble is that some in the first category can easily be confused with those in the last two categories. Even the names don’t help. The black and sinister ‘Trompette-de-la-Mort’ (Trumpet of Death) is delicious and safe as houses.

Although French country folk are reasonably adept at sorting the good mushroom from the bad (although many of them just learn to identify a handful of safe varieties and pick nothing but them) accidents can and do happen. That is why, at this time of year, pharmacies display large posters giving information to help identify mushrooms and, if you ask, the pharmacist will examine specimens you’ve collected and rule them safe or not.

We now have sufficient confidence that we can definitely identify one safe variety that we picked some yesterday and had a delicious mushroom omelette for dinner. We feel really proud of ourselves.

Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better finish now. I’ve been suffering from a very queasy stomach all morning and now I’m developing double vision. I’d better just call into the bathroom, assuming Mrs A isn’t still in there.

Bad Language

2006-09-29T14:16:00.000+02:00

We have to be honest. When we came over here to live in 2002, we over-estimated, by a considerable margin, our abilities with the French language. True, we had both done a year on a fairly intensive conversation course with the Alliance Française in 1990 but thereafter we had limited our use of French to holidays. It has to be said that sailing through three our four weeks of holiday each year, when the most complicated thing you have to do is order two beers, is no preparation for the demands of living here.

Imagine the things you have to do in the course of your life wherever you live. These will probably include shopping; getting your car repaired; dealing with your bank; responding to the demands of the Inland Revenue and your local authority; explaining your needs to builders, plumbers and electricians and trying to understand their explanations as to why it’s not as easy as that; visiting the doctor and the dentist; ‘phoning your ISP help-line to seek assistance from some spotty teenager who understands IT but not people. Now, think about the French or Spanish or German you learned at school and imagine how you’d cope.

By comparison with many of the British people we encounter, we were pretty well fixed when we arrived. We never cease to be amazed by the number of people who come out here to make their permanent home – and it must be noted that this is not Paris or Lyon where you stand a good chance of finding French people only too pleased to speak to you in English. This is deep, rural France where almost no-one speaks a foreign language - without a word of French and without any intention of learning. Leaving aside the communication needs listed above, isn’t it polite to try to speak to the native inhabitants in their own language? And bless them, they love it when you do, no matter how badly you do it.

Well of course our French has improved greatly since we came here and we both claim to think in French now. No longer do we stand outside a shop rehearsing what we’re going to say before entering, although sometimes we wish we had. But there is a downside to this. We find that increasingly we’re losing our English vocabulary faster than we’re replacing it with the French. So now we find ourselves struggling to communicate in not one language but two.

Right, I’d better go down to that room where the cooker is and switch on the thing that boils water so we can have a nice container of tea. Arrivederci.

Daily Bread

2006-09-25T15:30:00.000+02:00

Think about France and sooner or later you visualize the baguette. Like hoopy T-shirts, twirly moustaches and Gauloise cigarettes, the baguette is an icon of French life.

Let’s face it, the French eat a lot of bread and it is a very important aspect of French life. There are even laws governing bread and baking. For example, there is a law which states that fresh bread must be available for purchase in every commune (roughly the equivalent of a parish) a certain number of days each week. A further law requires that each boulangerie must close for at least one day each week.

The baguette (with its bigger siblings) represents only one of the many sorts of bread widely available in France. Pain de Campagne (a coarser white bread), Pain de Seigle (rye), Pain au Cinq (or six or dix) Céréales, Pain Complet (wholemeal) are only some of the bread varieties, which come in a dizzying number of shapes and sizes, available in most boulangeries. If in your country you’re used to buying your bread from the supermarket where you live, or if you buy one of the mass-produced national brands, you may have slipped into thinking that bread is homogenous, that wholemeal bread is more or less the same wherever you buy it, that one baker’s white loaf is much like another’s. Not a bit of it. There is a noticeable difference in the ouput of different boulangers and each attracts his fiercely loyal customers as well as vehement critics.

Sadly, the availability of much cheaper bread in supermarkets, together with the reluctance of younger people to opt for a career which involves rising in the small hours of the morning six days each week and working until mid-afternoon, means that the number of boulangeries falls each year. To fulfil the law governing the availability of bread, communes have to arrange for mobile bread shops to visit several times a week or for bread to be delivered to a Depot such as the local bar.

Of course, the French aren’t the only bread fanatics in the world. I’m reminded that the Welsh are so obsessed with the output of one baker that they sing a song about it at virtually every rugby international. You may have heard it :

Bread of Evans
Bread of Evans
Feed me ‘til I want no more…..

Well I must finish now. I’ve got to bake a loaf in the bread machine!

A Shared Obsession

2006-09-21T17:07:00.000+02:00

It’s been quite wet here recently: 44mm of rain fell during one particularly moist 24-hour period last Thursday/Friday.

I write this not because I think you will have any particular interest in the climatic conditions in our part of the Limousin at the end of the second week in September. Rather, it’s because I am British and obsessed by the weather, unlike our French neighbours. Right? Wrong!

Before leaving the UK for France at the beginning of 2002, we believed that the weather was a peculiarly British obsession. In the UK we are always telling ourselves that we usually open any casual conversation with comments about the weather and that we are unusual in that. Certainly, nothing in our many holidays in France had led us to believe that French people are similarly obsessed. In retrospect, it seems likely that because most of our holidays were in southern France, we gained a false impression. After all, on the Côte d’Azur, other than “It’s turned out nice again,” there’s usually not much to say.

We were soon disabused of our misconception when we arrived here. Apart from the language difference, we could be anywhere in Britain when it comes to weather obsession. If casual encounters in the street don’t begin with a commentary of the weather, they soon get there. There are a couple of reasons for this. First, we get a lot of weather here. Summers are hot, winters are cold, very cold, (and long) and rainfall is quite high. Because ours is the first high ground – we’re at an altitude of 431 metres – the moist winds from the Atlantic encounter, we get about a metre (39 inches in old money: think ‘Manchester’) each year. So, generally there is plenty to talk about.

The second reason is the general uselessness of French weather forecasts. Meteo France, in common with much of the French establishment, appears not to recognise the existence of those parts of the country that are not (a) Paris, (b) the major towns like Lyon, Bordeaux and Marseilles or (c) the coast. Add to that the absence of forecasts for the period between midnight and 8 a.m. and the general incompetence of both the forecasters and TV weather presenters and you can imagine that whatever the weather is, it’s a bit of a surprise to everyone around here.

Well, it’s a lovely day so I’d better get out into the garden and do something productive. Of course, according to the Meteo France website it’s currently pouring outside. No wonder we talk about the weather a lot here!

Our Opening Shot

2006-09-14T15:05:00.000+02:00

After years of publishing three or four newsletters a year for friends and family we've now decided to join the information age. In this blog we will share some of our impressions and experiences.

Welcome to Life in the Middle of Nowhere.