Those of you who have struggled along with this blog {if indeed this is a blog} may remember the tale about Jonathan Brock and the W I - well, after that we kept Jonathan quiet for a bit. But the time came when military duties recalled me. The problem arose as to what to do with Jonathan. A 3 parts grown boar badger is a whole nest of problems, particularly if he has upset such an important section of the community as might be represented by the Womens’ Institute: it would not have been possible just to dump him with my family.
Dr Pip provided the answer. Dr Pip was our General Practitioner - a fine old fashioned sort of man, who was also a desperately keen naturalist. Apart from clearing up my spots, he and his young family had become devoted fans of Jonathan Brock. When the provisional wing of the WI had started talking about Jonathan's savagery, Dr Pip talked of nonsense and helped to quieten things down. Thus as the military drum began to beat for me, It was put to me that whilst I was away, Dr Pip and his family would billet Jonathan. My family could heave a sigh of relief and so it came to be.
Above Dr Pip's garage was an old loft, approached by a set of tone steps. Jonathan would climb the steps, pop through the cat flap in the door and retire to his spacious bed room. When the Army set me free from duties to return home, I would put Ginny the terrier in the van and we pop along to Dr Pip's - a couple of miles down the road. If the weather was fine, Jonathan Brock would be lying out in the sun at the top of his steps. The sound of the van would bring him lolloping down the steps to fling himself at me, chattering his welcome. He would then clamber up me still chattering. He would drape himself round my neck and nibble gently at an ear. He was always very gentle and well mannered.
So things continued and I told myself that Jonathan was settled in his new home and I saw no reason why things should not continue as they had started, which just went to show how young and stupid I had become. After all as far as I knew, Jonathan was well settled with the Doc, was doing no harm to anybody. But I had never considered the fact that Jonathan was a wild animal and as such his very existence in a ‘civilised’ village society was regarded by some as a sin and a hissing. It simply was not ‘fitty’ as the locals would say. ‘Not being fitty’ is a terrible social sin in a civilised rural society. The fact that Jonathan was living with local Doctor suggested to many that he had got ‘above his station’ and shouldn’t be allowed. None of this had been informed to me.
The first that I heard of a problem was a letter from my Mother, saying that Jonathan had been very ill and might well not live. On my first chance to get home, I went straight round to Doctor Pip’s to see Jonathan. He was very pleased to see me, but was obviously in a poor way. I asked Dr Pip for his opinion. He reckoned that someone had slipped Jonathan a dose of rat poison. Why would anyone do that to the poor badger? He scratched his head. Human beings can be very strange with things they don’t understand - he said. Jonathan is a tame Badger and how many others do you reckon there are round here?
There were no others that I knew of.
There you are then. He was something that did not fit in. In other words he should not have been about. So some well meaning person thought that Jonathan was not natural and needed levelling up. When I went to see Jonathan on my next visit home, he had been well and truly levelled up and I dug a hole in Dr Pip’s orchard and if I cried when I buried him, it was no one’s fault but mine. I had interfered with the natural rhythm of Jonathan’s life and he had paid the price.
This area of France is heavily wooded and mostly oak woods. These are just coming into their fine multi-coloured, Autumnal magnificence. Oak logs burn well (if they are dry). My friend Didier dumped a trailer load in my yard the other day - and the fire now goes well in the grate. Everywhere you go in rural France you are likely to encounter tractors towing trailer loads of nicely seasoned logs. It was because of this that France never experienced smoke pollution - there was no 'smog'. Even in the towns the traditional oak logs are still burned.
The other day I was out hunting and sitting in a woodland clearing. The trees were on the change and the colours were magnificent. There was a distant chatter of chain saws and a smeech of fragrant smoke from where the twigs were being burned. It was truly lovely day. Hounds were running in a desultory fashion in the wood below.
There was obviously very little scent, but as we have had very little rain for 6 weeks, this was not surprising. What was magnificent was the colours of the dying leaves. I was very content to sit on a log and just let it all sink in. I have always enjoyed just sitting quietly in the woods and watching its life go on around me. A flicker of movement caught my eye and through the oak coppice in front of me a fine Roe Buck moved out into a small clearing, where he stood, his ears twitching at the distant cry of hounds. It would have been a very fair 80 yard shot, but when I came to France I passed on my rifles to the Boy. I hope that he will get as much satisfaction from them, as I did, but that all seems long ago and far away.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Friday, 9 October 2009
Historical
To London last week to inspect the Grandson, who is now 2 years old, with a mop of fiery red hair and the construction of a prop forward. There is a good French word for this - 'Cousteau'. Alex for, such is the child's name, is 'cousteau'. We went by train, because I like trains and the French TGV is an excellent way to travel, as long as it stands still. When it is travelling it hops about a bit. This does not help those who are écloppé, which is what the French insist on calling those who are lame. I am still lame in spite of the fact that everyone insists that I should not be. Anyway, be that as it may, the lameness or whatever it may be makes a train corridor a place of interest and peril. One of the good things about being unsound is that those who run trains and such like things are very helpful with 'assistance' which is the provision of baggage carrying, wheel chairs and such like, so that with Mrs. Poole to carry 'The Spectator' I was trundled happily throughout France and England, except for the occasion at Haywards Heath when a willing but unskilled youth made a determined effort to push me under rather than onto a train on the line for Victoria. I have to say that the French are very good about helping others. On my way back from England, my destination was Poitiers. Poitiers is a big and very busy station. The exit from a train is by steep steps to the platform. There was a wheel chair waiting for me. There was also a mass of people waiting to exit. There was great deal of Gallic enthusiasm. I found myself being bustled backwards down the steps and my lame leg being thrust between an urgent whistle blowing train and the edge of the platform - not really recommended. Another problem with a long sitting journey on a train is that joints can go to sleep. I had got my joint from St Pancras to Lower Sloan Street after 8 hrs on the train. The Joint decided that enough was enough and gave up; dropping me outside the Sloane Club where many kindly persons picked me up, patted me over, dusted me down and eventually guided me into the bar.
I will tell you something else that I did not know until I became lame. This piece of fascinating information is that being lame makes getting in and out of a black cab rather difficult. Yes, I know that they are all 'handicap' friendly and have floors that fold out into a ramp. This is fine, always supposing that (a) it is a model of cab that has been fitted with a ramp (b) that the cabby's partner / driver did not take the tool that opens the ramp to Southend with him and leave it there (c) that the present incumbent is of the obliging nature that does not mind having half his floor taken up and (c+) that the driver is not French and has therefore never heard of providing his passenger with such a totally unheard of and unnecessary luxury (without some extra payment). However, there is an alternative - when your 'andicappé' is struggling trough the cab door Taxi persons can provide physical help by applying a shoulder to the backside and applying a bit of firm forward propulsion and yes, your fare may well collapse in a crumpled heap on the floor, but if you knock a bit off the meter, then the chap may not complain, too much. A pleasant thing about train travel is the time you can spend reading books. Between England and Lille (Europe - return) I got well stuck into Anthony Beever's excellent book on D - Day. I displayed a copy to my friend Claude on my return to France. He assured me that he knew all about it. His family had lived behind Omaha beach and his family had been amongst the 3,000 French civilians who were liberated with extreme prejudice in the struggle. There are some very interesting historical snippets in Mr Beever's book. For instance: it seems that General de Gaulle spent time during the war to writing a book on French Military History that managed to avoid all mention of Waterloo and the fact that Napoleon was absent from the Battle (which as every French child will tell you was a famous French Victory) because he was squatting over a ditch battling with piles - poor chap.
I will tell you something else that I did not know until I became lame. This piece of fascinating information is that being lame makes getting in and out of a black cab rather difficult. Yes, I know that they are all 'handicap' friendly and have floors that fold out into a ramp. This is fine, always supposing that (a) it is a model of cab that has been fitted with a ramp (b) that the cabby's partner / driver did not take the tool that opens the ramp to Southend with him and leave it there (c) that the present incumbent is of the obliging nature that does not mind having half his floor taken up and (c+) that the driver is not French and has therefore never heard of providing his passenger with such a totally unheard of and unnecessary luxury (without some extra payment). However, there is an alternative - when your 'andicappé' is struggling trough the cab door Taxi persons can provide physical help by applying a shoulder to the backside and applying a bit of firm forward propulsion and yes, your fare may well collapse in a crumpled heap on the floor, but if you knock a bit off the meter, then the chap may not complain, too much. A pleasant thing about train travel is the time you can spend reading books. Between England and Lille (Europe - return) I got well stuck into Anthony Beever's excellent book on D - Day. I displayed a copy to my friend Claude on my return to France. He assured me that he knew all about it. His family had lived behind Omaha beach and his family had been amongst the 3,000 French civilians who were liberated with extreme prejudice in the struggle. There are some very interesting historical snippets in Mr Beever's book. For instance: it seems that General de Gaulle spent time during the war to writing a book on French Military History that managed to avoid all mention of Waterloo and the fact that Napoleon was absent from the Battle (which as every French child will tell you was a famous French Victory) because he was squatting over a ditch battling with piles - poor chap.
Saturday, 5 September 2009
Jonathan Brock
I don't know how many of you have heard the collective scream of a Woman's Institute - chills the blood it does. It was Jonathan's fault - bless him - mind you I got blamed as well. Jonathan Brock was a juvenile badger, who had come to live with us. Mind you that was the fault of old Matthews. He had some badgers to shift and had asked me to go with him.
"On no account bring anything back " said my Father who had a deep understanding of my weaknesses. So when we dug out a litter of badger cubs from underneath the Old Roman Road and Old Matthews winked at me and shoved a cub in my coat pocket. I was far too weak to do anything except wink back and that was how Jonathan Brock came to live with us. He was a charming little animal. His great delight was to climb someone and drape himself round their neck, where he would lie chittering and chattering to hmself, whilst he chewed the edge of an ear in a gentle absent minded sort of way - all part of life's rich pattern. The other thing that he enjoyed chewing was a nice pair of bare ankles. He used to have great games with Ginny the terrier, although his temper would fray a bit when he was outdistanced and the chittering would raise to a high level of fury. One day I was walking with the menagerie in the orchard. Ginny had been showing off her swimming in the pond. Suddenly the furious chitterin was cut short by a splash. Jonathan was in the pond and 'splash!' so was Ginny -could he swim? we never found out because Ginny suddebly appeared over the bank carrying a sodden and furious young badger by the scruff of his neck. So, can badgers swim? I still have absolutely no idea. All I can tell you is that sudden and total immersion, plays pop with their temper.
It was about this time that Mum became a Queen Bee in the Women's Institute. I do not remember that this did much for her temper. Sometimes meetings would be held at our house and Dad and I with the dogs would be banished to the kitchen for the afternoon. This was also the time that Jonathan Brock made himself a comfortable sett under the drawing room sofa, where he chose
to pass a 'Secure Hour'or two. So there one afternoon - our peaceful domestic scene was set - the ladies in the Drawing Room with Jam & Jerusalem, Father and I and the dogs eating excellent cake in the kitchen and all was right with the world, But and of course there must be a 'but' amongst this tranquil scene. If you are talking about Jonathan; he was fast asleep under the sofa making gentle ursine snores. It was possibly the gentle swell of conversation that roused him - we shall never know. But roused, he looked around him and saw, under the pelmet at the edge of the sofa - Ankles. No - as these were the ankles of Mrs Blowey and Mrs Truscott - not mere Ankles, these were Ankles - High Case Ankles. Let us suppose that Badgers can lick their lips, these were surely the sort of ankles that a chap should lick his lips over - well fleshed, plump ankles, the sort of ankles that you have to approach in a dream like state, prior to giving them just the slightest and most gentle nibble.
The first scream stirred Dad and I from our chairs and the cake tin.
"My God" said Dad " they're raping the WI - quick!" My initial questions of " Who? and "Why?" were maybe hardly pertinent, but my next of " where's Jonathan??" was right on the nail. Dad and I doubled down the passage to the Drawing Room, or rather, I did; Dad had had a leg shot up at Singapore. But what a sight presented itself at the Scene of Scream. Every WI member was up on a piece of furniture with her skirt wrapped round her legs. They formed a circle, in the circle of which stood Mum. Mum with an oustretched arm from the end of which dangled a furious young badger, who was objecting with fury. The dogs who had come with us, joined in the fun, leaping about and barking loudly. Mother, white with fury, handed me a chattering badger: "Take this!" she said - so I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and Dad and I beat a 'strategic retreat to shorten our lines of commuication'. It seemed that the WI meeting dissolved soon after. They were not best suited and by the same token neither was Mother. I did the only sensible move of the day. I stuck Ginny and Jonathan in the back of the van and we all went for a long therapeutic drive.
"On no account bring anything back " said my Father who had a deep understanding of my weaknesses. So when we dug out a litter of badger cubs from underneath the Old Roman Road and Old Matthews winked at me and shoved a cub in my coat pocket. I was far too weak to do anything except wink back and that was how Jonathan Brock came to live with us. He was a charming little animal. His great delight was to climb someone and drape himself round their neck, where he would lie chittering and chattering to hmself, whilst he chewed the edge of an ear in a gentle absent minded sort of way - all part of life's rich pattern. The other thing that he enjoyed chewing was a nice pair of bare ankles. He used to have great games with Ginny the terrier, although his temper would fray a bit when he was outdistanced and the chittering would raise to a high level of fury. One day I was walking with the menagerie in the orchard. Ginny had been showing off her swimming in the pond. Suddenly the furious chitterin was cut short by a splash. Jonathan was in the pond and 'splash!' so was Ginny -could he swim? we never found out because Ginny suddebly appeared over the bank carrying a sodden and furious young badger by the scruff of his neck. So, can badgers swim? I still have absolutely no idea. All I can tell you is that sudden and total immersion, plays pop with their temper.
It was about this time that Mum became a Queen Bee in the Women's Institute. I do not remember that this did much for her temper. Sometimes meetings would be held at our house and Dad and I with the dogs would be banished to the kitchen for the afternoon. This was also the time that Jonathan Brock made himself a comfortable sett under the drawing room sofa, where he chose
to pass a 'Secure Hour'or two. So there one afternoon - our peaceful domestic scene was set - the ladies in the Drawing Room with Jam & Jerusalem, Father and I and the dogs eating excellent cake in the kitchen and all was right with the world, But and of course there must be a 'but' amongst this tranquil scene. If you are talking about Jonathan; he was fast asleep under the sofa making gentle ursine snores. It was possibly the gentle swell of conversation that roused him - we shall never know. But roused, he looked around him and saw, under the pelmet at the edge of the sofa - Ankles. No - as these were the ankles of Mrs Blowey and Mrs Truscott - not mere Ankles, these were Ankles - High Case Ankles. Let us suppose that Badgers can lick their lips, these were surely the sort of ankles that a chap should lick his lips over - well fleshed, plump ankles, the sort of ankles that you have to approach in a dream like state, prior to giving them just the slightest and most gentle nibble.
The first scream stirred Dad and I from our chairs and the cake tin.
"My God" said Dad " they're raping the WI - quick!" My initial questions of " Who? and "Why?" were maybe hardly pertinent, but my next of " where's Jonathan??" was right on the nail. Dad and I doubled down the passage to the Drawing Room, or rather, I did; Dad had had a leg shot up at Singapore. But what a sight presented itself at the Scene of Scream. Every WI member was up on a piece of furniture with her skirt wrapped round her legs. They formed a circle, in the circle of which stood Mum. Mum with an oustretched arm from the end of which dangled a furious young badger, who was objecting with fury. The dogs who had come with us, joined in the fun, leaping about and barking loudly. Mother, white with fury, handed me a chattering badger: "Take this!" she said - so I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and Dad and I beat a 'strategic retreat to shorten our lines of commuication'. It seemed that the WI meeting dissolved soon after. They were not best suited and by the same token neither was Mother. I did the only sensible move of the day. I stuck Ginny and Jonathan in the back of the van and we all went for a long therapeutic drive.
Who shares my bed
It is a very long time since a dog slept on my bed. The last one was Ginny and that was back in the early fifties. I had been to Ireland to stay with The Captain . He was a famous Olympic horseman and a MFH of renown. He had a huntsman of renown called Harry and, in due course, Harry went on to hunt the hounds himself. He had some very varminty terriers and a litter of the same:‘Would ye ever sell me a pup?” says I
‘God love ye , Sorr’ says Yer Man – “ That’ll be a quid and I’ll put her in box for ye for the boat” Thus began a great love affair between myself and Ginny. I called her Ginny because because that was the name of the Captain’s daughter and for her I had a burnibg adoration and did she not marry an English Lord and me never seeing her again. But I had the dog and she was firmly tied up in a cardboard box and together we set off on the Boat train to Rosslare.
The Rosslare / Fishguard Crossing is not a kind one and both Ginny and I were sick. It was when the Fishguard customs demanded to inspect the box, that I realised just how sick the poor little bitch had been; well, I did tell him not to stick his hand in the box. Mum welcomed the poor little mite and a bowl of warm milk was well received, but when I staggered off to bed, I heard little feet pattering after me. Ginny came and sat by my bed with ears pricked – what to do?
‘ Alley up! ‘ I said and she was sharp up on the bed. When I woke up during the night, there was something warm snuggled up to my feet and there it remained for the rest of its life, or until I went to Ulster for a soldier – then Ginny had to stay behind with the family. I did not worry about her until I got a letter from Mum, to say that the Bitch had not been well. The vet had been and thought that she might be pining a bit. I still did not worry, until I got another letter which I read in a blizzard up in the Sperrin Mountains .– a desolate place for desolate news – Ginny had gone – ‘We had to have the poor little thing put down. She was so ill… ” said Mum. There is one good thing about the storm laden Sperrin mountains – it is such a miserable place that you can go outside and have a weep and no one will take a blind bit of notice.
Time has marched on; since that sad day, I have had many terriers, but none have shared my bed since Ginny – until Pippy came.
Pippy is a Lucas Terrierand and that is a pretty rare breed. There was a certain Sir Jocelyn Lucas ,Bart, MC, MP, a man of many parts, he was a ‘mighty hunter before the Lord’ for one thing and to help him on in his work he kept a pack of Sealyham terriers. You may like to think that Sealyhams are pretty hardened little sinners.
‘Not hardened enough’ cried Sir J and stuck in a dash of Norfolk, or even Norwich terrier [I cannot remember which] which produced a hellish mixture known as a ‘Lucas Terrier’. When I lived in Northumberland, I used to have occasional days with the Tynedale hounds. They had a Terrier Man. I used to like his dogs. They were small stocky dogs, rough haired with prick ears – very alert:
“What’s them, then? “I asked Paul one day
“Why, Sir, them’s Lucas Terriers” says he,without even the shade of a blush.
The next month would be my wife’s birthday. It would also find Mark and me down at the Tynedale kennels collecting a puppy. He had a brown head , a crooked stern and enormous charm. This he displayed when I got him home and he licked my wife’s nose. He was and, thank God, is a splendid little dog. He loves going hunting and with me has walked many miles following the Border Hounds. He has two trigger words. Say ‘Car’ and he has gone to sit by the garage door. Say ‘Basil’ and he is off like a flash to the shed door, because he knows that Basil lives in the shed. Basil may need a bit of explanation. When we thought of France, I rushed out and bought a bicycle. This was rather forward of me, as I had not ridden a bike for some 20 years – not since the days of exercising the hounds. They say that the skill of riding a bike is something you never forget – like many truisms this is a lie. I know that for a fact, because on my refresher course, I fell off 4 times and gave the bike away to a deserving boy. Behind my French home you can travel for miles on gentle roads and meet nothing but an occasional tractor. This would be ideal for keeping any surplus off Pip and myself. We could go for ‘Ballades’ -gentle rambles together. But as they say, first catch your tricycle. This was easier said than done. The French who are big on multi-hued bicycle gear refused even to consider such a ridiculous motion, But eventually I did find a supplier. He was a German who made, at a price, tricycles for the handicapped and if I wasn’t then I am now. A tricycle has poor equilibrium and if you are going too fast down a steep track and hit a large stone, the trike will very likely cowp and so will you. I had not broken a collar bone since I was 10 years old. I did not remember it hurting. I was wrong. In fact, I had many more nasty falls from wheels then I had in 20 years of hunting hounds and I broke things too – a thing that I never used to do out hunting – so I bought myself a fourwheeled cycle which is much more stable and which has things like transport boxes, of which Pippy thoroughly approvesand a small ‘aide electronique’ for the handicapped has which much the same effect as a low box on a quad.
My old friend, Claude, tells me that where we live has the second best climate in France after the Cote d’Azur. That may be but what we do get are humungous storms that whistle in from the Bay of Biscay. We had one the other day – thunder, lightning, wind, rain and all coming it seemed from right over head. It woke me up and I could tell that with all that rattling and banging, there was little chance of more sleep. So I went through to the front of the house to sit in my chair. I found Pip sitting in his chair. He was shivering and quaking with fear. No dogs like thunder, but this storm was too loud and too close. The poor little dog was absolutely terrified. There was only one way at it. I picked him up, took him to the bedroom and plonked him in the middle of the bed. He lay between us for the rest of the night and there he lies every night. We may not have thunder every night, but we do have Pip for company.
‘God love ye , Sorr’ says Yer Man – “ That’ll be a quid and I’ll put her in box for ye for the boat” Thus began a great love affair between myself and Ginny. I called her Ginny because because that was the name of the Captain’s daughter and for her I had a burnibg adoration and did she not marry an English Lord and me never seeing her again. But I had the dog and she was firmly tied up in a cardboard box and together we set off on the Boat train to Rosslare.
The Rosslare / Fishguard Crossing is not a kind one and both Ginny and I were sick. It was when the Fishguard customs demanded to inspect the box, that I realised just how sick the poor little bitch had been; well, I did tell him not to stick his hand in the box. Mum welcomed the poor little mite and a bowl of warm milk was well received, but when I staggered off to bed, I heard little feet pattering after me. Ginny came and sat by my bed with ears pricked – what to do?
‘ Alley up! ‘ I said and she was sharp up on the bed. When I woke up during the night, there was something warm snuggled up to my feet and there it remained for the rest of its life, or until I went to Ulster for a soldier – then Ginny had to stay behind with the family. I did not worry about her until I got a letter from Mum, to say that the Bitch had not been well. The vet had been and thought that she might be pining a bit. I still did not worry, until I got another letter which I read in a blizzard up in the Sperrin Mountains .– a desolate place for desolate news – Ginny had gone – ‘We had to have the poor little thing put down. She was so ill… ” said Mum. There is one good thing about the storm laden Sperrin mountains – it is such a miserable place that you can go outside and have a weep and no one will take a blind bit of notice.
Time has marched on; since that sad day, I have had many terriers, but none have shared my bed since Ginny – until Pippy came.
Pippy is a Lucas Terrierand and that is a pretty rare breed. There was a certain Sir Jocelyn Lucas ,Bart, MC, MP, a man of many parts, he was a ‘mighty hunter before the Lord’ for one thing and to help him on in his work he kept a pack of Sealyham terriers. You may like to think that Sealyhams are pretty hardened little sinners.
‘Not hardened enough’ cried Sir J and stuck in a dash of Norfolk, or even Norwich terrier [I cannot remember which] which produced a hellish mixture known as a ‘Lucas Terrier’. When I lived in Northumberland, I used to have occasional days with the Tynedale hounds. They had a Terrier Man. I used to like his dogs. They were small stocky dogs, rough haired with prick ears – very alert:
“What’s them, then? “I asked Paul one day
“Why, Sir, them’s Lucas Terriers” says he,without even the shade of a blush.
The next month would be my wife’s birthday. It would also find Mark and me down at the Tynedale kennels collecting a puppy. He had a brown head , a crooked stern and enormous charm. This he displayed when I got him home and he licked my wife’s nose. He was and, thank God, is a splendid little dog. He loves going hunting and with me has walked many miles following the Border Hounds. He has two trigger words. Say ‘Car’ and he has gone to sit by the garage door. Say ‘Basil’ and he is off like a flash to the shed door, because he knows that Basil lives in the shed. Basil may need a bit of explanation. When we thought of France, I rushed out and bought a bicycle. This was rather forward of me, as I had not ridden a bike for some 20 years – not since the days of exercising the hounds. They say that the skill of riding a bike is something you never forget – like many truisms this is a lie. I know that for a fact, because on my refresher course, I fell off 4 times and gave the bike away to a deserving boy. Behind my French home you can travel for miles on gentle roads and meet nothing but an occasional tractor. This would be ideal for keeping any surplus off Pip and myself. We could go for ‘Ballades’ -gentle rambles together. But as they say, first catch your tricycle. This was easier said than done. The French who are big on multi-hued bicycle gear refused even to consider such a ridiculous motion, But eventually I did find a supplier. He was a German who made, at a price, tricycles for the handicapped and if I wasn’t then I am now. A tricycle has poor equilibrium and if you are going too fast down a steep track and hit a large stone, the trike will very likely cowp and so will you. I had not broken a collar bone since I was 10 years old. I did not remember it hurting. I was wrong. In fact, I had many more nasty falls from wheels then I had in 20 years of hunting hounds and I broke things too – a thing that I never used to do out hunting – so I bought myself a fourwheeled cycle which is much more stable and which has things like transport boxes, of which Pippy thoroughly approvesand a small ‘aide electronique’ for the handicapped has which much the same effect as a low box on a quad.
My old friend, Claude, tells me that where we live has the second best climate in France after the Cote d’Azur. That may be but what we do get are humungous storms that whistle in from the Bay of Biscay. We had one the other day – thunder, lightning, wind, rain and all coming it seemed from right over head. It woke me up and I could tell that with all that rattling and banging, there was little chance of more sleep. So I went through to the front of the house to sit in my chair. I found Pip sitting in his chair. He was shivering and quaking with fear. No dogs like thunder, but this storm was too loud and too close. The poor little dog was absolutely terrified. There was only one way at it. I picked him up, took him to the bedroom and plonked him in the middle of the bed. He lay between us for the rest of the night and there he lies every night. We may not have thunder every night, but we do have Pip for company.
Les Scoots
There was tremendous Bell ringing and hammering at the front door the other afternoon. I was dozing in my chair, in what I regard as 'my secure hour'. So Mrs Poole went to 'repel boarders'. “What was it?”
“It was a boy scout wanting a sandwich;” she said, “or rather 10 sandwiches.”
“Why 10 sandwiches?”
“Because there are about 10 scouts”.
“Did you not tell them what the Black Prince's Archers did to the Boy Scouts after the sack of Poitiers?”
“Yes but they said that is for the honour of France and they were hungry.” Then Aurora came and spoke to them and now they have gone. I am not surprised. Aurora is our neighbour and very fierce and she had seen the scouts off and a good job too. They would have got short shrift off me. I could tell you a thing or two about French Scouts and now I will.
Christian had invited us out to Lunch in Paris. It had been a memorable meal. The restaurant specialised in Duck and Burgundy. Both of which were excellent, so excellent that even a dumbo like me realised that there had to be a catch somewhere; there was. I knew that Christian was quite grand, but in fact he was grand beyond the belief of ordinary people like us. After some exceedingly rare brandy had been produced, Christian turned on me – he understood that we lived in quite a wild spot? Exceedingly ‘sauvage’. I assured him. Would it be a suitable place for his Scouts? He inquired? In fact he called them ‘Scoots’ and that is how I remember them. Well, it was a bit rough, I thought but that it seemed was no matter. These were top of the line scoots. In deed they could not be compared with or mixed with ‘ordinary' Scouts. The ‘Scoots' came from some of the finest families in France. I was to understand that they were from ancient Papist families who were so far to the political right that they regarded the Papacy as dangerously left wing. I had another sniff of brandy and swilled my thoughts round with it. I knew that the Honourable, my neighbour, was a great man for knobbly knees and toggles. I also knew that he had given his estate over to 2,000 scouts from round the world [His gamekeeper had fled to Wester Ross] and I thought that few Scoots would not make things worse. The Hon agreed with me, especially as the Keeper was too far away to argue. I passed the good news on to Christian, but I told him that the World Scouts would be leaving just as his men arrived. It seemed that the Scoots did not mix much with what they regarded as lesser Scouts. So as the Scouts moved out of camp The Scoots moved in. We arrived home from France to find that the Scoots had already established a ' reputation'. They had attended a village cricket match and by way of living off the country had consumed all the teas. Confronted by massed cricket bats, they had reluctantly agreed to wash up and when no one was looking they had filled the kettle with washing up liquid – so when the kettle had next been boiled....
Mrs Poole and I [as honoured guests] were invited to lunch by the Wolf Patrol. Jolly good it was too. If I had not known better, I would have said that it was roast pheasant. “Ah” said Kansas –“a slight mix up there”. It seemed that The Honourable had called to welcome them and they had understood him to say that they should make free with the Estate. Mind you, 'understanding' was an on going problem. None of the Scoots spoke English. They relied on Kansas who spoke it heavy with Yiddish. No one seemed to quite understand how he had got there, but now that he was there they dare not let him go because of 'the Misunderstandings'. We had one on the next day. The local garage was holding an ATV scramble on the Estate and had erected a wonderful course with ropes. These disappeared over night. I knew where they were because, I had seen them during a visit to The Leopard Patrol who had erected a splendid hammock system suspended from the roof of their hut. The hammock system just happened to be made from twisted rope. “It was”, said Kansas “an unfortunate misunderstanding”. They came thick and fast now; especially with the return of the Keeper. It was quite right and proper that the Scoots were strong on Hygiene. The Wolves had set their camp next to a pheasant cover. In this they dug a deep trench and covered it with brush and sticks making some excellent camouflage to cover up waste products. It was unfortunate that the Keeper should have attempted to walk across it, although 'unfortunate' was not amongst the many words that he used.
They say that all good things come to an end – the visit of The Scoots had to be included. On their final evening, I walked across to their camp to wish them farewell. I heard noise – growing noise and as I opened the gate at the bottom of their lane the noise grew and very nearly trampled me in huge knobbly boots – down the lane came a trample of Scoots screaming with excitement. I soon saw why – hard behind them came the Keeper. He as brandishing a spade round his head and screaming:
“ FUCK OFF! JUST FUCK OFF - YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!”
No doubt there was an explanation for all this unhappiness, but I did not think this the time or the place to enquire. So when the rush had passed, I made my way up to the Honourable's house and let him pour me a fighting dram, whilst I brought him up to snuff on local happenings. At last he held up his hand and said
“Willy, I want you to promise me that I shall never have to hear anything about Les Scoots again”. Well unless he reads this, I shall have kept my promise.
“It was a boy scout wanting a sandwich;” she said, “or rather 10 sandwiches.”
“Why 10 sandwiches?”
“Because there are about 10 scouts”.
“Did you not tell them what the Black Prince's Archers did to the Boy Scouts after the sack of Poitiers?”
“Yes but they said that is for the honour of France and they were hungry.” Then Aurora came and spoke to them and now they have gone. I am not surprised. Aurora is our neighbour and very fierce and she had seen the scouts off and a good job too. They would have got short shrift off me. I could tell you a thing or two about French Scouts and now I will.
Christian had invited us out to Lunch in Paris. It had been a memorable meal. The restaurant specialised in Duck and Burgundy. Both of which were excellent, so excellent that even a dumbo like me realised that there had to be a catch somewhere; there was. I knew that Christian was quite grand, but in fact he was grand beyond the belief of ordinary people like us. After some exceedingly rare brandy had been produced, Christian turned on me – he understood that we lived in quite a wild spot? Exceedingly ‘sauvage’. I assured him. Would it be a suitable place for his Scouts? He inquired? In fact he called them ‘Scoots’ and that is how I remember them. Well, it was a bit rough, I thought but that it seemed was no matter. These were top of the line scoots. In deed they could not be compared with or mixed with ‘ordinary' Scouts. The ‘Scoots' came from some of the finest families in France. I was to understand that they were from ancient Papist families who were so far to the political right that they regarded the Papacy as dangerously left wing. I had another sniff of brandy and swilled my thoughts round with it. I knew that the Honourable, my neighbour, was a great man for knobbly knees and toggles. I also knew that he had given his estate over to 2,000 scouts from round the world [His gamekeeper had fled to Wester Ross] and I thought that few Scoots would not make things worse. The Hon agreed with me, especially as the Keeper was too far away to argue. I passed the good news on to Christian, but I told him that the World Scouts would be leaving just as his men arrived. It seemed that the Scoots did not mix much with what they regarded as lesser Scouts. So as the Scouts moved out of camp The Scoots moved in. We arrived home from France to find that the Scoots had already established a ' reputation'. They had attended a village cricket match and by way of living off the country had consumed all the teas. Confronted by massed cricket bats, they had reluctantly agreed to wash up and when no one was looking they had filled the kettle with washing up liquid – so when the kettle had next been boiled....
Mrs Poole and I [as honoured guests] were invited to lunch by the Wolf Patrol. Jolly good it was too. If I had not known better, I would have said that it was roast pheasant. “Ah” said Kansas –“a slight mix up there”. It seemed that The Honourable had called to welcome them and they had understood him to say that they should make free with the Estate. Mind you, 'understanding' was an on going problem. None of the Scoots spoke English. They relied on Kansas who spoke it heavy with Yiddish. No one seemed to quite understand how he had got there, but now that he was there they dare not let him go because of 'the Misunderstandings'. We had one on the next day. The local garage was holding an ATV scramble on the Estate and had erected a wonderful course with ropes. These disappeared over night. I knew where they were because, I had seen them during a visit to The Leopard Patrol who had erected a splendid hammock system suspended from the roof of their hut. The hammock system just happened to be made from twisted rope. “It was”, said Kansas “an unfortunate misunderstanding”. They came thick and fast now; especially with the return of the Keeper. It was quite right and proper that the Scoots were strong on Hygiene. The Wolves had set their camp next to a pheasant cover. In this they dug a deep trench and covered it with brush and sticks making some excellent camouflage to cover up waste products. It was unfortunate that the Keeper should have attempted to walk across it, although 'unfortunate' was not amongst the many words that he used.
They say that all good things come to an end – the visit of The Scoots had to be included. On their final evening, I walked across to their camp to wish them farewell. I heard noise – growing noise and as I opened the gate at the bottom of their lane the noise grew and very nearly trampled me in huge knobbly boots – down the lane came a trample of Scoots screaming with excitement. I soon saw why – hard behind them came the Keeper. He as brandishing a spade round his head and screaming:
“ FUCK OFF! JUST FUCK OFF - YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!”
No doubt there was an explanation for all this unhappiness, but I did not think this the time or the place to enquire. So when the rush had passed, I made my way up to the Honourable's house and let him pour me a fighting dram, whilst I brought him up to snuff on local happenings. At last he held up his hand and said
“Willy, I want you to promise me that I shall never have to hear anything about Les Scoots again”. Well unless he reads this, I shall have kept my promise.
France has changed
This is a Blog. I am not sure what a Blog is but Heather and Trevor say it is a bit like a diary. Heather and Trevor were respectively my director and producer for the time I worked in TV. They must be right because they always have been.
“ Tell them about your life, now” they said “ people want know what has happened to you. Tell them about France.” Because, you see, in early ’05, after nearly 40 years of Journalism, my last newspaper (The Newcastle Journal) breathed a deep sigh and defenestrated me. I became ‘retired’; sold my little farm and went to live in France. Was that a good idea? Well, yes and no – it is not like Powburn and,, thanks be to God., it is nothing like Alnwick. I first came to France in 1987. I had just become a columnist for the Daily Telegraph – a happy situation that lasted me for 17 years. The DT sent me to France to write 2,000 words on French Hunting, so I had cause to be fond of France. So when I became a retread, France seemed an obvious place for it to happen. The trouble is that over 30 - places and people have a habit of changing.
France has changed. It had a reputation for supplying punters with absolutely spiffing browsing and sluicing. It is now all too easy to eat very badly in France. The problem is the demise of the old style, family run, cafés - these have been rapidly replaced by pizzerias and ‘snak bars’.
The thing that has not changed is the French appetite for bureaucracy and form filling. This python like process strangles even the most simple seeming matters. An example is required – let me give you a 'Storm'. We get lot of storms that gather in the Atlantic, then wind up into an 'Orage' with thunder, rain and wind. They tend to be full of noise and dury, but fairly local in effect – very gallic. We had a bad one the other night – Thunder rolled, roof tiles crashed, roads were blocked and big straw bales rolled about. There was an unfortunate lady nearby whose chimney collapsed through the roof. She rang the insurance company to send someone to fix it.
'We would do this with pleasure said the charming French man, 'but the records show that there was no storm at La Tillier'
.Roads Blocked, trees uprooted, roofs smashed.... what was it then; a military training exercise?'
“Ahha!” replied M.Lassurance; “we have consulted the Bureau du Meteo and it has assured us that there has been no storm at La Tilliers and that is official, so we deeply regret....” or in other words – get stuffed – we don't know what caused your problem, but it was nothing insured with us.
“ Tell them about your life, now” they said “ people want know what has happened to you. Tell them about France.” Because, you see, in early ’05, after nearly 40 years of Journalism, my last newspaper (The Newcastle Journal) breathed a deep sigh and defenestrated me. I became ‘retired’; sold my little farm and went to live in France. Was that a good idea? Well, yes and no – it is not like Powburn and,, thanks be to God., it is nothing like Alnwick. I first came to France in 1987. I had just become a columnist for the Daily Telegraph – a happy situation that lasted me for 17 years. The DT sent me to France to write 2,000 words on French Hunting, so I had cause to be fond of France. So when I became a retread, France seemed an obvious place for it to happen. The trouble is that over 30 - places and people have a habit of changing.
France has changed. It had a reputation for supplying punters with absolutely spiffing browsing and sluicing. It is now all too easy to eat very badly in France. The problem is the demise of the old style, family run, cafés - these have been rapidly replaced by pizzerias and ‘snak bars’.
The thing that has not changed is the French appetite for bureaucracy and form filling. This python like process strangles even the most simple seeming matters. An example is required – let me give you a 'Storm'. We get lot of storms that gather in the Atlantic, then wind up into an 'Orage' with thunder, rain and wind. They tend to be full of noise and dury, but fairly local in effect – very gallic. We had a bad one the other night – Thunder rolled, roof tiles crashed, roads were blocked and big straw bales rolled about. There was an unfortunate lady nearby whose chimney collapsed through the roof. She rang the insurance company to send someone to fix it.
'We would do this with pleasure said the charming French man, 'but the records show that there was no storm at La Tillier'
.Roads Blocked, trees uprooted, roofs smashed.... what was it then; a military training exercise?'
“Ahha!” replied M.Lassurance; “we have consulted the Bureau du Meteo and it has assured us that there has been no storm at La Tilliers and that is official, so we deeply regret....” or in other words – get stuffed – we don't know what caused your problem, but it was nothing insured with us.
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