Chateau heaven
By the time you read this I will be sitting an a ferry from Caen to Portsmouth either; nursing a glass of champagne, maybe a Bucks Fizz or even a Bloody Mary in the sunshine on a flat calm or; sitting on deck depositing a very early breakfast over the side of the ferry for the enjoyment of the sea gulls if we find ourselves in a squall.
Not being a very good sailor for much of my life has in the past made it imperative that I use the Channel Tunnel to travel between France and England. I give the Master Mariner Mundell the credit for reintroducing me to the possibilities on water transport when we he invited me to help crew his boat to victory in the Bistro Rally, an annual race for sailing boats from Port de le Rague to the Isles Des Lerins off Cannes last September, but for very little else except a master class on bullying. So far this rather worrying latter trait has come to the fore only once, when my first book was ritually abused, and before that abuse developed sufficiently to take in the destruction of my luxurious beard (see columns passim). The next Bistro Rally is 24th September, I hope once again to be there with my new moustache.
Yesterday was another astonishing day. Chateau Rochecotte was as pretty as a picture, as was the face of that nice lady decorator when it came to ask for the bill. We had an arrangement you see. I paid for the hotel whilst she paid for dinner and drinks from the night before. My bill was a mere 204 Euros, hers was half as much again. Boy was she cursing that second glass of champagne at 18 Euros a glass! I believe she may need the services of Currencies Direct again sooner than she had hoped.
Following a tour of the grounds we set off to take in several more Chateau’s along the delightful Loire valley, one of which Chateau de Champchevrier, I picture below, before heading north, it has to be said, in hot sunshine reaching Caen around 5pm. That’s when the trouble started. We had thought we would book a hotel on the coast with a mile or so of the ferry port and breeze down there this morning ready for the return to blighty. It was after the 6th hotel we tried was fully booked that we came to the conclusion that most of the other passengers had made a similar decision but a great deal earlier. No choice than but to head the 7 miles back into Caen with the expectation that it would be as dreary and unappetising as Calais. It was nothing of the sort. It has a delightful canal area, and there was a latino festival in full stride.
Chateau de Champchevrier
So our extended exile back in Britain commences today. We shall backslide a little with a flying visit for that Rally, a trip to the Galway Bay Oyster Festival later this month, then Australia in late November. It is a tough life but I will try not to complain.
In the meantime I am determined to complete the writing of my second book provisionally entitled “The Valbonne Monologues”. Whilst it will provide me with a great deal of satisfaction, it will also irritate my coterie of public schoolboy friends who are still unhappy at the obvious success of my first book with sales now standing at 200 and not rising. I say success because the break even point was 120 sales. Perhaps I should not have been so vociferous in ensuring that my better educated peers were well-informed about this position. Some may say that I could have been a bit less immodest about the whole thing, but the wind up was too tempting to resist.
Chris France
Beached
I must issue a full apology after a catastrophe when that nice lady decorator managed to get on line and read yesterdays column. I had banked on the fact that as we are traveling she would not get such an opportunity. So let me correct two deviations from the truth; Of course the directions given me (to which I referred yesterday, in less than complimentary terms) were perfect and it was her decrepit husband who “does not understand plain English or obey simple instructions” that was the route of the problem.
Also there was very little truth in my claim to have been locked on the loo in order to avoid being mentally mauled for having made a facetious comment about her map reading. Just to illustrate how wrong I had been, we managed successfully to navigate our way off the Isle De Re over the only bridge that connects it to the mainland. This was after we had hired bikes and cycled around the quite flat southern part of the island and visited several very pretty nearby villages, the prettiest of which was St Martin De Re. We also found a couple of splendid beaches, one of which is depicted on my featured picture today. It is a truly magnificent island with well preserved architecture and almost no modern building anywhere to drag down the spectacle. Thoroughly recommended.
A beach on Isle De Re
Then it was off to the Loire valley in search of a Chateau. What no one had told us was that many of them are monuments or the homes of wine producers, not offering any accomodation and as the afternoon turned into evening we were becoming a little desperate to find somewhere to stay. We found several unedifying hotels, all of which we would have booked in desperation but were already full. I usually send that nice lady decorator in to check availability and at one in a town called Bourgueil we found a small odd loooking hotel called L’oc de France which she described as like being a set for ancient TV series The Munsters, complete with Uncle Fester. I think it was owned by the Adams Family who seemed also, according to her, to have adopted a hobbit. They were all sitting down to dinner in an unlit room with drawn brown curtains as she checked availability. Luckily they also claimed to be full, even though she thought they were about to eat one of the guests, thereby freeing up a room so having made a lucky escape we drove on and then as night approached we found heaven.
Chateau Rochecotte is magnificent, set in the hills above the Loire at St Patrice, it has magnificent pallisade terraces, hectares of well kept private gardens, and even has its own private chapel, which would no doubt please the Reverend Jeff (unless it was Catholic?). Anyway, we checked in and had a splendid meal which I am certain did not comprise any part of any guest.
So with thoughts of Currencies Direct duties beginning to crowd ny unconscious mind and with tonight being our last night in France on this trip, I shall be making the most of the Chateau facilities this morning and the most of the beautiful Loire valley this afternoon. I suspect that tonight may be a lot less salubrious as we shall need to be a Caen (if we are Able?) for 7.45 on Sunday morning, not a time that any decent human being should be awake, in order to catch the ferry to Portsmouth. Hopefully The Munsters do not have relatives with a hotel in Caen.
Chris France
Harbouring ill thoughts
After worshipping wine at St Emilion, and then buying a ridiculous amount of it to ship into the UK, we set off for the village of Pomerol, the home of the best wine in the world, Chateau Petrus. I had earlier asked the salesman in the wine merchants what was the cost of the least expensive Petrus and he said 1600 euros. I was weighing up whether 135 euros a bottle for a case of 12 was in any way a justifiable business expense when he finished his sentence with “a bottle”. So no Petrus for me, but just a fleeting drive through the best vineyard in the world in the warm sunshine.
Homage paid, we set off for the Loire Valley. So how we came to stay in the Isle de Re close to La Rochelle is a bit of a mystery. You will understand that in my twin roles as designated driver, and hen-pecked husband, it is my duty to follow barked female instructions however imprecise, confusing or contradictory to the letter and without question. After several hours of this chaos, we found a beach in the “Loire” on the Atlantic coast of France close to somewhere called Royan where I was allowed out of the car for a toilet stop. My polite observation, before I had been given time to acclimatise, that I did not think the Loire was tidal this far inland, was met with the customary intransigent stare.
It seems there had been a change in plan en route, and a drive up the beautiful banks of the Gironde and the west coast of France had been substituted, but there is no way this had anything to do with taking the wrong road, no siree. Let us be crystal clear about that.
After avoiding La Rochelle which looked a bit too city for the like for me, we headed over to the islands across a very impressive bridge. It was impressively priced as well at 16 Euros a trip, more than I had paid for a St Emilion Grand Cru some hours earlier. We happened upon a charming Atlantic fishing village called La Flotte where we took early evening beers in hot sunshine, as my picture today shows.
The harbour at La Flotte
I am berated yesterday in this column by Paul “Slash and Burn” Thornton Allan for suggesting the autumn has arrived in England. It seems that an indian summer is taking place over there, but I have money on its demise as soon as I set foot back in the old country.
I am also “corrected” by the Reverend Jeff about the placing of an apostrophe in yesterdays column. I did not quite get the gist of what was his point, in fact I think I began to glaze over, but from my little knowledge of the bible I thought there were 12 apostles, or was that 12 horseman of the apocalypse? Who knows? Who cares?
I believe that there will be a second attempt to reach the foothills for the Loire Valley tomorrow but in order to raise the chances of success I have suggested that perhaps we should make more use of the sat nav in the car, rather than rely on the old-fashioned maps that the nice lady decorator swears by. As I write I am locked in the loo whilst she calms down.
With every dawn there comes the elation of seeing blue skies and then the dread as by early next week my love affair with La Belle France will be subject to a trial separation, but not for me from my contractually satisfying activities with Currencies Direct you understand.
Chris France
St Emilion homage
Last night then to the Genesis of red wine, the very centre of all things holy, the pretty village of St Emilion in the Bordeaux region, home to some of the finest crushed fruit in the world. Actually this years crop is not crushed yet, most of it is still hanging deliciously on the vines.
The Reverend Jeff will argue vacuously that the seat of religion is a more important starting point for civilisation but he is so wrong. Jerusalem may be from where his particular religion emanated but although it did produce a good rousing song of the same name, it does not have the same resonance with anyone who respects, and makes a religion of, enjoying good wine. St Emilion, a name to savour rather than pay homage to a saviour.
I am talking about red wine in particular, created in gods own vineyards in Bordeaux. This is what keeps my little world on the straight and narrow but it does not always work so well for that nice lady decorator. Last night when we were having dinner and, rather inevitably, a bottle of very fine St Emilion in a restaurant called L’ Envers De Decor set amongst ancient high village remparts, and whilst my blackberry was at hand and thus able to make a note, made the mistake when talking about different types of terracing of referring to something called “pazy craving”. I have craved red wine but not as far as I am aware never pazy. I took this picture whilst I was at worship.
On the way across France we visited Bordeaux itself which is a very attractive conurbation for lunch, but what I was looking forward to was Grand Cru land itself. It was before getting there on the drive up through the vinyards when we were between Castelnaudry and Bordeaux that we came across (sic) the village of Condom. In itself it was worth no more than a stupid public schoolboy guffaw and I had resolved not to mention it in this earnest and exalted column as I had left all the public schoolboys back in Valbonne, so we managed to pass the village without much comment. However the next village along was called Les Passages, and I just missed getting a photo of a road sign on the motorway with the two together, otherwise you know what would have been today’s featured picture, especially for those public schoolboys who so enjoy reading this missive although seldom admit it.
This morning after a thorough exploration of the village and the careful consideration of what wine to buy given the current favourable exchange rates (which I shall be checking moment by moment with Currencies Direct) and whether to stuff it in the car or have it shipped back to England, I shall be visiting the holiest of holy sites. Pomerol, a tiny village nearby is to red wine what Bethlehem is to the Reverend Jeff. The birthplace of Chateau Petrus, the finest wine ever made.
Yes, it is ridiculously and ruinously expensive, and yes I have only been lucky enough to taste it twice in my life, but I shall look and salivate without noticing, just like that horrid hound Banjo without whom I have been blessed these last ten glorious days, him being in prison back in the UK.
Then later today we shall head inexorably north closer to England, doubtless with the first hints of autumn as an unwelcome reminder of the English winter that awaits me, to the Loire valley to collect, as the pub landlord Al Murray describes “some white wine for the ladies”.
Chris France
A bridge too far?
For some weeks, that nice lady decorator has been looking forward to visiting Castelnaudry, a town to the south-east of Toulouse. Whilst she was set on seeing the wonderful fortress which she excitedly thought would be similar to the spectacular Carcasonne, I was more interested to visit as it is the home of casoulet, a renowned local dish consisting of a combination of beans, pork and duck which has in the past provided me with top quality raw material for noxious methane production.
I am not really into castles, old architecture or the Cathare Castle thing that so captures that nice lady decorator, however, in return for a quiet life, I am prepared to go along for the ride and pay the whole thing some lip service. But how should I react when we arrived at the much vaunted Castelnaudry only to find the it had no castle? With joy and amusement? Clearly not.
I was unwise enough to suggest to her that the French word Castelnaudry might literally mean “no castle”. In the immortal words of Basil Fawlty, “I mentioned it once but I think I got away with it”.
The town is quite charming and stands on the banks of the Canal Du Midi from where I took this picture yesterday. A more artistic shot from your friendly local Currencies Direct representative is hard to imagine.
Can you see what it is yet?
I was suffering a little as we commenced our trip leaving Valbonne. Not because I had a slight hangover (although I did) but because reports began filtering in and I was becoming painfully aware that I had missed some events of interest the evening before due to being overcome by a bout of extreme tiredness. I had conked out at about 9pm after a long lunch, drinks at the Wingco’s and further drinks in the pav, but there were those amongst us with better staying power. Inevitably that nice lady decorator was at the forefront of the reports of bad behaviour that reached me yesterday. By forefront what I should perhaps be saying if two-front as she stands accused by more than one person who was there of exposing her breasts, but not, as she said in her defence, until quite late, and after some skinny dipping by at least one if the stragglers, so that’s all right then. I cannot reveal who was the miscreant who it is alleged was the ringleader of this particular activity but I have in my possession some underwear carrying the name Dangerous Jackie Lawless (not her real name). I have a suspicion that the two are connected.
This is a heinous crime. I should have been awoken immediately. Not to put a stop to it but in order to have been able to photograph the event for this column to act as a warning of the dangers of over imbibing. Anyone suggesting that I would in any way derive some small titillation from such combined bad behavior, as the Reverend Jeff did in the comments section yesterday, is as insulting as it is wrong. It would have been a lot of titillation.
Today then we head further west to the home of the best wine region in the world, Bordeaux. It has long been my desire to visit the seat of red wine and to pay homage to the area that has brought and continues to bring me such pleasure. I am told that it is a pretty place, but even if it was a bland concrete jungle I will love it. I am sure I can find a little space in the packed car to collect a few viticultural trinkets on my way through, I just may have to jettison a suitcase or two.
Chris France
Master Cutter
So then to a perfect lunch at the Auberge St Donat. It was the sort of lunch that I will so miss in England. A dozen people showed up, wine was drunk, good solid food was consumed and laughter was the theme until we were the last to leave at about 4pm.
Some of the girls were slightly less than enamored with the second starter (5 courses, no choice 15.50 euros including wine is the format) but I love a bit of tongue and lentils. In fact I am happy to receive tongue in almost any circumstances, with or without lentils. The Wingco was at his best when he suggested that if the girls amongst us were unhappy with that course they should consider eating elsewhere but I digress.
A much better turnout lightened a motley Monday, the weather only beginning to improve during lunch, but that improvement was sufficient to allow us to adjourn afterwards to the Wingco’s terrace nearby, drink more wine and enjoy Blind Lemon Milsted’s vocal ad libbing to the strident blues riffs supplied by the Wingco.
Lunch was enlivened by an uncompromising sales pitch by Master Mariner Mundell to persuade the lovely Pippa, the French boss of those wise currency exchange experts Currencies Direct, to sponsor a range of sailing attire for the crew of his boat for the Bistro Rally, scheduled for 24th of September. This annual race, open to all owners of sailing yachts, has been won by the Master for five years in succession. In fact he has never lost, although he seems to have lost some sailing friends along the way. Personally I have no problem with proclaiming victory when I have won (and sulking, no, refusing to believe it possible if I have lost) but one, well this council house boy at least, would have expected the Master, being a public school educated and properly brought up sort of chap, as he is constantly reminding me, to have a little more decorum and modesty. Playing Queens “We Are The Champions” and cranking up the stereo up to maximum as soon as he has passed the finishing line seems not to have endeared him to his fellow sailors, nor to the entire population of Mandelieu who were the unlucky recipients to this monstrous cacophony when he arrived back from this victory last year.
It is this malevolent side to his character which I have nearly captured on my picture today. Undoubtedly, he is jealous of my luxuriant moustache and the attention to which I am subjected by almost the entire female population and although he tries to hide it (actually now I come to think of it, he does not try to hide it) I believe that he wishes my moustache physical harm. Please note his grasp on the garden loppers in today’s picture. He was heading towards my moustache at the time.
A cut above the rest?
My house guardian, man mountain Peachy Butterfield, was comparatively muted for him but the same cannot be said for the nice lady decorator who, seemingly, after I had retired hurt from the pav in the early evening, insisted on proving rather graphically to all and sundry that she had not had breast implants or any work done. As I was undergoing treatment at the time, I have only her word for what happened. More details will doubtless emerge today as I speak to those who had remained awake and are able to remember in the entirety events that took place after I had removed myself from proceedings. Perhaps after all, this is in fact a good time to be leaving France for the time being.
Chris France
Hogging the restaurants
A poor turnout greeted my last lunch in Valbonne Square. Sir Tim Berners Lee masquerading as Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs was there with flaming red-haired wife Pat, and, from the English Book Centre, Lin Woolf, my book launch agent, arrived but sadly the Irish contingent decided on a day on the beach in Cannes instead. Jude O Sullivan must have heard that the Cafe Des Arcades had run out of Baileys.
However, that gave me a chance to monopolise the lovely Lin and talk her into staging the launch of my second book on the scariest day of the year, Halloween. The only problem is that I now have to finish it by the end of September, which will require two weeks of full on non drinking toil, a price I am reluctantly willing to pay for the fame and adulation that will inevitably follow. How could I disappoint several of my potential customers who have bulk orders in for the book as Christmas presents for people they don’t like? Imagine how many people’s Christmas I could spoil. No, it must be printed and published for Halloween.
My day was made special however when she ordered and paid for two more copies of my first book due to what she called “unprecedented demand” (I think she meant there had been no demand), taking sales to 200 in total, an utter triumph. I refuse to listen to that nice lady decorator who is of the opinion that our local literary goddess ordered 2 copies for her book shop because I had been stuck on 198 sales for over a month and she felt sorry for me. This is palpable nonsense as Lin said, with the prospect of a new book on the horizon, the back catalogue always receives a boost.
My picture today is a counterpoint to the useless modern “art” that I featured and ridiculed in yesterdays column. I snapped this family of hogs recently to show that there are genuine artists in the area that can make real things of beauty rather than spending time trying to fool people into thinking that something is good or clever, or could be created by a 5-year-old.
Three little pigs, and another one
My last full day in Valbonne will be celebrated in traditional style at Auberge St Donat. The rain gods must be trying to acclimatise myself for a long English winter as the rains rolled in last night and it is still pelting this morning, so the Auberge is a good choice being mostly inside. An array of the usual suspects are gathering including, inevitably, the Wingco who will on this occasion be accompanied by his lovely wife Maryse. I make mention of this because he is often loudly of the opinion that the Auberge St Donat is a men only bastion. Should women be present that moustache bristles and snide asides, mainly it has to be said in jest, such as “well, as a girl she should not be here” are a feature of the day. It should also be said that if the “girl” happens to be that nice lady decorator he enjoys it even more because she is not one for ignoring the bait. So I expect to have some fun at his expense, asking in front of his gorgeous spouse whether his attitude has changed.
Dancing Greg Harris will be there, the Master Mariner Mundell plus a coterie of other regulars. Also promising to make an appearance is the lovely Pippa Maille, head of Currencies Direct France accompanied by the brooding and magnificent latin god that is her husband Gerald, the worst golfer I have ever seen. Pippa will no doubt wish to ensure that I have collected up every last possible client from Valbonne before tomorrows sad departure.
Chris France
Ghastly apparition before dinner
Regular readers will know that I consider all so called modern art to be a huge confidence trick. The parable of the emperors new clothes could not be better illustrated by some of the “artworks” on display in Valbonne village, one of which I feature today.
I want a kilo of whatever the artist was smoking
I suggest that whoever created this monstrosity was or is a serious user of mind bending drugs. There seems to be a Salvador Dali influence here. I have great respect for Dali for two reasons; his ability to have fooled so many people with so many bizarre works for so long into believing that he was an artist to be taken seriously, and his moustache. Any suggestion that my moustache is in any way inspired by his would be hard to refute, and likewise, any suggestion that I am to the literary world what I think Dali is to the art world would be as unwelcome as it is probably true.
We were on our way to the wonderfully atmospheric and fun Valbonnaise, the eaterie at the top of the village when we happened across these ghastly apparitions, but even they were insufficient to disturb my appetite. Normally at this time of the year, this sweaty, gaudy, crowded place would be one to be avoided but with the weather taking a leaf out of English book and long trousers again pressed into unwelcome service, it was packed. Talking of English books, amongst those dining were the lovely Lin Wolff the owner of the English Book Centre in Valbonne and I was able to start the planning for the launch of my second book (to be sponsored by Currencies Direct) under her careful guidance.
My two preferred dates for this are Halloween or Bonfire Night which will mean I must have it finished by the end of September, a tall order, but with my public waiting expectantly, my quill will be scratching away as soon as we get back to the UK in weeks time.
Just two more days in Valbonne before our road trip back to the cold and damp that is England, so lunches are planned for today and tomorrow. Tony” I invented the internet” Coombs has agreed to leave his work inventing “internet 2” and venture to the Cafe Des Arcades today with his delicious wife Pat. The Irish will be represented by spectacularly endowed (sorry Lin) Jude “where’s the Baileys” O Sullivan along with cigar smoking husband John “800 years of repression” O Sullivan (same surname, strange that) so doubtless my meagre supply of Havana’s will be further depleted.
Others have promised to pop in including Marc Wolff from Flying Pictures who was also at the Valbonnaise last night. He revealed more fascinating details of the planning and 7 months of rehearsals that went into the stunt of dropping the “queen” into the Olympic Stadium for Danny Boyle’s opening ceremony. Marc was flying the helicopter which had to be over the stadium at the exact second due to pre-recorded film sequences cutting to the chopper at the precise moment the queen jumped. It seems that a change in the wind a little earlier had thrown the entire team into a panic. I cannot imagine the pressure that he was under to deliver a live stunt televised and beamed to untold millions around the world. I expect he felt the same panic as did I when I had to speak in front of 80 friends gathered for my first book launch last year. I mentioned this to him and he was quite sympathetic.
The last lunch then will be at old favourite Auberge St Donat on Monday. Amongst those who have agreed to attend are Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals, the Wingco, man mountain Peachy Butterfield and salty sea dog the Master Mariner Mundell. Should be a quiet one then.
Chris France
The art of failed photography
More Card Board-eaux was consumed by house guest Peachy Butterfield yesterday, both in the afternoon and the evening. He had bought himself 5 litre boxes of both white and rose wine in order to give himself a full house with his box of red which, to his delight, was still there and far from empty in the pav having been quite wisely ignored by all the summer guests at the house.
Earlier in the morning I had been to church at Cafe Latin in Valbonne. Church, the worship by ex-pats of coffee and gossip is an ideal networking opportunity at which I have often found clients delighted to be able to save money by using the services of Currencies Direct for all their foreign exchange transactions. There was a good turnout of the congregation and I was especially pleased to see my style guru Mr Humphreys, who was free, and to seek a judgement on my red sailing slacks which I had worn on the off-chance that he would be there. Imagine my delight then when he proclaimed that red was a good colour for me. I shall not have to worry about my high blood pressure and resulting florid complexion as much as I had feared.
My picture today was taken aboard l’Exocet a day earlier after the irritating rain had cleared. It is another of my moody and artistic shots for which I am justly unrenowned.
Art, but not as we know it. The view of Cannes shrouded in cloud beneath the mountains.
A late lunch is always a matter of concern. I am suspicious that it is an attempt, usually by girls and especially that nice lady decorator, to reduce ones minimum requirement of three square meals a day. To me, it is an excuse to avoid having supper and if allowed to succeed presents a very dangerous precedent. It also by definition suggests an unacceptably long period between breakfast and lunch.
With Peachy about to become effectively the guardians of our house in Valbonne for the next 9 months, there were important details to be discussed about how the house functions, and what better scenario in which to undertake these talks than over pre (late) lunch drinks in the web in the sunshine. A short thunderstorm was merely a slight diversion. Possibly the most important task with which he was charged, and work that he willingly took on board, was to ensure that my fake plastic banana palm receives sufficient water. His lovely wife will do the rest; the less important tasks such as caring for the swimming pool, mowing the lawn with Terrance the Tractor, lopping of trees, cleaning of terraces, painting of garden furniture, cutting logs and all the other maintenance required.
With negotiations successfully concluded, And the art of delegation alive and well, we felt we were able to unwind and celebrate these tricky discussions with a further glass of wine. For La Peche this involved tapping into one of the wine boxes as described above.
Just three more days are left before we shall start the trek north to England. We shall however be going west before that heading for the Bordeaux region via Castelnaudry, the home of cassoulet, a fine concoction of beans and duck and, I think, leftovers. Rather surprisingly, this visit is something suggested by that nice lady decorator, surprising because thus particular local delicacy, which I love, is often treated in the most pungent fashion by my constitution. Thereafter to the home of wine. The gods are not good though, the car will be full to bursting point, so no room for any local viticultural gems I come across.
Tonelling out
I learned yesterday what is my favourite opening line for an entertainer. “I came on the bus, but managed to disguise it as an asthma attack.”
This expression “came” to light a few days ago, but I had forgotten until reminded about it yesterday aboard Master Mariner Mundell’s pretty sailing yacht L’Exocet. With some untypical Cote d’Azur weather involving something called rain hovering about during the morning, albeit light and intermittent, a decision was made to abandon motoring 3 hours down the coast to lunch at St Tropez and instead head over to Juan Les Pins. However on the way I remembered that La Tonnelle (pictured today), on the smaller of Les Iles Des Lerins, the islands a few miles of the coast of Cannes had a tender service. This of course is not a touching church event but where the restaurant will send a tender to transport guests from boats to shore for lunch.
La Tonelle viewed from the sea
The Master had not been there so we headed for it whilst applying to ourselves appropriate or perhaps in some cases inappropriate supplies of rose, beers and even in one case, pastis. Dangerous Jackie Lawless was aboard and was deemed to be “Roger the cabin boy”, a character from a very old kids TV series called Captain Pugwash, for the day. Being somewhat younger than many fellow travellers she had volunteered for this task without, I think, taking on board as it were, the underlying sexual interpretation that could be applied to her title. Innocently she thought it just involved serving drinks up from the galley.
After lunch we were sailing in more ways than one. The Master deemed that there was sufficient wind to merit the raising of the sails and at a respectable 7 knots we tacked our way back to the berth in Port De La Rague in much the manner would a drunk weaving his way home after a skin full might do on dry land.
Returning in early evening, we raised ourselves after a late siesta to go into Valbonne Square for yet more food and drink. The occasion was the last night for our house guests, that nice lady decorators brother Hugh and his lovely wife Stephanie before they return to the UK today. Just when I thought that a long day was coming to a sedate and restful end, we had even ordered the bill, we were descended upon my man mountain Peachy Butterfield, fresh from successfully installing his first clients of Peachy Properties into their new house in Mougins. He was pleased with himself for this first success although there is no doubt that the hard graft had been undertaken by long suffering and gorgeous wife Suzanne. In no way did this triumph assuage his determination to party and so, after a number more carafes of the house red, he decided that we had not yet had a proper “pav night” meaning more drinks in the thai style pavillion that overlooks our swimming pool.
My reluctance to continue imbibing after such a long day was swept away by the “Le Peche Enorme” as he told me we needed to discuss the finer points of his appointment as our “guardien” for my house whilst we are in exile in Arundel. I hesitate to think this morning about what I may have agreed last night. Doubtless the full scale of this horror will unfold today.
One thing I hope I mentioned would be the benefit to Peachy’s Properties of becoming affiliates for Currencies Direct, thus enabling them to alert their clients to the savings that can be made. This will then enable me to submit the not inconsiderable bill for dinner to my accountant as a legitimate business expense. I can almost hear him whimpering now.
Chris France
Wine colostomy
It’s all about perception. Peachy Butterfield was determined to extol the virtues of a very basic white wine, but he did his cause very little good as he decided to remove the bladder from its box as my picture today illustrates. This prompted an observation by the nice lady decorator that it looked like a colostomy bag. I am not sure about you, but at that moment I found my decision to avoid white wine to be totally vindicated. Red wine is the way forward, with its many health advantages, and that is certainly the route I expect to follow for a long healthy life continuing to help people avoid silly exchange rates and unnecessary bank charges whenever they have a need to trade currency. Currencies Direct is the other way forward.
Peachy shows off his version of a colostomy bag
Lunch was a fabulously long drawn out affair with conversation covering a myriad of topics. It may have been the relative difficulty of getting a drink, but I cannot remember exactly why we were talking about Ramadan and Dubai, or why that nice lady decorator so violently disagreed with what I was saying, in fact we had a row about it. Later I was able to describe it as a Ramadam a ding-dong.
Master Mariner Mundell was in attendance and full of malevolent jealousy aimed at my splendid new luxuriant moustache which has been carefully nurtured ever since l “lost” my lovely long, but it has to be said, slightly less attractive long pointed beard in a restaurant “accident” at the end of last year. For those that have not seen it, by way of quite accurate description, recently in Italy I was called D’Artagnan by a chap in a peage booth on the motorway which may give you some idea of how long it has become. Gel is now routinely required in order for the tips to be waxed to a point. A little challenged in the follicle department in some areas, he seems pathologically opposed to anyone who is able to sport any kind of facial growth, or indeed growth anywhere except on ones chest, or perhaps it is me of whom he is jealous? Perhaps he would prefer not to have been sent to public school in Gourdonstone as a child preferring instead my worldly wise grammar school inspired real world education? As the rose stocks became low he mumbled something about ensuring that the moustache had to be trimmed severely, at least on one side, leaving the other side untouched as he “did not want me to look stupid”. I need to be on my guard today when we join him aboard l’Exocet, his magnificent sailing boat, from a day trip out to lunch at St Tropez. I think I will hunt down and hide any scissors I find on board.
Last night then, a little jaded by lunch but spurred on that nice lady decorators brother, but bereft of the Master whom had set a different course, we headed into Valbonne Square where, as Cafe Des Arcades was full, we ate instead at the very good Terra Rossa on the eastern side. My lamb was excellent as were all the meals, especially the Terra Rossa seafood salad which was extremely well received. we shall be visiting again soon I hope.
St, St Tropez awaits but with little wind forecast and mill pond conditions promised, the concept of sailing anywhere may be fleeting. A drive down the beautiful coastline whilst sipping champagne on the poop deck, followed by lunch, looks favourite.
Chris France
Grappling with grapes
The first evening in Valbonne had been ignited by the Wingco and his spectacular thirst, but Peachy Butterfield arrived at 5pm yesterday with the beautiful Suzanne and pronounced himself parched after a long journey. Those of you amongst the readers of this daily report who have met the man or have read about his exploits will have an idea of the result. Prosecco and rose was drunk in profusion to start, followed at about 6pm by a Grand Cru St Emilion (which seemed unaffected by being stuck mistakenly in the boot of my black car in 35 degree heat for the past month), a pudding wine followed by cheese, desert and then bed. Peachy restricted himself just to drinking from a box of red table wine which his insisted on calling “Card Bordeaux”. The wine was certainly contained in cardboard but was not a Bordeaux.
Peachy and Suzanne are (which means she is) looking after our house from next week onwards for the foreseeable future, due to my exile to England foisted upon me by President Sarkozy. If tax is fair I am happy to pay it, when it is patently unfair then I will do everything to avoid it, hence our move back to England. But let us not dwell on the depressing mid-term prospects, let us instead dwell upon the uplifting events of this week in the lovely Cote d’Azur and the benefits of Currencies Direct. My spirits were lifted as soon as I received this picture of the lovely Suzanne apparently enjoying the attentions of that nice lady decorators brother, Hugh Brampton. Surely there are other ways to eat grapes?
Surely there must be another way to eat grapes?
Peachy was on top form, discussing an alternative to the literary phenomenon 50 Shades of Grey. According to him there is a collection of books or stories called, 50 Shelves of Grey, where writers have reinterpreted some literary classics in the style of “50 Shades”. Amongst the titles that have come in for no doubt tender treatment are “Winnie The Pooh” right through the written spectrum to “Pride And Prejudice”. It was when he was talking about this interpretation of the former and how the particular story he had read concerned Eehore, the donkey, with some reference to him having honey smothered all over him. He claimed that in the new version Ehaw said he always comes when that happens. He laughed uproariously at his own joke, but I failed to understand its meaning. When it came Pride and Prejudice, discussions headed to a new low, so low that even I cannot report on it, mainly because my notes taken at the time are incoherent.
Lunch on Thursday has had to be postponed because frankly, we got a better offer. An invitation for a days sailing aboard L’Exocet and lunch on the beach somewhere had me pleading with old friend Peter “Pierre Le Grande” Lynn with whom we were going to lunch to let us postpone, which he did with very good grace, mainly because he was pleased to announce his new epithet for me; “Arun Del-Boy”. Gone now are the days when I was referred to as Boycie, another character in UK TV series “Only Fools And Horses”. I am at a loss as to how I could be mistaken for, or there could be any way I could be depicted as a scheming, tasteless, barely honest market trader, although it is true that in my youth I did have a market stall.
Today you will not be surprised to read that there is a plan to have lunch. The Master Mariner Mundell will join us together with any number of suspects that we decided to invite on a whim last evening. Some have accepted, some will plead pressure of work, some will ignore the invitation totally on health grounds, damage to that is.
Chris France
Atrocity beside a butchers
The decision was how many jumpers should I wear for the trip to Gatwick, and how many pairs of shorts should I pack for France. We left Arundel under scudding skies and with spots of rain hinting that a trip to France would be quite timely. We arrived in Nice at 7pm to 27 degrees and unbroken evening sunshine. I felt my shoulders, hunched against the rain and wind of England, relax as we walked to the car.
The Wingco had kindly agreed to pick us up from the airport to meet up with that nice lady decorators brother and wife, the lovely Stephanie, who are guests for the week. I had forgotten to forewarn them about the Wingco, and before I could intercept them to avoid the dangerous carnage that would result, they had invited him to stay for a drink. I knew the folly of such an invitation due to his regularly exhibited prodigious appetite for red wine and I knew at that moment that I would have to tap the supplies stored in the garage.
Our guests, having arrived ahead of us had generously been to the supermarket and taken on sufficient supplies for the 4 of us, including a magnum of a very good St Emilion, could not have known that adding The Wingco to the equation made the logistics fail to add up. Disasterously, they had laid a table for 5, and even the Wingco can count as high as that and worked out that he was also invited to dine with us. Thus the lamb which our guests had lined up for lunch today, and which they offered to barbecue for the Wingco (an offer they had expected him to refuse – he did not), and once on his way we knew it was too late. We used some prosecco to stem the tide but it was no good, the garage key had to be found and several bottles of a nice little Italian were fed into the food and drink disposal unit we affectionately know as the Wingco.
My picture today was taken in Arundel at the weekend. It seems a little cruel of the organisers of the festival to place the Lancing Silver Band so close to the butchers. I do hope that this decision to no way reflects their feelings about the quality of the bands output.
How could anyone think this fine band could ever butcher a song?
Blue skies and sunshine have awoken me from my slumbers this morning and already the wheels of the social whirl that epitomises Valbonne have begun to move. There is talk of a day out on the sailing boat belonging to the Master Mariner Mundell, a lunch on Thursday at Auberge de le Source but looming larger in every way is the expected arrival of the giant Peachy Butterfield this evening. On my shopping list will be the largest possible boxes of red and rose wine in readiness for the onslaught. The man mountain has been languishing in the cold and wet of the frozen north for a couple of months and is in dire need of some sunshine.
Friday will give me an opportunity to go to church at Cafe Latin for the first time in months to see some of my Currencies Direct clients. I am also anxious to see if my style guru, Mr Humphreys (if he is free) will pass judgement and give his seal of approval to some rather dashing green trousers I have recently purchased. Given his eye for colour, I have high hopes, unless the green eye of jealousy gets the better of him.
Chris France
Where did you get that hat?
When England is sunny and warm, and one is walking down the beach, or taking in some classic English entertainment, as we were outside the Eagle pub in Arundel at lunch time yesterday, there is no better place to be in the world. The problem is that by 5pm, the cloud and wind had built up, and a wonderful afternoon and evening was ruined by having to eschew shorts, don long trousers, a hat, a sweater and then eventually a coat in order to counter the puritanical English fun gods, who are seemingly intent on ensuring that no one in England can enjoy a whole day without cold and damp.
It has to be said that after a few drinks that nice lady decorator and I disagree about the relative merits of living in England or France. She would prefer to live in a cold wet English environment, I would rather be in a sunny and warm place such as where we are headed today and so, as she had her choice indulged for the past 4 weeks, now it is my turn, albeit for a shorter period.
Whilst it was sunny in the morning, a short walk to “empty” the dogs developed into an exploratory 5 mile walk along the beach at Clymping to Middleton on Sea. Beautiful but thirst inspiring, so to sake that thirst we wandered into down town Arundel to see what festival hostilities were occurring and to find a pub hosting some. The Eagle was that pub where outside, a 60’s trio were entertaining the populous with a string of songs that I will not admit ever to having heard before. I have a picture of them below.
Street music in Arundel
Beside where they were playing there was a stall specialising in vintage attire, so that nice lady decorator was in retail heaven and found an original electric blue Biba jacket. The drummer was changing hats from that stall between songs and I especially liked the one he is wearing in the picture.
Tiring of standing up we adjourned to The Moorings wine and champagne bar where we joined in the last of the watery sunshine by Clive “Oh no you’re not” Panto and delectable wife Catherine. I think he had no choice but to become a professional entertainer given his surname. He was entertaining in his own way, that is he wasn’t trying to make us laugh but did. I am never certain but I think that we were not laughing with him but at him.
Later, after the rather inevitable siesta we took in some of the bands playing on the Jubilee stage across the river. It is the penultimate night of the festival but our last for this year and were treated to a couple of local bands that did their best to destroy some rock classics. The mist rising from the river giving a particular poignancy to a dreadful version of “Smoke On The Water”. I am not sure how I managed to find myself alone and locked in the garden of The White Hart smoking a cigar close to midnight, but it was a wonderful practical demonstration as to why it is so important to have a gate into your own back yard. Everyone should have one.
Yes, we are headed back to France today and with luck I will be in the web before 8pm tonight with a glass in my hand and my zeal for finding new customers for Currencies Direct refreshed. Already I have an array of social occasions lined up, drinks on Tuesday, lunches Wednesday, Thursday and Friday and with the long-range weather forecast for Valbonne pointing to temperatures in the high 20’s for the next ten days my cup (or more likely my glass) runneth over.
Chris France
Legendary duo discovered in Arundel?
We stayed in. Jaded. It is the best word to describe how I felt yesterday. I was trying to think of the last day when I had taken no drink and believe it was early June. The combination the night before of an evening spent sitting in the rain, a 1994 Grand Cru Chateau Julien, loud music and several months of non stop enjoying life has inevitable consequences. I ran out of wine. Well, decent wine that is, there is still some 2011 vin de table lurking in the kitchen and I have no doubt it would have been hoovered up by Peachy Butterfield had he been here, and who we are destined to encounter on Tuesday evening in Valbonne. I have no idea who brought it or where it came from but if I could identify the culprit, then he or she would be outed in a trice.
I did not drink it of course, but only because I found a half finished Rioja Reserva which served the needs of the moment, but last night, a Saturday night please note, was spent quietly at home watching TV and considering the best approach to promote the benefits of Currencies Direct.
Earlier in the day doing a Bradley Wiggins and exploring the outer reaches of Arundel on my new bright red mountain bike, I happened across what I think was singing duo Peters and Lee. The blind one appears to have made a miraculous recovery from blindness but the years have not been good to them as my picture shows.
Peters and Lee busking for a living? She is on the right
I wonder if they were contestants in the recent “Arundel’s Got Talent” competition? If so, I wonder if they changed their name in order not to be judged on their past musical aberrations? Whilst we watched 4 Weddings and a Funeral again, I was uncomfortably aware that the Arundel Festival was building towards its peak, the finale being fireworks at the castle tomorrow night, as I could just about hear the music on the Jubilee Stage just over the river, but with occasional torrential downpours and the memory of sitting outside in one particularly virulent storm last night to see The Tempest, the TV won.
So by Monday night, I shall be back in France and I think it will tale a day of Cote d’Azur sun to dry out. I also need to top up my tan which has faded horribly whilst I have been marooned in England. If there was a sun tanning Olympics I would be aiming for bronze.
A week will be as much time as the tax man will allow as we have half a plan to drive across to Biarritz and northern Spain on the way back as I have never been there and it is on my bucket list. Then on to Bordeaux, another area I have never before ventured, gods only country, to pack in as many bottles of the local wine as I can stuff in the Merc, which is heading back with us to England for the duration. That nice lady decorator wants also to go to the Loire Valley to collect some white wine but I have told her it is nowhere near our route. She does however know how to work Google maps on ger Ipad, so I fear my geographical red herring will be caught and butchered.
Back to today. It seems that there is a decent chance of it being sunny and dry, so, parched after a very quiet night in last night and it being a Sunday, I feel a lunch coming on. I may even venture to wherever we choose on my bike, safe in the knowledge that I can call on the services of sprog 1 to bring the car and collect us and the bikes after our exertions at cycling, eating and drinking.
Chris France
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