So how fares life in Normandy? Well, quite nicely really, thank you. We have been here for about a month – I think.
The climate is quite different – all our friends in the Vienne told us that. They said that it would be much colder and wetter. It has certainly been wetter, but as the area had been without serious rain since April, it was grateful for it. It freshened up the grazing on the Marshe, which is an essential part of raising the livestock that is an essential part of agricultural income around here. Normandy is famous for its’ beef and lamb. The sheep meat is certainly excellent, with very good flavours from the salty grassland. I wish I could say the same about the beef - I felt duty bound to try some the other day. After 5 years of grave disappointment with the beef in the Vienne, we hoped that Normandy beef would be good. The cattle looked good, but the problem seemed to be the same as it is throughout France – the French have no clue about butchering. The beef is badly cut and is not hung – it is therefore inedible. Very sad and a waste, but the French do not seem to mind how tough and grisly their beef is. So, you may think that after the failure of Normandy beef, I am going hungry? Not so, I am glad to say. I refer you to an excellent little book – ‘The Pocket Guide to French Food and Wine’ published yonks ago, which has been in my pocket ever since. It says that: “Nouvelle cuisine seems to have given the area a wide berth and the classic regional fare is still very much alive” and Amen to that say I. The “classic regional fare” contains a lot of fish. As Normandy lies where the English Channel meets the Atlantic this is not surprising, but it is very pleasant even if you cannot always get a translation as to what a particular fish might be – I mean, do you know what a ‘Monk Fish’ is in French?.....well no more don’t I, but it is very tasty.
Our little house takes up one side of a village street. The village is quite well-known, as it was the first place ‘liberated’ after D-Day. It was an “omelette” which caused many eggs to be broken – for instance on our street side wall there is a little bronze plaque, which tells you that “on this spot (on 6th May 1944) a section of airborne engineers under Sgt Smith were shot down”. If you look at the high wall on either side of the road, you can see that it was a perfect shooting alley for the Waffen SS. This quiet spot was indeed a piece of “Dark and Bloody ground” in May 1944 when the section of Airborne Engineers marched into the Trap. Normandy was not ignorant of stirring times. The other day, Madame and I motored North to look at boarding kennels for the little dog. One of the compelling reasons for moving to Normandy was a regular ferry service to the family without the Eurostar flaking out in the Tunnel. As we drove North, through lush and rich-looking countryside, I was interested to see a lot of fortified farm steadings – against whom were they fortified? It should be remembered that this area is only c. 10 miles from the Channel coast and for centuries there was a strong tradition of piracy between Normandy and its’ cross-channel neighbours.
One of the comforting things to me about Normandy is that it is Cider Country. I was brought up at my grandmother’s house in Cornwall – it had its’ own cider press and every year it produced its’ own pressing – it was so sharp and sour that it was known as “Torfrey (the name of the house) Razor Blades”. Normandy produces an excellent commercial product. Some years ago we were staying in a house in the Bourbonnais and I was asked if - in England – we had “Ceeder?” “Bien sur” I replied, “most in the West Country, but you in France have Ceeder, the most excellent especially in Normandy.........” at this moment I was halted by a hefty kick on the shin – “No you fool – they are talking about AIDS”. Well it’s not my fault if the French can’t spell – I am still fond of Cider.
Our street is one of the principle roads out of town. Just beyond us there is a dual carriageway by-pass, a main route to Cherbourg. There is a daily passage of heavy lorries so it is fortunate that this road is sunk in a deep cutting. In the house, the thunder of heavy traffic is almost completely muffled – and a good job too.
So by and large and taking it all in all, we like Normandy and find it passing pleasant.
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
Monday, 11 October 2010
Normandy - September 2010
Well – we’ve done it; we’ve moved. This is being written in Normandy. It is being written in long hand, because I can’t find my computer; it is undoubtedly in a box somewhere – along with most of our personal items.
The move was fairly painless. We found a firm called “The Moving Gentlemen of the Atlantic”. Their only fault, if fault it may be, was that they moved so fast that it became a problem – as it might be - a pause in the operation of teeth cleaning and by the time you returned to finish off the fangs, all the tooth brushing equipment would have been neatly packed away and has not been unpacked yet.
“The Gentlemen” took two days to pack our little house up.
We were a little sad. It has been our home for 5 years and by and large, we had been happy there. I worked it out that this had been my 17/18th move of house and we have firmly agreed that “THAT IS IT – no more!”
My most ‘interesting’ move was when I moved from Somerset to Yorkshire in 1975. Freddy Oram’s furniture van took the furniture. Johnny offered two horseboxes to carry the sundries – as it might be 6 horses, 4 couple of hounds, 2 goats, 4 terriers – and all the odds and sods that went with them. We were to set off at midnight and drive through the night – good idea, except that Lorry 1 sank to its’ axles beside the drive in Somerset. I had to rouse the next door farmer to haul us out with a tractor. That all went well until somewhere up the M1 when Lorry 2 got a puncture and we had to change a wheel on the hard shoulder in the black of night and streams of rain. I do not recommend this if you are seeking pleasure – and what is a new home if it not be a pleasure? I am pleased to say that over the next 5 years it did indeed become a pleasure and it became HOME.
Then we moved to France; well, it seemed a good idea at the time. We had had good hunting in France in the past. I have a weakness (one of many), in that I do not believe that things can change. France came as a nasty shock because things have changed and in some time – the last 20 years have seen a lot of changes. The biggest change in French hunting has been the Park system – large sections of woodland have been fenced off with animal proof netting – the result being that the animal of the chase is hunted round and round the interior of the fence until it is “taken”. I share the opinion of my neighbour who thinks poorly of fences, on the basis that they make it impossible to have a good hunt in the open.
When I first came to France there were no Parks and we used to have tremendous hunts. The Countess with whose hounds I used to hunt, had pretty poisonous opinions about ‘Park Keepers’, but as she and various members of her family owned most of the woodland where we hunted, the hunting was wild. That happy state no longer maintains. I can see the practical point of view for Parks. There is much more traffic than there was 20 years since, also bigger, faster roads for it to troll along. This does not make for better hunting. I remember making a 20 mile point with a pig from the upper Loire – 3 couple of hounds – 6 children and man who actually stuck the pig in a field of sugar beet. You just do not get hunts like that anymore, not with 15 foot of pig netting surrounding the hunting area.
All in all I found hunting in the Vienne, which is where we lived, very disappointing.
When it got about that we were moving to Normandy, people rubbed their noses with horny fingers and said “Ho! Ho!” I am still waiting to get a half decent hunt out of any of “them”, so perhaps I shall do better where there are not supposed to be ANY hunts – time alone will tell. Anyway here we are in Normandy.
We drove up here. It is a 4.5 hour trip. You go straight up the Paris motorway as far as Tours and then strike off through the flat land of Central France, where the traffic disappears until it drops you off into Normandy at Caen. Caen is not a place that I would want to visit again. We nearly had a nasty there.
We stopped for a bite at a Burger Bar. Mrs Poole took the Lucas terrier out for a walk and the little sod slipped his collar and had to be pursued across 3 lanes of Urban Motorway! Now this frightened all of us and the burger was a load of s...e anyway.
It was about an hour’s easy driving from Caen to France’s house where we were to be billeted. France is a lovely lady and is christened “France” because she was born in 1942 during the German occupation. Her father thought there was every chance that France would be ground down under the German occupation so he christened his daughter “France” so that the names would not be lost. She is a very jolly and kindly lady and it is a very comfortable billet – and from there we moved into our house.
Many people from the Vienne asked us why we should move to Normandy. The answer is very simple - the journey to England from Central France is a bugger. From Normandy there is a regular (and fast) ferry service to Southampton, Portsmouth, Poole or even Rosslare, all with good access to the family – not like the Eurostar Goat F..k that ruined our Christmas visit in 2009.
Normandy seems a pleasant spot to live and the house is also a pleasant spot on the edge of a village with all the mod cons that ancient persons like us need. The Viennese warned us that it would be colder here and wetter. “Edite” who runs the local taxi, says that much nonsense is talked about the Normandy climate – she said that it only rains twice a year – once in the Summer and once in the Winter.
“To Press” as we used to say in the Daily Telegraph, the weather has been very pleasant and equable.
The move was fairly painless. We found a firm called “The Moving Gentlemen of the Atlantic”. Their only fault, if fault it may be, was that they moved so fast that it became a problem – as it might be - a pause in the operation of teeth cleaning and by the time you returned to finish off the fangs, all the tooth brushing equipment would have been neatly packed away and has not been unpacked yet.
“The Gentlemen” took two days to pack our little house up.
We were a little sad. It has been our home for 5 years and by and large, we had been happy there. I worked it out that this had been my 17/18th move of house and we have firmly agreed that “THAT IS IT – no more!”
My most ‘interesting’ move was when I moved from Somerset to Yorkshire in 1975. Freddy Oram’s furniture van took the furniture. Johnny offered two horseboxes to carry the sundries – as it might be 6 horses, 4 couple of hounds, 2 goats, 4 terriers – and all the odds and sods that went with them. We were to set off at midnight and drive through the night – good idea, except that Lorry 1 sank to its’ axles beside the drive in Somerset. I had to rouse the next door farmer to haul us out with a tractor. That all went well until somewhere up the M1 when Lorry 2 got a puncture and we had to change a wheel on the hard shoulder in the black of night and streams of rain. I do not recommend this if you are seeking pleasure – and what is a new home if it not be a pleasure? I am pleased to say that over the next 5 years it did indeed become a pleasure and it became HOME.
Then we moved to France; well, it seemed a good idea at the time. We had had good hunting in France in the past. I have a weakness (one of many), in that I do not believe that things can change. France came as a nasty shock because things have changed and in some time – the last 20 years have seen a lot of changes. The biggest change in French hunting has been the Park system – large sections of woodland have been fenced off with animal proof netting – the result being that the animal of the chase is hunted round and round the interior of the fence until it is “taken”. I share the opinion of my neighbour who thinks poorly of fences, on the basis that they make it impossible to have a good hunt in the open.
When I first came to France there were no Parks and we used to have tremendous hunts. The Countess with whose hounds I used to hunt, had pretty poisonous opinions about ‘Park Keepers’, but as she and various members of her family owned most of the woodland where we hunted, the hunting was wild. That happy state no longer maintains. I can see the practical point of view for Parks. There is much more traffic than there was 20 years since, also bigger, faster roads for it to troll along. This does not make for better hunting. I remember making a 20 mile point with a pig from the upper Loire – 3 couple of hounds – 6 children and man who actually stuck the pig in a field of sugar beet. You just do not get hunts like that anymore, not with 15 foot of pig netting surrounding the hunting area.
All in all I found hunting in the Vienne, which is where we lived, very disappointing.
When it got about that we were moving to Normandy, people rubbed their noses with horny fingers and said “Ho! Ho!” I am still waiting to get a half decent hunt out of any of “them”, so perhaps I shall do better where there are not supposed to be ANY hunts – time alone will tell. Anyway here we are in Normandy.
We drove up here. It is a 4.5 hour trip. You go straight up the Paris motorway as far as Tours and then strike off through the flat land of Central France, where the traffic disappears until it drops you off into Normandy at Caen. Caen is not a place that I would want to visit again. We nearly had a nasty there.
We stopped for a bite at a Burger Bar. Mrs Poole took the Lucas terrier out for a walk and the little sod slipped his collar and had to be pursued across 3 lanes of Urban Motorway! Now this frightened all of us and the burger was a load of s...e anyway.
It was about an hour’s easy driving from Caen to France’s house where we were to be billeted. France is a lovely lady and is christened “France” because she was born in 1942 during the German occupation. Her father thought there was every chance that France would be ground down under the German occupation so he christened his daughter “France” so that the names would not be lost. She is a very jolly and kindly lady and it is a very comfortable billet – and from there we moved into our house.
Many people from the Vienne asked us why we should move to Normandy. The answer is very simple - the journey to England from Central France is a bugger. From Normandy there is a regular (and fast) ferry service to Southampton, Portsmouth, Poole or even Rosslare, all with good access to the family – not like the Eurostar Goat F..k that ruined our Christmas visit in 2009.
Normandy seems a pleasant spot to live and the house is also a pleasant spot on the edge of a village with all the mod cons that ancient persons like us need. The Viennese warned us that it would be colder here and wetter. “Edite” who runs the local taxi, says that much nonsense is talked about the Normandy climate – she said that it only rains twice a year – once in the Summer and once in the Winter.
“To Press” as we used to say in the Daily Telegraph, the weather has been very pleasant and equable.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
Taupes
How are you on Taupes? Taupe is French for 'MOLE'. Our lawn is lifting with the beggars. Duncan, the old Rottweiler used to love digging huge craters to pursue them and Pippy the terrier used to love helping him. I stick to mole traps, but French mole traps are pretty much a waste of space, though I did see a bright idea in the garden centre. You dug into a run and set the trap. The mole would come frolicking down the tunnel and go through the trap (and this is where it gets fiendishly clever): as it went through the trap it set off a thing like a 4.10 cartridge, the theory was that the resulting explosion terminated the mole With Extreme Prejudice, by spreading it all over its underground system - quite a good theory really, but remember it is a French idea and the fell machine was built in France. Anything designed and built in France is going to have a BUT in it somewhere. I was sitting in my office one day, when I heard a bang from the lawn. I went out to look and saw a scattered crater of earth. Then I was met by a 'Lucas Terrier' carrying a foreleg and complaining piteously. He had obviously set out to dig for a mole and triggered off an explosive device. He was not best suited and required a little T.L.C. Well that was it and no great harm was done, but ever since then, Pip has shown absolutely no enthusiasm for mole digging.
I often hear the 'noises’ of the Night Bird (a Tawny Owl). I like owls and have done since the days of the '100 acre Wood'. I once met a man who kept owls and I asked him about their reputation for wisdom - "Attention span of about 3 seconds" he said. Well, that buggered that one, but I still liked them and I was pleased when I found that the hen owl had a successful nest under the roof in the garage - successful that is until I began picking up dead fledglings, apparently unharmed. However a closer look showed that she had built her nest in the roof ridge of a corrugated iron roof and with the fierce heat we have had, the poor little buggers had just roasted. When I picked up the sad little corpses, mother would fly by and scold me. I don’t blame her for being cross but as Mr Jeanes used to say - "what's born, must die" and if it is up under an iron roof in 40 degree heat it is very likely going to.
Kind people keep asking me when we are flitting - the answer is "at the end of July" and I hope that the weather will have cooled down a bit. Other kind people ask for our new address - 'Need to know' is what I apply here, but I will tell you that it is near Cherbourg. There, that'll do you won't it ? Addresses can be a problem. I remember once receiving a letter from the USA addressed to WILLY POOLE, THE CHEVIOT HILLS, ENGLAND
I often hear the 'noises’ of the Night Bird (a Tawny Owl). I like owls and have done since the days of the '100 acre Wood'. I once met a man who kept owls and I asked him about their reputation for wisdom - "Attention span of about 3 seconds" he said. Well, that buggered that one, but I still liked them and I was pleased when I found that the hen owl had a successful nest under the roof in the garage - successful that is until I began picking up dead fledglings, apparently unharmed. However a closer look showed that she had built her nest in the roof ridge of a corrugated iron roof and with the fierce heat we have had, the poor little buggers had just roasted. When I picked up the sad little corpses, mother would fly by and scold me. I don’t blame her for being cross but as Mr Jeanes used to say - "what's born, must die" and if it is up under an iron roof in 40 degree heat it is very likely going to.
Kind people keep asking me when we are flitting - the answer is "at the end of July" and I hope that the weather will have cooled down a bit. Other kind people ask for our new address - 'Need to know' is what I apply here, but I will tell you that it is near Cherbourg. There, that'll do you won't it ? Addresses can be a problem. I remember once receiving a letter from the USA addressed to WILLY POOLE, THE CHEVIOT HILLS, ENGLAND
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Willy's post for June
There are people who are kind enough to tell me that I speak good French - this is very kind, but almost certainly untrue - I speak passable shopping French, but I very quickly get lost when the French switch into High Box. Like, for instance the other day when the Countess had taken us out to lunch with a crowd of smart natives who were all talking their native tongue at max revs, whilst I had long since gone into neutral. Then came a pause in talk and I realised that the Marquise (oh yes, I do have smart friends) had been addressing me. It seemed that she had been asking me if we had much "Sida" in England ? “Oh yes”, I said, “we have cider - the most excellent, but normally, in the far west, in Devon and Cornwall. But you also have good cider, I have tried it in Normandy - it is of excellent quality”. There then followed the sort of deep silence, which tells you that you have shot a conversational cat. It was then that I got a sound kick from Madame Poole:
" You bloody fool" she said, “they're talking about AIDS”.... well, how was I to know? I mean they had all been talking foreign and talking very fast too. How did they expect a chap like me to keep up with them, especially when they had started talking ' mucky'? Ah well all part of life's rich pattern, I suppose, but there we are. Mind you, speaking foreign can be a problem.
Our telephone rang at lunchtime and Madam answered it –
" yes”, she spoke English,(the caller), then gave a stream of rapid foreign. She was very sorry but could Madame speak more gently? Madame was obviously incensed by this and dropped into rapid and even more difficult French. We have found that there is one sure way of stopping one of these tirades. This is to state the truth that we have sold the house and are moving to Normandy. This works because no one in the Vienne knows where Normandy is or might be and they certainly do not believe that anyone from the Vienne would be so stupid as to go and live there. It stops them dead. It shut this woman up immediately.
"What on earth did she want?"
" I don't know -she couldn't speak English"
So, when do we move house? Well, I wish I knew - the problem is that the hauliers will not tell us - this is France you understand. As well as I can tell you it will be at the end of July or early August. One of the things about Normandy that I am looking forward to, is being by the sea again. I was brought up by the sea in Cornwall and have missed it ever since. We have been going through boxes of old photographs, most of which I shall offer to the boy and then burn, as they will be of no interest to him, but they have smartened up my memories. I was bred and buttered on the beautiful Fowey estuary - a place much loved by many people. Hilaire Belloc described it neatly in a bit of doggerel:
‘Oh the harbour of Fowey is a wonderful spot
and it's there I enjoy to sail on a yot
To sail in a yot round a mark or a buoy
Oh a wonderful place is the harbour of Fowey.’
How I loved Fowey Harbour. Golant which was the family home was a mile or two up-stream, but we had a base in Fowey. The 'boat house' just down-stream from the Bodinnic ferry; it had a hard landing, two fixed moorings, a two story boat house, and a three story cottage. The whole thing was owned and shared by various parts of our family and I well remember my horror when it was decided to sell it when the house up the river was up for sale after my much loved grandmother died. Bless her it nearly broke my heart - that was my home and I loved it. This all happened back in the early 1950s, I got an early lesson in taxation. I don't know how many of you remember death duties. The system then was if the deceased bequeathed his or her possessions and then held on to life for 7 years he/she escaped the payment of duty. Granny had little time for the Labour government of the time and hung onto life, but it was no good, the poor old lady handed in her cards just 6 weeks within the seven years. This was a disaster for the family as apart from losing Granny, her death came at a time of a fiscal slump and all the family assets had to be sold off at fires sale prices. I remember the Boat House, as it was much discussed at the time. I remember the sale price as being some £10,000. As a water front property in a prime position, it would have been worth a very moderate fortune today, with several extra zeros on the end, but such, I suppose, is life. That was part of the sad story of my family and its many disastrous financial dealings and of course, with the 'boat house' went the boats and a piece of my father's heart. That is why I shall keep some of those old photographs - memories of another world
How are you on éoliennes (French for wind farms)? If you had travelled from my Northumbrian home to Edinburgh, you would have gone through a great plantation of the things on top of Sutra Hill. Well now they have plonked another great copse of them on a neighbouring farm near here. I cannot say that I am best suited but they do not worry me over much. The thing is what can be the use of the things? Nothing at all says my friend the Professor of Engineering. He says that the cost of building and erecting these things can never be paid for out of the income they might produce. In other words they are a complete waste of money, which is pretty much what all the locals have been saying.
In our local town, where Madame does the shopping, there are lots of pedestrian crossings and I have to say that the French are pretty good about stopping to let a pedestrian cross, especially lame old buggers hobbling along on sticks. As I set forth to cross the road by the bakery the other day, I could sense a car approaching the crossing from the other side. As I set out across the crossing I could feel the car creeping up to me. I kept going and then I felt the car coming along and then I could feel the tire creeping along the side of my foot. That was enough - I shouted -
"That's my foot you stupid old Bitch!" Anyway that stirred up the market place - the man who had been painting the wood work on the baker's window vaulted down from his cradle and began a high volume row with the car driver, whom I now saw for the first time. It was not a woman at all. It was a tiny man who was too small to see over his steering wheel, he had to look through the wheel and quite obviously could not see the foot he was running over. I began to feel sorry for the poor wee feller, especially as he now had half the market people shouting at him - well no one likes their foot being squashed even by very small people in very small vans. No one thinks that it is a good idea and sorry as I now felt for the poor little bugger, neither do I.
Just had a visit from two people who wanted to look at Basil, he is called Basil because he was made in Basle. He is my four wheeled cycle and a jolly good egg I think. I plod all round the local lanes on him and as he has 'assistance electronique' he trolls along very happily as long I remember to charge his battery up regularly. The Monsieur was very lame and as I understood it he needed a caliper to make his leg do what he wanted it to do, rather than the other way about. Well I thoroughly understand about the annoyance of bits of you not co-operating with you, so I wish him well, but not to the point of letting him have Basil.
" You bloody fool" she said, “they're talking about AIDS”.... well, how was I to know? I mean they had all been talking foreign and talking very fast too. How did they expect a chap like me to keep up with them, especially when they had started talking ' mucky'? Ah well all part of life's rich pattern, I suppose, but there we are. Mind you, speaking foreign can be a problem.
Our telephone rang at lunchtime and Madam answered it –
" yes”, she spoke English,(the caller), then gave a stream of rapid foreign. She was very sorry but could Madame speak more gently? Madame was obviously incensed by this and dropped into rapid and even more difficult French. We have found that there is one sure way of stopping one of these tirades. This is to state the truth that we have sold the house and are moving to Normandy. This works because no one in the Vienne knows where Normandy is or might be and they certainly do not believe that anyone from the Vienne would be so stupid as to go and live there. It stops them dead. It shut this woman up immediately.
"What on earth did she want?"
" I don't know -she couldn't speak English"
So, when do we move house? Well, I wish I knew - the problem is that the hauliers will not tell us - this is France you understand. As well as I can tell you it will be at the end of July or early August. One of the things about Normandy that I am looking forward to, is being by the sea again. I was brought up by the sea in Cornwall and have missed it ever since. We have been going through boxes of old photographs, most of which I shall offer to the boy and then burn, as they will be of no interest to him, but they have smartened up my memories. I was bred and buttered on the beautiful Fowey estuary - a place much loved by many people. Hilaire Belloc described it neatly in a bit of doggerel:
‘Oh the harbour of Fowey is a wonderful spot
and it's there I enjoy to sail on a yot
To sail in a yot round a mark or a buoy
Oh a wonderful place is the harbour of Fowey.’
How I loved Fowey Harbour. Golant which was the family home was a mile or two up-stream, but we had a base in Fowey. The 'boat house' just down-stream from the Bodinnic ferry; it had a hard landing, two fixed moorings, a two story boat house, and a three story cottage. The whole thing was owned and shared by various parts of our family and I well remember my horror when it was decided to sell it when the house up the river was up for sale after my much loved grandmother died. Bless her it nearly broke my heart - that was my home and I loved it. This all happened back in the early 1950s, I got an early lesson in taxation. I don't know how many of you remember death duties. The system then was if the deceased bequeathed his or her possessions and then held on to life for 7 years he/she escaped the payment of duty. Granny had little time for the Labour government of the time and hung onto life, but it was no good, the poor old lady handed in her cards just 6 weeks within the seven years. This was a disaster for the family as apart from losing Granny, her death came at a time of a fiscal slump and all the family assets had to be sold off at fires sale prices. I remember the Boat House, as it was much discussed at the time. I remember the sale price as being some £10,000. As a water front property in a prime position, it would have been worth a very moderate fortune today, with several extra zeros on the end, but such, I suppose, is life. That was part of the sad story of my family and its many disastrous financial dealings and of course, with the 'boat house' went the boats and a piece of my father's heart. That is why I shall keep some of those old photographs - memories of another world
How are you on éoliennes (French for wind farms)? If you had travelled from my Northumbrian home to Edinburgh, you would have gone through a great plantation of the things on top of Sutra Hill. Well now they have plonked another great copse of them on a neighbouring farm near here. I cannot say that I am best suited but they do not worry me over much. The thing is what can be the use of the things? Nothing at all says my friend the Professor of Engineering. He says that the cost of building and erecting these things can never be paid for out of the income they might produce. In other words they are a complete waste of money, which is pretty much what all the locals have been saying.
In our local town, where Madame does the shopping, there are lots of pedestrian crossings and I have to say that the French are pretty good about stopping to let a pedestrian cross, especially lame old buggers hobbling along on sticks. As I set forth to cross the road by the bakery the other day, I could sense a car approaching the crossing from the other side. As I set out across the crossing I could feel the car creeping up to me. I kept going and then I felt the car coming along and then I could feel the tire creeping along the side of my foot. That was enough - I shouted -
"That's my foot you stupid old Bitch!" Anyway that stirred up the market place - the man who had been painting the wood work on the baker's window vaulted down from his cradle and began a high volume row with the car driver, whom I now saw for the first time. It was not a woman at all. It was a tiny man who was too small to see over his steering wheel, he had to look through the wheel and quite obviously could not see the foot he was running over. I began to feel sorry for the poor wee feller, especially as he now had half the market people shouting at him - well no one likes their foot being squashed even by very small people in very small vans. No one thinks that it is a good idea and sorry as I now felt for the poor little bugger, neither do I.
Just had a visit from two people who wanted to look at Basil, he is called Basil because he was made in Basle. He is my four wheeled cycle and a jolly good egg I think. I plod all round the local lanes on him and as he has 'assistance electronique' he trolls along very happily as long I remember to charge his battery up regularly. The Monsieur was very lame and as I understood it he needed a caliper to make his leg do what he wanted it to do, rather than the other way about. Well I thoroughly understand about the annoyance of bits of you not co-operating with you, so I wish him well, but not to the point of letting him have Basil.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Ding Dong!
Well, I am bloody sick of cloudy ramparts or ice cold clouds ramping down from the North Sea and freezing everything. I mean, my old friend Claude tells me that the Vienne where we hang out, has the second best climate in France after the Cote D'Azur. All I can say is that I would not want to be hanging out much here at the moment - not if I did not want the bugger to freeze solid and drop off the line. It is all to do with volcanoes in Iceland I believe, or some such bloody nonsense; it shouldn't belong to happen here, not in the Spring which is what the French tell me it is here. So what am I making such a fuss about? Well you see the Memsahib and I have bought a neat little house in Normandy and we want to move our goods and chattels up there; thereby hangs a problem - the Vienne does not move - it stays where it is and if you want to shift your insight north of the Loire, well... no one round here can remember such a bloody nonsense since the Black Prince was around here kicking up arse, during the 100 years War. It is just not done. So finding someone to shift stuff is a problem. I mean, I had no problem finding a firm of English shifters to get me and my stuff to France, but finding a French man to shift things the other way, is not just a problem, it is fair nigh bloody impossible. Madame has spent hours on the telephone trying out her French and then explaining to unbelieving French persons where in fact we live and where we wish to move to. The French find it difficult to believe that those who have drawn first prize in the lottery of life by drawing out a billet in the Vienne might actually wish to leave this veritable Eden and go to live in Normandy (I mean, where?) many locals find it hard to believe that such a place can actually exist - "but you will freeze and it rains all the time” - In fact Bridget, who drives a taxi in Normandy, tells me that it only rains twice a year - once in the Summer and once in the Winter. In fact Normandy is very lush and beautiful - rather like Cornwall - and the people are very friendly: Also it has good ferries to England and the family. - 'Ah' people say but 'there is no hunting' That may be true, but we have spent 4 years trying to find good hunting where it is supposed to exist and that has been a complete waste of rations. So I reckon that if we lower our expectations, we might surprise ourselves and find something that does not officially exist, like many other things in France.
After we move I am going to have my other knee done, in London - in English. The French medical system has a high reputation, which has not been borne out by experience in my case - two ops and I am still bloody lame, so bugger it.
I suppose that I should not tell you where we are going - just in case you all turn up, wearing knotted hankies, well ... just bloody don't, or I'll hang you from the church tower - just like poor bloody Steele. Steele was a trooper in the US 82nd Airborne. He was dropped over France after D-Day and landed hanging from the church steeple by his parachute harness... it got worse as: he was dangling in plain sight of the village street and was there viewed by the locals and the Curé. This good man was so over-excited by the sight of an American uniform that he ordered the church bells to be rung, to the great discomfort of Steele, a foot away from the bell loft. To cut things short, Steele was rescued but left his hearing behind. However they did name a local bar after him, which must be some sort of consolation - I will let you know after I have had a drink there - Ding! Dong!
After we move I am going to have my other knee done, in London - in English. The French medical system has a high reputation, which has not been borne out by experience in my case - two ops and I am still bloody lame, so bugger it.
I suppose that I should not tell you where we are going - just in case you all turn up, wearing knotted hankies, well ... just bloody don't, or I'll hang you from the church tower - just like poor bloody Steele. Steele was a trooper in the US 82nd Airborne. He was dropped over France after D-Day and landed hanging from the church steeple by his parachute harness... it got worse as: he was dangling in plain sight of the village street and was there viewed by the locals and the Curé. This good man was so over-excited by the sight of an American uniform that he ordered the church bells to be rung, to the great discomfort of Steele, a foot away from the bell loft. To cut things short, Steele was rescued but left his hearing behind. However they did name a local bar after him, which must be some sort of consolation - I will let you know after I have had a drink there - Ding! Dong!
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Chute
Chute is a useful French word - Chute means a fall whether it be from a horse, a quad or a hay loft. Over some 30 odd years, I have had an awful lot of them. I have been blessed with good luck in as much as although I have had some real crumplers, I have never yet been injured seriously. Well yes I did break my collar bone when I was 10. My worst fall was about 18 months since, when my tricycle and I were run into and over by a white Citroen van - I do not know why - it never stopped to ask. I did not become conscious for another fortnight and for some months there-after; I was sunk in dreams - some pleasant - some not; It seemed that my head had had a good clattering, which is really not recommended and which has rather buggered up my memory, so when I go to London in April, I am to be shipped off to see Dr Kennedy at the Lister Hospital down by Chelsea Hospital. He is said to be good at disentangling muddled and scrambled brains. As my son says - I must have a huge mental overdraft and now it is 'payback time'.
How did you enjoy the recent windy weather? A real bugger was it not? We had damage to the roof. I had been to the market in the town and had just avoided being blown into the fish lady's stall.
When we got back home I got out of the car to close the yard gate. The wind was howling around the buildings and I had great problems standing. Eventually I managed to force my way out of the door of the front passenger seat. The wind came howling down the passage way by the building. It caught the car door, snatched it out of my hands, and slammed it shut. I had been leaning against the door for balance. The wind suddenly gusted and dropped. There was no wind against the door or supporting my balance, the door shut and removed my equilibrium. I fell flat on my back, dropping the back of my head on the concrete floor - not recommended procedure nor much fun. Nor was it much fun when I found that I could not get up: my knees are frankly buggered these days. Mrs Poole came to help, but, bless her heart, she is a little scrap of a woman and can no more shift me than I could shift a bullock, so she jumped in the car and shot down the road to where Gerrard and Josette live - they have picked me up before. They were not there, so she shot up the road and collared Laurens our other neighbour. He came at once bless him, wrapped his arms round me and hoisted me up so that I could grasp the top bar of the yard gate. We have good neighbours bless them. It took me two days to get my twisted knees working again. So that was a Chute and in all honesty, I do not recommend them. All you will do is to increase your physical debit balance - rather painfully.
How did you enjoy the recent windy weather? A real bugger was it not? We had damage to the roof. I had been to the market in the town and had just avoided being blown into the fish lady's stall.
When we got back home I got out of the car to close the yard gate. The wind was howling around the buildings and I had great problems standing. Eventually I managed to force my way out of the door of the front passenger seat. The wind came howling down the passage way by the building. It caught the car door, snatched it out of my hands, and slammed it shut. I had been leaning against the door for balance. The wind suddenly gusted and dropped. There was no wind against the door or supporting my balance, the door shut and removed my equilibrium. I fell flat on my back, dropping the back of my head on the concrete floor - not recommended procedure nor much fun. Nor was it much fun when I found that I could not get up: my knees are frankly buggered these days. Mrs Poole came to help, but, bless her heart, she is a little scrap of a woman and can no more shift me than I could shift a bullock, so she jumped in the car and shot down the road to where Gerrard and Josette live - they have picked me up before. They were not there, so she shot up the road and collared Laurens our other neighbour. He came at once bless him, wrapped his arms round me and hoisted me up so that I could grasp the top bar of the yard gate. We have good neighbours bless them. It took me two days to get my twisted knees working again. So that was a Chute and in all honesty, I do not recommend them. All you will do is to increase your physical debit balance - rather painfully.
Keep Orf
If you trot about the French countryside you will often encounter signs warning you that " La chasse Is guarded" by the ACCA. In other words - the shooting is private. ACCA stands for various long French words, which mount up to " Keep Orf ". The shooting probably belongs to some local toff, or even, more probably the shoot run by the local Commune. Either way, the English translation will be - " Keep Orf ." The CCA carries some considerable political clout in its area. I have friend, a man who has been very kind to me. He keeps and hunts a small pack of Boar Hounds. I used to follow the boar hounds a bit, but gave it up as they could very seldom find a pig. When I started boar hunting, back in the 1980s, pigs became a bit scarce because they used to dig up the fields of maize and the farmers used to get a bit huffed. It was not that they were against the pigs being shot and then eaten. It was just that they reckoned that if anyone was going to feed and eat the pigs on their land, then it should be them, the agriculturers and their friends. This was very much the line taken by Mme La Comtesse, with whom I hunted. She reckoned that her family owned most of the woodlands where she hunted the pigs and de facto that the pigs belonged to her as well. That was a point of view that you might argue with, if you were a braver man than I was or am very likely to be. And anyway I am a great believer in the rights of private property owners. I put this theory to my friend with the pig free hounds. In fact it was just after a pig free day with my friend that I raised the matter. He looked at me mournfully and said: ah! but it’s not so easy. There had been three pigs in his wood until the day previous, when the ACCA people had walked his wood and had shot 3 pigs. I raised this with another friend and he told me that the ACCA controlled all the shooting rights in and around and if my friend complained they could take his rights away. I found this very hard to believe. But this is France.
Madam and I have just returned from Normandy. The reason for the trip is that we might move there. We both liked it very much. So - watch this space. Normandy is very beautiful and pleasant. We went to stay at a little Hotel - not very far from Omaha Beach. We had stayed there before about 20 odd years ago. Unfortunately it has changed hands and the wonderful food we remembered was not available - the cook was ill and the restaurant closed. So we moved to a very smart Chambres D'Hotes. It was very good except that the bed was a problem for Madame and I. The proprietress was a lovely lady who had been christened France - born in 1942, her father did not know what her country would be so he called her France for the memory. She and her family have a stable of Trotters - a big thing in Normandy. The Normans are very friendly and the country reminds me somewhat of Cornwall and is very mild. The other French will tell you that it rains all the time. This is not so says Edith the local Taxi Owner (this makes her "Edit - Taxi"" - she says that it only rains twice a year in Normandy - once in the Summer and once in the Winter so it is very mild. Its great advantage is regular ferries to England and more hope of seeing our family again - we shall try Eurostar once more and hope for better things. One good point for French railways. It is very good with the ancient and lame. I was wheel chaired onto the train, put into my seat, and then wheeled between every train (4) thereafter. We were stabled very comfortably with the 'Trotters’, except that the bed was too small - this gives Madame an excuse for complaining - not that she needs one. We looked at some houses; one particularly we liked - it is in the village that John Steele made famous and has a bar named after him. He was in the 82nd Airborne and was dropped during the D Day Landing. The Airborne Drop zone tended to wander a bit in the run up to D Day and John found himself on the roof of the church at St Mere L'Eglise. It was perhaps unfortunate that he was discovered by the padre, who went about ringing the bell, by way of welcome. John said that he would rather have been shot at, as the noise was quite literally deafening. Any way he now has a bar named after him, which must provide a measure of consolation. So are we going to buy the house? It depends on whether our house, which has been bought, has been paid for. So watch this space - we are.
Madam and I have just returned from Normandy. The reason for the trip is that we might move there. We both liked it very much. So - watch this space. Normandy is very beautiful and pleasant. We went to stay at a little Hotel - not very far from Omaha Beach. We had stayed there before about 20 odd years ago. Unfortunately it has changed hands and the wonderful food we remembered was not available - the cook was ill and the restaurant closed. So we moved to a very smart Chambres D'Hotes. It was very good except that the bed was a problem for Madame and I. The proprietress was a lovely lady who had been christened France - born in 1942, her father did not know what her country would be so he called her France for the memory. She and her family have a stable of Trotters - a big thing in Normandy. The Normans are very friendly and the country reminds me somewhat of Cornwall and is very mild. The other French will tell you that it rains all the time. This is not so says Edith the local Taxi Owner (this makes her "Edit - Taxi"" - she says that it only rains twice a year in Normandy - once in the Summer and once in the Winter so it is very mild. Its great advantage is regular ferries to England and more hope of seeing our family again - we shall try Eurostar once more and hope for better things. One good point for French railways. It is very good with the ancient and lame. I was wheel chaired onto the train, put into my seat, and then wheeled between every train (4) thereafter. We were stabled very comfortably with the 'Trotters’, except that the bed was too small - this gives Madame an excuse for complaining - not that she needs one. We looked at some houses; one particularly we liked - it is in the village that John Steele made famous and has a bar named after him. He was in the 82nd Airborne and was dropped during the D Day Landing. The Airborne Drop zone tended to wander a bit in the run up to D Day and John found himself on the roof of the church at St Mere L'Eglise. It was perhaps unfortunate that he was discovered by the padre, who went about ringing the bell, by way of welcome. John said that he would rather have been shot at, as the noise was quite literally deafening. Any way he now has a bar named after him, which must provide a measure of consolation. So are we going to buy the house? It depends on whether our house, which has been bought, has been paid for. So watch this space - we are.
Saturday, 20 February 2010
Villy Vite!
A lot of people have asked me about French Hunting - is it any good?
I first had the chance to go hunting in France, back in the 1980s and I thought it great fun. It was the thought of renewing my pleasure that made me want to go back to France when I retired (or got sacked, which ever one you want), but after 20 years, hunting in France has changed and not for the better - roads and villages have spawned and grown out - traffic has sprawled and Parks have appeared. 20 years ago they hardly existed and your boar or stag could set out and provide a splendid hunt. Those days are gone. The Park at the bottom of our road has pigs and deer in plenty, and they get plenty of hunting; but is it any good? I fear not, the Park (about 30,000 acres) is totally enclosed in wire mesh fencing from which nothing can escape. It is owned by an 'Ancien Famille' - apparently, or, so It is rumoured, they fell into problems during the German occupation. The Park is now let to a local hunting person, a very pleasant chap who lets out the hunting and the shooting by the day. Very often during the hunting season, I hear the cry of hounds and the tantootling of horns, which I find very frustrating, but that is my problem not anyone else's. The tenant is very kind and sometimes he persuades one of his clients to invite me to hunt with customers. I do, but I have to say that when you have chugged round the park once or twice, you have really seen and done it all. My neighbouring farmer who is chairman of the local Commune Shoot says that there used to be wonderful hunts out of the park before it was enclosed. This I can believe. I remember having wonderful hunts from the wild woodlands in the Bourbonnais; I remember once that we got away from a straggling wood in the upper Loire with about 4 couple of hounds and they made a 20 mile point before the lone follower and his four children took the pig (a big bugger) in the middle of a field of baigies.
By 'taking a pig' I am not talking about picking it up and stuffing it in your pocket. A taken pig is by definition a dead pig - it has to be dispatched. This is usually done with a 'couteau de chasse' which is in effect a short sword. It can be a lance with a tear shaped blade with a 3 foot handle which is screwed on to the blade; rather in the same plan as a drain rod so most lances are made by blacksmiths; So when a pig is at bay - you are likely to see a lot of men running furiously from the nearest road and screwing their lances together as they run. They are hoping to achieve the honour of 'serving the Boar'; which means giving the pig a thrust with the weapon into the heart; which means just behind the shoulder- such an honour I never thought to achieve.
One day when I was hunting with the Countess; we were having a hunt; a roughly driven jeep roared up and pulled across the road.
The Countess cried that no one was to touch the pig until the English man had arrived. Well, she owned the hounds, the pig and most of the country round about. I found strong hands dragging me from my saddle with cries of "Villy Vite!" Then with me sprawling in the back, we roared away until the jeep stopped violently outside a thicket from which came much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Dark deeds were obviously afoot in the thicket. It was obvious that I was to be concerned in what happened next - the thicket was also a bog, with a deeply trodden path running into its deeps. In these depths came the baying of hounds and a protest of pig. It was only then that I realised that a major part in the final scene was to be played out by me. I had not a clue as to what to do. “Villy est ici” cried some mud spattered voices. Knarled hand seized me and dragged me to the thicket. 'Villy Vite!' became a sort of chant as I waded through the bog - rough hands passed along the chain until I arrived at the centre thicket where the pig was at bay - what did I do next? Well I did not know - Alberique, the cousin of the countess, knew exactly - he thrust a lance into my hand
"Be'ind the shoulder - Vite Villy! Vite!" So, that's the way it was and I am glad to say that it is a quick end.
So I staggered back through the mud to the edge of the thicket. A handsome old lady came and threw her arms around me: “Ah!' Bravo! Villy! It is a great honour for the pig to be served by an Englishman!"
- well I must say that that is a point of view that I had not considered. The handsome old lady used to go everywhere with a basket on her arm. From this she produced a croissant which she thrust into my muddy, bloodstained hand. She was always known as 'Madame Croissant'... and that's about it - well you asked me about French hunting and now you know as much as I do - Mind you it is nothing like as good as it used to be - 20 years since, what is?
I first had the chance to go hunting in France, back in the 1980s and I thought it great fun. It was the thought of renewing my pleasure that made me want to go back to France when I retired (or got sacked, which ever one you want), but after 20 years, hunting in France has changed and not for the better - roads and villages have spawned and grown out - traffic has sprawled and Parks have appeared. 20 years ago they hardly existed and your boar or stag could set out and provide a splendid hunt. Those days are gone. The Park at the bottom of our road has pigs and deer in plenty, and they get plenty of hunting; but is it any good? I fear not, the Park (about 30,000 acres) is totally enclosed in wire mesh fencing from which nothing can escape. It is owned by an 'Ancien Famille' - apparently, or, so It is rumoured, they fell into problems during the German occupation. The Park is now let to a local hunting person, a very pleasant chap who lets out the hunting and the shooting by the day. Very often during the hunting season, I hear the cry of hounds and the tantootling of horns, which I find very frustrating, but that is my problem not anyone else's. The tenant is very kind and sometimes he persuades one of his clients to invite me to hunt with customers. I do, but I have to say that when you have chugged round the park once or twice, you have really seen and done it all. My neighbouring farmer who is chairman of the local Commune Shoot says that there used to be wonderful hunts out of the park before it was enclosed. This I can believe. I remember having wonderful hunts from the wild woodlands in the Bourbonnais; I remember once that we got away from a straggling wood in the upper Loire with about 4 couple of hounds and they made a 20 mile point before the lone follower and his four children took the pig (a big bugger) in the middle of a field of baigies.
By 'taking a pig' I am not talking about picking it up and stuffing it in your pocket. A taken pig is by definition a dead pig - it has to be dispatched. This is usually done with a 'couteau de chasse' which is in effect a short sword. It can be a lance with a tear shaped blade with a 3 foot handle which is screwed on to the blade; rather in the same plan as a drain rod so most lances are made by blacksmiths; So when a pig is at bay - you are likely to see a lot of men running furiously from the nearest road and screwing their lances together as they run. They are hoping to achieve the honour of 'serving the Boar'; which means giving the pig a thrust with the weapon into the heart; which means just behind the shoulder- such an honour I never thought to achieve.
One day when I was hunting with the Countess; we were having a hunt; a roughly driven jeep roared up and pulled across the road.
The Countess cried that no one was to touch the pig until the English man had arrived. Well, she owned the hounds, the pig and most of the country round about. I found strong hands dragging me from my saddle with cries of "Villy Vite!" Then with me sprawling in the back, we roared away until the jeep stopped violently outside a thicket from which came much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Dark deeds were obviously afoot in the thicket. It was obvious that I was to be concerned in what happened next - the thicket was also a bog, with a deeply trodden path running into its deeps. In these depths came the baying of hounds and a protest of pig. It was only then that I realised that a major part in the final scene was to be played out by me. I had not a clue as to what to do. “Villy est ici” cried some mud spattered voices. Knarled hand seized me and dragged me to the thicket. 'Villy Vite!' became a sort of chant as I waded through the bog - rough hands passed along the chain until I arrived at the centre thicket where the pig was at bay - what did I do next? Well I did not know - Alberique, the cousin of the countess, knew exactly - he thrust a lance into my hand
"Be'ind the shoulder - Vite Villy! Vite!" So, that's the way it was and I am glad to say that it is a quick end.
So I staggered back through the mud to the edge of the thicket. A handsome old lady came and threw her arms around me: “Ah!' Bravo! Villy! It is a great honour for the pig to be served by an Englishman!"
- well I must say that that is a point of view that I had not considered. The handsome old lady used to go everywhere with a basket on her arm. From this she produced a croissant which she thrust into my muddy, bloodstained hand. She was always known as 'Madame Croissant'... and that's about it - well you asked me about French hunting and now you know as much as I do - Mind you it is nothing like as good as it used to be - 20 years since, what is?
Sunday, 7 February 2010
Bad Eye
Did you all enjoy seeing old Tony Blair again?
You know that I cannot stand the little beggar - never have. When he became PM I was writing a column for the Daily Telegraph and someone asked - why did I not write a column about Blair? So I did, AND I told it like it was. I said that in veterinary terms he had a bad eye and no one should consider buying the bugger should they have the chance. After that the roof fell on me - I got letters saying that Blair was the best thing since sliced bread - that he was the only chance for Britain to become Great again and what was the matter with his eye.
It just happened that I had been to Appleby Horse Fair and I had seen several gypsy lads riding about on those Palomino ponies (things with cream manes and tails and great rolling blue eyes and terrible temperaments) - that is what I call a bad eye. This I explained to my readers was what I meant about a bad eye - It was all to do with temperament and I reckoned that Blair had a dodgy temperament. In fact I called him a snake oil salesman. Nothing that has happened since has changed my judgement of that time. I stood by it then and I stand by it today. The 'Bad Eye' is still something that I mistrust instinctively and I have seldom been mistaken. I am afraid that I felt the same about the last Princess of Wales, whom I always felt would bring trouble. That brought the ceiling down on my head too - poor sad girl, and what about Bliar? Can anyone say that he has not been trouble? - and brought more of it around all those who have trusted and believed him . Well thank God that none can accuse me of making that mistake. I was horrified when I heard that Blair was in line for some sort of head shed ness in the foremost ranks of Europe - I have never thought much of Europe - but surely they could not be as stupid as that? - and in the end they the Euros napped at the idea and quite right too. Not even the French could be as stupid as that - could they? Well, I do hope not, in fact I hope that Blair disappears back to wherever he has been hiding, I think that he is supposed to be keeping the peace in the world. Do you really think that he has earned the thick wedge that he gets every week / month?
Anyway, I do not know how many of you listened to Claire Short talking to Chilcot yesterday. I have always thought of Ms Short as a pretty tiresome woman and I was not surprised when Blair chucked her out of his Cabinet. She loves TB even less than I do. Anyway, she didn't half pitch into the little bugger yesterday and gave him a right good gliff around his lug, which he well deserves. The unfortunate Iraqis do not deserve all the troubles in which Blair left them and where this government will quite happily continue to leave them.
If you get a chance, get a DVD called The Trial of Tony Blair. It won't happen; even If it should, but it might give you something to dwell on - it cheered me up just thinking that it might - hope springs eternal.
You know that I cannot stand the little beggar - never have. When he became PM I was writing a column for the Daily Telegraph and someone asked - why did I not write a column about Blair? So I did, AND I told it like it was. I said that in veterinary terms he had a bad eye and no one should consider buying the bugger should they have the chance. After that the roof fell on me - I got letters saying that Blair was the best thing since sliced bread - that he was the only chance for Britain to become Great again and what was the matter with his eye.
It just happened that I had been to Appleby Horse Fair and I had seen several gypsy lads riding about on those Palomino ponies (things with cream manes and tails and great rolling blue eyes and terrible temperaments) - that is what I call a bad eye. This I explained to my readers was what I meant about a bad eye - It was all to do with temperament and I reckoned that Blair had a dodgy temperament. In fact I called him a snake oil salesman. Nothing that has happened since has changed my judgement of that time. I stood by it then and I stand by it today. The 'Bad Eye' is still something that I mistrust instinctively and I have seldom been mistaken. I am afraid that I felt the same about the last Princess of Wales, whom I always felt would bring trouble. That brought the ceiling down on my head too - poor sad girl, and what about Bliar? Can anyone say that he has not been trouble? - and brought more of it around all those who have trusted and believed him . Well thank God that none can accuse me of making that mistake. I was horrified when I heard that Blair was in line for some sort of head shed ness in the foremost ranks of Europe - I have never thought much of Europe - but surely they could not be as stupid as that? - and in the end they the Euros napped at the idea and quite right too. Not even the French could be as stupid as that - could they? Well, I do hope not, in fact I hope that Blair disappears back to wherever he has been hiding, I think that he is supposed to be keeping the peace in the world. Do you really think that he has earned the thick wedge that he gets every week / month?
Anyway, I do not know how many of you listened to Claire Short talking to Chilcot yesterday. I have always thought of Ms Short as a pretty tiresome woman and I was not surprised when Blair chucked her out of his Cabinet. She loves TB even less than I do. Anyway, she didn't half pitch into the little bugger yesterday and gave him a right good gliff around his lug, which he well deserves. The unfortunate Iraqis do not deserve all the troubles in which Blair left them and where this government will quite happily continue to leave them.
If you get a chance, get a DVD called The Trial of Tony Blair. It won't happen; even If it should, but it might give you something to dwell on - it cheered me up just thinking that it might - hope springs eternal.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Memoir
My blogs have got a bit behind. The reason for this is very simple, my mother put her finger on it straight away - '”The fool is too old to keep falling about on this head - his memory is buggered”. Well done Mum - right on the button as always, and of course she is quite right. A great deal of my life has been spent thinking of new ways of falling on my head. As I said to a friend the other day: I have been very lucky - I have had a lot of falls and have never really hurt myself. The trouble is that falling off things is like building up a Debit balance in the bank - one day it gets called in. This is what has now happened to me - I cannot remember what day of the week it is, I have to ask Mrs Poole. She is very good about dates, but it is a bit of a bugger.
I remember when I returned from my last spell of hospitalisation; (that really is a ghastly word) – anyway, the doctors asked me “how my memoir was”. Now “Memoir” means much the same in French and English. Oh, I said - it's fine thank you, just fine; but it wasn't you know - and still isn't. If I do not write things in my note book, they get forgotten and that can be a bloody nuisance - rather like falling on your head.
It was a very beautiful Autumn morning somewhere about last November. I had set off on my tricycle to collect my monthly Euro pills from the doctor in the village. It was a very bright sunny morning and the sun was dazzling me. I imagine that it was also dazzling the driver of the white van that was following the trike and it must have dazzled him to the extent that he not only followed the trike and I - but caught us up and ran over us rather comprehensively. What happened next I cannot really say as I was out for the next 2/3 weeks. I have to get my memoir from Mrs Poole who was following me to the surgery - when she caught up with the twisted remains of the tricycle and her husband I had been joined by 2 doctors, two retired persons, two Gendarmes, who were persisting in trying to breathalyse me, my neighbour on his tractor - about the only person who was absent was the driver of the White van - he had skived off and has never knowingly been seen again
This was how I became introduced to the French Health Service. The assembled company insisted that I be taken to hospital and as I was out of things, I was not in a position to argue. I was lodged in three different hospitals, before I regained consciousness. I do not think that the French Medics like me very much. It seems that I was prone to wander at night. The hospitals did not like this - So they tied me to the bed, however, this is apparently not legal in France, so they started giving me injections. These gave me sleep but they also gave me the most horrific dreams, which stayed with me for a long time.
The other problem that has remained is a lack of balance, which is what brings me to fall in the snow drifts and is rather tiresome, which brings me back to rolling in a snowdrift at the back of the house. I had set out for a walk down the lane when my equilibre gave up on me and I folded gently into a snow wreath at the side of the road. There seemed little point in getting up as my balance might let me down again. I had my mobile and so could ring my wife who was shopping in the town. So I rang her up and laid my head in the snow and hoped for help. Our good neighbour, Gerrard, has the next farm down the lane and he might trundle down in his tractor. Then I heard the tractor, it was coming down the lane, but was turning for the last farm up the lane. I turned on my back and waved my cap in the air...it was Franc - the other neighbour - he was not going to see me - but he was - the tractor turned on the cross ads and - Hooray! - I kept waving my cap and Frank drove straight to me in my snow drift:
'Good Job you saw me”: I said
“I didn't” he said, “It was him”. I had not realised but all the time that I had been grovelling in the road, Pippy my little white terrier had been sitting beside me. Franc had seen a distant white terrier, sitting alone in the road and Franc had come to have a look and had found me sprawled in the snow, with Pippy sitting firmly by my side.
Mother really is quite right, you know; I am truly too old for rolling about on the ground - even with Pip to look after.
I remember when I returned from my last spell of hospitalisation; (that really is a ghastly word) – anyway, the doctors asked me “how my memoir was”. Now “Memoir” means much the same in French and English. Oh, I said - it's fine thank you, just fine; but it wasn't you know - and still isn't. If I do not write things in my note book, they get forgotten and that can be a bloody nuisance - rather like falling on your head.
It was a very beautiful Autumn morning somewhere about last November. I had set off on my tricycle to collect my monthly Euro pills from the doctor in the village. It was a very bright sunny morning and the sun was dazzling me. I imagine that it was also dazzling the driver of the white van that was following the trike and it must have dazzled him to the extent that he not only followed the trike and I - but caught us up and ran over us rather comprehensively. What happened next I cannot really say as I was out for the next 2/3 weeks. I have to get my memoir from Mrs Poole who was following me to the surgery - when she caught up with the twisted remains of the tricycle and her husband I had been joined by 2 doctors, two retired persons, two Gendarmes, who were persisting in trying to breathalyse me, my neighbour on his tractor - about the only person who was absent was the driver of the White van - he had skived off and has never knowingly been seen again
This was how I became introduced to the French Health Service. The assembled company insisted that I be taken to hospital and as I was out of things, I was not in a position to argue. I was lodged in three different hospitals, before I regained consciousness. I do not think that the French Medics like me very much. It seems that I was prone to wander at night. The hospitals did not like this - So they tied me to the bed, however, this is apparently not legal in France, so they started giving me injections. These gave me sleep but they also gave me the most horrific dreams, which stayed with me for a long time.
The other problem that has remained is a lack of balance, which is what brings me to fall in the snow drifts and is rather tiresome, which brings me back to rolling in a snowdrift at the back of the house. I had set out for a walk down the lane when my equilibre gave up on me and I folded gently into a snow wreath at the side of the road. There seemed little point in getting up as my balance might let me down again. I had my mobile and so could ring my wife who was shopping in the town. So I rang her up and laid my head in the snow and hoped for help. Our good neighbour, Gerrard, has the next farm down the lane and he might trundle down in his tractor. Then I heard the tractor, it was coming down the lane, but was turning for the last farm up the lane. I turned on my back and waved my cap in the air...it was Franc - the other neighbour - he was not going to see me - but he was - the tractor turned on the cross ads and - Hooray! - I kept waving my cap and Frank drove straight to me in my snow drift:
'Good Job you saw me”: I said
“I didn't” he said, “It was him”. I had not realised but all the time that I had been grovelling in the road, Pippy my little white terrier had been sitting beside me. Franc had seen a distant white terrier, sitting alone in the road and Franc had come to have a look and had found me sprawled in the snow, with Pippy sitting firmly by my side.
Mother really is quite right, you know; I am truly too old for rolling about on the ground - even with Pip to look after.
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