Blessed are the sausage makers

Ok, I am back, but briefly. No more shall I be daily enlightening your lives with tittle tattle about the lives of the idle rich in Valbonne and Arundel. However, before the celebrations become too opulent, I will be picking up my pen (well, computer keyboard) from time to time. Today is one of those times. You will have to content yourself with only sporadic outpourings from a crusty old music business and Currencies Direct executive.

The title of today’s missive ” Blessed Are The Sausage Makers” is a reference to the recent birthday of That Nice Lady Decorator. She is, once again, just 37 and I marvel as the age gap between us lengthens with every passing year. In the past I have been given hints and sometimes direct information as to the birthday present requirements, including one year being given cement mixer brochures, because that is what she wanted. I have been struggling to think of what to get her but my old pal John Otway, who had been staying with us for a few days whilst he does very little at the Cannes Film Festival, has come up with a solution.

One of the more disappointing things about living in France is the difficulty on obtaining proper English sausages. Mr Otway, who it seems has a Particular penchant for that doyenne of the British breakfast, revealed over a drink in the Pav a couple of nights ago that he was the proud owner of a sausage maker. That Nice Lady Decorator was enthralled and thus the birthday present issue has been solved. I was however a little concerned about Mr Otway’s email suggesting that I could show some birthday love with a sausage.

Mrs Doubtfire in Cannes

So in celebration of the start of her 38th year, I planned a surprise trip for her to the Isle of Marguerite, a short ferry trip from Cannes, to walk that delinquent hound Banjo, for which she has an unaccountable affection, and then have a birthday lunch on the beach. I checked whether the dog was allowed in the train, he was, that he was allowed in the ferry, he was, although I did think I might have to get him a rover ticket (woof woof!), and that he was allowed on the island, he was, so it was all going like clockwork until we got to the railway station at Mouans Sartoux. For some reason, the train was being replaced by a bus that morning, and when I checked that it was still OK to take the smelly hound on the bus, I was met with a curt “non”.

It had not been in my plan to drive to Cannes during The Film Festival, but there you have it. Actually it was not that bad as we came in via Mandelieu to the port, thereby avoiding most of the madness and traffic, and after a restorative pint of Guinness at The Quays nearby, took the ferry to the island famous for the story of the man in the iron mask.

I could not “face” a history lesson (I know, you have all missed my woeful puns and plays with words) so after a very pleasant two-mile walk along the beautiful lanes around the island, where we did not see one vehicle (or a road for that matter), it was time to deal with that most important of engagement of the day when in the south of France – lunch. La Guerite is an a fabulous position on a large covered terrace right beside the sea with views across to Cannes, but the prices were eye watering. A whole sea bass baked in salt was the first thing that caught my eye, a snip at 140 euros, but eventually I was drawn to the chilli prawns at 47 euros, but they seen to have forgotten to put any chillies in. Rosé at 40 euros a bottle curtailed my thirst somewhat, so much better value at Rado Plage  and in Cannes yesterday, when Mrs Doubtfire showed up.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News