Scaling down ambitions with fish
“Get your rod out” was the exhortation from Peter Blue Water Bennett yesterday morning. My first thought was that I could make a joke about this being precisely what I plan on most mornings, but then realised that was beneath me as a successful author. It seems he was referring to the fact that the stream which runs through his stunning mill near Blisland in Cornwall, where we are staying, had been recently stocked with 5000 spawning salmon.
Now I have an aversion to fishing due to my Uncle Les, who, when I was 5, gave me a piece of string tied to a stick to dangle in a paddling pool. Two hours out of my life wasted and dreams of catching dish in tatters. A poorer writer than I might suggest that I had scaled down my ambitions. That does not mean that I hate fish, far from it and so, upon discovering that famous fishy restaurateur Rick Stein has a pub near Padstow at St Merryn called The Cornish Arms, we set off for a walk on the way in order to build up an appetite for lunch. The planned itinerary was to explore the Camel River estuary near the obelisk overlooking Padstow, and so we set off in absolutely stunning weather as my picture today shows. England at its unsurpassed best, and if it was guaranteed to last I would even consider eschewing life in Valbonne for life in England again. But we all know that is not going to happen.
Camel River estuary
That Nice Lady Decorator is an excellent map reader and takes it upon herself to commandeer the Ordnance Survey maps and generally take charge of walking proceedings. Anyway, the map was clearly inaccurate because one of the paths we were following came to a dead stop thee quarters of the way around a circular walk. This elicited a stream of abuse aimed at farmers, the local council who are responsible for public footpath signposts, the idiot cartographers who had compiled the map, and of course myself for making (un) helpful suggestions along the lines that perhaps the map had been misread. After a couple of these, she spotted that I was smirking and from that moment forward, I dare not even utter any sound that might have been construed as helpful advice, or the defence of anyone she was insulting. Suffice to say that she was questioning (although this is a rather to gentle adjective) the parentage of most of Cornwall. Our 3 mile circular walk became a 6 mile walk, which I would have enjoyed even more had the snorting of derision,aimed at all things map, subsided a little earlier.
Arriving at The Cornish Inn calmed her a little, a pint of Tribute more so, and then some sublime mussels in a wonderful onion and parsley sauce completed the rehabilitation. The best food we have had in Cornwall. Sitting outside in the warm sunshine under blue sky in England and eating great food and drinking great English beer is one of those moments I shall take to my grave.
Another was, after the traditional siesta, and after an idyllic walk up through the meadows and lanes festooned with bluebells, sitting with a pint outside overlooking the village green in the sunshine at the Blisland Arms. Then another, sitting outside the mill as the sun went down, with a glass of a very decent 2007 Medoc smoking a Monte Christo No 2. All very satisfying.
I have been lucky enough this week to have stayed in one of the best houses in Gloucestershire and one of the best in Cornwall, and both are owned by Currencies Direct clients. Clearly, they are both delighted about the savings they have made as a result, and in their own ways are rewarding me for the introductions. I think I have got that foreign exchange message cross quite well today.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Camel Trail or Camel Trial?
“I will be with you drekkly” said the barmaid at The Borough Arms in Dunmere on the Camel Trail, a walkers and cyclists delight, following as it does, the disused railway cutting. Drekkly is a curious Cornish expression with a wide range of meanings. It this instance it meant that she would be dealing with my request in due course, but it could be used to mean to “go way immediately”. I think its genus is from the English word directly, but it is far less precise than that when uttered with a Cornish accent.
Regular readers will know that whilst I have a very high regard for the beauty of this far-flung county, that regard does not necessarily extend to some of the local culinary delights. Cornish Pasties, for instance, are usually made out of material that resemble damp cardboard, bits of beak, gristle and camel toe nail clippings, but are less tasty than the ingredients suggest . I realise that renowned chef, Rick Stein, has several restaurants in Padstow and surrounds, but Rick was not cooking at The Borough Arms yesterday. We had walked around 5 miles in the morning up to the top of the Camel Trail and back again to Blisland, and then cycled 7 miles to the Borough for lunch and were so hungry we would have considered eating anything. I am sorry to have to inform you dear reader that it was not very good. In fact a Cornish Pasty may have had more to recommend it than my choice of the roast lamb and That Nice Lady Decorators Tuna steak ( I told her they would overcook it and it would be grey and unappetising, because pubs that offer a carvery option and chips with everything they serve, always do). However, the local Tribute was a decent pint, the sun was out, exercise was taken and other than a disappointing meal, everything was rosy in my garden. Well, Pete and Julie’s garden that is.
Camel River
The quintessential beauty of the place cannot be undermined and so it was that we set off to cycle back. Now it is a fact that we were following the Camel River down to the sea, which means that logically, on the return journey, we had to cycle up hill. This argument was not accepted by That Nice Cycling Person, who considered that I should have found a route that was gently downhill there and back. Thus, clearly, it was my fault that we had to cycle back up inclines that must have reached 1 in 1000 on the steeper slopes, clearly too steep for anyone of 37 with two pints of beer and a dodgy tuna steak on board. Yes, I accept responsibility. I must have been holding the map upside down, or failed to point it at magnetic north or whatever. I am to blame and that’s an end to it.
As I am on holiday, I refused to allow the usual good thoughts about the benefits of having a foreign exchange account with Currencies Direct to crowd into my mind and instead concentrated on an itinerary for today. Unaccustomed cycling tends to play havoc with ones rear end, in the nicest possible way, so I think the bikes may be allowed to remain at rest for the next few days. Bodmin Moor is close at hand but also the town of Padstow, and the wonderful Cornish coast are just a few miles away and I fancy a bit of sea-side today. We may also go to Rock, where no doubt a lesser writer than I would make a joke out of Seaside Rock, as in those sticky glutinous sticks of concentrated sugar which plays havoc with your fillings, but by now you will know my stance on this, it will not happen.
Chris France
Idle or idyll?
As we drove west towards Cornwall, my mind wandered back to the events of the day before yesterday. Following the hippy excursion at Wychwood, we had retired hurt to Dryhill Farm, which had been written about, and provided some inspiration to, renowned war poet Ivor Gurney. In the hubris brought on by far too many large gins and tonic, and the gathering of those plastic glasses for our poolside bar in Valbonne, dinner was a far more grown up affair, although there were times when a casual observer would have been far pressed to make the distinction.
Amongst others, It was attended by mad dentist Roger Moore, who refused to accept that he was the subject of a very questionable video filmed a few years ago in my pool, in which he was clothed in… sadly the newly defined laws of libel, as defined in the High Court last week when the wife of the speaker of the House Of Commons was arraigned for a libellous tweet, do not allow me to go on. He remained in denial and proceeded to illustrate his, no doubt, fine upstanding character by spending much of the evening attempting, and succeeding on several occasions, to undo the halter neck worn by That Nice Lady Decorator. He was taken home early by his wife, the lovely Jackie, the other dentist in the family and here, a lesser writer than the author of this daily learned tome, may have made a very poor joke about her looking down in the mouth.
That Nice Lady Decorator was on fine form as usual, perhaps reaching new heights as a result of all those earlier (in her case) vodkas and ginger beer in the afternoon, and was happy to demonstrate her pole dancing capabilities to all and sundry with the help of a broomstick and some serious imagination. This was discussed a little on the drive down to Cornwall, but I gained the distinct impression that she did not wish this story to spread further.
The aptly named Blisland Inn in Cornwall
This is as good as it gets. I often complain about England, especially in the context of the weather, but when it was like it was yesterday, and dare I say it?, looks set to continue for a few days, there is no better place to be in the world. Bright sunshine, lush green landscape set amongst rolling hills and a few pints at a pretty pub on an idyllic ancient village green, is as close to heaven as I am ever going to get (the Reverend Jeff knows instinctively that if it exists, I shall end up in that other place). Then, when one is certain it can get no better, we arrived at the old mill owned by Currencies Direct customer Peter Blue Water Bennett, to be greeted by his wife, the beautiful and perfectly formed Julie, to be given the keys. We intend to be here until the end of the week. It could not be better, a cottage attached to a soon to be working 15th century mill, in a beautiful secluded valley with that pub within walking distance (uphill there but gloriously down hill home, exactly the way it should be), I expect this to be a brilliant few days.
Some may say that I am very lucky to have amongst my closest friends people who own magnificent houses and, more pertinently, are seemingly happy to invite me to stay, but I say you make your own luck (and friends), however, that Nice Lady Decorator tends towards a different, and entirely unfounded view, that somehow she should be given the credit for these friendships, and I just happen to be the man in tow at the moment.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Festival Fever Tree
The compere said more in a short sentence than my eloquence over the full 600 words, that is your daily diet of my writing; “they don’t get any better than this, please welcome Eddie and the Hot Rods”, how very true!
I first booked these r n b icons at the Hunt Hotel in Leighton Buzzard in 1976, and I can say that I totally agree with the compere, they certainly have not got any better, or, for that matter, learned any new songs with the exception of “Once Bitten Twice Shy” the old Hunter Ronson classic.
We were at the Wychwood Festival in Cheltenham to see John Otway perform an impeccable solo set, far more vibrant and interesting than the Rods, during which we had attended to the needs of the Whychwood Brewery, who were co sponsors of the event by, sampling their Hobgoblin brew in fair measure.
On the way down to the Big Top where Mr Otway was strutting his stuff, we had been enticed by a pretty sales girl into trying an elderberry flower tonic water, and had formed the opinion that it would be best appreciated accompanied by a large gin. Anxious to test that theory after becoming replete with beer, we did so, about 6 times. Now here, one needs so appreciate the context. For some time, we have been on the lookout for plastic glasses that would be suitable for use near our pool in Valbonne. Thus the discovery that the gins and tonic were served in the perfect plastic receptacle, even with a thumb indentation to stop it slipping from your hand, was too much. Furthermore, the fact that they were offering 50p for the return of the plastic glasses gave the benchmark price for these items and that Nice Lady Decorator decided to approach the bar and negotiate the purchases of 30 of them for our bar in France. She was told that to buy the glasses would be £2.50 each? This of course was a nonsense, given the fact that they were effectively selling them for 50p with a drink. I need not tell you that it took a nano second for her to realise that by offering a people standing around the bar their 50p back when they had finished their drink, solved the problem. At the same time it created another. The Decorating Person was impatient to reach her target of 30 plastic glasses and took it upon herself to harass ( she called it persuasion) a number of happy drinkers to relinquish their glasses to her for a payment of 50p.That this tactic was only partially in meeting her target was the reason we had to imbibe so frequently, keeping the glasses on each occasion.
This is the type of thing you tend to see after 6 large gins and tonic
One of the happy festival goers initially resisted her entreaties to sell, mainly it has to be said, because he was it turns out that it was because he was the owner of Fever Tree, the company selling the drinks and those plastic glasses. He explained that it cost him £1.05 ( around 1.21. Euros at todays Currencies Direct exchange rates) each to buy, but she was so persuasive he ended up giving her three of them just to keep her quiet.
There was a drawback to all this however; they so not stack so by the time we were ready to leave we had a large plastic bin liner full of her booty. Arriving back at Dryhill, a quick siesta before dinner with the mad dentist and sundry other mad men and women, and some pole dancing by that Nice Lady Decorator, but a full report will have to wait.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Which way Whychwood?
According to Nigel “mad As A Box Of Frogs” Rowley I was once held ostrich . No, I cannot remember in which context he cracked that joke, but it was after a very agreeable 2003 Cru Bourgeois Medoc and then a delightful but still somewhat youthful 2008 Margaux, both of which were uncorked to accompany an exquisite lamb tajine, prepared by the equally delightful Leslie at Dryhill Farm, set in the shadow of the Iron Age settlement just above. This is Gloucestershire at its best. We were denied what looked at one stage would be a spectacular sunset due to a typically perverse English bank of cloud, that rolled in to obscure the sun, just as the second bottle of wine was about to emerge from its prison, but I did manage to take this picture of where it would have been if the English weather had been prepared to cooperate.
We had arrived in this lovely county in bright sunshine and feeling warm and, after a brief flirtation with a pint of Speckled Hen at the Air Balloon at Birdlip, we arrived in late afternoon at Dryhill in expectation of a sundowner. I am not sure if you, my reader, made the same immediate connection as I, but Birdlip and Speckled Hen seems the sort of material upon which Tommy Cooper could have dined out, as in “did you give that Birdlip?” , with some clever riposte, which I cannot put my finger on, involving hens with speckles. Obviously this column is too well written and clever for the author to consider the comedic possibilities of combining them both to come up with a joke, so unless you are very far sighted and are able to appreciate the humour of Tommy Cooper, look away now. Oh, to late, I have already cracked it.
Before the wine had flowed, we had walked along the top of the escarpment, with simply stunning views as far as the Malvern Hills and even the Brecon Beacons in(thankfully) the very far distance over the border in Wales.
Today is forecast to be splendidly sunny but I am prepared to bet that, by the time we get back from playing hippies, a cloud will appear from somewhere or a factory will catch fire or something and the sunset will once again be obscured. Before that, as I have said, the hippy thing will take precedence when we pop down to Cheltenham to see John Otway and many others perform at the Wychwood Festival. Whilst That Nice Lady Decorator and I have form when it comes to attending festivals over the years, including the wettest Glastonbury ever, Nigel has no idea. Doubtless I shall have to intercept him for a wardrobe check before we leave. I am not sure that his silk smoking jacket, silver topped cane, panama hat and spats are quite the attire one normally associates with a pop festival. I bet he has even considered a bath chair and a couple of porters.
Dinner tonight at Dryhill (in place of some beans warned over a camp fire at the festival) will be a riotous affair, attended as it will be by a mad dentist called Roger Moore (yes, his real name). I shall be reminding him and Nigel of a particular occasion several years ago when they were visiting our house in the south of France. It involved a windsurfer, my swimming pool, a garden chair, a distinct lack of clothing and a compromising photograph . It will be in this context that I expect to be able to secure another client for Currencies Direct and further to confirm the details of that wholesale order for 60 more copies of my book, The Valbonne Monologues, to place in the library of, and each fabulous house and apartment at Medina Palms, Nigel’s development at Watamu on the Kenyan coast. The book order is almost a certainty as both miscreants who were involved in the incident have very impressive careers behind them and I suspect that they would rather like the full details not to emerge. I like to think of this as character protection insurance rather than that ghastly word, blackmail.
Chris France
Hair and a hippy
I actually considered having a haircut. Two days before attending a hippy festival, Wychwood, in Cheltenham, to see John Otway and the Human League amongst others, it had crossed my mind that my hair was a bit long. It is if course entirely inappropriate to consider such a course of action, or indeed shaving, if one is to involve oneself deeply in the hippy ideal of attending a pop festival. A bit like the Muslim faith, hair is at a premium.
That I eschewed such a hair reduction scenario should tell you that I am serious about reliving my early glory days in the early 70’s (I was too young properly to enjoy the 60’s, probably the best decade ever in which to have grown up). My hair then was closer to my waist than to my ears and if I say so myself, allowed me to cut a dash across the young female contingent of Buckinghamshire. In a curious way, hair is still at a premium nowadays, but rather than considering having it cut, one is grateful for what there is left.
I know I should have embraced the idea of camping, and indeed I thought long and hard about it, but with serious Currencies Direct business to discuss, it was impossible for me to ignore my business responsibilities and immerse myself in the hippy lifestyle, much as I would have liked so to do. Instead, the corporate world took its unwelcome grip upon my life and forced me to agree to drive to Cheltenham today and stay with old pal Nigel medina palms Rowley at his house from which he can watch over his land, comprising, as it does, of most of Gloucestershire. Who am I to interfere with his enjoyment of the English idyll? As long as it results in another new customer then my sacrifice will have been worthwhile.
South Downs in spring
So I cancelled the appointment with the barber and instead immersed myself in the minutiae required when one is going to spend the next week walking around the wilds of Cornwall. The very first thing that one most consider in the list of essentials is nothing to do with warm clothing or footwear, it is to ensure that one will have sufficient quality and quantity of wine to withstand the rigours that may await. Better to be safe than sorry, my mother would have said, and I should not wish to be sorry about not having enough sustenance to keep one going through the rigours of living for a week in the West Country.
Thus, this morning, rather than visit Pegglers, the well-known expedition outfitters in the town, I shall be visiting Pallants, the wonderful deli and wine store in Arundel where I shall lay in the necessary provisions, such as the magnums of that 2005 Bordeaux to which I have formed a close attachment. From recollection, Cornwall is nowhere near as backward and as inhospitable as up north, so although it will be necessary to take some decent food, I am hoping that the odd pub may feature in our explorations. I shall also need to replenish my stocks of a 2001 Rioja Grand Reserva which were damaged, or perhaps the word should be denuded last night by That Nice Lady Decorator and a surprise visit from her cousin Peter. I thought that they could be sated by a couple of beers next door at The White Hart, but it merely sharpened their appetite for when we all came back to ours. I am almost nervous to go down stairs and see for myself the scale of that degradation, having left them cackling about old times shortly before midnight with several empties already on their way to a less than watery grave.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The commercial face of the hippy
Cornwall beckons later this week for a spot of walking. Sadly, the devil dog has survived the stolen rat poison. Banjo, my least favourite dog ever, briefly gave me some cause for hope that we would have but one dog for the upcoming trip when, a few days ago, we came back to find him chewing a cube of rat poison, but he seems as fit and as well as ever, so he will no doubt do his best to blight the forthcoming trip to Padstow.
On the way to Cornwall, well, a long way out of the way in fact, on Friday, we shall be preparing to go hippy at a pop festival. Yes, a man pushing 60 and a much younger beautiful Decorating Operative will revert to type, for one day only, to go to Cheltenham in readiness for an appearance by John Otway at the Wychwood Festival at the Cheltenham Race Course on Saturday. We shall not be camping, instead we shall be staying in palatial surroundings at the home of an old friend. I would have been quite happy to have pitched a tent and risked the unsavoury outdoor toilet facilities had there not been a very much more salubrious offering available and more pertinently, an important business responsibility looming. The difficult choice was between a five-star stay in a wonderful old house set in 5 acres of rolling Gloucestershire countryside overlooking Cheltenham, with access to a well stocked wine cellar and a sumptuous dinner, or, a night on a drafty, cold, probably wet plastic blow up mattress on a 5 square feet piece of land surrounded cheek by jowl with the great unwashed? A difficult choice and I am still wondering if it was the correct one. Well, which would you chose?
Which way is the tent?
It is a stopping off point for a few days rest and recuperation in the south-west. I am looking forward to getting to grips with the Camel Trail (as opposed to the camel toe? as someone, who misheard our destination, recently asked in a mystified fashion).
From Sunday onwards, we have been loaned the use of a house near Padstow for a few days, and thought we would combine that with a visit to Cheltenham to take long time lunatic Nigel “Medina Palms” Rowley to see even longer time lunatic John Otway perform at Wychwood. The fact that Nigel owns one of the finest houses in the county counted for nothing in the decision-making process, the choice to accept his kind offer of hospitality was made merely because he has flirted with the idea of opening an account with Currencies Direct for a number of years now, and so I thought I should give up the opportunity once again to experience the ideal hippy ideal in order to spend some quality time with him and the gorgeous Leslie, and see if I could push him over the line. So that’s clear then, I have had to give up the hippy dream for the reality of business, and let me hear no more about it.
A late abandonment of a diet day yesterday, due to more grotty weather and the resulting dissatisfaction of that Nice Lady Decorator, was very unwelcome, but if was my duty to support her in her decision, whatever the personal cost. And that completes the case for the defence, it was a self-defence.
Thus we stepped out in the early evening for a small libation, with the spurious justification that it was the start of the weekend (Wednesday evening for Christ’s sake, and a bank holiday week). By counting back to the evening before, I was able to demonstrate that only 600 calories had passed my lips in 24 hours, so we went to celebrate.
Chris France
Only one eye in Colin
In all the furore concerning Otway the Movie, which now has a YouTube promo, I have omitted to update you on sales of that colossus of literary achievement, The Valbonne Monologues, sales of which are now standing at a very impressive 105, after a couple of lucky Otway fans tracked me down to buy one in Cannes, and after the launch of the title on Kindle.
With Sprogs returning, locust like from various educational institutions, to visit their parents (read fleece parents for as much food and drink as possible in as short a time as possible), it was perhaps inevitable that we ended up for lunch at The Black Rabbit, that picturesque pub on the River Arun just outside Arundel. Having had a partial fill there, and then their having returned to the house almost to empty the entire contents of the fridge, liquid refreshment eventually became the next most pressing need of the day. Unaccountably, the Sprogs like The Eagle, the pub in Tarrant Street, which is rocking when there is a band on, but dead as dodo when there is no entertainment. Last night there was no entertainment. Worse still, there was no proper beer. How on earth can this pub survive when all three of its proper beers are off? Another that may be looking down the barrel of new management shortly, unless there is a business model here too obscure for my understanding.
There was however a very real and wonderful alternative close by in The Kings Arms, run by Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson, who does at least have a leg to stand on, but only the one. Talking of one, in the pub we bumped into the sultry goddess Sandra and Colin the Pirate formerly known as One Eyed Colin before that Nice Lady Decorator ruled that name out-of-order, and, having persuaded the Sprogs to leave the Eagle for the Kings with promises of London Pride and sickly ciders respectively, we were able to tell them the story of last weeks dinner party when One Eyed Colin celebrated his new epithet in this column of Colin the Pirate, by greeting us at a dinner engagement with an eye patch and a talking parrot. Naively perhaps, I thought at first that this might be his normal attire when at home, but the dawning realisation that he did, in fact, read this column, came quickly.
Regular readers will know that Colin had preprogrammed a mechanical, furby like talking parrot to respond to certain words; but what I had not spotted was that when prompted with the name Colin, the parrot had said “there is only one I in Colin”, the sort of joke (there of course being only one I in Colin) that I would normally devour, but which I totally missed at the time.
Rape seed field before the rain
After an uncharacteristically sunny bank holiday weekend, the disgusting weather which pointed up the beginning of autumn yesterday was something of a blow, but one cannot have everything, although some in my family do not believe that. My walk yesterday was as muddy as the trenches and exacerbated by losing the senior dog Max, the amiable of the two dogs in our family, In a rapeseed field, meaning half an hour became an hour and I was to find out first hand what trench foot was all about.
A brighter day today is promised so I shall be up with the lark, a song in my heart and with Currencies Direct in my mind. There are still those untouched by the foreign exchange missionary work and that knowledge drives me on. Then we must begin to prepare to go to Cheltenham on Friday, a pop festival on Saturday and then Cornwall for some beer walking for a few days on Sunday.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Castled by rat poison?
Regular readers will know that I entertain a massive antipathy for a dog called Banjo, who has infested our house since That Nice Lady Decorator foisted this cantankerous, catastrophic, calamitous, kleptomaniac Klingon of a hound upon us, at my expense I might add, some years earlier. The bane of my life (and generally I love dogs) he has an innate ability to ruin my day.
So rat poison. I love rat poison because it is brilliant at destroying vermin. Thus to walk back into the garden to find that most unpleasant dog in the whole world chewing a cube of the stuff, seemed to me to be him getting his err… just desserts. Employing the ingenuity of a cat burglar, he had managed to dig his way into an outside cupboard and steal the poison . We had arrived back from an indifferent lunch at the Black Horse at Clymping and discovered the horror dog chewing a a cube of rat poison and looking very pleased with himself. My cup runneth over. Surely I cannot be so lucky as to wake up thus morning to the demise of the worst spaniel ever to grace this earth? I live in hope, but as I write this in the White Hart at race night I have a horrible feeling that he will be able to survive such a poisonous episode and when I go down to the kitchen this morning, he still be there, his inane malevolent self.
Arundel Castle gardens
Earlier, we had been been into the beautiful grounds of Arundel Castle, pictured above, to witness a controlled and advertised siege, which means we were charged £8 to watch a couple of medieval cannons being discharged. Having thus discharged ourselves from proceedings as quickly as possible, we headed for the Black Horse at Clymping, under new management, to see if they could do justice to a fantastic old pub, which needs some TLC on order for it to be somewhere decent to go. Whilst better than under previous ownership, there is still a great distance to travel before his fine old establishment can be considered a worthwhile luncheon venue. A limited menu, more aimed at a winter audience, such was its concentration on pies and sausages, meant that for me, fish and chips was the only option, which is simply too limited a choice to compete with the plethora of gastro pubs that exist within 10 miles of Arundel. I want it to work, but a decent fish dish, which does not involve deep frying in batter, is a necessity, and if you are going to serve mushy peas they must come in something bigger than an eggcup.
There, I have had my say as the self-appointed food critic of Arundel and surrounds. So, after a slightly disappointing lunch we returned to our garden in very pleasant sunshine and then it all started to unravel after the excitement surrounding the dog. It was the sunshine, together with the promise of a return to rain today, that was to blame, that and a thirst which always happens to coincide with a bank holiday and sunshine.
By evening I found myself alone at the White Hart race night, that Nice Lady Decorator having at first taken me down to see the lovely old house belonging to Low Fidelity Fi. I baled out to go to the pub to see if I could rustle up some new Currencies Direct customers and hey presto, success! Jez, I shall want to see that complete application back this week.
An invasion of both Sprogs today for the rest of the week means extra pressure on my wallet and waistline. One can hardly expect to do a diet day when locusts are devouring everything in sight…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Arundel under siege
With sunshine in evidence, and it being my choice as to where to walk, it was inevitable I was going to get it wrong, which was a theme which was going to develop as the day wore on. Binstead Woods looked on the Ordnance Survey map as if it might be quite interesting, but in fact it was a largely boggy marsh with a few trees. Also, it was mostly in the shade, which turns out to be not exactly what That Nice Lady Decorator had in mind as it was a rare sunny day and she, perversely in my opinion, wanted to walk in it.
Of course, I was not told what she had in mind before I made my choice, but I was left in no doubt that it was not Binstead Woods. My protestations that it was very pretty, as evidenced by today’s photo, fell on deaf ears. I had made the first of what would turn out (apparently) to be a string of mistakes for which I would be justifiably punished.
Binstead Woods
It was deemed so unsatisfactory, that I was instructed to take her and her new friend who had accompanied us, the lovely Low Fidelity Fi, to the beach, via Ford market for some retail therapy, on the way to the Black Horse at Clymping. It was a Sunday and by the time we reached the pub the sun was (just) past the yardarm and they were thirsty. I was tempted to avoid imbibing myself, but only for a nanosecond.
Beforehand, when we had made it to the beach, the tide was in, or was it ? Either way it was also certainly my fault, but my shoulders are broad and blame lies easily upon them, a fact that was to be brought home to me later for, I think, daring to leave the luncheon table without properly refilling the girls glasses, or not providing sufficient ice, I am not sure which.
I had left the two of them gossiping in the garden after lunch and had popped in to watch the cricket, with England back to somewhere near their best. Returning to refill glasses, the girlies were nowhere to be seen, perhaps having done to the pub? So I returned to watch more cricket, until awoken with a torrent of abuse because I had not cleared up after lunch, which I did not know was over. I was told, although not in these exact terms, that I was useless, lazy,of doubtful parentage and several other things.
My contribution to luncheon proceedings was not acknowledged, my preparation of the wine, the general serving of drinks when the neighbours came to call, the dash to the Co Op to buy cheese for the cheeseboard, and my failure to clear up (before they had finished !(?) was a deeply disturbing sin and one for which I am now contrite.
Incredibly, the bank holiday has coincided with some delightful weather, which, as I look out of the window, looks set to continue until at least midday, so my instincts to undertake a diet day may have to be shelved. Thankfully it is not my turn to choose where to walk, so I shall be able to be the complainer, should the route not match my expectations, which if I was of Decorating ilk, I would not reveal until after the walk had been completed. Between you and I, I fancy some deeply shaded woodland…
As I have said, it is a bank holiday so I feel it would not be appropriate to mention how an account with Currencies Direct could light up your foreign exchange life, that will have to wait until tomorrow, when I shall be back on duty.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A fete worse than death
There was an Austin Healey but thankfully no Morris Dancers. The fete (worse than death… eek) at Burpham was the usual English attractive nonsense of stalls of home-made cakes, tombola, coconut shy and vintage car show, although this ran to just the one, a splendid blue Austin Healey coupe. At this stage, the Goodwood Revival need have no worries about being usurped as the premier gathering of classic cars in Sussex.
We walked over from Arundel in fitful sunshine with the idea of attending this quintessential example of English country living and entertainment, followed by a late lunch at the George and Dragon at Burpham. Situated within sight of the fete being staged on the cricket ground next door, we were secure in the knowledge that the pub would be aware of the commercial possibilities of maybe a thousand visitors to this sleepy village. However, knowledge is a curious thing, it does not always lead to education.
Burpham Fete
Having spent 20 minutes avoiding heavy looking home-cooked cakes and stodgy looking jams, we popped over to the pub at 2.30 and we were told the kitchen was shut, so, faced with this ridiculous commercial masochism, after more than a couple of pints of Sussex Gold on the benches outside, listening to people asking for menus, and receiving the same answer, we reluctantly headed back to the fete for a very uninspiring hot dog before walking back to civilisation. With country pubs struggling to survive in the modern world, the sheer commercial ineptitude of failing to take advantage of a god given opportunity to make a few quid is surely endangering the existence of another lovely pub. Tirade over.
The walk back took a little longer then the walk there, (why would that be?) but seemed shorter. Periods of warm sunshine gave hope of a nice afternoon, but intermittent large clouds kept a constant damper on the temperature. In any event, by the time we reached The White Hart, we were thirsty.
After one with the locals, and with the sun gone from the pub garden, but still shining brightly in ours, we left the rustle of coats and jumpers being put on and went to sit in our garden over a glass of wine to testiculate (wave ones arms around and talk bollocks). I am sure that at some stage in the future I will come to recall elements of the conversation, but not today.
I do remember the plan straight after the Indian takeaway was delivered was to get an hour’s siesta and then get up and go into the town, as it was bound to be rocking due to the three-day medieval siege being staged at Arundel Castle. Sadly, the next thing I recall is be awakened by the alarm going off in the Co-Op across the road at 1.30am.
I said three-day siege, and so we shall have an opportunity to see what is happening today and tomorrow. I am sure it will be a spectacle of colour and history, but a siege? Why not a battle? At least we might see a bit of gore, but a siege implies something a little less vibrant. It reminds me a little of the closure of the George and Dragon yesterday. Loads of hungry people outside looking for food, loads of people locked inside with provisions, refusing to let those outside in. It is a confusing world.
Of course it can be a little less confusing if one was to use Currencies Direct for ones foreign exchange transactions, but I would not want to labour that point during a weekend, although some regular readers may exhibit a siege mentality, at least until they have opened their account, but if that is the case then it is entirely advertent. Actually, that is probably what I need at the siege, an advert tent. I think on that note I should leave you for today. You can have too much of a good thing you know.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Pole dancing or Morris dancing?
The howling wind and sleety rain showers were exactly the type of miserable weather to compliment a 600 calorie diet day. Misery seems to go well with more misery. We had decided to explore the public footpaths round Goodwood, an area which also boasts a number of pubs which have been recommended to us since we moved to Arundel last summer. The inclement weather was the perfect antidote to any Friday afternoon “pint in the sunshine” temptation to which we may have been subjected in different conditions, and so a diet day remained intact. That Nice Lady Decorator was unamused as we dashed up a hill overlooking the racecourse in strengthening rain, when I mentioned that it is merely 4 weeks before the nights start drawing in again, and we shall have to consider setting some logs in for the winter.
It had been a long week, so a night without alcohol and time to consider events was a bit of a relief. It started last weekend in Cannes with lunch on the beach in British weather, the march of the 100 Otway’s up the Croisette during the Cannes Film Festival, and then that epic sail over to St Tropez for lunch on Monday, followed by a dinner up north with some dear, if rather unsophisticated friends and then dinner with a pirate and his beautiful partner. No need to Roger the cabin boy here. So rather than use a picture from a dank and dreary Britain, I thought today’s picture should be of happier times. It is of That Nice Lady Decorator practising her well-known pole dancing skills on the way back anoard Master Mariner Mundane’s boat L’Exocet.
Slippery slope or greasy pole?
Today, after a morning constitutional , I believe there is a plan to attend Burpham Fete, mainly it has to be said, because it is being staged next door to the George and Dragon on the cricket ground and it is a pleasant 2 mile walk and I feel a couple of pints and a spot of lunch coming on, before pin the tale on the yokel or whatever passes for sport in these parts nowadays.
Actually, I am being slightly disingenuous as I do enjoy the Englishness of a village fete and in fact, have not been to one for several years as I have lived in France, and we tend to go the beach and have a sumptuous fish lunch with lashings of rose in the sunshine, rather than hide under umbrellas with Wellington boots, eating cold cream teas and rock cakes that are as hard as their names suggest. However, it is just that, the very Englishness of the entertainment for which I have a sneaking admiration, unless there are Morris Dancers. I draw the line at Morris Dancers, well, unless I could have a hit record with some of them. You see I have a reputation for being involved in err… unusual recordings. Who could forget the classic Supermarioland, or the Rolf Harris version of Bohemian Rhapsody, or my forays into Eurovision with Sam Fox? Well, all of you I hope.
So expect a report tomorrow on the Burpham Fete, unless the weather forecast is wrong and it is not as sunny as they say it will be. As I look out of the window this morning the jury is still out. Sun and cloud in equal measure, although far superior to the dreadful weather of yesterday, could go either way. It is difficult to see what might happen, a bit like a badger on a zebra crossing.
I have just read this through and it is very good, except for the fact that I have omitted to mention the benefits that can be bestowed upon one by signing up with Currencies Direct, which is a bad omission considering that was the reason this column came to life. Never mind, there is always tomorrow.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Not a patch on a pirate?
Dodging the snow showers, a sure sign according to the folks up north that summer was imminent, we set off back towards the sultry south, duty having been done amongst the great unwashed Currencies Direct customers of the north,
It had been a splendidly short visit, and my worries that the anti-freeze which was omnipresent in the engine of the Merc may not have been sufficient to allow the car to start, were unfounded, enabling us to escape the frozen north for the comparatively balmy south. For balmy, read 13 degrees, about the average in a poor January in Valbonne, but with that shoulder-hunching burden that comes with being up north gradually dissipating, we were looking forward to a dinner engagement with Colin The Pirate and his sultry goddess the wonderful Sandra.
Now I thought that neither of the above were regular readers of this column, but in any event, That Nice Lady Decorator had taken me to task for calling him One Eyed Colin, a rather cruel reference to a lazy eye, so I had changed it to Colin The Pirate. Regular readers will be aware that spending any significant time in my company will usually eventually elicit some rudeness from me, but I was told that I did not know Colin well enough to insult him, yet. It was when he opened the door and stood there in full pirate costume shouting “Ahoy, Jim Lad, pieces of eight” and the like, and sporting a very eye-catching eye patch, that it began to dawn on me that perhaps I was more widely read that I had previously thought. The final touch was the centrepiece of the dinner table where a full-sized mechanical talking parrot rested. It had been pre-programmed to respond to names. It’s response to “Chris” was a rather unflattering “Captain Pugwash?” in a questioning tone. I suppose justice was done, one-all and an honourable draw.
Pirate party
The parrots response to That Nice Lady Decorator was “happy birthday” and wisely, the lovely Sandra was greeted with the entirely accurate “sultry goddess”. Saying Colin loudly brought “One Eyed Colin” and on balance, I think I prefer that. After all it could have been”optometrist very optimistic”, but that would have been too much of a mouthful (which is exactly why I deserve). Their puppy is called Homer and he was not to be left out. His response was “big black stud” which, if I am honest, more accurately described my god self, but that is a matter for discussion on another day.
After dinner, accompanied by a magnum of a rather nice Medoc, and a really good Taylor’s vintage port, to which, had I not been tired having spent 9 hours driving over the past two days, I would have had a much more intimate acquaintance, we discussed our hosts forthcoming holiday break to Hampshire. Had we been going with them and their dog then it could truly have been 5 go mad in The New Forest. Homer would of course had to be renamed Timmy, and I would have been angling for something a little stronger than lashings of ginger beer, and been looking forward to some references to being very licky but I think l have laboured that joke long enough.
And so, after seven days of continual work, interspersed with a few drinks, and with the damage wrought to my now even more corpulent frame, diet day has commenced. This is a very daring enterprise for a Friday, as the temptation of it being a bank holiday weekend and living next door to a pub may combine to undermine the good intentions, but a general jaded malaise may still come to my rescue. Find out in tomorrows thrilling instalment.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Northern soul
With the temperature dropping steadily, mile by mile as we sped away from the civilised south, the reality of heading “up north” was dawning. Much as one feels when you see the tax demand on the mat, a frisson of fear stabs at the heart.
By the time we arrived at the beautiful but wild northern outpost of Chester, it was barely above freezing (the locals pleased with this, describing it as a “good summer”) and I realised I had forgotten to check the anti freeze levels in the car. Inappropriately dressed, we waited for a lull in the hurricane before risking opening the doors , aware of the danger of them acting like a parachute and ripping them off, we eventually dashed to the cheery confines of the splendid abode of plastic surgeon Douglas “Mac The Knife” McGeorge and the willowy and gorgeous Sarah.
Cheery because all the peat fires were lit in deference to our arrival, and we were greeted with a glass of Bollinger, which unaccountably, had survived being shipped up north. One obvious benefit of the cold was that no ice was required as it could be served at room temperature.
OK, enough. The McGeorge mansion is fabulous, with views over to the Welsh hills, and we were given the entire top floor for out stay, from where I took today’s photo. A quick change and then into Chester for dinner with some of the locals at the quite wonderful Oddfellows. Amongst the guests were curtain magnate, Graham Tomlinson and his voluptuous child bride, Louise, the lovely blonde and beautiful Alex Smeaton, together with smouldering (was that smoke?) husband Andrew. Louise was the first to allow the high standards that these northern chaps had been trying to maintain to lapse, (in the face of visitors from the sultry south) regaling us with how she could not repress a smile when some of her staff, when they were assigned different tasks in their retail outlets, depending upon customers needs, were referred to as “Floaters”. Whilst she was saying this, I was frantically trying to work out what was amusing her, but no inspiration came.
Room with a view
Other charming local colloquialisms were also aired and I made a note of one; “Slipped her a crippler”. This was greeted universally with knowing looks and smiles but again I can only guess at its true meaning, however when I began to think it through, again I became quite slightly queasy. These northern folk have a wonderful turn of phrase. I often have no idea about what they are saying but I do so love watching the locals enjoy themselves.
I also learned a little about geography, again from the child bride of the curtain magnate, over which I should have drawn a veil (eek). It was when I was pointing out that geographically the north was, by implication, north of London, where I was born, she said she was not from the north, but from Wales. “What part?” I asked. Anglesey she replied. “Is that not in north Wales?” I asked. She agreed it was. I let the matter drop because she is perfectly formed, bubbly and very pretty, but I still do not know what colour her eyes were, I could not raise my gaze height enough above that wonderful cleavage.
Business done, even a slight possibility of securing a new customer for Currencies Direct (Andrew, I have been very gentle with you here so far, but any backsliding on that application form and things can change very quickly. Please don’t consider that to be blackmail, just gentle persuasion, otherwise that firework incident from last year may have to be aired in this column).
Chris France
Undergarment shocker
It was on the way from Valbonne to Nice airport that a question popped into my mind; If Peachy eats souris d’agneau, (knuckle of lamb, ) is that like taking a lamb to the slaughter?
I had spent sometime early in the morning deciding on exactly which embarrassing picture of the great (sized) man, swapping clothing with that Nice Lady Decorator at Tahiti Beach in St Tropez. It was when I started to go through the photographs on my phone, and discovered a range of pictures of events only half remembered, that I was thinking that any opportunity to make a clown of himself is accepted with alacrity.
There was a curious break in continuity. Peachy had started the day in his white Vilbrequin shorts festooned with tiny lobsters, but some of the pictures of him dancing later on in the afternoon, showed his lower half (a very big half) covered by some material of a different colour, as my photograph today reveals. I have had to arrive at the inevitable conclusion that he had stripped down to his underpants before joining in with the dancing on the tables.
What is that Nice Lady Decorator attempting to do?
Inevitably after a big weekend and a really big finish to a big weekend on Monday, yesterday represented something of a balancing out. It is a measure of how damaged were we both that neither of us took any alcoholic sustenance either in the executive lounge (where drinks are free) or on the plane back to Gatwick.
However, with Sprog 1 arriving back in the evening, a modicum of normality sneaked back in and we went for a couple of pints with him at the Kings Arms, and then a takeaway at the Magna Tandoori. It was only after the second pint that I began to feel normal. We did have a reasonably early night, because I have work to do today, which involves driving up the wilds of the north west, through the tundra strewn wilderness to a particularly strange area almost on the border of unexplored Wales. There are several targets for me wearing my Currencies Direct hat, but I cannot reveal of whom I speak because some of them who will be at a dinner tonight in Chester, also read this column, and I don’t want to alert the potential targets.
One night in Paris sounds alluring, but I dare to suggest that the concept of one night in Chester is not for the faint hearted and may not get the taste buds salivating in quite the same manner. It perhaps could be argued that the culinary excellence exuded by Paris could be matched by the culinary daring of this northern outpost. Fois gras versus pigeon purée? Fillet de boeuf versus rump of whippet? or marinated olives versus sheep droppings? (OK, that is a bit cruel, but they are the same shape and size, and I would not put in past them to sneak in a little joke). But that us our lot tonight, and the suspicion about what we shall eat will be counterbalanced perfectly by the fear of what we shall be given to drink. I am hoping that a couple of pints of the second best beer in the world, Timothy Taylor’s Landlord, will be sufficient to be able to bear a Chester Chardonnay or a Macclesfield Merlot.
Back to Arundel tomorrow with just a couple of days of rest before the weekend will not only be very welcome, but almost certainly a requirement to be able to function properly. At least that Nice Lady Decorator has pulled a muscle so we may be spared her dancing on tables, but that is not something that I can guarantee.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Chris France's Blog 