Progress up north?
Bucks Fizz or Bloody Mary? It was a tricky choice so I thought I would try both. Peachy said that it was possible that there might be some drinking involved yesterday and he was right, thus the Bucks Fizz was designed to set one up for the start of another long descent into self-inflicted alcoholic oblivion. At least it seemed to keep out the cold.
Since I was last up north, I have seen distinct signs of improvements in the lives the ordinary folk who inhabit this little known wasteland. My picture today illustrates the strides forward that have been made in terms of personal hygiene up north. This quaint contraption was in the er… “garden” of the Albion pub, which apparently is one of Jamie Oliver’s favourites, where I assume the regulars come to wash their clothes.
State of the art washing facilities spotted up north
So we headed out to see a building site, where Peachy is building some houses and I must say I was impressed with the progress made in this area as well. Wheelbarrows are now used widely as the wheel was recently discovered up here and has made the movement of building materials far easier than having to roll them on logs which they did until recently. Building techniques have definitely moved forward, with daub and wattle in evidence. Thereafter we headed into Chester to find the two pubs that we had not already visited, but found only one of them The Old Victoria on the “Rows”, apparently a unique Chester landmark where the shopkeepers built their establishments on the first floor and chucked all their rubbish out on to the streets a floor below. Progress indeed.
Thereafter we were taken across the border into Wales to the Alyn (not The Allan as I said yesterday, trust the Welsh to mess up the spelling of an ordinary name) pub restaurant beside a river which was very pleasant, and for a time I was able to forget that I was in the far north until someone opened a window and an icy draft thrust its way through the opening.We were guests of the owner the devastatingly attractive owner and madcap Alex Smeaton, who the previous evening had insisted in sticking the head of a dinner guest inside her blouse, perhaps as a birthday present..
Over lunch came a revelation. Peckforton Castle, in the hinterland of Chester, atop a cold windy ridge was severely damaged by fire a few months ago. It had been converted into a hotel and had been hired by a wedding party. It seems the groom was distressed when the bar was closed, so it is alleged that he set fire to some curtains and the place subsequently caught fire and some £3 million of damage was caused. He has been in custody from the night of the fire, and one supposes has not been able to consummate his marriage. Local wags suggest that it is the only time the spooky old building had been warm.
And so, this morning, before you read this, we will have flown out of the John Lennon airport in Liverpool and will be back in the tender arms of the South of France, and Valbonne in particular, where I shall begin to take stock of the “experience” of England, the north in particular, and then bliss, some sunshine, a laze in the hammock and no social occasions….until tomorrow.
This week will see the formal end to my vacation, so at that stage I will be able to continue to recommence the promotion of Currencies Direct, but until that time.
Chris France
Feeding pigeons in Chester
The morning was frankly a struggle for that nice lady decorator. After rummaging around in my overnight bag, complaining that she could not find the toothpaste and accusing me of leaving it in Buckinghamshire she was in poor spirits before I gently pointed out that she was holding the Colgate her other hand. This amply illustrates the dangers of being Peachied (v. to be drawn inexorably into a drinking web) the day and night before.
A full English breakfast plus Bucks Fizz was served on the terrace before the gale increased to somewhere near storm force before we retreated inside to ready ourselves for Peachy’s tour of Chester, which, as I suspected, meant a cursory trot around the town before descending into a pub crawl. It seems they have no other entertainment this far north and thus head for the pub when they ever have any free time. I know you will realise that this is an entirely alien concept to me, but as I live in Valbonne, home to many of the idle rich and ladies that lunch, I like to think I am adaptable, so I went with the flow (of ale).
Chester is a pretty city, which clearly encompasses a number of peculiar northern traditions. It was a shock however to discover that the locals have embraced the concept of the pigeon to the extent that they now have designated a special area in which the locals are encouraged to feed the pigeons as my picture today confirms.
The designated pigeon feeding area in Chester, with faithful pigeon fancier Peachy Butterfield doing a Dick Emery impersonation and getting the bird.
It is a sign of the progress that the locals are making; a pigeon feeding area must be a rudimentary trap from where they can cull these pests in order to supplement their meager diet which I have still contains dripping as a fundamental ingredient. I have never been quite certain how dripping is made and frankly don’t have the stomach to ask.
Later, the great and the good of Cheshire arrived at the naked politicians residence, where we are staying. Some were lucky enough to own motor vehicles but I am sure there must have been some horses or oxen carts around somewhere.
These hardy plucky simple folk had all been invited to a barbecue. When I ventured to suggest that perhaps the weather was a tad inclement for such adventurous or rather outdoor entertainment, I was told that the wind would help the peat fires burn and the rain (or sleet?) would help produce smoke which would increase the smoky seasoning of the various road kill, faithfully gathered by our hosts, thus embellishing the intended offering. Indeed the claim was made that wind and rain actually enhanced the experience. This was of course exactly the kind of thing I had feared when it was first suggested that we spend part of our vacation (not mentioning Currencies Direct) venturing this far north.
However one must admire the plucky resolve of our hosts who were determined not allow the fabulous English summer weather to interfere with the gathering.
By contrast, before midnight I had fetched and was wearing everything I could wear from my suitcase plus a borrowed fleece and woolly hat, but still could not keep out the cold.
Today, our last day in this tempestuous weather zone, we are promised lunch at somewhere call The Allan, which is in Wales, which is apparently quite close, then another dinner in the evening (pray to god – sorry Reverend Jeff – it is not to be staged outside).
Then tomorrow, at the crack of sparrows fart (quite early) the delicious prospect of a return home to Valbonne in France to restart the tanning process so devastated by the English weather.
Chris France
Distinct lack of pigeons
So under scudding grey skies and a with a hint of drizzle as we left Buckinghamshire, we boarded a train to Chester.
To begin with, it looked like the trip might be acceptable. There seemed to be sufficient seating, it was not too dirty, and there was a buffet car, albeit only serving revolting “fast food” options such as burgers and sausage sandwiches. My polite request for the menu, and if they had any fois gras terrine or perhaps a salad Niscoise was met with a blank expression and the response “do what?”, but things had started to go down hill before that when we discovered the forward facing seats we had reserved appeared to facing backwards. Perhaps it was meant to be some kind of cryptic message or warning? With the seats mostly facing south, is there some kind of underlying message here? The south being the way towards civilisation, the north being the opposite, with the expectation that as most people prefer to face the direction in which they are traveling, were the designed to accommodate most of the clients who would be going from north to south?
In any event, I managed to deal with the journey by sleeping fitfully. After the skinful of beer and cholesterol laced food clotting one’s veins from the stay in Buckinghamshire still lying in one’s stomach, we plodded ever further north, under gradually lowering skies, the tell-tale signs of tundra increased and we eventually arrived at the quaint old Roman town of Chester.
With the Romans being the last civilised race to have inhabited the area, there has been little development since. On the food front, we were expecting to be offered something typical from the frozen north, and we were not disappointed as my picture today depicts. Road kill surprise. I think it is some kind of rodent, although the locals were convinced it was a suckling pig.
Spot the rodent
I wondered if the mobile phone might work, as a satellite does not have the physical terrain to cover to venture this far north, and then on the wall of an old mill (trouble up t’mill?) I saw a sign for t’mobile and my hopes rose. Occasionally a rogue satellite comes into range and for some ten minutes a day in some favoured areas, one can get a signal. This is not that important as I am on vacation and thus not promoting Currencies Direct.
Last night, after fighting our way through a surprising number of wild animals on the Duke of Westminster’s estate, where I imagine poachers are shot on sight, we dined at The Grovesnor Arms, a rare outpost of the reasonably modern world. I went for the lightest meal on the menu; traditional fish ‘n chips and mushy peas, the latter being of course one of my five a day.
Today we will be venturing into Chester itself, which according to the locals boast at least two shops and another pub. I am sceptical but do not want to dampen the infectious enthusiasm expressed for the area by Peachy Butterfield, who with his delicious wife Suzanne are our hosts for the next few days.
A range of “entertainment” has been set up for the next few days, but few details have been released. I think they want to surprise us. That nice lady decorator thought she heard wolves in the night, but I managed to convince her that it was probably some whippets being assembled for a dog show for our “benefit”. Also, we have noticed a singular lack of wild pigeons, and cannot help wondering what that fact presages.
Chris France
Whippet surprise?
The weather forecast two days ago was for dry sunny conditions and temperatures in the mid twenties celsius, a prediction which I had greeted with scepticism at the time, and as we headed off to play tennis yesterday, the temperature was sixteen degrees, and it was drizzling, a perfect illustration of the kind of weather forecasting and weather conditions that caused us to move to France in the first place.
After I was forced to endure some “retail therapy” for several hours yesterday morning, as Mr North suddenly but entirely understandably found himself unavailable for golf after his thrashing the day before, I was allowed time off for good behavior and permitted to play tennis with some crusties at Halton Tennis Club. I think it was a reward but cannot be too sure.
Last night to a working meeting at the Five Bells in Weston Turville to meet Paul Kendall aka Ken Poodle to discuss a couple of music projects, as opposed to my day-to-day work with Currencies Direct (which I will not mention as I am on holiday) then on to The Chequers, then on to The Village Gate and then on to oblivion. That is certainly how it seems this morning whilst trying to write this column.
Today we head up to the dreaded north, where Peachy Butterfield and the naked politician await us. I am told that they have gathered together all the food for miles around in order to entertain us, which is very kind of them, but what really concerns me, apart from my fear of tripe, black pudding, pigeon puree and whippet surprise, is the effect on the local animal population, as they will eat anything up there. My picture today gives a taster (yes, that is what I mean) of what might be on the menu. Clearly this picture was taken in the civilised south where animals such as these are kept as pets rather than eaten.
Pet in the south, food in the north
Chester is our destination, unless the train cannot get through, its arrival dependent upon avoiding the hordes of bandits, marauding wild animals, and the steam trains having enough coal and the like. We then face three nights of privations (literally that means outside toilets or “privies” as I think they are known) before escaping back to France on Saturday, back to civilisation in Valbonne and some decent weather, where I can once again contemplate the wearing of shorts.
Last night, that nice lady decorator hatched a plan that frightens me. She wants to come back to the UK for a week in September to do some work in the garden of our house. A whole week in September, the very best month to be in the Cote d’Azur. Frankly it is as bad a plan as she could possibly invent. Removing a massive ivy from the house, clearing great swathes of swampy bog, and chopping down trees seems to me more like a prison sentence with hard labour. My suggestion that perhaps we should get some local oiks to do the work was firmly rebuffed in the traditional laser beam manner, so now I must contemplate feigning injury and remaining in Valbonne whilst she tackles the deforestation. It may be that I will have really to injure myself as she may see through any subterfuge, with disastrous results. The choice between self-harming and lumber-jacking activities in the dank and dismal damp hell that is England in September is a stark choice, both with no upside, although I guess self harm may at least allow me to remain at home in France.
Did I mention I would not be mention Currencies Direct? Oh, yes I did.
Chris France
No stools at the bar?
You can have no real idea how satisfying it can be to beat a cheating, lying, handicap-dodging fridge-magnet-selling ex-butcher at golf. So good is the feeling that even I do not have the words. Mr North, an old pal and highly regarded in fridge magnet selling circles in Weston Turville, which as I am sure most of my readers will understand is quite a limited circle, finally succumbed to the superior golfing technique encompassed by the author of this column. Even the adherence to a girls handicap failed to save him as he suffered a massive defeat.
Last night we were “treated” to a barbecue with our hosts the Norths, where Mr North insisted on cooking a steak that was at least four weeks after its use by date, and as an ex-butcher claimed that the meat would a little “high” (for this read maggott infested) and that as a result it would taste delicious. When I said that personally I would never touch meat of this nature, but he went on to describe in graphic details how one should hang game, and one would know when it was ready because the maggots fell out of its anus. Now I am not sure about others, but this was enough for me to commence an immediate and stringent diet.
Perhaps he wanted to describe this practice as a thoughtful gesture to prepare me for the sorts of food I will be offered when we venture into the wildernesses up north around Chester tomorrow, but given his generally malevolent attitude, I very much doubt it. More likely he had under catered for his guests and was trying (successfully) to put people off eating.
Just one more day in the south is left before we take public transport into the frozen slag heap infested Victorian north, where electricity is scarce and those decent hardy northern folk eat out a living by eating what they can catch. Peachy Butterfield is our host and judging from the size of his physique, he has been particularly successful in catching and eating significant numbers of rodents, ferrets and pigeons. I shall be going with an open heart and trepidation in equal measure, at least I realise that given the impecunious nature of the inhabitants, many of whom have never ventured further than a few miles from the caves and hamlets they inhabit, there will be little scope to mention Currencies Direct (which in any event I am committed not to do as I am on vacation). I suspect they will think it is some kind of curry.
My picture today was taken at a pub up north when I last ventured to that desolate region.
A rather graphic instruction, clearly motivated by the Health and Safety authorities
I have no idea why those lovely folk up north might consider defecating on the bar, except perhaps that if it is very cold outside, the outside lavatory, another quaint northern custom, is cut off by snow.
So today, I have been invited to play some mixed doubles tennis, which I have accepted, mainly because it gets me away from working on our house in the UK which is in dire need of some tlc. Having lived in France for seven years now, I am intrigued by all the stuff we left behind in our barn, being hoarded by that nice lady decorator. My suggestion that we hire a skip and clear it all out has been firmly rejected and accompanied by that renowned laser beam stare, although what we can possibly need from items stored for seven years plus is something of a mystery.
Chris France
Bad taste awaits
So lunch was taken at Clipboard Towers after a brief adjournment to a local golf club on a lake nearby, where the locals were enjoying themselves by playing with radio controlled yachts. At the same time a lady arrived on the river bank on one of those electrically controlled bike-like contraptions designed for the disabled, who seemed to be having a bit of difficulty controlling the movement of it. Rather childishly there was some conjecture as to whether the radio signals being sent to the boats may be interfering with the propulsion system, but all was well, and there was no unfortunate incident or drowning.
Lunch was once again taken at Clipboard Towers and our host consulted his wine cellar clipboard and produced a 1994 Grand Cru Classe St Julien for lunch which was splendid. Of course it had to be opened to allow it to breathe, and as the accepted norm is ten minutes for each year, Mr Clipboard (so-called – by me – due to his newly found precise organisational obsession that he has embraced since returning to England) enjoyed the challenge of ensuring that the wine had been open for exactly the requisite time to be served at lunch. This involved coordinating the time of lunch to be one hundred and seventy-five minutes (ie ten minutes for each of the seventeen and half years) after it had been opened. Thus he was able to amuse himself by constantly adjusting the cooking speed of the lamb burgers to ensure they were cooked and ready at exactly the right moment. The evidence is the subject of my picture today.
A nice little drop for a Sunday lunch
Before lunch I was challenged to a game of singles on the tennis court and was cruising to victory after the first set, before allowing the triple factors of blisters from new tennis shoes, borrowed racket and the politeness of not humiliating ones host to engineer a draw 6-3, 3-6. Mr Clipboard was very pleased , mostly I think with the neatness of the scoreline.
By contrast, an excellent lunch was followed by yet another nightmare journey on English public transport. Escalators have clearly not reached England yet, as at each station change we had to carry heavy suitcases up a number of staircases, exacerbated by enforced use of temporary bus services because of the inevitable engineering works. By the time I reached Buckinghamshire, my knuckles were dragging along the floor, which at least gave me some physical resemblance to our host last night, Mr North.
We are staying with Mr North, the ex-butcher and fridge magnet salesman, who has not featured in this column recently, mainly on the grounds of my trying to avoid bad taste. But bad taste will riddle every sinew of my being over the next two days. Mr North has at least changed his “paki gold” (has favourite colour) Hyundai for a slightly less down-market but embarrassingly over the top truck-like vehicle of uncertain origin, ideal (in his mind) for challenging driving conditions faced in the suburban home counties. The embellishments of fluffy dice, klaxon and Arsenal stickers all help to illustrate what I will be up against. Parking this beast amongst the BMW’s and Mercedes at the golf course today will be embarrassing, what he will be wearing will be in bad taste and his general demeanour will be in bad taste. He is a good lad though, as long as today’s golf goes to plan.
Finally, I just wanted to point out that I have not made any attempt to plug Currencies Direct in this column today and will ensure I do not do so.
Chris France
Faces at Hurtwood Park
I had forgotten about the glories of public transport in England. That, or more likely I had blocked it out of my mind as it is horrible to contemplate. Dirty stations, crowded and uncomfortable trains, stair cases rather than escalators ensuring the dragging of suitcases around is as difficult as possible. Of course when in England, one must be properly equipped clothing wise, so the wind cheater, duffel coat, fur-lined jacket (definitely required for when we venture close to the arctic circle later in the week) and waders are required items that simply must be included in ones packed items, thus the suitcases are necessarily the weight of a large gold ingot . Last week whilst camping in France and Spain, a few T-shirts and a couple of pairs of shorts are pretty much all one needed, but hey ho, the English weather.
So to Guildford by train to meet Mr Clipboard, have lunch and then accompanying us to see The Faces and some polo. Mr Clipboard required us to be at Guildford station at 12.30 sharp, well its always sharp with him, so we were surprised that he was a full wingco late for the rendez-vous (a wingco is a unit of time by which the wingco is always late for tennis, and spans seven minutes) and were able to give him a very satisfying telling off for being so retard.
So with the weather looking typical, we decided instead to go to the pub, eat food and drink beer and just go and see the Faces rather than risk being rained on in a polo field. Dinner at the Oswald in Cranleigh was a little rushed, again because of a time keeping aberration by Mr Clipboard, but we got to a rather smaller crowd at Hurtwood Park than we had expected, maybe around 2000.
A slightly lack lustre start to the show was enhanced by the lighting man and sound man clearly being asleep, and at first I thought the low mix of Mick Hucknells vocals was a godsend, but later, at least the sound man started to hear that something was wrong (a fact noticed by almost everyone else in the crowd) and the show improved, with Ronnie Wood on sparkling form, dedicating the show to the late Amy Winehouse who died on Saturday. The high spots were their versions of “Tin Soldier” and “All Or Nothing”, and with Kenny Jones and Ian Mclagan the only two surviving Small Faces on stage, it was as close to a reformation of that iconic 60’s group that you could get.
The Faces at Hurtwood Park
Today we are to be treated to lunch at Clipboard Towers, a small 50 acre holding nestling near the M3 and M25 intersection, where no doubt I will swap stories with Mr Clipboard of work (although largely an alien concept to him, although he was once an estate agent, but I do not consider that to be a proper job) but will not go into detail about my work for Currencies Direct as I am on vacation and committed not to mention it in this column.
Then later today to Buckinghamshire, an outer staging post on the very edge of comparative civilisation for a couple of days acclimatisation before the big push up north. I hear on Facebook from Peachy Butterfield that the rain is horizontal up in Chester, but at least it is rain, not snow, so he must be pleased, although this will spawn a plague of midges from the softening permafrost encrusted tundra, but I think the locals quite like this particular infestation,as I believe they enjoy the sport that fly swatting must provide. I do like to encourage them to take some exercise from time to time, just to stir some of their fat laden veins, manifested by the suet puddings and lard which are part of their staple diet.
Chris France
Got any tickets?
A bus she said. “Let’s take the bus to Lords”, “but there’s a taxi across the road” I remonstrated, and I thought I had written my last column. A well dressed muslim chap boarded the bus in Marylebone road. The nature of his religion was betrayed by his attire and beard but mostly by what he was carrying; a copy of The Muslim News, with the headline “Israelis imprison Palestinian children” prominently displayed. This in itself is not an issue, and he had a perfect right to be on the bus, but it was when he turned around to use his mobile phone and I spotted the large rucksack on his back that I became uneasy.
Anyway, we lived to tell the tale and, as we got off the bus near Lords, we are asked by a couple of touts if we had any tickets. That nice lady decorator thought he meant bus tickets and kindly offered them our used ones. It was a kind gesture, but I don’t think the touts were exactly pleased with the offer but I am not certain if she understood why.
A great day at Lords, in the box of Adidas who were kind enough to provide champagne, Pimms, wine and beers, plus breakfast lunch and tea and a host of fine company. Kevin Pietersen has long been known by that nice lady decorator as “eye candy”. His making a double hundred for England against the best team in the world, India, and the presence of his look-alike brother Brian being in the box made that nice lady decorator especially attentive.
Lords, day two, view from the Adidas box
The big Grace Gate at Lord reminded me of prison gates and I had a brief rewarding thoughtful about banjo, the cantankerous canine, still languishing in his on little prison in the south of France.
After game had finished for the day, we found ourselves still thirsty, which was remarkable because of earlier excessive consumption, and adjourned to the nearby Warrington Hotel in Randolph Avenue, an old stamping ground. I was enjoying the evening but a dark cloud was always in the background which I could not reconcile, and then I had it; the name of the pub is the same as one of those towns in the frozen hinterland of England and to which I am being dragged next week.
Today we are scheduled to go down to Hurtwood Park for “Polo Rocks” a slightly uneasy mix of polo and rock music in the form of The Faces with Mick Hucknell from Simply Red in place of Rod Stewart. However the usual joker that is the English weather may see us eschew the polo and cut straight to the music.
Then Buckinghamshire awaits next week, where I am scheduled to remove some money from old pal Paul North on the golf course, despite his continuing to claim a girls handicap of 28. However a few days in the damp home counties will not be sufficient to prepare me fully for the horrors that await from midweek, when we journey north. Idly, when considering how not to mention Currencies Direct, I asked that nice lady decorator whether she thought we would be able to see the Northern Lights when we go up there, and she said they had plenty of shops in Chester and she was sure some of them have lights. It seems that the glories of electricity have reached even into the north of England. Luckily we have been rather too well fed and watered down here in the south over the past few days, so perhaps some privations may improve the bulging waistline.
Chris France
Mushy peas shock discovery
That nice lady decorator set off just before play started in the first cricket Test Match between India and England at Lords to get a bottle of water as she was thirsty. Just how thirsty she was I discovered about ten minutes later when she came back with four pints of Marston’s Pedigree. Not proper “from the wood” real ale but the gassed version, but acceptable in any event.
We had earlier made a pact not to allow alcohol to pass our lips before the sun was over the yard-arm, but with the sun nowhere in sight, which is to be expected in England in summer, I admit it was hard to tell, and when I checked the time, it said 12.10 and we had supped before it dawned on us that our phones were all still on French time.
So with the first pints on board by 11 30, there was no way back to sobriety until this morning. In between we saw some cricket, had lunch on the lawn at Lords, missed the England captain’s wicket by being too late back from lunch and generally had a very nice day until the heavens opened again just before tea, which my picture today captures.
A typical English summer day at lords, home of cricket
Our host for the day was one Nigel Rowley. He is an utter madcap, always doing something stupid. Last summer when he visited us in Valbonne he was photographed sitting on sail less windsurfer on a precariously balanced chair with a sun umbrella, trying to sail across my pool. That was stupid in itself, but I never did find out why he was naked.
He was a little better behaved yesterday, at least until the evening when he took us the The Sea Shell Restaurant near Marylebone station for the best fish and chips in the world. In deference to my hosts next week when we venture up north for a “northern experience”, I thought I should start to acclimatise myself to the type of food we shall no doubt be offered when we arrive, so I asked for a side order of mushy peas. I think the restaurant were trying to break me in gently because the bright green mess arrived on a plate, rather than in the old newspaper favoured by those curious folk born north of Watford. However the effect was at variance with my expectations because I had never realised what a disgusting colour they were, having never before seem them served on such a bland receptacle. Normally, when faced with this hideous concoction, one may be distracted by the headlines on the newspaper; things like “ferret found up trouser leg”, or “local pigeon fancier wins third prize at pigeon show”, or focus on the nasty damp stain on the newspaper where the grease from the peas start spreading through the fibres, but to see it in all its glory on a stark white plate was shocking. How many “e” numbers must a portion of mushy peas contain in order to reach that luminosity? I reckon we could have turned all the lights out and dined quite well by the radiation being emitted. Perhaps I have discovered why all those northerners often exclaim “e by gum”?
So after mushy peas and fish and chips, we retired to our hotel for a nightcap in their rose garden, which was covered to keep out the still spitting rain, sheltered from the wind by a trellis, and heated with an outdoor heater. Such are the glories of sitting outside in London in July.
Finally, I just want to mention that once again there has been no mention of Currencies Direct.
Chris France
Dark side of that nice lady decorator
The German campers in the camp site pitch alongside Bluebell on Tuesday night should never have started it. German ragga music can never have been popular beyond the borders of Hamburg or Berlin, so playing such a racket at such a volume whilst that nice lady decorator was cooking dinner was their first mistake. The second was to ask her to turn down Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, which she was playing, one of the best-selling albums of all time in any language, the title of which seems a fitting backdrop to her cooking.
These young whippersnappers clearly did not remember the 2nd world war, or who won. Personally I don’t remember it either and I would not have mentioned it. I think she mentioned it once, but I think she got away with it.
From Agay we travelled back to Valbonne along the wonderful coast road up to Mandlieu via Theole sur Mer, one of the prettiest drives in the world, to put Bluebell the camper out to grass for ten days whilst we head back to dank dreary depressing England. We were greeted at City airport with wind and rain, a fitting epitaph for the English summer, and things do not look good for this morning, the cricket, the first day if the Lords Test against India. However we shall battle down to the Marylebone cricket club and no doubt find that at least there is some action in the champagne tents which will be open and have to make the best of it.
On the way to the airport, back in the Merc, which was something of a sea change from the last week spent in Bluebell the camper van, we found we had enough time for a sea change lunch on the beach near the airport, at St Laurent du Var, where I took this picture from my luncheon table. I will be referring to it regularly whilst watching the scudding grey clouds that encapsulate an English summer during the coming ten days.
La Pannisse restaurant on the beach at St Laurent Du Var
Last night, for purely medicinal reasons it was necessary to find a pub bearing London Pride, the finest ale known to man, followed by a curry. This course of action, the dash for comfort food is forced upon one by the cold damp weather and the subsequent need for fortification against the elements.
A disaster has occurred with my wardrobe. My silk smoking jacket and cravat, de rigeur for the Members Enclosure at Lords, have mysteriously unpacked themselves from my suitcase. That or they have been stolen. In any event, at the point of writing this column, I am not in possession of suitable attire, and may not have time to get to my tailor in Savile Row. Thus I may be forced to buy something known as “ready to wear”, a totally alien concept, in order to gain entry to the cricket. The one good thing is that I will not have to exchange currency with Currencies Direct for the purchase, and will not take this obvious promotional opportunity as I am still on vacation until 1st August.
And so, the battle between India and England on the cricket field will commence shortly. India are the top rated Test side in the world, whilst England are third. Should we be able to win the series of five matches by a margin of two them we will become the number one team in the world, so I shall be doing my bit today and tomorrow to urge England on to victory.
Chris France
Rain in Provence? oh yes
So we went to sleep under starry skies and woke up at 6am to the sound of England. At first I thought it was a horrible nightmare and I had been transported to England early to enjoy rain and inclement weather, but as my senses returned after an assault the night before by some of the nice lady decorators Rioja, I realised that the tempest raging around us was happening in Provence, and was real and was not a nightmare brought on by my impending trip back to the UK.
Now, camping in the South of France is an entirely different animal to camping in the UK. I could not camp anywhere where one needs more than the skimpiest t-shirt and shorts throughout the day and night and where It is so dry that water is to be revered. In the UK camping outdoors would be impossible because of the near certainty of rain in any 24 hour period, but the south of France is normally completely conducive to the making camp experience, sitting around late in the evening, drinking wine outside until rolling into bed after midnight.
Thus the thunderstorm that set upon us at 6 30am was not immediately welcome. Breaking camp (you see what an intrepid camper I have become, all the lingo at my fingertips) thus became a bit of a downer, having to dry up and rescue various items that always live outside at this time of year in Provence.
In a rare departure from my iron clad routine, and to confirm that I have a softer and more humble side to me, on a whim, I allowed that nice lady decorator an exeat from preparing the customary bacon sausage and eggs for me, a job undertaken outside, and thus the expectation of being drowned in the torrential rain. I have this easy-going sensitive side that I like to expose occasionally, and I know she appreciates it.
So after she had dried up everything whilst I issued orders from the comfort of Bluebell, the venerable camper van, who incidentally was as a single mind with me, hating the inclement weather, we set off across rain lashed Provence, heading for the delightful and understated beach resort of Agay, close to St Raphael, where the camp site, the Soleil (rather inappropriately named in the circumstances), awaited us.
However, the Reverend Jeff must have been looking after us, because after fruitless visits to the various inns on the beach pleading for shelter, and with the prospect of a muddy night in UK camping hell, the sun suddenly returned and all was well with the world as my photo taken just after we had made camp reveals.
Campsite on the beach at Agay, near St Raphael
Today we will leave Bluebell to rest after an almost trouble-free trip of over two thousand kilometers, and set of for Nice airport where a plane will be waiting to take us to Lords. Of course there will have to be another airport, some tiresome travel, a hotel in Hyde park and some pints of London Pride involved before the start of play on Thursday, but you can read about that tomorrow.
That nice lady decorator is at the moment resisting my insistence that, as she will be seated in the MCC members enclosure on Thursday, the opening days play, at the home of cricket, and their traditional colours as evidenced by their remarkable red and yellow ties habitually sported by their members, should be taken on board in whatever costume she will choose for the day. I know I shall win her around eventually, like all of you needing to make forex transfers via Currencies Direct, but I will not mention that whilst on holiday.
Chris France
Candle holders? no
Bluebell the camper is an old lady, nearly as old as that nice lady decorator. I can hear the sharp intake of breath from the assembled multitude of readers, expecting imminent news of my early demise, but it is a calculated risk; whilst camping there is not the remotest chance she will read what I have written. That she may read it later is where the calculated risk element appears
Anyway, as I was saying, Bluebell the VW camper van is a classic, but it is or was, when it was built in 1969, hardly a design breakthrough. The use of space is dismal, and for two people to live for a week, every available piece of space needs to be utilised effectively and to its utmost. There is no room for anything except absolute necessities, such as one’s travelling cigar humidor, or so I thought until we ventured into the charming a historic village of St Guilhem Le Dessert yesterday as my picture today captures.
The centre of St Guilhem Le Desert in the Herault valley, Provence
Nestling beside the gorges of the Herault, the village has attracted artisans of various hues, amongst which was a studio where they had on display some nice candle stands. That nice lady decorator decided to buy two, but I am not allowed to refer to them as candle stands, apparently they are lanterns. When I suggested that to make them work as their creator had intended, one had to stand a candle in them, my submission was dismissed in a trice, and thus they are now lanterns (in which you can stand a candle).
These candle stands, I mean lanterns come in boxes that measure about a yard, by a foot by two feet, and so they fit nicely into the tiny space in which we have to live in Bluebell, not. As I write they are taking up the entirety of the region where the front seats rest, and I am assured they will fit in somewhere. These are of course in addition to thee 100 bottles of Rioja she insisted buying when we were in Spain a few days ago.
Returning to the theme of the recent Spanish wine purchase, I hear from old friend Moya who suggests that the Nice lady decorator must be erm….mistaken in her dismissal of all french red wines as “shit”. Moya points out that most Rioja’s are grown from French vines transplanted there by the Spanish. Moya, if she gets to read this, please don’t expect a Christmas card. It is not that you are not correct, it’s just that disagreement with that nice lady decorator in her book is tantamount to treason, or at least mutiny in her book and usually attracts the same punishment. I know, I am her Captain Bligh.
My old friend and god botherer the Reverend Jeff comments that I have the same affliction as Mick Jagger. I think he must be referring to the enduring sex appeal bestowed upon old chaps like Mick and I, rather than the Reverend himself, who is now a sad broken shell of the chap I remember, and if that is the case then as far as I can see it is true.
Currencies Direct have once again been ignored in this column, so those if you desperate to sign up will have to wait until my vacation I’d over, unless you want to apply here.
And so our epic camping adventure is nearing an end, as we return to nice on Wednesday to catch a flight to the dismal UK, where it seems from what I hear of the weather forecast, I shall not be watching much cricket…
Tour De France not what it seemed
To start with I was very impressed when the policeman who was trying to give me a parking ticket mentioned the Tour De France. I was quite impressed that he knew of our plans; ie that the family France were touring France. However, it was not as it seemed. It transpired that there were a bunch of (perhaps?) drug crazed cyclists riding around France who were about to travel down the road that we wanted to take. This is a very big thing for the locals who turn out in droves to see a bunch of stupidly clad bikers cycle past. Clearly there is very little real entertainment available in rural France. After a massive five-hour build up, with almost every conceivable road closed, it all happens in about 20 seconds. I can think of something else much more pleasurable that has the same time frame, but that is another matter.
The gendarme did not seem to understand that there would be no danger as Bluebell the camper is very slow and I told him that I would be extra careful not to knock and cyclists off their bikes, but he was adamant, we had to find a different route.
It was when I suggested that as they were inconveniencing me, I was going to park where I was in the traffic caused by their closing the road until the road was open again, but one look at his truncheon and his gun, plus the dreaded pen for the parking ticket was sufficient for me to allow him to get away with his impertinence.
This was most inconvenient as we were trying to reach St Guihelm Le Desert in the Herault region, to the west of Montpellier and the silly cycle race appeared to cross our tracks.
Eventually we made it to a place called Gignac, where we made camp with Bluebell. The expression “making camp” should not be confused with the affectations of Mario, the hotel manager at La Fauvelle in Thuir where we had spent a splendid evening and night on Saturday. That he is gay, as is his partner, Andreas, (otherwise there could be trouble) is undeniable and bestows up him an innate sense of style and attention to detail, making our stay there especially refreshing after the privations of our own style of camping.
Have to dig this one up and start again.
I have finally solved the issue with the photograph that did not want to cooperate with me for inclusion in this column, and I show it today. It was taken of the swimming pool disaster at Salvador Dali’s house, and I venture to suggest is one of the main reasons it is still on the market. Some foolish designer has made it wide enough for just one person to swim. How shortsighted of him or her. Surely this cannot be the work of Salvador himself?
A stiff march up the Georges of the Herault this morning is planned, subject to the weather which has been very un-July like, even chilly enough yesterday for that nice lady decorator to reject rather forcefully my suggestion of where to stay. When searching for a camp site, I saw A naturist camp site nearby. I can see no problem with communing with nature and other like-minded people, and can see no reason why temperature should play any part in her rejection.
Later we will break camp (you see how technical I have become) and head back into deepest Provence aiming for Le Baux De Provence.
Another day and another avoidance of any sort of plug for Currencies Direct. You can see that I am taking my vacation seriously.
Chris France
Rioja riot
Poor Bluebell, the camper van is full of Rioja. After that nice lady decorator made another of her carefully argued statements the night before last; something like “all French red wine is shit”, we went back to Spain yesterday morning to fill the Bluebell full of Spanish wine. It had taken just one bottle of a very decent 2005 Reserva for her to make the decision to make a detour of an hour and buy around a hundred bottles, enough for at least a couple of weeks, maybe even until the end of the month. Had it been white wine she was demanding in such quantity I have objected, but red wine is of course another matter.
The trail then took us back into France to Thuir in particular then on to Castelnou to look at our old holiday home being utterly ruined by the people who bought it. The masterstroke has been to build an extension which destroys a great view and screens the sun from the swimming pool. That nice lady decorator was spitting feathers, she takes destruction of her handiwork very seriously indeed.
Lunch in the village was disappointing in that the best restaurant in the village L’ Hostal, has been ruined by an eccentric idiot with no taste. No not me, but the new owner who seems to have a commercial death wish. In all the return visit to what was a very special place for us laid the ghost to rest.
There is a tradition in the area, the northern edge of Catalonia in the Rousillion of drinking muscat via a Galet, a kind of spouted glass jug, and although he will be distressed by the picture, my dear Norwegian friend Morten shows today how it should be done.
A master of the galet at work
The knack of course in ensuring the liquid goes in your mouth not down the front of you shirt, and I have the evidence of too many sticky shirts in my wardrobe to have been tempted into anything but a cursory try of this stupid drinking method.
The beautiful and special La Fauvelle in Thuir offered a night of sumptuous luxury courtesy of our wonderful Norwegian friends Morten and Ziggy, the owners, and a stark difference to the camping experience, which once again faces us tonight.
Today we are back on the road aiming for somewhere recommended by a friend called St Guilhem Le Desert (I wonder if that has anything to do with William of Orange? No? Ok, too obscure, I will edit this out). Google maps indicates it is just over two hours away, which means at least three hours in Bluebell. This is the start of the return journey, we need to be back by Wednesday in time to fly to London for some cricket and London Pride.
I hear a story about a golfing pal who has featured in this column but I dare not identify. It seems that there is a rather ancient “lady of the night” who works close to where he lives. He went to have a conversation with her to ask her to take her business elsewhere and story goes that whilst talking to her he somehow lost his wallet and had to go back to see her again… I cannot reveal either who told me this story, but I cannot wait to get back to the REGS golf society to see if any of it is true.
We are now one-third of our way through my vacation period, that means at least another two weeks before I will be able to mention and plug Currencies Direct, until that time my commercial lips are sealed.
Chris France
Peachy tripe
Significantly, today Bluebell the 1969 VW camper overtook a vehicle for the first time on his camping trip. The fact that it was a dumper truck should in no way detract from this achievement, the gear change from 4th into 3rd then into 2nd to effect this manoeuvre was as smooth at Peachy Butterfield, so not that smooth then, but the job is done, and another notch needs to be carved on the dashboard.
Talking of significant events and Peachy Butterfield in the same paragraph reminds me of one of his comments on Facebook yesterday, where he claimed to be awaiting the arrival of the big one. I took this to mean that he was expecting a significant toilet movement, something akin to the tortoise sticking its head out of the shell, if you get my (or rather Hale and Pace’s) analogy. However it seems that what he was referring to was that he was looking forward to seeing one of his many female admirers, and the very same person whom we are expecting to commune with in deepest Chester in the UK later this month. I am told that for making this mistake, I must don a crash helmet, although for what reason I cannot fathom, perhaps it is to ensure that I am not injured when the fruits of the north begin to drop from the very few trees that venture above the wind-swept horizon?
I know, the fruits of the north is a difficult concept with which to grapple, but grapple we must when we take our lives in our hands and venture north in less than a couple of weeks time. Perhaps it is the season of the tripe? Maybe ripe tripe is about to fall from the trees? Who knows, but I am certain that the trip (or should that be tripe?) up north will be a rewarding one. If only to accentuate what a wonderful existence we enjoy in the south of France.
My photograph today was to be of the pool I was complaining about at Dali’s house yesterday, too narrow by a distance to be of any resale value. Before it can be resold, this will need attention. Instead we have Spanish fish and chips due to internet problems, thus the late post.
Potatoes bravas and boccoronies
I hear from writer David Stoyle, writer with FR2day on Facebook who seems firmly in the camp of the Dali believer. I suspect that he also believed the earth is flat.
You may have devined from all this that my hoped for few days of relaxation and recuperation was rudely interrupted by that nice lady decorator reaching her boredom threshold a little earlier than I had hoped. Three days on the Costa Brava communing with the mustachioed old charlatan Dali and his “works” was what was planned, but two days was apparently enough. I suggested that the reason she wanted to move on was because she had joined me in the conclusion that our friend Salvador was nothing more than a brilliant con man, but received the laser beam look for which she is justly renowned, the look that says discussion of a particular topic is at an end.
So we tracked back across the Franco Spanish border and arrived in the delightful town of Ceret where lunch in the form of a wonderful entrecote au poivre and rather too much cotes Roussillon was taken and an afternoon siesta was thus required.
Once again there will be no plug for Currencies Direct due to my ongoing and rather short annual vacation. Expect the plugs to begin again in August when I shall be back in the saddle in a manner of speaking. Tomorrow back to France.
Chris France
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