The Chem Trail theory
I stand corrected and suitably contrite. In yesterday’s column, that you no doubt read, I was questioning why anyone would want to stage a goth festival in Whitby in Yorkshire, indeed why anyone would want to stage anything there or even to go there, but it appears that Whitby has a direct connection to the macabre. Bram Stoker (great name), the writer of Dracula, apparently lived in this dull northern outpost when he was writing the novel and even featured the town in his book (which might explain why they are not uplifting, positive views of life). Hence the staging of a goth festival is by no means an unreasonable event, to anyone au fait with his works. Fortunately I count myself amongst the more reasonable.
Yesterday I touched upon the concept of the Chem Trail Conspiracy. It was during discussions at ours over a nightcap after dinner that things became really scary. According to the chaps (vegetarians, so not always to be trusted) with whom we had dined on Tuesday evening, there is a school of thought, which includes them, that embraces the concept of a vast conspiracy controlled by the worlds most powerful men (and women – it includes the queen) that, as far as I understand it, involves some chemicals being deliberately introduced into aeroplane emissions that are designed to make the worlds populations more compliant. It also seems to run that Al Qaeda does not exist, it was invented to spread fear and allow governments to rearm, and that 9/11 was an American plot. This very reasonable train of thought is apparently espoused by no greater man than David Icke, self-styled saviour of the universe, often dressed in a purple shell suit. I wish I had made this up, but it seems that two, on the surface of it, quite reasonable and well-educated people are convinced that this is the truth. And who am I to argue?
The Black Rabbit terrace
After a six mile walk yesterday morning up the River Arun which took us past The Black Rabbit, pictured today, last night we took a chance and went to an outdoor play. Staged at the Roman Villa at Bignor, or rather in a field behind the Roman Villa, we had dropped into the White Swan in Sutton for a pint of Doombar and to watch the forecast storm clouds gather. Two garden chairs were stuffed into the back seats of the Merc, and would only go into the car by taking the roof down. The is was all well and good when the sun was shining in late afternoon, but presented a problem for later, should the forecast storms arrive, and the chairs required to be returned to the car, the roof would have to be opened. I expressed the opinion that, should the rains arrive on time, we could either leave them somewhere ready to collect when the rains had abated, but was given the impression that should such a course of action be followed, I may be looking for a new wife. Thankfully, the clouds gradually evaporated and the play ” Harlequin Goes To The Moon” was successfully performed. Those amongst the audience who thought there might be some reference to rugby were disappointed but the eclectic play which started in 16th century Florence, and managed to take on a trip to the moon. Me? I was also up in the clouds, comforting a 2005 Chateau Musar, a very fine and rare Lebanese red wine, a product of the Bekaa Valley.
Events like these are an obvious breeding ground for potential clients of Currencies Direct, and although there was some discussion about exchange rates amongst those to whom I spoke, I am not certain there was anyone in attendance who would have benefited.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A load of bull?
An old school friend of That Nice Lady Decorator destroyed all the good intentions of having a quiet night in by offering to take us out for dinner. What is a dieting man to do when offered a freebie? Accept of course and so all the good work of the day began to unravel.
The usual three mike hike, which is part of my daily fitness routine, was centred around Wepham in South Downs country. Then later, with the car due for an MOT test in Amberley, I volunteered to drive it over and walk back, thinking it was another 3 miles, which was true as the crow flies, but became nearer 6 miles across the footpaths. So, flushed with This success (in more ways than one), and with a modest salad for lunch, I was feeling very virtuous. Then came the invitation.
During the longer walk, when I was thinking about Currencies Direct, I was faced with turning back and making it even longer, or facing up to crossing a field full of very forbidding looking beef with something akin to rhino horns on each side if their head. Too knackered to add further to my misery and with the thought that we all have to go sometime , I strode purposefully and manfully across the field anxiously looking out for the stile which would signify my way out of the bullpen arena. None of the huge beasts moved (with the exception of myself who was moving with new-found speed) or took the slightest interest so I went back and took this picture of one of them (not the biggest as he was too far away, or rather I was not going near him).
Quite a big chap
So to dinner. Boco Nuevo, the restaurant at The White Hart offers a splendid seafood platter and being just 3 yards away, and given my earlier walking exploits, I was happy to go there. The lovely Joanna (the decorating school friend) and her Boris Karloff lookalike husband are as nice people as it is possible for vegetarians to be. At least they ate fish, but I find with people with such twisted ideas about avoiding food, tend to take an interest in things that are often bizarre and not normal and there must be a connection. It is not that I don’t like vegetarians, I just could not eat a whole one.
The first indication was a discussion, the earlier part of which I missed, about a moth festival in Whitby. That was what I thought she said and was becoming more and more confused about why butterflies would be dressed in black and be sleeping in coffins and listening to heavy metal music, so I thought I would wing it (eek…) when I realised she meant a Goth festival. This was much more in the context of having a horror movie star look-alike for a husband, but nonetheless disturbing. Stay with me here, but any festival being staged in Whitby that does not involve trawlers and fish and chips seems a little incongruous at least don’t you think? For the uninitiated Whitby is a pimple on the large bum that is the northern and unsophisticated county of Yorkshire. It is a scruffy down market seaside town inhabited by large numbers of fishermen. Thus the concept of staging a goth festival in such a place is weird, or is it? Does it have some twisted logic?
Anyway, discussion turned to more normal activities and interests and the lovely Joanne revealed that she once owned a small chain of shoe shops, and I said that I did not wish to comment as I was bound to put my foot in it. I think it is fair to say that this little snippet was rightly ignored by all present. Tomorrow I will tell you about the Chem Trail Theory and David Icke.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Old car a dogs dinner?
That picture in this column yesterday of my multi-coloured Wolseley 1500 car, which I bought out of my first pay packet as a dustman, evoked the stirring of a number of early motoring reminiscences from some of my contemporaries. I was specifically reminded about a car I once owned where the brakes deteriorated gradually over a few weeks, to the point where they did not work at all. It is ridiculous but I was confident I could handle the danger.
My defence is that brake fluid was expensive, I had identified where was the leak and, whenever I stopped, I put a mug underneath the car, caught the leaking fluid, put it back in the system before driving off again. Regular readers will know that I have, at the very least, a checkered history when it comes to do-it-yourself, or dog it youself.
Even he is better than DIY than I
Nothing ever goes right and so now I so not have tools, they are all owned and, crucially, controlled, by That Nice Lady Decorator so that I will never be tempted to see if some DIY ability has somehow matured at this late stage in my life. This lack of aptitude extends to all things practical and includes anything to do with engineering. It was some years later that I grasped the fact that if the brake fluid was leaking out of a sealed system then it was a fair bet that some air was leaking in to replace it. For some reasons of higher science this meant that each time I replaced the liquid without bleeding the system (sounds chronically medieval to me) its ability to do the job, that is to stop the car, was reduced.
You can imagine then, that after several weeks of this, the brakes required a furious amount of pumping on the foot brake in order to gain traction. It had started with just a few pumps, but eventually it took 20, gradually rising to 50 and then they stopped working. altogether. I had a problem; I needed to get to work, had no money to put the car in the garage, so needs must when the devil drives. And boy did that devil drive carefully.
I was also reminded of my first Jag, way back in the late 70’s. So many cars, so many breakdowns. And that leads me to how I was feeling yesterday. My waistline required attention in the form of another dreaded diet day, and although I felt ready to break down and cry, there was indeed no break down in my iron will to see it through. Instead, I did my best to forget the privations and shrug off the effects by concentrating of this wonderful Currencies Direct chappies and their lovely cuddly foreign exchange benefits.
There is talk that today and perhaps tomorrow, there might be some warm sunshine. On the other hand they are also warning of thundery downpours, but surely these should only be allowed to arrive after at least a few days of warmth? Who is in charge? Shall we blame the Reverend Jeff? Should it be warm tomorrow evening, we have half a plan to go to a daring outdoor theatre production at nearby Bignor, at the site of the ruins of an old Roman villa.
It is a very daring enterprise given the vagaries of the weather in the UK. Even to contemplate staging something like this out-of-doors, seems fraught with risk. There is also one thing that I do not understand having read the promotional leaflet; we are exhorted to bring blankets and rugs, but a wig will not keep the rain off in the event the almost inevitable thundery shower coincides with the single performance. I think we shall keep a watching brief (a nosy lawyer?) on the clouds during the afternoon and make a late decision. If the worst comes to the worst, There is a pub nearby that I have been meaning to try if it all goes pear-shaped
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Car wars
Fathers Day gave my siblings a chance to humiliate me in front of my Sprogs. It is true that I was once the proud owner of a Wolseley 1500 which was held together with papier mâché because I could not afford filler, and true also that I painted it every colour of paint that my father had stored in the garage. What I did not know until yesterday was that pictures of this magnificent machine had survived from over 40 years ago.
One’s authority tends to be undermined when presented with this sort of situation. One cannot claim such an air of superiority and command when aiming to set an example to one’s Sprogs if they have seen pictures of their father driving a car with mottled purple front wings, yellow doors and white stripes over black bonnet. Each panel was a fashion disaster. Did I mention the bitumen?
Probably the best looking Wolseley 1500 in 1973
Amongst the pots of paint in the garage at the time was a tin of bitumen which my father had for preserving the garden fence. As there was quite a bit left over, I used some for the bonnet but it never properly dried. This fact was made evident when a girlfriend at the time leaned on it at a pop festival with fairly unpleasant results. It really is not very good when it comes into contact with white trousers, as was pointed out to me at the time, rather rudely I thought.
With two brothers together in the same room with me for the first time in a number of years, and with all their respective Sprogs also present for a Fathers Day lunch at The Bay Tree in Arundel, it was perhaps asking too much for early family embarrassments to remain secret. So with the revelations about my first car, I felt it was important to remind both of my brothers about events in their early lives which may similarly have escaped the attention of their offspring.
I admit that in the continuing flurry of stories from our respective youths, all thoughts about the benefits if opening a foreign exchange account with Currencies Direct fell by the wayside.
The day had started with That Nice Lady Decorator trying out her new Pimms container, a large bowl shaped container fitted with a tap, which proved so popular that I was sent across the road to the Co-op to buy a second bottle within 30 minutes of the first luncheon arrivals. Those of us who eschewed this particular tipple took advantage of an arrangement I have with The White Hart, the garden of which can be accessed via a gate from our garden, to purchase a few pints of Harvey’s for consumption at ours. Thus, liberally oiled, as it were, we eventually headed out for that late lunch.
One might be forgiven for assuming, as I did, that after a very long build up to lunch and the consumption of an obscene number of bottles of wine at that lunch, that a quiet evening contemplating the events of the day might be welcomed. Not a bit of it, which is why we eventually ended up at the Eagle for Open Mic Night. My only excuse is that it was not my idea and I was an unwilling participant. It was lucky that I was there however, otherwise I would not have been able to intercept the Dancing On Tables Operative from living up to her name in spectacular fashion. Oh, and don’t ask how Sprog 1 came to lose his keys to his car and houses in the river at midnight.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
No sleep for the wicked
Lunch in the members pavilion at the Arundel Castle cricket ground was about as English as its gets. Sitting close to many current legends of cricket, such as England players Matt Prior, Monty Panesar and the massively tall Chris Tremlett standing 6 feet 7 inches, (the two teams, Surrey and Sussex, sitting at one end of the quaint pavilion, some twenty or so members at the other end) in idyllic surroundings, in fact one of the most beautiful cricket grounds in the country, eating turkey and ham pie, followed by apple and rhubarb pie and custard was about as English as you could get. A bargain at £18, barely 20 euros at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates was a very special and very English occasion.
It was lucky that yesterday’s lunch was being served in the pavilion rather than a purpose-built marquee which had been used on earlier match days, because the wind whipping against the canvas would have made shouting a necessity to be heard. There was some shelter to the leeward of this marquee so that is where, after lunch, that Nice Lady Decorator and I set up picnic camp with James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord and the mightyily beautiful Mighty Omega, close to the biggest and most impressive horse-chestnut tree I have ever seen. Desperate managed to stay awake this time rather than sloping off for a sleep at Dingily Dell (pictured today) as he had done the day before, mainly because he was being watched after by his luscious other half who had read this column and was aware of the sleepy danger .
Dingily Dell at Arundel Castle cricket ground
The match ended in a rather tame draw, although a moral victory for Surrey as expected, a situation not helped by losing the whole first day to rain. Today is Father’s Day and I am going to make the best if it. After the early morning customary Fathers Day reward, a large cooked breakfast will commence the pampering a father can expect from a day dedicated to his virility. I am glad to say that both my brothers are, as it were, coming today together with their spouses and the results of their virility. I am clearly the most virile of our family being the proud owner of two Sprogs, whilst both of my brothers are only half as virile owning just one each. It is a point I shall be making loudly and often over lunch at The Bay Tree in Arundel this afternoon. It also means that I am twice as poor, but will not be dwelling on exactly how much fatherhood has cost and continues to cost me financially as I want to enjoy the occasion.
Also in attendance will be two of the cousins of the That Nice Lady Decorating Operative, although why is not clear as neither have yet to open their accounts at all in the context of what day this is. Perhaps they have come to worship those amongst us who have something expensive to show for that proven capacity to procreate? Anyway I am looking forward to the occasion, which will start with some Pimms in the garden (weather permitting) at around 1pm.
Talking of the weather, the return to my beloved Valbonne for six whole weeks at the end of the month is now close enough to be tangible. I do not expect to be shivering in long trousers and a splendid striped jacket (as was the case yesterday) trying, in the teeth of a gale and scudding low cloud, to pretend that it is summer. No, shorts will shortly be the order of the day and I for one cannot wait.
Chris France
Eye doctor an optimist?
I was always fighting a losing battle. James “Desperate Dan the Landlord” would look tough and rugged in a tou tou and sequins but he chose shorts again, despite the temperature yesterday morning hovering just above freezing. There is something of the little boy about him, with his predisposition to the wearing of shorts, being read this column by the Mighty Omega each morning, much in the way one might pacify a child, and going off for a nap at “Dingly Dell” in the afternoon, but that is not something I am willing to suggest to his face.
Another day at the cricket at Arundel Castle, becoming more splendid with each hour as the weather forecasters got it spectacularly wrong. The clouds gradually disappeared, the wind dropped, the sun appeared and then underdogs Surrey took control of the game against Sussex. With a couple of beers on board to open ones account so to speak, we retired to a sunny corner to watch the match. I had taken the precaution of stowing the maximum allowed quantity of alcohol permitted to be brought into the ground, a bottle of Shiraz, in my bag. Desperate had done the same, or so I thought, but when I awoke from an afternoon siesta in the sunshine, I found him drinking from a bottle of Malbec. When pressed he said that he had brought it as back up in case the unforgivable happened and we ran out of wine.
I don’t know if it was the wine but Desperate was fascinated by the seagulls circling low over one end of the pitch. He suggested that it may be that they were being attracted to flying ants, but changed his opinion quickly when I pointed out they were circling the burger van.
Arundel Castle cricket
After the days play had finished it was inevitable that we would go back to the White Hart, mainly because he lives there and I live next door. Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor was there, still wincing after being beaten at Scrabble by his mother the night before. He was sporting smart new spectacles and was talking about his eye doctor, to whom he referred as”an optimist”. Perhaps that is why he lost the Scrabble?
The pub was heaving and later on, flame haired temptress Carolyn arrived accompanied again by her “nephew”. She told a story about her first “booze cruise” some years earlier when to celebrate their purchases, her and her friend had decided to open one of the bottles of Cremant (she claimed it was Krug) in the car park at the ferry terminal and the cork shot out and killed a seagull.
I also have a note about a landscape gardener describing himself as a landscape butcher, but by that time my recollection was not at its sharpest and I do not remember to whom it referred.
Today is the last day of the county match, so I will continue my, so far, fruitless search for new customers for Currencies Direct. Today will be different as I have made a reservation for lunch for myself and That Nice Lady Decorator in the members pavilion. Desperate will not be joining us for this, mainly because I imagine shorts will be frowned upon in such an erstwhile establishment, however he will be at the cricket, along with half of the inhabitants of Arundel because I think it is free to get in today.
Then it is Fathers day on Sunday and there will be a gathering of the France’s with seldom seen brothers, wives and children coming to Arundel to pay well-deserved homage to man.
Chris France
Burger at Arundel Castle
Fortune favours the brave and braving the occasional drizzle and gale force winds to go to Arundel Castle to witness some cricket eventually produced the deserved rewards. In a scene a little like my life in general, after a poor start, conditions gradually improved to the point where the experience was rewarding, and I must say that, as a cricket fan, it was a big treat to be able to walk from my house to a beautiful cricket ground and see some world-class players in action. England players Matt Prior, and Chris Tremlett were batting and bowling respectively and today there is the tantalising prospect of seeing the great Australian, Ricky Ponting bat, as he has a two month contract with Surrey, the opponents of Sussex, Arundel being one of their home grounds.
A gradually improving weather scene at Arundel Castle
So far I have not managed to penetrate that sub strata of culture high up enough in the social food chain to be able to appreciate the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct, but I live in hope, which is exactly why I may have to return today, again, weather permitting. Currencies Direct customers are, by definition, a canny lot so I doubt they would attend in inclement weather. This time, I shall be taking sandwiches because the food options were so desperately poor. The choice was between some curly sandwiches, which, as play had been abandoned because of the poor weather on the first day, had probably been incubated overnight ready for sale today, and burgers and hot dogs. Thus lunch yesterday consisted of a bacon cheeseburger and chips. I am ashamed.
I had gone to the cricket with James, Desperate Dan the Landlord of the White Hart and, whilst I had paid £500 to become a life member of The Friends Of Arundel Castle Cricket Club, he did not and managed to gain entry, I think, by allowing the gatemen to believe he was my batman. I had dressed properly for the occasion with my lizard shoes, some smart chinos, shirt (with a collar) and Panama Hat, and had waxed the moustache to the highest calibre of handlebar, and had fooled myself, at least, that I was looking every inch the affable eccentric English Gentleman, Desperate had not, and looked every inch my surf. I had at least managed to intercept the scruffy purple shorts he had intended to wear, but with a square jaw like that, his size and that stubble it will always be difficult to disguise him as a gentleman.
Returning at the end of play at around 7pm, I discovered a Decorating operative, covered in paint, anxious to be taken for a pint, and after a couple at The Swan Hotel, almost inevitably, we ended up for a bite to eat at Boco Nuevo. A little later, flame haired temptress, Carolyn arrived with her young “nephew” as I think she likes to refer to him. That Nice Lady Decorator told the story about how she was banned from Morrison’s, the Irish bar in Cannes, which seems on the face of it to be an almost impossible feat, but Carolyn was able to trump this be revealing that she has been banned from Homebase. This is all the more astonishing as, presumably, alcohol would not usually be involved in a visit to a do it yourself store. It seems there was some problem with a bath panel, a delivery driver, swearing, and sufficient “misunderstanding” that not only did she never get her bath panel, she was told never to darken their doors again. Whilst I was furiously writing notes about all this in the pub, she then told me that if I were to use this information in this column, I was not “to elaborate, exaggerate or conjugate” the information. Hmmmm.
Chris France
Cricket season latest; rain
As predicted the weather yesterday put paid to any notion of going to watch any cricket at Arundel Castle. Roll on our departure back to France, two days of crap weather and I have had enough of England, and the eternal decorating.
Living with That Nice Lady Decorator, one tends to expect some decorating activity from time to time, but recently this has taken on a new frenzy. For some deeper decorating reason, some things have to be painted and repainted up to 3 times and as it seems everything must be painted, even doors which were not painted before, there is an all-pervading small of paint. If I do not keep moving I shall expect to be painted myself (not in the way I was for the cover of my book The Valbonne Monologues, sales of which will rocket once I get back to Valbonne for the summer).
I cracked yesterday. Having picked my way around the various pots and paints, dust sheets and paint trays in the lounge, dining room, bathroom and bedroom to fetch lunch from the Co-op, finding no clear surfaces and more decorating paraphernalia in the kitchen, then getting wet whilst taking out the rubbish and then hitting my head on the ridiculously low beam into the kitchen, I retired, stressed and throbbing, to the calm and serenity of the George and Dragon at Houghton for a late lunch. A lovely whole plaice and a couple of pints of Ringwood, now my third favourite beer in the world , restored some humanity, but not all, as I still got infested with sideways drizzle walking or rather sprinting back to the house. My picture today was taken in happier weather tunes. Last week we were visiting the New Forest in the last of the summer sun, where I took this picture of some of the wild horses which roam the area.
Wild horses frolic in last weeks sunshine
I am not sure if you all read the comments section of this column, but yesterday, the Reverend Jeff posted a poem he has written about John Prescott for the very highbrow publication (not) the Daily Mail. This is, of course, a shameless attempt by The Reverend at self promotion of the most tasteless kind, which is why I let it run. Us writers (even those nowhere near as accomplished as my good self) must stick together, and it is only by publishing ones work that one can be exposed to scrutiny, so if you read it, please be kind, he is a dear friend and trying very hard.
Before I venture out to the Arundel Castle cricket ground, I shall attempt a walk on the South Downs, assuming I can find enough warm clothes, oilskins and a suitable hat to keep out the cold and the wet. I may keep this exact costume for the cricket, although I am told that there is a nice members tent, which, if it has not blown away in the gales, and there is no impediment to me becoming a member today, of which I shall be making full use. I consider that this will be a justifiable business expense as I shall be joining not for personal benefit, but to establish a new conduit into the great and good locally, many of whom are crying out for the services of Currencies Direct but do not know it yet. No doubt my accountant, who reads this column, will do his best to disavow me of this opinion, with dire warnings as to the consequences in terms of tax. It will depend on how persuasive are his arguments as to how the expense will be dealt.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Prepare for the flood
My old enemy, sideways drizzle, did its very best to ruin a summer’s day yesterday, banishing any fleeting thoughts one may have entertained of living in England for extended periods and actually enjoying it. The past 10 days have been a glorious reminder of how I remember English summers from my childhood, admittedly a very long time ago, so it is especially disappointing to find the weather has reverted to type and is due to stay grotty right up to and through the weekend. That is as far as predictions go, although I am prepared to forecast myself that the next dry day will be in October.
The reason of course, is that I stupidly suggested in yesterday’s column that I may take a day off from the relentless work schedule which I have set myself, ( some two hours of nose down, no distractions endeavour to further the reach of the UK music industry) in order to enjoy a day of First Class cricket in Arundel starting this morning, or as is almost inevitable, failing to start due to rain.
The cricket ground in Arundel is said to be the prettiest top class cricket venue in England, so who am I to argue? However, there is little point in popping down unless the forecast does a Michael Fish and is catastrophically inaccurate. My picture today, was taken at Boscastle harbour last week and shows the type of thing we apparently must come to expect on our roads in the coming week. As you can see it is a car towing a boat in a river in Cornwall. Perhaps he is towing an ark, or knows something we don’t, or rather do.
An interesting study. Why would one drive down a river towing a boat?
Heading to France at the end of the month is now firmly within sight. From what I have heard their poor weather, graphically illustrated earlier in the week in pictures on Facebook of a tornado in Nice, is finally abating, and migrating northwards to plague the UK. Time for me to change places and head south to my spiritual home where I can indulge in tennis and golf without looking up to see what the clouds are doing.
Thus the implacable iron resolve to have two days without a drink was fatally undermined by desperate weather, so we popped out to the Swan Hotel for an early evening pint of London Pride to help create an appetite for a home cooked roast dinner.
Over a pint, we discussed the predilection amongst some of our favourite locals towards socialism. Being myself politically just to the right of Attila the Hun (thus diametrically ideologically opposed to my old deluded, and some might say hypocritical, old pal Attila The Stockbroker), it can make for some interesting pub chat. It always amuses me when I come across people with a communist leaning who run their own businesses. Presumably, if they practice what they preach then my profit would be given away? If not, could one say that they were so left-wing they had gone around in a circle? Suffice to say there is not an instantly perceived need for the services of Currencies Direct in some quarters.
So, instead of a day watching cricket, I shall have to be content with shopping for wine as That Nice Lady Decorator seems to have consumed vast swathes of my carefully laid in stocks, (hmmm… Stocks, that might be the appropriate punishment). Whilst claiming to be a white wine girl, it always seems she wants to change colour when something decent is open.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Corduroy pillows create headlines
Well it appears that my joke about the Pope being a Bishop in yesterday’s column was wide of the mark. Resident god botherer and custodian of all things religious in this column, the Reverend Jeff, points out that the Pope is in fact also the Bishop of Rome.
Talking of religious zeal, I have today dedicated myself to the care of my body after a telling nine day festival of fun, drinking and eating. A mere 600 calories, enough to keep an average sized mouse alive, was my entire intake, and coupled with a couple of stiff walks and even a bit of cycling, has enabled me to wake up this morning feeling very pleased with myself, and looking forward to a reward in the form of a drink this evening, but now I must get that cooked breakfast on board and safely stowed.
I was thinking yesterday about what makes good head line and I think corduroy pillow cases would do the trick. It seems headlines are what grab the attention of the casual reader and I have always attempted to inject humour into these where ever possible. Many days I fail, but I have my own benchmark; if I think it is funny, then its funny. That is an end to it.
The cycling was to the doctors surgery to submit my request for a repeat prescription, (3 days before I can collect it, ridiculous – in France it would be on demand) and once again I was struck by the lack of consideration for others exhibited by people working in the pharmacy. Whilst I waited, I had no choice but to overhear a pharmacist explain in loud and graphic detail exactly how an old lady, ahead of me in the queue, would get the best results from using the enema she had just purchased. Then it was the turn of a poor chap to suffer much the same indignity, to the extent that I know now that he has a nasty case of athletes foot, some warts in a rather embarrassing region and an infestation of verrucas. In the circumstances, when it came to my turn, I did not mention my desire for a penis reduction, but was sorely tempted (actually can I say that in this context?).
A day in the office was my reward. Yes, reward. It is so satisfying when one can sign someone up for an account with Currencies Direct, and then witness the tears of joy that tumble down their faces once they realise how much they have saved on their foreign exchange transactions.
There was more. There are exciting opportunities developing for NME rap label of the year 1988 and 1989, Music Of Life, which is owned by a certain successful author often feted in this column, and indeed it looks like once again the label will shortly be standing tall in the world of hip hop. This has very little to do with any direct input from myself, more it is down to my ability to delegate all the work to a younger, far more worthy operative.
Arundel is famed for having one of the prettiest cricket grounds in the country. Situated on the grounds of the castle and owned therefore by the Duke Of Norfolk, I was disappointed to have missed Australia A team play there last week whilst we were in Cornwall, but I have discovered that there will be a 4 day first class county match between Sussex and Surrey starting on Wednesday, and I feel that not to attend would have been another missed opportunity. I hate missing opportunities, so, weather permitting (and it may not permit), I intend to be there on at least one of those days.
Chris France
Back to the Fuschia
June in Jeans, and I don’t mean the barmaid at the Oak Inn, back to normal weather. Just as the extended break came to an end so did the unlikely period of summer sunshine. A final walk in the New Forest on the way home confirmed my very favourable impression of the area. It is only just over an hours away from Arundel by car so we shall go again. I particularly liked Lymington, which we had visited on Saturday morning (it had a market and that always gives one member of our household an opportunity for some retail therapy), so I feel a return weekend visit coming on again sometime this year.
New Forest path
Whenever we go away in the car, it is moderately full of dogs baskets, suitcases and, if not staying in hotels, sensible provisions in terms of wine. By the time we return, the car is always crammed full of stuff. This time it was mirrors, pictures, giant dog cushions, Hollyhocks, Delphinium and god knows what else. 2 trips to the car to go away, 6 trips from the car to unload when we get back. This is without the provisions which have had to be consumed to make room for all those purchases.
Anyway, once back and unloaded That Nice Lady Decorator busied herself planting the forest of plants she had acquired. By the time she had finished there was not a jot of earth to be seen, it was almost like an alien landscape, a case perhaps of back to the fuchsia?
All this activity had the effect of building up a thirst, so with The White Hart, the pub next door calling, we answered that call, stopping long enough for lunch. Once again very good Boco Nuevo food in the shape of a seafood platter and a very good paella.
Almost inevitably, as the sun made a fitful return in late afternoon, we stayed longer than we had intended and entered into discussions with various of the locals, including Acker the log man, from whom I ordered some logs. Initially he was pleased until I added “at the beginning of October”. I regaled James, Desperate Dan the Landlord with stories about chips in Cornwall cooked in beef dripping and was told that the health police would be on the lookout for me.
Detailed planning will now commence for summer in Valbonne. What a prospect! We shall be leaving at the end of June for 6 weeks for the French experience, back amongst those ex pats pals, many of whom have not yet taken advantage of buying a copy of my book The Valbonne Monologues, sales of which now stand at a very impressive 107. Originally the break even figure was around 220 sales, but this has been halved as I have been able to avoid paying half the printing bill, as several copies have been discovered printed upside down in the second half. Some wags have suggested that, as no one has ever read it to the end, then it may well be that all copies are similarly faulty. This is a cruel barb. I just think my followers must, by and large, be slow readers and have not yet reached the part where the printing error is evident.
I also recall a discussion but not in which context when one of the locals for the expression “Is the Pope a catholic?” To underline some obscure point or other, but rather mixed it up by saying “Is the Pope a bishop” no, I don’t think so either.
So the world of commerce, music and currency exchange await me in the coming week. Having neglected my duties whilst away over the past nine days, I have a great deal upon which to catch up. Should be all done by midday.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Horse seen at Tesco shock
I like horses and I like to play golf, however I do not think the two go together. Driving through the beautiful New Forest over the last couple of days, I have been struck by the sheer numbers of wild horses that roam around anywhere, kept out of the towns by cattle grids. People with houses outside the towns go to some lengths to try to keep them out of their gardens but the golf course near Brockenhurst seems to have given up. The day we arrived I saw a chap chipping his ball over two fine fillies as they nibbled at the grass around the green.
I related that story in the evening to our friendly cartographers at The Foresters Arms and they told me that sometimes the horses manage to get past the cattle grids and into the towns. He told me that at the height of the horse meat in burgers fiasco a few weeks ago, a horse had managed to get close to a local Tesco store and was looking in the window, probably in search of one of his ancestors. That would have made a great picture.
Another fabulous day of sunshine had us walking across the Forest aiming for a Fullers pub called The Oak. The trouble was that it was over 3 miles away and, knowing I would be less keen to walk that far back after several pints, we decided to turn back and drive over instead. It was the start of a slippery slope.
The Oak Inn is idyllically set in the forest with an enticing green area across the lane, and with London Pride on tap from the wood, I was in heaven. Returning to The Thatched House where we have been staying, which is pictured today, we were enticed into taking a glass of wine on their lovely leafy terrace, and of course this turned into several. There is something obvious happening here, we are making the most of the fantastic weather as it cannot last. This was brought home to me this morning as I can see it is cloudy for the first time in weeks and I think the English summer has climaxed a little early. Now where have I heard that expression before?
400 year old thatched house
We decided to risk post siesta dinner at the Thatched, despite being told that Trip Advisor (which once fooled Sprog 1 into thinking it may be a website to aid pharmaceutical enjoyment) had a few negative reviews. The menu is quite retro and we both decided on the roasted pigeon breast, an unwise choice as it turned out. The rest of the meal was very good, with the asparagus in orange of particular note.
It seems some of the reviews of the place indicated a lack of cleanliness, but I would argue that if you are going to stay in a 400 year old house under a thatch, then you cannot expect the depth of cleanliness you would find in a modern hotel. If you want everything clean and fresh, stay somewhere else. With undulating plaster, fascinating old furnishings and lovely old fashioned period articles in the rooms, there will be dust.
So that is it, we shall be back in Arundel today, after 9 days away, and my liver at least will be pleased at the prospect of a rest this week, obviously not today because it is Sunday and according to the laws of France, Chris France that is, one must have a drink on the sabbath. From Monday onwards though, the cold draft of reality will blow in with all sorts of unpleasant side effects, like diet days and work. My music empire requires some attention and I must not neglect my duties with Currencies Direct, so nose to the grindstone (stupid expression) head down and dream of the next weekend.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Snake Catcher surprise
Leaving Cornwall in sunshine, with the weather forecast to be fine throughout England, dressed in shorts and t shirts, it was perhaps asking too much to expect it to remain sunny as we headed east. The plan, to be in summer garb and to visit the New Forest in the continuing great weather, looked in tatters when the first drops of rain splattered on the windscreen before we hit the home of one of rocks great geniuses, Andy Partridge from XTC. I mean, of course, the largely unprepossessing Swindon.
As the sky darkened and the rain became heavier, consideration was given to returning home to Arundel instead. It was a close run thing, but a decision was needed; stay on course and brave the unpredictable weather, or head for home. We (which means That Nice Lady Decorator) decided, bulldog style, to press on regardless and by the time we had reached Brocklehurst in the New Forest, the rain had abated and there was some blue sky to be seen. Finding a 400 year old thatched bed and breakfast, almost next door to a pub, seemed to be fated, so, once booked in, it became ones duty to check out that pub, The Foresters Arms, serving London Pride and Ringwood bitter, 2 of the 3 best real ales in the world.
it’s a dogs life in Cornwall
Perhaps we should not have had 5 pints each, but getting talking to two old former cartographers, ( one if whom may soon be a proud Currencies Direct account holder) both of whom had worked on Ordnance Survey map production, gave us a god given opportunity to find out about the local walking routes, with special emphasis on where the pubs were. They said they were both retired and seemed not to accept my suggestion that perhaps it was time to map out a new career for themselves. They were happy just getting drunk with us.
5 hours in a car is not the best preparation for an afternoon of discussion and fun, but we were lucky enough to find that we were sufficiently prepared to enjoy the whole experience. We now have reliable information about where to walk today and what to expect from pubs that are not even on the map. I fear that some teetotal upstart (certainly not either of the chaps we met) was responsible for the map we have, which seems almost bereft of pubs.
A late siesta preceded dinner at the, interestingly named, nearby Snake Catcher, where, chosen for me, was a fish platter than one was expected to cook ones self. Now call me old fashioned, but when I go to a restaurant, certainly one charging these kinds of prices, I kind of hope that my food will be cooked for me. Prawns, scallops and an unidentified white fish in foil arrived, together with, mounted upon, and already cooking on, a lump of super heated rock. So after a skinful in the afternoon, and not being at my best, I had to grapple with beasts from the murky depths and ensure they were cooked properly before eating. They all cooked quickly and then would not stop cooking, so the entire fishy contents has to be bolted down in about 5 minutes flat. I don’t do cooking normally and have no idea for how long to cook things, and although I did it all fantastically, it was not a restful or relaxing process. Once finished, I was half expecting to be given some Marigolds and invited to do the washing up. Perish the though what choosing the Snake Catchers signature dish might entail.
Chris France
Queuing, or the Kew Inn?
One thing I forgot to mention yesterday when talking about The Old Inn near St Breward was beef dripping chips. The liberal, vegetarian, bleeding hearts brigade have pretty much outlawed the use of beef dripping, claiming that it contributes towards heart attacks, and to be fair, the pub offered the option of having them cooked in vegetable oil, but being a traditionalist, and suspicious of new fangled dietary guidance, I took advantage of the dripping option. Nurse, where are by blood pressure tablets?
Another early start commenced with a walk around the waterfall at Tintagel in more sunshine, albeit slightly less in evidence than the past few days. Beforehand, we had motored into Bodmin itself for a look around. This did not take long, and I wish I could say something positive about the town, but alas, there is nothing to say. The waterfall at Tintagel is open to visitors, and, thinking that the charming Cornish girl on the till was being very nice, petting the dogs, even the devil dog, and calling us all “my lovelies”, we agreed to go in, expecting to pay, maybe £1. “That will be £9” she said with that winning smile. I knew who was winning alright. The water feature itself was quite spectacular, but it was still just a load of rain water falling down a hill for Christ’s sake. Nine quid? I would want it to be a hot shower followed by a blow job for it to be worth that kind of money,
Anyway, we continued onto Boscastle where I settled my nerves with a pint of Tribute at the delightful old Napoleon Inn, which advertised a sea view. This was an extreme interpretation of the Trades Description Act. What it should have added was “if you are wonderfully long sighted, it is a clear day, 6ft 10″ tall and the tide is in”. Lovely pub though and a nice pint.
Boscastle Harbour
Boscastle Harbour was breathtakingly beautiful as shown by my picture today. Quintessentially Cornish, and looking delightful in the sun, all that was missing was a pub on the quay. So, with the heat (yes, heat in Cornwall!) building, it was time for lunch so we headed to the Red Lion at St Kews Highway, eschewing a pub at St Teath, where many a dentist must had cursed the local spelling. A less accomplished writer than myself may have come up with a terrible pun along the lines of denture worry, there will be another pub soon, but luckily you are reading this column and will be spared such dreadful wordplay. Very good tapas for That Nice Lady Decorator and a delightful lemon sole for me.
On the way home, That Nice Lady Queueing Person decided that she wanted to replicate the long wait she had at the tills of the garden centre the day before by going to the aptly named The Kew Inn, which is exactly what she was doing the day before at roughly the same time. It is set in wonderful gardens in a dip in the valley close to St Kew and is a fabulous old pub, with a very nice line in warning signs designed to make parents wary of bringing their kids “warning, deep water”, “children must be supervised at all times” etc. They stopped short of warning about snakes and trolls in the woods, but I got their drift, as it seems, have many parents, and I was totally in favour, as kids ruin many a lovely pub garden. As I think WC Fields once said “I like children, but I couldn’t eat a whole one”.
So that is it, this morning we shall leave the splendid mill cottage in which we have been staying for the last few days, courtesy of Currencies Direct client, Peter Blue Water Bennett and the impossibly beautiful Julie, and head back towards the New Forest (although I think I would prefer something older) for a couple of nights to take advantage of this ridiculously good weather before it inevitably breaks in the next few days.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The 39 steps, plus 100
There appears to be a problem with the concept of logic when it is applied to That Nice Lady Decorator. We went yesterday morning to Bedruthen Steps, a beautiful beach to the west of Padstow. Now, shoot me down if I am wrong, but I would have said that the word “steps” and the fact that we were on a cliff top, and were visiting a beach, might have given the Decorating fraternity present an idea that these steps might go down. More pertinently, there is an old adage about what goes up must come down. Similarly, the concept works in reverse, which is especially relevant when one has already been down, so to speak.
Bedruthen Steps, a step too far?
Thus, after 139 steps down to one of the finest, if not the finest beach I have ever seen, as evidenced by my photo today, and a long walk along the sand and through the coves and rocks, we were faced with mounting the stairs after our visit. This did not seem to find favour with That Nice Lady Decorator, and I was once again in the dog house. It seems the laws of physics matter not a jot to her, and I had better come to terms with that, and quickly. She did not seem to want to grasp the basic concept of no pain no gain, and objected vociferously to the idea that we needed to go up. Regular readers will know that this was all my fault, despite the fact that I had no input into the choice of beach to visit, and I was once again at fault.
Lunch at Padstow in the sunshine on the port was not at Rick Steins seafood restaurant, nor his fish and chip place either, we liked the idea of sitting outside, which was offered by a restaurant paradoxically called The Basement. We had engaged in a short beer stop at The Shipwrights on the Quay before finding somewhere to eat. A glass of Cornish white wine, together with roasted cod and curried tartare sauce, was not quite what I had in mind when I ordered fish and chips, but it was excellent nonetheless.
A short pit stop on the way back I thought, a sleepy Cornish pub overlooking some wonderful West Country scenery, but a visit to a garden centre was decreed instead. Regular readers will know that I enjoy shopping as much as a visit to the dentist, so I decided to sit it out in the car whilst she went in search of Delphinium, Foxglove and something called “Love Lies Bleeding”, which apparently is a plant. I make no comment. Anyway, she was away such a time that the moment passed. It seems that the queue was so long and being dealt with so slowly that a chap asked her if the plants she had bought were seeds when she joined the queue. I think it was spring when she went in, autumn when she came out.
This was followed by the inevitable siesta where I dreamed of triffids, plants fighting back, and awoke with a thirst, so we decided to give The Old Inn at Churchtown near St Breward another chance after a decent pint earlier in the week. The local preference for a carvery was immediately evident and although I hate them, it did tickle my taste buds so I reached for a menu. Initially depressed at the options, including ploughman’s lunch and fried everything theme, the barman told me there were some specials on the board in the restaurant and eureka! A range of delightful offerings were available, even 4 vegetarian options. Clearly, I did not consider any of those, being a life long member of the Peachy Butterfield opinion that the vegetarian option should be to f**k off, settling instead for the sea bream, which was excellent.
So another column finished and not a single mention of Currencies Directx. You have got away lightly.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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