Eye Witness guide needs white stick
I am beginning to see a theme running through our trip along the northern Spanish coast. The “”Eye Witness Guide”, upon which we have unwisely been relying for informed and accurate reporting says “lovely fishing village” which is almost always totally at odds with the fact. If I could find and shoot the person reasonable for the pile of shite written about these concrete jungle horrors, then I would happily swing for him. I agree that the beaches and scenery are tremendous but the Spanish have a passion for dirty concrete and blind architects. Couple that with a healthy respect by the locals for their cement mixers and colour blindness or a love of grey cement tones, then you have a recipe for destroying a beautiful area with cement. Time and time again, beautiful natural situations have been ruined by a series of monstrous carbuncles of development of the most unpleasant kind. I loved the music that came out of the sixties and seventies and I hate the buildings that were created in the same period, and 90% of them seem to have been built on the northern coast of Spain.
However, despite the appalling efforts of the concrete living brigade and then architects from hell, the area does have a few redeeming features, which this army of idiots has been unable to destroy. Apart from the wonderful scenery, The hotels are clean and really cheap, if utilitarian rather than charming. Mostly they are there functional and are clean, warm, well-appointed, and cost around 50 euros (about £40 at today’s excellent Currencies Direct exchange rates) a night including taxes and breakfast. A beer costs around 1.50, and a typical tapas meal for 2 less than 25. Best of all, a large glass of Rioja is a maximum of 2 euros for a decent sized glass. It means it is quite cheap to be able to crowd out the useless and ugly architecture.
Spanish coastline
Yesterday was spent driving down the coast from Cameriones in northern Gallicia, and ending up at Ribadero on the edge of Cantabria. We are on our way back east, aiming for Bilbao and San Sebastian tomorrow night, unless we get hijacked along the way. By that I mean diverted by somewhere or something nice that changes our plans, not hijacked literally, as That Nice Lady Decorator declined to go back inland across Spain to Leon, (which had been recommended by Poly Bufton) on the grounds that it meant driving through Bandit country in her new Q7 skip, which is full of a load of detritus that we apparently need for our two month stay on Valbonne.
Last night we had a wander around Ribadero, which was pleasant except for having the slobbery dog in tow, which precluded us going in to any of the places I fancied as we had to find a bar with an outside terrace. So whilst he (Banjo) the a pesky mutt was all wrapped up in his permanent fur coat, happily trying to stretch his lead to reach those scraps of food that always seem to be laying on the floor, I was trying to keep warm enough to survive the evening, whilst simultaneously trying to avoid him gobbing on my smart white chinos. I was going to say it was a game of cat and mouse, but in fact it is more of a game of dog and mouse, where I was the mouse.
San Sebastián has been deemed our target for tomorrow, and I have high hopes that modern Spanish Architects have been unable so far to exact their usual death hold over the building stock, so am looking forward to seeing something worthwhile by this evening.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sea dog to be arraigned?
That Nice Lady Decorator does not do languages. She is however adept at communicating with foreigners when she wants to. We had arrived at the seaside town of Camerinos having visited Cap Finesterre and driven up the coast to find the “pretty fishing village” that the Lonely Planet guide had promised us so often in the past. It was better than anything we had experienced, but pretty? I don’t think so. However, she did find us a pretty place to stay, and with some kind of festival clearly being staged in the evening, we settled in for a late lunch.
Cap Finisterre was an interesting place. It claims, in some references I have seen, and which I reported in yesterday’s column, to be the most westerly point in Europe, but is not even the most westerly on the Iberian peninsular, that accolade belonging to somewhere way to the south in Portugal. But I digress. I was talking about the Decorating Persons ability with languages.
It is usually the case that when she has finished saying something loudly in English, but with a Spanish accent and accompanying it with vigorous gesticulations sufficient to ensure that the non-English speaking indigenous waiter would understand, that said waiter would scurry off and bring her whatever he thought was required. We had decided to partake of tapas at a harbour side restaurant, and after a couple of beers, she had grown curious about what one of the cooks was barbecuing in the street close to where we were seated. Using that winning smile and her best Spanish, she was able to ascertain that he was burning pieces of pork. I was impressed because, as I said at the start of this column dedicated to the excellent services of Currencies Direct, languages are not at the top of the list of her skill set. It seems that when asking him what was being incinerated over the hot coals, she had used expressions such as “moo”, “baa” “oink oink” and even “neigh”” to get her message across. Sign language is alive and living in Spain.
Caught on camera. Dog breaks the law
Earlier, the dreadful town of O Grove had retrieved its reputation as far as we were concerned, by revealing a fantastic walk along one of its beaches. I had said yesterday that the natural beauty of this coastline has been destroyed by the appalling architecture and failure to preserve what would have been beautiful buildings, but, away from the dreadful urbanisation, we found some stunning beach situations, a picture of one I publish today.
The one downside, which we discovered when returning to the car, is that dogs are prohibited from the beaches. We had not seen any signs to that effect when we had exercised the criminal canine Banjo on one of these beaches. When I saw the sign on the way back to the car, I knew that we had to do the right thing. Call the police, get him to make a full statement admitting his guilt and take the consequences. Astonishingly, his protector, That Nice Lady Decorator, disagreed. She was of the opinion that if the Spanish were sufficiently remiss not to place signs at every entry point to the beach, then Banjo could not be held responsible, and anyway, the signs were in Spanish, so how could he or she know? It was a good argument, however it was fatally undermined later, during the sign language incident, because the signs on the beach were in the form of a drawing of a dog with a large cross through it. Sign language in other words. I think the meaning was clear, he should turn himself in, be prosecuted, arraigned and then they should throw away the key.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
There are warnings of gales in…
You know you have a bargain when you have eaten well, drunk several beers and dispatched a bottle of Rioja and still the cost is less than 30 euros. It is one of the redeeming features of Galicia, the most north-westerly region of Spain, through which we drove yesterday. The countryside is beautiful, with green rolling hills and forests, but the problem is the towns. Take Lugo for instance. A superbly maintained ancient walled city should have been a jewel, but when almost the entire building stock in its interior has been allowed to decay, but worse, in most cases be replaced by hideous concrete monstrosities, the magic disappears.
Having walked around the top of the ramparts, some 2 miles, in bright warm sunshine, my decision to believe the weather forecast, which had changed overnight from rain to sun, paid dividends. That Nice Lady Decorator had been chortling as I put on my shorts before we loaded the car up after our overnight stop in Castropol in chilly scudding low cloud, but a few hours later, when we got to Lugo, it was me doing the chortling whilst she changed into shorts the car.
A waiter pours the local cider in the traditional way
Lunch in the sunshine in the central square of this ruined town was pleasant enough, but with a big geographical area to explore, we set off on a westerly direction, aiming first for Pontevedra, which was so desperately ugly as a town we did not stop. The Lonely Planet guide said that there were two old fishing ports with lovely beaches just outside, one called Sanxenxo and O Grove. Whover wrote that needs shooting. It should have been called O Blimey, such was the ugliness of the urban sprawl that had been allowed to grow up around some spectacular white sand beaches. However, we were tired, it was getting late, and the idea of a cheap bottle of Rioja and some tapas overcame the reservations we entertained about the place.
Today, despite the weather forecast, which is dire, we have a plan to go to the most westerly point in Europe, Cape Finisterre. It is about two hours drive from the concrete prison which was our home last night. For me, a chap whose early career plans involved becoming a weather man (a dream shattered at a careers meeting in the 6th form when it became clear that the subject of physics, which remains a complete mystery to me, is the basic requirements peruse such a career path), it is a place that has long fascinated me. Not because of where it is, but because of its regular place on the BBC shipping forecast. It always seemed to be featured in the opening statements which started “There are warnings of gales in…” . For many years I did not have any idea where it was until I was bought a book for Christmas with the same title, setting out the various sea areas to which the forecast referred. I suppose, given that fact, and that Galicia, the area in which it stands, is known as the wettest and most windswept area of Spain, I should not be too distressed at having to dig out the waterproofs from the car last evening.
One visited, I can tick it off that listing on my bucket list and we can set off east and north , back to the much more attractive northern Spanish beaches. As it is a holiday weekend dedicated to some guy who died about two thousand years ago and then didn’t die, or something like that, (The Reverend Jeff understands what all the fuss is about – as far as I am concerned I am all in favour as the roads were mercifully empty yesterday, which has something to do with the Catholic population) I shall spare you, dear reader, any lecture today about the value of being an account holder with Currencies Direct. If you still don’t understand the benefits you will have to wait until the end of the Easter break for a full explanation in this column.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Cantankerous canine catastrophe in Cantabria
That Nice Lady Decorator has the annoying habit of saving bits of her meal for Banjo, the cantankerous (not only in Cantabria) canine, in which she sees redeeming features which, in my opinion, are beyond redemption. He often gets little treats, purloined from the dinner table, to make his day more enjoyable and to make my day more depressing. I suppose that a piece of sausage or bacon or anything else that does not smell is OK, but yesterday lunchtime we had some calamaries (bits of octopus in other words) left over from a delightful tapas meal. Without a thought, she popped then into a serviette and took with her to the car. It was after we returned to the car in the evening, having reached a town called Castropol on the northern Cantabrian coast, that the trouble started.
The all-pervading smell of fish is hardly alluring at the best of times. In many ways it reminds me of my late teenage years, but that is another story. It is not usually an aroma you would seek out and it certainly did not appeal when we opened the car door later in the evening to remove fishy smelling suitcases. They little fishy delights were quickly given to Banjo the dog but I can tell you that I am not looking forward to opening the car door this morning. It will be interesting to see for how long the smell lasts. I am betting on about 5 years, so the new 4 x 4 will, as I have predicted, become a skip eventually, and will start by smelling like one from today.
There is also the issue of whether it is advisable to give a dog who has suffered terribly on the 24 hour ferry over, being in a kennel and being sick -due presumably to the motion of the ship -anything other than dried biscuits. Banjo lives quite happily in the car on the nights where hotel owners are sensible and refuse entry to dogs, but his tummy must still be sensitive after that ordeal, and I am not sure feeding him limpss of octopus is the way to go here. I do hope that it’s tentacles have not spread to far, if you get my nautical drift (Ok, I am having an “obscure reference day”. I blame it on being able to buy bottles of Crianza Rioja in bars for under £10.)
Spanish for “be nice?”
It would have been better to have used this picture yesterday when I was reporting on The Nice Lady Decorator’s sense of humour failure whilst queuing to board the ferry to Santander from Portsmouth. Regular readers will know that she was being, well, a bit arcy, hence today’s picture. Well I understand what I mean anyway.
The northern coast of Spain is very beautiful but would have been more so had the grey low cloud that was omnipresent yesterday ever cleared. It was forecast to clear in the afternoon but it did not, and the weather forecast over the next few days is not very good. It is ironic that we set up this trip to head towards some sunshine and warmth, after the Isle of Wight, but there I was able to enjoy walking in shirts and requiring sunglasses, whilst here in Spain I have been wearing long trousers and jumpers since we arrived.
The 3 mile walk along the wonderful and huge beach at the excellently named St Vincente de la Barquera, where I had hoped to bump into some potential customers for the services of Currencies Direct, was undermined by a keen wind and a hint of drizzle, and, as we wanted to explore the whole coastline, we set off towards the west, stopping at Ribadesella for that lunch from where I took today’s photo.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Ferry across the Mercy
Boarding the ferry for Santander at Portsmouth was quite stressful, Mainly due to the impatience of That Nice Lady Decorator. Let’s face it; she does not do queuing. She does not do patient, and she does not suffer fools gladly. By fools, I mean someone like me who can look at a situation with equanimity, realise that the staff are trying to do a job in difficult circumstances, accept that there may be a delay and just absorb that fact into the fabric of life. It is not just that she does she not does not suffer fools, but she will not suffer unnecessary delay, especially after a couple of beers, without ensuring that those reasonable at left in do doubt as to their failing a. What is more is that she also does not do restraint. Despite my continual and constantly failing attempts to calm her, I knew I was fighting a losing battle. A bit like trying to smother a nuclear bomb with a fire blanket.
She appears to be of the opinion that patience is for the pathetic. Thus after some 40 minutes in the queue for the ferry she was seething with unrighteous indignation. Then the primer kicked in. The chap in the car in front had made an error of some sort, something I later discovered was something to do with a late rabies booster jab for his pet, and thus he held up the line in which we were placed for some 10 minutes. His jovial gesticulations indicating that he was sorry were unfortunately accompanied by an inane grin. These two characteristics were not exactly what I wanted to see when trying to head of an eruption, and something similar to Vesuvius was quickly in evidence.
Steephill Bay, close to Ventnor on the Isle Of Wight
So boarding did not go well, and when we were made to park in a position which precluded her being able to open her side of the car, I decided to pop the earplugs in and retire to a bar far away. It is usually for the best and us mostly over quickly, as the explosion is then followed by a period of reflection, self-justification and then amnesia. It never happened. Just for the record, I have never received an apology for anything which has not been followed by the word “but”. On this occasion even the apology did not surface.
So yesterday was spent lounging around mostly around the bars of the ferry, as despite the sunshine, the combination of the boat travelling into the wind and the wind, it was quite cool outside. Her mood was not enhanced by the squalid conditions in which the catastrophic canine Banjo was being held. If you have ever seen the film Midnight Express, then you may get the picture, although there was arguably less buggery on board the Brittany Ferries service to northern Spain. Even so had a faint twinge of unease. Only fainting , and certainly not long-lasting. Not as long-lasting as the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct anyway.
We finally docked at around 6pm and after a brief and violent disagreement with the sat nav of Skip 2 ( That Nice Lady Decorator’s new vehicle) we set off in a westerly direction in search of a hotel. It is so irksome when foreigners refuse to speak proper English, and so eventually we ended up at a hotel in St Vincent de la Barquera , which was modern and soulless, but was close enough to the town for the pursuit of tapas and a glass of wine. Rioja at 1.50 a glass made everything seem worthwhile.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Fire water wins the day
In the possible absence of the internet aboard the Brittany Ferry to Santander (I am not banking on it in a manner of speaking) I have decided to pre prepare you eager my awaited coming for Tuesday the day before.
I had no space yesterday to mention a particular event of note that occurred whilst we were aboard the steam train (with the dastardly dog traveling in his “rover” ticket, on the Isle Wight. Before boarding I had mentioned that I was still carrying a surfeit of beer, which I would probably need to jettison before we reached the next station. “Don’t worry, they will have toilets on the train” said That Nice Lady Decorator They did not. I reckoned that I could make it to our destination if the driver did not spare the horses, so to speak and made sure he used full throttle. But then, as we reached what I thought should have been a fast straight, the engine began to slow. There was smoke ahead.
A grass fire besides the track had erupted, almost certainly as a result of embers billowing from the smoke stack of the engine, and smoke was billowing over the track. No problem I thought, there is no danger to the train or it’s passengers, and a grass fire in April in England after the wettest winter on record, would amount no nothing. But oh no, the driver brought the engine and its five carriages to a complete halt, and the staff on board jumped down onto the bank and began beating the flames to put them out. “But I need the toilet” I exclaimed loudly, with more than a hint of desperation. Some 5 minutes elapsed whilst the fireman (aptly named or what?) struggled to contain the blaze, whilst all the time my suffering became more and more acute. Able to hold it no longer, I looked for a suitable receptacle for my used beer. Something like a water bottle, and was offered a Walkers Crisp packet. As they say, needs must when the devil drives and I had a devil of a job to contain my bladder. The result is that I now know that the available space in a crisp packet is just about equal to my full bladder. There was a moment when I thought that my bladder might err.. tip the balance, so to speak but thankfully there was sufficient space. I was then as content as a new customer after his first deal with Currencies Direct. Had there not been insufficient space, I hesitate to consider the options. I think I would have been walking back. That, of course, was not an end to the problem. What to do with the urine infested crisp bag?. Simple, I thought, empty it out of the window onto the smouldering grass. I feel certain that it was my personal contribution that made the difference in containing the fire.
HUNSLET AUSTERITY 0-6-0ST Steam Train
Later, as we pulled into the station, it was my job to deal with the soiled and damp but now empty packet, but once dealt with, problem solved and normal service resumed.
Yesterday, we left the Isle Of Wight, and decided to spend part of the day exploring Hayling Island before hailing our ferry to Santander. I wish we had not, as my impressions after a three hour drive around it is that the place is just a miserable built up suburb of Portsmouth, without a single redeeming feature. We did find a nice pub called the Ship, but it was not on the Island, but just after you leave, and there we discovered a charming walk along the coast, and as we turned the first corner, we realised that we were merely a stones throw from the Royal Oak at Langston, a new discovery last week, so what was a man to do? Well what he did was pop in for a pint, probably the last pint of proper beer that will pass my lips before July. It is gassy nonsense and wine from now on.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A ticket to Ryde?
I have always loved trains, so as soon as I found out about the Isle Of Wight steam train experience, it was at the top of my list. My only qualm was what we would do with the doggy disaster that is Banjo, who leaves a charmed life between raiding the bin and slobbering over all and sundry, and survives in my household solely due to the patronage of That Nice Lady Decorator. The answer was there to see, a “Rover” ticket, just the job for a dog. His patron was not best pleased when I asked if there was a one way option for the miserable mutt.
Standing aboard a steam train enjoying wonderful English sunny spring weather, watching quintessentially English countryside go past, with a hint of coal smoke and the additions of some less welcome smuts if you dared to put your head out of the window (I dared) was a wonderful experience. We stepped off the train for a couple of hours, to explore a couple of pubs within walking distance of one of the stations, and it was here that I was able to use the line I had waited for all week. I asked what was our final destination last night? Perhaps it was Ryde? And did I have a ticket? A ticket to Ryde?
Isle Of Wight steam train experience
Arriving in the town about which Lennon and Mcartney had been so eloquent, we found that all the decent hotels were ready booked and were recommended to stay at the Seaview Hotel in err… nearby Seaview. With the sun still up, and with the realisation that this was likely to be our penultimate opportunity to partake of proper beer for some months, we did just that on a sunny bench outside the Old Fort Cafe and bar (not old Fart Cafe, as was suggested by my dog loving partner), until retiring for a siesta to consider the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct.
Google can be such a useful tool. Fancying Thai food, I googled local Thai restaurants and there was one less than 100 yards from the hotel. Dressed and ready to eat we popped into the hotel bar for a pre-dinner sharpener and asked the barmaid if she knew of the restaurant. She did and it moved several months ago. We ate in the Hotel.
The waitress told us that the hotel had been having a make over but that they had tried to retain some of the Victorian features, but from what I could see in the dining room, the had not bothered to tell the architect. Bland is the word that came into my mind. The designer might also have been the chef. Roasted cod, sag bhaji, onion bhaji on a base of a cucumber riata sounded very interesting, but that bland theme came to the fore. How the chef managed to extract every nuance of taste from each ingredient was astonishing.
This morning we leave the Isle Of Wight. There are some lovely places on the island and some not so lovely. There are some decent pubs but a lot of rather indecent ones. Overall, I think I will come again once more as we have failed to see Osbourne House or Carisbrook Castle, both apparently of some historical interest. It will be a day of two ferries. The first to the mainland this morning, then in to the big ferry for the trip from Portsmouth to Santander in Northern Spain. It is a 24 hour crossing, and ever since I heard that the weather in the Bay Of Biscay can cause vomit carnage I have been anxiously checking the weather maps, but it seems an anti cyclone is in place and all will be well. They have kennels aboard so one of our party will have a night in the slammer.
Chris France
13 pub failure
The waiter at Red Chilli Indian restaurant inVentnor helpfully told That Nice Lady Decorator not to bite into the green chillies in her starter, just a few moments after she had done just that. It was at the end of a beautiful sunny day which had started well but deteriorated as it went on.
Bright and early we were up and having breakfast on our terrace overlooking Ventnor Beach. It is a curious arrangement at the Spyglass Inn whereby you rent a small apartment by the night, which has cooking facilities and they supply you with bread butter, sausages, bacon, mushroom and tomatoes, and you cook breakfast yourself. That all went well, and with the sun getting warm we dug our shorts from the suitcase and set off to walk along the Coastal path to Ventnor Botanical Gardens, about a mile and a half along the cliff top. It was taxing but very beautiful. We walked along side a very insecure fence and saw some interesting plants but thought that as it would have been so easy to get in, and it was not marked from the path, it could not be the place. Half a mile later we met some people coming the other way who told us it was what we were looking for.
Climbing through the fence we explored the gardens which were quite nice and I thought well worth £2 of anyone’s money. Being honest and upright citizens, we sought out the box office and went to pay. £6.50 each? I wished we were not so honest. If I had known the price I would have found my honesty and integrity ebbing away.
Spyglass in on the beach at Ventnor
So that was the start. After walking back in late morning, and the weather still beautiful, we set off in the car to check out a couple of local pubs. Now I am a bit fussy about pubs. There has to be real ale, there has to be no people with tatoos or bull terriers, and it has to be a half decent building and interior or garden. It has been known in the past for me to reject as many as three different pubs before I find something that is drinking acceptable. 13 pubs in succession were rejected. To paraphrase The late Sir Winston Churchill, I have never before seen so many bad pubs with so many ugly people in such short a time,
It was such a litany of pub going disaster that The Nice Lady Decorator made a list of them all. It started in Shanklin, covered Wroxall, Godshill (we went there in deference to the Reverend Jeff – we knew it would not be good -), Brading and a few others, but special praise for thorough awfulness must reside with a pub called The Haven. It is set in a wonderful position high on a hill with magnificent views out across the sea and is reached by a small track about two miles long. It should have been idyllic, but it was a carbuncle of a bungalow. Bereft of any charm whatsoever, with a garden full of oiks and pikies, I was even worried about turning the car around in case the wheel trims were stolen during the three point turn.
One last attempt on the way home did throw up a quirky pub called The Bonchurch Inn (two church references on a Sunday, just to keep the reverend happy). Almost stuck in the early 1900’s it had a really nice authentic feel and served a decent pint of Bombardier, but by this time it was nearly 3pm and we were gasping. Then back to the Spyglass for a siesta before heading out to dinner at the Crab And Lobster in Ventnor for dinner, or so we thought. Their “No food on a Sunday evening” policy created the green chilli havoc with which I started today’s Currencies Direct inspired column.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Looking through the Spyglass
Having undoubtedly kept most of the hotel guests, and many more in Cowes, awake through the night with a hacking cough, courtesy of a dangerous bout of man flu, I should perhaps not have been shocked by the snide comments, lack of eye contact and other obvious signs of displeasure exhibited by the other guests of the hotel at breakfast. However, when one knows just how ill I have been and how close to death, I would have hope for some sympathy. Instead I got a very satisfying English breakfast under the baleful glare of my fellow residents.
We had stayed the night at the Union Inn at Cowes and after stoking up on the usual fine array of blood vein coating, cholesterol creating, life shortening delicacies, which sets a full English breakfast apart from any concept of healthy eating, including black pudding, we set off to explore the western part of the Isle Of Wight. I have always said that I would never be old to live here, and that certainty was reinforced as we trailed a round a quite pretty but shockingly old-fashioned series of coastal villages. The only people that we saw who were under 40 and were almost as ubiquitous as the old folk, were pikies. I lost count of the number of mobile homes we saw, and although I accept that they represent a way for the great unwashed to save up their benefits and live by the sea, the chances of my finding a client for Currencies Direct seemed as remote as finding a Manchester United fan who believes the new manager is better than Sir Alex Ferguson.
Freshwater was the nadir. A slum of the most desperate order, we swept out along the coast in search of civilisation that was still alive or did not have broken bits of cars. We had earlier walked along the “coastal path” for about two miles to the west of Newport and where the sea remained stubbornly out of sight throughout. It was only when we deviated from the path (the Reverend Jeff will know of what I speak), that we found the coastline and were amazed at the amount of erosion it has suffered. It seems that the coastal path is now up to 2 miles from the coast, presumably as the authorities think that is how far inland one needs to go to be safe.
With the car radio playing “Video Killed The Radio Star” we decided on another over lunch at the excellent Buddle (ouch!) Inn, close to the improving beach as we headed back eastwards, where it was time to think seriously about what arrangements we had in place for last evening, and I was distressed to find that we had none.
The Spyglass at Ventnor
We then set off towards Ventnor and found a charming place right on the coast in a pretty seaside town of Ventnor. It is called The Spyglass Inn and they had a room free for the night. I took this picture from our terrace. Not Juan Les Pins, but quite acceptable, especially as unlike any other English coastal resort that I have ever come across that is charming, on the beach and where one can eat and drink properly.
The menu also looked good, but I was fooled the garlic prawns in their shells, expecting half a dozen sizzling monsters and instead getting about 50 tiny little irritating horrors. It was over a bottle of Rioja later in the evening that it came to light that The Nice Lady Decorator was worried about the erosion that had effected the island as a result of last winters storms. Her concern was not for the poor residents whose houses were at risk from the sea, but the maps was now inaccurate due to the sea undermining the road to Ventnor, and that she felt short changed because the island is now bit as big as it was…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Going with the flow in Cowes
With man flu still raging, we were forced to depart our pretty little abode in Arundel in favour of a myriad of rental clients, starting today, who began the inevitable landslide of questions about our pretty little house and its contents. They began at 4.10pm, some ten minutes after their tenancy commenced. Luckily, as I have refused to have anything to do with the whole idea, I am not involved, except when tenants have questions about the house, which they always do.
We had left at around 1pm with the plan to dawdle down to Portsmouth for the 5.30 ferry across to Fishbourne on the Isle of Wight, which I had last visited 53 years ago. I did not remember much of it.
On the way, with the idea of lunch rearing it’s very attractive head, we found that we were passing a pub about which I had heard good things, The Royal Oak at Langstone Harbour, at which we decided to take a look. It is truly a gem of an English seaside pub. I say seaside, but in reality I mean a pub set on the edge of mud flats, but none the less alluring for all that. A splendid old piratical feel, some excellent tapas and a pint of Speckled Hen was just the kind of restorative required to allow us to return the the land of equanimity, which one of our party inhabits much of the time, and to which one of us pays fairly infrequent visits. That Nice Lady Decorator has been working solidly to clean and repaint the interior of our house despite a very bad cold (not man flu but still quite nasty) and is pretty exhausted. It will take a few days of moving amongst the graveyards of the Isle of Wight for her fully to recover.
Some of the Sprogs toys knitted by my late mother look a but sad at being stuffed in a bag
And so we arrived at our first destination, the famous yachting town of Cowes, and booked in to the Union Inn, which I had not expected to be a Fullers house, so, for me, immediately uplifting. We decided on an early evening quick exploration to get the feel of the place. I had expected a bustling nautical town, full of Captain Pugwash types, smoking their briars full of old navy shag, as I think it is called and Roger the Cabin boy lookalikes who are reputed to be on the receiving end of a shag, but first impressions were very different. The town seemed a bit sad and neglected. The shops that are still here looked bedraggled and run down and there were quite a few empty, available for sale or even auction. Not what you would expect a stones throw from the Royal Yacht Squadron headquarters at Cowes Castle, the entrance to which we encountered by chance.
The yachting world with which I am familiar in Cannes, Antibes and Monaco, typical Currencies Direct territory, seem a far cry from what I saw in a brief tour of this sleepy run down town last night. Perhaps Prince Phillip, the admiral of the club, needs to get down here a bit more often and inject a bit of interest? Maybe it will look a bit more interesting this morning after a hearty breakfast and being a day nearer recovery from the dreaded lurgy.
Culture, walking and pubs. That is the theme for the next few days as we tour this little island famed for its Cowes. The culture is the part I need to get over with first. I don’t mind the walking, particularly along the beach paths and then the pub is at the reward at the end of it. So starting low, improving as the day goes on and then ending splendidly visiting the pubs of the island. Regular readers will know that I am a philistine when it comes to culture. I think I prefer what you might find on the top of a three week old yoghurt, but That Nice Lady Decorator likes that sort of thing and is very knowledgable, so best to go with the flow. Did you see what I did then? Using an old nautical saying to make a point?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The Isle of Wight beckons
With the sun out it was perhaps inevitable that we would end up in the sunny garden of the White Hart in Arundel. Tied to the house due to the preparations required for the forthcoming rental season, with That Nice Lady Decorator having actually risen from her bed before dawn to continue her travail. I would have loved to have helped her but man flu prevailed, mocking my efforts to drag myself from my pit and be useful. It is something I find difficult to achieve when I am well, so no chance of contributing anything meaningful.
With departure from the house scheduled for today, it was time yesterday morning to get one’s music business ducks in a row (what a stupid expression!, who ever heard of a duck rowing?), finalise vital contracts and chase up errant publishers and late paying record companies, whilst keeping an eye in the Currencies Direct exchange rates. Even when ill, the motivation to collect my customary 20% is strong enough to drive me from my flu bed.
By midday, the affairs of the international music business had received my full attention for some hours and I was drained and ready for lunch. Mercifully, those pesky 5:2 diet days have been postponed, mainly I like to think, because that sylph like figure for which I am justly unrenowned has been honed to perfection by a mixture of said diet, exercise and the ravages of the evil man flu. I reckon that the effort of my coughing alone could account to the full 2600 calories recommended daily intake. Even the bathroom scales concur, at least they have over the last couple of days, but if truth be told most of the weight loss I have suffered can be attributed to the weight of snot I have managed to jettison over Sussex and Cyprus in the last week.
The garden of The White Hart bathed in unaccustomed sunshine
Thus I was allowed to treat That Nice Lady Decorator to lunch next door. The tapas menu is excellent and we availed ourselves of such delicacies as anchovies, delicate spring rolls, salt and pepper squid and chicken gougons in satay sauce, plus of course a couple of pints of Harvey’s Best, or Guinness and wine in the case of the Decorating one. One of the few beers she does not like is this Sussex brew and so far, James “”Desperate Dan” the Landlord has refused to countenance her request for something more to her taste, i.e. the best beer in the world, Fullers London Pride.
Sun bathing ensued as the pub garden is a sun trap, and once I had imbibed a surfeit of Harvey’s, I took to the house Rioja, and the fate of the afternoon was sealed. As I write I can hear the blissful snoring of That Nice Lady Decorator on the sofa in my office, our bed for the night.
It can be delayed no longer. The Isle Of Wight beckons and we shall take the plunge (not literally one hopes as that implies that the ferry from Portsmouth may sink) and be in the bosom of the island by nightfall. The idea of going to the old age retirement capital of England is fascinating in the manner of a plane crash. It is probably appalling and a terrible spectacle but you know you have to look. I already have to wear reading glasses for failing sight, perhaps a few days amongst an island of crusties will add to my decrepitude? Actually I have seen some very smart hearing aids recently, and have begun to wonder how a zimmer frame operates…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Jewish lightning?
With man flu still imposing its inexorable grip on my good nature and well-being, I needed some good news and that came when it was discovered that the bag I had left at Gatwick early Tuesday morning – whilst in the vice-like grip of full on man flu – was in the hands of the “meet and greet” chauffeur parking chaps I had employed to look after my car whilst I was away. They had “found”my bag in the seating area of the Orange car park. They were supposed to be cleaning the car as part of the service, but clearly there had been unexpected bird strike (a reference to the ability of birds to deposit their detritus on cars) in the moments before they had delivered it back to me in the car park. I did not take issue with the fact that they had not bothered to contact the Gatwick Airport lost property organisation to relate that they had found my bag – despite two days having elapsed since the loss – instead being willing to see that omission as an unfortunate oversight with an agreeable outcome. Had several more days elapsed before I had made the long shot call to them to ask if they had seen my luggage, the cynic in me may have veered towards a belief that they were waiting for sufficient time to pass for the disappearance of the bag to be just another insurance statistic, with a quiet division of the spoils a week or so hence, after the owner had given up any hope of seeing his property again. Anyway, I was delighted by the return of my chattels and was happy to celebrate great British tradition of honesty and integrity, until reality checked in a little later.
So the top down on the Merc, I speeded towards Gatwick to retrieve said items and returned diligently to talk to some potential beneficiaries of the services of Currencies Direct and so my cup runneth over.
Sundown in Arundel
It was in the early evening, with the sun going down in the garden, and with Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor enjoying a large glass of white wine, after performing the task of drilling and screwing the new Brewery Cottage sign to the side of the house. This in readiness for the hordes of tourists who have rented our house whilst we are away, so whilst we enjoyed a small libation as the sun went down, I learned a new expression. “Jewish Lightning”, he said, when I asked what had become of the Abercrombie Arms, a pub that had existed further down the road on the 80’s. It seems that it had caught fire in mysterious circumstances, and, was the subject of an insurance claim, so, apparently, hence the expression. Perhaps there was the slightest suggestion that arson had been involved? surely not?
This seemed a slightly anti-Semitic attitude to me, implying that our Jewish brothers might have exercised some control over a natural disaster, which had led to the demise of an interesting old pub, but I like to think that is a fallacy. I believe the implication was that as a race, they are often more organised than most and more tuned in to the dangers of life in general, but I could be wrong.
So today will be our last full day in Arundel as we set off for the Isle Of Wight on Friday afternoon. The dodgy dog has been sent to prison whilst the final preparations are made and I must prepare to sleep in my office this evening. Clearly I am too messy to be allowed in the house that close to the rental season.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Man flu – a breakthrough?
We have largely stamped out polio and diphtheria, but the truly evil and much more dangerous man flu still stalks the gentlemen of this planet. If it was ailment that afflicted women only, there would have been high-profile campaigns to raise money and awareness of the issue (for instance in the case of breast cancer) but because it descends only upon men, nothing seems to be done.
You may have guessed that the cold I have been battling since setting off for Cyprus last Thursday, has developed and worsened into man flu. The first effect was to postpone the intended lunch yesterday which would have brought together 8 old ex ex-pats from the south of France, to bemoan the weather here in England, discuss the benefits of Currencies Direct and to reminisce about all of those warm nights and splendid lunches the epitomised our little world several years ago.
Despite my whimpering and snuffling, I was dragged from my pit to go to see my dear Aunt Pam who is recovering from a stroke. It was the last opportunity to see her until the beginning of July, so there was no option. Before you begin to get concerned that my germs might contaminate the whole hospital, I must inform you that I was limited to waiting in the hospital courtyard garden and my Aunt arrived in a wheel chair. Of course, it being man flu, women cannot catch it, so no risk of the disease spreading to her. I had been left in the garden with something almost as unpleasant. Banjo, the catastrophic canine who exists in our household under some obscure UN convention or the like, and is owned by her key protector, That Nice Lady Decorator. His presence was deemed of therapeutic value to my dear Aunt, who loves all animals. Whilst I was waiting in the chilly exterior, teeth chattering and nose running, I received a special present from the gobby dog. It was a large helping of his dribbly excretions all over my trousers. It is a total mystery what anyone sees on him. Why can’t we have a proper dog who does not dribble and from whom you do not have to hide the rubbish bin whenever you go out?
A Wild Willy Barrett mirror
Anyway, duty done and trousers changed, on the way back to our house which takes us through the pub garden, we were intercepted by James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord of the White Hart and his consort the regally beautiful Mighty Omega, to join them in a farewell drink as we leave on Friday. With every fibre of my being screaming no, and with the thought of curling up in my bed with a box of lemsip uppermost in my mind, I heard That Nice Lady Decorator accept, and, turning to me she said “you can manage one, can’t you?”. I had also wanted to commune with my belated birthday present. pictured today, A fubulous mirro made by Wild Willy Barrett and incorporating the guitar he had used on me in his performance of “Headbutts” at my 60th birthday bash.
It was a struggle but I manfully agreed to a pint of Harvey’s, distantly aware that there will be no beer of note likely to touch my lips as soon as we leave Portsmouth on the overnight ferry to Santander, after departing the Isle Of Wight early next week. That was then that I came to the conclusion that alcohol can be a wonderful restorative. I believe it has tremendous potential to be a life saving cure for man flu. It is not yet been properly developed medically and it has some fairly unpleasant side effects, but the raw evidence became clear to me yesterday afternoon. A couple of pints and I felt better than I had through the last 4 paracetamol infused days. I shall mount a campaign upon my return from France, to raise money for beer trials. Man flu can and must be beaten, and the nutritional and medical value of real ale will be revealed at the same time.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Spending kids inheritance, ski for short
You can learn a lot when amongst cricketers and on tour, which sadly, I will no longer be by the time you all get to read this. The less attentive amongst you will know that I have spent the last few days in Cyprus, revisiting my cricketing roots and playing cricket once again, this time with the Sussex Seniors. I could even claim to have helped them towards a less ignominiously defeat than that which may have befallen them had I not been there.
I have learned that the art of piss taking is alive and well and living on cricket tours. Just for the record, I have been fined for having an unfeasibly large moustache, being utterly incapable of making the number 4 on a totally incomprehensible scoreboard, buttoning my shirt incorrectly and extolling the virtues of Currencies Direct and of Cypriot red wine. The last charge I vehemently deny but was told that as I had consumed more of it than any the tourist (a charge which if written down will attract the attention of my lawyers, Messrs Boltit, Dribble and Denyit), I had, de facto, been hoist by my own petard. (Winnie, this means guilty as charged).
So with an evening flight and the chance to sober up before driving back from Gatwick, I thought a couple of beers and glasses of wine over lunch would be OK, and so it would have, had I not fallen into bad company. I had walked about two miles along the seafront, determined to avoid the cricket team as I was in recovery phase after the last few days and, thinking that none of them would venture far from the hotel, and that I would be able to sneak out past the pool and along the beach and be able to extricate myself from the madness of the last few days, I was confident that nothing could go wrong. I was wrong. As I entered a quiet beach bar (or so I thought) I was greeted by a huge cheer from at least a dozen of my teammates and WAGS, who unbeknown to me, had gathered there for lunch.
the al fresco changing facilities at the Happy Valley cricket ground.
I think you will understand that they were very keen to give me a good send off and they achieved this with several overs to spare. . I recall arriving back at the hotel and then been awoken from my beach lounger and persuaded to meet my team mates for a final drink at Francs bar, cross the road from the Mediterranean Beach Hotel, and I recall the round of applause as I fell into the taxi taking me to the airport. It is so nice to be wanted (apparently),and then to Paphos Airport. .
During the last little drink up, l discovered some more detail about some of my cohorts. I learned for instance that the acronym SKI stands for “spending kinds inheritance”, something which is close time heart. I have told both of the Sprogs that if I have anything to leave when I depart (but as I am immoral, it my not be any soon) that it is all going to a donkey sanctuary. I also learned that a chap who arrived yesterday to join the tour is a Lady Mayoress. He is referred to thus, as his wife is the Mayor of his town and he is her male consort. I am not sure if that is technically his correct title, but it is good enough for the Sussex Seniors then it is good enough for me.
I got back to Gatwick, waited nearly an hour for my luggage, left my computer bag at the airport and suffered a long diversion on the way home. what a homecoming…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Avoiding cricketing ignominy in Cyprus
What a beautiful setting for a cricket match, and what a perfectly named venue in which to play it. Happy Valley is the name of ground, pictured today, on which the second game of the Sussex Seniors tour to Cyprus was played, and where I made my debut. It was not entirely unsatisfactory as I managed to grind out 24 runs before sacrificing my wicket in a run chase, for which the chances of winning were negligible. I also managed an over of rather variable leg spin. The Army team, whose average age was around 30, were able to post an imposing total of 207 in their 35 overs. It was a very substantial score and, was increased significantly by the fielding by our side with an average age somewhere in the late 60’s. Whereas they were able to turn 4’s into 1’s, we were able to do the exact opposite. Despite a curious innings by a very tall chap who thought it was a test match and played accordingly, we got within 40 of the young whipper snappers total. So another defeat but without ignominy.
Naturally, the team celebrated this avoidance of ignominy. First with beers at the ground in the sunshine and then back in Limossol, where we watched a similarly intriguing match, the final of the World Cup 20:20 between India and Sri Lanka, won by the latter, at Francs bar across the road from the hotel. Ok, perhaps that match was a bit more entertaining for the spectators, but I enjoyed the cricket we played more.
Happy Valley for happy debutante
Thereafter, a breakaway section of the team ventured a few hundred yards up the road towards the centre of Limossol where I had a delightful grilled trout and was comparatively abstemious with the wine, although I accept that in recent days the norms of intake have being considerably higher than usual. I think it was Cypriot wine that was a little less tart than on previous evening, but it may be that I am just getting used to it. I was able to bring the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct into the conversation thereby, in my opinion, making the expense of dinner, in face come to think of it the whole tour, as a justifiable business expense. After all, the a Sussex Seniors are now accredited affiliates and I have been involved in customer training. I can hear the harrumph of my accountant from here.
Having now played and even received some compliments, I can now dare to wear the Sussex Seniors sweater I bought on the winter, without those looks indicating a lack of entitlement with which I was greeted when I wore it at nets, initially unaware of the consternation I was causing. I had put it away since that day, but it will come out to play again in July when I hope to play regularly in the County Senior League. It has even been suggested that I should make myself available for the Over 50’s, but I kind of like being one of the youngest in the team.
Before that though, I have a lot if living to do, starting with the Isle Of Death Wight next Friday, then in to Spain to explore Sanander?, Bilbao and the norther Spanish coast, which is reputedly very beautiful and to which neither myself or That Nice Lady Decorator have been. A few days exploration and then we commence the drive east past the Pyrenees across France to Valbonne. I have one last day in the sunshine today before flying back to Gatwick tonight. I shall savour it as I am hearing it is dull and wet back in the UK. Warm and sunny here…
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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