There was snow hangover
I was told yesterday that I was drinking port until the early hours of the night before, but have no recollection of such profligacy. I also had an entirely unconnected headache and hangover of monumental proportions. The blame for these happening must be laid entirely at the feet of our guests, Steve yeah yeah yeah Jackson and his high-powered wife, the lovely Rowena.
From The White Hart to the Kings Arms for a pint of London Pride before going to the Bay Tree, all was well and then as we left we bumped into Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor. He was on his way to the Eagle where there was a band playing and before we knew it we had joined him, and that is where it all started to unravel.
I thought a walk on the South Downs in the snow would help but it did not. I even turned down the suggestion that we might stop for a pint and even sitting and enduring a ceaseless stream of Miss Marple meets Poirot in Midsomer Murders last night on TV was insufficient to tempt me back to the alcoholic dark side.
South Downs in the snow
Regular readers will have surmised that Friday night was epic. Three pubs and a restaurant, dancing (not by me) great food and even greater entertainment at the expense of my friend, the grinning northerner ended allegedly in the dribbling of some of a vintage year of Portugal’s best. Being so committed to all things northern makes him an easy target for me. His contention that northern beer is superior to southern beer is childishly easy to expose, and he saw no irony in drinking copious quantities of the southern version, there being little of the inferior ale available in Arundel.
He was however rightly dismissive of the southern trait of refusing to or making excuses not to drive in the snow, but when you live that far north, it must be second nature, even in the summer. In fact this moment of comparative lucidity persuaded me begin to tell him of some of the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct but it was when he started to dribble again I realised that it was not going in. Some fell on stony ground. It was different with his wife the lovely Rowena. As CEO of a decent sized company and the breadwinner in the family, she understood the advantages immediately, I think she is very kind to him and looks after him like one would a small poodle. I think she also must like a bit of rough.
So last night was a very quiet one without a drink to be seen or indeed desired but today we have a treat in store. We have been rounded up, deputised you might say, by the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, the sultry Kathryn, to go to lunch this afternoon, thus I intend to try to get back on the horse that bolted yesterday. I am not sheriff (ouch) that’s all the cowboy jokes for today but I know you hope so.
Thereafter I intend to be a hermit this week in training for MIDEM, the annual music business junket in Cannes starting this coming weekend. It is also coming up to Burns Night so we have been instructed to buy some haggis to take down to Valbonne in case the opportunity to celebrate is offered, as I believe it will. My kilt is still in France so it may well get dusted off for another go. When I wear it I am sometimes asked if I have Scottish antecedents, but I tell people that I am still using the ointment and I hope they have now cleared up.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Tucked into a pig roast?
God must be having a laugh at my expense. The Reverend Jeff must be to blame. The fall to earth started as soon as we left Tenerife South airport on a dreadfully cramped Monarch horror flight. To start with, being delayed for an hour was no real hardship as the temperature was 24 degrees, the sun was shining and the executive lounge (where us executives choose to spend their time at airports) was stocked with a rather good Rioja, to which I was paying my respects with some reverence.
Eventually though, we were invited to board the plane. I say board but being shoe-horned might be a better description. The leg room on Easyjet was generous in comparison. So I had just assumed the foetal position, the only option giving the seating, when the shrieking started.
I see it as a deliberate act of aggression. The stewards must have had a look in the lounge and identified me as someone who was having too much fun and looking too well after a weeks relaxation and sunshine and then decided where to put the kid from hell. One seat behind me.
Damien’s parents parenting skills were as developed as Josef Fritzl.
I could have shut the little brat up in 2 minutes given a bottle, a dummy and a sharp smack so he understood some manners (the child I mean, although maybe the parents as well) but because of a complete lack of any skills whatsoever the horrid little tyke managed to ruin and lengthen the flight for everyone within 50 yards of him who did not have earphones or earplugs. That Nice Lady Decorator had earphones, I did not. Chloroform should have been administered as basic human compassion.
Yesterday morning, having finally reached home at 2am, just to ensure we knew we were back, the snow gods decided to dump their load on Arundel. Had it remained all white and Christmassy then I would have been content, but as so often in England, snow became slush and the brightness was replaced by a dull grey morass.
The snow while it was still fun
So by the time Steve “yeah yeah yeah” Jackson and his wife, the lovely and impossibly high-powered Rowena arrived (an hour early – well they are from up north and I suppose entertainment and invitations, even though they invited themselves, are rare -) I was ready for a drink. They had brought not the Scunthorpe Chardonnay that I had suggested they might, as Scunthorpe is apparently not in Yorkshire as I had thought, but Lincolnshire, which I suppose raises its allure somewhat. Instead they brought another gem, some Ripley Rioja. Once we had removed the top layer of grease, mud and sticks, Steve pronounced it very drinkable.
So after a couple of bottles of prosecco to get rid of the aftertaste we headed into Arundel in search of a pub and immediately stumbled across The White Hart next door, where I was able to introduce Steve to proper southern beer. He is a lovely chap, able to deal with being outshone by his wife on every level, probable also on the cricket pitch should she ever put her mind to it, but seems happy in his own little northern world, in the utterly mistaken certainty that northern beer is better than southern. He is probably equally as certain that the world is flat, indeed a flat cap might add something to his sartorial style. Anyway, we ended up in The Eagle after a very good meal in The Bay Tree where I tried to educate him, but although the lights were on as evidenced by the cheeky grin, there was no one at home.
They had come south “to get tucked into a pig roast”. One could forgive a rabid hunger given the lack of real food up in Yorkshire, but the way he used the expression “tucked in” raised my suspicions. Clearly there is not much entertainment up north. The last thing I remember is sitting in our inglenook with a large Havana and extolling to Rowena the virtues of using Currencies Direct, a service that she said would consider if only in the grounds that said consideration made dinner a legitimate business expense.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Confusion rains in Essex on sea.
I considered inventing a torn fetlock to avoid having to walk almost to Caleta for that Nice Lady Decorator to have one last long lingering look at the naked Spanish hippy, but as it turned out, we did not have enough time for the hellish trip, thank the lord, or the Reverend Jeff if you prefer.
It was our last day in Tenerife and thus the last day of sunshine for some considerable time and the most had to be made of the opportunity to hone ones tan in order to show off to ones friend upon one’s return. I had been told in no uncertain terms, that as soon as we returned to the womb of Arundel, that we were to have a complete week of no social occasions and no drinking before venturing back to France next Friday. However, it now seems that we have house husband yeah-yeah-yeah Jackson and his mightily intellectually superior wife Rowena, whom we met in Adelaide, visiting from up north this evening. I suppose we may expect a gift of some Scunthorpe Chardonnay. Snow will be involved, so there is a chance they will not make it, but then there is now a dinner on Saturday (I know not where) and lunch with the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, the lovely Kathryn on Sunday, so I would say that the planned period of abstinence is in tatters. Stupid plan anyway. For all that is sacred (this again for the Reverend Jeff) we will on Friday be entering Peachyland, the most dangerous place on the planet for non drinkers, so I would contend that we have some training to do. easing up now could be disastrous.
Anyway, we left Essex on sea last evening with some regret as the weather has been great for a whole week. Temperatures in the early to mid 20’s sunshine and a lovely coastline has repaired my good humour and I feel I can now face the damp and drizzle (or snow if the forecast is to be believed) of jolly old England. Also there will be no naked hippy to blight my little world, or if there is then he will be freezing his little brass monkeys off. It has not been a successful week for my endeavours with Currencies Direct, but I had that sinking feeling in my heart from the moment we left Gatwick. Clearly there is no longer anyone left in Essex who is sufficiently affluent to be able to afford a house abroad and therefore benefit from their services.
Little Miss Princess with her red shell suit, muffin top, horrible bright red lipstick, loud Essex accent and cheap silver boots was sadly lacking on the return flight, but there was enough of the spirit of Essex aboard in order to provide some entertainment. Once again announcements informing the travellers that the drinking of their own alcohol on the plane were ringing out with the regularity of a heartbeat. It was suggested that any illicit consumption would entail the confiscation of said alcohol, but that would have required a stomach pump. I wonder what the more geographically challenged inhabitants of that fair county would have made of this signpost. As you can see, there is no sign for Basildon.
No sign of Romford?
Whereas I hate rain and greyness, snow is a very different matter, if indeed it does decide to snow properly. With a commute to work of around 10 metres to my shed, I feel sure I shall be able to battle through, but my bet is on wet snow and slush by this afternoon.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Naked Spanish hippy syndrome?
What I want to know is why, on every walking trip out of the Bahia Principe, the route always seems to take us past the naked hippy and his various trinkets, some of which are not displayed in his market stall. You will know that I am not in charge of the route, and indeed the word root might be at the root of my problems. One will know that a problem identified with most of his sort is that they are regularly stoned, so I wanted to feature a picture today that best illustrates this state, but this is all I could come up with.
Modern Spanish building techniques revealed?
Yesterday we took a taxi to Playa Funabi, which was as close as either of us dared to go to Playa des Americas, the supposed arse end of Tenerife. Funabi would have been fun if you were 18, stupid and wanted an English breakfast and then a large beer for 1.50 euros (about £1.25 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rate). It was not fun for an aged impresario resting from his activities as a music mogul, or his very young and gorgeous looking wife.
We had resolved to walk back along the coast, some 7 miles with a couple of beer stops en route and this is exactly how it panned out. I formed a decent impression of the Playa del Duque, with no emphasis on del as on Del Boy. Higher prices, better looking restaurants and generally an air of genteel quality replaced the awful places we had left behind.
After a beer in Funabi, in a bar we had to share with a Dutchman with a serious dose of Tourette’s syndrome, with his regular outbursts keeping that Nice Lady Decorator amused, we had to leave as his symptoms became more and more pronounced and she was in danger of spraying her beer in my direction. Praise the Lord that were not in the company of some less restrained people.
We got to La Caleta at around 2pm for a pit stop at El Peurtita, the final resting place on the way back to Gods Waiting Room, the name that has now been attached to the resort in which we have stayed for the last week. We will say goodbye this afternoon to the Bahia Principe, glad to have escaped the last stop on the way to oblivion. If there is no post tomorrow then you will know I did not escape the clutches of the devil (this just for regular reader and inferior golfer the Reverend Jeff).
Yes, from sunshine and warmth to darkness and Gatwick seems in some way a to illustrate a similar change in circumstances, but fortified by a sun tan I am ready to face the icy damp hell that is England, where we shall spend an uncomfortable week trying to maintain some colour before travelling to Valbonne at the end of next week in readiness for MIDEM.
The annual convention of the great and good of the music industry will see me in Cannes, as in each of the 32 previous January’s. The week ahead will be spent plotting, or rather planning how best to use this renowned meeting of minds and which beach restaurants in which to enact those very meetings. Perish the thought that this can be viewed as pleasure, nothing could be further from the truth. This is work and it needs to be done .
One final half day then of sunshine and relaxation today before dishonest endeavour commences. Doubtless the last morning will see us walking somewhere, and I have little doubt that the route we shall take we shall once again stumble across (perhaps an unwise choice of words) an unclothed Spanish hippy with something to sell.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Cape Adeje trek
Did I mention the stairs? On our walk the day before yesterday to La Caleta, just as I was discovering that a taxi was not the preferred form of return transport, and in the full knowledge that the reason we were going to walk the 5 miles back was down to my stupidity. I looked at the steps.
My mistake was that I had mentioned the well-endowed naked Spanish hippy we had met on the walk over (and whom, as she was standing opposite him on the other side of his open air market stall, she had failed to realise was naked). Clearly I had made a major error of judgement and the five-mile trek was commenced to ensure that she could witness what I had witnessed, and been stupid enough to reveal. La Caleta is reached by way of a large buttress from which one walks down a lot of stairs. During the range of arguments I had developed to support my fruitless case for a taxi, I had claimed there were at least 150 of them. This was dismissed as fanciful. In fact when it came to it there were 199. I know, I counted them and walked up them. I think I could give them all names, so etched in my memory were they.
Yesterday was worse. That Nice Lady Decorator had decided to walk to a golf club that we had seen in the hills above El Peurtito. The fact that it was at least 1000 feet above sea level, and we were staying at said sea level, did not discourage her, she was determined. What was bad was that she expected and she insisted that I accompany her. Two hours after we has left, a thousand feet higher and fried to a crisp in the burning sun, we dragged ourselves, exhausted, into the golf club, which had thoughtfully put its club house and bar at the farthest possible point away from where he first encountered the course. Thus when we arrived at the edge of the course it was still 2 miles to walk to ale salvation, and an environment in which I expected would be inhabited by the type of person sufficiently well versed in the way of the world to realise the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct for their foreign exchange needs.
Cape Adeje golf course
The golf club looked splendid as my picture today may capture. An 18 hole course for men and a 9 hole course for the ladies (only joking!) looked wonderful from the raised terrace and a cold beer in hand. Next time we come here I will bring my golf shoes.
Today will be different. Firstly, we have seen the first clouds in 4 days. It was enough to obscure the sun at sun down and to make the ritual of witnessing it with a glass of cava a little less enjoyable than hitherto. Perhaps today is the day with the forecast of a 0.02% liklehood of rain. It will be different as we have decided to bite the bullet and take, I was going to say advantage, of a free resort bus to the, what I expect to be ghastly, Playa des Americas. The reason being that if we were to come again at Easter when we have foolishly promised the Sprogs a holiday, there would have to be some kind of “entertainment” for them, So if I come over a bit Essex tomorrow then you will know why.
Last night then to the buffet at the hotel, where we have had quite decent meals throughout the week so far, but execrable entertainment, and nowhere from which to escape. It is “Country Roads” or sit on the outside terrace and get cold. We sat on the terrace.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Camping on a naturist beach
Nobody told me we were walking back. We had slogged all the way along the spectacular coast from our resort, the Bahia Principe the 5 miles or so to La Caleta, a pretty seaside town a little too near to Essex-On-Sea at Los Christianos and Playa des Americas for comfort. I had needed the beers to overcome the shocking scenes I had witnessed on the walk over.
After a couple of consoling ales I was just contemplating a taxi back when the bombshell was delivered; we were walking back. I know the reason now and it is not pretty.
On the way across the coast we had noticed a few tents and tepees dotted in the crags and caves and I had formed the opinion that they were weekend retreats for the locals. What a nice way to spend a weekend, back to nature, by the sea. Indeed I had also concluded that some of the locals were a few pesetas short of a euro (did you notice that there was no mention of Currencies Direct yesterday?). One of them, clearly a busker, was playing the accordion quite well and singing. I would have contemplated making a small donation had he not been seated on a narrow ledge some 80 feet above the rough path.
However, worse was to come. On the way there yesterday morning I spotted a chap without any clothes. I know there is a recession on, and it had crossed my mind that those that had fallen on hard times may have then resorted to camping locally, but had not, at this stage, considered another meaning for the word camping, as in camping it up.
Then I saw another chap down beside the sea who also appeared to have fallen on hard times as he too had no clothes on. His fall had probably been more spectacular as he was painfully obese, but then how the mighty gave fallen. Probably a banker? Then there was another person without clothes and another and then we saw a small make shift stall being looked after by an old hippy who was making trinkets from painted stones, the sort of thing much beloved by that Nice Lady Decorator. It was whilst she was perusing his wares that I caught a glimpse of some other wares that he was displaying and wished I had not. The old hippy was naked behind his stall.
It was another couple of miles before we reached La Caleta where I was able to come to terms with the horrors I had witnessed, in the full knowledge that I would not be forced again to scar my eyes and my memory with such a spectacle, and that ends the case for the defence.
Camping it up on the naturist beach in Tenerife
You will know that the Nice Lady Decorator, who claimed to have been unaware of the nakedness of the stall holder, was determined not to miss out and that is the reason we had to trudge back in the heat. I had stupidly mentioned, in shocked and slightly reverential tones, the size of the wares that were on display on his side of the counter and then it dawned on me what a mistake that was. There was only one possible outcome; she would have to go back and see it for herself. I offered to draw a diagram instead, but that just seemed to make her determined.
Even my contention, issued with utter certainty, that he was gay and that it seemed that most of the chaps on the beach were, well, just that, chaps and many of those seemed to be camping, but nothing was going to shake her determination to see the infernal thing for herself. As I wrote this, I am safely back in the resort nursing a glass of cava and listening to her suggest that we should go again tomorrow (ie today) to what turns out to be a well-known nudist beach in the weekdays, a family beach at the weekend, the reason why no such revolting disrobing was in evidence on either of the previous days. I am stunned.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Igneous verses the Atlantic
The resort is suddenly quiet. it seems that a large part of the Essex contingent have left the Bahia Principe on Tenerife, to go back to their plastering and reps jobs and the like, in fact, if one were not concerned about the disgust such a comment might elicit, one might be tempted to describe it as a Mass Essex Odus. Luckily I am not one of those concerned about how my readers react to horrible puns, indeed these are this columns staple diet.
Another expedition long the coast yesterday, past the little Canarian village I now know to be El Peurtito, took place in an attempt to check out the golf course on the top of the bluff overlooking the sea. The failure to reach our goal was in no small part due to the very warm sunshine, the fact that we had walked over 4 miles up hill and down dale before finding that there were another two deep valleys to cross in order to gain access, and there was a bar in that pretty little Canarian village, just a short walk back down the hill.
This coastline has to be one of the best in the world. Fascinating rock formations create spectacular battle grounds between the mostly igneous volcanic rocks and the might if the Atlantic Ocean. The sea is winning but it is a gradual process. Then suddenly you come across a beach with sand and a few dozen locals sunbathing and surfing. They must all have walked some distance as there is no road within a mile. I have an example as my picture today.
Tiny beach south of El Puertita on Tenerife
Last evening back at the resort we were treated to the delights of the on-site Asian restaurant which was really very ordinary, and the plan to go there on our last night was firmly laid to rest by the sweet and sour chicken. As that Nice Lady Decorator observed afterwards, “what do the Spanish Know about Asian food”. Very little it seems.
The resort is perfectly fine if one wants sunshine, decent wholesome food, and cheap drinks. This is all very well for a short period of time when starved of any sunshine and with outdoor living a distant memory, a fleeting concept, but after some time the whole idea begins to pall. There are only so magnificent sunsets, so many appalling “musical” acts and so much poor red wine one can stand before the allure of a wet winter day in England begins to sound slightly less inhospitable. Luckily I think it would take a while, probably a year or so before that point was reached.
Today we are going to be more daring in our walking. We are setting off after breakfast to walk to La Caleta, a small town some 6 miles south of the resort where I have been promised more local culture. This is not 6 miles of flat Tarmac but across rocky paths traversing a dozen or so valleys but in spectacular scenery. I am promised that we shall make it by lunchtime but if no blog appears by 10am tomorrow, please alert the authorities and send out search parties. It will be serious because it could mean that I will not have had a proper drink on over 24 hours, so if you could warn them to being some beers it would be much appreciated.
Lets look on the bright side however. If I make it then I shall insist on a sumptuous lunch and then a taxi to return despite that Nice lady Decorator’s insane assertion that we could have lunch and then walk back. I can do the lunch bit.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Prohibition translated into German
It states clearly in the Bahia Principe guest services guide that reserving sun beds is forbidden. Of course this does not deter the fairly large German contingent from emerging from their rooms before dawn in order to place towels on their loungers.
This matters not a jot to me, in fact it has been a source of entertainment as I know the rules, so, wherever I want to sunbathe it is a simple task to jettison the towel left in the traditional Deutsch-mark of reservation, and take up residence.
Perhaps I should not have gone to the effort of having the prohibition translated into German and having a hundred or so copies run off, but there is some expression about idle hands? Anyway, I refrained from mentioning the war and I think I got away with it.
But not for the first time, I digress. There is a 10 euro refundable deposit for a beach towel at the resort. The hotel will charge your bank card and when you return the towel they give you the money back in cash and this gave me an idea for later. We had decided to step out of resort life for the morning and took a long walk along the fantastically beautiful Tenerife shoreline. A couple of miles away we came cross a pretty village seemingly seldom visited by tourists which was much more ethnic Canarian than anything else we have so far encountered, that we decided to stop for a beer or two. Having but 8 euros in cash with us, we asked if they would take a bank card but the Spanish shrug of the shoulders told us that we were expecting to much. Thus with the cash spent we returned to the resort and I decided to get some cash for the inevitable return visit.
The hotel wanted to charge me a 5% fee for cash and that was when I had the brain wave. I asked if we could get 10 towels for which they charged 100 euros which is around £80 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rate . I then handed back the towels for a 100 euros in cash and bingo, 5% saved just like that. It is little victories like that which inspire an old businessman like myself to keep going.
Chaps determined to make the most of the beach before the tide comes in
My picture today is of the tiny bay in this little Canarian village which was considerably bigger when we arrived because the tide was out. These guys are obviously determined to make the most of a sunbathe on the beach, or more likely are about to get a rather wet awakening. Had we more cash for another beer we would have waited for the inevitable.
In perfect weather under blue skies and with a free bar, we were surprisingly abstemious, settling for just a couple of beers before regrouping ready for the most fantastic sunset. Gins and tonic as the sun goes down made England seem a long way away, but arrangements continue to be made for our return. That Nice Lady Decorators assertion that upon our return we shall have no social occasions and no drinking prior to MIDEM in Cannes in 25th has already received a setback. Dinners, lunches and chaps coming to stay have already eroded that iron will, that personally I never had, to hitch myself to the wagon of temperance.
Last night we partook of a very good buffet followed by some entertainment. Now call me old-fashioned if you like but I was singularly not entertained by a terrible duo singing badly and without conviction to a much better backing track. How on earth they could be so bad with the support of properly pre-recorded musicians said a great deal about the entertainment standards at a resort such as this.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Blue sky thinking
I don’t know how the conversation started but the possibility of my receiving a knighthood came up over a few glasses of cava. Obviously, as a successful author from a humble background, one does not expect such an honour to be bestowed upon one but I think one is resolved: should one be offered the chance of ennoblement then one would have to be prepared to accept. One was less interested in the nitty-gritty of what exactly one is expected to do in order to be considered as I imagine it would be hard work, and my regular readers will know that I begin to palpitate when faced with the option of hard endeavour. Also, the concept of Lady Nice? One does not want to go there.
Clever endeavour (sounds like an Ian Drury song about people from Essex) is much more my forte. I consider myself at my best when able to do business with a glass in my hand. Talking of Essex, the inhabitants of that sexy county, most of whom seem to be in Tenerife at the moment, were not much in evidence today at the resort in Tenerife where I am searching for new clients for Currencies Direct. I think the karaoke bar, which we spotted yesterday in the sister complex, and which opens at 11pm must have had the desired effect of keeping them out so late that they did not emerge from their beds in time to get roasted by the sun. At least I think that was what was envisaged by the planners, and if that is the case then I salute them.
Early exploration of the wonderful coastline, from which I took this picture yesterday morning, took up much of the morning and the sun was past the yardarm before the onerous task of selecting exactly which loungers offered the best combination of views, access to the bar, absence of the Essex fraternity and sunshine to top up the tan. Several weeks in dreary English weather has depleted that bronzed Adonis like look for which I am not justly renowned, gained in Australia in November, but one day in Canary Islands sunshine has restored not just my tan but my faith in life itself, as long as it is not lived in England in winter.
Slightly different to England, note that blue area at the top, this is usually grey in England.
Today will be different. Now we know where the best bars are, we know where best to soak up the sun and we know which bars serve the best cava, but most importantly I have found the bar that is duly equipped with all the ingredients required to construct a proper Bloody Mary. I feel that as this is an all-inclusive resort, and clearly I need to get my monies worth, the ability to bounce back after a Bloody Mary could be vital. I have calculated that it will take about 4 days to drink back the cost and so far I think we are on course. The only issue is the standard of the in-house red wine, which is if a standard with which Peachy Butterfield would. Be most at home, so, barely drinkable, but as it is free I will do my best.
Later in the week we may venture further afield to explore some of the island, but for the time being, the restoration of sadly lacking vitamin D, caused by the prolonged lack of exposure to the sun, must take Priority and be corrected. It seems as if this trip has been nicely timed as I received a severe weather warning last night for London and the south-east of England for this evening. This piece of news made my actually take the light sweater from my shoulders and put it on. We were seated outside on a bar terrace overlooking the Atlantic Ocean (not the Mediterranean as I stupidly wrote yesterday) myself with a very fine Havana cigar, as the temperature dipped to around 20 degrees Celsius, so it is a bit chilly here as well.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sun, sea and Essex
The in flight entertainment on the Monarch flight from Gatwick to Tenerife South was provided unwittingly by a contingent from deepest Essex. That Nice Lady Decorator told me not to be unkind about them as they may be related to our own Essex boy, Wayne Brown, from red radish who hails from that parish as he might know them. Unless Wayne has adopted the habit of wearing bright red shell suits adorned with the motifs like “little miss princess” and wearing silver booties as part of a very fetching ensemble, then I am sure he will not be offended by a frank appraisal of Essex style and may well have some knowledge of the up to date Essex girl look.
The continual in-flight announcements about being allowed only to drink alcohol purchased on board told their own story, I suspect many an illicit empty can of special brew, super strong cider and egg nog would have been left behind after the flight. They know how to live in Romford.
I have seen the sun in England for the first time in ages, although we did have to go above 30,000 feet and to get above the clouds, and after a 4-hour flight arrived into Tenerife in early evening. I suspect that had we been seated in the heart of Essex at the rear of the plane then we may also have seen the moon, until Miss Princess had been told to pull up the bottom half of her XXXL shell suit.
Despite half the population of Essex at their holiday loudest on the plane it was a reasonably pleasant trip and with a temperature of 21 degrees when we landed, given the recent weather in England, I would have forgiven a great deal. The Bahia Principe on Cape Adeje, which will be our home for the following week, looked very impressive when viewed through several glasses of cava in the darkness, lets hope it look as good this morning. I took a photo of a palm tree above where we were sitting outside at 11pm – a slight departure from English weather I am sure you will agree, and yes, I did say outside, but have just taken this from our room
Bahia Principe view from our room
Today the shorts will be unpacked and employed to explore the massive resort that could be called Essex On Sea. A sea view from our room was an unexpected bonus and a terrace looking out to the Mediterranean will also give me a chance to see Essex girls at play in their tasteful bikinis. With luck I will be able to give you a flavour through photographs in the coming days.
It seems that there us entertainment provided in a purpose-built theatre on the complex, but my hopes of witnessing some Spanish culture whilst we are in the resort were immediately dented by the news that the act on stage as we passed by was Nat king Soul, who was warming up for The Drifters (in very large letters) Tribute (in very small letters),
Given what I have seen so far, I believe that I may have some excess baggage. Those of you who thought I would now make some in judicious remark linking excess baggage and that Nice Lady Decorator, shame on you. I was referring to the pile of Currencies Direct brochures that I have brought with me in the hope that I may come across some new clients. The problem is that they have first to know how to read, but no matter I shall keep them for another day.
So dear readers, we have a full week here in Tenerife and I suspect it may be full of sand sea and Essex and I’m looking forward to reporting on it all for your delectation and delight.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Octopus balls?
Where to start? The inaugural meeting of the Wednesday luncheon Club got off to a rather inauspicious start. Lunch has been arranged at The Bridge in Amberley and I had been designated taxi driver to collect up the rest of the committee and take them to Arundel station ready for the Train ride to Amberley and thereafter for lunch at the Bridge. The traveling arrangements were made by that Nice Lady Decorator, so as Peachy Butterfield would say “what could possibly go wrong?”.Well, first off, Charlie “Pistonius” Malcomson, the landlord at The Kings Arms and a founding father of the Arundel Wednesday Lunch club, encountered a problem; his barmaid who was supposed to the charge of the pub in his absence, did not appear at the appointed time, and his lovely wife “Bowling” Ally was despatched to the holiday cottage in which the barmaid was staying to see what had happened, and here was the first tangible positive evidence of the good that this newly formed society will produce. Rachel the barmaid was locked into her holiday home as the lock in the front door had seized, and with her being unable to get a phone signal, she was effectively imprisoned in her house. But for the beneficial effect of the luncheon club, she may still have been a prisoner in her own home and who knows what could have been the outcome. As it was “Bowling” was able to release her from her prison, and was only in the spot to do so because of her involvement in this wonderful organisation.
The next problem was the train. We had all trusted That Nice Lady Decorator’s reading of the train timetable and had such confidence in her organisational capabilities until the train came to a stop at Pulborough, having (correctly as evidenced by a brief look at the timetable) failed to stop at Amberley.
It took but 45 minutes and a £20 taxi ride to remedy this situation, thus somewhat reducing the value of saving money by letting the train take the strain. We’re we downhearted? Well yes, at least to start with, but good cheer was eventually restored when finally we arrived. One would have had to have balls the size of an octopus to mention this little diversion to that Nice Lady Train Guide, and had one done so they may have ended up like this.
Try me indeed.
The steering committee thus began proceedings and a rather later than anticipated lunch commenced. The attractive Czech waitress took the old adage “service with a smile” to new heights with her rather too low-cut and loose-fitting hipster style trousers, which personally I found very rewarding, despite the width of her grin, but it is fair to say that the female contingent were less impressed.
After a slightly north side of average lunch, when it came to the tip, the girls amongst our party, which included the lovely Kathryn, the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, having a day off from running men out of Arundel, were quite eloquent about what tips they could offer out Czech friend, but we settled on 10% instead.
As I write it is, course, grey and damp again, but this matters not a jot to me as we will soon be on our way to Gatwick and then Tenerife, where I shall be able to extol the virtues of opening an account with Currencies Direct whilst enjoying some winter sun. Work is never far from my mind and the coming week in Tenerife will be no exception. I do hope my accountant is taking note. It will save irksome time and argument if he just accepts that this is a working trip and make the necessary adjustments to my forthcoming tax return.
Chris France
Salad dodgers delight
Briefly, as I awoke, there was a break in the gloom but by 11am it was grey again. My work with Currencies Direct complete for the day, I was washed, showered and shaved ready for the trip to Brighton. There is some irony in the name of the town hosting Quartermains Terms being called Brighton in the current weather climate. Greystoke would have been more apt, or Blackfriars, but I decided to make the best if it,
We arrived in Brighton early, in time for a pint at the White Rabbit with Gill from Ditto Fabrics, the iconic material store situated in Kensington Gardens in the town and now a satisfied Currencies Direct client. Also there was another old school friend of That Nice Lady Decorator, with whom she had shared a room for many of her formative years at school somewhere up north. What she did not know, until it was announced in a conversation in the pub, was that her friend was gay. This in itself, in Brighton, the gay capital of the south, should not have been a surprise, but what was a surprise was that Nice Lady Decorators comment straight after this bombshell, when talking about dealing with her friend adapting to her new life in the gay fraternity. She said “Well, you just have to dive in to make the best of things”. I must say here that my flabber was gasted.
Now I am not a prude, and have also been known to be careless with language in the past, a fact with which regular readers will concur, but this seemed to me to be going down to new depths. I was just waiting for her to say something about having life licked, but had she done so I cannot possibly have carried on.
Escaping from The White Rabbit we looked around for somewhere to eat and hit upon a Japanese fast food outlet called, I think, Popero a very reasonable and bustling “bring your own” unlicensed restaurant, rescued by a swift purchase of a bottle if wine from nearby Tesco. On the way there I marvelled at some of the interesting and quirky retail outlets nestling in this buzzy area, from where I took this picture.
Shoes that don’t eat meat
Vegetarian shoes, but how can you be sure? I mean does someone keep an eye on them throughout their lives to ensure they never waver and become salad dodgers? What happens after you have bought then? Are you responsible for keeping them on their diet? It is all very mystifying.
It took some time to rediscover my composure before entering (there I go again) the Theatre Royal in Brighton to witness Rowan Atkinson’s first stage appearance in some 25 years. In the interim he has found fame in the UK TV world as Blackadder, world-wide fame as Mr Bean and become a rival to James Bond as Johnny English, so hopes were high that Quartermaines Terms was going to be something special and it was, but not in the way I had expected. I had not expected to doze off after the first half hour, utterly bored by a dreary script, a terrible play and a totally uninspiring performance from one of our great comedians. Whoever advised him to take on the part of a dozy school teacher suffering from the onset of Alzheimer’s was as deluded as most of its sufferers. A diabolical waste of a great mans talents. The rest of the cast did their best to rescue the whole thing, but without success.
To cap it all, it was raining when our chauffeur arrived to collect us, which added a new horror dimension to a horror strewn evening, which apart from the play, I enjoyed enormously, with particular emphasis on the diving faux pas from earlier. .
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Waterfront Cafe lives up to its name
I think I am becoming delirious as yet another disgracefully grey and drizzly day, and a Monday to boot, made living in England in winter a non-starter for me for future years. Couple with that, a promise I had made to hoover out that Nice Lady decorators car after an unfortunate episode with some sand, and the fact that she insisted it was done in the main street, outside, after dark in the rain whilst I was grappling with the complex crap needed to file tax returns before the end of the month, and you may get a gist of the depression I was suffering. It is enough to drive one to drink and that is exactly what it did.It was decided that the Swan Hotel would be the beneficiary of our largesse, until arriving at the bar we found that the London Pride had just expired and a new barrel could not be readied as there was only one barman on duty . A Fullers house with no London Pride? Unforgivable, so we walked a little further, up to the Kings Arms where we were successful in securing a couple of pints of the best beer in the world. It was also important to confirm the arrangements for the first sitting of the Wednesday Luncheon Club. During heated discussions on Sunday night, it was decided that the assembled party should have the inaugural steering committee luncheon at The Bridge at Amberley this coming Wednesday, i.e. tomorrow. If this event comes together then I believe it could be herald the start of a significant luncheon movement in Arundel and its hinterland. Founder members are myself, that Nice Lady Decorator, Charlie “Pistorius” Malcomson, the landlord of the Kings Arms, his wife the lovely “Bowling” Ally, and the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, the lovely Kathryn. I think the first item on the agenda will be to expand the membership of this soon to be erstwhile gathering of the great, the good and the hungry. Second item; secure Currencies Direct sponsorship.
Tonight we do have some relief in the form of a trip to Brighton and the theatre. I have suggested we set off in good time, to make our way through the flooded countryside, and to leave sufficient time to take in a couple of pints of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord at the White Rabbit, and a spot of Thai green curry somewhere nearby, before urging Rowan Atkinson on to success in his role in Quartermains Terms at the Theatre Royal.
Back to yesterday then; I think the highlight was getting a call from Master Mariner Mundell in Valbonne bemoaning the fact that I was not there for a boys lunch yesterday in Auberge St Donat, and spelling out just how good the weather is down there in the south of France. Further depression followed when I saw on Peachy Butterfield’s Facebook a picture of his washing (clearly not washed by the big man himself, why have a dog and bark yourself? is one of his regular refrains), hanging festooned around my swimming pool whilst he was no doubt sampling some horrid rose of dubious countenance in readiness for lunch. In the UK you would only put your washing out if you wanted to rinse it. It is all so depressing and Mr. Sarkozy is to blame.
Waterfront Cafe takes things a bit too literally
I know we have a trip to Tenerife later in the week, but that is at enormous expense and a cry for help from a sun starved near pensioner. I know you will all feel sorry for me. Just one more full day of gloom ahead, unless its is grey and damp in Tenerife in which case I shall need to be on suicide watch. My picture today was taken at high tide in Arundel just before Xmas when there was an exceptional spring tide. That is the waterside restaurant living up rather too literally to its name. On the other hand, it could be the A 27 to Brighton.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Magic mushroom?
The weather is still grey, I am turning grey and the shed is getting greyer with every moment. As the great Larry Grayson may once have said “what a grey day”. That Nice Lady Decorator who, in every other context renounces the word grey, is getting her own back on my kennel, masquerading as my office. 50 shades of grey are under consideration for what will be the final colour. You could be forgiven for thinking that someone as flamboyant as my good self might be better suited to being surrounded by bright colour, but there you have it; grey, and I will warrant not a handcuff or a sex aid in sight.
After another grey trip to the beach, we managed to avoid the temptation of lunch or a pint, mainly because as we awoke so late, breakfast was only completed by 11.30. We did hear from the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, the lovely Kathryn, with whom we had consumed rather too many sherbets the night before. It seems she was having an attack of the light-weights and was feeling a little below her best yesterday morning. I have heard it said that she was actually sick after drinking for the first time in many years (not the first time drinking, the first time being sick, do try to keep up) but I could not possibly comment. If such a downfall had actually befallen her then you know that I am far too much of a gentleman to mention it in this column. I am also an inveterate liar.
Taking that theme I little further, yesterday I discovered this species growing in a pot in my garden. Is anyone out there able to identify it? Is it a magic mushroom ?
A magic mushroom?
And so, what can I say about yesterday afternoon? Nothing happened. Nothing at all. But then in early evening light was shed (do you sense a theme running through today’s missive?) on my day by the arrival of the golden one, the great Omega, the betrothed to James “Desperate Dan” the landlord, in search of a suitcase. She had come from her home in Shoreham, presumably ready to set off for her holiday to Madeira this morning, but had forgotten her suitcase. Yes, that is what I thought, a holiday without a suitcase? a pretty fundamental oversight I would have said. However she is far too beautiful for me to pour scorn on her, I sure am (ouch).
I have started to pack for the escape to Tenerife from gloom this Thursday, Strange garments have been extracted from deep storage; trousers without legs which I think are called shorts, shirts without long sleeves, which are clearly useless for much of the year in England and some much more useful Currencies Direct brochures ready for the plethora of new customers whom I can bore at the Bahia Principe hotel on Cape Adeje for the following week.
I have chosen an all-inclusive package at the hotel for the simple reason that it will be cheaper. I calculate that we can drink back the entire cost of the trip in less than 4 days, then we will have 3 days free food and drink. Bring it on. Before that we have another treat in store for tomorrow evening when we shall be at the Theatre Royal in Brighton to see Rowan Atkinson in one of what must be his first theater appearances in some years, in Quartermaines Terms. It is the idea of that Nice Lady Decorator that I be exposed to some culture, but as I already know Cathie The Culture from Valbonne, surely that is enough?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Wyatt Earp spotted in Arundel
After a day of unforecast driving drizzle had taken sufficient toll on my ability to endure a typical English winters day, that Nice Lady Decorators suggestion that we go out for an early evening pint to the newly refurbished Swan Hotel for a pint of London Pride was accepted with alacrity. Just the one she said, which became two, but stopping at that became a (peace) pipe dream as soon as spotted the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, the lovely Kathryn smoking in the garden of The White Hart. Wyatt tends to smoke a peace pipe with the local Indians from the takeaway. No, I made that bit up, but as soon as I though of a peace pipe it was the only way I could work Indians into my prose.
Anyway, after a drink there, we all decided to go to The Kings Head in Arundel, which meant walking past her mythical Indian friends (she may Sioux me for that) and also to walk past the Chinese takeaway, The Millenium Dragon, It was at that stage that once again that Nice Lady Decorator became disinclined to cook, so a decision was made to get a takeaway and eat in the pub, which has that wonderful policy of encouraging just that. I was despatched to order a myriad of dishes, but forgot the spring rolls she had specifically requested, so I had to go back and order some to stop my own personal matrimonial dragon event from blossoming spectacularly. When she is hungry, beware.
At present my kennel, laughingly called the office, my shed at the bottom of the garden, is in the hands of our Decorator in chief, who has been plastering it. I made some joke about it only needing a band-aid rather than a full plastering job but was quickly reminded that I was not very funny, except in my own mind. She was talking about painting it in 50 shades of grey, which I was informed would be funny. She is referring to HQ, the nerve centre of the British music industry, the centre of excellence for the writing of this column, for guiding the career of many a dead or dead pop star, and of course for spreading the word about the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct. I must say though, it is looking rather splendid for a shed. Once all those gold records, that remind me of when I used to work hard for a living, are festooned on the ceiling (her idea), I think she hopes I may be inspired to work a little harder.
Earlier, we had fled to the beach for customary pre-drinking exercise designed to build up a few drinking credits along the beach at Clymping, pictured below. It looked nothing like this yesterday of course, but the picture taken then was so depressing, and the standard of this blog equally so, that I thought you deserved something less sombre.
An English coastline at dusk
Talking of sombre, I have just looked out of the window at the morning sky and I am in mourning for some sunshine. All I can see is one of those perishing 50 shades of grey that comprise an English winter, an event and a time of year I will never plan lightly to experience again. Plans for spending much of next winter somewhere else are forming in my mind and will grow with every new grey morning with which I am confronted.. I feel that this greyness and it being a Sunday may combine to propel me into a quintessentially English pub for lunch before a roaring log fire. I just don’t know which pub yet.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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