Pig Horror in central France

And so the trip back towards drudgery begins. I will linger as long as possible in France as you never quite know what spectacle will present itself around the next bend. There we were, getting lost near Orange, searching for the pretty village of Mornas, when, down a side road, we encountered Sarkozy, the pig and his owner, Merkel, Pierre Merkel, out for a short walk before dinner as my picture shows. 

Sarkozy and Merkel

Seems to me that it was the dinner walking, well waddling. Sarkozy is 3 years old and as you can see rather large for a pig, so clearly any attempt to link Sarkozy the pig with the current diminutive president of France is a non starter. Sadly my french was just not good enough to exact an answer to the obvious question; why? Clearly, if one is to take ones rather large pet (or feast offering) out for a walk, one would want to be sure that said pet had good protection for his feet. Perhaps Mike Hardacre (with a K) can suggest a style of footwear that would suffice? Pigs croccers perhaps? 

Having a picture like that really saves the bacon when one is struggling for inspiration, one is always searching for a rib tickler of a line, something for a good belly laugh but that’s enough pork jokes for today. 

Our first rental clients of the season are charming, and living in Bangkok, but sensibly retaining a residence in Valbonne, sadly for them rented out, the gorgeous Sara confirming that she has been reading this column means I can now boast readers on all 5 continents. 

But the initial exhilaration at the knowledge that this missive of touching people in all corners of the world is, as so often happens, followed by harsh reality, the swift realisation that their arrival signals that my departure to the UK and all is horrors (and I don’t just mean all my friends) is almost upon me. 

Sometimes it is as if fate wants to soften the impending blow by introducing comparative misery in advance. It takes longer that we had hoped, and we had left it too late, to choose a hotel, so dinner was taken on a park bench from a box marked “pizza” accompanied by several beers in cans. Had it been beers in Cannes, then that would have been more acceptable, but at least it was warm enough to sit outside at 11pm to enjoy our meal. So that lurking smirk that accompanied my earlier brush with success got the metaphorical smack around the face. This is the kind of existence I must expect in England for over 3 weeks, but of course without the benefit of being able to sit outside in shirt sleeves without risking frostbite. 

Today we shall be pressing ever northwards, with my foreboding increasing with every mile, to have a last supper at Chateau Cocove. This delightful chateau that we discovered some years ago about 10 minutes drive from the Channel Tunnel, is a wonderful oasis in a desert blighted by being so close to the UK. A kind of last supper awaits. The only positiveI can come up with is at least exchange rates wont be an issue 

Chris France   

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