Food and More Reflections

Madam and I (and little Pip) have lived in France for 5 years now - do we like it? Well, up to a "Point Lord Copper". There is a lot to like about France and the French, but there are disappointments. Take the food for instance, I am greedy - I like my food. Before we left England "kind friends" liked to point out how fat I would get on "all that lovely French food"; that has not proved to be the case; French food has been a great disappointment. The French seem to have turned aside from their famed culinary skills and prefer to stuff their systems with Pizzas, Burgers and other such fast food rubbish. The old family Resto seems to have pretty much disappeared. French cooks seem happy to serve fast food as fast as the French public is happy to shovel the rubbish down its' collective gut. Very sad, but at least it has removed any tendency I might have to overeat. My great sadness is "The Beef". When I first arrived in France, I used to look at the beautiful 'beef on the hoof' feeding in the pastures and salivate; it was not to be. French butchery is a complete disgrace. Meat is not hung, indeed, I understand that it is an offence under French law to sell meat that is more than 3 days old. This is all the fault of the British, of course. They get blamed for inventing 'Mad Cow Disease' (as though the nastiness was completely unknown in France). This means that any steak offered for sale will be marked (V.B.F) - Viandes Bovine Francais - steak that is only suitable for re-soling a boot. I have given up trying to chomp French beef - very sad.

We first went to the Vienne (West Central - Poitiers), it was not a part we knew, but it seemed worth a punt because Madame and I are monstrous keen on hunting. I had tried French hunting back in the 1980s and greatly enjoyed it. According to the official map of the Society of Venerie, the Vienne had the largest number of packs of hounds per square kilometre of anywhere in France. A man told me that it was possible to hunt 7 days a week in the Vienne. This may have been true - what is also true is that in five years - I did not have one day that I remember with pleasure. French hunting had greatly changed for the worse in the previous decade. The great hunts that I could remember were no longer possible. Hunting had become 'parked'. For example, our local hunt that pursued both Stag and Boar, lived in a forest of 30,000 acres. After the Hitler war the noble owner was thought to have been too sympathetic in his approach to the German occupiers, so his house was burned down and he moved away. He put in a 9ft stock proof fence around the forest and leased the sporting rights. I used to hunt there a bit, but churning round the same bit of forest, day after day, can quickly lose its' charm. The local farmers told me that there used to be great hunts out of the forest, but as with the tender 'beef', those days were gone.
These days I fear the 'Parking Craze' has increased. I can see the reason for the landowners; parks can be stocked. Busy main roads avoided and insurance costs reduced. Gone are the days when a hunt would be accompanied by its' own van of Gendarmes who held up lesser traffic when hounds had to cross a main road. The modern sort of hunting may be practical, but it lacks excitement and zest. There was plenty of hunting in the Vienne, but it had no sparkle.

Now we have moved to Normandy and we are hoping for a fresh start. What about the French? We have met many pleasant and helpful French. The big problem is that the French are deeply engrained with petty bureaucracy. Take a problem - I was christened Robert, William Frederick Poole. All my life I have been known as William, or one of the variations. The French do not go in for multi prenames - they have hyphens - Jean-Paul; Sophie-Anne etc. so to the French bureaucracy I am, Poole-Robert. If you try to change it they will object. For instance: I needed to change my mobile phone. My wife took the old one to the Orange shop in the town. "But", said the woman, "You must bring Msr Poole's passport". So she did. "But", said the woman, "you must have the written permission to use it". To cut a long story short, it took Mrs P six visits to Orange - I could not be William, my name was officially Robert and so on.
You may think that petty officialdom is an annoying joke, but the results can be tragic. Do you remember Srebrenicia in 1995? The inhabitants of the town had a UN protection force of Dutch troops. The Dutch asked their French Commander for an air-strike to stop the Serbs shelling the town. "No", said the French General - "the Dutch have filled in the wrong form". Because of this bit of petty lunacy - 8,000 men and boys were slaughtered.
A fine example of Bumble-dum.

NOVEMBER 2011 – Brr...

We are taking France out to Lunch. In case this confuses you, France is our best French Friend. We stayed with her when we were house hunting in Normandy and she has proved a very good help and stay ever since. France was born in 1942. This was not a good time to be born and raised in France. Her father had her christened 'France' so that there would be something French left in France. She lives on a large farm just outside our shopping town, which has expanded onto the farm. On what is left of the farm she keeps horses. Normandy is renowned for its horses. They are of a really good old fashioned type - short legs, short back, deep chest, good back end, any English Hunt would be very happy to have a stable of Norman horses. Sadly there is little mounted hunting in Normandy. The French custom decree that 'La Chasse a cours' is a matter for Forests. These are few in N. Normandy. In the area where we live it is mostly 'Horn and Corn'. It would be good country for a pack of Harriers, but no one has got round to that. The French are a bit ticklish about hunting hares anyway, them being a bit scarce. I remember having a lot of fun with a rather good pack of harriers where we lived before. But they caught too many hares and the locals stopped it. I have studied the country whilst bodging around on my 'Mobility Scooter'. Most of the country would be un readable now, what with wire and mechanical hedge trimmers. It must have been a good bank country once with nice, roly poly, double banks, but they are all covered in scrub and brambles now. It was a great tank country, I believe - the Panzers liked it dearly. The country is cobwebbed with little gravel lanes, so you would get about quite nicely on a 'quad', without jumping. It would suit me quite nicely. We did find a useful looking Foxhound country out on the Channel coast - very like W.Cornwall, but the Government has plonked huge Nuclear power stations all over it, which have killed the job - pity it must have been rather good rough hunting. We did find a pack of hounds to the South, but it would have meant a 4 hours drive to and from the meets which frankly is too much for old retired people and most often hunting that we had down in the Vienne was of such poor quality, we decided that rather than go out for disappointment, we had had a bloody good innings we would rather sit by the fire and relive the good hunts that we had in the past. And especially now the 'as exciting as watching paint dry' Flat Racing season has ground to a halt; we can watch the jump racing on the telly. I am sure that if we asked France, she would take us Trotting. This is the big equine THING in Normandy and there are horses scattered about at nearly every farm. I know that France's family are big in it, but I have watched it in the USA and it does not stir my adrenaline at all. I would as soon watch Paschale sweep my chimney, which I did the other day and I found it quite intriguing. It is quite different to the English method. No brushes are involved for one thing. 'Rammonag takes 2 men - two ropes and a bugger's muddle of twisted metal. Man the First climbs up on the roof and drops a rope down the chimney with one end clamped onto the Buggers' Muddle. Man the second waits down below and catches the rope as it is dropped. He then bellows 'Allez! ‘up the chimney and hauls on the rope. The BM is then dragged down the chimney, sticking its hooks into any bits of tar it may encounter. Then the whole boiling arrives in the fire place - ALLEZ! And the nest of hooks goes up again and the process is repeated as often as Paschale deems it necessary. I must say that I consider it much better than sticking a pipe up the chimney and sucking. One thing to remember is that smoke in France is 'wood smoke'. Coal is expensive and hard to come by. I go through a haze of fragrant wood smoke when I go through the street each morning. It is better than 'smog'. In case you are confused by my mention of a 'Mobility Scooter'. They are comparatively rare in Rural France, but you will see a lot in London - dashingly ridden by Chelsea Pensioners. They are electronic and have to be plugged in and charged up. They do not like mud and and they are flat out at 8 kph on the Tarmac. They are supposed to have a range of 50+ Klicks. I am not so sure. Mine died on me the other day half way up a hill. I rang the supplier in Gloucestershire. He suggested that it had not been charged properly. This was a good idea because it made Mrs Poole feel guilty (she being I/C charging, me being considered too stupid) What the Scooter is excellent for is Dog Jogging. In traffic Pip sits up like a Duke or a Lord in a bag on the Pannier, but on the little roads he trots along for miles and I must say that the French rural cars are very good about little dogsPS for Mr H: I do not remember when you spoke to the Stukleys (Simon?), but no parcel has yet arrived Blessings Willy

October 2011 - Another story

The Little Dog (aka - Pip) wakes me each morning He sits outside the bedroom door and whines gently. This is usually at 0500 and usually, I am already awake. I have been conditioned over years to waking up to " Reveille' in the original French or ' really' as the British Army has it. Whatever - I am accustomed to becoming swiftly awake and conscious, whether it be to the whine of a small dogs, the Pipes and Drums crashing into 'Hey Johnny Cope' , a pick helve being rattled on a metal bedstead, or an empty bucket being dropped on a concrete yard outside my window. I have been conditioned long years of getting ready for Roe stalking, Autumn hunting, or just letting little dogs out to take 'an easement' or as it might be a pee. Whatever it might be I have become accustomed to early rising and consciousness with an even temper. I cannot say the same about Madame, whose temper is entirely toxic until c:10.00 hours. Those of you who follow PG Wodehouse may remember his egregious hero - Ukridge (Ewekridge), who was permanently broke and was always finding new and useless answers to his problem. He tried to solve the 'early morning dog problem' by inventing a chute from the bedroom window down which you could slide the offending dog to the lawn below. This did not solve the problem of having to get up to let the blighter back in. This problem did not often arise as little dogs, dropped down Ukridge's chute tended to break their necks which may be a reason for his invention failing to catch on. My 'EDP' is different anyway. I sleep on the ground floor and putting the dog out only means opening a door, but getting the little bugger back can be more of a problem. The neighbourhood cats like to make free with our tiny garden each night and no self respecting terrier could be expected to come back in until every inch of cat line has been worried out and remarked upon. This may take a little time, whilst I stand about with a gale from the Channel driving round my dangly bits. I must say that the Little Dog is fairly obedient with me. This is because, during the day time, I often take him out with my Scooter and he does not want me weaselling off in the darkness without him. Anyway this is how Madame chooses to explain the fact that he is not as obedient with her as, she says, he is with me. She is often reduced to chasing him round the garden with a yard broom. - Well it seems to work in the end. A good stiff broom is very useful with difficult animals. I remember (many years ago, when I was hunting on Dartmoor, being bidden to attend a Pony Club Camp. It was being run by a terrifying old lady called ' Granny Howard'. She and the Merry Campers were trying to get a pony into a trailer with a marked lack of success. At last I stuck a stable broom up its arse and it shot into the trailer: "Now children “said Granny “that is totally the wrong way to load a pony." but it was loaded. To my mind, the wrong way to do anything is the way that does not work, but it was not my place to tell Granny Howard that. Still on Dartmoor and another terrifying old lady - The Missus managed my stables for me - 'The B B Bloody Boy' as she liked to call me. She was lovely, but had the most appalling flow of appalling language and a stammer. One day we had a big horse to load in a lorry. The B, B B Bugger was not having it. "Go and get Mr Dennis and his t t t,tractor, Boy" said the Missus. Phil Dennis farmed next door to the Kennels. When he came with his tractor, the Missus hanked a wire rope on the draw hitch, ran the rope through the door at the front of the lorry hauled it back and attached the end to a stout collar round the horse's neck. "Take it away, Phil" the rope tautened. The horse lay down on its side and in this way it was loaded on to the lorry minus a bit of hair and skin "There yer b b bugger!" said the Missus " That's you loaded" and it was. I am not sure that Granny Howard would have approved. But I said nothing to the Missus. The horse was undoubtedly loaded and If I had said anything, she might have given me a good s swearing.

October 2011

Returned drained and exhausted from England and had a day at home. The day after we got up at 0430 to catch the Guernsey Ferry - lovely place for a holiday, I hear you say and I have no doubt but that you are right. I will try it one day. We were on business to see our accountant. 'Gosh' people will say,'they must be hell's rich, having a Channel Island Accountant,’ No we are not, it is just that Sarkosy is trying to pull a fiscal stroke to make us even poorer - a very moderate little man in my opinion and that has nothing to do with his ethnicity. We are fortunate in that our lovely Virginie, is well upsides of all the knavish tricks of 'Johnny Crapaud'. Whatever - the crossing to Guernsey was very rough, with that nasty Atlantic swell. I know from hard experience that that particular sea scape can make one lay out one's kit. All my life I have, like Nelson, been a victim of Sea Sickness, but this time I was spared although many of our fellow passengers succumbed and I felt very sorry for them. That is one pleasure I have to look forward to that I can do without St Peter Port is a pretty little harbour. We set off for lunch in high hopes and a taxi cab, being lame gives one certain privileges. The lunch was excellent, but I regret that Madame Virginie's upsum did not cheer us up much. It seems that Sarkozie has it in for the English; something to do with Waterloo - the battle, which the French won as any French school boy will tell you, not the Station in London. And he wants to fiscally screw the wicked English. However Madame V says that nothing is certain as the French cannot make up their minds - that will amaze you. In as much as I have ever given the Channel Islands much thought room. I had always thought of them as part of France that had come our way after 1812 - not so, it seems. Les Isles de la Manche have always been highly independent. They were and remain the personal property of the Duke of Normandy. Now if you shrug and say 'Yeah, well 'ees dead, innee?' You are quite wrong. The Duke is alive and well in the person of Our Gracious Queen. You do not have to ask how that works, just know that it does and stop asking damned stupid questions. The Channislanders won't thank you for it. They are a very independent people. At one time they spoke a French patois that was thought to be the nearest thing to Norman French that existed, since the real thing - it still does, but only just - amongst the older generation. The present Generation still speak Patois but it is an English based a sort of a bastard Cockney, a bit like Pompey English. I do not find it very attractive, any more than the embryonic sluts in the pub by the Portsmouth docks, but for some obscure reason, no one give two monkey's for my opinion - very strange. My wife's Great Uncle owned an island off Guernsey. You can see 2 or 3 from the harbour, so I suppose that it was probably one of those, but nobody seems to know, or, if it comes to that, care. The Channislands remain very much their own. They refuse to join Europe and who is to say that they are wrong in that? I mean would we English have done it had Grocer Heath not lied through his teeth to us and told us that Brussels would never have more power than a District Council ? The Islanders won’t pay VAT and they would not bomb Libya or anywhere else come to that. The Islanders will only take up arms if the person of H.M the Queen (aka the Duke of Normandy) is under threat. All in all they are cussed buggers, who have many good negatives. Search for 'good positives' and you will find them in the crew of the boats of the 'Manche Express'. These are the fast launches that ferry you over the troubled waters from Normandy to the Isles. I was officially posted up as 'disabled' and they were brilliant at getting me (slim as I am) and my wheel chair up and down steep stairs and gangways. I know that Mrs Poole wrote a thank you letter to them, I would like my own Gratitude to be recorded. Mind you, it took, the Bosun and two Engineers to manhandle me and m'chair up and down and all in French too, them and the launches coming from Normandy.

AUGUST (Apologise for tardiness)

How is my French? Well - pretty ropey to be honest, especially since I have lived here for 5 years: One of the problems is that Mrs P speaks it much better than I do - I hold my position that the world would be a better place if everyone spoke English. I mean who speaks French? The Quebecois - a few Francophone tribes in West Africa - apart from that - nobody; possibly not even the French. We had a kind neighbour in the Vienne, who comes from Toulouse. This meant that as far as the local locals were concerned, she spoke no known language. Comprehension is my problem and being a bit deaf does not help. Lack of understanding in a strange language can lead to unhappy situations. Some years ago the Mem and I were eating at a good restaurant in the Bourbonnais- the food was good and the patron was bilingual, both good recommendation. As I was nibbling a bit of cheese (Cantal: which I reckon to be up there along with a decent Cheddar) a man from a nearby table got up and gave me a lot of Fast French - too fast for me, but I knew that I was being given wrong. It seemed that he was upset because the Prince of Wales had burned his family farm. This made me gulp a bit; it did not seem to fit in with what I knew of the gentle Prince Charles and did hi mother know about this? anyway after a bit more rant; the man departed in high dudgeon and a motor car. I turned to the Patron who had been ear wigging the whole conversation, with great interest: was the story true? I asked him It was entirely true said the Patron, up to a point. The point was that the Prince concerned was the 'Black Prince' who burned a lot of farms in the area. He then gave me glass of excellent brandy ease any strain on the 'Enconte Cordiale'.. So you see how a lack of comprehension can lead to problems. I can speak it better than I can understand it: if you can understand that. This is because the French have a poor understanding of their native tongue. The French get by with a vocabulary of c; 40,000 words. We (the English) are accustomed to some 100,000 words (English). In short I can get away with rather limited French conversations although, these can end in tears of incomprehension. I will give you an example. On an early visit, the Mem and I were staying with some smart friends in the Bourbonnais (top end of the River Loire). I was rather taken aback to be (apparently) asked - 'if we had Cider in England?''Certainly', I said, 'but mostly in the West. But you also have Cider the most excellent, but mostly I think in Normandy, I felt a sharp pain in my shin as it might have been of a kick - it was;'Shut up, you fool - they are talking about SIDA and its AIDS' So, you see what I mean. This brings me back to my opinion that the world would be a better place if everyone spoke English. I mean what is the practical use of French? Who speaks it apart from the French, the Quebecois and a dwindling few from Franco phone tribes in West and Central Africa... In the World of the 'Noughties' - English, Mandarin and Spanish are the ones to speak. Do the French really talk French? We had a nice neighbour in the Vienne. She came from Toulouse; the other neighbours solidly maintained that the French that she spoke was 'like the Peace of God' - past all understanding. The French language has always been riddled with patois and dialects. As I understand it, what we would now regard as 'Standard French' was at the time of Napoleon, only spoken in and around Paris. There were some 200 variations to be coped with. It was Napoleon's lust for conquest got this sorted. After all if you are going to send men to conquer somewhere you do not want them kicking the shite out of the wrong place because they had not understood their orders. There was an example of patois that I came across in the Bourbonnais. This area was much fought over by the English 'Free Companies'. So the older Bourbonnaisers do not say - 'Fermez la porte'; they say:'Bar de do'. This is pretty sound advice when English 'Free Lances' were kicking around Mind you it is not for me to complain about dialect problems. I lived in darkest Northumberland for the thick end of 20 years. The older generation speak a sort of Old Norse dialect, which I found pretty impenetrable. I did manage to write an article in it once. Whichever, Editor I did it for was not best suited. There was a nice man who lived near us in the Vienne. He was a Franco-phone Vietnamese. One day I was complaining to him about some bureaucratic bêtise (you can be spoilt for choice) He shook his head: "The trouble with the French is that they are not a serious people." That, I think says it all

Reflections

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. I am looking forward to it. I want to be near the sea again. I was bred and buttered by the sea on the Estuary of the Fowey River;"Oh the harbour of Fowey Is a wonderful spot and there I enjoy to sail in a yacht;
To sail in a yacht round a mark or a buoy;Oh a wonderfil spot is the harbour of Fowey” - Hilaire Belloc and how I agree with him. How I loved Fowey Harbour. Golant which was the Family home was a mile or two upstream, but we had a base in Fowey. The 'boat house' just downstream 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 / he 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. How are you on éoleonnes (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 gracopse of them on a neighboriun 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 out to cross the road by the Bakerie the other day and I could sense a car approaching the crossing the from the other side. As I set out across the crossing and 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 tyre 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 to the point of letting him have Basil.

COON HUNTING

COON HUNTING
My old friend, Tupelo C Claiborne 111, was a “mighty hunter before the Lord”. He had his own pack of Coonhounds since he was 5 years old, but he thought that his hounds lacked a bit of venom and were seldom “in blood”. This may have been something to do with the quarry – put a coon under pressure and its’ instinct is to climb the nearest tree. Hounds then claim knowledge of its’ presence, by “marking” at the base of the tree: The racoon then sulks as they do and figuratively speaking picks up its’ ball and goes home. ‘Tupe’ thought that he was getting too much of this sort of thing so he consulted his grandmother and Mr Hett, the farm manager and Hon 1st & K-H.Granny Claiborne was a mighty power in the land and when invited to visit the County Prison farm she took Tupe with her (“educational”). Tupe was very impressed by the ‘Warden’s’ kennel of Track Hounds. He thought that they were a mighty fine kennel of dogs and tried very hard to persuade Granny Claiborne to use her charm with the Warden to get one for his kennel. Granny Claiborne used her undoubted charm with the prison authorities, with the result that “Lucifer” appeared one morning at Tupe’s kennel:- “a mighty fine dawg” in Tupe’s opinion, who just needed a bit of training. “Old Moses” worked on the garden staff at the family estate and it was easily arranged that he would help out. Mose and his long family lived in a wooden cabin down by the creek at the back of the estate. It was arranged that each day at the end of work, Mose would tie a string on a deceased coon and set off through the woods to his cabin and his long family. Lucifer would fasten on to the scent of the coon and hunt out the line to the bottom of the chosen tree. So it came about on the night of Lucifer’s arrival, Tupe, with Lucifer and Mr Hett, set Mose away with the deceased coon and, soon, his deep baying was echoing through the thick woodlands of the Claiborne estate. Tupe listened to his new hound with great satisfaction, until Mr Hett came up and spoke. “Hey Tupe”, he said, “Y’all hear that dog?” “Sure do” said Tupe, “he give voice real good”, “he sure do” said Mr Hett – “thing is, that dawg don’t sound to me like he’s huntin’ any coon trail” – and no more he did.“Hot shit! ” said Tupe, “that dawg’s hunting old Mose! We better git along to Mose’ cabin”. And so the crowd of hunters set out lickety split along the banks of the “crick” to the cabin where Old Mose lived with his long family. The hunters had made good time in pursuit and arrived at the cabin just in time to see Mose going in the front door with Lucifer close behind him. The long family were piling as fast as they could out of every opening in the back of the cabin – the “long family” made a long and vocal trail which was barked at enthusiastically by Lucifer. Mose was standing amongst the long family tail on a loading stand amongst the tangle of the “long tail”, when Tupe came in sight the old man raised a dignified and magisterial hand at him. “Mis’ Tupe” he said, “I’s truly sorry suh, but after today I ain’t trailin’ no more coon skins for you, no suh!” As Tupe said later, “you couldn’t hardly blame the old man – He was a damn good gardener, but you couldn’t blame him for it was not Lucifer’s fault that he just loved to trail a man, that’s what Prison Hounds
Top of Form
Bottom of Form

May to June - Dartmoor memories

"Vust er rained then er blawed
Then er ailed, then er snawed
Then er comed a shower of rain
Then er vruz and blawed again"


This is a very neat demotic encapsulation of the Dartmoor climate. I lived and hunted on Dartmoor for some years in my youth. "The Moor" made a huge impression on me. It was and is an impressive place, you could love it or hate it (I sometimes managed both), but it demanded respect. You do not mess with the Dartmoor bogs - "the Stuggy".
In case you are wondering why everything in Devon seems to be female, "Er" is the Anglo Saxon word for "it". At the time when I lived there, Dartmoor was still a wild place. You could ride or walk all day and never see another human. The Crown of the Moor is one huge sponge from which all the rivers flow "Taw and "Torridge, Okement, Dart - these are the rivers of my heart" - this is "The Stuggy", the bogs which do require great respect. For best you need to find the crossing places of the wild ponies, they really know "The Moor".
I have before me a hand-drawn map of the "Stuggy". It was drawn by a man who had worked as a carpenter at Devonport dockyard. When he retired he was hired as a "Moorman" by the then Master of the Dartmoor Hounds, he used to walk the Moor in the Summer and check out the paths. Where maintenance was necessary, he would dig out a drain and put in a cundy made out of Elm planking as Elm does not rot. When I rode the Moor back in the early sixties, many of the drains were still maintained and rideable (with care). The map has advice and warnings scribbled on it in a spidery hand - "Bad Ground" between Shavercombe and Green Hill - which has "BAD GROUND" in capital, bold letters. One I remember with great feeling was Black Lane, which ran from Green Hill to Swincombe Head. This path was across a green bog, it floated - and as you rode along it, it undulated. The path was about 3 foot wide and as you passed along it, the green scummy pools would wink at you and ask you to join them - a foot off the path and that was your lot. I have seen horses so badly stugged out there that they had to be shot. Once (and if) you got through Black Lane and onto Swincombe Head you were back onto "Good Ground" again and I always heaved a sigh of relief. I do not know what this bit of the Moor is like now.
But Dartmore has always required respect. There is an old saying that on "Exmoor you can ride anyway except where you can't". On "Dartmoor you can't ride anyway, except where you can" - requires Respect.
There were no motor roads across my end of the Moor. This did not worry me too much except that my best squeeze lived on a farm on the other side - 25 miles by road. The distance did not worry me, but the fact that petrol had just gone to 3 shillings and 9pence a gallon did. But by the crow, the Squeeze lived only 15 miles away; I could ride across the Moor, but it meant crossing Black Lane. I remember coming back down Black Lane in a fog and about 100 yards visibility - it was ticklish. As I came onto sound ground, a big dog fox jumped out of a rusher bed - I gave him a good "View Holloa"
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Message to Henry Hutchins (Plymouth):

Dear Henry - of course I remember you, it was all a long time ago. I am 71 now and you must have had a very active life - all those marriages - I am still on the first:
Sorry I can't eMail as my machine is wobbling, but very nice to hear from you. As you can see I now live in Normandy, but have never forgotten Dartmoor. Please give my best to J Hoare.
Well cheerio my Handsome,
All the Best, Willy Poole

More for May - Marriage

Did I watch The Marriage? Too right I did – You do not miss important family occasions like that. I would not miss Cousin William’s wedding. You did not know that he is a cousin of mine? Well, a lot of people did not; including, I suspect, William. It all rested with the Duke of Cambridge (Queen Victoria’s wicked uncle). He may have been head of the army, sorted out the terrible state of military supplies after the Crimea – still rides as bronze horse down Whitehall as Duke of Cambridge, but he was still a wicked old rake. All this requires a bit of explanation which involves my Great, Great Grandfather (I always get a bit muddled with “Greats”). His mother was a dairy maid at Windsor Castle; her father was a brick maker in Slough, who retired to a pub in Windsor. His daughter was put on as dairy maid at the castle where she caught the eye (wicked and lecherous) of the not quite so old Duke, which led to the girl becoming pregnant (good eyesight those old Royal Dukes). She produced a son and probably worried about his future (dairy mailing was not well paid) and her being an unmarried mother. It was fortunate that someone showed an interest in the boy and paid for an expensive education and a degree course at a French university, which allowed him to marry the girl who became my maternal Grandmother, whom he later dumped. This seems to suggest that if you are going to be a bastard it makes sense to be a Royal one (as it might have been a lecherous Duke of Cambridge). So now you understand how I might be HRH William Wales’ cousin – that’s all right, just call me “Sir”.
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I now have a “Scootair de Mobilité” which gives me a great freedom of local movement. It is a funny little machine with an electric motor (runs off a battery). The battery is charged off the mains and a charge will give you about 50 Klicks and a top speed of C.8.KPH on 4 wheels. It is definitely not an x country vehicle, but I can get around the shops on it and it gives me a great feeling of independence. I saw my first in London, ridden by a Chelsea Pensioner; he gave it a very good chit. I got mine from Optimum Mobility in Gloucestershire and it changed my life. I can now walk with two sticks, but distance and speed are somewhat limited. On the Scootair (French pronunciation), I can whizz around the town (no licence required) and on the back roads. Normandy is cobwebbed with sunken stone lanes. I can chug about for 2 to 3 hours without meeting any traffic (except the occasional tractor). Pip loves it, we have bought him a dog bag which goes on the front pannier. He rides there like a Duke or a Lord, off the motor road he runs along the lanes. At half speed the Scootair produces a good “dog jog”, on the tarmac he jumps up onto the foot plate and rides between my feet and is rather rude to passing Poodles or Yorkshire Terriers.
The “Scootair” has indeed come as a boon and a blessing to us, it deserves attention from any handicapped person.

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Someone asked me what I thought of Mr Clegg. The answer to that is “very little and very seldom”. I have a problem because for 20 years I shepherded in Northumberland where “cleg” is the vernacular for that dreadful thing – the “Blowfly”. It is not that I am suggesting that he is a possibly lethal pest – it is just that I wonder what can be the use of him.

G.W.R. - MAY 2011

When I was a “tacker” (West Country vernacular for a youth) and wanted to go somewhere, I would go by train. I was bred and buttered in G.W.R country.
G.W.R. country was highly rural and had spiders’ webs of branch lines that connected remoter towns and villages – parts of the Country Railway System, which was to be butchered by Beeching in the 1960s. The tiny road that ran past our house petered out in Golant on the Fowey River. If you went through Golant you might come to Golant Halt, the primitive and only station on the Lostwithiel and Fowey Railway. Lostwithiel was on the main Paddington/Penzance Line – very few main line trains seemed bothered about stopping there but it was the terminus for the Fowey Line. The Fowey Line was a typical G.W.R. branch line.
Trains normally consisted of a tank engine, a single passenger coach and on high days, a parcel van.

On really high days, begging the absence of a Railway Inspector, I was allowed to ride on the footplate – especially if Ken Williams was stoker. Ken had an “understanding” with Amy, who worked for my grandmother, so Amy was my passport. It was only about 10 miles to Fowey, but the line followed the winding of the Fowey River. The line may have been short but it must have been one of the most scenic in England (which it wasn’t - it being in Cornwall).
After leaving its’ spur in Lostwithiel, the little train would cross the splendid Resprynn viaduct, then along the steeply wooded bank of Pelynn woods. I might then have been told to pull the whistle card to alert the seething mass of shoppers, (possibly as many as 6) crossing the platform at Golant, the only halt.
The line then continued below the Golant Downs, past the creek at Saw Mills and the signal cabin at Carne Point, where Tom Bassett could always be relied on for a mug of strong milk-less tea; After that it was past the docks where a line of ships waited to ingest a load of China clay. Then a clatter over the points, blast on the whistle and into Fowey station.

Before the Hitler War, passengers could travel on through the Pinnock Tunnel and along the coast of Par Bay and into Par station. “Par, Par! Change for the Newquay Line” - another branch line I always wanted to do and tried very hard to persuade Nanny to take me. I was told very firmly that “The Gentry” did not go to Newquay; so that was that. Be that as it was, the “Golant Flyer” was part of a magical childhood. There is no passenger service now – the line is freight only “Ehen Fugaces!”

In another world, I used to be sent from London (where I was learning to fail as a Chartered Accountant) to do an audit in Bedford. This was extreme boredom, but I could relieve part of it by a bit “Extreme Steam”. There was ‘Country Railway’, which dawdled over the Cotswolds from Kingham Junction to Cheltenham; passing through enchanted names like Stow-on-the Wold, Bourton-on the Water, Naunton, Hawling, Andoversford (where the Cotswold Hunt Kennels were) and down the hill to Cheltenham. This was a magical sleepy journey, but it is not for you, because whilst you were drowsing someone has ripped up the tracks – the sad fate of so many Country Railways.

Poisson D’Avril

In case you are wondering about the heading, I understand it ( as much as I understand anything French) to be the French for “April Fool”.
This is a mucky story – true, but mucky. My old friend Michael came from Galway. He spent most of his life building “England’s Motorways”. He had inherited a deeply felt hatred of the English in his genes – after all we had hanged 11 of his uncles in the market place at Thurles (Co. Tipperary). In spite of this he became a firm friend of mine (I don’t know why). Anyway this is his story. Whilst he laboured for MacAlpines he was put up in digs, hither and thon. The digs were Spartan and all the workers slept in dormitories – long attic rooms with basic beds. The other thing basic were the lavatorial arrangements - I was reminded of Michael’s story after I came out of hospital, by the problem arising from getting to the loo when being unable to walk. In hospital, it is not a problem – you have a plastic bottle (in French it is a “pistolet”) and when it is full you just ring your bell and Nurse arrives with a replacement. This service is not available in our little bed back home. Nor was it available in the dormitories of the itinerant road builders. They had the use of a free-standing bucket in the corner of the room. The itinerants, being mostly Irish who had easy habits with drinking, which is not to say that they were often drunk, but they were inclined to “have drink taken” as the Irish so tactfully put it. This meant that their aim when approaching the bucket tended to be a bit wobbly. Early one morning the itinerants were wakened from their slumber by a crash and screams of female rage; what happened was – years of poor workmanship had rotted the wooden floors of the dormitory until it finally gave way and deposited the bucket and its’ contents on the floor below. This happened to be the bedroom of the landlady of the digs, who, as they say, copped the lot. She was not best suited

Song Birds
I see that the RSPB want us all to list the little birds in our gardens. With this house, there is a tiny garden at the back, but quite a large population of birds (?) can birds make a population (?) There is a family of Blue Tits who nets in a hole in our ancient Apple tree. Our little town is an ancient port and it should be thick with Gulls; I think of Berwick on Tweed and Fowey in Cornwall, which were full of clamouring gulls; Here I hardly see, or hear, one. I can only think that the French pinch all the eggs. I cannot blame them, I love Gulls’ eggs– they are always available at the bar in my London club. I cannot believe that the French would deny themselves such a delicacy, but as they glory in tripe sausages – “belief” has to be suspended.
From my armchair, which I use rather a lot during my convalescence, I get a good view across the back plots of the neighbouring houses. Through the windows I could have counted at least 3 pairs of Flycatchers. I think of all the small birds, these agile little birds are my favourite. I admire their agility as they flutter in the air in pursuit of their flying food.
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I am sure that you all felt deeply affected by the Japanese tragedy, I could not help wondering how my dear old father would have felt about it. Dad spent 3 years in a Japanese POW camp. He was left with a deep physical scar and an even deeper hatred of all things Japanese. He always said that the Atom bomb saved his life. All the POWs were told that if the British soldiers continued to insult the Emperor by winning things, all the prisoners would be marched into the neighbouring mine shaft workings and all the shafts blown up. No, Father did not like the Japs and I cannot blame him.
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APRIL 2011 - SPRING AT LAST

It occurs to me that I have not blogged you for some time. My excuse for this has been quite simple – I have been in hospital having bits chopped off me. The last time this happened; I got a new knee in a French hospital – I had always heard of the efficiency of French surgery – well, speak as you find – I was not impressed. The French staff made no attempt not to display obvious contempt for my impoverished attempts at speaking French – worse was to come: a week after the op my stitches were taken out and the following day I suffered a “rotule” of the knee cap (in other words it slipped) and if you want to suffer extreme pain (and who does), let your knee cap “rotule” a bit and you will be sorry (very).
Fair play to the French, they mended the bloody thing, but that was 2 years since and it is still not fully right yet. So, when the other knee went on the blink, I decided to give the Gallic Orthopods a miss and caught the ferry from Cherbourg to the Lister hospital (Lwr Sloan Street). The Lister came very highly recommended for the carving ability of Mr Lavalle, which I am very happy to endorse – a very neat piece of carving, even my (very) French GP has said that it is “tres joli”.
“Spring is Sprung” and that’s official. In France Spring comes on March 30th and you better believe it. “I wonder where the boidies is?” They say “de boids is on the wing, but that’s absoid, because de wings are on the boid”. Remember that.
Spring in Normandy reminds me of Spring in Cornwall – roadside banks full of Daffodils and great clotes of Primroses – gardens full of songbirds, flights of the water birds coming in from the sea-side to the marshes.
We are only a couple of miles from Utah Beach. In fact our little town was the first place freed after D Day. If you watch the movie: (again) “The Longest Day” you will see a shot of John Wayne leaning on a road-isle town sign. It is a neat little cruciform town (pop: 2,600) and you can be out of it and into deep rurality in 10 minutes.

Next blog will be in the right month! Apologies to all who are confused with delayed posts

December 2010 – Brr!

This should not be happening – Claude told me that it was impossible because of the Gulf Stream. The locals all said the same, but the sad fact is that Normandy is full of snow and frost. Last year, you may remember that three times we booked on Euro star to join the family in England for Christmas and 3 times Euro star was frozen up in the “Chunnel”. Mr Sarkozy was very cross and gave the head honcho of Euro star a right bollocking and we all assumed that that would be that. After all, as Sergeant MacFadyan used to say “Assumption is the mother of F---up!” And he was only a platoon sergeant. Still, we never did get to England for Christmas 2009 and had we tried to go to England in December 2010 we might not have got there either – you just never know, especially with all the “ Chauffage Mondial” as President Sarcozy likes to call it. Mind you, Albert, who runs the local scooter shop, says that Sarko promised to cut the burden of French paperwork – and you will have to take it from me that he has not.
Still and all, the Dragon Lady and I did get a Brittany ferry to Portsmouth at the beginning of December and I had no need of my seasick pills – the crossing being a flat calm.
I also did get my watch from Mr Collin as he had promised. Mr C is a man of many trips to (and contacts in) the Far East and he had promised to get me a Rolex watch at a ridiculous price. It works thus: (or so I am told). Many expensive watches are not – expensive – yes: - Swiss, well not exactly, them being made by highly skilled Chinese in Kowloon, or Shanghai. A Chinese businessman sets up a factory which makes watches. You can have an “A” watch, which will pass the vet as Swiss, or you can have a “AA” watch, which will pass any test of Swissness you may ask (at a price), or for slightly more you can get a “AAA” which even a snowbound Swiss watch-maker will pass as kosher – the difference being that the “AAA” copy retails at very considerable discount. It was one of these and at such a price that Mr Collin had undertaken to supply me and so, bless his heart, he did: it lies on the table beside me. It may not be a kosher Rolex, but it looks like a kosher Rolex and I would challenge you to spin it, always supposing that you got the chance, which I intend that you shall not have.
What about us wopping the Aussies at cricket then? A rotten shame I reckon, surely everybody knows that we (the English) are no longer allowed to kick the backsides of less clever nations – it is quite simply non P.C and the Aussies do not like us much anyway. But I would like to know what the Aussie skipper said to our bloke; but still I do not think either chap went to Eton, therefore nothing said by either is of the slightest importance. I just hope that nothing may make the English forget their manners to the extent of actually winning The Ashes. That would be very poor show, so come on our chaps – you may not have been to Eton either, but please just “play up and play the Game”....
It has been a bad week weather-wise and I have not left the house since last weekend. Now it is thawing like billy-o and Claude’s much vaunted weather system has put its’ hat on and it’s coming out to play.

So may I wish you all a Very Happy Christmas.

More – November 2010

I am sitting outside the house under the old apple tree in glorious sunshine. It (the weather) really should not be like this. This is Normandy (Northern France) and it should be cold and wet. This is what our friends in the Vienne told us when we talked about “emigrating”. – Edith (local taxi) assured us that it only rains twice a year in Normandy – Once in the Summer and once in the Winter. It is certainly true that we get an Atlantic climate here. It is really very similar to Cornwall, which suits me very well. The church clock is tolling because it is All Saints day, a national holiday and a Monday, which means that the French have another excuse for shutting down everything. Not that they need an excuse for not working. It was all explained to me. The French do not work on a Monday as a way to make up for working on a Saturday. “But” I said, “Most of them don’t”; “Ah” said my friend, “But they might and anyway it’s All Saints’ day and that makes it a Public Holiday”; “But,” I said, “France is anti-clerical and it has 3 hour lunches”, “So what are you? Some sort of Anglo Saxon work bigot? – you wish to subvert the spirituality of the French soul?” “No I just want to be able to do some shopping on a Monday and between 1 and 2 in the afternoon – and perhaps in August”. August is a buggeration. I remember going to an ironmonger’s and asking for a particular widget. This was in May, Monsieur the Shop made a face; “I will have it for you in September” “But surely you can get it before then?” “Not during August, Monsieur” I left in a Saxon rage and complained to my Vietnamese neighbour. “But” said my neighbour, “you have to understand that the whole of France puts its’ bucket and spade in the back of the car and spends August on the beach with the family. “That is serious” I said, “It could be” he said, “but the French are not a serious people and nothing is allowed to disturb the family holiday, which is what August is for”. So I never did get the urgent widget and by the time September came round, I found that I had coped so well, that I dis-ordered it from the Shop and I still have managed to hack on without it. This shows that there really is nothing wrong with the French that could not be put right by a good Drill Sergeant.
A good example of the French ‘work ethic’ is demonstrated by France Telecom – the French telephone system which is so useless that even the French realise it, to the extent that it has the highest rate of suicide amongst its’ employees. I remember the Dragon Lady and I having a mobile telephone problem and taking it to the FT office in Poitiers. We got nowhere and I remember that there was a nice Frenchman in the queue behind us, who said (in perfect English) “You must remember Madame, that France Telecom is not for working – it is a government charity”.
Another example of French efficiency as we were preparing to leave the Vienne – they put up a wind farm just up the road. It did not worry us, but when a friend rang up the other day I did ask him how it was going. “Ah” he said, “not well”. It seemed that much money had been spent on a firm of experts from Germany to erect the wind farm. It was unfortunate that having had permission to erect 10 windmills, which was done and the money paid, it was then discovered that the wiring would not stand the power from 10 wind things running at once. That after all the fuss and local unhappiness the system would only allow 5 turbines to turn at the same time.
Vive la France.

November 2010

Belatedly - Emperor of Exmoor
Growing Old – Animals

Gruntled, that’s what I am, very gruntled that so many of you seem to remember me enough to look up my Blogs. I am told of this by Heather, who actually gets the stuff on-line and who keeps me writing. When I first came to France, I had given up. I was hacked off by papers and magazines closing down the columns that I wrote for them and, in some cases, had written for a long time, but there we are, nothing lasts forever and I had some good innings – so thank you all for hanging in there with me – a scribbler needs the encouragement of being read to continue writing.

I expect that many of you will have seen or heard reports of the killing of the “Emperor of Exmoor” – it may have upset some of you, but I suggest that you look at this from a practical point of view. The old boy was a magnificent stag, but he was (I understand) 12 years old – that means that he was ‘past mark of mouth’ and was definitely ready for culling. I say this because whilst I lived in Northumberland I did the deer management (all right: culling) on 12,000 acres of vertiginous forest. The deer on my patch were all Roe – perhaps the most kittle of British deer. I used to shoot 40/50 deer per annum. “But why?” people would ask me, did I shoot them, why can’t they just die naturally? That is a good point and worthy of thinking about. Without culling, the wild deer population would grow out of control. In parts of G.B it already has. “Ah!” people say, bless them, “but what harm do they do?” Deer are attracted to forest plantations; they can do tremendous damage to young plantations. Trees are a crop that has to be harvested. I am not a forester, but I have many forester friends who tell me that soft woods are a crop that is ready for a profitable harvest at 60 years. Should the young trees get damaged, their growth will be stunted. It will not be profitable to harvest. Deer damage trees, therefore deer must be controlled, but people say “can it not be left to Nature?” Yes, it can, but you should remember that Mother Nature is not a kindly old dame – she kills by disease, sickness and hunger, - she runs no Social Services. Some years ago I was stalking a steep and rocky piece of forest – out in the middle of nowhere, I had been out for 3 hours and seen nothing except a distant buck on a distant hillside. Too distant to be practical. “Breakfast” I thought. Heading back to the van, I crossed the top of a wide steep fire break. I glassed it and clocked on to a little roe standing clear in the middle of the fire break. This was the beginning of August, so the doe was out of season, but I thought I’d stalk up on her for practice, so I did. I was in plain view, but the doe did not move as I crept closer and closer. At last I spoke, “Look” I said, “I am going to raise my rifle and if you do not move I shall shoot you”. She had seen me, must have heard me and as I was up wind she must have winded me. I got the glass on her. She was in rotten condition for mid summer, her coast was ragged, her ribs stuck out, - I moved closer. I could see her watching me, but she made no move. Something was wrong. It was an easy 50 yard shot and she dropped where she stood. It was when I opened up the carcase that I found the problem. Her insides were rotten with ulcers. She must have been in terrible pain, which would eventually have brought about her natural death, but it would not have been a quick end. Not like with my bullet.

October /November 2010

SINCERE APOLOGIES FOR ABSENCE FOR LAST FEW MONTHS, NOW HERE YOU CAN CATCH UP

OCTOBER/NOV 2010

An old and treasured friend in Yorkshire has just collected her life P45. The family did me the honour of asking me to speak at the funeral, but I had to refuse as I am just not fit enough at the moment. The horse of life has just come down with me and rolled on me. My son (bless him) said that I had just overdrawn on Life’s Current Account and I was starting to feel the pinch. Well, I suppose that I cannot argue with that, but I am sorry that I cannot see Joanie off properly. She and her husband, Colin, were both treasured friends. I well remember the first time we met. We were dining at a smart-ish house. Colin and I were arguing because we both enjoyed arguing – the subject was something to do with “The Book of Common Prayer”. I do not remember what, it was in 1975. If you drew the covert (the Prayer Book) with Colin, you were certain to find an argument. We got rather heated and Colin whipped out his false teeth, slapped them on the table between us and said that if I insisted on talking such “Papist crap” he would set his teeth on me! He was a lovely man but very human. One Sunday they both came to lunch and Colin was late because he had to call on a client. It was obvious that the client had been hospitable. Colin loved a glass of Claret. He sipped his glass and then fixed his gaze on his neighbour’s plate: “He’s got more f.....g shprouts than I’ve got,”, then with great dignity he slid feet first under the table where he lay for the rest of lunch.

Just been down the town to get some petrol. You see our Prime Minister (French) has hacked the voters off by telling them that they have to work longer to get their pension. They are not best suited and have been picketing refineries to stop petrol getting out – this means that Jean and Jeanne have had great problems topping up the tanks on their cars – the whole point of the Dragon Lady and I moving to a town is to make shopping easier in our Old Age, everything is supposed to be within walking distance. Our nearest Petrol station is just beyond the ring road. It is within walking distance but that is a waste of time, should you need to take your car with you. Well, I had walked down the road to see the man who crushes my bones, joints etc – the things that you need for walking – he lives some clicks out of town. So I asked him about petrol – “Pas de Problem” he said as he had refuelled at the Supermarche that morning! That was good news, as the Supermarket had shut its’ gates yesterday: Anyway, I limped home and roused the Dragon Lady from her chair and we popped down the road and filled up the car. It was a great relief, because we do need a car, even if we are retired and walking to the shops is all very fine, but if you are a cripple, the idea seems to lose its’ gloss somehow. We need to go to England in November and a General Strike is just what we do not want and the French ‘do dearly love a strike’. Some years ago I was stuck on the decks at Cherbourg with 4 horses, there was a seamen’s’ strike and the Channel ports were closed. But that, as they say, is another story.