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.
Saturday, 5 September 2009
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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