Dordogne Doings.. by Scrumbles

RIP in France.. or maybe not

2010-05-08T14:00:00.000-07:00

Living as a permanent residence in France, or indeedy any country will eventually result in your death. Even the most wonderful rural environment cannot put off this certainty. If you are easily offended by an arguably irreverent look at life after death, or maybe recently bereaved, I suggest you do not read this post.

Whilst there is a lot of information available on various wibbly wobbly web sites and many books available about Living in France, there is minimal information about Dying in France, so maybe it is best to do some research before you ‘pop yer clogs.’

Rest assured there will be a lot of beaureaocracy involved and each Department will have different rules. The only sensible advice I can really offer is to contact the British Embassy and your local Maire to find out the national and local procedures.

I would not say I am pre-occupied with death, but after a career as a nurse, black humour is still an essential part of my survival strategy, especially as I get older and more likely to have an appointment with Le Reaper Grim in the not too distant future.

Cemeteries in France are usually beautifully kept gardens, with lavish headstones remembering the life of the deceased. Many of the memorials are similar to greenhouses, probably family tombs and look very gracious. It is odd that a glasshouse, or greenhouse is rare for the propagation of vegetable and flowers in this area of France, the plastic poly tunnel being the preferred method of nurturing small plants. I suppose a poly tunnel in a cemetery is not really appropriate.

I gather it is illegal to take pictures of cemeteries in France, without permission, so imagine some of the older Victorian cemeteries in England and you will get an idea of the grandeur and splendour. When I was young, many years ago, I used to love to walk in the Brompton Cemetery in London. http://www.royalparks.org.uk/parks/brompton_cemetery/ The history of the resting families was fascinating and it was difficult to resist taking a peek through the locked gates of some of the family crypts, peering nervously through the broken slates on the floor to spy a coffin resting on a shelf in its crypt.

Driving through small French villages it is always a pleasure to see so much pride in the maintenance of these silent walled areas. As mentioned in a previous blog post, November 1^st ‘All Saints Day’ or ‘Dead Rellies Day’ as we call it, when families travel throughout France to remember their forebears by placing Chrysanthemums on graves to further beautify the cemeteries with stunning autumnal colours.

I expect grave charges are dependant on location and department. I do know that if these charges are not paid when required, the deceased is dug up and removed elsewhere. Signs are left on cemetery gates to indicate who is next for removal. This must be the ultimate disgrace for family members who will not, or maybe cannot, afford to pay.

A rather nice tradition I have observed in the local town is the placing of a ‘book of condolence’ ourside the house of a newly deceased person for neighbours and friends to record a message of sympathy.

When we first moved to France, in August 2003, we were somewhat amused when we discovered funeral plaques for sale on the shelves of Garden Centres. We considered buying one for our house name plate, but decided it would probably be disrespectful to the elderly and ancient residents in our village.

Our first, and only experience of a funeral in France was somewhat bizarre and went something like this.

A Brit who we knew, but not very well, died and the ex-pat community were all invited to attend his funeral.

We arrived at the church in his village at the appointed time and stood around waiting for the church to be opened and the hearse to arrive. After some time, a Ford Transit type van, with blacked out windows arrived. There were no names on the van and we wondered if this was a visiting rock group or the local electrician. From nowhere the priest appeared; the back of the van was opened and the coffin was pulled out by a handful of men who looked as though their suits were borrowed from much thinner people. It was not carried at shoulder height, merely transported like a large piece of luggage.

We all lined up and followed the cortege into the church. Being unsure of who should sit where, not sure if left hand or right hand side applies to funerals as it does to weddings, we all shuffled into the pews and waited.

The priest began the service in French, so the vast majority of ex-pats had no idea what was going on. We heard the deceased’s name being mentioned a few times, so we knew we were in the right place.

Hearing a creaking sound from the doors behind us, we all turned and saw a woman, rush in and make her way to the front of the church. She was probably a local villager, wearing a Mac (overcoat, not a laptop) over her pinny. At first she sang the responses to the priests warbling cries and then sang, quite beautifully, a song or hymn and departed as quickly as she had appeared.

At the end of the service the coffin was replaced in the unmarked van for the drive to the cemetery. We all scrambled back in our cars for the drive to the south of the village. We all “followed the van” making sure we did not “dilly dally on the way.”

It was a very hot day, black tights and high heeled shoes along with sombre clothing identifying the British women in the party, whilst the British men wore suits and ties. These dreadfully uncomfortable shoes and suits were no doubt found at the back of the wardrobe as they are not normal dress for rural ex-pat life. The local French had arrived in jeans and T shirts. Of course this is not disrespectful. Many British people still wear black or sombre colours after Queen Victoria introduced the mourning habit in Great Britain, following the death of her beloved Albert.

When we arrived at the cemetery, it was interesting to see a large hole, concrete lined and comfy looking for the resting place of our departed pal. I was rather taken with this concrete lining as no doubt it would reduce the invasion of underground wildlife.

The undertaker asked the deceased’s wife, a rather large woman, if she would like, when she was buried, to be placed beside him or on top. She laughed and said if she was placed on top she would squash him to death. The coffin was eventually placed to one side of the grave and then the whole funeral party walked past the grave, throwing in a flower and maybe saying a silent prayer.

After the burial (inhumation) it was back to the widow’s house for the usual bun-fight. Some French people, including the Maire and Mrs Maire attended for a while but soon left.

The widow told us about the procedure following her husband’s death, which had us all in fits of laughter.

Apparently her husband had died whilst sitting in a chair, watching her paint a wall. She has since finished painting it as she felt he would want the job finished.

She had turned round to speak to him and realising he had gone she telephoned the pompiers (Firemen) who are the first port of call for any emergency as they are also paramedics.

When they arrived they took the body upstairs and laid it on the marriage bed. The next caller was the Maire, he was required to come to identify the body. Next the doctor came and certified the death, which had been expected as there had been a chronic heart condition. I am sure the Maire of large French towns does not undertake this formal identification and can imagine British mayors resenting this additional duty, probably because of Health and Safety issues.

In the United Kingdom we would expect the body to be removed by the undertakers. No siree, not here. The undertakers came to the house and embalmed the body, leaving, so we understood from the widow, large amounts of blood spatter, worthy of a CSI investigation, all over the floor, walls and the bed. Being a house proud person she soon cleared this up, but how awful for the poor woman.

The deceased stayed lying on the bed, accompanied by his two little dogs, until the funeral 48 hours later. I believe the widow slept in a different room. Would I mind sleeping in the same house as a dead Monsieur Darling, in the middle of nowhere, in the pitch black? Not sure about that one, will need a bit of thought.

We all left the widow to clear up the glasses and debris after a suitable amount of alcohol to see the deceased on his way and it set me a~pondering, as is my habit, after a new experience.

We understand, that had he wished to return to England to be buried it was a right palaver, including stopping at every department (county) on the journey through France for official permission to enter and leave. The passport of the deceased is required to stay with the coffin until repatriation is complete.

Flying a body back is now, I gather, difficult due to current terrorism controls but in any case a zinc lined casket is required and it can take an age to get a flight. The cost of transferring a body back to England can be in excess of £3000. This particular funeral cost about the same amount. It is interesting to note that the children of the deceased are held responsible for the cost of a funeral in France.

Firstly I was considering my children. They would be totally appalled, and rightly horrified at a service being held to send me on my way after my death in a language they did not understand. Would it be possible, in a rural area, to find an English speaking priest? Plus I am not a Catholic and France is predominantly a Catholic country. All in all it seemed a bit of a nonsense and very complicated.

Monsieur Darling and I discussed the issue of the disposal of our mortal remains including cremation, which is still a minority option for most French people. Alternatively we could, with permission, be buried in our own garden and maybe get a friend to say a few words as we were placed in the ground.

We considered the fun aspect of driving the dead person home. Experience had shown us that driving off the Ferry in Portsmouth was quite simple. We had arrived once, at 6 a.m. and I was schnuggled down in the passenger seat. Monsieur Darling showed the customs people our passports and they did not even look at either of us, let alone check to see if we were alive or dead. Knowing our luck, the first of us to pop off will do so during a hot summer and that journey home would be most unpleasant with a dead body as a passenger.

So we have decided and informed our children that we shall be cremated in France and our ashes returned to our relevant children for dividing up and keeping if they wish, or disposal. I have no particular choice of place for disposal and fully expect my younger son to want to take charge of the urn. I am confident he will give me a glass of wine on Sundays and no doubt pop his ciggie ash in my urn to feed my addiction in the after life.

Younger son has ‘previous’ on ashes hoarding. He was adamant, at age 13 that he keep the ashes of a much loved golden retriever. After a few years he decided to scatter these. Unfortunately the family home was on the south coast sea front and he chose a day to chuck the ashes off the balcony when the wind was blowing in the wrong direction and the whole house was filled with ash. He was distraught but everyone else was highly amused as the ash made a change from the golden retriever dog hairs which had previously covered the house.

Monsieur Darling has decided he would like to be scattered at the Watercress Railway Line, in Hampshire, UK and I am sure his children will undertake this task for him.

How we get the ashes back to England is another thought, hand luggage is probably not an option and luggage in the hold could get lost!

So, although most people do not wish to consider their exit strategy, I respectfully suggest any ex-pat researches and considers all the options before the stress of an actual death is exacerbated by beaurocratic French systems.

It is also maybe important to add that in France children inherit a deceased person's estate. A spouse may have a lifetime interest in property or share 50% of the spoils when it is sold, with the children of the deceased person. This can potential problems on second or third marriages where children are involved, as the assets are divided equally between all relevant children.

Making a Will in France is also odd. It is a handwritten document, signed, but not witnessed. Your local Notaire or Lawyer will provide you with a copy of the required format. The Will is then lodged with your legal representative in France for execution when the time arrives. If you are resident in France, a British Will comes second to French Will.

R.I.P.

Sky TV in France.. an essential naughtiness for an ex pat..

2009-11-11T07:52:00.000-08:00

Last night was major panic attack time… a message kept appearing on the TV telling me the sky card is about to evaporate into the ether.. What should I do?

I took a few deep breaths, tried to calm down, but was petrified about the thought of my future life without ITV, Channel 5, Five USA and Fiver, especially as winter has arrived, it is cold, dark in after 4pm and a French field sans Television is not good.

It never ceases to amaze me that every British ex pat in France I meet, tweet or email has English TV. Some have French television too, but I think these are probably just the clever ones who speak~a~dee language well, or enjoy game shows and Benny Hill which seem to be the highlights of French television.

It is so funny that some ex pats, normally the most boring, pompous and best to avoid type, feel that eating Heinz Baked Beans, or Walls Sausages in France is not quite the done thing, yet they are closet English television viewers. Whereas eating is not a crime, yet, do the pompous ones not realise we are all acting illegally? although I am not sure what the crime or punishment would be. I gather it is to do with advertising revenue. Sky has agreed with overseas authorities they will not ‘permit’ people to watch their programmes outside the UK.

Basically, as long as they do not officially know you are not in Britain, you can carry on viewing. Never telephone Sky from outside the UK or they will ‘know;’ and cut you off. Surely, Sky accepting the monthly payments means they are colluding and equally culpable. The onus should be on Sky to confirm where people live… n’est pas?

So back to my problem, I know, me me me, but what am I going to do? ……Well…. and now this is a very bad and sad confession…

My name is Scrumbles and I am a telly~holic….

We have two…. Yes, two TVs AND two sky boxes AND two sky dishes in our house (well the dishes are actually outside the house). In fact, we have another two Sky boxes in the barn somewhere, and a spare TV.. just in case…..

Those of you who have rumbled the cut of Monsieur Darling’s Jib will not be surprised to learn he enjoys sensible programmes on the History and Discovery Channels, plus Rugby, F1 and other insomniac’s delights. However, I love crappy stuff (his words, not mine, tut tut) like soap operas, reality TV shows and US crime, medical, dramas and comedies, most especially Law and Order, House, and Ugly Betty.

I also love UK daytime Television. It is a brilliant distraction from doing any writing, which was within the strategic plan for 2009, and golly gosh, here we are, in November already, and I have managed about six blogs; but how can I resist the delightful Philip Schofield on This Morning?

Some of my Twitter pals will remember, a few weeks ago, I questioned through tweeting @schofe about an ugly thermos flask behind him on the ‘This Morning’ sofa. Much to~doodling and tweeting between @schofe and me occurred as to the exact location of the said flask. I eventually sent him a picture, of my TV screen showing the flask, which turned out to be a vase. .

He described the whole thing as ‘vasegate’ and eventually smashed it, costing him £85 from his own pocket, bless him, he is such a 'guy next door' person, both on TV and Twitter. The ‘incident’ was posted on U-Tube for a while, so the fun could be seen again.

Because Discovery and other yawny stuff are not available on the sky free cards, we have continued, at great expense mind you, our subscription to Sky for M. Darling’s television. I, forever the martyr, have viewed with a free card, bought in France from some blokey making a living out of flogging sky boxes and cards.

Recently Sky decided to replace all cards; so much skulduggery occurred whereby we wrote a letter to Sky, advising them we had moved (not mentioning this was 6 years ago) and gave a new UK address. The letter was posted to the UK and we asked the co-conspirator to post it to Sky with an English stamp. The new sky card for M. Darling duly arrived and he is now happy and content watching bridges being built, aeroplanes being analysed and a lot of other seriousness relating to physics, engineering and other scientific stuffy stuff.

So, back to the current dilemma, MY television. With trembling hand, I checked out the Sky website and clicked tentatively on the Help section, hoping they could not see I was looking from a foreign land. There I discovered people who had ‘bought’ a freeview card after 2004 would automatically get a new card.

Remember I had bought MY card ‘sous la table’ Dare I put the card number in to check?

Adrenalin was flowing as I put in the number and added the obligatory illegible numbers and letters code, presumably to determine I was not a spy bot, foreign or otherwise. The answer was sadly, no, my card was prior to 2004 and therefore under a death sentence.

The next bit I found said for £20 they would send me a new card. Happy days and tres simple. Nervously I put in the UK bank card details, British address and a made up telephone number. All was accepted and the card should be delivered within 5 – 7 days.

Oh.. I also used a Gmail email address so I could not be discovered in my underhand, illegal and devious pursuit of my beloved Corrie, Enders, X factor etc. Mmmm….I’m a Celebrity… starts on Sunday I can’t miss that.. can I?

Chyrsanthemums.. flowers of remembrance

2009-10-31T17:30:00.000-07:00

One of the important things to remember, when living in France, is not to give as a gift to anyone, chrysanthemums.

As summer takes its leave and bids farewell to France, the trees turn to stunning shades of gold, red and yellow. Autumn takes hold, and chrysanthemums are often seen growing in local fields. These flowers, which are available in many warm shades, have been linked since the 19th century as the flower for La Toussaint, a two-day French festival, which dates back approximately to the 8th century. Families travel to spend time with each other, throughout France and to place a pot of chrysanthemums, a symbol of immortality, and often a candle, on the graves of the departed.

All Saints’ Day, yet another Bank Holiday in France, on November 1st and All Souls’ Day on November 2nd. is a time for French families to remember people who have passed away, whom they loved and admired. All Saints Day remembers all the Catholic Saints, whilst All Souls’ Day is for praying for the souls of those deceased.

I remember, as a child, at a French Catholic boarding school in England having a ‘day off’ on 1st November, when we could do as we wished, within limits!! whilst all other schools continued as normal.

In France, during the last week in October, every shop and local farmer seem to be selling chrysanthemums in pots of varying sizes. These aromatic autumn flowers, in stunning colours, are the subject of much discussion between family members who seem to spend ages discussing which pot of flowers for which relative; cars are then loaded with the plants whose musky scent fills the air, conjuring images of calm and peace.

I do not know what percentage of French families undertake this ritual, but from the numbers I have seen during the last few days carefully choosing their tributes, I am sure it is high, as family values and respect for elders is a way of life in most communes.

There is a local stall which is well known in this area. A British man (see pic above) arrived in this region about 30 years ago, and was probably the only Brit here at the time. He has built a successful market gardening business and at varying times of the year, he, along with his French wife and bi~lingual children will be found at the disused railway station, selling their produce

We went today, to buy a small pot of chrysanthemums for our much missed dog Harry, who died last December. M. Darling watched from afar, knowing I would pick a purple shade, the colour I associated with Harry, a beautiful Black Flat Coated Retriever, who always wore a purple collar. We will place this on his grave in our garden near the flowing Dordogne River, which he loved, on November 1st and light a candle in a storm lantern in the evening, which will burn through to November 2nd, as we did on the night of his burial.

The flower of remembrance and respect in France is a living flower, which will survive the frosts which creep through the night at this time of year. I have discussed with many French people the British symbol of remembrance, the poppy. They are interested in the message behind the red poppy, the essential funds their sale raises, and the association with the French fields of battle, they respect our tradition as we should respect theirs.

So, although it is acceptable to give chrysanthemums as a gift to someone in the UK, beware doing the same in France as not quite the done thing!

Scrumbles invades Normandy ~ To walk where Obama walked..

2009-10-31T17:07:00.000-07:00

I have divided this into sections so you can disappear to yawn and come back if so inclined..

Packing up and off we go
Having lived in the current part of France for the last six years and had disappointments aplenty we have decided to move to the west coast of France~ish, to ease travel to Hampshire in the UK to visit the family.

Before marketing our house, we decided to take a short, 4-day grand tour to see what areas we liked. People on Twitter suggested places to visit, so we had an itinerary, immaculately produced by M. Darling. The AA Map was covered in yellow sticky post it notes. Only a patient soul such as he could make the trip such a military operation; that is until you figure me into the plan, no doubt all hell would break loose, on a frequent basis.

First shock to my system was up and doing at 8 am, double shock as it was a Monday morning. M. Darling was already organised and waiting patiently in the garden for me to finish faffing about. I showered, dressed, packed unnecessary stuff and even painted me toenails as venturing further than my field for a few days.

A scrummy friend, Sue, arrived to puppy sit for our three dogs and the cats. I reminded her how the televisions worked, where the wine store lived and other important things, oh, and how much grub to give the boys twice daily. After giving everyone a big huggle, M. Darling and I set off in the car at about 10 am. Not a bad start bearing in mind he had estimated departure time at 9.24.

I should point out here that M. Darling is a big, kind, huggly bear kind of a man. He does not believe in speaking unless he has something to say; anyway he says he can never get a word in edgewise when I am about, so he tends to observe people and contribute when appropriate or possible.

He really is a patient and tolerant darling and very sympathetic to my condition of “only child syndrome”. He is well aware that a stamp of the foot or a toss of the hair indicates a tantrum of diva proportions is likely. Depending on the severity of the situation, he will either ignore or laugh at me.

The overall secret of our success is the fact we are complete opposites. He likes a neat structured life whilst I am more of a throw it in the air and see where it lands sort of person.

The only time we really squinny at each other is in the car. M. Darling is obsessed with complaining about French drivers, although he loves almost everything else French; I “tsk tsk” frequently at him, saying just because it is French plates, does not mean it is a French driver. Our car has French plates, point made.

The thought of being confined to a car for four days without cigarettes was beginning to make me tetchy, adding to my already unhinged behaviour patterns, which have exacerbated since the cessation of my love affair with Philip Morris, some two weeks earlier.

Lunch and a bit of philosophy
We arrived at Limoges at lunchtime and, armed with maps and ‘tom tom’, enjoyed a pleasant hour before the second leg of the journey to Rouen.

Whilst eating, I started eavesdropping on a conversation between two interesting Dutch people and a rather tasty young French gentleman discussing food. Nothing surprising there, until the Dutch lady explained how an English TV programme trying to change people’s dietary habits included analysis of their poo. She was not aware of the name of the nutritionist involved so I interjected with “Gillian McKeith”.

Great hilarity followed between all of us with focused toilet humour. I was surprised to find myself actually laughing in the company of jolly people for the first time in ages. This confirmed my need to move somewhere nearer the UK so I could spend the hysterical hours I enjoy with my four children, snuggling under a duvet, watching rom/com DVDs and blubbing and just being blatantly childish and stupid.

Travelling is a boring pastime on a motorway, the mind does somersaults; paranoia and obsessive thoughts linger, whilst glimmers of a brighter future peek through the clouds of disappointment and regret. I gave only the briefest of consideration to poor Joan as we passed Orleans, however I did wonder, in the unlikely event I ever became a martyr, what would be the preferred route to death. Didn’t much fancy crucifixion or disembowelling and eventually decided that burning was probably the best option as I could have a quick ciggie and then be overcome by fumes.

A night in the Bunkhouse
As I had no idea where we were going, as is normal in my life, I had booked room at the cheapest of the national chains of motels for the night at Rouen; what an experience that would turn out to be!

Our main problem was actually finding the place. Tom Tom told us to go completely the wrong way so I suggested to M. Darling we also put the address in the Toyota sat nav. Sooo funny: Totty Toyota was telling us stuff, followed seconds later by Tom Tom whom we decided to re-name dick head. In the end Toyota Totty won and got us to our destination seconds before Tom Tom-dick head.

The car park was filled with white vans...mmm suspicious.. and the reception area was swamped with muscular young building type chappies.

We eventually booked in and found our room. As mentioned previously I am a recent, not totally convinced it is for the rest of my life, non smoker, therefore I was slightly distraught, when to add insult to injury, there were no non smoking rooms left. I dramatically ‘tut tutted’ at the ashtray in our room, yet wondered if this was a sign to recommence my delectable habit. I placed it beneath the pile of leaflets advertising pizzas and kebabs.

The room was about the size of our laundry room. A double bed with a single top bunk type affair horizontally straddled across the head of the main bed. There was a small hand basin, and sort of dangerous barstool type seat, angled table and a television mounted on the wall.

The loos and showers were a few yards along the hallway and reminiscent of my days at a boarding establishment for young divas to be, which was run by strange ladies with long black dresses, and crosses around their neck.

We decided we needed to eat so discovered there was a restaurant recommended at a more expensive motel about a kilometre away. The food was reasonable, but I cannot remember what we ate. There was a wall-mounted television and I tried to see any comments on Michael Jackson’s funeral; neighbouring tables looked at me suspiciously as I squinted above their heads at the TV.

We returned to our ‘cell’ at ‘The Bunkhouse’ at about 8.30, phew just before the gates were locked at 9pm. I was aware I was supposed to be up and moving at 7 am the next day so panicked slightly and decided I must sleep now. Young men, presumably the resident cowboys, were wandering up and down the corridors and bottles were clinking as they passed us by. I was pleased I had brought my own pillows with me, but it also dawned on me that I was becoming a fussy old biddy with all my pernickety needs. I had also, to my horror, packed a little bag with paracetamol, antiseptic creams, plasters and scissors. M. Darling informed me that I had been like this for a long time, and it was part of my unstable and eccentric personality.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep and M. Darling was reading his book, a dreadful thought suddenly occurred to me. The basin; surely men would not bother to go along the corridor to a loo when a suitable receptacle was available. I clambered out of bed, bemused as I was trying to sleep and as it was still broad daylight, and removed everything from the basin surround; I am sure I saw splash marks on the mirror....brr..... I returned to my pit, told myself to go to sleep as had to get up in a minute, and eventually I suppose I must have slept, as at around 7am I awoke to the same daylight I had left some hours before.

M. Darling set off to the showers (thank God I had brought towels with us as the only ones provided were the size of a tea towel). He returned a while later and said the shower was OK although he was amused by a hole in the wall through to the toilet side! We discussed the dimension of the hole and the possibilities for its use and I decided to investigate for myself.

The shower was big enough to contain at least four people and probably did on occasions. It was quite odd as the water was on a timer and had to be pressed at frequent intervals, rather like the timed light switches you get on staircases which requires a sudden bolt up the stairs to the next switch. Quite disconcerting when you are all lathered up with your Pantene Pro V and can’t find the thing to push.

Totally unphased by this experience, but determined not to repeat it, I wrapped myself in my bath towel and picking up my bathroom bits and jim-jams I walked boldly along the corridor, saying ‘bonjour’ to those who passed me by.

By now it was about 7.30 a.m. This is not, I hasten to add, a time I am familiar with; I prefer to greet the day when it is well aired, at approximately 10 am.

Breakfast was reasonable. Bread, croissants, cereals, yogurts, coffee, usual stuff and although my routine breakfast is a coffee and a packet of fags, I was determined to eat what I was paying for.

A lovely day at the Seaside

Car was loaded and we were off for Day 2. We went through Rouen to see what it was like. It was so exhilarating to be part of the real world again, 24-hour drive in McDonalds, every car dealership possible and a multitude of large stores. Bliss. However, it was also a large car park, not much moving traffic. This is now totally alien to us as we are so rural in our area, but it brought back memories of an hour each morning and evening on the M27 in Hampshire.

Seeing a reasonably priced petrol station, we stopped to fill up. We had no idea at that time that Tom Tom could tell us where petrol stations were. Whilst M. Darling fed the car, I had fun cleaning the windows of the car with the free squidgy soapy thing available on the forecourt. M. Darling said I should audition for a job at UK Traffic lights and get paid; the man is trying to pimp me on the streets, how ridiculous, he knows I long to be a TV weather girl, but not in the early mornings.

We finally found the road for Dieppe and were delighted to be in an area with the sound of sea birds howling anxiously. After a short stop for a coffee, we followed the road south and stopped at Fecamp for lunch. It was raining and very windy, but the ozone in our hair, well mine, he doesn’t have a lot, and the seagulls hovering around were a refreshing change from our current environment, which is filled with trees.

M. Darling had, I discovered, been very remiss in his pre-travel Health and Safety checks. The umbrella had one spoke poking out and untold damage could have been done to an innocent bystander.

Every restaurant was promoting moules with variations on a theme and we finally found a friendly looking place which also had other items on the lunch menu.

I had a delightful warm salmony pate with a parsley sauce and M. Darling had moules (gives in too easily!) for starters, very nice too. For the main course, M. Darling had fish and stuff and I had ham in a port and cream sauce. Pud was the best time for M. Darling as he had chocolate mousse, although he had ordered crème brulee, and I had ice cream with a cigar shaped wafer biscuit, which I smoked with great satisfaction. A great lunch for only €12. each, can’t be bad.

Time to move on again and we headed south, stopping at Etretat, which we liked very much but could not dally too long as aiming to stay at Bayeaux that night.

Crossing to Le Havre was terrifying, an enormous bridge that in the distance looked like a hoopy rainbow. I do not like heights. Despite having bravely climbed Sydney Harbour Bridge, and nearly dying in the process, I avoid them when possible; so, as this bridge loomed I decided to change the CD. I think M. Darling was pleased my Annie Lennox impersonation had ended, but he looked a little concerned when it was a toss up between Michael Jackson No.1s or Streisand; Streisand won!

After crossing the bridge, which cost €5. we tried to park in Honfleur €3 an hour!! However, it was totally impossible to find a space, so we headed off and found another small village for a cuppa and a pancake with citron. Well, I reckon at least three lemons were poured over the pancakes, and I am sure we both made faces similar to a small baby who tastes something for the first time. They were so bitter, impossible to eat without a pound of sugar added, yuk, disgusting.

I had been totally fascinated for hours by the beautiful green grass, not the weedy variety prevalent further south. It was lovely to see real cows (e.g. black and white variety) but it was odd that I had still not seen a cat. Why I noticed the lack of puss-cats I do not know, but it became a bit of an obsession for the rest of the grand tour.

Following the Footsteps of World War 2

We passed across Pegasus Bridge and noticed the local bars that no doubt capitalise on this famous part of the history of World War 2, where brave men were killed.

Continuing on the route to Bayeux we noticed a “Drive Thru-Tattoo Parlour” and had a great discussion on how the area to be tattooed would be presented through the car window.

Arriving in Bayeux, we found a Hotel in the main town and we were lucky to get the last room available. It started an interesting debate on what is a Hotel and what is a B&B. This place, called itself a Hotel, however it looked more like a gold mine to me.

The entrance was a small corridor, alongside a shop, to a reception desk. Behind the reception desk was a conservatory, which, we were told, was the place where breakfast was served. On the three floors above were eight bedrooms. The bedroom had a very good ensuite shower room and a television. We climbed the three floors to our room, incidentally there was the push button system for the lighting, dumped our stuff and had a wonder around the town. Quite busy and much like any other French town.

We discovered at breakfast the next morning that the Hotel also owned the property above the shop next door, providing another eight bedrooms.

I am of the opinion that a hotel has other facilities, not just a bedroom and breakfast room. Surely, there must be seating places, possibly a bar and a restaurant, at least more than just a reception desk?

Breakfast was €6 extra (room was €50) and we were given a small basket with three croissants, a couple of slices of baguette, some butter and jam.oh and a jug of orange juice and coffee or tea.

So, working on the gold mines potential we have 16 rooms x €50 a night is €800. + say 30 breakfasts at €6. = €180. so about €1000 gross a night. The place is run by the husband and wife. I asked Madame if they closed in the year and she said for a week at Christmas and a week in February. She said business was good all year as various nationalities arrive at different times of the year. They are making a lot of money, despite charges, taxes etc, which I, as a business owner in France know are high, they are making a fortune. It only takes a few to pay in cash, and the black market potential of this business is amazing. Maybe that is where so many Brits in France are going wrong… Oh and we decided this was a B&B not a Hotel.

British War Graves
Due to time restrictions, we decided not to gawp at the Bayeux tapestry but felt it was inappropriate to pass by the War graves.

As we drove into the car park for the British graves and the war museum two delightfully smiley nuns were driving out and waved at us; a shudder from my former monastic life appeared, but I realised I was now nearly a grown up and should not be scared of these ladies, so I smiled and waved back.

Around the cemetery museum there were many memorial plaques in French and English which told the world that the soldiers had “fallen in the fields of honour in France” “fallen for the cause of freedom” and “God called them blessed”.

Although, like many others of my generation, my only knowledge of the war is from my father’s anecdotes, television and history at school, I was intensely moved by the calm atmosphere which pervaded, interspersed with the occasional rumbling of a car across the cobble stones in the road at the entrance to the cemetery. As we entered M. Darling and I automatically went our separate ways. This was a personal experience.

It was a cool day. Although I felt a quiet chill as I saw lines of headstones fanning into the distance, placed with such precision no deviation could be seen along the horizon it also seemed peaceful to me. Each one seemed to belong to young men around 18 – 24 years. I do not know the average age of those buried there, but it must be early twenties. There are 3935 Brits buried there along with other nationalities.

Between and around the graves rose bushes were blooming and people I assumed to be employed there silently tended the graves ensuring these brave young people are cared for and appreciated for their ultimate sacrifice to ensure freedom for Europe. We could not visit all the graves but we were moved by the many messages we did see.

One headstone stated simply “Soldier of the second world war, known unto God”

Another declared “Boys became men overnight”

For me, the most poignant was from the parents of a 19-year-old boy, who sadly recorded his passing with “Only son, until we meet again”

We left the cemetery and walked to the car in silence, reflecting on what could have been the result of the war in Europe had it not been for men like these.

The next obvious place to visit was the beaches where the invasion of Normandy took place.

We went past the Arromanche beaches and M. Darling commented it was only having looked at the beaches that he could appreciate the scale of the challenge to build the floating harbours. It is incredible that they lay now, at peace on the seashore, the underpinning structures, which facilitated the whole of the landing strategy.

All the villages and hamlets seemed to fly the Union Jack; the last time I saw so many was probably at one of the milestones of the Queen’s reign.

Commercialism for the many tourists was prolific and we noticed signs for Speed Food, whatever that may be. A local bar had wonderful cartoons painted on their windows. One depicted a typical French man with a beret pouring wine for a British Tommy and saying “thank you”; another had a girl in a headscarf waving at parachutists as they were about to land in the fields.

I was also slightly annoyed, no doubt during a cigarette craving moment, to notice that so many places advertised sandwichs. I suppose in French le sandwich is masculine, so an ‘s’ not ‘es’ is appropriate. but a tad tedious.

American War Graves

I decided, as I had not been controversial in the strategic travel plan for sometime that I had to visit the American cemetery. I wanted to stand where Obama had stood a few weeks previously. I told M. Darling this was a need, not a want he said “he would take me to where Obama stood” although this was accompanied by a quizzical, bemused look

As we wound our way along the lanes, I wondered how the infrastructure coped with the excessive demands by tourists to visit this legendary area and then somehow remembered that I still had not seen any cats. I did however see a stunning white cow looking at me, curled up in a field, not just lying down, but curled up like a giant Golden Labrador. I had to stop and take a photograph of this grand bovine. M. Darling, who was driving, asked if it was really necessary to stop; was I taking a picture of a dog or a cow and did I not know the difference?

Omaha Beach, or Obama Beach as one news commentator called it during the recent commemoration in June, was down a windy lane. On the lampposts, there were black and white pictures of GIs, looking stunningly handsome and reminiscent of many of the films made about World War 2.

When we arrived at the parking area, the whole place was packed. Not since I was in New York City have I been surrounded by so many Americans of all ages.

The atmosphere at this cemetery was not as calm and tranquil as the British cemetery, probably due to the number of people visiting. There were signs reminding people of respectful behaviour and on the walk towards the grave area, there was a sign requesting silence and respect. I believe there are in the region of 9000 graves.

It was quite spooky as the hordes of us marched silently toward the graves, the haunting sound of ‘Taps’ was being played by an unseen bugler. This was so unexpected and thought provoking. I checked the time, it was 11.34, so why was this being played? We never did find out.

The magnificent sculpture, which was the focus and backdrop of the recent visit by Obama, has a circle of words at its feet. “My Eyes Have Seen The Glory Of The Coming Of The Lord”.

Such is my obsession with Obama and my belief he will have a profoundly positive influence on the future of the world, I found it awesome, in the literal sense, to be able to stand, on the same spot, where he had so recently given another of his profound speeches. Lovin Obeeee, as always.

As we walked thoughtfully away from the graves, we followed the continuing crowds. It was particularly touching to see an elderly American gentleman talking to his granddaughter aged about 15 years. His face showed great sorrow and he told her he would meet her at the car. She ran off saying “OK Grandpa”.

He continued walking, slowly, as would be expected from a man of his years, paying homage and probably remembering, maybe with some degree of guilt that he had lived on, young friends who had not survived the landings; many would have been just a few years older than his young granddaughter. A double tragedy as they had not lived to raise families of their own. I like to think, that as the memories flooded into his mind, his long gone pals, resembling the Hollywood glamour boys on the lamp-posts in the lanes, were with him in spirit, arms around his stooping shoulders, guiding him gently back to his grand daughter in the car park.

As we walked back to the car I was brought back to the 21st century with a bump when I saw an American tourist with a small spray bottle of hand antiseptic attached to her bag.

The Territories of the Allies

Throughout the towns were flags of the Allies and I found it a little odd to see German flags flying. Was this appropriate? I am still not sure whether there is a dark side of remembrance in displaying this flag, or if it is a symbol of moving on. A difficult balance for those involved to remember and move on, I am sure. HOWEVER, at the reckoning, was there any alternative to the invasion and resulting deaths of so many young heroes?

Driving on, God, we had spent days in this confined space on wheels, we noticed the grass was losing that crisp green colour and thickness that we had enjoyed so much in Upper Normandy. We stopped at St-Lo for lunch, and found a reasonable place to eat, a massive salad with salmon for €7.50 each. Obviously a forward thinking bar/restaurant as there was a covered area for smokers to indulge their habit whilst enjoying a cheeky beer.

The town was very active and deceptively large with fabulous floral displays. I was however somewhat surprised at signs above the American Flags which declared “Welcome and Thank You to Our Liberators”. I am not being picky and maybe there is a reason for this, but there were no other flags of the Allies. Big town, big flags but still no cats.

As we left St-Lo, it became obvious why there was this American homage. A large French/US Memorial Hospital on the outskirts of the town. Maybe there is more to this link so I will make a point of researching the history of this town.

We headed back towards the coast and stopped at for more petrol at the Intermarche near Grenville. This store was given the Cleanest Loo of the Trip Award, clean, comfy, nice music and one of those little pff aerosol spray things on the wall, similar to the one at “Paul’s house” no doubt (God I hate that ghastly child in the advert, why can’t he poo in his own house?).

A Religeous Interlude

On the way to Mont St Michel, which has its first cousin St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall, we stopped, as there was a wind turbine on the edge of a field. Wow, what powerful machines, the whooshy whoosh sound is hypnotique. For once in my life, I felt quite small and insignificant as we stood beneath this awesome and monstrous beast. I wondered why some people find them ugly. I think they are tres elegant!

Upon arrival at Mont St Michel, the road closed except for essential traffic. Although a little annoyed I was not classed as essential, we drove as near as possible. I was surprised to see it was in fact an Island with houses. Why was I surprised, what did I expect? A religious monument I suppose. We turned round and drove back through the town, which was full of touristy stuff. It reminded me of Rocamadour, another commercially religious place; same produce, different names, but no cats.

Pretty Places which clinch the decision to move

Next port of call was Dinan. A large, busy, pretty town with lots of seabirds. We saw signs commemorating 23rd May 1943. Despite a Google search, I have not been able to determine the significance of this date.

Another thing I had noticed, apart from the lack of cats, which was still a concern, was my delight that we had not seen any people kissing in any of the towns we had visited. How refreshing.

I get incensed when Brits insist on kissing me all the time. OK if the French feel they wish to include me in their customs, I will comply. But why do Brits, who often decry French cultures and customs, want to adopt this practice? It is usually the creepy old man type of Brit (without mac, or, beret) who wants to kiss everyone; this ain’t in any sense cultural. Yuk. However I will say we have about four close Brit friends where the kissing business does occur, for those interested, just the two, one on each cheek.

One of the things that struck us continually was how lively France appears to be when you get out of our region. Happy people, busy shops, restaurants, and so many flowers everywhere. .
The Limousin, allegedly, has the highest suicide rate, probably due to the high percentage of agricultural workers. I can’t say I am surprised, the doom and gloom on everyone’s faces is incredible. They don’t smile much, probably because a large percentage has no teeth.

The gloom and doom extends to a small minority of ex pats too; they combine this with boredom and idle hands, so it is no wonder there is so much mischief making near our hometown by these sad people. It is tragic that allegedly intelligent people, approaching middle age, maybe reflecting on the lack of success in their own lives, feel it is necessary to invade and pollute the lives of others around them to gain some sort of satisfaction. The Gendarmes and the locals must think all Brits are vindictive and viscous people. No wonder Brits in France get a bad press when a small minority behaves in such an unacceptable, unjust and unnecessary manner.

Anyway, we were not in ‘sad people’s department’ we were having fun. We were exhausted by all the travelling and I had no idea where I was, except we were aiming next for Rennes for our final night of the grand tour.

The Last night on the road

On the outskirts of Rennes at about 8pm, we found another national chain of motels, slightly more salubrious that the first night. I rushed into reception to ‘cherche une chambre’ and was told there was none left. Oh dear.. I asked the lovely French man to check as I was a desperate woman and he finally relented. I liked to think this was due to my charm, but it was probably due to sheer fear, that he eventually he gave me the room of someone who had booked, but not arrived. At this point, I produced M. Darling with the bags and off we trotted to a comfy room with our own shower and loo.

We had a meal at a nearby restaurant and aimed to leave at about 7 am for the final haul back to the Correze. For the first time ever, I was the first to awaken and it was 8.55 am. Oh blimey; rushing through the shower we galloped down for breakfast. It was amazing, scrambled eggs, bacon, cereals, yogurts, toast, croissants WOW.

There were four other people in the dining area and Phil Collins singing “Groovy kinda love” on the sound system. A young, rather tasty, frenchy blokey started to sing-along so of course I had to join in. M. Darling bowed his head in shame as we duetted about when we were feeling blue etc.. moreover, I must say was an excellent start to the day.

We were now running late on the itinery, which stated we should be somewhere else, two hours further away, We decided to throw our bonnets in the air, live dangerously and drive through Rennes. It was delightful, strange tho’, no cats.

Lunch in a Port

Next port of call, and out of the originally planned route home, was La Rochelle for lunch, followed by a visit to people who had left our area about a year ago. It would be good to visit the family and check up on the renovations of their new property.

We arrived at La Rochelle and found it surprisingly easy to park. We wandered along to the lines of restaurants and found a good place for a wonderful sea food lunch. We saw another date plaque, which I have been unable to acknowledge, for 19th March 1962.

After the lunch we ambled around the stalls and saw with horror a fascinated audience watching some tiny dogs being dressed in clothes and performing for the amused spectators. How disgraceful that these poor wee animals were subjected to such degradation. I am not sure if this would still be allowed in England; the last time I saw something like this was as a child, at a circus.

There was an amazing ‘silver man’ who was a painted statute. The children appeared cautious of him and ran for their lives when he walked amongst the crowd. It was amusing and is an interesting art form.

Visiting Friends and a Proper Cup of Tea

I telephoned our pals who live about an hour away from La Rochelle and gave them an estimated time of arrival.

Tom Tom was charged up with the address that would take about one and a half hours.

As we continued south, we were surprised to see a change of architecture and we wondered if we had gone to Spain by mistake. Haciendas were everywhere and the landscape was flat, with scorched grass. Such a change from the day before when lush green fields and black and white cows were prolific.

I was so excited to see the fields of sunflowers. There were literally hundreds of thousands of them, blowing in the breeze and nodding a ‘Bonjour’ as we passed. I waved nervously back in awe of such splendour and said ‘Bonjour Little Weed’

Then horror of horrors, I saw a machinery type thing beheading some of them; I could not look, but a quick peek revealed the plants still standing straight and in defiance, prepared to meet their fate, minus their heads. I think I shall start a campaign to ban sunflower oil; it was a wholesale massacre of one of nature’s beauties who turn their heads to the sun, hence their French name Tournesol (turn in the sun).

There were also many fields of wheat and I was amazed to see Kingsmill bread in its original form. How amazing that wheat can become flour which becomes bread! that is so clever, I wondered who invented the first loaf and how?

Tom Tom suddenly awakened from his afternoon slumber and started dictating his directions. We followed dutifully and suddenly he told us to turn left then left again. The first left was on a small road, the next left a track between fields of sunflowers, with houses in the distance. ‘You have reached your destination’ we were advised.

Well I know Kate and co like the outdoor life but felt this was a bit much, so whilst looking for Bill and Ben amongst the horizon of sunflowers we spotted some houses in the distance. Deciding they had to be there somewhere we trundled on and suddenly mad waving, as only the Brits can perform was spotted and we thankfully pulled into their drive.

The first thing to be discussed was a cup of tea and the joy of being out of the car. The three dogs greeted us and in the house, I saw a cat, yeah, but that did not count, as was a house cat, not a normally wandering moggie.

We intended to stay less than an hour, but put a couple of chatterers like Kate and me together, no chance.

It was obvious to see the whole family was enjoying a peaceful if busy life in their new home, within a small clutch of properties. They told stories of the neighbours and their peculiarosities, yet it was evident they fitted into the community very well and the children were happy in their schools.

The work they had done on the house was amazing, with original and thoughtful renovation.

The last leg of the journey home

We eventually left after three hours, putting our estimated time of arrival home at just after midnight.

Kate had suggested a route which included the vineyards and chateaux in the region. We saw some stunning buildings and even a chateau producing wine with a Polish sounding name.

Tom Tom chatted away aimlessly but I spotted a sign for MacDonald’s and as I had not had one for many weeks decided it was an ideal supper stop. Yum, was lovely, the McDonalds double latte has to be the best coffee in France.

Whilst munching a pile of God knows what, Sue, remember the puppy sitter? Rang to see where we were. I told her somewhere near Bordeaux and should be home in about two hours. She was concerned as she had left the dogs about 4 hours previously and wondered if she should go back to keep them company. I told her not to worry, they did not have watches so would not know the time, and were probably sleeping sweetly without Big Brother assaulting their ears.

Eventually, having reassured Sue the boys were fine, we set off for the final part of the journey home. Still no cats.

As it was about 10pm, it was wonderful to see a bright red sun setting behind us. It was bizarre as straight ahead it was dark, whereas behind us there was still light as the sun sank to greet another hemisphere for their busy day.

The remainder of the journey was in the dark. It was a good time for us both to reflect on what we had seen on our whirlwind tour. The most memorable was of course visiting the war graves.

It is so tragic and ironic that young men and women of similar ages are still giving their lives for the sake of freedom, albeit from a different and possibly potentially far more lethal adversary. Will lessons never be learned and will peace ever reign. Sadly, I doubt it.

We are still undecided about our final region to do a house search; probably department 35; however, I am drawn to the Normandy beach areas for some reason, and I do believe it is important to listen to your intuition and your future home will choose you.

We arrived home and crept in to avoid disturbing the dogs, however they were delighted to see us; good job they did not look for presents from our trip. What bad parents we are!

Incidentally, the first cat we saw was about 2 kilometres from our house.

2009-10-22T16:18:00.000-07:00

Diana invades Normandy, with her husband, Monsieur Darling ~ To walk where Obama walked.. and search for cows and cats...

I have divided this into sections so you can disappear to yawn and come back if so inclined..

Packing up and off we go

Having lived in the current part of France for the last six years and had disappointments aplenty we have decided to move to the west coast of France~ish, to ease travel to Hampshire in the UK to visit the family.

Before marketing our house, we decided to take a short, 4-day grand tour to see what areas we liked. People on Twitter suggested places to visit, so we had an itinerary, immaculately produced by M. Darling. The AA Map was covered in yellow sticky post it notes. Only a patient soul such as he could make the trip such a military operation; that is until you figure me into the plan, no doubt all hell would break loose, on a frequent basis.

First shock to my system was up and doing at 8 am, double shock as it was a Monday morning. M. Darling was already organised and waiting patiently in the garden for me to finish faffing about. I showered, dressed, packed unnecessary stuff and even painted me toenails as venturing further than my field for a few days.

A scrummy friend, Sue, arrived to puppy sit for our three dogs and the cats. I reminded her how the televisions worked, where the wine store lived and other important things, oh, and how much grub to give the boys twice daily. After giving everyone a big huggle, M. Darling and I set off in the car at about 10 am. Not a bad start bearing in mind he had estimated departure time at 9.24.

I should point out here that M. Darling is a big, kind, huggly bear kind of a man. He does not believe in speaking unless he has something to say; anyway he says he can never get a word in edgewise when I am about, so he tends to observe people and contribute when appropriate or possible.

He really is a patient and tolerant darling and very sympathetic to my condition of “only child syndrome”. He is well aware that a stamp of the foot or a toss of the hair indicates a tantrum of diva proportions is likely. Depending on the severity of the situation, he will either ignore or laugh at me.

The overall secret of our success is the fact we are complete opposites. He likes a neat structured life whilst I am more of a throw it in the air and see where it lands sort of person.

The only time we really squinny at each other is in the car. M. Darling is obsessed with complaining about French drivers, although he loves almost everything else French; I “tsk tsk” frequently at him, saying just because it is French plates, does not mean it is a French driver. Our car has French plates, point made.

The thought of being confined to a car for four days without cigarettes was beginning to make me tetchy, adding to my already unhinged behaviour patterns, which have exacerbated since the cessation of my love affair with Philip Morris, some two weeks earlier.

Lunch and a bit of philosophy

We arrived at Limoges at lunchtime and, armed with maps and ‘tom tom’, enjoyed a pleasant hour before the second leg of the journey to Rouen.

Whilst eating, I started eavesdropping on a conversation between two interesting Dutch people and a rather tasty young French gentleman discussing food. Nothing surprising there, until the Dutch lady explained how an English TV programme trying to change people’s dietary habits included analysis of their poo. She was not aware of the name of the nutritionist involved so I interjected with “Gillian McKeith”.

Great hilarity followed between all of us with focused toilet humour. I was surprised to find myself actually laughing in the company of jolly people for the first time in ages. This confirmed my need to move somewhere nearer the UK so I could spend the hysterical hours I enjoy with my four children, snuggling under a duvet, watching rom/com DVDs and blubbing and just being blatantly childish and stupid.

Travelling is a boring pastime on a motorway, the mind does somersaults; paranoia and obsessive thoughts linger, whilst glimmers of a brighter future peek through the clouds of disappointment and regret. I gave only the briefest of consideration to poor Joan as we passed Orleans, however I did wonder, in the unlikely event I ever became a martyr, what would be the preferred route to death. Didn’t much fancy crucifixion or disembowelling and eventually decided that burning was probably the best option as I could have a quick ciggie and then be overcome by fumes.

A night in the Bunkhouse

As I had no idea where we were going, as is normal in my life, I had booked room at the cheapest of the national chains of motels for the night at Rouen; what an experience that would turn out to be!

Our main problem was actually finding the place. Tom Tom told us to go completely the wrong way so I suggested to M. Darling we also put the address in the Toyota sat nav. Sooo funny: Totty Toyota was telling us stuff, followed seconds later by Tom Tom whom we decided to re-name dick head. In the end Toyota Totty won and got us to our destination seconds before Tom Tom-dick head.

The car park was filled with white vans...mmm suspicious.. and the reception area was swamped with muscular young building type chappies.

We eventually booked in and found our room. As mentioned previously I am a recent, not totally convinced it is for the rest of my life, non smoker, therefore I was slightly distraught, when to add insult to injury, there were no non smoking rooms left. I dramatically ‘tut tutted’ at the ashtray in our room, yet wondered if this was a sign to recommence my delectable habit. I placed it beneath the pile of leaflets advertising pizzas and kebabs.

The room was about the size of our laundry room. A double bed with a single top bunk type affair horizontally straddled across the head of the main bed. There was a small hand basin, and sort of dangerous barstool type seat, angled table and a television mounted on the wall.

The loos and showers were a few yards along the hallway and reminiscent of my days at a boarding establishment for young divas to be, which was run by strange ladies with long black dresses, and crosses around their neck.

We decided we needed to eat so discovered there was a restaurant recommended at a more expensive motel about a kilometre away. The food was reasonable, but I cannot remember what we ate. There was a wall-mounted television and I tried to see any comments on Michael Jackson’s funeral; neighbouring tables looked at me suspiciously as I squinted above their heads at the TV.

We returned to our ‘cell’ at ‘The Bunkhouse’ at about 8.30, phew just before the gates were locked at 9pm. I was aware I was supposed to be up and moving at 7 am the next day so panicked slightly and decided I must sleep now. Young men, presumably the resident cowboys, were wandering up and down the corridors and bottles were clinking as they passed us by. I was pleased I had brought my own pillows with me, but it also dawned on me that I was becoming a fussy old biddy with all my pernickety needs. I had also, to my horror, packed a little bag with paracetamol, antiseptic creams, plasters and scissors. M. Darling informed me that I had been like this for a long time, and it was part of my unstable and eccentric personality.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep and M. Darling was reading his book, a dreadful thought suddenly occurred to me. The basin; surely men would not bother to go along the corridor to a loo when a suitable receptacle was available. I clambered out of bed, bemused as I was trying to sleep and as it was still broad daylight, and removed everything from the basin surround; I am sure I saw splash marks on the mirror....brr..... I returned to my pit, told myself to go to sleep as had to get up in a minute, and eventually I suppose I must have slept, as at around 7am I awoke to the same daylight I had left some hours before.

M. Darling set off to the showers (thank God I had brought towels with us as the only ones provided were the size of a tea towel). He returned a while later and said the shower was OK although he was amused by a hole in the wall through to the toilet side! We discussed the dimension of the hole and the possibilities for its use and I decided to investigate for myself.

The shower was big enough to contain at least four people and probably did on occasions. It was quite odd as the water was on a timer and had to be pressed at frequent intervals, rather like the timed light switches you get on staircases which requires a sudden bolt up the stairs to the next switch. Quite disconcerting when you are all lathered up with your Pantene Pro V and can’t find the thing to push.

Totally unphased by this experience, but determined not to repeat it, I wrapped myself in my bath towel and picking up my bathroom bits and jim-jams I walked boldly along the corridor, saying ‘bonjour’ to those who passed me by.

By now it was about 7.30 a.m. This is not, I hasten to add, a time I am familiar with; I prefer to greet the day when it is well aired, at approximately 10 am.

Breakfast was reasonable. Bread, croissants, cereals, yogurts, coffee, usual stuff and although my routine breakfast is a coffee and a packet of fags, I was determined to eat what I was paying for.

A lovely day at the Seaside

Car was loaded and we were off for Day 2. We went through Rouen to see what it was like. It was so exhilarating to be part of the real world again, 24-hour drive in McDonalds, every car dealership possible and a multitude of large stores. Bliss. However, it was also a large car park, not much moving traffic. This is now totally alien to us as we are so rural in our area, but it brought back memories of an hour each morning and evening on the M27 in Hampshire.

Seeing a reasonably priced petrol station, we stopped to fill up. We had no idea at that time that Tom Tom could tell us where petrol stations were. Whilst M. Darling fed the car, I had fun cleaning the windows of the car with the free squidgy soapy thing available on the forecourt. M. Darling said I should audition for a job at UK Traffic lights and get paid; the man is trying to pimp me on the streets, how ridiculous, he knows I long to be a TV weather girl, but not in the early mornings.

We finally found the road for Dieppe and were delighted to be in an area with the sound of sea birds howling anxiously. After a short stop for a coffee, we followed the road south and stopped at Fecamp for lunch. It was raining and very windy, but the ozone in our hair, well mine, he doesn’t have a lot, and the seagulls hovering around were a refreshing change from our current environment, which is filled with trees.

M. Darling had, I discovered, been very remiss in his pre-travel Health and Safety checks. The umbrella had one spoke poking out and untold damage could have been done to an innocent bystander.

Every restaurant was promoting moules with variations on a theme and we finally found a friendly looking place which also had other items on the lunch menu.

I had a delightful warm salmony pate with a parsley sauce and M. Darling had moules (gives in too easily!) for starters, very nice too. For the main course, M. Darling had fish and stuff and I had ham in a port and cream sauce. Pud was the best time for M. Darling as he had chocolate mousse, although he had ordered crème brulee, and I had ice cream with a cigar shaped wafer biscuit, which I smoked with great satisfaction. A great lunch for only €12. each, can’t be bad.

Time to move on again and we headed south, stopping at Etretat, which we liked very much but could not dally too long as aiming to stay at Bayeaux that night.

Crossing to Le Havre was terrifying, an enormous bridge that in the distance looked like a hoopy rainbow. I do not like heights. Despite having bravely climbed Sydney Harbour Bridge, and nearly dying in the process, I avoid them when possible; so, as this bridge loomed I decided to change the CD. I think M. Darling was pleased my Annie Lennox impersonation had ended, but he looked a little concerned when it was a toss up between Michael Jackson No.1s or Streisand; Streisand won!

After crossing the bridge, which cost €5. we tried to park in Honfleur €3 an hour!! However, it was totally impossible to find a space, so we headed off and found another small village for a cuppa and a pancake with citron. Well, I reckon at least three lemons were poured over the pancakes, and I am sure we both made faces similar to a small baby who tastes something for the first time. They were so bitter, impossible to eat without a pound of sugar added, yuk, disgusting.

I had been totally fascinated for hours by the beautiful green grass, not the weedy variety prevalent further south. It was lovely to see real cows (e.g. black and white variety) but it was odd that I had still not seen a cat. Why I noticed the lack of puss-cats I do not know, but it became a bit of an obsession for the rest of the grand tour.

Following the Footsteps of World War 2

We passed across Pegasus Bridge and noticed the local bars that no doubt capitalise on this famous part of the history of World War 2, where brave men were killed.

Continuing on the route to Bayeux we noticed a “Drive Thru-Tattoo Parlour” and had a great discussion on how the area to be tattooed would be presented through the car window.

Arriving in Bayeux, we found a Hotel in the main town and we were lucky to get the last room available. It started an interesting debate on what is a Hotel and what is a B&B. This place, called itself a Hotel, however it looked more like a gold mine to me.

The entrance was a small corridor, alongside a shop, to a reception desk. Behind the reception desk was a conservatory, which, we were told, was the place where breakfast was served. On the three floors above were eight bedrooms. The bedroom had a very good ensuite shower room and a television. We climbed the three floors to our room, incidentally there was the push button system for the lighting, dumped our stuff and had a wonder around the town. Quite busy and much like any other French town.

We discovered at breakfast the next morning that the Hotel also owned the property above the shop next door, providing another eight bedrooms.

I am of the opinion that a hotel has other facilities, not just a bedroom and breakfast room. Surely, there must be seating places, possibly a bar and a restaurant, at least more than just a reception desk?

Breakfast was €6 extra (room was €50) and we were given a small basket with three croissants, a couple of slices of baguette, some butter and jam.oh and a jug of orange juice and coffee or tea.

So, working on the gold mines potential we have 16 rooms x €50 a night is €800. + say 30 breakfasts at €6. = €180. so about €1000 gross a night. The place is run by the husband and wife. I asked Madame if they closed in the year and she said for a week at Christmas and a week in February. She said business was good all year as various nationalities arrive at different times of the year. They are making a lot of money, despite charges, taxes etc, which I, as a business owner in France know are high, they are making a fortune. It only takes a few to pay in cash, and the black market potential of this business is amazing. Maybe that is where so many Brits in France are going wrong… Oh and we decided this was a B&B not a Hotel.

British War Graves

Due to time restrictions, we decided not to gawp at the Bayeux tapestry but felt it was inappropriate to pass by the War graves.

As we drove into the car park for the British graves and the war museum two delightfully smiley nuns were driving out and waved at us; a shudder from my former monastic life appeared, but I realised I was now nearly a grown up and should not be scared of these ladies, so I smiled and waved back.

Around the cemetery museum there were many memorial plaques in French and English which told the world that the soldiers had “fallen in the fields of honour in France” “fallen for the cause of freedom” and “God called them blessed”.

Although, like many others of my generation, my only knowledge of the war is from my father’s anecdotes, television and history at school, I was intensely moved by the calm atmosphere which pervaded, interspersed with the occasional rumbling of a car across the cobble stones in the road at the entrance to the cemetery. As we entered M. Darling and I automatically went our separate ways. This was a personal experience.

It was a cool day. Although I felt a quiet chill as I saw lines of headstones fanning into the distance, placed with such precision no deviation could be seen along the horizon it also seemed peaceful to me. Each one seemed to belong to young men around 18 – 24 years. I do not know the average age of those buried there, but it must be early twenties. There are 3935 Brits buried there along with other nationalities.

Between and around the graves rose bushes were blooming and people I assumed to be employed there silently tended the graves ensuring these brave young people are cared for and appreciated for their ultimate sacrifice to ensure freedom for Europe. We could not visit all the graves but we were moved by the many messages we did see.

One headstone stated simply “Soldier of the second world war, known unto God”

Another declared “Boys became men overnight”

For me, the most poignant was from the parents of a 19-year-old boy, who sadly recorded his passing with “Only son, until we meet again”

We left the cemetery and walked to the car in silence, reflecting on what could have been the result of the war in Europe had it not been for men like these.

The next obvious place to visit was the beaches where the invasion of Normandy took place.

We went past the Arromanche beaches and M. Darling commented it was only having looked at the beaches that he could appreciate the scale of the challenge to build the floating harbours. It is incredible that they lay now, at peace on the seashore, the underpinning structures, which facilitated the whole of the landing strategy.

All the villages and hamlets seemed to fly the Union Jack; the last time I saw so many was probably at one of the milestones of the Queen’s reign.

Commercialism for the many tourists was prolific and we noticed signs for Speed Food, whatever that may be. A local bar had wonderful cartoons painted on their windows. One depicted a typical French man with a beret pouring wine for a British Tommy and saying “thank you”; another had a girl in a headscarf waving at parachutists as they were about to land in the fields.

I was also slightly annoyed, no doubt during a cigarette craving moment, to notice that so many places advertised sandwichs. I suppose in French le sandwich is masculine, so an ‘s’ not ‘es’ is appropriate. but a tad tedious.

American War Graves

Dordogne Doings50
By Diana Newnham

Invading Normandy

Diana invades Normandy, with her husband, Monsieur Darling ~ To walk where Obama walked.. and search for cows and cats...

I have divided this into sections so you can disappear to yawn and come back if so inclined..

Packing up and off we go

Having lived in the current part of France for the last six years and had disappointments aplenty we have decided to move to the west coast of France~ish, to ease travel to Hampshire in the UK to visit the family.

Before marketing our house, we decided to take a short, 4-day grand tour to see what areas we liked. People on Twitter suggested places to visit, so we had an itinerary, immaculately produced by M. Darling. The AA Map was covered in yellow sticky post it notes. Only a patient soul such as he could make the trip such a military operation; that is until you figure me into the plan, no doubt all hell would break loose, on a frequent basis.

First shock to my system was up and doing at 8 am, double shock as it was a Monday morning. M. Darling was already organised and waiting patiently in the garden for me to finish faffing about. I showered, dressed, packed unnecessary stuff and even painted me toenails as venturing further than my field for a few days.

A scrummy friend, Sue, arrived to puppy sit for our three dogs and the cats. I reminded her how the televisions worked, where the wine store lived and other important things, oh, and how much grub to give the boys twice daily. After giving everyone a big huggle, M. Darling and I set off in the car at about 10 am. Not a bad start bearing in mind he had estimated departure time at 9.24.

I should point out here that M. Darling is a big, kind, huggly bear kind of a man. He does not believe in speaking unless he has something to say; anyway he says he can never get a word in edgewise when I am about, so he tends to observe people and contribute when appropriate or possible.

He really is a patient and tolerant darling and very sympathetic to my condition of “only child syndrome”. He is well aware that a stamp of the foot or a toss of the hair indicates a tantrum of diva proportions is likely. Depending on the severity of the situation, he will either ignore or laugh at me.

The overall secret of our success is the fact we are complete opposites. He likes a neat structured life whilst I am more of a throw it in the air and see where it lands sort of person.

The only time we really squinny at each other is in the car. M. Darling is obsessed with complaining about French drivers, although he loves almost everything else French; I “tsk tsk” frequently at him, saying just because it is French plates, does not mean it is a French driver. Our car has French plates, point made.

The thought of being confined to a car for four days without cigarettes was beginning to make me tetchy, adding to my already unhinged behaviour patterns, which have exacerbated since the cessation of my love affair with Philip Morris, some two weeks earlier.

Lunch and a bit of philosophy

We arrived at Limoges at lunchtime and, armed with maps and ‘tom tom’, enjoyed a pleasant hour before the second leg of the journey to Rouen.

Whilst eating, I started eavesdropping on a conversation between two interesting Dutch people and a rather tasty young French gentleman discussing food. Nothing surprising there, until the Dutch lady explained how an English TV programme trying to change people’s dietary habits included analysis of their poo. She was not aware of the name of the nutritionist involved so I interjected with “Gillian McKeith”.

Great hilarity followed between all of us with focused toilet humour. I was surprised to find myself actually laughing in the company of jolly people for the first time in ages. This confirmed my need to move somewhere nearer the UK so I could spend the hysterical hours I enjoy with my four children, snuggling under a duvet, watching rom/com DVDs and blubbing and just being blatantly childish and stupid.

Travelling is a boring pastime on a motorway, the mind does somersaults; paranoia and obsessive thoughts linger, whilst glimmers of a brighter future peek through the clouds of disappointment and regret. I gave only the briefest of consideration to poor Joan as we passed Orleans, however I did wonder, in the unlikely event I ever became a martyr, what would be the preferred route to death. Didn’t much fancy crucifixion or disembowelling and eventually decided that burning was probably the best option as I could have a quick ciggie and then be overcome by fumes.

A night in the Bunkhouse

As I had no idea where we were going, as is normal in my life, I had booked room at the cheapest of the national chains of motels for the night at Rouen; what an experience that would turn out to be!

Our main problem was actually finding the place. Tom Tom told us to go completely the wrong way so I suggested to M. Darling we also put the address in the Toyota sat nav. Sooo funny: Totty Toyota was telling us stuff, followed seconds later by Tom Tom whom we decided to re-name dick head. In the end Toyota Totty won and got us to our destination seconds before Tom Tom-dick head.

The car park was filled with white vans...mmm suspicious.. and the reception area was swamped with muscular young building type chappies.

We eventually booked in and found our room. As mentioned previously I am a recent, not totally convinced it is for the rest of my life, non smoker, therefore I was slightly distraught, when to add insult to injury, there were no non smoking rooms left. I dramatically ‘tut tutted’ at the ashtray in our room, yet wondered if this was a sign to recommence my delectable habit. I placed it beneath the pile of leaflets advertising pizzas and kebabs.

The room was about the size of our laundry room. A double bed with a single top bunk type affair horizontally straddled across the head of the main bed. There was a small hand basin, and sort of dangerous barstool type seat, angled table and a television mounted on the wall.

The loos and showers were a few yards along the hallway and reminiscent of my days at a boarding establishment for young divas to be, which was run by strange ladies with long black dresses, and crosses around their neck.

We decided we needed to eat so discovered there was a restaurant recommended at a more expensive motel about a kilometre away. The food was reasonable, but I cannot remember what we ate. There was a wall-mounted television and I tried to see any comments on Michael Jackson’s funeral; neighbouring tables looked at me suspiciously as I squinted above their heads at the TV.

We returned to our ‘cell’ at ‘The Bunkhouse’ at about 8.30, phew just before the gates were locked at 9pm. I was aware I was supposed to be up and moving at 7 am the next day so panicked slightly and decided I must sleep now. Young men, presumably the resident cowboys, were wandering up and down the corridors and bottles were clinking as they passed us by. I was pleased I had brought my own pillows with me, but it also dawned on me that I was becoming a fussy old biddy with all my pernickety needs. I had also, to my horror, packed a little bag with paracetamol, antiseptic creams, plasters and scissors. M. Darling informed me that I had been like this for a long time, and it was part of my unstable and eccentric personality.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep and M. Darling was reading his book, a dreadful thought suddenly occurred to me. The basin; surely men would not bother to go along the corridor to a loo when a suitable receptacle was available. I clambered out of bed, bemused as I was trying to sleep and as it was still broad daylight, and removed everything from the basin surround; I am sure I saw splash marks on the mirror....brr..... I returned to my pit, told myself to go to sleep as had to get up in a minute, and eventually I suppose I must have slept, as at around 7am I awoke to the same daylight I had left some hours before.

M. Darling set off to the showers (thank God I had brought towels with us as the only ones provided were the size of a tea towel). He returned a while later and said the shower was OK although he was amused by a hole in the wall through to the toilet side! We discussed the dimension of the hole and the possibilities for its use and I decided to investigate for myself.

The shower was big enough to contain at least four people and probably did on occasions. It was quite odd as the water was on a timer and had to be pressed at frequent intervals, rather like the timed light switches you get on staircases which requires a sudden bolt up the stairs to the next switch. Quite disconcerting when you are all lathered up with your Pantene Pro V and can’t find the thing to push.

Totally unphased by this experience, but determined not to repeat it, I wrapped myself in my bath towel and picking up my bathroom bits and jim-jams I walked boldly along the corridor, saying ‘bonjour’ to those who passed me by.

By now it was about 7.30 a.m. This is not, I hasten to add, a time I am familiar with; I prefer to greet the day when it is well aired, at approximately 10 am.

Breakfast was reasonable. Bread, croissants, cereals, yogurts, coffee, usual stuff and although my routine breakfast is a coffee and a packet of fags, I was determined to eat what I was paying for.

A lovely day at the Seaside

Car was loaded and we were off for Day 2. We went through Rouen to see what it was like. It was so exhilarating to be part of the real world again, 24-hour drive in McDonalds, every car dealership possible and a multitude of large stores. Bliss. However, it was also a large car park, not much moving traffic. This is now totally alien to us as we are so rural in our area, but it brought back memories of an hour each morning and evening on the M27 in Hampshire.

Seeing a reasonably priced petrol station, we stopped to fill up. We had no idea at that time that Tom Tom could tell us where petrol stations were. Whilst M. Darling fed the car, I had fun cleaning the windows of the car with the free squidgy soapy thing available on the forecourt. M. Darling said I should audition for a job at UK Traffic lights and get paid; the man is trying to pimp me on the streets, how ridiculous, he knows I long to be a TV weather girl, but not in the early mornings.

We finally found the road for Dieppe and were delighted to be in an area with the sound of sea birds howling anxiously. After a short stop for a coffee, we followed the road south and stopped at Fecamp for lunch. It was raining and very windy, but the ozone in our hair, well mine, he doesn’t have a lot, and the seagulls hovering around were a refreshing change from our current environment, which is filled with trees.

M. Darling had, I discovered, been very remiss in his pre-travel Health and Safety checks. The umbrella had one spoke poking out and untold damage could have been done to an innocent bystander.

Every restaurant was promoting moules with variations on a theme and we finally found a friendly looking place which also had other items on the lunch menu.

I had a delightful warm salmony pate with a parsley sauce and M. Darling had moules (gives in too easily!) for starters, very nice too. For the main course, M. Darling had fish and stuff and I had ham in a port and cream sauce. Pud was the best time for M. Darling as he had chocolate mousse, although he had ordered crème brulee, and I had ice cream with a cigar shaped wafer biscuit, which I smoked with great satisfaction. A great lunch for only €12. each, can’t be bad.

Time to move on again and we headed south, stopping at Etretat, which we liked very much but could not dally too long as aiming to stay at Bayeaux that night.

Crossing to Le Havre was terrifying, an enormous bridge that in the distance looked like a hoopy rainbow. I do not like heights. Despite having bravely climbed Sydney Harbour Bridge, and nearly dying in the process, I avoid them when possible; so, as this bridge loomed I decided to change the CD. I think M. Darling was pleased my Annie Lennox impersonation had ended, but he looked a little concerned when it was a toss up between Michael Jackson No.1s or Streisand; Streisand won!

After crossing the bridge, which cost €5. we tried to park in Honfleur €3 an hour!! However, it was totally impossible to find a space, so we headed off and found another small village for a cuppa and a pancake with citron. Well, I reckon at least three lemons were poured over the pancakes, and I am sure we both made faces similar to a small baby who tastes something for the first time. They were so bitter, impossible to eat without a pound of sugar added, yuk, disgusting.

I had been totally fascinated for hours by the beautiful green grass, not the weedy variety prevalent further south. It was lovely to see real cows (e.g. black and white variety) but it was odd that I had still not seen a cat. Why I noticed the lack of puss-cats I do not know, but it became a bit of an obsession for the rest of the grand tour.

Following the Footsteps of World War 2

We passed across Pegasus Bridge and noticed the local bars that no doubt capitalise on this famous part of the history of World War 2, where brave men were killed.

Continuing on the route to Bayeux we noticed a “Drive Thru-Tattoo Parlour” and had a great discussion on how the area to be tattooed would be presented through the car window.

Arriving in Bayeux, we found a Hotel in the main town and we were lucky to get the last room available. It started an interesting debate on what is a Hotel and what is a B&B. This place, called itself a Hotel, however it looked more like a gold mine to me.

The entrance was a small corridor, alongside a shop, to a reception desk. Behind the reception desk was a conservatory, which, we were told, was the place where breakfast was served. On the three floors above were eight bedrooms. The bedroom had a very good ensuite shower room and a television. We climbed the three floors to our room, incidentally there was the push button system for the lighting, dumped our stuff and had a wonder around the town. Quite busy and much like any other French town.

We discovered at breakfast the next morning that the Hotel also owned the property above the shop next door, providing another eight bedrooms.

I am of the opinion that a hotel has other facilities, not just a bedroom and breakfast room. Surely, there must be seating places, possibly a bar and a restaurant, at least more than just a reception desk?

Breakfast was €6 extra (room was €50) and we were given a small basket with three croissants, a couple of slices of baguette, some butter and jam.oh and a jug of orange juice and coffee or tea.

So, working on the gold mines potential we have 16 rooms x €50 a night is €800. + say 30 breakfasts at €6. = €180. so about €1000 gross a night. The place is run by the husband and wife. I asked Madame if they closed in the year and she said for a week at Christmas and a week in February. She said business was good all year as various nationalities arrive at different times of the year. They are making a lot of money, despite charges, taxes etc, which I, as a business owner in France know are high, they are making a fortune. It only takes a few to pay in cash, and the black market potential of this business is amazing. Maybe that is where so many Brits in France are going wrong… Oh and we decided this was a B&B not a Hotel.

British War Graves

Due to time restrictions, we decided not to gawp at the Bayeux tapestry but felt it was inappropriate to pass by the War graves.

As we drove into the car park for the British graves and the war museum two delightfully smiley nuns were driving out and waved at us; a shudder from my former monastic life appeared, but I realised I was now nearly a grown up and should not be scared of these ladies, so I smiled and waved back.

Around the cemetery museum there were many memorial plaques in French and English which told the world that the soldiers had “fallen in the fields of honour in France” “fallen for the cause of freedom” and “God called them blessed”.

Although, like many others of my generation, my only knowledge of the war is from my father’s anecdotes, television and history at school, I was intensely moved by the calm atmosphere which pervaded, interspersed with the occasional rumbling of a car across the cobble stones in the road at the entrance to the cemetery. As we entered M. Darling and I automatically went our separate ways. This was a personal experience.

It was a cool day. Although I felt a quiet chill as I saw lines of headstones fanning into the distance, placed with such precision no deviation could be seen along the horizon it also seemed peaceful to me. Each one seemed to belong to young men around 18 – 24 years. I do not know the average age of those buried there, but it must be early twenties. There are 3935 Brits buried there along with other nationalities.

Between and around the graves rose bushes were blooming and people I assumed to be employed there silently tended the graves ensuring these brave young people are cared for and appreciated for their ultimate sacrifice to ensure freedom for Europe. We could not visit all the graves but we were moved by the many messages we did see.

One headstone stated simply “Soldier of the second world war, known unto God”

Another declared “Boys became men overnight”

For me, the most poignant was from the parents of a 19-year-old boy, who sadly recorded his passing with “Only son, until we meet again”

We left the cemetery and walked to the car in silence, reflecting on what could have been the result of the war in Europe had it not been for men like these.

The next obvious place to visit was the beaches where the invasion of Normandy took place.

We went past the Arromanche beaches and M. Darling commented it was only having looked at the beaches that he could appreciate the scale of the challenge to build the floating harbours. It is incredible that they lay now, at peace on the seashore, the underpinning structures, which facilitated the whole of the landing strategy.

All the villages and hamlets seemed to fly the Union Jack; the last time I saw so many was probably at one of the milestones of the Queen’s reign.

Commercialism for the many tourists was prolific and we noticed signs for Speed Food, whatever that may be. A local bar had wonderful cartoons painted on their windows. One depicted a typical French man with a beret pouring wine for a British Tommy and saying “thank you”; another had a girl in a headscarf waving at parachutists as they were about to land in the fields.

I was also slightly annoyed, no doubt during a cigarette craving moment, to notice that so many places advertised sandwichs. I suppose in French le sandwich is masculine, so an ‘s’ not ‘es’ is appropriate. but a tad tedious.

American War Graves

I decided, as I had not been controversial in the strategic travel plan for sometime that I had to visit the American cemetery. I wanted to stand where Obama had stood a few weeks previously. I told M. Darling this was a need, not a want he said “he would take me to where Obama stood” although this was accompanied by a quizzical, bemused look

As we wound our way along the lanes, I wondered how the infrastructure coped with the excessive demands by tourists to visit this legendary area and then somehow remembered that I still had not seen any cats. I did however see a stunning white cow looking at me, curled up in a field, not just lying down, but curled up like a giant Golden Labrador. I had to stop and take a photograph of this grand bovine. M. Darling, who was driving, asked if it was really necessary to stop; was I taking a picture of a dog or a cow and did I not know the difference?

Omaha Beach, or Obama Beach as one news commentator called it during the recent commemoration in June, was down a windy lane. On the lampposts, there were black and white pictures of GIs, looking stunningly handsome and reminiscent of many of the films made about World War 2.

When we arrived at the parking area, the whole place was packed. Not since I was in New York City have I been surrounded by so many Americans of all ages.

The atmosphere at this cemetery was not as calm and tranquil as the British cemetery, probably due to the number of people visiting. There were signs reminding people of respectful behaviour and on the walk towards the grave area, there was a sign requesting silence and respect. I believe there are in the region of 9000 graves.

It was quite spooky as the hordes of us marched silently toward the graves, the haunting sound of ‘Taps’ was being played by an unseen bugler. This was so unexpected and thought provoking. I checked the time, it was 11.34, so why was this being played? We never did find out.

The magnificent sculpture, which was the focus and backdrop of the recent visit by Obama, has a circle of words at its feet. “My Eyes Have Seen The Glory Of The Coming Of The Lord”.

Such is my obsession with Obama and my belief he will have a profoundly positive influence on the future of the world, I found it awesome, in the literal sense, to be able to stand, on the same spot, where he had so recently given another of his profound speeches. Lovin Obeeee, as always.

As we walked thoughtfully away from the graves, we followed the continuing crowds. It was particularly touching to see an elderly American gentleman talking to his granddaughter aged about 15 years. His face showed great sorrow and he told her he would meet her at the car. She ran off saying “OK Grandpa”.

He continued walking, slowly, as would be expected from a man of his years, paying homage and probably remembering, maybe with some degree of guilt that he had lived on, young friends who had not survived the landings; many would have been just a few years older than his young granddaughter. A double tragedy as they had not lived to raise families of their own. I like to think, that as the memories flooded into his mind, his long gone pals, resembling the Hollywood glamour boys on the lamp-posts in the lanes, were with him in spirit, arms around his stooping shoulders, guiding him gently back to his grand daughter in the car park.

As we walked back to the car I was brought back to the 21st century with a bump when I saw an American tourist with a small spray bottle of hand antiseptic attached to her bag.

The Territories of the Allies

Throughout the towns were flags of the Allies and I found it a little odd to see German flags flying. Was this appropriate? I am still not sure whether there is a dark side of remembrance in displaying this flag, or if it is a symbol of moving on. A difficult balance for those involved to remember and move on, I am sure. HOWEVER, at the reckoning, was there any alternative to the invasion and resulting deaths of so many young heroes?

Driving on, God, we had spent days in this confined space on wheels, we noticed the grass was losing that crisp green colour and thickness that we had enjoyed so much in Upper Normandy. We stopped at St-Lo for lunch, and found a reasonable place to eat, a massive salad with salmon for €7.50 each. Obviously a forward thinking bar/restaurant as there was a covered area for smokers to indulge their habit whilst enjoying a cheeky beer.

The town was very active and deceptively large with fabulous floral displays. I was however somewhat surprised at signs above the American Flags which declared “Welcome and Thank You to Our Liberators”. I am not being picky and maybe there is a reason for this, but there were no other flags of the Allies. Big town, big flags but still no cats.

As we left St-Lo, it became obvious why there was this American homage. A large French/US Memorial Hospital on the outskirts of the town. Maybe there is more to this link so I will make a point of researching the history of this town.

We headed back towards the coast and stopped at for more petrol at the Intermarche near Grenville. This store was given the Cleanest Loo of the Trip Award, clean, comfy, nice music and one of those little pff aerosol spray things on the wall, similar to the one at “Paul’s house” no doubt (God I hate that ghastly child in the advert, why can’t he poo in his own house?).

A Religeous Interlude

On the way to Mont St Michel, which has its first cousin St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall, we stopped, as there was a wind turbine on the edge of a field. Wow, what powerful machines, the whooshy whoosh sound is hypnotique. For once in my life, I felt quite small and insignificant as we stood beneath this awesome and monstrous beast. I wondered why some people find them ugly. I think they are tres elegant!

Upon arrival at Mont St Michel, the road closed except for essential traffic. Although a little annoyed I was not classed as essential, we drove as near as possible. I was surprised to see it was in fact an Island with houses. Why was I surprised, what did I expect? A religious monument I suppose. We turned round and drove back through the town, which was full of touristy stuff. It reminded me of Rocamadour, another commercially religious place; same produce, different names, but no cats.

Pretty places which clinch the decision to move

Next port of call was Dinan. A large, busy, pretty town with lots of seabirds. We saw signs commemorating 23rd May 1943. Despite a Google search, I have not been able to determine the significance of this date.

Another thing I had noticed, apart from the lack of cats, which was still a concern, was my delight that we had not seen any people kissing in any of the towns we had visited. How refreshing.

I get incensed when Brits insist on kissing me all the time. OK if the French feel they wish to include me in their customs, I will comply. But why do Brits, who often decry French cultures and customs, want to adopt this practice? It is usually the creepy old man type of Brit (without mac, or, beret) who wants to kiss everyone; this ain’t in any sense cultural. Yuk. However I will say we have about four close Brit friends where the kissing business does occur, for those interested, just the two, one on each cheek.

One of the things that struck us continually was how lively France appears to be when you get out of our region. Happy people, busy shops, restaurants, and so many flowers everywhere. .
The Limousin, allegedly, has the highest suicide rate, probably due to the high percentage of agricultural workers. I can’t say I am surprised, the doom and gloom on everyone’s faces is incredible. They don’t smile much, probably because a large percentage has no teeth.

The gloom and doom extends to a small minority of ex pats too; they combine this with boredom and idle hands, so it is no wonder there is so much mischief making near our hometown by these sad people. It is tragic that allegedly intelligent people, approaching middle age, maybe reflecting on the lack of success in their own lives, feel it is necessary to invade and pollute the lives of others around them to gain some sort of satisfaction. The Gendarmes and the locals must think all Brits are vindictive and viscous people. No wonder Brits in France get a bad press when a small minority behaves in such an unacceptable, unjust and unnecessary manner.

Anyway, we were not in ‘sad people’s department’ we were having fun. We were exhausted by all the travelling and I had no idea where I was, except we were aiming next for Rennes for our final night of the grand tour.

The Last night on the road

On the outskirts of Rennes at about 8pm, we found another national chain of motels, slightly more salubrious that the first night. I rushed into reception to ‘cherche une chambre’ and was told there was none left. Oh dear.. I asked the lovely French man to check as I was a desperate woman and he finally relented. I liked to think this was due to my charm, but it was probably due to sheer fear, that he eventually he gave me the room of someone who had booked, but not arrived. At this point, I produced M. Darling with the bags and off we trotted to a comfy room with our own shower and loo.

We had a meal at a nearby restaurant and aimed to leave at about 7 am for the final haul back to the Correze. For the first time ever, I was the first to awaken and it was 8.55 am. Oh blimey; rushing through the shower we galloped down for breakfast. It was amazing, scrambled eggs, bacon, cereals, yogurts, toast, croissants WOW.

There were four other people in the dining area and Phil Collins singing “Groovy kinda love” on the sound system. A young, rather tasty, frenchy blokey started to sing-along so of course I had to join in. M. Darling bowed his head in shame as we duetted about when we were feeling blue etc.. moreover, I must say was an excellent start to the day.

We were now running late on the itinery, which stated we should be somewhere else, two hours further away, We decided to throw our bonnets in the air, live dangerously and drive through Rennes. It was delightful, strange tho’, no cats.

Lunch in a Port

Next port of call, and out of the originally planned route home, was La Rochelle for lunch, followed by a visit to people who had left our area about a year ago. It would be good to visit the family and check up on the renovations of their new property.

We arrived at La Rochelle and found it surprisingly easy to park. We wandered along to the lines of restaurants and found a good place for a wonderful sea food lunch. We saw another date plaque, which I have been unable to acknowledge, for 19th March 1962.

After the lunch we ambled around the stalls and saw with horror a fascinated audience watching some tiny dogs being dressed in clothes and performing for the amused spectators. How disgraceful that these poor wee animals were subjected to such degradation. I am not sure if this would still be allowed in England; the last time I saw something like this was as a child, at a circus.

There was an amazing ‘silver man’ who was a painted statute. The children appeared cautious of him and ran for their lives when he walked amongst the crowd. It was amusing and is an interesting art form.

Visiting Friends and a Proper Cup of Tea

I telephoned our pals who live about an hour away from La Rochelle and gave them an estimated time of arrival.

Tom Tom was charged up with the address that would take about one and a half hours.

As we continued south, we were surprised to see a change of architecture and we wondered if we had gone to Spain by mistake. Haciendas were everywhere and the landscape was flat, with scorched grass. Such a change from the day before when lush green fields and black and white cows were prolific.

I was so excited to see the fields of sunflowers. There were literally hundreds of thousands of them, blowing in the breeze and nodding a ‘Bonjour’ as we passed. I waved nervously back in awe of such splendour and said ‘Bonjour Little Weed’

Then horror of horrors, I saw a machinery type thing beheading some of them; I could not look, but a quick peek revealed the plants still standing straight and in defiance, prepared to meet their fate, minus their heads. I think I shall start a campaign to ban sunflower oil; it was a wholesale massacre of one of nature’s beauties who turn their heads to the sun, hence their French name Tournesol (turn in the sun).

There were also many fields of wheat and I was amazed to see Kingsmill bread in its original form. How amazing that wheat can become flour which becomes bread! that is so clever, I wondered who invented the first loaf and how?

Tom Tom suddenly awakened from his afternoon slumber and started dictating his directions. We followed dutifully and suddenly he told us to turn left then left again. The first left was on a small road, the next left a track between fields of sunflowers, with houses in the distance. ‘You have reached your destination’ we were advised.

Well I know Kate and co like the outdoor life but felt this was a bit much, so whilst looking for Bill and Ben amongst the horizon of sunflowers we spotted some houses in the distance. Deciding they had to be there somewhere we trundled onand suddenly mad waving, as only the Brits can perform was spotted and we thankfully pulled into their drive.

The first thing to be discussed was a cup of tea and the joy of being out of the car. The three dogs greeted us and in the house, I saw a cat, yeah, but that did not count, as was a house cat, not a normally wandering moggie.

We intended to stay less than an hour, but put a couple of chatterers like Kate and me together, no chance.

It was obvious to see the whole family was enjoying a peaceful if busy life in their new home, within a small clutch of properties. They told stories of the neighbours and their peculiarosities, yet it was evident they fitted into the community very well and the children were happy in their schools.

The work they had done on the house was amazing, with original and thoughtful renovation. They had bought a shell that had been empty for approximately 10 years.

The last leg of the journey home

We eventually left after three hours, putting our estimated time of arrival home at just after midnight.

Kate had suggested a route which included the vineyards and chateaux in the region. We saw some stunning buildings and even a chateau producing wine with a Polish sounding name.

Tom Tom chatted away aimlessly but I spotted a sign for MacDonald’s and as I had not had one for many weeks decided it was an ideal supper stop. Yum, was lovely, the McDonalds double latte has to be the best coffee in France.

Whilst munching a pile of God knows what, Sue, remember the puppy sitter? Rang to see where we were. I told her somewhere near Bordeaux and should be home in about two hours. She was concerned as she had left the dogs about 4 hours previously and wondered if she should go back to keep them company. I told her not to worry, they did not have watches so would not know the time, and were probably sleeping sweetly without Big Brother assaulting their ears.

Eventually, having reassured Sue the boys were fine, we set off for the final part of the journey home. Still no cats.

As it was about 10pm, it was wonderful to see a bright red sun setting behind us. It was bizarre as straight ahead it was dark, whereas behind us there was still light as the sun sank to greet another hemisphere for their busy day.

The remainder of the journey was in the dark. It was a good time for us both to reflect on what we had seen on our whirlwind tour. The most memorable was of course visiting the war graves.

It is so tragic and ironic that young men and women of similar ages are still giving their lives for the sake of freedom, albeit from a different and possibly potentially far more lethal adversary. Will lessons never be learned and will peace ever reign. Sadly, I doubt it.

We are still undecided about our final region to do a house search; probably department 35; however, I am drawn to the Normandy beach areas for some reason, and I do believe it is important to listen to your intuition and your future home will choose you.

We arrived home and crept in to avoid disturbing the dogs, however they were delighted to see us; good job they did not look for presents from our trip. What bad parents we are!

Incidentally, the first cat we saw was about 2 kilometres from our house.

The Tale of a Septic Tank and Spancy Man

2009-10-21T09:23:00.000-07:00

~~PICS OF GARDEN AFTER AND DURING INSTALLATION OF FOSSE SEPTIQUE STUFF.. Oh and the diggery thing~~

It was with some surprise that we received a letter from SPANC (Service Public d’Assainissement Non Collectif) on my birthday, 23rd September to advise us that “Le Technicien du SPANC” (hereinafter referred to as Spancy man) wished to visit to inspect the fosse septic (septic tank) on Monday 19th October at 3pm.

I wonder if this is the most original birthday greeting I have ever received. We were surprised to receive notification of this proposed visit so soon after the installation of a new system, the tale of which goes something like this…..

We bought our house in France in 2003 and soon discovered there were European Grants available to install new fosse septiques for people with properties bordering on rivers.

The existing Fosse was supposedly functioning well, but as this was a whole new way of waste disposal for us, we decided to proceed with the Grant application, which would pay 50% of the cost. This is probably the only time when the Government has offered to give us anything.

Completing the paperwork and submitting a Devis (French estimate for the work to be done) was exhausting, but approval for the work was given within a couple of months. We had found a Company, which was English run, but employed French labour. This seemed the best compromise, as although we wished to support French tradesman, it was necessary to be able to communicate effectively with the people doing such important work.

On the appointed day in early 2004, the workmen arrived and Monsieur Darling was delighted to see that awe inspiring and allegedly fantastic big boys’ toy that is known as a ‘Hitachi crawler excavator’ trundle onto our property. The whole process of digging holes, laying pipes for a filteringy~soakway malarkey and the ceremonious burying of a 5000-litre collection tank took about five days.

The digger man, Tony, a delightful Yorkshire chap, had us in hoots talking to the Maire’s office, arranging inspections at various stages, in perfect French with a Yorkshire accent.

At one stage, the digger hit a main inlet water pipe and with a combination of various words, in English and Yorkshire French, all work stopped. Rushing to the front gate Tony started looking at the tarmac on the road, then as we all gaped at the torrent of water rushing down the drive, he thankfully revealed his inner thoughts and asked where the stopcock was. (water still flowing)

We had no idea so he contacted the Maire and requested assistance as soon as possible. He was told that help would be immediate BUT after the centuries old French custom of the two-hour lunch break (water still flowing) we did not hold our breath. Fortunately, the local water board people arrived within an hour to intending to stem the flow; particularly cross~making as we are on a water meter.

So there we are, watching this water board man expert, who has now adopted the looking at the tarmac pose, and then he asks us where the stopcock is! ([the water still flowing)
.
Eventually, M .Darling, Tony and the water boardy man eventually decided to put a new stop cock in (thankfully the water then stopped flowing). How many men does it take to turn off the water?

At this stage, it is worth pointing out that statutory services, in the event of an emergency in France respond, in our experience, very quickly.

A contrite Tony continued to dig his trenches with great care and precision, whilst continually warned to watch out for the slightest obstacle which appeared. Thankfully, his brilliant sense of humour, and no doubt the cheque at the end of the work kept his spirits up.

Allegedly grown men, including M. Darling, desperate to play with this big Tonka toy, all offered immediately when he asked someone to move the digger whilst he did something else. It was so funny seeing grown men jumping up and down, waving their hands in the air, demanding “me, me, me” and glaring at their competitors.

I am delighted to say M. Darling won by saying “but I live here!” This will remain one of the highlights of his life. I suppose this does not say much for his current life experiences or excitements.

At the time of all this shenanigans, we had friends, John and Jenny, staying with us. They too were fascinated by the work involved to safely dispose of effluent, and watched amazed as the waltz of the digger continued around the garden.

Various different inspectors arrived, the first one said we had to have a grease trap so we bought and installed one for about £50. The second inspector was not at all interested in a grease trap and said it was not necessary. This was our first experience of the alleged myth that the French invented bureaucracy and then do their best to circumnavigate it. (It is interesting to note that bureau is French for office, so my translation of bureaucracy is crazy, cracy or crappy office, kinda relevant I suppose).

Finally, the day arrived to connect the new Fosse and seal off the existing one. I dread to think what is lurking in the old one, but suppose it will provide food for thought, or something, for archaeologists of the future.

Tony advised us not to flush loos, turn on taps until he gave the all clear. Typical of a middle aged, menopausal women, someone had to use the loo at an inappropriate time. I am not the guilty one on this occasion. Jenny was desperate to visit the loo and, as she told us later, she repeated the mantra whilst going about her business, which I hasten to add, was the complete set. “I will not flush, I will not flush”. I can only suspect that a flushing of a different type occurred and, yes, she did flush the loo.

The first we knew of this was a scream from upstairs from Jenny, followed by Tony, who was disconnecting and reconnecting the pipes to the new fosse, uttering the now immortal words, “Bloody hell I didn’t come to France to be shat on”

As you can imagine, Jenny was absolutely mortified and could not apologise enough, to us I point out, not to the victim of the shatting, and she refused to come out of the house until Tony had left. He had seen the funny side of it, and merely asked for a shovel to bury, without ceremony, the offending delivery, which now means a unique part of Jenny lives in a French field forever. Unfortunately, Jenny still blushes at the memory of her misdemeanour,

At the end of the job, three people from the Maire came to inspect the work and sign off the papers. We only had to wait for about 6 months for our €5000 refund as part of the Grant agreement, not bad I suppose for France.

All in all, I can report that the fosse has been a roaring success; we never realised it could be such an amazing topic of conversation. Visitors are reminded not to put anything, which has not passed through their body down the loo, and we have had no problems. The garden area has regrown and all is well.

So…. back to this week, it was with some interest that we awaited the arrival of Spancy Man and M. Darling located and cleared the necessary places. At the appointed time, we waited for spancy man to come… and waited…. and waited.

The following morning I rang Spancy man’s office to find out what had happened, and a nice lady told us he had forgotten us and he had now “exited for the land”. She said he would call us back about a new appointment. Surprisingly he rang about an hour later, obviously not finding the land that interesting. He said he would arrive at 3pm that day. I said that was not convenient, gotta put up a bit of a fight, he agreed to come between 1.30 and 2pm.

He arrived at about 2pm. We hesitated shaking his hand, but assumed he had some cleansing products available. We were disappointed that he did not whip a pair of disposable marigolds from his briefcase. He checked the two big round holes, and the two smaller square holes. He said he was happy with his viewing and settled on a garden chair to complete the paperwork.

I asked him if he was inspecting every fosse in the village and he said no, just ours. When I queried this he just smiled and shrugged; very odd, as the letter clearly stated the Maire had, following a law in 1992, the responsibility to inspect all the fosse septiques in their commune, which is why SPANC had been created.

Paranoia often rules in times of specific selection by French fonctionnaires. Our village is very old, both the houses and residents, and we doubt if the neighbours even have a modern fosse, let alone one to be inspected, or inspectable.

I also asked about his letter, saying he was due the previous afternoon, again a shrug, and an explanation that the letter was wrong. Why can’t these people apologise I wonder? They do not rule the World, yet.

He completed about five pages of twaddle and asked me to sign. He offered me his pen, which I accepted, as I did not wish to appear churlish. He then left and shook our hands. I immediately washed mine in antibacterial soap, but wondered what a forensic examination of his car steering wheel and indeed his own body would produce; doesn’t bear thinking about really. No overalls, no gloves, no protective mask for his inspection of the fetid fosse.

Oh and I also noticed a damp patch on the garden chair he had used; whilst not casting aspersions on Spancy man, it was a little strange, but a bit of bleach spray rectified the possible spillage.

But hey ho.. Poo Patrol Spancy man was happy, so we are too.

Raising the Roof... or maybe not...

2009-10-06T04:15:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, we decided, sadly, it would be for the best to sell our lovely SAAB cabriolet. We had bought it two years earlier and had enjoyed many nice drives in the French countryside, the wind, hornets and mosquitoes in our hair.

Declining finances means we are trying to downsize, but unfortunately, I am the sort of person who finds a use for everything even if I have not seen it, or used it, for many years.

One slight problem with the SAAB was the inability to open the roof. Oh dear. The message panel blipped repeatedly at us every time we tried to open it and eventually in desperation, it told us, in its own intimidating way, to check the corresponding message in the handbook. In fear and trepidation, we did this and we were told it would be necessary to seek guidance from a SAAB dealer. It failed to add it was highly likely be at enormous expense.

Monsieur Darling, God bless him, faffed and fannied around for a long time trying to understand what was wrong, scratching his head, which is a dangerous pastime, as he is follickly challenged at the best of times. I eventually googled the problem and came up with interesting SAAB forums where all sorts of highly technical waffle explained the problem.

It appeared a new motor/oil pump for the roof moving business was expensive; also, it was advisable to check the level of the hydraulic oil. Next problem, where did this oil live? Or not, as was possibly and probably the case.

Further googling shenanigans explained about removing backseats, bolts and screws of varying sizes and descriptions. Brilliant, we now we had a hole to look in, could see the oil reservoir but the no oil appeared to be lurking in the dark recesses. Not much help.

Monsieur Darling starts taking other parts of the seat apart; he likes taking things apart, and in fact actually puts them together again. He saw that some oil was there, but way below the lower level line, whatever that is. Anyway, HE said we needed more oil. I agreed it was worth a wobble to increase the oil deficiency.

Next stop was to visit a French equivalent of UK motor parts store, Halfords. We searched the shelves for something that looked as though it may do the job, but no luck. Eventually I knew I was faced with the challenge of asking for the relevant oil.

It was a hot day and we stood in the queue for ages. The CCTV camera monitor showed our image and I spent many minutes trying out new alluring smiles, all of which were obliterated by my gaze being drawn to a misrepresentation of my weight. Now I know all cameras make you gain pounds, but this one was definitely in threatening mode.

Eventually it was our turn and I asked the lady behind the counter, about the oil. She was not totally focused on my needs and kept answering the ‘phone, as I tried to explain I wanted to get the car roof down and up. I felt I was doing a fairly good impersonation of Girls Aloud with my arm above my head and popping my hand up and down, but a glance at the dreaded CCTV monitor made me realise it was more a Rod Hull and Emu impression

The lady asked for the Carte Gris (French logbook) for the car. I told her that was not relevant as the car was still on English plates. This obviously threw her a bit, as the Carte Gris appears to be the compulsory piece of paper to produce for the slightest thing to do with cars.

She asked the make, so I told her and she checked numerous books, computer screens and tutted a lot. She finally decided they were not SAAB dealers so could not order the oil for us.

“No worries” I say, “any old car roof oil will do”; “oh no” says lady, “it has to be for a SAAB” apparently they cannot sell for another make.

She then informed me the nearest dealer was a two hour drive away. I muttered to the queue building up behind us that next time I would buy a Citroen or Renault, although they were pretty boring and ugly (the cars, not the French people behind us, I hasten to add).

I gave myself a small wave good bye into the CCTV camera, nearly falling over as I flamboyantly flaunted out of the shop and we returned to the car. Blimey what to do next.

I found a car supplier French website, which seemed to sell everything for every car in the world and asked for a quote, with delivery, for the required hydraulique oil. I received a reply a week later saying it was not in their catalogue.

A few days later, and the solution was simple. M. Darling discussed the problem with a friend who also likes tinkering and messing with cars and he suggested trying automatic gearbox oil.

I was a bit concerned about this, after all gear box oil is not meant for a roof, is it? Anyway, we went back to the same shop and found the relevant oil for €5. Fortunately, the lady on the till did not recognise us so we were not subject to another lecture, and fortunately not asked for the Carte Gris.

I could not bear to watch whilst the back seat was dismantled and the bolts and screws a~plenty were removed. But hey presto it worked, and we are just hoping no~one wants to buy it. So a few pleasant drives have been undertaken with my fabby baseball cap “Old Speckled Hen” which either promotes a beer, or describes me, you decide

So I guess the moral is, improvisation is alive and well in France.

Pondering on Philip Larkin ~ Did He Visit France?

2009-07-26T15:16:00.000-07:00

The majority of French children I meet never fail to impress me. There is inevitably eye contact and a cheerful ‘bonjour’, ‘s’il vous plait’ and ‘merci. They mingle well in adult company, contribute to conversations and enjoy seeing adults behave like normal people, to whom they can relate and share some of the concerns of their generation.

I am always delighted to see how quickly Brit ex-pat children soon gain this confidence and invariably become rounded personalities very quickly. Maybe it is because the Brit families who move here come for a better quality, although often financially poorer, lifestyle for themselves and their children.

No doubt in large cities things are different, but it led me to wonder why there are so many differences in family values in France, when such a small stretch of water divides England and France.

In France it is common to see children, of all ages, included in restaurant meals, lunchtime and evenings. They enjoy the conversations and their opinions are considered in discussions. Whereas In the UK, child friendly restaurants include separate child play areas and other entertainments to keep the children amused whilst the grown ups can have some respite.

I know so many French families where the traditional Sunday lunch is eaten, over a period of many hours. It is a time for conversation and maybe not always welcome advice, from the elders. The extended family often lives locally, and if not, there are many get togethers for important celebrations.

Many UK families rely on takeaways or convenience meals and do not eat together. Busy lives and second jobs mean precious time is sacrificed to pay the ever increasing bills. It is no wonder so many Brits opt to move to another more relaxed, family friendly country.

Family really appears to have some meaning in France. All Saints Day, On 1st November, sees the French travel great distances, with their pots of Chrysanthemums to visit their family members in cemeteries. It is an amazing sight to see so many flowers, left by so many, to honour and remember their forebears.

Maybe we can learn from the French culture. Inclusion of children at a young age, with wine mixed with water and a respect for alcohol generally may help the current UK crisis with binge drinking amongst children and young adults. British children are not legally allowed to drink, even at home, until they achieve a certain age. Then they can drink, in theory, as much as they like; is it any wonder that so many then suddenly consume such vast amounts of booze, and behave in such an alarming fashion? Unfortunately they call this socialising.

Kids are great, enjoy them, listen to their idealism, we were like that too at the same age, but some of us were often scorned for our liberal thinking, told to be quiet and our opinions laughed at and ignored.

Of course I am not saying all UK families are potentially dysfunctional, I am aware that many families value and encourage the contributions of their children during social occasions, actively encouraging their participation as drink pourers or snack hander outers when people visit the house, thereby showing them the basics of socialising; they find time in their busy lives to include their children.

But too soon, they grow up and have their own lives. Give them freedom, but give them respect, it is a two way street, not a right to be expected by adults. Respect has to be earned by anyone of any age, in any relationship.

I have always told my children to be happy and to do whatever they want with their lives, as long as they do not emotionally or physically harm themselves or anyone else.

I have had the poem “This Be The Verse” by Philip Larkin (1922~1985) on my kitchen pinboard for about twenty years. This reminds me of my traditional and suppressed childhood, being seen and not heard. My children know it has always been on the wall, to warn them what may happen to them, if they don’t keep me under control!

Needless to say, healthy discussions, tantrums and crisis, have been frequent as we all express valid opinions on any topic any of us choose to raise. So, this do be the verse ..... by Philip Larkin.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad
They may not mean to, but they do
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra; just for you

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half, at one another’s throats

Man hands on misery to man,
It deepens like a coastal shelf,
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

By not fucking them up, we can hope they do chose to have children, so we can be doting grandparents.

My Best Pal Harry... by Charley

2009-07-22T12:16:00.000-07:00

Six years ago my brother Harry and I were bundled into the back of a car, squashed in our beds, surrounded by pillows and other stuff that Mum and Dad appear to be unable to live without, and started on the longest drive of our lives.

Being trusting and loving souls, which is a characteristic of a Flat coated Retriever, we soon settled down to sleep and despite at some stage passing through a tunnel without the engine running in the car, we knew we were safe with mum and dad.

The weather had been very hot before we left Southampton and the activity in the house was amazing. So many people carrying 'stuff' outside into a massive lorry called Pickfords. We were very wary of what was happening and kept a close eye on our food bowls, beds and bags of food.

We had soon managed to persuade the men working we were worthy people to share their biscuits and other delightful, yet forbidden treats.

Now here we were, the other side of the tunnel, Mum and Dad stopping for us to water the trees. Harry and i sniffed around; the land smelt strange, looked the same as the Netley Abbey park where we spent our recreational hours, but something was not quite right.

No worries, dad gave us some grub and water and soon we happily re-settled ourselves back in our baskets for the remainder of this strange journey.

Eventually we arrived at a house. Mum and Dad sighed deeply and groaned at the heat. Apparently it was 45 deg. and this is not good for people, or dogs with long sweeping elegant coiffures.

Harry and I found a tree to shade under; as usual I flopped and started to snore, but I sensed Harry was interested by something he could see. I opened an eye and followed his gaze and sure enough, at the bottom of the garden was a River. Nothing like Southampton Water, our daily haunt, more of a gentle trickling flow of the wet stuff with lots of stones. Mmm that would keep Harry out of mischief whilst we stayed here, his two favourite things, after bread, being water and stones.

During the many sleeps we spent at this house we soon realised that maybe this was not a holiday but a new home. We had places for our beds, the grub was ok, and bestest of all mum and dad never went off for hours each day leaving us bored but enjoying the opportunity to kip on the sofas.

The house was in a perpetual state of being knocked about and Harry and I spent most of our time lounging around in the grden enjoying the wide open spaces for a frollick on the lawn. Harry always had one ear ready for the bread bin lid clanging, he was quite delighted and most impressed, that in this new land a loaf of bread was named after him. One of his reasons for being was a slice of bread, especially if it was stolen when no-one was looking.

The bestest doggy treat in the whole wide world, time with dad sploshing around in our own river, I believe it is called the Door-Dog-Knee. Fishermen used to be most annoyed as we sploshed around, but hey it’s our garden, our river and we saw it as saving a fish's life, not being naughty.

Harry liked to lie down in the river with a stone in his mouth, whatever the weather. He used to do this in our last house and would spend hours on cold winter days lying in the surf at the local beach, as i tentatively poked a toe in the water. The stone was always carried home and spat out at the door to the kitchen as he had been told they could crack the floor tiles.

The river business was much better, it did not attack you like the sea and so I also enjoyed a paddle about and often a piddle too.

The chilly days came all too soon. Our little feet were freezing. One day we woke up and when we went outside, wow it was amazing, the world had turned white.(see photo)

About a year or so after we arrived, mum came home one day with a small yappy thing about the size of a cat. She advised us, continuing the Royal theme, he was called William (cos we already had Harry and Charley).

Strange little fella. He tried to curl up with me, I was not having any of that and eventually he found that a snuggle in Harry's tummy space was the best place in the world to sleep.

Life went on as usual, typically a dog's one, for us and mum and dad. They were doing some businessy stuff, but nothing to concern us and our contended lives.

The next arrival in our family was a bit of a shock. Mum came home one day and told Dad that the local rescue organisation had told her there was a Gordon Setter desperately looking for a home. He was at a place called the SPA, which I gather is the equivalent of the RSPCA here in foreign-land and he was due to die the following week. Dad typically replied that he was sure he would find a home. Mum, as she is known to do, started stomping around and very nearly got to the crying stage, which normally works, when Dad decided that as we had three doggy types around already we did not need any more.

It was obvious Mum was not impressed, or accepting of this response and I could see she was plotting a dastardly plot to win the day. Time for us boys to slope off for a kip.

The next day she rang the rescue place and said she was still working on Dad. They apparently told her not to worry as they thought they had found someone for him. Mum was obviously delighted yet rather sorry as she had always wanted a Gordon Setter.

A couple of days later it was Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary, July 14th, Harry and I thought it was so kind of these people to put a special firework display on. Harry is terrified of them tho. It reminded me of a night, at our old house, November 5th I think, when Harry managed to get out of the garden as he was so scared of the flashes in the sky.

I was watching the displays and thoroughly enjoying the wizzes and bangs when Mum and Dad wondered where Harry was. Much panic ensued and Mum eventually telephoned the Police. She was smiling, so I knew all was well. She told Dad the someone had handed him in to the police and that Dad should go to get him very quickly before he was sent off to the RSPCA. Dad immediately drove off. To this day we rarely talk about Harry being arrested by the police.

This particular July 14th, as I wondered how Harry was going to cope with the noise, Mum suddenly became quite excited and fearing all hell would break loose, Harry and I decided to take a snooze.

It transpired she had received a fone text saying "Happy anniversary, I am going to come and live with you. Love Gordon" Crafty old Dad. He had contacted the rescue society saying we would have the dog but not to tell Mum as it was to be an anniversary surprise. How sweet is that we thought? But not for long.

It transpired this new dog had been to the vet for 'the operation' and therefore it was advisable for Harry, Willy-Dog and me to have to same thing done to us.

Disgraceful carrying on. We were away from home for a day and felt quite uncomfortable for a while afterwards (see pic)

The new chap, was a tall dude, more elegant and slender than us and seemed OK. Only problem was he only spoke French. His name was Thor, named after the God of thunder, pronounced Tor. Ridiculous name, so this quickly became Tortillini and finally Totty.

He was a bit of a pain when he arrived as he liked to go for a walk on his own and come back in his own time so a plan to electricate the whole fence was undertaken. Not a problem for the three good dogs, except of course it had to be me who put my nose on it. Ouch that hurt!

Anyway Totty entered the fold, providing another character to our home and quickly learned English, which helped. He is also the world's best mole digger and catcher. Dad gets furious when he has to replace all the earth into the holes before he can mow the lawns, but at least he does not escape as much; only if a daft visitor lets him out of the gate.

We all continued to enjoy our excursions down to the river, sometimes Totty came home at the same time, sometimes not. Everyone noticed Harry was getting slower and found it more difficult to get out of bed in the mornings.

In the summer of 2008 he became very very ill. It was awful, he did not even want any of his beloved bread, let alone normal food; this is not normal behaviour for anyone with a retriever.

Mum and Dad took him to the doggy doc who did a blood test and said he had Lyme Disease, from an infected tick. Only about 20% of ticks carry Lyme Disease and he had been bitten by one. He was seriously ill and had to stay at the doggy doc's house for 2 days on a drip.

Everyone was distressed. The anti-ticky-stuff had been put on our necks every 4 weeks as required, but apparently it is not 100% effective.

Harry had to take lots of medication for his liver and anti-inflammatories as his joints were affected. He appeared to improve, then relapsed and a blood test showed the Disease was still in his blood, little parasites draining the cells. He loved the jam sandwiches, with Harry's bread, which hid the pills.

Eventually he survived this, thank goodness, but his mobility was still poor, as we had noticed for about 6 months.

In October he was unable to stand very well, so fearing the Disease may be back off he went again to the Doggy Doctor.

Although I am the dog who likes the most fuss (a sort of Diva of the dog world, take after Mum I suppose), and I push past the others even when my name is not called, I could see this was not the right sort of attention to be receiving.

The Doggy doc said he had a a progressive muscle wasting disease, Canine Progressive Myelopathy, similar to Multiple Sclerosis in humans and the prognosis was not good. It was not linked, apparently to the Lyme Disease apparently although we have all had our doubts about that. Mum even checked the internet and the rabies vaccines are sometimes to blame for the muscle wasting.

Harry was given steroid injections and prescribed more anti-inflammatories, but over the next few weeks he rapidly got worse and eventually could not even stand up to go outside to spend a centime.

Mum and Dad used to hold his food bowl for him as he lay in his basket and he ocassionally drank some water. They used to hoist him up with a towel to get him outside and sometimes he could take a couple of steps and then fall over. His dignity was being compromised, and as he was the Alpha Male he knew that he was not doing his job properly keeping us doggy types in order.

It was not good to watch my big brother like this and I often looked at Mum and Dad to see what they were going to do for him. On a number of occasions we thought it was time to say goodbye to Harry, but somehow his determination was so strong and each time he rallied round.

We were all distraught. Eventually he would not comply with being lifted outside and at 65kg it was not easy for Mum and Dad to manipulate him into the towel. Back to the doggy doc again. He was quite happy when his basket was placed in a wheelbarrow and pushed up to the car, in fact i am sure i saw him grin on occasion.(see pic)

The doggy doctor told them on a Monday afternoon that it was time for him to go. This was dreadfully distressing as in his mind he was still active, it was solely his back end and bladder and bowel functions which had been paralyzed by the illness.

Mum and Dad pleaded with the vet to give him another steroid injection, although they knew it was hopeless.

He came home for two traumatic days. On his last morning, Mum and Dad carried his basket into the courtyard garden, so he could see us all as we tried to keep busy. Willy-dog ran down the garden barking at nothing in particular, so Totty followed. I watched, so sadly, as Harry cried out and whined with frustration, trying so many times to get out of his basket to see what all the fuss was about. He could not manage and eventually Mum and Dad took his basket back into the house to ease his distress.

On Wednesday December 10th at 3pm Harry took his last ride to the doggy doc. We were aware he was being loaded into his barrow and but did not expect him to come home in it fast asleep, forever. Mum and Dad told us what had happened.

Whilst in the car with him Mum and Dad said George Harrison was singing "Hari Krishna, My sweet lord", it seemed so appropriate and they changed it to Harry Krishna.

Mum went into the doggy doc's house and asked her to come out to the car to minimise Harry's distress. Dad found a bit of chocolate biscuit in his basket (he had been eating them all morning, as they couldn’t harm him any more). He was just finishing it as the fluid from the injection rushed through his veins, stopping his heart, his eyes glazed and he slumped his head back down in his basket. Harry was free from his pain, but ours had only just begun.

Mum and Dad felt, and still feel so guilty that we had to take that route, but we know it was an action that had to be taken to preserve his dignity and minimise his distress.

When Harry came home, they rolled his basket down again in the wheelbarrow and laid him resting peacefully in the laundry room for the night, his dignity restored, lying with a favourite stone between his front paws. Totty, Willy Dog and I popped in a few times for a sniff, but we knew he wasn’t there any longer. Mum was in there continuously fussing with his paw positions, stroking and kissing his head. We all agreed he looked very comfortable and peaceful, at last.

The following day Dad eased his own emotional pain and anger by digging a large grave, some four feet deep for Harry's last resting place. The job was so difficult as there were so many large stones in the earth.

We all attended his funeral. Mum made sure Harry had a big stone between his paws after he was lowered into his grave. It was an odd experience, it was very cold, no birds were singing, but we were all quiet, even Willy dog, which makes a change, as he is a noisy little tyke.(see pic)

We hope Harry is happy where he is, resting in the garden, where he can hear the river and where we all can visit him and have a wee chat when we need to. He has at each corner of the grave a solar lamp and on the first night he had a big candle in a storm lamp watching over him. His grave is beautiful, he has a statute of a retriever, and some wind chimes which tinkle when we sit near him. He also has pots of flowers surrounding his grave.

He loved flowers. Mum remembers when he was a tiny pup how she was planting some petunias on a raised bed. Harry had wobbled along behind, his feet too big for his body. When she turned round he had tossed every one out of the bed, and sat looking at her, dirty tongue lolling out of his mouth and his tail wagging with excitement as he waited for the next part of his gardening lesson.

Mum is sure he is running free somewhere where there are rivers to splash in, and stones to carry home. She tends to listen to Leona Lewis singing "Run" with a tear in her eye, even after 8 months.

Mum and Dad had placed the house on the market with a view to moving somewhere else in foreign-land, but as they decided they could not bear to leave Harry they revised their plans. They have just re-marketed the property as they know they must move on, but Harry's cross, his lights and some of his stones will move with us to a new home.

So that is the tale of my big bro Harry, he died aged 10 years. I miss him very lotsly, he was a great guy. Everybody loved him, especially the cats, whom Harry allowed to sleep with him in his bed.

I am now nine and a half years old, so I guess my days are limited too; and I am a bit doddery somedays. Totty is 6 and Willie dog is 5 years old, both youngsters who enjoy life and do not have as many memories of Harry.

After 8 months we currently have a republic with no alpha male. I can't be bothered to challenge for it, Totty is too aloof and Willy dog may, as the smallest and noisiest of us challenge for Harry's crown. Whatever happens, he will be a hard act to follow.

Love thy neighbour?

2009-04-18T10:29:00.000-07:00

It has been more than a year since I did the first Blog which was happy happy happy; how things change. So guess it is good to look back to how it all started and subsequently went wrong!... Here goes....

In 2007 our French next door neighbour (French Bird) was visiting her holiday home and we were discussing how changing your lifestyle can sometimes lead to a better quality of life.

She was fed up with her hectic life in Paris and had dreams of living permanently in rural France so we jokingly said we should buy a local bar/tabac which was for sale.

This conversation led us both to believe it would be a dramatically different lifestyle and could be great fun so we pursued the idea with great pleasure and enjoyment.

First stop was for me to negotiate a 'good' price for the business and when this was eventually agreed with the current owner we started work on the long list of requirements for registering a business in France, arranging bank loans and undertaking the formidable process of applying to become 'Buralists de Tabac'.

It took many months and we supported each other as best we could as we went through each of the difficult tasks needed to make our dream become real. These processes forged a very strong relationship between us; or so I thought. How sad can life be?

not all that glitters...

2009-04-18T10:16:00.000-07:00

The original joy at starting this new venture has however turned into something that has not been that pleasant. The first update on this Blog, in March 2008 shows a time of excitement and anticipation for a fun filled future.

I will continue to add humorous anecdotes as i do not wish to depress people too much.

Some of these anecdotes will relate to the bizarre behaviour of some of the British ex-pats who decide to move to France; whilst the bizarre are few and far between, thankfully, they tend to add a little spice to a sometimes quiet life.

Apparently I am an optimistic and well balanced Libran so I hope this is reflected during this saga!

There have been many traumas, emotionally, physically and financially all of which are ongoing. It goes without saying life has become very difficult.

Probably one of the saddest and most important things is have been unable to return to England to see my children and grandchildren. Two of my children have visited us here within the last six months, but it adds to the sadness that we are not together.

Firstly I must, for legal reasons make a disclaimer here and say that everything is written here 'without prejudice' and all statements are made 'allegedly'.

The opinions and comments I make are from my perspective and from comments made by family and real friends.

All names and locations have been changed to mystify and intrigue the reader and to protect both the innocent and guilty!

It is sad it has come to such a sorry situation, but the point in doing this now, is not just for fun, but maybe to warn others considering a joint business venture.

Back in France after a week in Asda!

2008-03-11T15:41:00.000-07:00

The main reason I went to the UK in March 2008 was to meet my new grand daughter, Lucy, born on February 28th.. much to my son's dismay; he was hoping for February 29th to reduce birthday present costs! He also pointed out she could not go into a pub until she was in her seventies.. but as a 'mini-moi' diva she arrived three hours before leap year day! In case you are interested, mum, baby, dad and sister all doing well. The cat is not impressed as she is locked out now at night and it is a bit windy!.. but not as windy as the baby!

Lucy (looby loo) is divine, and although my other grand daughter, Charlotte (Lottie loo)(2 years old) is even more divine and calls me 'silly Gwanny' we all had fun in Asda buying pork pies, sausage rolls, clothes, books, clothes, prawn cocktails, squidgy white bread, oh and clothes.. and a lot more.

My husband (Monsieur Darling) remained in France to care for the four dogs, four cats, various hibernating snakes and spiders and to help my french partner (French bird) in the bar, which no doubt included quality checks of the 1664.

Well I am back, with smuggled sausages, pork pies, sausage rolls and hot x buns.. yum.

The regulars in the bar who are a strange but lovable lot and mostly artisans in rural france ("it has worked like this for years, why change it??") were glad to see me back but very preoccupied with the French elections for a new Mayor.

Blimey, I thought the American presidential nomination milarky was complex, but here apparently they keep on voting until there is an overall majority; it can last for weeks..

Our town apparently got the man they want in the first round, so just like the end of the Sarkowsi victory elation, no doubt in a few months they will resort to moaning about Jacques the Lad, as they do about so much.... but that is why we love them.. isn't it????

First one in the bar was Janice, a resident at the local Maison de Retrait (Old People's Home). She is about 4 foot tall, and her eyes and forehead peer above the counter as she demands her small glass of rose wine (only one euro!!! what a bargain).. she watches avidly as the glass is filled, shouting 'plein, plein' if it is not spilling over the brim.

Allegedly she is 68 years old, an ex prostitute, who is not that ex as for 10 euros she will apparently oblige in the public loos.. not sure if this is with or without the teeth, which unfortunately do not fit her mouth so they swirl around as she speaks; but, bless her, she likes to fit her Gitanes fag between the top of the teeth and her gums.. and continue talking!

Of course we are not able to view this party trick (the fag in the gums, not the toilet business) so much now as France has actually bowed down and is obeying the No Smoking in Public Places ban.. We are all amazed; surely this must be the first time they have obeyed a law without protest?

Over 80% of our customers are smokers, but it is strange they go outside for a fag but will not take their drink with them as it is not polite to drink in the road!

I guess that explains why it is mostly tourists who enjoy the many French terraces during the summer months.

Interesting French Fact (FF)... apparently in France, communion wine is white wine, unlike the red wine in Britain, and the reason...... wait for it, white wine is drunk in the mornings (presumably that is when communion takes place) and red wine is strictly for after lunch.. and presumably the rest of the day!!

Hey ho.. a + tard xx