The horse bathing festival
Sometimes this column is difficult to write. Sometimes it is writers block or nothing of note has happened, and occasionally it is because of a surfeit of alcohol. Such was the case yesterday when frankly, I was very jaded and this column was not up to the high literary and technical standards to which I aspire but seldom achieve. But there is one thing that I retain and that is the unshakeable belief that I can be funny. If this column can give its reader a laughter on any level then I am pleased. Even when the reader is laughing at it rather than with it.
Yesterday morning then was a bit of a hazy blur. Perhaps the continuing late nights, the constant intake of beers and Rioja and the consumption of fine cigars (encouraged by being able to sit outside in shirt sleeves) during the last week in Tenerife have combined to take the edge off my writing, and my enthusiasm for a walk. However, by lunchtime, and following an indolent morning, that determination to avoid becoming a fat slob, I set off on foot for Calleta, the pretty seaside town a few miles up the coast from where we are staying in Costa Adeje. That Nice Lady Decorator was in tow, well, for the first mile and a half, and then elected to partake of a beer whilst I continued my trek. It was as I neared my destination that I was suddenly confronted by a large crowd of people watching horses and riders going into the sea.
It seems that there is an annual “Bathing of the horses” festival that I had stumbled across, so I went back and fetched the horse loving Decorating Operative and we witnessed the rather wet horses and riders riding up from the beach to the town.
The annual horse bathing festival
Tapas on the seafront were wonderful and with the brisk walk ending up being around 4 miles before my first beer, I had thrown off that slough of indifference and my usual good humour and writing prowess had returned, as you will now know. It was at that point I remembered the value of opening an account with Currencies Direct. Life can be so rewarding.
Sundowners by the pool got a little out of hand due to the fact that after a couple of mohitos and in my case a few glasses of the local wine, the bar staff elected to buy us a drink for being their best customers of the week. This is accolade is a double-edged sword. A free drink is always welcome, but to receive it as a result of drinking does tell its own story.
Today, it will be all over and we will be back in Arundel by this evening. A last morning of sunshine will be enjoyed to the fullest possible extent before boarding the plane after lunch and heading back to that dank, dreary land, with the added prospect of two back to back diet days, before the onslaught of the coming weekend when someone close to me will be celebrating, if that is the correct word, the commencement of a seventh decade. I believe I will not be surprised by a surprise party but am looking forward to the bus pass and free prescriptions.
So that is it. Sunshine will not feature in my life until the end of the month, when I shall journey to Cannes for the annual MIDEM music festival, where work will rear its ugly head. That and a smidgeon of social interaction, which may involve the raising of a glass or two, purely to keep the wheels of the music industry turning you understand?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Eagle nearly landed
The Reverend Jeff will be delighted. I think there is a god. We had walked nearly 5 miles from gods waiting room, our hotel, inhabited almost exclusively by the living dead, to Los Christianos along the coast from Costa Adeje in Tenerife which is our home for a week. I had expected thereafter to be tormented by hours of haggling on the famous market, but it could not be found, or it was not happening yesterday, or possibly it was not Sunday at all which all the guides to which as the day it is supposed to happen.
Thus we were forced to seek a beer and some lunch at a beach restaurant instead or quartering a huge market where I would become increasingly agitated, bored and broke. This is a result of the highest quality from my perspective. We had missed breakfast by waking up too late, perhaps due to the quantity of Gran Reserva that we had sent to its grave the day before. It was past 11 before I remembered that we had a tentative plan to meet some chaps we had met the night before for breakfast and perhaps some tennis, so missed both.
Then it rained. Only a shower but that was not what I had paid for and if I could have found the Thomsons (there is no pee in Thomsons) rep I would have remonstrated and be looking for a refund. Taxing back to the dead centre of town, our resort, there was only one realistic option; find a beach bar and purchase a bottle of wine and, oh, drink it. If one cannot get a decent Bordeaux then a Rioja Grand Reserva will suffice and so it did, until the rain stopped and the sun returned mid afternoon.
There is a god, and you can go and see his son
Returning to the graveyard masquerading as an hotel, we popped up to the pool bar for a late afternoon, some might say, a sunset cap, and whilst I considered the benefits of Currencies Direct, the charming barmaid asked if That Nice Lady Decorator would like a mohito. When she asked the bar tender how he knew he suggested in his Spanish version of English, she suggested that she could read the word mohito etched on her forehead.
Whilst people watching in the bar as the sun went down, we noticed an elderly German couple having a row at the bar. That Nice Lady Decorator, who had joined them in the lift, on some errand that about which I seemingly did not need to know, pronounced that the lady was suffering from Altzheimers and was at that stage of lashing out. She suggested that perhaps it was their last holiday together before she was put in a home, and, as she said it, I wondered, out loud as it happens, if that was also my fate? She said nothing but I did not form a good impression of that knowing smile.
Last night That Nice Lady Decorator was quite interested in seeing the Eagle Show, the scheduled entertainment at the hotel of the crusties. I think she had Hotel California in mind, maybe Desparado, but I had joked with her earlier that it was the Eagle Show, not the Eagles show, plural, and that it probably involves birds. As I say, it was a joke, but it turned out to be a joke in bad taste because, from the 30 seconds I saw, there was a large bird on a lead. I do mean of he feathered variety. I think, dear reader, that you will have guessed that we did but stay to witness the show, heading out to the Blue Cactus bar to hear a pub band play some proper music. Once again they did “Comfortably Numb”, the Pink Floyd song, which seems to say so much about our hotel, the clientele and the cerebral acuity of the residents.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
That Nice Lady Decorator has her say
The in house entertainment at the hotel of the living dead took on a new dimension last night. Bingo. On previous evenings, we had managed to avoid tributes to the Bee Gees, Elvis (with comedy, do they know something we don’t?), Neil Diamond, and Abba, but last night took the biscuit with Bingo.
The hotel in which we are staying in Tenerife, called the Guayarmina Princess, must have the highest average age of any clientele in the world. I want the Guinness Book Of Hit Records to verify this. I am guessing the low 90’s. That means that bingo finds some resonance with the prisoners, amongst which we are numbered. It also means that there is limited benefit in trawling for new customers for Currencies Direct as they are all too old to understand the meaning of foreign exchange, too infirm to consider the benefits to them or unlikely to be customers for very long on account of most of them being dead very soon.
That Nice Lady Decorator hijacks a mobility scooter at the hotel
Clearly bingo is a cerebral pursuit, requiring an immense level of intellectual power, and the compere spent the evening walking around the audience announcing the numbers which appeared on the TV screen in the centre of the room. It is his job to make the horribly boring event a little more interesting and was clearly on the look out for interesting people with whom to interact. He went from person to person, asking them to announce the number that had just appeared in the screen, and having a little jocular interaction with then, well those that could hear or speak or either. He honed in on That Nice Lady Decorator just as that magic number, 69, appeared in the screen. Slightly less than innocently, using the microphone to broadcast to the enormous graveyard of crusties in the room, he asked her to announce the number. He said “what is the number?” “69” she intoned. “69” he said then “Do you play bingo?” He said. “No, she said, “69?, that was last night”. The microphone was swiftly removed from her grasp, and at least half a dozen of the audience reached for their pace makers.
It is fair to say that I am on the receiving end of a great deal of invective, none of it very complementary, about the hotel and it’s aged inhabitants. I have been trying to deflect these and respond with some positives, like, it is cheap, or it is sunny, or beautiful architecture (it isn’t) or great position by the sea, but I was always in a losing battle, and I take more hits the more the day goes in, and therefore the more alcohol that is consumed. The fact that she studiously ignored all the research that I did to choose the right place was dismissed by her who told me to book whatever I liked was like the evidence, studiously ignored.
Anyway, drinking our way to oblivion, being too exhausted by a 6 mile hike over to. Caletta and back, followed to some fine tapas at a beach restaurant, we got talking to a couple who had witnessed the “69” debacle earlier, but had also, it seemed, been in the audience of the bar on our first night when That Nice Lady Decorator had the glad eye for a pretty guitar playing piece of male eye candy ( I think it is fair to point out here that he did not have the same allure for me). Crucially, they had witnessed her amusing attempts to get the audience to involve themselves in some karaoke, despite it not being a karaoke bar, so they knew what to expect.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Colon Beach?
It was on the way to what we thought was the centre of Los Christianos, which seems to surround the rather over developed Playa Des Americas in Tenerife, that I spotted it. Having already walked through the Playa Colon, which I presume translates as Colon beach, and I have photographic evidence to support that which I publish today, it is an area I felt I could not stomach, and made me wonder if the beach has a blue flag. Anyway, we traipsed on in sunshine but as the wind increased to something akin to a gale, we decided to turn back and find a sheltered beach bar for a beer. The outskirts of Los Christianos are pretty unprepossessing and were not improved by one discovery we came across (can I say this?) the Liberal Swingers Club.
We did not go in because I am not a liberal and I am not allowed to swing. That Nice Lady Decorator has made that clear. Even if she spots a children’s play area, with swings, she gets edgy in case we (that means I) might be tempted to swing one way or another. There was another consideration; what if we were to meet a gay Social Democrat politician at the bar? Anyone remember Cyril Smith? If he had been gay then that would have been something I would certainly never want to behold.
The rather unpleasantly named Colon Beach in Los Christainos
I say what we thought was the centre, but Google maps were clear that we had just scratched the surface, and so we are due to return on Sunday. That Nice Lady Decorator is, as many of you know, a fan of retail therapy. She loves a good market in the way that I love a nice Bordeaux. Both require some time and consideration, but we do not agree on which requires the most. It appears that the Sunday market there is the biggest in Tenerife, so the entirely democratic decision has been made. We are going. She is not only a serious lover of markets. Any form of retail outlet can animate her to a level of ecstasy about which I can only dream, and so it has been decided, in a totally democratic way, which means that a fair and equable vote was taken (but that men in general and me in particular were not afforded a vote) that we will attend the weekly market on Sunday.
This was decided whilst we partook of a cold beer after the three-mile walk in that direction, and were sitting on a high terrace sheltered from the gale and watching the blue sea, beautiful in the sunshine, become increasingly animated as the wind increased. It managed to blow away the bill and the bill holder from the top of the table, but this proved no impediment to paying it. The management saw to that. We had a chance conversation with some Russians sitting nearby, who kindly invited us to join them in a Remy Martin, which I alone accepted. It seems that they were a retired General and a retired Colonel, and had both served in Iraq and Afghanistan, which was our cue to move on.
Today will be spent consolidating the tan and considering the benefits of having a foreign exchange account with Currencies Direct. We are mid way through this break and the reports reaching us of rain and wind back in England have concentrated our minds on extracting as much sunshine from this trip as possible. In fact I can feel a walk to Caletta coming on and maybe some nice tapas for a late lunch
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
High 80’s hiatus?
Some things just have to be done. Lunch at La Torre del Mirador, set in an elevated position above the beach in Playa Duque is one of those things. Expensive yes but fabulous? oh yes! A wonderful historic building with fabulous old doors and windows, beautifully furnished and with attentive and helpful waiters, all speaking splendid English, bringing exquisite food and wine whilst one languishes in comfortable chairs, looking out over the Atlantic Ocean on a balmy warm sunny day. It does not get any better.
We had spotted the restaurant the day before when walking from Costa Adeje to Caletta and were set on having lunch there from that minute. Four miles of pleasant walking was the penance, achieved by 1pm ready for that 3 hour lunch. You might have thought that the mile and a half walk back along the beach would have sobered me up but I got into a bit of trouble with That Nice Lady Decorator when we got back to the hotel. There is a confusing lift lay out with reception being on the 4th floor but shown on the lift plan as floor 0. -4 is the ground floor and swimming pool level, and our room is on -2. This is all very confusing for an ageing music business impresario and to ensure that we did not miss our floor, I decided in what I thought was a witty fashion, to press all of the buttons in a crowded lift. I looked around the faces for some humorous response and, not getting quite the reaction I had hoped, glanced at the Angry Decorating Operative and realised that perhaps I was not as funny as I thought.
The walk from Caletta to Costa Adeje
Good humour returned however with a couple of afternoon caps in the early evening sunshine followed by a siesta. The sun, the sea, the wine, the walking and the telling off for the lift debacle combined to tire me sufficiently that we decided not to go out last night after dinner, but instead to retire early and consider the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct. Surprisingly, That Nice Lady Decorator did not join me in my reverie.
Today we shall walk in the opposite direction up the coast towards Los Christianos, which I suspect will be less attractive and more developed than the walk in the other direction to Caletta, however, one does not know until one sees. By my estimation it is about 4 miles to the centre so best walking shoes on. It is an imperative that we spend as little time in our hotel of the living dead, as it has become known. The average age of its guests has to be in the high 80’s with a higher proportion of walking sticks concentrated in one area I have ever before witnessed. I did think that if there was ever a fracas about who owned which walking stick then could that be called a high 80’s hiatus? but on balance decided that it was not a worthy addition to this column.
So 2 days down and a further 4 full days to go, and the colour has begun to return to my skin. That sallow grey look that overcomes one in an English winter is beginning to replaced by that bronzed Adonis look that I crave. One just feels better with some sun on ones back. I feel sure I shall return to blighty fully recharged and raring to go. I shall need to be ready for the no doubt excessive celebrations that will surround my coming of age. That age being the bus pass age.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Mobility and the lifting toilet seat
After an illustrious career in the music industry, working with the good the bad and the famous and piloting Prince to his only UK No 1, I was brought back down to earth last night by the prospect of watching a Spanish Abba Tribute band at a hotel full of blue rinse crusties, who looked, but probably were not, older even older than myself. I exclude, it goes without saying, That Nice Lady Decorator who stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that she is anything more than 37, but the difference is she can get away with it.
Earlier, after a late breakfast, over which I had tried to persuade her to open an account with Currencies Direct, we had decided to walk to the pretty coastal town of Caletta, about 3 miles up the coast, which of course meant walking back again later. Later was after a couple of beers in the town and at the very pretty Playa Du Duque beach en route. We had been invited to the Thomson resort meeting, to which we had no intention of staying, but did pick up the welcome pack in case there was anything interesting or any special offers or discounts. Often one can get 10% discount at certain stores. As we excitedly ripped open the package, this was amongst the leaflets that dropped out.
Very useful for a codger
I think it gives a fair indication of the high number of coffin dodgers they expect to see at the resort, and I suppose that an Abba tribute band is a bit of a risk, probably better off with a Frank Sinatra impersonator, but I digress. Mobility scooters are, I am sure, very worthy appliances and I am sure also, that come the time, I shall embrace them (but obviously only in terms of time trials down the high street), but it was the top line of the bottom right hand section that stuck out. Toilet seat aids? How would that work? How is that going to make your holiday any more enjoyable? Well, except for making me laugh out loud? That Nice Lady Decorator was not quite as amused, and asked me “what mind of holiday I had taken me on?”
Then there was the Thomson Platinum Lounge. Being denied entry to anything on the grounds of age is something that I have not experienced for probably close to 40 years, if ever, but now I think it has happened. I think we were not allowed on as we were not old enough. I did not have a bus pass, which I think was the entry ticket to the graveyard bar.
Anyway, we managed to escape from the land of the nearly dead with an invigorating walk up the coastline and despite some cloud it was quite warm and I am seeing some colour returning to my features. Over a beer, we discussed the mornings events and I said something about the tour operators being Thomson rather than Thompson, a more usual spelling if the name. Quick as a flash That Nice Lady Decorator said something along the lines of “was not having a p something to do with old age as well? Actually, it is the opposite. Too many pees when you drink too much beer.
Anyway, after a siesta and troughing at the hotel buffet (there is such a range to choose from, there is usually something amongst the range that they have not managed to spoil, although a good portion of it is sugar stuffed fatty crap) we could take no more than a few bars of “Fernando” before exiting in a rush. They were so bad that the boys in the grounot even shown up.
So out into the rather squalid resort of Costa Adeje we went becoming more and more disillusioned with the number of establishments offering lining screens, cheap beer, English breakfasts and football until we found a half decent establishment where a band were playing. The sounds of REM were very welcome after the Abba debacle playing out on the hotel. They were actually quite good as a covers band and even played some requests. Once we had established that their repertoire spread as far as Pink Floyd, there was nothing better to prepare us for reentering the creeping graveyard that is our home for the next 5 days than their song “Comfortably Numb” although I am not sure if that applied to us after a another bottle of Gran Reserva (we had emptied the first at dinner) and a couple of Irish coffees upon our return.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Eye candy in Tenerife
Bucks Fizz is a splendid early accompaniment to the excellent smoked salmon and scrambled eggs served at the Caviar House at Gatwick airport. I know that those of you who have not experienced this delight will be trying to reconcile the expectations of a scummy busy airport, with a quality breakfast of this nature, but trust me, it works. It is the ideal precursor for sitting on an aeroplane for 4 hours and sets you up nicely for a trip to the sunshine.
We duly arrived in Tenerife after quite a pleasant four-hour flight during which I had dreamed rather rewardingly of all the new customers for the services of Currencies Direct I am certain to collect up whilst on holiday. I say holiday, but you all know that work, in the form of the mission I have to rescue people from the cloying grasp of their banks when sending or receiving foreign currency, is a never-ending toil for me. Anyway, we arrived on time and guess what? It was warm!
Tenerife from the air
Arriving a little earlier than expected, by 3pm we were sat at a beach bar, St Miguel’s in hand, looking at the splendid Atlantic Ocean waves rolling on to the seashore at the resort of Adeje. When I say St Miguel’s in hand, I mean the beer and not the pretty boy guitar player who so took the eye of That Nice Lady Decorator at a different bar last night.
Let me explain. Having had a couple of hours of acclimatisation, which means several beers on the beach dressed in shirts and a short-sleeved shirt, we had returned to the hotel room for a shower and some relaxation before tackling dinner at the rather nasty but well appointed Guyarmina Princess Hotel, our home for the next week. I say nasty because despite some nice architectural features, it exudes that unpleasant mass tourist amalgam of modernity, glass, concrete and forced charm that I instinctively dislike. No warmth in the surroundings and staff seemingly doing their best to help whilst actually being disinterested in helping at all. All I wanted was an iron and an ironing board, so That Nice Lady Decorator could iron me a shirt (clearly you can tell from this that I did not bring my butler with me). I was told that this was not possible because of fire regulations (!) but that I could avail myself of the hotels ironing and laundry service, at a cost no doubt. “But I need a shirt for tonight” I said, to massive indifference.
Anyway, back to the pretty boy. After what was a decent meal, a wide ranging buffet, in the unprepossessing huge cavern of a brightly lit and noisy canteen, we set off into the town in search of a nice bottle of wine to prepare for an early night. We have some serious walking to do today. However, as is often the case, we eventually found a bar with a guitar player who caught the eye of That Nice Lady Pretty Boy Hunter, and settled into a very nice Faustino Gran Reserva, but with one of my eyes on the clock and one eye closing with fatigue. She however had both eyes on the err… entertainment. At one stage in the evening she said to me “how nice to be sitting in sight of the sea, in the warmth of a Tenerife night with some eye candy, some nice wine and my husband”. Note the order here. I came fifth on that list.
The idea of an early night quickly disappeared in a vat of wine and the smoke of several Monte Christo cigars, two-thirds of my weekly ration on the first night. It was when she began circling the audience with the microphone to encourage the other drinkers and diners effectively to commence karaoke (successfully on a couple of occasions) that I decided that, being well after midnight, perhaps the time had come to retire for the evening.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Purple crocs and moths?
The lounge looked as if it had been hit by a tornado. That tornado was Sprog 2 , some of her friends and ably abetted by That Nice Lady Decorator. I had sensibly decided not to get involved with the revelry that occurred in Sunday evening. This was achieved without a great deal of effort in my part, as I slept through most of the shenanigans. I did however find myself picking the bits of broken glass in the hearth this morning and struggling to get into the kitchen due to the sheer numbers of empty bottles in evidence.
The result was that I was up with the lark, well a rather late lark, at around 9.30 and thus perfectly in time for my first organised cricket net practice for probably the best part of 20 years. A collection of venerable old cricketers gathered at the very impressive Arundel Castle indoor cricket school yesterday morning at 10.30 to begin the process of loosening the limbs in readiness for a cricket season that seems a long way off, given the amount of water still lying in the fields of Sussex. As many of you will know I am shortly to enter my 7th decade, reaching 60 in just a few short weeks, and I am astounded to say that of the 10 or so souls who turned up, I was the youngest. The thrill of being a young new oik was something I thought would not be something I would experience again.
I discovered that there is not only several over 50’s and over 60’s teams and quite a few fixtures, but there is also an over 70’s Test team, which played a series of matches against the old enemy, Australia, in England last summer. England won two of them with the third washed out, but there is a return series planned for Australia in November of this year. I now have a dream. I want to play Ashes cricket when I am 70.
Take a close look at the sweater, and the footwear.
Talking of ashes, I think that would be the best result for the cricket sweater being worn by a chap called Lloyd (I think). Perhaps he was a vicar in an earlier life because it was indeed the most wholy garment I have ever seen being worn seriously. If your look a bit lower down today’s photograph you will notice that he was also wearing crocs. Not just any crocs, but purple ones. Now it is sometime since I have focused on cricketing fashion, but has the world moved on so much that purple crocs can be considered as normal cricketing attire?
By the time you are reading this, I should be either on my way to Gatwick or already aboard the plane to Tenerife, but early reports seem to indicate that the weather will not be great, however, I refuse to believe this. It is merely propaganda put about by jealous sorts that are not jetting off to the Canary Islands today. I shall of course be reporting on the sunny weather tomorrow as there will be no let up; this column will appear each day I am away. Obviously my work with Currencies Direct is far too important for me to miss even 1 day of writing this vital daily column. There is also the fact that I have not missed a day since starting nearly 4 years ago and don’t intend to let you off now.
So a week in the sun is a knee jerk reaction to the dismal existence that is winter in England. It is not something I shall contemplate again (I mean wintering in England, not the escaping to the sun bit). It is only for a week, but by the time I get back next Tuesday, bronzed, fit and healthy, at least in my own mind, I shall be ready for anything with which the weather gods can ambush me.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Run over by a sheep?
Being a Sunday, and therefore a day where I spare you the entreaties to become a client of Currencies Direct, even although they offer the best foreign exchange services man can have, we went for lunch with Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor (TTTT).
He is the resident bar manager at The White Hart in Arundel, and so lunch was served in his parlour, the back bar at the pub. At present, there is usually no prospect of food at the pub as they are between restauranteurs, and so with him being a confirmed bachelor, or so it seems, our hopes of a good Sunday lunch were not high, however he excelled himself, producing roast lamb with all the trimmings and even some roasted leeks. This prompted me to ask if he had any Welsh antecedents, and, looking a bit puzzled by the question, replied that he did not, but that he had once been run over by a sheep.
I never got to the bottom ( can I say that when talking about sheep and the Welsh?) of whether sheep was singular or plural as the conversation had moved on before I thought of it. Perhaps he had “steered” it in a different direction, more towards livestock in general, as it were.
The creek at West Wittering in Saturdays sunshine
Earlier, with those very low and as it transpired misplaced, expectations of getting a decent meal, we had gone to The Kings Arms for a couple of pints, and to raid their selection of cheeses, pork pies, pate, cocktail sausages and biscuits that adorn the bar on a Sunday lunchtime. If you think that this was a form of insurance against what we believed might comprise lunch, then you would not be far from the mark, but TTTT did terribly well, producing a fine feast, that should have precluded the attack on the Kings Arms offering. As has been the theme running though the weekend, I once again peaked a little early, mainly due to the early application of some port, which seemed a good idea at the time.
Earlier, in weather that could hardly have been further removed from the stellar, clear, sunny day the day before, with drizzle and glowering skies occasionally descending into hill fog, I had once again misjudged my walk and had tramped nearly 6 miles in the mud of Sussex. With a holiday due to start tomorrow, and with my Adonis like figure possibly being exposed to the sun when we get to Tenerife on Tuesday, I felt there should be a last push to avoid the taunts of That Nice Lady Decorator, which usually revolve around the theme of beached whales. I am certain that those comments await me, but at least I can find some solace knowing that I have tried to ensure that the whale in question looks a little slimmer than was the case a few months ago.
So a very fine lunch developed into a drinkathon at ours (well it is next door) and with Sprog 2 in residence and one of her sommelier friends miraculously producing a white Musar, the whole late afternoon, early evening gathering became a splendid blur of conversation, fine wine and cigars. Yes, the Monte Christo No 2’s made a late entrance on to the scene, so I will have to be handy with the Hoover this morning. This is because one should never flick the ash from a decent cigar, one should await it’s falling naturally, and this usually means that it incommodes the lounge carpet, quite reasonably enraging That Nice Lady Lounge Cleaner.
Once the hoovering is over, then it will be down to the nets to play some cricket. I agree that this seems a little surreal. Pushing sixty and donning ones cricket gear again is not something I would have predicted, but I guess once a sportsman, eventually a geriatric with delusions of sporting prowess.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
An English sunset?
Over breakfast yesterday morning I was discussing with That Nice Lady Decorator, how good a prospect would be Clive “Denis The Menace” The Accountant as a client of Currencies Direct. He may also become my own accountant if discussions go well. One often needs a devious accountant and I hear that he is very good with graphs, always plotting. I will have to insist in examining his wardrobe though. One simply cannot be represented by someone who resembles a colour blind bumble bee. I ask you, hooped sweaters? yuk.
It was one of those very rare crystal clear sunny days, the type of which are typical in winter in Valbonne that I have missed so much. It was the sort of day if one was there, one could jump in the car and be on the slopes and skiing at Greoliere Les Neiges in under an hour. It was vital to get out and make the most if it, but in Arundel, the nearest skiing is about 10 hours away, so we settled on the slightly less exciting prospect of a walk on the coast at West Wittering and, something you cannot do in France, sit in an English pub and watch the sun go down over a few pints of good real English beer.
A splendid walk around the surrounding countryside and along the sand dune strewn beach was a wonderful way to build up a thirst, which we dealt with in a most satisfactory fashion at the Crown And Anchor in Dell Quay near Apuldram south of Chichester. It is built into the estuary banks and faces south and with the weather remaining distinctly French right through to sunset, we are able to watch the sun disappear over the horizon over a couple of excellent pints of Youngs.
Sunset over the English Riviera
The law of Sod was discussed because we are shortly to jet off for Tenerife for a week precisely because of the appalling dank wet dreary weather that epitomises England in January. How much money could I have saved had the weather decided that yesterday would set the standard? In fact, I would never have moved to France at all except for the weather, well, and the wine, and the food, and the scenery and the skiing. No matter, it is booked, and then when we return from Tenerife, there will be just three months to go and I shall be back in my beloved France for an extended period. If only one could get a pint of London Pride down there, I could die happy.
No likelihood of any decent beer in the coming week. A diet day on Monday, an early start for Gatwick on Tuesday and then a week of St Miguel gassy lager and Spanish red wine awaits as we journey to Adeje in the south west corner of this pretty Canary Island, just about the only place in Europe where you have a reasonable chance of getting regular temperatures in the 20’s Celsius at this time of year. It was something to think about as the sun gradually descended to the horizon at Dell Quay.
With the drink drive limit reached, it was time to turn for home and see if we could avoid the regular pitfall of going into the White Hart for a late afternoon cap. As it turns out, we had no appetite at all to avoid it and found ourselves with a large glass of Rioja contemplating what to have for dinner. It was after the second large glass that my recall of events becomes a little less certain. I believe dinner amounted to a lot of Christmas left overs, bits of Indian snacks and other hard to identify items that has been discovered in the freezer, but very satisfying for all that. Then I remember being at home with another open bottle in front of me and then awaking this morning with nothing written for this daily column which sustains you, my dear reader. What fun I think I had!
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The whistling horror
For Christmas, I received a gift of a key ring gadget that is supposed to help you find your car keys when they have gone walk-about. It works by whistling a certain frequency, upon which it bleeps to indicate where they are hiding. In principle it seems a wonderful idea, but rather irritatingly it does not work. I say this but it works when you don’t want it to. I spent most of Christmas morning trying different frequencies of whistling to try to get the bloody thing to whistle and nothing. But as soon as Eva Cassidy’s voice is heard on the stereo, there is a whistling cacophony. This is all well and good, but I don’t want to have to put Fields Of Gold on every time I have mislaid my keys. I suppose it could be worse, it could have been Black Lace and “Agadoo” or even anything by The Smiths. If that was the case, the either I would cast the present into the Arun or never drive again.
A good chunk of the River Arun has spilled over into this “overflow”car park
Last evening on the way back from Guildford, we popped into Petworth for a pint. Driving through the village is always a nice experience and I had long been keen to check out the Fullers pub in the centre. It is called The Star and it was anything but. Horrid swirly carpets, too brightly lit, crap furniture, boxed in beams, and (although not the pubs fault) a baby stroller by the fire. Children should not be allowed in pubs. Full stop. There is no excuse for it. What is more its mother was having a coffee. A coffee in a pub? Haven’t these people heard of Costa Coffee? I know they sell the worst quality coffee beans in the universe and bake them to death, but they do welcome mothers with children, whereas I do not and I wished the Star did not either.
Scurrying out of there as quickly as possible after a very poor flat pint of the best beer in the world, Fullers London Pride (if it were my brewery and saw the pint I had been served, heads would have rolled), we ventured down the road to The Angel Inn. First impressions were good, exposed beams, fires lit and the place was not as bright and garish as the Blackpool illuminations. But as we neared the bar, we heard the unmistakable sound of a baby crying. Another baby, another pub. What is going on in Petworth? Then we saw the beers, or rather the lack of anything drinkable. We left without partaking and headed home to await the arrival of Sprog 2, home-made shepherds pie and a pint in the Eagle.
It was late in the evening when Clive The Accountant (soon to be a Currencies Direct customer) stumbled into the bar with his gorgeous wife Anne. He was dressed in a way that was bound to attract the attention of this column. Obviously, all accountants are boring, it goes with the territory, but Clive was making an effort to be different. He was wearing a hooped sweater that put me in mind of Denis The Menace. Now if you are a big chap, the done thing is to wear stripes to disguise the bulk, but not double entry Clive, oh no, I think he will feature in this column again. Also there, taking in a decent local band, was Nearly Hairless Nick who provided todays photograph of the Arundel “Overflow” car park, which I found amusing and persuaded him to email to me. He has only recently seen the Harry Potter film with John Cleese playing “Nearly Headless Nick”, so has only just got the joke, and I think it is fair to say he does not like it, which is very satisfying.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Adam and Eve, Darwin and cricket
“Just drop me here and I will walk back” I said to That Nice Lady Decorator in the way back after we had walked a mile and a half around the rather impressive Cissbury Ring in something called sunshine. My normal daily constitutional is 4 miles, so I asked to be dropped off about what I thought was two and a half miles from Arundel so that I could make up my quota. The problem was that my calculation was point to point, as the crow flies. However flooding and the circuitous nature of public footpaths combined to make it nearly five miles back to base.
Exhausted, I stumbled into the house readying myself for my work on Currencies Direct. Exciting work as it turns out with the £ buying nearly 1.21 euros at one stage. That done, there were important arrangements to be made for both of my forthcoming breaks to Tenerife and Barbados. Irksome details like arranging a cook and a Housekeeper, booking seats and pre-ordering champagne. All vital for the smooth running of those all too brief holiday breaks interspersing my busy working schedule.
The road to Warningcamp
Regular limerick contributor and god bothered The Reverend Jeff just doesn’t know when he’s been out argued. He was rattling on long windedly again in the comments section yesterday. I read about half of it before I had to go and get some coffee to keep me awake. He will know in his subconscious heart that he has backed the wrong horse believing in god, but refuses to accept the obvious. I remember him once telling me that the he believed in the fairy story about us all being descended from Adam and Eve, which as I understand it, rules out the scientifically proven Theory Of Evolution. Is that still the fact Reverend? A straight yes or no will do? Adam and Eve or Darwin? What’s it to be Reverend? Don’t forget brevity. I have just realised that Adam and Eve could be shortened to A & E. How apt!
As today is Friday, I shall be in search of beer by early evening. A visit to see the poorly Aunt Pam in Guildford tomorrow afternoon will preclude a drink at lunchtime. I think she went into decline whilst listening to the last Ashes test on the radio. She is a huge cricket fan and even at 86 she would give the selectors and the team some verbal if she got the chance. I do hope she recovers in time for the Lords Test next summer.
Talking of cricket, I plan to play again this year. I have discovered that there are several over 50’s and over 60’s cricket teams and even an over 70’s team in Sussex. They are having nets at Arundel on Monday and I have been invited to attend. Obviously I am not old enough yet to play in the over 60’s but I will be by the summer, and I fully expect to be in the unusual position of being the youngest in the team (if selected) something that I have been unable to say in any circumstances for many decades. I suspect that the taking of sharp singles will not be prevalent and I also suspect that fielding in the outfield might be unpopular, what with all that running. I have found my cricket whites and my new cricket shoes, and am looking forward to Monday morning when I shall begin to relive my youth. There will be some irony in beginning to play again the same year as I can get my bus pass and free prescriptions. It is a curious time for nets, 10.30, but I guess the main catchment ago are retired, and have an afternoon sleep. I know I do.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Lost day: Townhouse in the dock
It was all looking like a sensible but hungry day, with a combination of circumstances combining to delay breakfast until after midday. Getting up late, walking for too long and being out of some vital ingredients for a post diet day breakfast, notably duck eggs, meant that it was nearly lunchtime before food was considered. Then it sprang into my mind. Let’s have lunch at the Townhouse, and that is where the sense began to disappear.
You see, they have one of my favourite wines on the menu. Chateau Musar is the only Lebanese wine of any note, and being produced in the Bekaa Valley, effectively a war zone, somehow makes it more interesting. It is also over 14% proof so it is not a lily-livered offering. Being hungry after consuming what was effectively 600 calories over a 40 hour period, and having walked 10 miles in the meantime, I set upon the food in much the manner that Banjo, That Nice Lady Decorators fat thieving dog, falls upon the rubbish bin and recycling box whenever we are not present.
Fois gras, and a whole roasted partridge were splendid partners for an excellent wine, and with The Banjo Lover sticking to Sauvignon Blanc, I was compelled to finish the bottle all by myself. The meal over, there is always that temptation on the final stretch to home and safety, to be tripped up by the stupid idea of popping into The White Hart next door for a nightcap, or perhaps more accurately a late afternoon cap. The tripwire did its evil work and I found myself in deep conversation with some poor lady about something but have no idea who she was or any recall of anything that I was saying or rather, slurring.
The flooded fields of Sussex in a rare moment of sunshine
Had it stopped there, and I had gone to bed and stayed there, then I may have felt better, but waking up at 9pm with a raging thirst and discovering a nice Bordeaux in the rack left over from Christmas, was to continue the stupid descent onto mind altering but very satisfying debauchery. So last evening (in fact until 3am) was spent drinking wine and watching pre recorded episodes of Celebrity Juice, a programme much loved by The Sprogs, which surprisingly I have come to like. It’s presenter, Keith Lemon, is a monstrous irreverent throw back to 70’s, but is actually a brilliant host.
It is often said that famine follows feast and so it will be today with the second 5:2 diet day of the week scheduled. It will mean a day without a drink but I can honestly say I am delighted. It was a big day yesterday and my head still aches. This column, which I know kick starts many of my readers days, dedicated to the promotion of Currencies Direct, is late today, simply because I got up very late this morning due to yesterday’s excesses. However, as usual I know it is worth waiting for. Who am I kidding? I suppose it could be a little like waiting for the flu to strike, knowing that the anti-bodies should ensure it only happens the once means one actually can embrace the whole concept of catching it.
So by the time you reading this, dear reader, I shall be once again tramping around the flood plains of Sussex. Today’s picture was taken looking down from the road between Amberley and Arundel. These are fields in normal circumstances but now resemble an inland sea. I shall be venturing out again this morning to see if the tide has come in any further.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Otway and the BAFTA’s
Showers, said the weather forecast, so after waking up I looked out of the window and it was sunny. I greedily scoffed the meagre rations to which I pay my noisy respects on a diet day and thoroughly unfortified in a kind of Oliver Twist way for what lay ahead, donned my walking clothes and prepared for exercise. It was bright for the first 3 minutes after we had parked in the Dover near Patching, and then the most fearsome and violent squall roared in without warning from the south. Hail stones the size of marbles, a gale force wind, trees creaking and groaning, an old man doing much the same, and it stayed like that for the full 5 miles. It must have been the most destructive and longest shower ever to have existed. But then, just to illustrate that the law of Sod is alive and well and settled in Arundel, just as I trudged along (actually squelched is a better adjective) the river bank in sight of home, dripping wet and bedraggled, the rain relented and the sun came out. It was never going to be a good day, but it got worse.
I must apologise for the tiresome and long drawn out religious nonsense that appeared in yesterday’s comments section. The Reverend Jeff, clearly nettled by having to go to a funeral on Monday that had no religious overtones whatsoever, spouted on and on and on yesterday with his fatuous arguments in favour of religion, at variance with what all sensible people understand. He once had brevity (although I given yesterday’s interminable diatribe he may not know what it means) but now his arguments are so long-winded and tangential, I dozed off whilst trying to read it all. Stick to limericks, you are good at those and they are mercifully (note the biblical reference) short. There are very few other things he is good at, but avoiding work through most of his adult life is one.
Now this morning at 7:30 the announcement of the BAFTA nominations was made and unaccountably Otway The Movie did not feature. I shall be demanding a recount and an internal inquiry.
the BAFTA committee give Otway The Movie the bird
So after drying out and preparing for a day spent cajoling people who know what is right to do the right thing without further prevarication (open a foreign exchange account with Currencies Direct), I had a day communing with VAT. Yes, it got even worse. However, the wheels of commerce must continue to revolve and it is sometimes my duty to do some of the turning. So arriving back at 11.30 and with a half hour of intense business activity in the proverbial locker, it was time to begin organising the March trip to Barbados to witness the English 20/20 cricket team.
Timing is everything and a lack of good timing (as English batsmen should know to their cost) can have a real impact on how much one might enjoy the matches. My dear deluded northern tripe loving, fizzy beer swilling pal and Yorkshireman Steve “trouble up t’mill” Jackson has made the normal balls up of organisation epitomised by those chaps from up north by deciding that for his 50th birthday he would go to the Caribbean to watch the victorious English team continue their march into the domination of world cricket, and invite some of his friends to go with him. Obviously no one living up north can afford it so he asked me. Anyone who has had an eye in the recent series in Australia, admittedly in a different and far more worthy form of the game, will know the folly of that premise. Anyway, we shall have to make the best of it as the flights are paid for, the villa booked and there can be no going back. At least there is a decent chance of some sunshine and warmth.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Can’t see through the glass?
I was not looking forward to yesterday as I was saying good-bye to an old friend, and I hate funerals, but as it turned out, it was not a service but a really nice celebration of her life with an excellent eulogy, made by a glass blowing aficionado. There were no churches involved and it was particularly rewarding for me because there was none of that mumbo jumbo religious nonsense, much to the undoubted chagrin of the Reverend Jeff, whom I saw for the first time in many years at yesterday’s moving event. As an atheist, refusing to believe in some kind of a higher omnipotent being, I am always on edge when being required to be present at any event where praying and singing nonsensical songs is involved, well, unless it was at, say a Hawkwind or Gong gig.
A summary of Karen Lawrence’ glass-blowing life was fascinating in that I had not realised how revered she had been in those circles. I had always told her that I had heard that she did a wonderful blow job, and with her wicked and combative sense of humour she had normally got the better of me in our friendly exchanges. Later, after the event had finished, the gathering was treated to a private exhibition of some of her work at a nearby pub after the ceremony at the crematorium. It was beautifully crafted range of exquisite glass bowls and plates, and I know she would have been amused and would have had a good retort to my comment that it would be nice to see through some of the glass. I will miss her.
She had been the partner of my oldest friend, and Currencies Direct client, John Otway, for over 25 years and we all once lived together in a flat in London two decades ago. All great fun and full of memories, many of which were discussed yesterday with loads of old disparate pals.
A startling resemblance to a much younger Reverend Jeff
The only one looking a little forlorn was the god bothering Reverend Jeff, father of the amusingly named BBC South weather girl, Holly Green. I say forlorn because the passage of time has clearly not been as good to him as it has to me and to his lovely partner Nicki, whom looks more like she should be his daughter than, well, I would like to say wife, but the good Reverend no doubt has his reasons for living in sin for so many years. I think he must think hypocrisy is a type of plant. Anyway, we discussed what I thought, and almost everyone else there thought, that it was a beautiful memorial event for Karen but the Reverend was later heard bemoaning the absence of hymns and bible readings, again, failing to appreciate the hypocritical overtones that would flow from adhering to religious convention against Karens firmly held agnostic beliefs. That he will want to bore us all to death with all that far-fetched Christian burial claptrap at his own funeral is a given, and is the only reason I hope I die before him. At least then I would not have to go his funeral!
So after a traumatic couple of days, it is back to the reality of a diet day today. If the weather relents then I may do the full 6 miles across from The Dover, the parking area on the way to Patching from Arundel, arriving back in time for some tasty gruel. It is a wonderful walk in lovely weather, so I have never yet experienced it as I expect it can be, and with the weather forecast still dreadful, I doubt I shall be able to enjoy it in its full glory. One simply must prepare for the coming weeks events, which begin with a flight to Tenerife on Tuesday, where I shall be spending a week sunbathing and paying homage to my liver.
Chris France
Chris France's Blog 