A few more

just before the heavens opened

I really enjoyed taking these pictures, with my new camera, I hope you enjoy looking at them. The next post will include the pics of the cyclists, I hope, after all, that is what the tour is all about, oh yes, and the rain.

the official time people

fruity syrup drinks

called frites here

glasses for the cyclists !!!!

your guess is as good as mine

chips

big supermarket people

                     

that's plastic bread !!

Tour pics

more photos                  

cakey thing maker

something to do with seeds

                                                   bear ?           

haven't got a clue !

                                                                        

even more sausage

the sausage throwers

Tour 2

rain on my parade

This years Tour de France was a bit different wasn't it ? We went to see it on the road between Eymet and Bergerac. I suppose we must have arrived about midday, sat down in the sun and munched the picnic and wine we had prepared the night before. If we had known, we needn't have bothered, as there were some guys doing a barbecue opposite, selling melons grown there and the wine was flowing, they seemed to be happy !!

The barbecue boys

One man and his melons

As you can see from the photo's the weather was pretty good, that was, good up to the time the cyclists appeared. This post will contain the best of the caravan photos in sunshine (all the photos are on Google plus, if I have done it right) the caravan being by the way, the advertising vehicles that precede the cyclists and of course chuck things at the roadside audience, when the mood takes them. didn't get hit by a sausage this year, just a few hats and key rings, and as wet as we got, It was an experience not to be missed.

Pretty little 2cv

Lunatic

Wahhhhhhhhh !

smerkin

giving up

People often say that it's difficult to give up smoking, no it's not, I've done it about ten times now. (sorry if you've heard that one before). I smoke a pipe, and have done for some time now, but, it's not good for me, or for anyone if it comes to that. Why should I want to give those bastards my money for tobacco when I could buy something special for my lad or my wife, or if it comes to that, for myself. Apparently, tobacco has something in it that, when you've had your last smoke, it gives you the craving for the next one, and so on. Here in Europe, it's the Netherlands that produce the majority of tobacco products, that's the same people that give us all the intensively reared poultry and red meat. I AM GOING TO QUIT.

Probably it's a bit unfair to blame the Dutch nation as a whole for these things. It's big business and it's their Chief Executive Officers who should be held to account, they may be Dutch, English, American or even Lithuanian for all I know, sometimes it's nearly impossible to find out, they tend to hide behind the secrecy cloak, don't they ?

Just a week ago, my wife hired a car in England from Enterprise Car Hire, she hired it for a week, left it at the airport and flew back to France. The day after, we were contacted and asked to provide an additional £500 in addition to the £200 damage waiver we had already left with them. Apparently, my wife had ruined two tyres on the car, to such an extent that they needed to be replaced, which I assure you she had not done. £700 for two tyres !!!!!!!! they must be joking. After a fruitless discussion with two different apparently acting managers who told me that they were only following company policy, I politely told them to go away, and refused to pay any more, (all these people seem to have been injected with the same gramophone needle don't they ?) My dear old mum in cases like this always used to write to the head Pancho, believing that he must understand things better than his employees. Sadly, those days are long gone, CEO's now, IF you can find out who they are, usually could not give a monkey's fart, but, I gave it a try. It was remarkably easy to find out who he was, his smiley face starring out at me on my computer screen, I don't think I would have bought a second hand car from him though, he had that kind of face. OK, click on the contact button, this was too easy me thinks. Up pops another screen with a Pay Pal button on it. Who the hell does he think he is that he expects people to pay money to speak to him !!! (apparently you don't even have to pay to speak to God) Needless to say I didn't push his button, but wrote to trading standards (free of course) They, I hope, will rattle his cage.

So I'm giving up my pipe, and the best way to do that, is to let people know that you are stopping, that way, you feel guilty if you start again, that's the theory anyway. So I'll let you know in the next few days that I have given up the evil weed, and we'll see what happens.

One thing I do have to buy myself, is a new computer. This one keeps stopping, yesterday it shut down of it's own accord three times and it gets so hot, it's burning my legs. Not one to go down the road and buy one straight away, I will try and put up with roasted thighs for a few more weeks, until I find out all the ins and outs of something I know little about. (no change there then).

The last time I gave up smoking, was in about March last year. It was more out of necessity than desire that I stopped. Some nasty ailment stopped me being able to breathe after coughing fits, everyone was coughing, it seemed to be doing the rounds and I was thinking nothing of it, until one night I woke up coughing, during which of course you exhale, and when I wanted to inhale, I couldn't. It's called a laryngeal spasm and it is frightening !!!! Straight onto Google of course, and I wasn't the only one out there, there were people putting their heads in freezers to shock themselves I assume, before they passed out. There were people who couldn't go out, because they were frequently admitted to hospital several times a week when they passed out. I honestly thought my time had come. When you pass out, from lack of oxygen, the muscles that must control the larynx relax, and you come-to gasping for air. This went on for about three weeks and then stopped, as quickly as it started. A rather weird episode during which the doctor didn't help at all, I think he was just as scared as me, and I tried my hardest not to go to sleep.

So that's why I'm giving up my pipe, and the reason I am ending this post now, is because my trousers are nearly on fire.

nat nah, nah nah n nat nah

the great escape 

(by the way, if you sing nah nah etc. it should sound like the music to the Great Escape film) but you do need a bit of imagination.

Wake up Horace, the chickens are escaping !!! or exclamations to that effect.

chickens, if you hadn't guessed already

Lazy kind of laid back old man that I am, I had noticed a few days (weeks more like) ago, that the gate on the hen run was a little rotten, and some of the wooden slats had sort of come a bit loose. They were attached at the top, but were swinging around a bit at the bottom, not thinking of course that chickens might have brains I just left it until another day to fix. Today must have been the great escape day, they all went for a wander round the garden, apart from the cockerel (no brain, I suppose) so here's a couple of pics, taken between the thunder storms we have been having this afternoon. 

are you trying to tell me something dear ?

The white ones are pure bred light Sussex, the cockerel is BIG, but a really handsome guy. He has only got the four wives, which I suppose is enough when you come to think about it. Perhaps he didn't escape cos he didn't have the energy !! or perhaps he was enjoying a quiet lazy afternoon to himself. 

The black ones are crossbred Sussex and some rare black French breed, so I was told, it's the black ones that lay the most eggs and it's the white ones that insist on sitting on them.

The last chickens I had were pure bred Marans, which come from Marans of course, they were big black girls and prolific layers. Marans, by the way, is a town on the coast just a bit north of La Rochelle, on the west coast of France. Some of the old girls died of natural causes, others because I gave them to my mate Michel to "do", actually it was his wife who "did" them, she oven prepared them for us and she kept some for payment. It's always nice when you can exchange services or goods like that. Every year we have an excess of apples, so I give them to the apple juice lady Opheline, and in return she gives us bottles of juice. The other day I renewed my mates breaks on his car, he is laying some concrete for me next week. No need for much money really.  Life's Good.

Blogs

Thinking of writing one ?

Blogs can be interesting things both to write and to read can't they ? Can be, are the operative words though. I cannot recommend highly enough the therapeutic qualities of sitting down and putting digit to keyboard, although the content of peoples minds and hence their blog content, can vary enormously cant it ? Just recently I happened upon a recommended blog (which has a high viewer count) which rambled on about the vagaries of certain celebrities footwear. What was that all about ? sorry I can't tell you, I didn't get past the first page, somebody must be reading it though. Just goes to show that anybody can write a blog, about practically anything, why don't you give it a try?

Blogging for me, is a bit like writing a diary and then pinning up on the local notice board for everyone to read, weird or not ? Everyone that reads a page puts a tick next to it, so I can see how many interested people there are, gets exciting eh! and they also have to tell me where they are from as well. That's what writing a blog is like for me.
Up to now this particular blog has attracted readers from France, U.S.A. Russia, Germany, Moldova, Ukraine, Bulgaria, Saudi Arabia and Sweden. So hello whoever you are and wherever your from, thanks for reading my ramblings and I hope you carry on enjoying sharing my experiences here in France.

I don't know from one day to the next, what the subject of the next post will be. Ideas come from odd things that bring back memories, all that I write about has actually happened to me or my friends here in this little community of ours. I have recently taken to carrying a small pocket book around with me to scribble things down as they pop into my head, or things that I see, that amuse or worry me. Just the other day my wife took her car to the car wash, she has had the car for about four years now, and I was amazed to find out it was green. I wrote that one down. Funny what amuses some people isn't it ?

The most difficult part of writing a blog, for me, is the technical computer bumf. I know I can make the blog more inviting to look at, it's just finding out how to achieve it. Sometimes I think people are just spoiled for choice, not only with computer things, but in life generally. Used to be easier when I was a kid, take it or leave it basically. I do find that buying anything nowadays is a bit of a nightmare, so I don't tend to go into large shops anymore and I only visit those restaurants at midday that have one menu. Simple eh!

One of the major drawbacks with writing a blog, I find, is that you can spend more time writing about what you are doing, than the time you spend doing the things that you're meant to be writing about. Get it ? So I  think that I will get off my butt and do something, to give me something to write about.

French education

Opinions

When I lived in the UK. I thought that the French education system was far superior to that which existed in England at that time. Probably because I listened and took notice of other people's opinions. I have since learnt to listen, but not to believe all that I hear, or read. 

In the past some people thought that the world was flat, in fact there are some people who still think the same way, that's OK. by me, they can think what they like, I prefer to make my own mind up after having taken into consideration all the facts,that I can find at the time. Same goes for anything really, politics, religion or nationality, I don't mind what people think, the problems only arise when these opinions are foisted on others by those who harbour fanatical views.

Enough preaching, back to the subject. The education decision arose for us here when our little lad was of the school starting age, which here in France, can be as young as three years old if you wish. We kept him away from the inevitable for as long as we possibly could, but the time did eventually arrive for the first day at school. It actually went a lot better than we had anticipated, he enjoyed the new experience, which was a relief to us of course.

As is the case now in a lot of countries, a lot of younger families are leaving the countryside to seek employment in the cities, taking with them their children, and leaving the former areas bereft of young people. France is no different in that respect, and a lot of village schools have had to close due to lack of pupils. However, what has happened is that some villages have joined together to enable them to keep their schools open, by dividing the first six years of primary school life into three lots of two years, each two years being passed in one village or the next, with buses taking them two and fro, thus allowing each small village to keep its' school. Each school buys its' bread and food, and of course, employs people from the village, so keeping together a bit of rural life here in the back of beyond.

All passed quite calmly for the first two years, our lad picked up the language quickly (we speak English at home) and is now bi-lingual, twelve years on, he could pass for a Frenchman if it were not for the fact that he is very quickly approaching six foot tall. But on passing into his third year at the school in the next village, we noticed things were going a little array. The school consisted of one teacher, that was it. Nobody to control her rantings or odd behaviour, which had been complained about numerous times before, but nothing had been done about it, due to the Director (headmaster) not having the power to reprimand or to get rid of her (government worker = job for life,) Sooooooooo, after having a rant with him, we pulled our son out of that school as did quite a few french parents, and after a year of home schooling, found a school in a village about three quarters of an hour away, a village where no children lived but a village that had a Mayor with an open mind and a vision. I think most children had to travel on average half an hour to get there, and it was full of happy kids and two brilliant teachers. Our lad stayed there two years, before the teacher left for pastures new.

So back to the home schooling. French, I think is the worst subject to teach, the french are fanatical about their language, no music, little sport, hardly any art but loads of french lessons. I think that it comes to a bit of a shock and an absurdity to most french people that their language is not the world's choice for international communication. 

As I just mentioned previously, if you wish to enable your children to blossom in any of the arts, avoid the French schooling system, which in my view, and a lot of French people's view also, is far too rigid, too closed, too much emphasis on paper qualifications and grossly disorganised. Art, theatre, dance, singing, ceramics, are not subjects you are likely to find in the French curriculum. 

In the league tables of world education, France has plummeted to number twenty something, and they don't seem capable of doing anything about it ! Only a couple of years ago, the government decided it was a waste of time sending new teachers, after they had finished university, to any form of teacher training establishment. So now, we have schools with teachers who know their subject, but don't know how to teach it. It's no wonder we are going backwards here. Decision making, here in France, is not one of the subjects taught in school, anybody who has been to a French committee meeting will have picked up that fact, everyone has an input of course but not in any ordered way, anybody can talk about what they like, all at the same time. That is what French equality is all about "CHAOS". I have yet to leave a committee meeting where any decisions have been made, except of course, what they are going to eat at the next meeting and which wine should they choose to go with it. Got to get your priorities right haven't you ?

All this disorganisation harks back to the schooling system of course, and until that is reformed, France is not going to move forward at the same rate as other countries.

This is turning into a rather opinionated post, but if that means I have opinions, YEP. that's me I'm afraid. I listen, of course, to other people's opinions, BUT, firstly, before I give the opinion any credence, I have to know that they have the tools to enable them to arrive at their opinion, and that's where education comes in. France does not give their adolescents sufficient enough tools for some to make informed opinions in later life. To get some form of government employment (job for life, good pension and difficult to loose their job, even if they are no good at what they do) is all the majority of school leavers aspire to. It is not a country of entrepreneurs, due to the employment laws and taxes that exist here, imposed by the government. Free lateral thinking is not encouraged in schools.

All that said, it's still a wonderful place to live, just make sure that you give your children the opportunities that they are likely to miss if their education was to be left to the State alone to deliver.

food, food, food

Best food in the world ?

I think not. Wake up France, I think you've lost the plot. 

Don't take my word for it, look at what the Roux family (Michelin star chefs who have restaurants in England) think. Quality downhill, and ruddy expensive.

It's no coincidence that I have three friends that own restaurants here, La Belvedere, La Truffiere and Le Perigourdine. I love my food, I'm not a vegan nor am I a vegetarian, so the world is my oyster so to speak, having said that, the last and only time I eat an oyster, I was violently ill from both ends at about 3 o'clock in the morning of Christmas day, nuff said, don't think I'll bother again. The French eat their Christmas dinner on Christmas eve, "En Famille" and part of that ritual are the oysters, brought to the table in a polystyrene boat. We had been invited to a very good friends to share their Christmas dinner, my mate, as it turned out, was as sick as a parrot as well. I suppose the collective need for the whole of France to be able to eat oysters on this special day, necessitates some sellers to look far and wide to obtain these horrors and then they sell them to the unsuspecting public.

I don't like fast food outlets. Would you believe that some people actually believe that "McDoofas" is a restaurant ? 

When I was a kid, we eat seasonally, and we still do. Luckily, we have a garden and try and grow our own fruit and veg. Those things we cannot grow or have all been eaten by the mini beasts we usually find at the village market every Tuesday. There we can find people not unlike ourselves who perhaps have a surfeit of veg, sitting behind a small table with a few eggs, and twenty two courgettes. In season we can find everything we need, and that's how we eat. There is a cheese man, and a meat man (he can tell me which farm his meat comes from). I do not touch, with a barge pole, meat which has been intensively reared. The quality, if you shop like this, is generally very good, BUT bloody expensive here. So, we generally eat less, but better.

I think that the reason that fast food restaurants exist here in France is because they are generally open. The same thing cannot be said for the majority of other eateries. There are some that open only at midday, others, only in the evening and some both midday and evening, hardly none open all day. The knack is knowing which is which before before you arrive. An ability to look into the future wouldn't go amiss here. Midday is 12 till 2, that is finish your meal by 2 o'clock, evening is usually from 7 pm but most French arrive about 8 pm, the only people eating at 7 pm are the English and Dutch. There are exceptions of course, perhaps in the big cities, but I hardly ever go there. Cost wise, in this area midday meals range from about 10 to 15 euro, evening, a lot more, the sky's the limit. The Michelin restaurant in our village start their main course at around 80 euro. Wow, never been there, don't think I'll bother !!!

Went to my friends' restaurant the other day, I will tell you what we had, we sat with the workers for whom the restaurant opens at midday only, everyone eats the same "menu ouvrier" there is no choice in these kind of establishments. 

Soup. (garlic soup) as much as you want.

First course. chicken gizzards on a bed of fresh lettuce, with mushroom sauce. 

Main course. Roast pork AND beef, saute`potatoes and green beans.

Cheese board, a choice of about six different.

Choice of puddings.

Carafe of wine, bread basket refilled when needed.

Coffee. 

Cost ...............14 euro.  Not bad at all, it's no wonder that there isn't that much work done during the afternoons. Having said that, the French do generally take 2 hrs lunch break, gives them time to sleep it off I guess. Civilized isn't it ?

Just goes to show, there are exceptions to the norm, you just have to search them out.

Bastille Day

Bergerac Rowing

14th. July, is kind of an important date in the French calendar, and it started off very early in the morning for us, and ended up at 1 o'clock the following morning, having spent the whole day at The Bergerac rowing club.

sunset on the Vieux Pont Bergerac

That's the old bridge, photo taken from the rowing club. Taken whilst the world and his wife were awaiting the fireworks, which by the way, were spectacular.

We were there at 8 o'clock in the morning, my lad helped getting all the rowing and safety boats out for the regatta, in the afternoon. My wife helped to prepare the evening meal (which raises a lot of money for the club) when we will be feeding in excess of 500 people. Melon and ham, followed by steak and rather odd looking and tasting beans, and finally cheese and apple pie, (I don't mean that really, it's just the way it came out) Wouldn't say that it was a culinary high in my estimation, but the wine was nice, local Bergerac red or rose' and following the afternoons  racing with the temperatures touching the high 80's, was a welcome quaff. The ambiance was exceptional, and after the fireworks at about 11 o'clock, all the helpers sat down to eat, whilst club members cleared the dining tables which had been set up on the river bank in full and good view of the fireworks (didn't even have to stand up to see them).
I for my sins, manned the bar (I thought they may have learned by now). Lots of merry French peeps trying to speak English to me, together with quite a few English holiday makers trying to speak French, luckily as I can speak both tongues, we had few probs. Both the Dutch and German who come here on holiday can usually speak good English or French, makes life a lot easier. 

We eventually arrived home at about 2 o'clock in the morning, my very sober wife at the wheel. Tuesday was recovery day. Only one outboard engine decided it didn't want to go forwards, just backwards, I'll look at that next week. I've got my mate's car brakes to fix first and someone needs two bikes at the weekend. No rest for the wicked so they say !!!

My mate Serge

Traffic jam

Bergerac town

Gabare trip boat

Only two Transit vans

and a wardrobe on wheels

Because it's Sunday today, my computer thought it might like to sleep a little longer this morning, or perhaps it could be Google's fault for filling my screen with football animations, which I really don't appreciate and are not worth the wait to see anyway. It's up and running now, so I thought I would continue the saga of the move to France.

Neil had phoned us and suggested that a good start here, to see if we liked it or not, would be to take on a guardianship, which in this instance meant looking after the house and well being of a rather eccentric older English couple who lived in the middle of nowhere here in South West France. In return we were to be allowed to live in their "Maison des Amis" which was a small house in their grounds, originally built to house their friends should any decide to visit. Small, was a bit of an understatement, compared with what we were used to, one double, one single bedroom, living room, kitchen, toilet and that was about it. It was a start, and we thought, worth giving a try.

Actually, two transit vans, was a bit of a lie. It was one transit and one Renault something or other. It really doesn't matter what they were, both of them broke down. The first, the transit, made it about 30 miles before it stopped. We had hired it from a local company, and filled it to absolute capacity, it was one of those where there was an extension over the drivers cab, with hindsight, I don't think we should have put so much in it, grossly under-powered we had to crawl up some of the motorway hills in first gear which was rather embarrassing and it took a few days to reach our destination. I think it was the boxes of books that did for us, our library is extensive, and I wasn't going to leave any behind, so in it all went, if I could find the space, full up to the rear door.

It was only when we reached our destination did we realise some of the pitfalls of living in this heavily wooded rural location. The small private road to our little haven was awash, mud up to our knees and on a slope, large rocks across the road hindered our already snail like approach, but eventually we kind of hit the front of the house, (well, we actually slid into it) to bed, and unload tomorrow, then the long drive back to England to start the whole process again.

Next time, I thought to rent something a little quicker and it needed a hydraulic tail lift in order to get the piano and a few more larger and heavier items in, so a Renault something or other it was. My oldest daughter and my grandson helped this time, thinking I might need a little help pushing the piano of the back of the van, I was quite right, the ruddy thing weighed a ton. The trip itself went quite well but our arrival at the house in reverse (hydraulic tailgate!!) was a little more difficult, as the deluge had not subsided and the ruts left by our previous vehicle were now rivers in full flood, it wasn't helped by the fact that we arrived in the early hours of the morning, with no lights apart from those afforded by our van, which for some reason were getting slowly dimmer and dimmer. The morning allowed a closer inspection of the light problem which of course, was due to the alternator going into meltdown, WHAT ELSE ? a quick call to the hire company in the UK. to explain the situation resulted in even more calls to local Renault garages to find the cost of repair before we could repatriate ourselves and the van. It turned out that the cost here in France for the repair was as the man in the hire company put it "more than we paid for the bloody van" Ummmmmmmmmm. It was cheaper for them to send their own mechanics with the parts to repair it, down through France, so that is what they did, and they also paid for a hire car for me to drive back to England. Which was nice.

Our Volvo nicknamed "the wardrobe on wheels" did a sterling task in completing the move, over the months that followed, we left a few things in the house in England, as we weren't going to sell it just yet, the idea was to leave ourselves a bolt hole, just in case !! 

I moved into the house about a month before my wife did, as she is very good at tying up those loose end things that I (cos I'm a man apparently) am not so good at. We used to call on the telephone of course, 

How's the weather?

Wet.

How's the car?

Stuck in the mud.

How are the couple in the big house?

Very odd.

I'm pregnant.

That's nice dear.

Being 50 years old at the time, that one came as a bit of a surprise. What the heck, life's short, enjoy it whilst you can. Should be good fun trying to fit all that new baby stuff into this little hovel we were living in.

I love cooking

and eating

Absolutely true, I do love cooking, it's one of many of my passions, but with the proviso that I have time to do it, it's for other people and it's appreciated, not much to ask for really, is it ? Cooking and baking, which I am doing whilst I am writing this (see, men can do two things at once) is something that I do most days. The evening meal in our house is a very important time of the day, wind down, take your time, enjoy your meal and talk about what's happened during your day, around the dining table, it's a good experience. I have read recently, that if you eat too quickly, there isn't time for your stomach to tell your brain that you are full, so you eat more than you need to, end up feeling bloated and putting on weight, so we take our time. In my cooking I only use butter for cakes and a 50/50 mix butter and pork fat for my pastry. No pollyunsat thingies, no additives, I don't know what's in them, basically we eat everything, but in moderation. My mum cooked and ate the same way, a very slim figure and lived to 101 years of age, my dad, slightly larger and lived to 92. I more or less follow their food regime, eat natural and seasonal, it was obviously more of a necessity for my parents (supermarkets hadn't been invented then) than it is for the present generation, but why should I buy spring onions and radish from Mexico when I can grow them myself in the garden.

It's funny that when people live in a different country to that which they were born in or lived in for a long time, their "comfort" food is usually that of their home country. No different for me, it's the traditional English fayre that attracts and comforts me, so everyone else has to either like it or lump it, or do the cooking themselves of course.

So what am I cooking at the moment I hear you ask, or maybe not.
Answer, a sponge cake and some belly pork for our dinner tonight. 

The recipe for the sponge is the one mother used, and couldn't be simpler,
In a large bowl weigh three eggs in their shells,
Take the three eggs out and put in the same weight of butter, sugar and self raising flour (plain flour with a raising agent added), a drop of vanilla essence and then break in the three eggs. Beat thoroughly and divide equally between two cake tins, about 7 inches in diameter, greased and lined on the base only with parchment paper. Into a preheated oven at about 180 deg.C for about twenty five minutes, or until the cake shrinks away from the sides of the tins, job done. Turn out, sandwich together with jam when cool and sprinkle icing sugar on the top. Voila ! Victoria sponge, or sandwich, named after Queen Victoria herself. I usually put some butter cream (butter and icing sugar beaten together) in with the jam, you could put in your own filling of course.

Dinner tonight, which we have just finished, was pork, roast potatoes, carrots, cauliflower cheese and Yorkshire puddings, a real North of England speciality. These puddings were originally made to supplement the meagre rations of beef at the time, a stomach filler which is still eaten today, I was surprised last time I was in the UK. at the number of these puds that were available in the frozen section of the supermarket, when they are quick and easy to make, and you know what's in them.

1 egg
75 grms. plain flour
50 mls. water
75 mls. milk
beat the lot together, let rest for 30 mins and then pour into one of those trays made for small buns. Make sure tray is VERY hot and each mould has a little beef fat in (smoking hot) place in pre-heated oven at about 200 deg C, for about half an hour, should come out golden brown, if not, leave a little longer. 
For something a little different, put the batter into a 10 inch square 2inch deep oven tray together with half a dozen sausages, same temperature, same time. Voila! Toad in the Hole, served with mash, cabbage and gravy Yummmmmmmmmmm. easy and tasty.

I did once visit a restaurant in Yorkshire that served these puddings for starters, main course and dessert. The starter was small, and the pudding was filled with a little cheese and onion. The main course was a pudding about 10 inches diameter filled with steak and kidney and loads of really thick gravy. For dessert they had added dried fruit to the batter mix before cooking and then served with custard of course. Didn't come out of that restaurant in a hurry.

getting to know peeps

clubs and the like

I have always thought, and still do, that one of the best ways to get to meet people should you need or want to, is to join a club. In our neck of the woods, clubs that I would be likely to join are few and far between, there are a few though that did interest me when we first moved here to France.

Let me explain about clubs here, firstly, they don't really exist. They are called associations and have to be registered, with all the bumf that entails, they have to have a President and a treasurer, and to produce accounts signed by a registered accountant each year. Off to another one of those good starts eh ? Despite all that crap, associations do exist and survive.

Being a member of quite a few clubs during my time in the U.K. including, sailing club, climbing club, model boat club, model aircraft club, allotment association (oops, there's an association creeping in), made me think I'd have a look around here, see what I could find.

First on the list was sailing of course, being my passion for a long time, luckily there was a club not far away, unluckily it's the only one for miles. Just trying to find out when it was open was a task and a half, I did eventually arrive by coincidence one time when the club was open and somebody was there, it was August. Can I join the club please ? certainly was the response, in January. Tried again in January, nobody there.!!!!! etc. I quickly came to the conclusion that the club was run for the benefit of the few members who were there, which, as I have found this elsewhere I believe not to be uncommon.

Secondly, I thought I'd put on my anorak and seek out a model boat club. Les Joyeux Navigants de la Dordogne, just the ticket, about an hour away in the car so I thought I would ring the guy, a certain Mr. David first as I couldn't find anything on the internet as to where they met or sailed their boats. There just happened to be a meeting at a town called Vergt coming up the following weekend, and I was duly invited along, great. The people were most welcoming but none of them seemed to be a Joyeux Navigant, they had all arrived from different parts of France on this particular day for a sailing championship. I thoroughly enjoyed the day and was invited at midday to share their meal. I still hadn't quite got to the bottom of where this club was or who was in it, but a second telephone call to Mr David enabled me to accept another invitation to the next meet. A Chateaux, not far from where I live, with a lake in the grounds, can't be bad. So I arrived at the chateaux and met with Mr David, who seemed to be on his own with his three remote controlled model boats, the other members I thought should be here soon, but come midday, there was still only the two of us, and of course his model boats. Down the path rolled a golf buggy, laden down with plates, bowls, knives and forks, swiftly followed by another with the food and waitress. The large oak table was clothed and everything was laid out with quite a few bottles of wine finishing off what seemed to me to be a rather elaborate outdoor banquet. It wasn't long before the owner of the chateaux and numerous friends arrived and invited us to sit and share the laden table, which of course we did.
After the meal came the model boat sailing, the owner of the chateaux taking one boat and his friends took the others, lasted about ten minutes, after which, the Limoges porcelain plate skimming contest started, (saved on the washing up I suppose). I must admit that I found the whole episode rather odd to say the least. Mr David made a swift departure, with me quickly on his heels. I did find out afterwards, that The Jouyeux Navigants de la Dordogne were both Mr David and his wife. So much for that one then !!

I've been meaning to contact the local model aircraft association, I actually found the website, but alas, it hadn't been updated since 2012, par for the course. Our local (I say local, about one hour away by car) model shop, used to be a mine of information, about model car and aeroplane clubs, he didn't think anybody sailed model boats though. He did advise me, and was quite proud of the fact , that the shop had a website, so that evening I searched and eventually found it, as I needed to place an order for some bits and pieces. It turned out sadly that the website consisted of no more than a photo of the front of his shop, and the opening times. So much for that, he has since closed. I WONDER WHY !!!!

I am still searching.

Computer, Volvo and a rubber glove

I did warn you

The Volvo and rubber glove incident, follows my thoughts on the technological progress of computers. (you must be joking, I don't have a ruddy clue!)

However, I do believe that computers resemble their owners. It is sometimes said that dog owners choose their pets in the likeness of themselves, fat, short, tall, hairy, bald, vicious and sometimes even those that screw anything if it keeps still long enough. I am not a dog lover, having been attacked several times when I worked as a Postman. Give me a pussy any day, they kind of nearly all look the same, don't they ? Apart from of course those that don't have any hair, (I think they are from Brazil, or so my wife told me).

My computer has become a bit like me ! Every morning it takes about an hour to decide that it's going to do something, there are small movements, but little or no indication that it's ready to start work proper, there are a few lights that flash every now and again together with cryptic messages that appear on the screen, something to do with a shock flash not working ! ok. forget it, seems to work without one. I did try throwing a cup of strong coffee over it accidentally one morning, didn't make any difference at all. Works for me though.

I did say in one of my previous ramblings that I would relate the story of my friend Michel the Volvo and the rubber glove, so here it comes. You have to picture this one in your mind, (if you have that kind of mind).

Michel, a good friend, drank rather a lot and was about my age came around to our house one day, to enquire if we were prepared to sell him our wardrobe on wheels which had been sitting in our garden doing nothing for the last few years. The old Volvo had, at one time, been my pride and joy (you know how men get attached to their cars ?) but I hadn't the mindset at the time to get it back on the road, so I agreed to sell it, on the proviso that he got it going, looked after it, and if he decided to sell it on, he gave me first refusal to buy it back. Deal done, our mutual friend and brilliant mechanic Patrick got it started and Michel disappeared down the road in a cloud of blue smoke, luckily he only lives down the hill, so he didn't have far to go.

There were a few things that needed doing to the wardrobe before it could be accepted for registration here in France. It would, of course, always remain an English car with the steering wheel on the right hand side, but the main problem was the heating, there wasn't any !! it didn't need that for the registration, but it did need a certificate of conformity (it's a French thing) just to make sure that this Volvo was the same as all the other Volvo's that have been made !!!!!!!!!!! This, of course, is only available from Volvo France and you've guessed it, costs a lot of money, is difficult to find and takes an eternity to arrive.
Next job, to try and fix the heating, because it was getting on for winter and it gets ruddy cold here, so Patrick took out the dashboard and disconnected all the large flexible tubes to locate the problem but alas, to no avail, it still blew cold air, and because the tubes were dangling down, it blew this air directly on Michel's groin. The only time that driving the car was comfortable for Michel was when he had a brainwave, and tied a rubber glove over the end of the tube. Every time the engine fired up, this rubber glove inflated which made it look a bit like a cow's udder, dangling precariously close to his man bits suddenly appearing from beneath the dashboard, (got a mental picture of that have you ?)

At that time, as I have previously explained, to register a foreign car here in France was, as most things are here, extremely convoluted, unnecessarily complicated and expensive. Michel had already filled in all the necessary forms and gathered all the information required, BUT, it was mandatory that the whole fiasco had to be completed within a month of application. WHY ? Well, good old Michel must have been on a bender for a month, because he completely forgot, and ended up having to go to Paris to plead mitigation and complete the necessary bumf. He decided he would drive, so he jumped into the wardrobe (complete with inflated rubber glove,) which of course, by then was completely illegal to drive, small things like that didn't bother my mate so deciding that the quickest and easiest way to Paris was via the Autoroute, he set off, not a care in the world. The only problem with driving a right hand car drive up the motorways here, is that every now and again you have to stop and pay at a kiosk or stick your plastic in the machine, which of course is on the wrong side for English cars. With a car as wide as the Volvo, it necessitates getting out and walking around, paying, then running back to the car to enable you to drive through the barrier before it decides to lower onto the car.
A quick word here about the use of credit cards here in France, We have found that quite often, on roads where you have to pay, and also loads of large petrol stations, the machines do not accept foreign cards. We have both Visa and MasterCard neither of which are accepted at loads of petrol stations, and the Autoroute doesn't even accept one of my French cards. What's that all about then ? it's a French thing.

Anyway, Michel arrives at one of these barriers where he has to pay, the gendarmes tend to congregate at these points looking at cars that by necessity have to stop (easy pickings obviously) and there was one there when Michel approached the barrier, nothing he could do about it now, just get out the car, leave the engine running in case it wouldn't start again, pay at the machine and return to the car as quickly as he could, TOO LATE. As Michel slid back into he driver's seat the gendarme appeared at the door, staring incredulously at the inflated cow's udder appearing from beneath the dashboard and pointing in an obviously odd direction towards my mate's genitals. He took a while to gather his thoughts together, before enquiring as to why there was a cow's thingy between the driver's legs. Michel who is obviously very French and spoke only a few words of schoolboy English replied " I welly solly I speak no words of France" nuf said, gendarmes don't usually speak English, so he must have decided that to retreat was the better part of valour, he smiled politely closed the door for Michel and wished him "Bon route", waving him goodbye as my mate disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke.

The Volvo did eventually come back home when Michel was given a Renault Espace, but it sat in our garden again for a while and in the end, I decided to give it to Patrick to put in his field with all the other dead "voitures" he collects. 

Michel of course did get the job done eventually, but extremely sadly, some time after, life got a little too much for Michel, he is now convalescing at his son's house in Toulouse, I'll get to see him again soon I hope. Life deals you some pretty bum hands sometimes, and it takes just a small light at the end of the tunnel to see you through, I thank goodness I have my family as my light at the end of my tunnel.

Le jardin

whats in my garden

I was watching the television the other day and apparently there is some kind of football thing going on at the moment, I don't follow it I'm afraid, but it never cease to amaze me how the advertisers try and jump onto the band waggon. Up pops an advert from Gillette trying to sell you, in their own words, A SPECIAL FOOTBALL RAZOR, buy one now. Are they numptys or what, who the hell do they think would buy a razor like that, I have never seen a football that needed shaving, have you ?

It's just started raining a bit at the moment, which is welcome, but a bit unusual here at this time of the year, so I've come inside, so as not to get too wet, and to catch up on Le Tour on the box. I've just picked a bucket of plums, I always put that job off a bit, because I know that it is just the beginning of the job, afterwards follows the de-stoning and either freezing or preserving in some form or other. A good days work if you're bottling or jam making. Onions are easier, and I've just pulled most of those up, leave them to dry, and hang them up afterwards, hang them off your bike handlebars if you like, they last a long time and taste wonderful. The whole point of growing you own is to pick a variety that suits your taste, I never, for example, buy tomatoes from the supermarket, generally speaking they have no taste, and have skins as tough as footballs. This is because they are forced under glass and have to be tough to survive the days they spend in the back of the lorry. I usually grow my veg from seed, it's a bit of a labour of love but well worth it for the choice it gives.

that's one of the plums I left for the birds

a few of the onions

tomatoes not ready yet (Ailsa Craig)

not a bad cabbage

Sun is shining now, might just go out and pull up the stems of the broad beans, ate those last month, but it's good practise to leave the roots in place as long as possible because the roots have nodules on them which contain nitrogen, which is good for the soil. I'll put the stems on the compost heap to rot down and eventually dig back into the garden. Did I say dig, I meant to say rotavate, as I don't see to be able to find the energy for a big dig, I invested in a rotavator this year, brilliant piece of kit !!!!