Back in Provence
At last, I am back in the bosom of Provence. It has been an entertaining week, and I have managed to trot out loads of German jokes (much to the lack of amusement by my old German estate agent pal Konstantin Von Kleist, my favourite German Currencies Direct affiliate, even if he never sends me any customers). I don’t think I mentioned the war much, but a few days ago I did make a joke about gas in the poorest possible taste, so not all bad. Anyway his language was moderate and he did not Spitfire at me at all.
The trip back was considerably more pleasant than the trip up to Germany as it did not rain at all on the way back, so we could not resist the opportunity to take the St Bernardino Pass in Switzerland again. There is something surreal about making a snowball at 2000 metres at midday and then basking in 25 degree heat by 4pm.
Arriving back late yesterday afternoon we were quickly confronted by a thirsty Peachy Butterfield in his ridiculous Vilbrequin shorts. He has a secret present for Roly Bufton which he urgently wants me to deliver, but as we are not due to see Roly and Poly for a week or so, when we fly to Naples for that promised trip along the Amalfi coast in their fabulous yacht, I was suspicious from the outset . It was clearly a fabricated pretext for an early evening drink. He was a little disconcerted when, after delivering the package, I said “thank you, good-bye”, but his usual think skinned persona was quickly to the fore; “I’ll just have a glass of wine before I go”.
Actually he did only have about 4 glasses before leaving as he is playing the role of house husband at the moment, having sent his gorgeous wife Suzanne out to work, and an early evening dinner turned into a much-needed an early night after another full day on the road.
Conference bike
The picture above is of a great invention I spotted in Germany. It is a conference bike where half a dozen people can cycle off and have a conference at the same time. It could be just like the promotional meeting I used to have 25 years ago, when everybody would disagree and pull in different directions.
So what is to come this week? A great deal of work is in prospect for me today, finalising a deal which may see me take a step back from holding the tiller of the UK music industry. An intensive period is coming up, but I should be finished by lunchtime after which, well? lunch of course!
Arrangements are being discussed regarding tennis, and the playing of, on Friday, before the traditional lunch at Auberge St Donat, and again on Monday when Mr Clipboard will be in town. He flies in at 3.15, plays tennis at precisely 5pm for exactly 2 hours, has generously allowed himself 15 minutes for a small beer with his comrades, before returning to have his batman lay out his finest gaudy shirt ready for dinner at 7pm sharp. How organised has he become? The Friday arrangement could not be different. Around 11-11.30am a few people will roll up to the Vignale, drink some coffee, chatter a bit, maybe play some tennis if there are enough people interested, then slope off late for an unbooked luncheon, complain about not getting a table, consider going somewhere else, and then persuading the waiter that we can get a late lunch. I like the former arrangement because I can give Mr Clipboard a hard time for being so anal, and I like the Friday arrangement because I just like it, it is so south of France.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
German food shows no signs of improving
I refuse to pay 70 euro cents (that is more than 50p at today’s excellent Currencies Direct exchange rates) to have a pee, especially when you stuck on a motorway service area, miles from any alternative ablution possibility . We were in deepest, darkest and the most backward centre of Germany, where internet roaming is about as well developed as bison roaming, but their sense of commercial exploitation is far more developed. Well, there was an alternative and it shocked a few stodgy Germans when I demonstrated exactly what that alternative involved. It is probably as well for them that I did not need a number 2. There should be, and probably is, a law against fleecing a captive audience in such a way. I was going to attempt something funny here but I realised that it could be construed as toilet humour, so way below the standard you have come to expect as the norm from a successful author such as myself.
So we left the tender embrace of Hanover and set off in the rain towards some more civilised weather in the south of France. The sat nav said it was 12 hours to drive back to Valbonne which is too much to be able to get back to the sunshine in one day, so we stopped at the charming Swiss village of Churs to stay the night having endured rain and spray for much of the journey.
Not understanding very much German, we took a lovely driving tour of the ancient cobbled streets in the old town and were surprised by the lack of cars. It was only after we had parked outside a hotel and booked in that we saw the pedestrian precinct signs.
We managed to avoid German food once again for the final night, after having fortuitously coming across a Thai restaurant just when the chips (read schnitzel or bratwurst) were down, and it looked as if there was no alternative. Once we had freshened up, we decided to explore the town, this time on foot, and had popped into a bar called Cheers (!) for a beer to steel ourselves for what we were about to receive. It was as we left that the Thai discovery was made and German sausage avoided.
Is this baiting the Germans just a little too much?
Over an excellent Thai dinner we reminisced about our time in Germany in the past few days and German food in particular, which we have been able to avoid throughout by the judicious use if culinary expertise from all over the world. Neither of us believe that the local fayre is at all appetising and I think today’s picture says it all. Maybe we found the wholesaler for most of the local produce.
By late afternoon we hope and expect to be sat in the web, our outside bar, in shorts and with a glass in our hands. Peachy Butterfield has already found a flimsy excuse to join us at 5.30pm, and he won’t be expecting a cup of tea, so lets hope there is some suitably crisp and cold card Bordeaux lurking in the fridge, unless Sprog 1 has found and despatched it already.
And then, just a luncheon appointment on Wednesday and then a gloriously empty diary until the weekend. Having turned white over the past week of inclement weather in the north of Europe, I think the time has come for some serious sunbathing ahead of the prospect of wintering in England, but that is weeks away yet and we have a trip to the Amalfi coast in prospect before that depressing departure to winter pasture. On the otter hand, a pint of London Pride would not have gone amiss in the last week…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Lunch was a gas in Germany
It was a memorable day at Pier 51 at the Machee in Hanover. The Machee is a large lake and Pier 51 is a restaurant built out over the lake and a very pleasant venue for lunch. Old pal, and Australian, Larry Smith, who had flown back from his home country, was funding the whole thing in celebration of his wonderfully Germanic partner Marita, and her 50th birthday. A generous and formerly wealthy man, until a business in Australia accounted for a chunk of that, he paid for around 50 guests to drink copious amounts of a fabulous Austrian white wine I had never heard of but was so good that even I, an uncommitted drinker of the white stuff, was tempted into a second glass. This was all the more surprising as the red was a 2005 Italian red, known as a junior Barolo, to which I paid my very considerable respects for the rest of the afternoon. I was able to enjoy myself winding him up for most of the day about not only the expense of the wine but the expense of the three-piece Latin group he had flown in from Munich. When he said they had a harp player, I expected to see the old mouth organ appear, but oh no, this was a real harp. I realised quite quickly that he was a bit bitter about the cost, feeling he has been ripped off by the band, who knew that were Marita’a choice and worked him over on the fee. So comments like “did the harp have to have its own seat on the plane?” and “wouldn’t it have been cheaper if it has been a mouth harp?” struck their mark so well, I could not resist making it a theme for the afternoon. Fabulous food, lobster mousse, surf and turf and a delightful cheeseboard ahead of the magnificent strawberry lasagna desert must also have cost a pretty penny, and over a cigar on the delightful terrace watching the boats go by, I was moved to say that the food was so good, it made me thirsty, so through gritted teeth a couple more bottles (at 48 euros a pop) were brought to the table. I was able to tell Larry that when he moves back to Europe, which he surely will soon, not to forget to use the winning services of Currencies Direct for his international foreign exchange needs, thus work was done and expenses may be claimed.
The red light district of Hanover?
After taxiing back to the hotel for a siesta, the lure of a pint of Guinness at the Berliner bar was eschewed for a wander around old Hanover, which after the bombing in World War 2 means that much of it is new Hanover, where we found a quaint tapas bar in a rare old building and shared a bottle of Australian Shiraz in Larry’s honour to send us to bed. We have been able to avoid having any typical German food on the 5 days we have been here, managing to find Caribbean, Italian, Mexican and Spanish restaurants respectively in which to eat. Even the best meal we had at Sababurg was distinctly international, so bratwurst and schnitzel have been dodged and with luck, as we begin the big drive back to the south of France today, will continue to be dodged. Whilst we were sitting outside in the evening (yes it was cool but dry) I noticed a sign that said “Gaslichkeit auf 3 etagen”. Now I have been very good and not strayed into tasteless German jokes over the past week, well not very often anyway, but I could not resist telling That Nice Lady Decorator that it meant that that could gas you on all 3 levels. Of course she did not believe me and made me google that Gas word there and then and it means hospitality, so I stand corrected.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Medieval technology
I have received loads of complaints yesterday from my reader about the late posting of this column, your daily dose of drivel usually from the south of France, but currently coming to you from Germany. I am afraid that I am not to blame for the Germans, of all people, failing to keep up with technology. Their “on the move” internet is such crap that if I were German I would elect to live somewhere less undeveloped. For 90% of the time there is no data roaming, which makes it technologically on a par with Havana, except there, Raul Castro chooses it to be that way. I cannot believe that I am saying the Germans are backward, but time to face the facts. I can easily check me emails on the ski slopes at Limone in Italy between runs, I can be on a yacht several miles out to sea near St Tropez in France and I can thus keep abreast of Currencies Direct business developments, but in the centre of Germany a 3G network is about as rare as a dose of clap in a nunnery.
So if today’s offering is a little late, blame the Germans, I know I do. Talking of Germans, our night in Hamelyn (which the Germans insist in spelling Hameln, wrongly as I am sure you agree) was interesting mainly because our host, who was a catastrophically ugly German woman, was so clearly unimpressed with having an English couple in her hotel.
The guy in charge of internet development in Germany?
No it was worse than that. Each time she looked vaguely in our direction she looked as if she suffering from a very bad case of flatulence. This woman was physically so ugly and was seemingly trying to be adopt a character to match, anyway, after sniggering our way through breakfast, That Nice Lady Decorator managed to wipe that smile off my face as she decided that she needed some retail therapy. It appears that 178 handbags were not enough so she needed to buy another. Let me explain; some years ago, after a particularly intensive bout of shopping, I said I reckoned that she had bought around 100 handbags in the (considerable) time I had known her. She dismissed my contention, and so since that date I have counted them up from 100, and yesterday she reached 178. Can 200 be far away? Actually, that is quite a depressing statistic as it is 38 more than the number of copies I have sold of The Valbonne Monologues so far. Will I catch up before I die? Watch this space.
So after a heavyweight tour of the shops, whilst I sat in several cafes and drank an endless stream of coffee, we set off to drive over to Hanover. The reason we are here is for the 50th birthday of the lovely German Marita, partner of old pal and Australian, Larry Smith, which takes place today. We were invited to a small pre birthday gathering yesterday afternoon at Marita’s sisters house in the suburbs. I was anxious to talk to Larry about cricket and rugby, or, more especially about the fearful drubbing Australia has suffered at the hands of the English and the British Lions in the past few months. He was equally understandably reluctant to dwell on these setbacks, in the same way I was a few years back when the opposite was happening. Anyway, a great deal of wine was drunk, and arriving back at our hotel, That Nice Lady Guinness Drinker spotted that the was an Irish bar next door, so I was dragged unwillingly to sample a German version of draught Guinness.
The rest of the evening is a little hazy, but I do recall that she crashed and burned in the early evening and I found myself with a kebab at around 10 pm. Kebabs are utterly disgusting meals, only ever consumed when one has drunk too much, and last night was a perfect example. Today is unlikely to see much respite as the birthday lunch is due to commence with Champagne at 11.30 this morning. Enough now, I need to prepare.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Pied Piper lives!
The tale of the Pied Piper Of Hamelyn is about a mythical musician who was charged with ridding the town of rats by charming them to follow his music to their death in a river. When the mayor reneged on his fee for this service, he took revenge by charming all bar one of the towns children to follow him where he imprisoned them. Frankly that does not seen all bad to me, personally it would have saved me a fortune, but I digress. Last night, That Nice Lady Decorator was thrilled to arrive in Hamelyn as it was her favourite girlhood fairy story. Indeed so was I happy as the town is a beautifully maintained unspoilt medieval masterpiece. Street after street in the old town covered in wonderful brightly decorated timber-framed houses with mostly cobbled streets between. Regular readers will know that I am not a fan of modern architecture.
Typical German houses that were not bombed
So finding a hotel in the centre of the old town was a result and we busied ourself for a lively evening. However, it seems that the Piper must have been at work again. It was a Friday night, was not raining, there were scores of restaurants, many, particularly in the wide main drag, still with tables and chairs outside, but no people. It was a but uncanny. Many of the restaurants, and I am talking big ones with a hundred covers plus, were completely empty at 8pm on a Friday. There are more people out and about in Valbonne on a wet evening in January.
Anyway, we were not down hearted and quartered the town looking for some life. There was one Italian restaurant with a dozen or so people on it, but determined not to give up in our search for something typically German and atmospheric but 20 minutes later we ended up in a Mexican restaurant which was nearly half full, so obviously the place to be.
Earlier we had at last found some of the typically quaint villages from where the Brothers Grimm had plagiarised their stories. Apparently, all they did was to collect up and compile all the best local fairy tales and call them their own. A bit like the modern-day music world where people steal old ideas and call them original. It has given us an excuse to visit some of these very pretty places which are still attractive despite the distinctly dodgy weather as I hope my picture today captures. Amongst the highlights were Hann Munden and Boderwerder but there were half a dozen others which had some nice areas.
One disappointing fact about Germany is the backward nature of their mobile telephone networks. The lack of ability to receive emails through much of the country for much of the time is surprising as in France and Italy, the data roaming facilities are far superior. One might has suspected that the industrial powerhouse of Europe, which has single-handedly supported that dead duck, the euro, for years, would be more advanced than their profligate southern cousins, but that is not the case, This has had the effect of detracting from my vital work with Currencies Direct and a music business deal in which I am involved.. Clearly I am never 100% on holiday, work is omnipresent in my life. Luckily I am able to disguise that fact extremely well.
So today we will continue the Grimm adventure with the eventual aim of reaching Hanover by evening in readiness for a 59th birthday party in the town in Sunday. Then on Monday we can escape back to the land of sunshine in the sultry south of France for some late summer sunshine to steel myself for another winter in England.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Pigeons pay their respects to the Brothers Grimm
The Germans are renowned for having ridiculously long names for things but this one takes the biscuit, or perhaps the beef; “Rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsaufgabenübertragungsgesetz”. According to the lovely Poly Bufton it refers to the correct labelling of beef. It is especially depressing for a word-smith like my good self who prides himself on producing at least 600 words of drivel a day in support in the intended aim of this column, to engage the reader with the services of Currencies Direct for all that readers foreign exchange needs. It is the same problem as for the postman at Christmas, too many letters.
Another depressing aspect to our German odyssey, apart from the sort of weather that chaps from the north of England worship (rain) is the dreariness of the architecture with the exception of a few small old areas. Take Hannau yesterday, I wish someone would. Apparently it was heavily bombed during the second works war and has been largely rebuilt. He questions are; why? and have they now shot the architect?
I have a thought-provoking picture today taken against the backdrop of about the only decent building in the town. It is a statue of the Brothers Grimm, writers of the Grimm fairy tales, partly the reason for our visit. As you can see the brothers are looking a little concerned with the attention being paid by some fairly bedraggled pigeons. These are a little older than those I saw when in Chester, probably because those of that age would have been caught and eaten by now. I think the pigeons look a bit Grimm about their plight (as opposed to flight, of which they appear to be incapable)
Pigeons having a Grimm outing
Escaping from Hannau (we did not have to tunnel out, although by the look of the building work going on it looks like some of its inhabitants have been trying), we escaped to Kassel, further to the north. By escape, I mean we drove for two hours in heavy rain, heavy traffic and with a heavy heart from one desolate industrial wilderness to another industrial wilderness. No sign of The quaint and attractive old architecture I has been promised, just more carbuncle-like square ugly monstrosities everywhere, horrible. Even That Nice Lady Grimm Fairy Tale Follower became restive, but things were destined to improve markedly as we drive north for our meeting with our own Sleeping Beauty.
The Sleeping Beauty fairytale, as I understand it, is some nonsense story involving a young girl of 15 who goes to sleep for 100 years and then is awoken and marries her prince. Nowadays in the UK the prince would have found himself up before the beak and on the sex offenders register, but no matter, although a crap story, the castle in which this mythical tale took place is said (by the owners it has to be stated) to be Dornröschenschloss in a tiny hamlet (did they write that as well? I thought it was Shakespear) called Sababurg, and that was where we were to stay.
At last a wonderful building, an old hunting castle, and crucially we had booked one of their turreted rooms. Set in rolling hills, it is a beautiful ancient abode, and we had a sumptuous and frankly fantastic 7 course dinner of the highest quality with neither schnitzel nor bratwurst to be seen. It was magnificent but we must be away quite early this morning on the relentless “cultural” tour. It seems we must go to Hamelyn to visit the scene for The Pied Piper Of Hamelyn (where a lesser author than myself might be tempted to make a very poor joke about pies and pipes, if he could think of anything)
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Mountain climbing with animals
With the Italian Riviera bathed in sunshine as we drove by, the turn north for Milan started the decline. By the time we stopped for fuel and personal refuelling no more than an hour from the coast, I was looking for my sweater to keep warm. I don’t expect to see people wearing animals as small as my friend in today’s photo, taken at the Currencies Direct client convention at Auberge St Donat a couple of nights ago when the mercury begins to fall.
I want that job
What I do expect is that people will be wearing slightly larger animal skins, and I expect them to be dead, not the people, the animals. I do not expect them to be much like this little pork pie on legs. What is wrong with a simple pashmina anyway? It would keep you warmer than this little munchkin.
Anyway we battled our way through Italy and around Lichtenstein before reaching Switzerland, which is reputed to be the most boring country on earth. We attempted to make it a bit more interesting by turning off the motorway and taking one of the great driving roads, the St Bernardino Pass, which I have to say is anything but boring. Absolutely stunning vistas, often covered at the top by the first snows of winter reminded me of being up north, except for the stunning vistas. Small glaciers, gushing mountain streams, and fabulous mountain landscapes were all around. We stopped on numerous occasions on the way up to take pictures and were sometimes overcome by the smell of animals, so another reminder of life in the the north of England. Small holdings are dotted about and cattle are spread across the lower slopes of this wonderful wilderness.
We had aimed to get to a town called Bregenz, mainly because it is about half way to Hanover, our ultimate destination for a 50th birthday party this weekend. It was as we came down the other side of the pass that my old friend. drizzle, my least favourite weather, set in. By the time we reached Bregenz close to the snacking hour of 6pm, the drizzle had developed into intermittent rain and my decision to wear shorts and a short sleeved shirt, a perfectly reasonable choice when leaving the Côte d’Azur in sunshine and temperatures in the mid 20’s Celsius, appeared far less reasonable in the rain and temperatures in the early teens. The hotel receptionist could not resist a snigger at my bedraggled, damp, misplaced beach wear style.
With jumpers and jackets hastily reclaimed from the car, we set off into the town to find something to eat and drink. Generally I find German food stodgy, full of unnecessary meat and with nasty sounding names like schnitzel ( which I think is a type of dog) and bratwurst (which I think is a kind of brat). However, this was Austria, so, thinking we should experience some local culinary delight, we walked about the town to see what we could find.
A Caribbean restaurant is what we found, so very local, but, smokers, get this, when we walked into the restaurant called The Landings, we were asked if we wanted smoking or non smoking seats! On the way we had stopped into Uwe’s Beer Bar for a pint of local Guinness, and had remarked upon the ashtrays scattered around the bar. It seems the enlightened authorities in Austria have refused to invoke the ridiculous blanket EEC rule banning smoking everywhere. Do you know what, despite the bleeding heart liberals predicting we would all have been dead of smoke inhalation by now if we did not enforce the ban, the local smoking population is thriving in this quaint seaside town.
Seaside? I hear you say. The town is on the banks of the “Untersee” a large inland lake, presumably known locally as the Inner Sea. We shall explore this morning, unless it is still raining.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Abbey Road and Fawlty Towers
After a full half-day of work the day before yesterday in Cannes, and as a caring boss, even although I am the only employee, I had decided to give myself a day off in lieu, and go to Cannes for lunch again. Meeting up with Gordon “Pink Panther” Cato and the lovely Pauline at Rado Plage seemed a nice way to relax ahead of the big push north today for Germany.
We eventually got around to discussing Germany, mainly because Pauline was once a ballerina in Austria and has more than a smattering of German. Personally I would like nothing more than to give the Germans a good smattering. There have been too many penalty shoot outs with England or English football teams that have not ended well. Anyway, I told her about Peachy Butterfield’s problem with parking his car in Germany (those that have not been paying attention will have to look at yesterday’s column) and she was correctly amused. Perhaps she did not say (one) way to go, but I have said it for her.
On the way back in the bus from Cannes – shortly I shall be entitled to that free bus pass for the elderly – I was looking for a photo for today and came across this one. Outside the Auberge St Donat the evening before, we had decided to reenact that epic Abbey Road Beatles cover shot across the roundabout. No, I do not know why either, but it was fun at the time.
A walk on the wild side?
I have been reading some Grimm stories, to reacquaint myself with the Brothers fairy tales and frankly they are mostly rubbish, but That Nice Lady Decorator is fascinated by them so we must go north today to find Sleeping Beauty. I expressed the opinion that she could get that at home when I am at rest at siesta time but somehow I don’t think she shares my opinion.
Whilst she has been researching where we should go by mapping out where the various stories took place, I have been watching re-runs of Allo Allo and that classic Fawlty Towers episode with the visiting German family inorder to familiarise nyself with German culture. I shall try not to mention the war the in the next six days, but if I do, I think I might get away with it.
If all goes according to the vague plan we have, then tomorrow we will be driving from France through Italy, Switzerland, Lichtenstein and Austria, leaving the northern front to be dealt with on Thursday. We will mass our panzers on the German border and break out on Thursday. If they question me at the check point, I shall answer the question “Occupation?” by saying “no, just for a few days”.
Thus the long trousers have been extracted from the draws, sweaters and jackets have been dusted off and suitcases packed. I have checked the snow chains are in the car as we are going almost as far north as Chester, and we all know how cold it can get as the tundra hardens up in the eternal cold. That the trip will be fun is a certainty in the mind of That Nice Lady Grimm Fairytale Lover, I have yet to be convinced. I am not a lover of sausage unless it is of an English persuasion, I don’t like schnitzel of other small dogs and I will have little time for Sour Krauts. I am also not a lover if Leibfraumilch and don’t like the idea of my beloved crushed fruit being referred to as rotwein, but I am a man and will make the best if it, but don’t expect me not to moan when things do not go to plan or I am faced with Germanic humour.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Speedo wearer outed in Plascassier?
Commuting into Cannes brought back the old nasty memories of when I had to commute to London each day. Admittedly yesterday, I did not have to leave the house until just after midday, and was back by 4.30 and lunch on the beach was included, so not quite so bad as it was. But work has to be done occasionally, even by me, so needs must when the devil drives (what on earth does that mean?, perhaps it is something to do with the dead hand of the Reverend Jeff?). I took this picture of a devil of a piece of “art” whilst there.
This guy could use some speedos…
I took the bus. A successful author on public transport. Imagine that. Air conditioned, no parking problems, and at the cost of 1 euro 50, around £1.25 at today’s excellent Currencies Direct exchange rates, it is a very civilised and cheap way to go to work. Lunch was taken at Rado Plage, my favourite beach restaurant in Cannes. Business was done and the international music business is safe for the time being.
Like buses which tend to come along together, having not made it to the beach in over two months that we have been in the south of France, we are due once again in Cannes today to meet old friends Pauline and Gordon “Pink Panther” Cato. I had not made the connection before but was Cato not the name of Inspector Clouseau’s assistant? We were going to take the train but it appears there may be a rail strike in France today, and a lesser author than myself might have been tempted to remark that the Pink Panther Strikes Again.
Lets be clear about it, I was the only real winner at tennis. With Blind Lemon Milsted and Dancing Greg Harris both delayed, and the Wingco only his usual 7 minutes behind schedule, we played a game of singles and I was 4-1 up when Dancing Greg arrived. We played one round of American doubles, which Greg and I won, before the afterthought of some doubles tennis in which I felt it would be too greedy to win again, especially as it is close the Wingco’s birthday, the main excuse for dinner last night at Auberge St Donat.
It was over this dinner that the lovely Maryse, the Wingco’s wife, revealed that she has a penchant for men in speedos, those brief and unfashionable swimming trunks that err…hug ones contours. She came over all dreamy eyed when discussing Sean Connery emerging from the sea in an early James Bond movie, and from the way the Wingco was reacting I formed the opinion that he may be the proud but secret owner of a pair. He was coy when pressed so I “carped” (carped, coy? Please try to keep up) on about it and in my opinion it is certain. I asked if he might consider wearing them the next time we are out on a yacht but I am pretty sure he will not. I think they are reserved for private showings only.
With discussions turning away from personal swimwear, I mentioned that we will be going to Germany tomorrow and Peachy Butterfield, who with the lovely Suzanne had joined us post tennis, about his problem when he was last there. It seems that it was in those dim and distant says in the past when he had a job and he was in a rush. Finding the car parks near the convention he was attending all full, he had parked his car on a street. Not knowing the town, he had made a note of the road name which was something like
Einerstrasse. When attempting to retrieve it after his business was done, and asking one of the locals where he might find the street with that name, he was told that it was German for “one street”. The car was not found until the next day.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Magnuminus lunch
For the first time since we arrived in early July, it rained. This is the south of France and it is a Sunday so it should not be allowed. Perhaps my intemperate remarks about religion yesterday were read in high places, higher than those to which I had previously aspired, and this will doubtless be the opinion of the Reverend Jeff, but of course it is only coincidence. That, and the music business deputation that has arrived in Nice from the UK to meet me for lunch to shape the future of the music industry. Yes, it is true, I must travel to Nice today to commune with the great and good in music. It will be they who I will hold responsible for bringing the poor weather from the UK
But first there is the small matter of lunch yesterday to be covered. The motley crew containing a host of the usual suspects arrived yesterday lunchtime, despite the stormy weather, headed by the redoubtable Peachy Butterfield. Yes, I have always had my doubts about him. He is always first to arrive and often (if he can persuade the saintly and gorgeous Suzanne, his wife) the last to leave. I think, given his theory that quantity is always superior to quality, if he arrives early and leaves late, he has the best chance of securing the most quantity of, well, everything. I put together a couple of extra large bottles, as my photo today shows, to try to slow the constant visits to the fridge and the wine rack, but to little avail.
Some decent wines in the shadow of Chateau Manky
I cannot reveal the names of the people who “forgot” they were invited to lunch but Currencies Direct client the Master Mariner Mundell and Dangerous Jackie Lawless will no doubt be squirming when they read this. Those that did remember the invite including The Wingco, Johnny “800 years of repression” O Sullivan and his beautifully and amply endowed wife Jude, were treated to another try at That Nice Lady Decorators current favourite recipe, “beer can chicken”. I had received a number of messages and comments when the first example of chicken abuse took place last week, but it is getting worse. Yesterday there were 3 chickens that suffered the ignominy of having a beer can stuck inside them to aid the cooking process.
It seemed to go well though. I have had no reports of any injuries or illnesses resulting, and the two large bottles of wine had been consumed and more beside by late afternoon, by which time we had repaired to the pav for cheese and desert.
All morning, whilst That Nice Lady Cooking Person was preparing a table inside due to the inclement weather, I was of the (shouted down) opinion that the weather would clear and we could eat outside. Eventually, when for one of the first time in living memory, I was right, it became her idea and one that I applauded and with which I concurred. Thus outside eating order (rather than inside eating disorder) was restored.
So today, after my trip to Nice, there is the small matter of dinner in honour of The Wingco whose birthday it is this week. He is coy about his age but I would not be surprised if there was a 7 in it somewhere, although to be fair he looks in good condition for a man with such an outrageous appetite for local viticultural products. This celebration will take place after we have ceremonially allowed him to win at tennis, but only if he partners me. I am not one for this “let him win because it his birthday” brigade, unless I too benefit.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Religion = war; discuss
There was only one thing for it; the hair of the dog. I tried a walk along the lovely Brague River, featured in today’s picture, I tried coffee, I tried a Resolve, the hangover cure, I tried very hard to shift the post-cognac headache but nothing would work. I blame Peter Blue Water Bennett for my malaise, but I hear he has had the audacity to blame me for the bucket of cognac we both drank.
Waking up yesterday morning utterly disoriented was not helped by a last-minute decision to sleep in the Love Shack, our emergency extra bedroom in a garden chalet. Perhaps it would be better named the Love Shock, but, no, I do not want to go into details. Suffice to say that awaking and not knowing where you are is an experience that I have not had for years, and frankly, if I never experienced it again it would be too soon. We had adjourned to the pav for a night-cap, but no man in his right mind would have considered a night-cap justified in the circumstances. All I can say is I was not in our right mind.
But back to the antidote. A Bloody Mary was considered and then rejected and with the number of opportunities to go to Valbonne Square before our departure back to the UK becoming unceasingly limited, we decided to go to Auberge de Provence for lunch. It was after the second beer and the first glass of wine that I felt normality gradually return.
A simple lunch is what I had in mind, perhaps a pizza, maybe a light salad, but once That Nice Lady Decorator has spotted that the plat du jour was Homard, lobster, it suddenly became a great deal less simple. Me? I just had fish and chips, an entire sea bass and the most wonderful plateful if fries, French, obviously. What I really liked though was the carafe of house red at 7.50 euros (half a litre of reasonably decent wine for £6 at today’s very generous Currencies Direct exchange rates)
Max the dog surveys the River Brague
It says much for my strength of character that, determined not to have a drink last night, I lasted until about 8pm when I found myself with a glass of St Emilion Grand Cru in my hand. Here we go again. I went to the fridge to retrieve the charcuterie, pâté and pâté en croute (pork pie really) and found that the vast stocks had been seriously depleted by Sprog 1 who had found them last night. If you have never had grown up male children, you can have no concept of the amount of food that can go walkabout when locust fever takes hold. Enough to feed a small country can go missing in a matter of minutes when the young male of the species is hungry.
Today, after a quiet evening, it is Sunday and what are Sundays for? Lunch. The Reverend Jeff, a regular reader and sometime contributor to the comments section of this daily missive, may take a different view. A committed Christian, as his epithet suggests, I would suggest that the committed bit might better be applied to being sectioned. It is not that I am against religion, although it is at the root of most wars, it’s just that I don’t give a fu*k. Take whatever prop you need to get you through few short years of life on this planet. If however you are strong enough mentally not to have to believe in a mythical higher being, just enjoy life without guilt. I know I do… Talking of religious guilt, I think we are due to see old pals and Catholics to the core John “800 years of repression” and his wonderfully endowed wife Jude O Sullivan for lunch today. Note to self; get in more Baileys this morning.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
In tray, out tray, cat tray
Despite a torn fetlock, and being partnered with one of the weakest players on our circuit, myself and Dancing Greg Harris from Côte d’Azur Villa Rentals were on our way to trouncing our opponents, The Wingco and Master Mariner Mundell, before my partner became over excited and blew up after we had won the first set 6-2. In the end, with honours even we retired for a late lunch at Auberge St Donat.
I say late, because initially, when we were told that they were full, and no booking existed (testament to how powerful this blog, which is constantly praising this fine establishment, has become – there can be no other reason). This was clearly a major disaster, the responsibility for which rested with Dancing Greg, whose clear duty it was to make the reservation. Thus we had to wait at the Vignale for as long as it took to drink a couple of post tennis beers, before going there to pull rank. With rank pulled, and a table secured, lunch began as normal and discussions commenced about the mornings work.
I am not saying he is mean, but Dancing Greg was the first to leave, ensuring that he paid exactly his 15.50 euro share of lunch. Obviously his commitment to the concept of a tip is seriously under developed. Perhaps, like Peachy Butterfield, his tip might be of a more practical nature such as not to boil woollens. As rich as he is, Greg treats every euro as it were one of his children, and he loves his children.
Spotted at Riviera Insurance Brokers in Valbonne last week
Earlier, I had panicked as That Nice Lady Decorator, bereft of any serious retail therapy for some weeks, could stand it no more and had departed for shopping to Vingtimilia in the vehicle containing my tennis gear, or so I thought. Having secured a spare racket, I discovered my tennis bag on the drive on my way out. My first thought was that she had noticed it immediately and deposited it there as a kind and thoughtful gesture, as a good wife would in the circumstances, but as I approached it, there was an unmistakable aroma of old sweaty tennis gear pervading the garden and I formed the opinion that perhaps it had been jettisoned for another reason.
Following the traditional siesta, I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 7pm sharp, ready to meet up later with Currencies Direct affiliate Peter Blue Water Bennett and his considerably more attractive wife Julie for dinner at Terra Rossa in Valbonne, which was my treat dammit, as a gesture after staying at their wonderful Cornish mill in June. Some might say that 2 bottles of an excellent Bordeaux and 2 bottles of Sancerre might have seemed a little excessive for 4 people, but I do not take that view. We were there for a very long time and were the last to leave the restaurant in Valbonne Square, (indeed I thought I spotted one of the waiters in his pyjamas) but the mistake they made was in bringing us chaps cognacs, which were at least quadruples. No self-respecting diner could refuse such a lovely gesture, and not to have finished this excellent treat, provided on the house, would have been rude in the extreme.
As far as I can recollect this morning, there is not a social occasion scheduled today, but, as usual, I may be disavowed of this opinion once That Nice Lady Snorer awakens. I am vagely aware of a lunch on Sunday, more aware of tennis on Monday, and less aware of a beeach day on Tuesday. Clarity awaits.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
If I had a hammer…
I seem to have damaged a fetlock or something. During the epic tennis victory on Wednesday evening, In the hubris if victory, I did not notice a nagging pain behind my knee, (although I do have experience of a nagging pain in a different context occasionally) until yesterday morning when stumbling from my bed. It was just before 11am, so bright and early then, and with walking in that heat not a good idea, instead I helped That Nice Lady Decorator to put new roofing felt on the Love Shack, the chalet in our garden. By helping, I mean shouting encouragement and useless instructions from the garden whilst she, hammer in hand, did what she felt was necessary. I think I captured the situation perfectly today for posterity.
Loveshack repairs
Being still unseasonably hot, after lunch, I took once again to my pit for a siesta, dreaming of more tennis triumphs. Even if I play in a wheelchair I know I can beat Currencies Direct affiliate Dancing Greg Harris, and have agreed to play again this morning, whatever state I am in. This will be the inevitable precursor to what may be one of the penultimate Friday post tennis lunches at Auberge St Donat this summer.
Penultimate, I hear you ask? Well, next Friday I shall be amidst a Grimm fairy tale, staying in a turreted room where Sleeping Beauty was reputedly held before being rescued by her prince. I have my own thoughts as to why That Nice Lady Decorator wants to do this, but will keep my powder dry for the trip visit next week. Then in the last week of September we shall be cruising along the Amalfi coast in Italy, courtesy of Roly and Poly Bufton, aboard their splendid yacht Sea Breezes. That will leave just the 20th September as an available Friday before we shall almost certainly be heading back to the delights of an English winter in Arundel. Thus today must be, and will be enjoyed to the maximum.
Last night, fresh from her “success” in creating “beer can chicken” earlier in the week on the barbecue, I was threatened with being treated to another experiment along the same lines; Guinness Can chicken. She must have something against chickens, forever wanting to stuff beer cans up their arses, I mean what about a duck or a turkey? I am also concerned that she may develop a similar strategy for errant husbands.
Anyway once the heat had abated (but clearly not for the poor chicken!) we decided on an early evening walk and a swift beer at the Victoria Golf Club. It was closed. So with Leffe on draught, we popped into the self same Auberge St Donat, the idea being that if I were able to persuade her to spend an hour or so there, it would be too late for the intended beer can antics and I would be spared the chicken scenario. It would also be good news for the chicken.
The plan worked a treat, and we arrived home too late for chicken abuse and settled instead for left overs for supper. We then adjourned to the pav for a late night de brief and a cigar. My life is about as good as it can get.
Please wish me well. As an invalid, close to immobility due to that strained fetlock, I may have to allow Blind Lemon to deputise on the tennis court for me this morning, I will decide shortly, At least I have my new Adidas sports sunglasses courtesy of old pal Ben Adidas Dobson who was staying earlier in the week. At least I will be ok as long as the super glue sticks like it should. I am crap with decent sunglasses.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Monkeying about with a golf course
Bored with ironing, I was told I was taking That Nice Lady Ironing Decorator to lunch. Chateau Begude was at its most hospitable, a lovely setting great food and decent although expensive wine were the pretext for the customary post lunch siesta, a necessity whilst it is still so hot. It was not, however, ideal preparation for the evening.
The powers that be have ruined the second half of this otherwise nice golf course to engineer the new 18th hole into arriving at the clubhouse, but that did at least give us a chance, over a very decent lunch, to sit and criticise those poor sops out there in 32 degree heat, just waiting to get to the clubhouse for a beer. I say ruin because of the changes to the course itself, but a few additions to the decor, such as the one featured in today’s photograph, have done nothing to improve its aesthetic appeal.
another failed “improvement” to Chateau Begude golf course
The reconvening of the tennis wars commenced at 6pm, or rather it would have had the Wingco been on time. Anyone who knows the Wingco will know that time management is not his strong suit. Ask him to name each chord in succession on “Hey Joe” or any other Jimi Hendrix song and he would rattle it off with alacrity. Ask him to be somewhere at 6pm and almost inevitably one is still on the lookout for him at ten past. We have a theory that a unit of time of 7 minutes (a Wingco) is the minimum time that he will be late for any appointment. Today he was three Wingco’s late for tennis, which is bad, even by his poor time keeping standards. We have tried to off set the Wingo effect by claiming that tennis has been booked for 5.53 or even 5.46 (a double Wingco) in a futile attempt to get him there on time, but so far to no avail.
Because I had lunched well, including the consumption of a small bottle of a cheeky local red, I was expecting a tougher than usual battle on the tennis court. It is not normally considered as a contact sport, but emotions can run high, and so it proved as newly promoted ball boy and Currencies Direct affiliate, Dancing Greg Harris from Côte d’Azur Villa Rentals (who has yet to secure a tenant for our Valbonne house in winter – click the link – that’s the highlighted but, for details) and Blind Lemon Milsted were once again overcome by the masters of their craft, the MOGS (Mustachiod Old Gits) as the dream pairing of myself and the Wingco have come to be known. Coming from 3-1 down in the second set to win 6-4, 6-3 was another triumph amongst a string of triumphs this summer. I am unbeaten on this trip, despite often being partnered with inferior players, an opinion I ventured at post tennis dinner at Auberge St Donat, still open in the evenings at present. I do like a lively discussion.
That discussion turned livelier when we got the bill. Dancing Greg had said choose a Côte Du Rhone, so I did. Gigondas is one of the better wines from that area, but it appears that the one I chose, or rather the two bottles that I chose – there were four of us and Blind Lemon was drinking beer – was 32 euros a pop, considerably more per head than the food. Their fixed luncheon menus, including wine is 15.50 euros, so a lot of moaning and groaning from the far from impecunious gathering was visited unfairly visited upon me, and there was a suggestion that perhaps I should pay, a ridiculous concept, except for a time last year when it seems I paid for dinner for everyone having been awoken in a tired state at the dinner table at Capricco and asked to enter my pin number in the machine. It was only the day after I discovered this subterfuge, and reminded them of that. If I had expected a guilty silence I was disappointed.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Beer can chicken
Just when I thought that sales have plateaued, suddenly there is a marked upwards shift on the sales graph. Getting to my desk yesterday morning after slaving over the latest post of this daily Currencies Direct inspired column for your edification and delight dear reader, I was curious as to why a 10 euro note should have been placed on my desk. It turns out that it was for another sale of my book, The Valbonne Monologues, and with the total now at 138 I now feel 150 is not only possible but almost inevitable. It is almost as if I feel I am not talking to myself anymore. Perhaps the second print run should be called The Valbonne Dialogues?
I was saying as much at lunch yesterday at Auberge Provençal in Valbonne with Matt Frost , the Cornish Tsunami and his long-suffering carer and wife Viv. It was during my very own monologue that I think that, in order to deflect me from further self-congratulatory crap, I was shown some pictures of a younger Tsunami. As I say, I am not certain for what reason these particular pictures were presented, but they clearly harped back to an earlier age where hair was worn in gay abandon. As the Tsunami remarked “in pursuit of the hirsute”.
After a convivial but rather expensive lunch, mainly because that Nice Lady Decorator developed a taste for a nice but overpriced Provençal white, and I had adjourned for my customary siesta, I was awoken by a great deal of screeching, which for once was not down to the wild parakeets that have taken up residence in our garden. No, it was the result of an excited phone call, the contents of which I was to discover later, but was sufficient to rouse me from my pit. A sundowner was required to revive equanimity (which I am reliably informed has nothing to do with horses).
It seems that a new recipe was the reason for all the noise and so, last night, dinner came in the form of “beer can chicken”. If you are eating your breakfast whilst reading this, please look away now as I am going to attempt an explanation. It seems that preparation of this dish involves first opening and disposing of half a can of beer, which is normally something I can deal with quite easily, but then things take a turn for the worse. I don’t want to go into the actual mechanics but it seems said semi depleted beer can is then inserted in the chicken, in much the way normal people would insert stuffing and…no. I am not exactly certain what follows but I can assure you it is not very edifying. Peachy Butterfield’s northern chicken farming gay friend, Oven Ready Eddy, will be wincing when he reads this.
berbequed beer can chicken, lovely.
A writer with a lower literary threshold and stronger Scottish antecedents than I, may have made some kind of joke here about this being a canny recipe, but you know I would never “coup” so low as to fill this daily missive (fricassee?) with jokes about chickens. It would be a foul outrage. Having given that particular subject the bird, let us move on.
Tennis wars are due to recommence this evening at the Vignale, and I expect some sympathy from the Wingco and Blind Lemon Milsted in respect of the copy of my book which was thrown into the sea a few nights ago at Paloma Beach. They were both there to witness this assault on the literary world, and as they are both scholars of some repute, at least in their own minds, I deserve it but I shall not receive it. I have a feeling that the tennis post-mortem for the losers, which will not be I, will involve dinner out somewhere afterwards, and I for one will be avoiding chicken.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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