Gung-ho for the Gun Inn?
As soon as the landlord mentioned that his “staffy” a Staffordshire terrier, was in the pub somewhere, It confirmed that I knew it was a place in which I did not want to be . The signs were there. A putrid pile of sweating meat in a bowl by the fireplace, a clientele with more than their share of tattoos, shaved heads and no stranger to extra, extra-large t-shirts and earrings, the swirly carpets and the endless stream of battered cod, chips and garden peas emanating from the kitchen should have given it away more quickly.
We were in Findon, a pretty Sussex village close to where we had been walking in the South Downs. Breakfasting large and late precluded any thought of lunch, but the walk up the hills had built up a nice thirst, and from the outside the pub, that I shall not name, looked inviting. It was just the type of people it had invited that was the problem. Salt of the earth no doubt, but Sky TV on a screen in the bar? There were unlikely to be any contenders for a Currencies Direct account here. They probably thought forex was a pint of lager.
Billy takes a rest. Spotted last week in Glastonbury
Just before entering council house heaven, we had popped into the Gun Inn in the same village, which could not have been a more different experience, but that is the kind if thing that will happen when on pub reconnaissance. “Pub Of The Year” awards on the door created the right impression, several real ales on tap, including my current third favourite, Ringwood bitter, charming and attractive staff who were concerned that we may have wanted to eat as they were fully booked. The pub has been bookmarked for lunch at some stage in the future, whereas the other one is off my list forever.
Arriving back in Arundel to find The White Hart curiously quiet, the effect of the closure of their restaurant, Boca Nuevo, perhaps having some effect, we decided to walk up the Kings Arms for a pint of London Pride, where we met the Charlie “Pistorius” Malcolmson and his beautiful and beautifully formed wife Ally, who were, for once, on the right side of the counter, enjoying a quiet drink. We resolved to redouble our efforts to rekindle enthusiasm for the Arundel Luncheon Club, of which all four of us are founding members, and set a date, the 14th August, to reconvene. There are very strict membership criteria required in order to join; one must be a publican or their wife, seasoned music business veteran, nice decorating personnel, or anyone else who is available to have lunch when the club meets.
But now to a more sober affair, literally. Today has been set aside as a dreaded diet day. The 5:2 diet, as its name suggests, requires the dieter (in this sad case my good self) twice in each week, to take in no more than 600 calories in a twenty-four hour period. I have changed the bathroom scales as the previous ones had become old and unreliable, but I am unhappy to have to report that the new digital ones are no better, still giving obviously wildly inaccurate readings, and being entirely responsible for the almost nil by mouth regime I am forced to endure. I say sober because a pint of proper beer or a decent sized glass of wine is 170 calories, which would mean that if one restricted the entire daily allowance to beer or wine, three and a half of either would have you pushing the limit. In my weakened state, I hope to speak to you all tomorrow, but cannot be certain.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The tide is high, I’m holding on
There is a pub near Chichester on the banks of the river called Anchor Bleu. Quite why it would have a French name is a mystery to me, but it is a lovely pub and was on our way back from the New Forest. I wanted to go there as I had never seen it at high tide and it was very high as my picture today illustrates. There is a road that runs alongside the pub which provides parking at low ride, but is covered when the tide comes in. There is normally a temptation to park there for free and hope you are ready to leave before its is too late. Yesterday we used the nearby pay and display car park. I think it was a wise decision.
High tide at Anchor Bleu
With blue skies starting the day whilst we had breakfast, the theory of Sod meant there was a mean and spiteful shower just as we left the hotel, but it cleared in time to partake of the normal morning march, this time in the often squelchy but beautiful New Forest.
Exercise dealt with, we decided to meander back along the English Riviera in search of somewhere nice to have lunch. It was a tough call as Portsmouth and Southampton don’t exactly conjure up visions of palm trees and golden sun-kissed beaches. After some exploration of the local coastline, where we also crossed Emsworth off our list of places to visit, and a quick pint at the Anchor Bleu, we went to an old favourite, the Crown and Anchor at Dell Quay, for a spot of lunch. Some writers of a lesser calibre than the author of this column might have observed that by visiting two pubs having the word Anchor in their names, we were anchoring after something, but luckily poor puns such as this are avoided in this daily missive.
It was a good lunch of roasted loin of cod (a posh name for fillet) on a fish broth with mussels and hake, but as far as I could tell without the hake. However, replete, we headed back to Arundel, where the White Hart was calling our name. In the pub was local singing sensation, and log delivery man, the man with the sideburns, Screaming Lez, together with his boss, Acker The Log, a man whose deep Sussex accent makes understanding him quite difficult, at least until there is money involved. Luckily we have already paid him for the logs, and we remain in blissful ignorance of exactly what he was saying. Articulate and animated, I am certain that whatever he was saying about the production of charcoal would have been very interesting had I understood it.
If the Reverend Jeff is to be obeyed, then today, being a Sunday, is a day of rest, so I shall refrain from exhorting those of you who have not yet opened an account with Currencies Direct from doing so. I politely declined That Nice Lady Diet Enforcers suggestion that, after the last few days of excess, we should embark on another 5:2 diet day. Luckily the bathroom scales, unusually, were on my side and so a day of misery was put off until tomorrow. In celebration, I shall be angling to have lunch out somewhere, in order to be fed up properly before I get really fed up tomorrow. I quite fancy walking over to the George and Dragon at Houghton, but unless we can get a taxi back with the pesky dog, I suspect that it is a pub too far. Perhaps we should walk to the George at Burpham? It would be high in my list as it does not welcome dogs, but at heart I am a coward so don’t plan to suggest it.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
3 legged whippet: road kill rescue?
I needed that pint. Setting off from Glastonbury with a slightly sore head after overdoing it at the Wild Willy Barrett extravaganza the night before at Hawthorns, we decided to go to see Lulworth Cove and Durdle Door, for no other reason than we could.
The Jurassic Coast is very beautiful and I was in need of some exercise after the excesses of the day before. It is a mere mile and a quarter from one to the other so we set off up the steep hill that separates them. All was fine until the rain started. It was gentle to begin with so we struggled on, arriving at our destination just as the wind got up and the rain gods decided to become very excited. By the time we got back, and it took us an hour, we were exhausted, wet through and thirsty.
Earlier in the day we had gone Tory. The Glastonbury Tor ( a Celtic word meaning hill, apparently) is a prominent lump of rock sticking its head up from the Somerset marshes, some 500 feet above sea level. It seemed a good idea to climb to the top, an idea which I did not formulate. From that observation, I assume you will be able to work out who did.
At least during that hill climb it did not rain, anyway, we found a pretty pub called The Castle Inn but it was too late for food so we had that pint and set off for Swanage and Studland where we had half an idea to find a hotel. We could not. We went to village after village, again no hotel vacancies. I was becoming pessimistic when I saw a hotel called The Halfway Inn. I am not sure whether it could be considered optimistic or pessimistic to be half way in, and being still damp from earlier exertions (!) I was in a pessimistic mood. I even thought fleetingly about joining a pessimists club but thought I would not be able to get in. Anyway, when that was full, that was when we decided to get the ferry to Poole and head to the New Forest.
There is supposed to be a recession and as a result hotels are said to be suffering, but the only people suffering were us, in the dark and the rain without a hotel room, and an hour and a half from home, still looking for somewhere to have lunch! The last hotel in Brockenhurst, The Rosé And Crown was our salvation with one room remaining and although it would not have been my first choice, it did the job. Thus this morning, we may get the opportunity for a walk in the New Forest.
Anyway, after depositing bags in the room, we popped into the nearby Snake Charmer pub for some vital beer and food. Even although my Sirloin was tough, I was hungry enough to devour most if it, leaving a tasty treat of gristle and fat for that dog,
Road kill survivor?
Talking about gristle and fat, reminds me of my monstrous pal Peachy Butterfield. It was the second time during the day he had come to mind; the first being at a pit stop at The Bankes Arms at Corfe Castle, where we got chatting to a chap who had with him a couple of whippets, that breed most beloved by chaps from up north. One of them had a leg missing, and that was when Peachy come to mind. How did that poor did lose its leg? Could it have been the victim of one of his road kill suppers? A nice leg of whippet in lard gravy? Anyway we talked to this chap for a while, but when it became apparent that he would have no use for an account with Currencies Direct, we drank up and left.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Halloween in Glastonbury, how can you tell?
So let me talk you through Glastonbury. Famous for the nearly annual music festival which attracts 100,000 plus people and sells out in under an hour, it is perhaps not surprising that the shops in this disappointing village are swamped with new age, alternative shops offering a range of goods which would not ordinarily be available in an old English town.
The smell of petuli oil is all-pervading and to start with, being a bit of an old hippy myself, I thought I might like it. However, when almost every shop is offering this type of merchandise, and on every street corner are unwashed dishevelled people with rat tails hair styles, I quickly decided that my hippy days are over. The town itself is massively disappointing. I expected a slightly bigger version of Arundel; a lovely old country town with a handful of great pubs and an attractive atmosphere. I got a nice old High street, albeit plagued with stores selling stuff that no self-respecting person would ever want to buy, surrounded by a massive overbuild of undesirable housing. Not even a decent pub to be found at lunchtime,
Anyway, after the pub search ended in failure although not for want of trying, and after a siesta, we readied ourselves for the reason for the visit, an appearance by Wild Willy Barrett at the Hawthorns in the heart of the village. Had that been open during the day then a would have found a decent pub.
Whilst discussing with That Nice Lady Decorator my impressions of the inhabitants of this iconic town, she made a telling contribution; it being Halloween and with a gothic theme running through the local populace, she said she could not tell the difference between normal residents and people dressed up for Halloween. One should perhaps be wary when talking fashion on the vicinity of Wild Willy Barrett, who, past 60, still sports hair down to his waist and wears a hat at all times, but for once he seemed perfectly at home in his surroundings.
A local inhabitant of Glasto?
He is an enigma. Supremely talented, but you can never be sure if that talent will show up. Last night it did and it was a fantastic show. No more than about 50 people could cram into the room where he and his band were plying in this lovely pub, but to a man, all were enthralled by the performance, not of The French Connection, one of his recent entities, but Sleeping Dogz, specially renamed Scary Dogz for Halloween. it features his sublime talents on banjo, fiddle, guitar and keyboards, but also a cellist and a percussionist who also has the only electric bagpipes I have ever seen. Not a traditional line up by any means. the gig coincided with a curry night, a chance to sample 5 different curries, a buffet for £13.50 a head, which would have been cheap except for the three bottles of Rioja which we consumed during the evening.
The hotel, the George and Pilgrim (I had to make clear to the Reverend Jeff that I was staying in the George part, not wanting to associate with with the Pilgrim bit, was charming in part but downmarket in general. I shall not be returning.
So this morning, we will set off east, not knowing exactly where we are going, with the vague intention of getting back to Arundel later today or tomorrow if we find somewhere we want to go. There is something about getting older and losing the day to say responsibility for Sprogs that us liberating, a kind of freedom one loses with responsibility, that I love. Of course, my responsibility for ensuring that anyone I come across who has a foreign exchange need should be using the services of Currencies Direct.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Dodgy ticker causes consternation
There was some banter of a suggestive nature amongst the rump of limericists that have found a voice in the comments section of this column yesterday. It is almost like their own little world of poetry where they all seem happy. In response I suggested that it was not good for someone with a dodgy ticker (meaning a slightly unreliable heart) to be exposed to a charming young lady espousing the willingness to wear provocative clothing in almost any circumstances, without realising that some of my French readers might be at a loss to understand the slang. A dodgy ticker could have been construed as a clock that does not work properly, and whist I was considering that I did not have the time to think about that, I came to the conclusion that not working properly might be a charge made against my good self on occasions nowadays. There was a time in my life that I worked very hard, but eventually I learned to delegate.
Not so yesterday, as I spent a good deal of my time on a splendid 4 mile walk around the Cissbury Ring (nope, no slang here Winnie, this is an ancient settlement near Findon, and in any case, what on earth could that be in bedroom parlance?) considering once again the benefits of having a foreign exchange account with Currencies Direct. I took this photograph showing yet another lovely morning in England. I know it was raining two hours later, but by then I was back at home, exhausted and starving.
The Cissbury Ring. nothing suggestive here.
By now, regular readers will have spotted the lack of zest in today’s missive, due entirely to the almost nil by mouth regime which I have had to endure, as part of the 5:2 fad diet, to which I have unwillingly subscribed.
But now it is all over for at least 4 days as we are off in the skip this morning, heading for Glastonbury, with a possible stop in the New Forest in late morning, weather permitting. It is Halloween and we are off to witness something just as scary, a Wild Willy Barrett show at a pub in this ancient village. I once went to the Glastonbury festival about 7 years ago with John Otway, and hired a Winnebago for our pitch back stage, and a wonderful experience it was, despite the dreadful weather, but have never before, as far as I recall, visited the village itself. As the Reverend Jeff will no doubt have predicted, we will be staying the night at a very nice and charming looking hotel, called the George and Pilgrim. I do so hate to witness jealousy, but if he had spent his life working as have I, instead of pontificating and writing poetry, he may have been able to afford to stay in a decent hotel himself, but I digress.
Whilst there, it seems churlish to rush back immediately and a walk up to Glastonbury tor later today or tomorrow is likely. I shall also not rule out the chance that we may not return to Arundel immediately, but may return to the New Forest tomorrow evening. We will of course have a gooseberry in the car, in the very rotund shape of a fat bloated cocker spaniel/Friesian cow cross called Banjo, who has at least calmed himself recently, I think he must have seen me burying our faithful old family retainer, the saintly Max, in Valbonne just over a week ago, and believes, probably with good cause, that if he misbehaves then the same fate may await him, although in his case before he has passed on. He will not like my putting a spade in the back of the car, and will be rightly suspicious of my contention that it is there in case we have to dig ourselves out of snowdrifts. Let us call it a deterrent .
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Glut then famine
I am told by That Nice Lady Decorator that I have become too much of a Francophile and that I have forgotten how to appreciate the glories of England, but let me tell you that yesterday I appreciated it like seldom before. A planned late morning walk around the Sussex countryside in bright sunshine, albeit with sweaters, was a delight. A pint and a half of London Pride at the Partridge in Singleton a welcome venue for sustenance, and the walking to Charlton for lunch at The Fox Goes Free, where we even tried to sit in the sunshine for 5 minutes before retiring inside, was a quintessentially wonderful English winter experience, and one that I hope to emulate in the coming months. If the weather was like this all winter, then I would never have moved to France. Of course, it was an exception, an anomaly of chance, that two days after a hurricane, we were able to do this, but we did, I was there, and it was fab.
Earlier, I had walked 4 miles around the Norfolk Estate from where I took this picture, so with 7 miles if walking under my belt, I was ready to eat.
The Norfolk Estate in Arundel
Mellow after a nice lunch, and having spent some due time considering the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct for all foreign currency transactions, we returned to the house for an afternoon nightcap, to light the fire, and in my case, to smoke a cigar from Havana whilst sitting in the inglenook fire-place, waiting for a pre evening siesta to embrace me. How much more English can you get? Well, apart from a the cigar and the siesta?
But then I have to nit pick. How can any self-respecting restaurant expect to be taken seriously when there is a range of wines available by the glass, but not a single red from the wine capital of the world, France? As Homer Simpson once said “if there was a law, it would be against it”. That Nice Lady Decorator was content with her glass of Rioja, whilst I struggled through on a glass of Australian Shiraz, but only after I had taken the management to task for this horrendous omission.
Perhaps I should not have made such a big thing about me being a writer for the Daily Telegraph (well I did write one article that they published) but standards need to be maintained and this, to my mind, was a dip in those standards that, had I not lunched so well, might have marked this pub down in the Chris France guide of where to go to eat in Sussex and the south of France.
Earlier we had discussed the pros and cons of eating red meat. I am of the opinion that Morrissey is a complete twat when it comes to eating properly, you only have to get a glance at his cadaverous, unhealthy appearance to know that whatever dietary guidance he is following is misguided. I know that red meat is something that is good for you although should be eaten sparingly. Don’t bother me with science, I just know.
That Nice Lady Decorator contended that her belly of pork was white meat, a contention that I opposed, but it seems that it is not clear-cut whether pork is red meat or white. It was a clear cut cut of meat but the colour remains a matter of disagreement. For myself, the rib-eyed steak afforded no such doubt. It was my second dose of red meat of the week, so I have managed to maintain the minimum intake advisable. I accept that it is advice I both give and accept.
Talking of food, yesterday was a day sandwiched between two diet days. It occurred to me that it is a very cruel expression to describe it as such, a day between diet days. Why does anything to do with food denial have to be named after food? Anyway, after a day of plenty, today will be a day of less than plenty. Such is life.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Halloween; gourd to death?
The mile long walk along the coast at Pagham was actually quite pleasant going east along the frothing sea front, with the breeze on our backs. The problems began as we turned into the wind which had increased in intensity as the clouds had rolled in. Walking back directly into the gale and drizzle was an utter nightmare and took three time as long to get back to where we had started. There is a parallel with the writing of this daily column; when one is in a social environment as was the case for most of the weekend, this daily missive almost wrote itself. When the only event of note that occurs during a day is that you get wet and windswept on a walk, you know it is going to be tough to compose 600 words. Many of you will be saying “that many?”as I know my sterling prose flows like ice cream over jelly, but some will be saying it seems like more. Walk on the wild side comes to mind after yesterday’s sad news about Lou Reed.
Today will be better, as it will not be a diet day and I will be able to become human all over again. I think lunch at the Fox Runs Free at Charlton is favourite, with a walk beforehand to sharpen an appetite that has been honed to a frenzied intensity by the third diet day inside a week, since we arrived back from France last Tuesday. I seem to be on an involuntary hunger strike. Why can’t someone invent something that just eats your own fat? I know there is some horrible flesh eating disorder of some kind, surely one of those scientific kind that read this column can adapt it just to eat the bits of any body that are superfluous to requirements?
That is such a macabre thought, it reminded me that it is Halloween this Thursday. On our way back from Pagham, and exploring in a kind of “where the hell are we?” manner, we came across a gourd selling festival in the village of Slindon, from where I took this picture.
The Slindon gourd festival, with not a goring to be seen. Oh gawd.
We shall be celebrating the coming of the witching hour by going down to Glastonbury and seeing Wild Willy Barrett perform with his group The French Connection. There will be people reading this who will know just how scary that could be. Wild is an enigma. A supremely talented musician who, for most of his career,
has avoided anything that might be commercially successful unless it involved betting on horses. It is almost as it he has a commercial death wish, but I love him dearly, and as I still have some business connection with him, Halloween seemed to be a god time to revisit some of the horrors with which he has involved me over the past 4 decades.
We shall stay over at a rather nice looking hotel and, weather permitting, do some walking, although given the weather one might expect in the West Country in November, I suspect that splashing might be a better verb. Still, work has to be some from time to time, even by me, so head down and get it over with.
I realise that the end of my last sentence may have some resonance with my readership who, determined not to miss out in case today’s column is good, will read to the bitter end (and to find out how I am going to weave in the Link to Currencies Direct today) only to find themselves disappointed again. Life is full of disappointment and tomorrow will be no different as it is another almost “nil by mouth” experience waiting to be endured.
Chris France
Mr Clipboard red faced?
St Jude is the patron saint of depression and lost causes, so it was perhaps apt that St Jude’s day, which is today, should coincide with a particularly nasty bout of autumnal weather. Many of you reading this from Valbonne, may be surprised that St Jude is not the patron saint of Baileys, that nasty Irish liqueur so loved by our own wonderfully endowed Jude “where’s me Baileys” O Sullivan, but I digress.
It was billed as something close to a hurricane, which would have at least been interesting but in the end it was just another bad day at the office. Wind and rain are no strangers to me in the last week. Had the conditions been as extreme as we had been led to expect then it would at least have provided a bit of a spectacle.
Lunch yesterday at the very nice Old Swan at Chiddingfold, began with discussion about this incoming storm. We were there to meet Mr Clipboard and the lovely Ashley and had chosen a venue that is about half way between our tiny cottage in Arundel and their sweeping estate covering much of Surrey. Running his property empire has clearly caused him much anxiety and stress as can be seen from this photograph today. I think the red sunglasses set off his beetroot complexion perfectly. He could find some solace in using his existing Currencies Direct account more often, to ease the strain of his foreign exchange transactions.
Mr Clipboard looking a bit red faced
Quite how the bill reached £200 is a little beyond me, although a 2009 Crozes Hermitage may have contributed somewhat. My rib of beef was superb and I even ate the Yorkshire pudding, something that I don’t always take to, but that may be because of the starvation diet to which I have been subjected twice during the week and again today. In these circumstances, please do not expect a funny and uplifting column tomorrow, although I know many of my readers expectations never reach those heights.
But back to yesterday. One of the things that attracted us to the house in Arundel was its proximity to the White Hart pub next door. So what is the point of being in this delicious situation and then not using it? There is another factor her as well. To get into out house from the back, one has to go through the pub garden, which gives an immediate insight into whether the pub is busy it not. It was busy. We went in. James “Desperate Dan” the landlord was ensconced at one of the tables with an open bottle of his house St Emilion in front of him, and so it seemed perfectly natural to purchase another and join him. Quite how soon we had another is a source of pleasure and shame in equal measure. Suffice to say that a splendid lost afternoon in the pub brought to an end a Sunday that had its fair share of highs and lows.
The first low of the day was as I sat in the car park of the Arundel Tennis Club, marooned in a shower of monstrous proportions, driven by a gale force wind. This is not the type of tennis weather to which I have become accustomed. However it cleared and the sun emerged and so I was able to pay some tennis and I can honestly say that I have not been beaten this year in England. I will not accept that the opposition, in the form is two sprightly girls well under 70, was in any way a push over, no, the Zimmer frames would have stopped that, and victory, however it comes, is sweet. Tennis was followed not be the customary beer, as it usually is in the south of France, but by coffee in the clubhouse, sheltering from the next shower. I must get used to it or I shall play no tennis,
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Prepare for tempest, ark spotted in Chichester
I was half way around my 4 mile morning hike, thinking about the virtues of opening an account with Currencies Direct, when the rains came. Stupidly, with it being sunny when I set off, I had assumed, well, hoped that it would remain dry for an hour at least. I was wrong.
After drying out slightly, I told That Nice Lady Decorator that there were some errands I needed to run in the motorised scooter capital of the world, Littlehampton, or LA as it is known locally. I had dressed down for the occasion, with hoody, jogging trousers and waterproof wind cheater, not having a shell suit. I also donned some gloves so that I could hide the fact that I only had five digits on each hand, a rarity in LA, but there was no way to make my eyes closer together or my forehead higher, and although I did try to dribble a bit, something at which I am quite adept, I am sure that upon closer inspection, the locals would have known I was not local.
Anyway, on the way, we went to Clymping beach in order to empty the canine catastrophe, and, having walked earlier, I stayed in the car whilst That Nice Lady Decorator enjoyed a stroll in a squall or monstrous proportions. I told myself when we left France for the winter that I was prepared for this kind of weather but frankly I am not. It is time to look at the holiday brochures and reconsider Brisbane for the First Ashes Test between Australia and England later next month.
The ark, spotted in Chichester
I took this picture of what may be the original ark on the canal at Chichester. I am not sure it will be seaworthy after all this time, but when the rains come again tonight, with the accompanying hurricane, I know where to go if it does not look like stopping.
A report reached me yesterday about a German study that had found that a man watching girls breast for 10 minutes a day was equivalent to 30 minutes of exercise in the gym, and reduced by 50% the chances of a heart attack or stroke. Now I am always one for a new fad health kick, and That Nice Lady Decorator is constantly searching for techniques that will keep us young and fit, so I think I will suggest it to her. Not immediately you understand, one has to pick the right moment, when she is mellow and receptive. It must happen some time, surely?
Lunch then, which was to have been based around a dog walk to a pub, became lunch without dogs due to the pesky weather. A pint of London Pride was taken at The Swan Hotel, a brief drying off spell, on the way for a couple of pints at the Kings Arms and then a last go at Boco Nuevo at The White Hart next door. I say last because the restaurant will close today and so far, nothing is a set to replace it. Any budding restaurateurs in Arundel? The pub and we need you,
At the Kings Arms we met up with Colin The Pirate and Sandra the sultry goddess, but they declined to join us for lunch due to the Pirate struggling with some painful dentistry work, probably from biting too many pieces of eight. However, we were joined by flame haired siren Carolyn and proceeded to restore all the damage done to my corpulent frame over the past three days of diet and restraint. There will be more lack of restraint today as well, as we are meeting mr Clipboard and his gorgeous wife Ashley at Chiddingfold. Must go now, cannot afford to be late with old Clipboard on the prowl.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Tennis given the bird?
If I am not as slim as a whippet and back to my Amazonian best after a few more days of this, there is no justice. After 4 miles hard slog across the Arundel Castle estate in the morning at 6.2 km’s per hour, that’s 4 miles an hour (according to my new Ordnance Survey app) to all you non metric chaps, I felt that I had done my bit for a surprise diet day, which was decreed before breakfast by That Nice Lady Decorator. But no, she had in mind a bike ride along the canals of Chichester, just to add some spice.
Actually, when the suggestion emerges, that was all right by me. She and that mutt if hers need the exercise, but then it became apparent that she wanted me to accompany her. I tried excuses, whimpering, and threats of self harm, but those of you who remember Flo, the wife in the Andy Capp cartoon, will know the look she always had when holding a rolling-pin. You will not be surprised to know that I went with the err…flow.
It was extremely hard to start with but after about 3 miles, when I was falling further and further behind, I suddenly realised that the front brake was slightly applied, so from then on, after releasing it, cycling became a lot easier. I was even able to stop and sneak up on this heron to take today’s picture. I have reason to believe that it may have been deaf, but am not prepared to go down that route of suggesting that he might have been hard of heron. Oh no, you won’t see that sort of contrived pun in this column, and if you did then I would expect be up before the beak.
Deaf bird
Before leaving for bikers island, That Nice Lady Decorator had a meeting with a local architect, who foolishly admitted to having a holiday home near Port Grimaud, near St Tropez. In a flash my Currencies Direct antennae tuned in and I believe I may have secured only my second ever customer from Arundel.
Today is in the balance. On the one hand we have a tentative arrangement to walk across the fields with Colin the Pirate, Sandra the sultry goddess, and the dogs and have lunch at the George (newly without the Dragon) at Burpham for a spot of lunch. However, the weather forecast seems to have deteriorated somewhat since this plan was made on Thursday, and with rumours that dogs are not welcomed there, we may concede a change of luncheon venue. As I write I await the decision. There is one thing certain though. After 3 days without a drink and two diet days, I shall be having lunch out somewhere.
Trying to continue to play tennis in England is fraught with difficulty. I have a tentative arrangement to meet up with the Arundel Lawn Tennis Club who meet at the ridiculously early time of 8.30 on a Sunday morning. I have deigned to join them this Sunday, only because the clocks go back, so it will be 9.30 on my time clock, which is still early but one does have to make an effort. This assumes, of course, that the dire weather warnings of hurricanes and the like will come to nothing. The only other time in my short tennis career when wind threatened play was after I was myself badly afflicted by some particularly spiced meatballs from Ikea which wreaked (reeked?) havoc. However, the wind forecast for this weekend will make any attempts to play tennis very interesting, certainly a bit more interesting than the meatball event.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Gourdy or gaudy?
Apart from proper beer, there is another aspect to being back in England that I have missed; the eccentricity, and on some occasions the madness of the English. Arundel pays its respects to this trait with the Bath Tub challenge during the Arundel Festival, where people race up and down the River Arun on the tide (well, not always down as they have mostly sunk). The night before last on the local BBC TV news, there was a piece about a chap who was trying to, and had managed to set the record for canoeing 200 yards in a vegetable. It was a giant gourd that he had hollowed out and amazingly he was successful and completed the water course in just over two minutes. Now I am not sure what he would say to his children if they ever asked what he did when he was young. I mean a vegetable grower is fine, but if you drop the g, a vegetable rower does not have the same resonance, not for sane people.
But the lunacy does not stop there. Yesterday he went one step further by attempting, and succeeding, to motor across the Solent on another giant gourd, this time fitted with an outboard motor. I say step, but that would imply walking in water, which the Reverend Jeff thinks is possible but all grounded people know is not, although I get the same exalted feeling when I have moved some foreign exchange via Currencies Direct.
If one were a fan of poor puns, and this column was of a much lower standard than you have not come to expect, the writer may have been tempted to make a joke about what the madman was wearing during these attempts. The word gaudy springs to mind.
It was on the way back from a walk on the beach at West Wittering that I spotted this farm, celebrating the gourd. I can almost hear today’s limericks wittering on in the comments section. Pumpkin soup anybody?
A Gaudy display?
My new policy is to try to walk 4 miles a day at 4 miles an hour in any weather. Yesterday was very pleasant on the beach, and it was even sunny for most of the time, but with my body shape still a little more rotund that I would like, we decided to skip the plan for lunch out and have a second day off the juice. Well, not the tomato juice, as that, with a decent serving of celery salt, Tabasco and Worcester Sauce at least make you think you are having a drink.
Instead of going for lunch, we went shopping. How depressing is that? There was one bright spot though. At the Dry Cleaners, That Nice Lady Decorator decided to go through the pockets of Sprog 1’s only smart jacket, which was no longer smart because of a nasty sick stain down the front. It was a mistake because in one of the pockets she found a condom, but as I said after we left the shop, at least it had not been used. Strangely It did not seem to placate her.
On Saturday, weather permitting, we have half a plan to walk over to the George at Burpham. It seems that they have now dispensed with the Dragon since the recent refurbishment, but I never knew her anyway. However the forecast is terrible for the morning, better in the afternoon but the same weather pattern that brought the hurricane when Michel Fish was in denial in 1987 is shaping up overnight for Sunday night. It is so nice that England has saved this up, just for me, after leaving the benign Provençal autumn for winter in the home country.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The pirate and the kit kats
It was late in the evening when we arrived at The Kings Arms in Arundel on Tuesday night, just after the quiz night questions had been asked. Amongst those competing to try to ensure they did not get the wooden spoon prize of two kit kats, was the sultry goddess Sandra in the company of someone I did not instantly recognise, as he was wearing a suit and not wearing his customary eye patch. After the first glorious first swig of a pint of London Pride, I eventually recognised him and was going to ask one-eyed, Colin The Pirate, how many eyes are in Colin, but that is a bit cheeky as I already knew the answer.
It was quite revealing to discover just how many friends we have made in Arundel, and most of them were in the pub, so we did not actually get home until 11.30. It was about 2am when the torrent arrived. A vicious thunderstorm earlier in the evening gave way to a massive swirling monsoon, which blew the pub gates next door open and blew rubbish all over the street. Welcome back to England, where we shall be languishing for the next 6 months (not 7 as I have been saying and was corrected by a very chirpy Nice Lady Decorator, delighted to be back in the land of eternal rain). In other words we are to be based in this rain-sodden land until the last week of April 2014, by which time, if I make it, I will be firmly inside my 7th decade.
The Sussex countryside, although I don’t know where
I had decided that a stone in weight, which I has somehow accumulated during the summer, has to dealt with. Old friend and plastic surgeon Douglas “Mac The Knife” Mcgeorge once told me that the only way to lose weight is for “less in and more out”. He really is quite technical when he puts his mind to it. I took this to heart yesterday, electing to don my wet weather gear and walk back from the garage in Angmering (during which I took today’s picture) where the skip (That Decorating persons 4 x 4) required some minor attention. I have a wonderful new application on my phone: Ordnance Survey Maps, that can show you where you are when you are lost. It has worked perfectly well in the past, but requires ones phone to be charged in order to operate effectively. Ones phone was not fully charged, and the application ceased to work as soon as I got lost. 4 miles became something more like 7 and a one hour walk became a two-hour marathon. The only silver lining is that giant cocker spaniel (so big he looks like he has been crossed with a Friesian cow), Banjo, was so knackered by the time we got back that he is doubtful for today’s walk, so not all bad then.
It was also a diet day yesterday. 600 calories a day, twice a week is known as the 5:2 diet, so I shall be faced with wishing I was dead two sevenths of each week for the next six months, with notable exceptions in the case of the First Test against Australia in Brisbane ( if I decide to go) and a significant birthday of a northern git in Barbados in March. Otherwise, almost unremitting misery will be my lot, not even brightened up with the prospect of meeting and converting new Currencies Direct clients, as few, if any, potential clients live in England, the theory bring that if they could afford a second home abroad, they would be living there already.
At least lunch has been suggested today, albeit by me, to compensate for the dreadful burden of a diet day, but I guess a too excitable embracing of that concept might defeat the object, thus my hopes are not high .
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Hotel Bourbon takes the biscuit
I suppose it had to happen. The rain started within an hour of leaving Bourges where we had spent the night at the Hotel Bourbon, and from where I took this picture of the wonderful interior which doubles as a restaurant. The hotel was not so wonderful the evening before when we were denied nightcap by a heavy-handed closure of the bar, full of hotel guests gagging for a drink. It was dubbed “Unhappy Hour” by That Nice Lady Decorator. Many of those left thirsty and disappointed were German, and I am certain that one of them said that if they were still in occupation nothing this stupid would ever have happened. Of course I don’t have any German myself, but that is the impression I formed. At passport control they were probably asked; Occupation? “No, just for a few days.”
So with the dreary weather closing in, of the type I must expect to have to endure in England for the next 7 months, ruining a planned lunch on the beach at Oiusterham, the ferry port, we were relegated to eating unappetising curly chicken curry sandwiches in the car whilst sitting in the queue for purgatory in the rain. Actually, I think Purgatory was the name of the Master Mariner Mundell’s house at his public school.
Hotel Bourbon in Bourges
Once aboard we found our cabin was the size of a large hamster house, so adjourned to the bar to decide which of us was going to drive back from Portsmouth. It is a regular debate that, despite winning the argument every time, I always seem to lose. We had earlier had just enough time for a beer in an utterly unprepossessing bar near the port, and an even less appetising drink in the Brittany Ferries car ferry port. It was enough to put you off beer for life, at least that nasty gassy stuff that passes for beer in France. There is not a bar in the world that could put a real man off proper beer, such as London Pride, but gassy Heineken is a different matter.
Brittany Ferries proudly boast that there is Internet aboard. What they don’t tell you is that if more than 3 people attempt to get on-line at the same time, access speeds drop to the speed of a stunned tortoise. I managed to retrieve two emails and send one in 7 hours on board. I say bring back dial-up. It was more efficient. The network was called “on seas, when it should have been dubbed “on seas on Valium”.
Eventually, after a thoroughly over done rack of lamb, we sought on the refuge in the rabbit house cabin, where, tired from the exertions of recent days, I lay down to sleep. I managed this for at least 30 minutes before being awoken by That Nice Lady Decorator to be told that she could not sleep because of the vibration of the boat. Ten minutes later I was awoken again to be told that there was an electrical storm which I should witness. Then, over the next hour, I was awoken on probably a dozen occasions to be told about the same electrical storm (5 times) and that she could not sleep (4 times), and do you know what? surprisingly in her opinion, I found it difficult to sleep myself as well.
Arriving back in Arundel at 10 pm, there was just time for the that first pint of proper beer, whilst sitting down in the
Kings Arms with some London Pride to consider the events of the summer, and especially the success I have had with Currencies Direct when he happened upon Colin The Pirate and the sultry goddess Sandra, of which more tomorrow.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Gentle persuasion, not blackmail
The “eat the freezer” lunch threw up some interesting food combinations, but as far as I know at the moment, no one threw up as a result. It attracted a few locusts of local ill repute to pick over the remains of summer in France. It also has the effect of solving a problem that had arisen earlier, when, with the skip (That Nice Lady Decorators 4 x 4) packed absolute to the gunwales with all sorts of vital goods (blue garden pots for Christ’s sake!), ready for our departure north towards England this morning, there was going to be a row about how to squeeze in those cases of Haut Medoc. As a final gesture, my picture today evokes the spirit of the summer, now finished. As it turns out, the solution was simple; invite The Master Mariner Mundell and Peachy Butterfield to lunch and they will help you drink it all! There is a fatal flaw in this solution but my head is hurting too much to figure it out.
Summer in the south of France
First to arrive was, of course, man mountain Peachy Butterfield, the man who will never turn down a free meal, who had obviously acquired a bottle of wine from somewhere. I hate to use the word stolen in this context, but I know arriving with a bottle would go against his card Bordeaux ethos of drinking only from boxes of what he called crushed fruit. However, it still had the Carrefour price on the bottle and I guessed he had decided that 1.29 euros (about £1.10 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates), although expensive by his standards, was a gesture of deep respect and gratitude for the invitation, him being wife-less for the weekend. That reminds me of the old expression heard in barber shops when I was young; “anything for the weekend sir?”. At his age, a bottle of wine would probably be preferable to what the barber was prepared to supply. As I said, he came with a bottle.
Next to arrive was The Master Mariner Mundell, who, with that misplaced air of superiority so imbued into the public schoolboy fraternity, and despite arriving with an uninvited guest, an old friend who he has bumped into on the way over, AND arriving empty-handed, (not even a 1.29 bottle of wine) proceeded to spend most of the afternoon lecturing me on good manners. It is fair to say that he did not see the irony, seeking to justify himself on the basis that as a council house oik, I should be glad to be in the presence of someone so grand.
Whenever he is under pressure from my stiletto sharp dissection of whatever point he is making (I must argue on every point as a matter of principle) he will resort to asking to repeat myself due to what he calls “poor enunciation”, whilst refusing to accept that his occasional stutter is anything other than a deliberate ploy to try to give his arguments some gravitas to make up for a lack of content . I do so like a good argument and I am going to miss him.
His guest was one of the Masters old friends, a willowy and stunning lady called Sam, who runs a website called On Board Online, aimed at the local yachting fraternity, and, with Sprog 1 in attendance and still in search of a job in the yachting sector, my antenna were (was?) twitching. Suffice to say that a plan has been hatched which should hasten his entry into gainful employment and avoid any embarrassing details of the revelations and behaviour exhibited yesterday. I particularly liked the references to watching gay porn videos, but am sure she will live up to her promise to get him a job and none of this need be aired in public. I do hate the word blackmail, I prefer to think of it more as gentle persuasion, a little like the actions in that video content, but my lips are sealed.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Lord Tebbit in Plascassier?
When the lovely Maryse was casting about for the name of someone she wanted to invite to dinner, she first came up with “Spanky” and immediately we all knew who she meant. So Peachy Butterfield was an invitee for dinner last evening with her and Currencies Direct client The Wingco. It was a slightly melancholic affair to start with as both myself and That Nice Lady Decorator were upset at the demise of the favoured family pet, Max, who had succumbed to a combination of a bad heart, Leishmanoise disease, water in the lungs, a hacking cough and ulcers. He was also deaf, so it was in fact a merciful release.
In deference to the passing of a wonderful family companion, and the realisation that the sole mantle of family pet has to passed to that other dog, Banjo, the time for whom many of you will know I don’t possess, I waxed my moustache in a downwards direction rather than upwards as a mark of respect. It was also apt in that the final days of our French summer adventure are coming to an end that I should take this action, as a gesture of sorrow.
Forced into some final gardening before the off, I was more than ready for dinner and with man mountain Peachy coming I knew I would have to get there early to get my fair share. Then I had a brain wave. Let’s pick him up on the way! That way he cannot get there any earlier. Of course that raised the spectre of a sharpener on the way, and exposure to some pretty doubtful card Bordeaux, but needs must when the devil drives.
The lovely calming influence of his beautiful willowy wife, Suzanne, was nowhere to be seen, she having jetted off to England for the weekend to get away from him, and so he was in top form with no hand brake in sight.
Peachy Butterfield admires a splendid example of road kill
More used to eating road kill, pigeons and whippets, especially road kill, he was very impressed with the animal skin in today’s picture. Doubtless that would have provided a few meals in the Butterfield household.
He was full of his usual politically incorrect statements. I think the most memorable of which, so memorable that I had to make a note of it, was that “When you get a northern girl in a harness, you can get a load of work done”. That Nice Lady Decorator, who spent some time up north when she was younger, (that should imply nothing about her being older now) was suitably unimpressed. “And remember to get her to keep her back straight” he ploughed on in his lonely furrow.
Luckily he managed to divert the conversation with a claim that he had spotted Lord Tebbit, Tory scion of the Margaret Thatcher era, puffing on his pipe on the seats at the front of the Auberge St Donat last Tuesday. He also claimed to be leaving a business luncheon, so we were already bordering the realms of fantasy, but he stuck to his claim and has witnesses in the shape of Dancing Greg Harris from Côte d’Azur Villa Rentals who apparently was also present. So there we have it, confirmation that the Auberge is now on the political eating map. How soon before we see ex President Sarkozy enjoying a budget meal?
An “eat up the freezer” lunch today may attract a few locusts, some featuring regularly in this column, picking over the remnants of a good summer, but first the serious car packing must take place. If it does not then there will be trouble ahead.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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