Dodgy pins at Juan Les Pins
Juan Les Pins is an apt name as it turns out. That nice lady decorator, determined not to miss out on another social event after twisting her ankle and having to cancel a dinner engagement in Friday, decided that dosed up on dollipran pain killers she was steady enough on her “Pins” to get to a birthday lunch on the beach yesterday. Of course in reality it meant one thing; I would have to carry her most of the way. Actually that is a bit of an exaggeration but she was certainly no dancing queen as I had to adopt a crutch replacement position, of which more later.
La Petite Plage in Juan Les Pins is one of my favourite beach restaurants. It is quite intimate, slightly funky and the food, especially the fish is excellent. The sea is just a few feet away and it has occurred to me that the lack of any serious tide in the Mediterranean means that on the beaches the buildings can be that much closer to the waterline than most places in the world. It is a testament to my photographic abilities that my photo today entirely fails to capture that intimacy.
La Petite Plage at Juan Les Pins
Ok that’s enough boring stuff, on with the gossip and innuendo that are the hallmarks of this column. At the beach in the same establishment by complete coincidence we bumped into Currencies Direct client Paul “Slash and Burn” Thornton Allan from The Big Picture and steely eyed and stunning wife Lisa with whom we are going to Cuba next month. Paul received his epithet after his willingness, no that is to weak, his excited determination mechanically to machete his way through the Valmasque forest with his chain saw after the recent snow had brought many branches down.
Anyway they joined us and The Cato’s, Gordon and Pauline whose birthday it was, on holiday from England and talking of crutches I think it was after the arrival of the ninth bottle of rose (well there were six of us) that the really stupid and tasteless ideas began to evolve. Why it was decided that when we leave for Havana we should invent and adopt alter ego’s for the trip and why that was so funny at the time is a mystery. Also mysterious is why Slash and Burn should invent for himself, how can I say this and it remain tasteful? Answer; I cannot. He decided he would pretend to be a “designer gynecologist”. Let me allow some moments of quiet contemplation before we sew this subject up for good. We had all started to consider exactly what form his mythical activities might take place in his new little world, all of it too graphic for my perception of what is acceptable to publish this column. Then I then began to think of what I could invent for myself and before I knew it I happened to say something about having a lot of fingers in a lot of pies, and there this ends, now.
The South of France English Theatre production of “Barefoot In The Park” moves to Cannes next Friday 2nd March at the Espace Miramar and tickets are available either from their website or at the door on the night. they have further dates in Cannes, Nice and Fayence.
After today its detox time. I have just been reviewing the events of the past few days and have come to the conclusion that rather a lot of drinking and partying has been occurring and the time is fast approaching when I shall have to slow down or hit the buffers. However, today is Sunday and the Reverend Jeff knows Sundays are set aside for drinking smoking and eating.
Chris France
Up the Cripple Creek?
The plan as it was originally conceived was to go to church at Cafe Latin in Valbonne to worship with the great and the good, some of whom have seen the light and opened an account with Currencies Direct, head off for quiet lunch and then convene for dinner in Opio. A good plan but what I had not factored into this was that nice lady decorators deliberate destruction of said arrangement by entering the realms of self harm. No tennis for her for a while.
The view from the Vignale tennis club
It was not my fault that she twisted ankle a couple of weeks ago although I got the blame. It was not my fault that as a result she had to sit out skiing with the sprogs in Limone although I got the blame. It was not my fault that the stairs from the parking area in Valbonne are fenced off due to some building works which meant having to scramble down a bank and she tweaked her bad ankle as a result although I got the blame, and guess who was to blame for having to postpone our dinner engagement as a result?
Before that disaster befell her and before the full blame was assessed, distributed and apportioned once again to me we had decided that the weather was too good not to lunch in Valbonne Square where we happened across the Naked Politician and Peachy Butterfield filled with similar intent. I made some notes about the conversation but could not quite understand what I had written but the phrase “champagne belly button boy” was one part that was easily decipherable. Once again I have details of indiscretions that I wished I did not. Clearly I cannot reveal details here especially as it may in some way be connected to the Naked Politician and he must never be linked to anything so questionable.
Another story emanated from lunch about another lunch these two reprobates had once taken at the very swanky Columbe d’Or in St Paul De Vence, a famous establishment packed full of original paintings by the likes of Matisse and Picasso who had paid their keep with their work when struggling young artists. The man mountain was apparently not feeling his best but I feel his expression “I nearly puked on a Picasso” was a little tasteless.
As I sat in the Square a member of the public approached our table in search of a signed copy of my book, which of course I was delighted to sell her. It was in no way staged as was suggested by all and sundry despite doubts raised by me having a spare copy with me, but is a clear illustration of the esteem in which I am now held in our beautiful village. I have always loved the expression “delusions of grandeur” so it was perhaps inevitable that discussions turned to what would happen if this column were ever turned into a film. Clearly Brad Pitt would have to play me although it is fair to sat that he was not a unanimous choice, however we were all agreed to who should play Peachy; Russell Grant of course! Not least because as Peachy said “he’s a little bit fat and a little bit gay”.
Today’s lunch on the beach in Cannes is now in doubt due to my apparently deliberate attempt to cripple that nice lady decorator so I shall continue with my writing brief for Blue Water Yachting and may watch some rugby instead. I need to see some bad weather on the TV to acclimatise for a two days in London in the middle of next week. That is going to be the most expensive Parents evening I have ever attended.
Chris France
Premier Mardi on the third Thursday
Last night then in to Valbonne to talk to the assembled beauties who went to the Premier Mardi gathering at La Pomme Rouge. Premier Mardi is a networking group of (mostly) women in the area determined to allow people access to the information to help start a small business or to make their businesses work in France.
In a far-sighted example of that aim to disseminate knowledge vital to that business development they made the extremely wise decision to invite me to talk to this very attentive and stimulating group about the value of blogging and the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange needs.
Such was the quality of intellect and glamour at the talk I was glad that Peachy Butterfield was not there as it would certainly not have helped what he memorable described earlier in the week as his “sperm retention headache”.
That nice lady decorator also came along to keep a close eye on me and Master Mariner Mundell arrived to be my roadie and book sales manager for the evening. So persuasive was he that 10 more books were sold. Just how persuasive (read irritating) he became was illustrated by one particularly lovely participant who paid him 10 euros not to bother her. I was a little embarrassed but a sale is a sale. One of the co-founders of the group, the lovely Fiona Macleod has been involved in art sales at the highest levels even dealing with the sale of Picasso’s so I thought today’s picture should be a nod towards the art world.
It's art Jim, but not as we know it
Earlier in the day I had played tennis. I played with Amanda Bay. That is the phrase I told her husband Anthony I was going to use. The Master Mariner who was Anthony’s partner seemed oblivious to the fact that one of his opponents was a waif like beauty who had not played for a year and repeatedly and rather unsportingly thrashed the ball past her at every opportunity. Perhaps he was upset by her very accurate description of his looking just like Dennis The Menace from the comic The Beano? With his hooped red and black tennis shirt, dark trousers dark socks and unruly hair? Well, on the back half of his head anyway. It was a mistake anyone could have made.
Lunch was taken afterwards as is the tradition at the Auberge St Donat where some debate took place as to what value I could possibly bring to last nights event. My contention that wit, charm, personality and a rudimentary understanding of writing a blog was more than enough was dismissed in a chorus of guffaws accentuated by the very late arrival of the Wingco for a glass of wine. It gave him another opportunity to describe this daily column is his customary manner; “ghastly” but with several more h’s, phonetically more like “ghhhhhastly” in the way only a public schoolboy from an upper class family can master.
Confirmation of the growing stature of my writing, as if such were needed, came yesterday afternoon when I received a call from Peter Bennett from Blue Water Yachting asking me to write two lifestyle articles for him. As a successful author I thought for a nano second about haggling on the price until reality dawned and I gladly accepted the commission.
Friday means market day in Valbonne and church and the continuing worship of coffee which will take place at Cafe Latin this morning and there is talk of lunch and something a little stronger later in Valbonne Square in the suddenly warm spring sunshine. I shall need to see which direction summer style as exhibited by my style guru Mr Humphries is taking (if he is free) .
Chris France
Naked politician in thrashing shock
It cannot be 7am. That was my first thought as I looked at the clock. In fact it was 7pm in the evening and I had just woken up. To say that lunch was a big occasion was a little disingenuous.
I had been playing tennis yesterday morning with the Naked Politician who, since his last proper tennis lesson delivered by me has had regular tennis lessons from a professional in an attempt to nurture the latent ability that he does not seem to possess. I took this picture of the court, before the inevitable victory, with the hills and that wonderful Provencal House looking down upon the tennis arena at The Vignale in Plascassier.
The Vignale tennis club, scene of my latest triumph
There was progress however, the last time we were pitted against each other was actually last year. He was full of enthusiasm and hope having had some 40 tennis lessons and being nearly 15 years younger than me (yesterday I had thought it was merely 10 years) he fully expected to give a MOG (moustachioed Old Git) who has never had a tennis lesson in his life, a serious political run around on the tennis court.
However, yesterday, although he revealed a 300% increase in his achievement against my good self, a figure for which he should be proud, he had to drown his sorrows over lunch at Auberge St Donat in Plascassier having once again come second in a tennis singles match.
I cannot reveal the full-scale of his defeat as I would like to be invited aboard his boat D5 at some stage in the forthcoming cruising season (can I say that?), but if I say that in two sets the first time we played he was lucky to win one game you may be able to work out that his level of under achievement against an untrained, fat (in the eyes of that nice lady decorator) chap nearing his seventh decade.
I hate (read love) to use the word thrashing, but I cannot think of another verb that fits the situation. Anyway, enough of that, lunch at Auberge St Donat was as usual a triumph, so successful that we adjourned back to the web, our outside bar, so called because once your are caught in it escape is difficult, for a few post prandial digestives. Wonderful warm sunny weather helped (me) to underline the reason why we live here in the south of France and Valbonne in particular.
So tonight I am the invited to be guest speaker at Premier Mardi, a girls networking group at La Pomme Rouge in Valbonne where I shall be holding court. I have been asked to speak about successful blogging, writing and of course the value and benefits bestowed on people becoming clients of Currencies Direct. No laughing please. That I shall also be selling signed copies of my book should be taken as read (unlike many copies of my book) and I hope to add to the 152 copies already purchased by happy customers, anxious to improve their lives by discovering details about the lives of the idle rich in Valbonne.
Before that I believe there may be some birthday celebration which may take place at lunch time in Valbonne Square, and with temperatures of 20 degrees forecast may ensure that my shorts, which made their first appearance today will once again be pressed into service. After all it is now late February and with the sun now visibly higher in the sky, spring has arrived. This last comment was made especially for readers in the UK. I do hope they can enjoy life by reading this daily journal.
Chris France
Flipper lives!
This is uncharted territory. Three days without a drink and I am beginning to get hallucinations. For instance I saw this picture on Wayne Browns Facebook page a few days ago and my first thought was that the red snappers were a trifle overdone. Turns out they are shoes designed to help a girl through an evening aboard an Italian Cruise liner. I have been accused of being flippant in the past but never flipperent.
These are more like slappers than slippers
Talking of girls shoes, if any of you are unlucky enough to be cognisant of Peachy Butterfield’s Facebook page you will know that this is one of his fetishes, that and travelling in ladies curtains which I believe he is about to commence. I shall be taking this up at lunch with him today.
So a quiet day yesterday, with the morning spent in Cafe Latin guiding a pretty young thing into becoming an affiliate of Currencies Direct. The lovely Emma is an agent for something called totstotravel.com, a company specialising in rentals for parents with young kids, a great concept because these types of parents are not tied to school holidays, yet.
Talking of children, I am slated to play tennis this morning with the Naked Politician, he having been allowed out of sight of the hand brake as he refers to his beautiful wife, Dawn, to play tennis then have lunch at the Auberge St Donat. Modesty forbids me to revel in the scale of my victory last time out, against a man who has had scores even hundreds of tennis lessons, has lost 10 kilos and is at least 10 years younger than me, but I can reveal that in two sets he did win one game but only at the expense of an injury to his hand sustained in a diving save to secure that one small victory. I need not tell you that after 3 days without a drink I am expecting a mighty fine lunch and have blocked out the afternoon for err…. consultation and quiet study, although with my hammock broken and that nice lady decorator having instructed the removal of one of the trees which used to support it, I am slightly concerned as to where this siesta quiet contemplation will take place.
The details have been settled for my talk to all those lovely ladies at Premier Mardi at La Pomme Rouge Deli in Valbonne on Thursday evening at 7pm. I have received and taken on board my instructions from the redoubtable and gorgeous Karen Hockney, co-founder and organiser of this group. Even now I expect the police are moving the crowd barriers into place, after all, it is a narrow pavement and we don’t want people falling into the road in an effort to leave after hearing my speech. It is no good dressing up in female clothing in order to gate crash, although I suspect Mr Humphrey’s (if he was free) may not have to do anything too radical, such is his stylish ability to embrace both sides of the fashion divide. It should surprise no one that I shall also be making myself available to sign copies of my book at this event. Please queue in an orderly fashion and if you are camping outside this evening to ensure your place at this glittering event then you need therapy.
Looking further ahead, I see dinner on Friday night, perhaps golf on Saturday with the Landlubbers, Sunday lunch at ours, although the guest list has not yet been revealed to me, I do hope I shall be invited, especially as I am almost certainly paying.
Chris France
Barefoot in the snow?
My comment yesterday that the appalling, acrimonious, anal animal Banjo, the cocker spaniel which I did not welcome into the house had reached 33 kilos was incorrect, It seems according to his owner, that nice lady decorator, he is in fact 36 kilos, that’s over 80 pounds of stupid cocker. So not fat at all then? and she gives me a hard time…..
Great news for the very few who have not yet purchased a copy of my book! Lulu.com, the guys charged with producing this most precious of volumes, the first edition of it are running a promotion for which they are paying giving you a 30% discount on the price of a book! it’s almost worth getting a few copies for birthday presents and who knows, they may come in useful next Christmas. Just click here to order and you can order in Sterling if you like so that you can be sure of what you are paying, much like as occurs when one is a customer of Currencies Direct, an application form for which I can happily send you.
The warm sunny weather we are now experiencing is somewhat different from just a few weeks ago when I took this picture from my bedroom window. I have had enough snow now, roll on the warmer weather.
The winter wonderland of Valbonne a few weeks ago
A story has reached me about events leading up to and after the performance of “Barefoot In the Park” at the Pres Des Arts in Valbonne last week by the South Of France English Theatre Company. If anyone noticed fire engines and flashing blue lights in Valbonne village one lunchtime last week, I think I know the name of the culprit. In the chaos of the preparations for the first night performance, following a fire at their rehearsal studios and a broken down van transporting the set, an hour before the doors opened the director noticed that there was no door handle on the main door of the set, so the carpenter was sent to find a door handle from somewhere and with no hardware shop nearby and no time to source a new one he took one off the door of the tiny windowless toilet (not one of the bedroom doors you note) in the flat they are renting in the village. This was at worst a little inconvenient but no more until a member of the cast, alone in the flat and dashing naked into the toilet the day after the second performance, found the door shutting on her locking her in whilst mid-ablution so to speak. Three hours later after her cries for help had been heard by a neighbour who had alerted the pompiers, she was released, still naked and now perspiring into the arms of the startled firemen who had rescued her. I am told although understandably traumatised, she will be sufficiently recovered for the next performance in Cannes on March 2nd.
The problem with having a few days off from the social melee that is the cocoon of the idle rich in Valbonne, is that nothing happens and therefore I have nothing to write about. I could always make it up and that would be keeping with what some people believe, however I contend that nothing is invented although the expression “terminological inexactitude” springs to mind. Another way of saying it was voiced by a diplomat in a court case in a spy case in a court in Australia a decade or more ago; when accused of lying under oath he denied it but did admit to being “economical with the truth”.
Chris France
Breil sur Roya and a duck
So the locusts have departed having depleted my fridge to danger level, both sprogs gone on the same day. Tears of joy from me, tears of a different kind from that nice lady decorator, although she will deny it. At least with the euro nearly at 1.20 to the pound according to Currencies Direct, it was cheaper having them home for half term than the last holiday at Christmas.
A post Peachy hangover was, as expected, to the fore, and I would have liked a Bloody Mary yesterday lunchtime to ease the pain but the night before last that nice lady decorator once again drew attention to a tiny bit of extra weight she claims I am carrying. She alluded to what could be achieved by using the example of a dear friend who has lost a lot of weight due to a cancer scare and subsequent chemotherapy. There is only one conclusion one can draw. The clear implication was that she wanted me to be lose weight and if that meant being diagnosed with cancer, so be it.
It is a slightly tenuous link, but talk of weight loss implies dieting and that brings me to an expression “salad dodgers” which was used at dinner by Peachy on Saturday night. I had not heard that phrase before but it seems I may have been type cast. He is a confirmed salad dodger himself and I am very content in mid summer to consider a salad as long as there is a copious amount of salad cream to smother the taste, but salads in winter? Not a concept any right thinking red-blooded male can consider.
You will note that I have said salad cream and here let me be straight I am talking about Heinz Salad cream and not that very poor impersonation of the classic creation called mayonnaise. There is a great difference. And tomatoes? Spawn of the devil.
Casting around for a picture this morning I discovered this shot I took at Breil sur Roya on the French/Italian border on the way back from Limone. Moody huh? Apart from that duck in the middle of the river
Eat your heart out David Bailey
Another tenuous link; I admit I may have been a little moody myself yesterday. A hangover, no hair of the dog, a cup of tea last night instead of a glass of wine, I have every right to be moody. This state of affairs is planned to continue until Wednesday midday when lunch with any number of suspect characters at the Auberge St Donat will probably see me breaking the alcoholic fast upon which I am now embarked, if it still in place by then.
Hop along decorator is still getting me to do loads of the jobs she was clearly born to as her sprained ankle seems to be taking a suspiciously long time to get better. Anyone suggesting that she may be milking the situation would be entirely correct. I know it was X-rayed but I want a second opinion.
This means that dog walking duties in the wonderful Valmasque forest have fallen to me exclusively. With two dogs and two adults (well nearly adults, stay with me) normally striding out together naturally I take responsibility for that fine old English Springer, Max the family dog, kind, honest, obedient, tolerant and good-looking whilst that nice lady decorator wrestles with the disobedient, cantankerous, sneaky, smelly, neurotic kleptomaniac, overweight 33 kilo (!),intolerant Cocker Spaniel Banjo, whom she foisted upon this household against my proven daily better judgement. No wonder then I need that nice lady decorator back on her feet.
Chris France
Peachyfied
Peachied. It’s a new verb which describes perfectly what happens to any poor souls who are invited to dine chez Peachy Butterfield and glorious wife Suzanne.
It is a gargantuan evening on just about every level, the man mountain himself is the centre of attention due to what he is wearing, what he is saying, what he is doing what he is eating and not least what he is drinking. To call Peachy quite big would be like calling the total eurozone bail out quite big. Once Greece defaults and leaves the euro which in my opinion is inevitable, Currencies Direct will be there with me to help people exchange lots of the old currencies as well. Welcome back the drachma, the Portuguese escudo, maybe the Italian lire and maybe even whatever it was the Spanish used for money, but I digress.
It is a gigantic problem, and so is Peachy. The first problem is the starting time of 5pm. 5pm for dinner? I know it gets dark early on the frozen north where he was born but for Christ’s sake (its Sunday so that is just to rile the Reverend Jeff) it’s still light at 6pm. So why so early? Probably am attempt to extend the drinking time? In order to give him more time in which to take on board supplies? Perhaps it was in deference to his house guests, The Ratcliffe’s of whom I have the highest regard now they have bought a copy of my book, who are also from the tundra strewn north of England where they call having dinner “having us tea”. All I know is that it was too early but I made sure we were on time at tea time. I did not want to miss out.
Talking of big funny and tasteless, I found a hotel with a sign which seems to capture these three traits. It was in the ski resort of Limone where I took today’s photograph, what were they thinking?
A hotel for fat bottomed girls or Peachy from behind?
Luckily today will be a recovery day, some airport runs to deposit sprogs to enable them to return to their studies (hurrah!), a quick walk into Valbonne to grab a Sunday Times just so we have enough newspaper to light the fire of an evening. I am not going to have a drink today and that’s final. Not unless someone suggests a Bloody Mary at lunchtime.
Those lovely chaps at Blue Square told me in the Queens Legs the other night that they had sold a copy of my book. Apparently one of the estate agents owners mothers was thumbing through it then dropped tea all over it, so he felt compelled to buy it. I don’t mind how the sales come. 151 now and rising.
This Thursday, the third Thursday of the month sees my talk at La Pomme Rouge for girl networking group Premier Mardi which I have explained earlier meets religiously on the first Tuesday of each month. I have been asked to talk about how to write a successful blog and why I started it. Although I know precious little about it, and I await confirmation of that in the comments section below, let me explain. My ego could not resist the invitation from the co-founder of this group the beautiful Karen Hockney, a far more accomplished journalist than I shall ever be.
Imagine my predicament. An ageing Lothario with a massive and mostly misplaced self belief who spends much of his time imagining that all girls find him fatally attractive being asked by a beautiful girl to speak to a gathering of other attractive girls, to the exclusion of men. What was I to do? I considered the offer for a nano second and accepted immediately after managing to get my tongue back in my mouth.
Chris France
Limone versus Isola 2000, no contest
With the entire party skied, and in the case of the sprogs, partied out, we left Limone soon after being ejected from the very acceptable Hotel Palace Limone, respectable apart from the check out time of 10am, a fact transmitted to us at 10 30 whilst said teenagers were still in deep slumber. At least waiting for the sprogs to get up, pack and clear out of their hotel room enabled me to do a full days work on Currencies Direct before setting off down the mountain at around 11.300
Limone is such a better skiing experience than Isola 2000, the closest of the bigger ski resorts locally. Whilst the skiing is good at Isola, the monstrous carbuncle that is the main building in the village, purpose-built in the worst of the 1960’s style is the most unedifying resort I have ever encountered. By contrast Limone is a real village with history and with tiny streets, the centre of which is mostly restricted to pedestrians, and offering some alpine charm and several very decent restaurants, some nice bars and just a nicer apres ski experience than Isola and has the added advantage of not having that torturous long winding switch back approach by car. It takes 15 minutes longer to get there from Valbonne, but the rewards in terms of a bigger ski area and prices of food and drink some 30-40% lower means for me there is no question that Limone offers a better option.
The open and quiet ski slopes of Limone
So we headed down the hill and stopped at that nice lady decorators favourite Italian grocery store to pick up the usual supply of parmesan, olive oil and wine at prices you would not believe when you live in the south of France. For instance I picked up some 2 litres bottles of Barbera d’Alba 2004 for under 8 euros a bottle. I bought all the 3 they had in stock. With a visit to Peachy Butterfields in prospect this evening I also found a five litre bottle of Italian table wine which should take care of the quantity one must take when dining there, the quality should also be somewhat superior to the Macclesfield Merlot or whatever concoction with which he is planning to surprise us this evening.
The REGS gathering is tomorrow at the Grande Bastide but I have withdrawn from battle due to skiing fatigue and the almost certain knowledge that after being Peachied tonight I will have no interest in being on the golf course at 9am on Sunday morning.
The intention as ever is for a quiet week ahead dealing with the boring minutiae of life but with the hope that something spontaneous and fun might evolve at the drop of a hat. Several luncheon plans have yet to be formalised and my sincere hope is that they will be soon. Looking further ahead I have to go to London on 29th February for some pints of London Pride to sprog 2 parents evening and then in early March I shall be heading to the Caribbean, to Cuba in particular and especially the to experience the delights that Havana may hold. Regular readers will know that I am partial to a Cuban cigar and to Mohitos so I shall be taking an extra suitcase to accommodate some boxes of Monte Christo No 2. Sadly though, for obvious liquid reasons I do not expect to be able to transport any Mohitos back.
This main mean during that period a certain doubt about preparing this daily gem as its publication requires a decent internet link and I am not certain how good internet connections are in country.
Chris France
Snow dealt with in Limone
I have learned something on this trip to Italy, apart from the fact that it is preferable to use Currencies Direct when moving money from one currency to another, which of course I already knew, apparently one can ski in the afternoons as well in the mornings. This is a fact that was revealed to me today when skiing with my sprogs at Limone.
Normal ski etiquette to me involves a couple of runs in late morning interspersed with a few Bombardino stops, Bombardino’s being a peculiar local liqueur coffee which we discovered a couple of years ago when skiing in Italy, followed by a long leisurely lunch and then a mad ski down the mountain in the near darkness for some apres ski entertainment usually in the form of a refreshing ale.
Skiing with teenagers opened the possibilities of skiing properly in the afternoon and I must say I don’t like it. That nice lady decorator spent the day relaxing and lounging about the hotel in the village due to her unfortunate engagement with some ice at home and sent me on the slopes so that I could be “looked after” by my offspring, sprog 1 and sprog 2. They repaid her by dragging me to parts of this expansive snow domain covering three valleys I had never even dreamed could exist.
So I finally got down the mountain at 4.30pm when it was nearly dark. Every fibre of my being aches, my thighs feel like they have been ravaged by forest fires, I can only feel my arms in terms of where the pain is, my knee joints are welded together and my backside feels like it may have attracted the serious attention of some well endowed public school types, but otherwise I am fine.
Lunch was a joke, twenty minutes of grab pasta and leave, no time to sample the local viticultural produce, no time to take in the view and indulge in conversation from which I often cull information for this daily column, no, instead I got what I think they called “my moneys worth”, although why one would pay to have ones body put through a ringer is anyone guess.
Before I was being subjected to this most violent personal physical abuse, I spotted a chap using a novel method to clear snow from his terrace, shovel it in to the street and hope a passing snow plough will deal with it. What luck he had as my picture shows!
There no business like snow business
Last night to dinner at Diligenzia in this very pretty Italian village. After a brief pit stop at St Patrick’s Irish Bar where I tried imbibing a few Guinness’s to ease my pain without much success, the call from the assembled teenage locust horde was for dinner, immediately and in the largest possible portions. the Guinness was a success on one level but as pain removal plan it failed.
Today the sprogs may ski a little more unless they got utterly hammered and took up with the local population last night as apparently happened the night before according to the very limited information I was able to extract at lunch time, and I shall shamble along the main street trying to look less than 80 years old looking for pain remedies of the alcoholic sort I would normally contemplate but will have to avoid as it is my job to navigate down the mountain back to Valbonne this afternoon.
So a brief respite today but then I have just been informed that we are dining with Peachy and delectable Suzanne tomorrow night, so crash helmets and goggles to the fore.
Chris France
A man of many hats
Do you sometimes wake in the morning and decide which hat to wear? I have much the same issue when I awake, should I spend the day working on my music related interests or my activities with Currencies Direct? Obviously the chap on my picture today who I photographed at the Col de Tende tunnel on the way to Limone yesterday faced this dilemma and in the end could not decide which hat to wear, so he chose to wear both of them.
Which hat? I know, I will wear both
So we arrived at Limone just in time for lunch in the brilliant sunshine. Nowadays, being a less than intrepid skier I decided that luncheon was at least as attractive a proposition as skiing. Coupled with that I had a cripple in the car, that nice lady decorator still suffering from a sprained ankle, and the rest of the family suffering the continuing fallout emanating from her as a result. She seems not to be able to grasp the simple principle that her sprained ankle is not my fault. In any event the blame has clearly been placed on me, there can be no other explanation for her poor manners.
Lunch was attempted at the top of the gondola, for which two tickets cost 20 Euros, but once we got there, that nice lady decorator was unable to negotiate the snow down to the intended target restaurant on her crutches, so we had promptly to turn around and take the gondola back to the village. We found a charming little restaurant in the old village called Diligenza where we had some of the best trout and sea bass I have ever experienced. Having lunched long and well, I made the decision to delay my sortie onto the slopes until this morning.
We got to our hotel in Limone, called Hotel Limone (damned inventive these Italians) where that nice lady decorator reminded us that the last time we stayed in the town itself as opposed to Arracador where we resided last week, we had stayed in the Hotel Touring (now sadly closed), also known as Hotel Diesel because of the smell that emanated from the basement. Sprog 2, the female one was aged about thirteen at the time and was awoken at 2am by the head board in the bedroom next door crashing rhythmically into the adjacent wall for some time before hearing the exclamation “magnifico” through the wall. My explanation that the Italians are passionate about football did not convince her that the sounds and exclamations she heard were that kind of sport.
Apres ski was commenced at the slightly unpreposessing Hotel Petite Meuble, which the french speakers amongst you may translate as Hotel of little furniture, and sometimes the literal translation is best. Less furniture would have been better than was there, and no furniture at all would have been better still. Anyway, the bombardinos (a local Italian liquer coffee smothered in whipped cream.) were top quality so a couple of these were required in order to set us up for the evening meal.
It was on the way back that we spotted the St Patricks Irish bar, so there was no choice, it had to be tried before dinner. A pint of Guinness was slightly ruined by a whole village full of noisy Italians unsuccessfully trying drown out the commentator on the Juventus versus Parma Seria A football match showing on the TV, but I suppose it at lest had atmosphere and decent furniture.
This morning I will ski with the sprogs whilst hop-along decorator seethes nearby, then lunch I think?
Chris France
Theatrical Valbonne
Who needs a rhetorical question? So said the email from my friend and fellow author Bill Colegrave (does Currencies Direct need to exist?). He is of course a proper author having written about his discovery of the source of the mythical Oxus River, one of the most sought after expeditionary goals in Victorian times. When ever we meet he tends to take the metaphorical high ground, not least because of his educational back ground (Oxford or Cambridge, I can never remember which) but because the subject of his book was higher above sea level than my subject, Valbonne and the antics of the daily lives of the ex pats living in the area.
With that nice lady decorator still with her feet up courtesy of a sprained ankle, I considered the possibility of testing my theory discussed yesterday of walking the horrible hound Banjo by way of rope and the Mercedes in sports mode, but the owner of that dog, that nice lady decorator, spotted me putting the rope in the car and I had to abandon my plans. The old family retainer, Max, the springer spaniel was as well behaved as ever whilst the other mutt was his usual badly behaved disobedient self as usual.
It was on this walk around the Valmasque that I took this picture looking towards the ridge at Greoliere Les Neiges which, as you can see, still retains most of the metre of snow that fell there last week. That particular ridge is from where you can sometimes see the island of Corsica looking back overhead of this shot on a clear day. A clear day is unusual not because of the air quality but due to the bonfires the French insist on lighting as soon as the sun comes out which is most days. How much extra carbon dioxide is going into the atmosphere because of this local obsession?
Greoliere Les Neiges viewed from the Valmasque Forest close to Sophia Antipolis
So last night to Valbonne for a bit of culture. First stop a champagne reception courtesy of one of the theatre production sponsors, Matt Frost from French Mortgage Xpress and thereafter to the Pre Des Arts in Valbonne for the opening night of the first production of “Barefoot In The Park”, starring Jennifer Wilson, the first by the South Of France English Theatre Company.
It is splendid to see proper English Theatre in our village and there was a substantial turnout of over 200 people who were there primarily to buy a signed copy of my book, with sales making the total 149 sales now after two more last night. shall be keeping a close eye on the best sellers list.
There is another show tonight at the same venue but by that time I shall hopefully be back at Limone across the Italian border trucking into a beer and some pasta. The production then goes on to Menton, Nice, Cannes, Monaco and Fayence but not necessarily in that order, check their website for details.
Regular readers will have heard about some rather juvenile and in some cases naked antics that occurred the last time I was in Limone, but with both sprogs in tow, determined to drive their father into the economic tundra, I suspect a little more restraint will be the order of the day. I shall be there for a few days returning Friday, so, although I hope to ensure you continue to get your daily dose of Valbonne Life which from the many comments I received last night at the play I know you all value in different ways
Chris France
Dog walking for cyclists
Ever since I began this column nearly two and a half years ago in an effort to spread the word about the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct, I have managed to find pictures that have amused or amazed me.
The amusing ones usually come to the fore after a long lunch, a nice dinner or after the massive over indulgence of alcohol in a ski lodge in a blizzard, allegedly.
Today though, whilst I was undertaking the slavish duties that have befallen me after that nice lady decorator be fallen over (olde English or old Buckinghamshire slang) and spraining her ankle on the ice I happened upon this spectacle. I was on my way to sports shop Decathlon in an abortive attempt to get the family (minus that nice lady decorators) skis waxed in time for a trip to the ski slopes of Limone when I encountered a sportsman of a different kind, riding a bike with his dog on the back. This picture to me is both amazing and amusing.
Dog keeping an eye on owner
I have heard of taking the dog for a walk but never taking one for a cycle. Indeed dog walking is part of my daily exercise and I have often been amused at the chap who parks in the same place each day in the Valmasque where I walk and who stays in his car and smokes cigarettes, listens to his radio and reads his paper whilst his dog remains in the car desperate to get out for a walk. I am certain he goes home after an hour telling his wife he has walked the dog. Anyway, this chap on the bike is also denying his dog a walk, but at least he is getting some exercise himself.
It gave me an idea about how I could take that appalling hound Banjo, the cantankerous cocker owned by that nice lady decorator out for a walk. My idea involves a long lead and my Mercedes with sports mode selected. I could go into details but the RSPCA may read this so I will stop there.
Tonight is the opening night of “Barefoot In The Park” in Valbonne, a West End theatre production that I have had flown in especially for Valentines night and one limping lady very dear to me heart. At least that is what I have told her and she quite reasonably does not believe me. I shall be selling copies of my book and ensuring that anyone with foreign exchange needs knows who to contact.
Before this evening, I face a quiet period of contemplation under the yoke of slavery. I believe the delights of shopping, cooking, washing, cleaning, hoovering and other dark arts await me whilst that nice lady decorator sits on the sofa with her leg up barking demands and orders whilst watching interminable reruns of Midomers Murders.
Then tomorrow I shall arise about an hour before I go to bed to drive up the mountain to Limone again, this time with the two expensive sprogs who have expressed a desire to go skiing. Not skiing with their parents you note, just skiing. Obviously one parent has self harmed herself in order to avoid the humiliation of being out skied by offspring, but no such luck for me, a committed blue run skier who has so far resisted the entreaties from sprog 1, the male of the sprogs to embrace the world of “freestyle”, which to me seems to mean doing more and more stupid things on skis until you injure or kill yourself while wearing ridiculous bright coloured and baggy clothing of the sort that even Mr Humphreys (if he was free), might think twice about wearing.
Chris France
The English Patient
To say that she is a poor patient is a bit like saying Steven Hawking is mildly disabled, or that Currencies Direct do a little bit of foreign exchange. That nice lady decorator, usually a bubbly bright busy amusing and beautiful is……still all those things but when injured, most of these qualities are hidden. Her ability to delegate by way of orders delivered in a staccato style stream is well known to those close to her, but her own enforced inactivity seemed to lend a new sense of urgency to the usual torrent of dictaks issued. I know of slaves that have had less to do than I did yesterday.
A twisted ankle sustained not on the ski slopes of Limone but on a small patch of ice on the terrace has resulted in our household being adorned with the likes of crutches, leg supports, and resonating to the continuing stream of those instructions and demands. The irony of the fact that two very expensive sprogs, newly returned home from various educational campuses have both failed to grab the opportunity to begin to repay their long suffering and now economically challenged parents for their continuing input seems to have escaped them.
The French health system lived up to its high quality reputation, within 2 hours we had driven to the Tzank hospital in Mougins, seen a doctor, had an x-ray, had a diagnosis (sprained) received a prescription and driven home, and half an hour of that was traveling to and fro. Fantastic service. The doctor warned her that she must do no sport for ten days, but clearly that applied just to skiing and walking and had no effect on the kind of sports that I like to call bedroom olympics, which I may have previously referred to as sport. It means however that the skiing trip to Limone this coming week will involve more sitting than skiing. I wonder if she will take on board any fashion tips from this chap on a sitting trip to Limone himself last week.
I wonder if he was feeling blue?
A whole day spent on the sofa was far too long a time for her to stay still so, the family were detailed to take that nice lady decorator out to the pub in Valbonne, the Queens Legs for early doors, and to test whether she could still deal with the sport of drinking a few pints of Guinness whilst standing on one leg. I am pleased to be able to report success. For such a petite person I am constantly astonished at the speed and the amount of beer she can drink. Last night was no exception.
I see that tomorrow nights opening might play “Barefoot In The Park” being staged at the Pre Des Arts in Valbonne starts at 7 30 pm, so just enough time for a sharpener before it gets underway. Tickets still available online or at the door on the night.
Premier Mardi (First Tuesday) is a regular gathering staged by international journalist and Karen Hockney and Fiona Macleod both local residents which as its name suggests sets out to meet on the first Tuesday of each month. They have kindly invited me to speak to their group at their next meeting on Thursday 23rd of February at La Pomme Rouge in Valbonne. Some of you may have spotted that Thursday 23rd is not the first Tuesday of the month, and I admit that my first instinct would have been to have some fun with the fact that this networking forum aimed at women in the Riviera wanting to set up a business was called First Tuesday was staging this months meeting on the third Thursday of the month, however, as there is a chance of selling some copies of my book and finding some clients for Currencies Direct, I sensibly decided to make no mention of it.
Chris France
Carried off to the pub
Following my piece yesterday in this column about innuendo in Italy the Reverend Jeff suggests in the comments section of this column that the Italian word for sex must be innuendo. It is the type of stupid, inane juvenile pun of which I would have been proud, don’t know how I missed it. Talking of Italian words, I wonder what the Italian is for “default”? If they do default as Greece must surely do then Currencies Direct will be able to provide a solution for Italians bearing lire. In fact a break up of the euro may have a silver lining for some. I may be part of that some, I certainly hope so.
Another Italian word that I came across in Private Eye this week is “Schettino”. It means roller skate, so it should come as no surprise that the captain of the Concordia, the cruise liner that “fell over” recently was called Captain Schettino. That’s Captain Rollerskate to you and me, you could not make it up. I have always thought that roller skates are dangerous but I suspect that after the court case our dear brave captain won’t even be allowed to be in charge of one skate let alone of a pair of them.
After several days hard skiing last week, that nice lady decorator got home safely and then on Friday promptly slipped on some ice, fell and hurt her ankle, thus I was the unlucky lackey upon whom fell the responsibility to be her slave in the absence of her ability to walk. I did however manage to delegate this responsibility to sprog 1 for a short time when it came to getting to the pub on Friday night as my picture shows.
That nice lady decorator being carried to the pun by sprog 1
So drudgery became the watchword of my life yesterday. I am not sure if any of you are old enough to remember Alo Alo? The TV series with the semi-invalid mother that lived upstairs and rang a bell when she wanted anything? Well, you get my drift. She has crutches for Christ’s sake and is she making the most of it or what? I “cooked” dinner under serious and continual abuse (she called it advice) and was left in no doubt as to my shortcomings in the kitchen department. In fact it seems that I have suddenly developed faults in every area of my persona. I am as certain as I can be that this sudden sea change can in to way be attributed to her injury as that would be a very selfish stance to adopt, but I am beginning to think my certainty needs revisiting.
Because of her injury we had to refuse an invitation to lunch in the Auberge Provencal in Valbonne with Wayne Brown who had organised a TV commercial shoot for Citroen in Valbonne. I say we, but the rejection of the invitation was made without reference to me but had I voted, I am certain that I would have been thwarted by her casting vote. Best then that I was not given the option.
Still too few people know about the South of France English Theatre production of “Barefoot In The Park” which opens at the Pre Des Arts in Valbonne on Valentines Day. Tickets are available from their website by clicking on the link above, or they can be purchased on the night at the box office. There is also the small matter of the after show party which takes place at the same venue for a mere 10 euros extra, and of course for the very few of you who have yet to purchase a copy of my book, an opportunity to secure a rare signed copy of the limited first edition (limited only by the number of people prepared to pay for it) copy of my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur”.
Chris France
Chris France's Blog 