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
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