No Show

Posted on July 22, 2011 by emmacalin

Is there anything sadder than a show with no audience. Blimey – I should know. On this occasion I don’t mean me. Last night I popped out to the Fin Bec restaurant on La Grenouillette. This was our first sortie and some of the reviews on-line had been a bit mixed. Well, there was an English family of four plus Gilles and I. The young lady asked if we had booked and I glanced around at about 50 empty tables. Why do they do that? We chose from the 24 Euro menu and may I say that everything was a delight. A young lady named Jessica served with a professional friendliness that was about right. Dear Lord I would hate to be a restaurant or theatre critic. Those guys have to be hyper nasty just to make their waspish remarks amusing – or not. By the way if you ever pass by the resort of Royan do avoid the Tiki Restaurant. It is a beach side tourist trap. We ate there last year when we went to a concert on the sand entitled “Un violon sur le sable”. The food was acceptable but the service was the rudest and most unprofessional that I have ever encountered anywhere in the world – and this is not hyperbole. AVOID!!!

I started talking about having no audience and as usual got completely distracted. On the way home we passed “Le Spectacle Equestre.” Essentially this is a travelling circus show featuring horses. The evening was grey and coldish (by Charente Maitime standards – see photo). The show is outdoors and ranks of seats were arranged. How many spectateurs? Well – none. Bon courage mes amis – we have all been there.

Poor Tommy Voeckler – no longer in the yellow jersey. He will always be a hero to me and I hear no fat ladies singing as yet.

Emma thinx: Your best is good enough. Don’t save the good in you for best.

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I Believe in Mirabelles

Posted on July 21, 2011 by emmacalin

They don’t like it you know – this whole patio thing. It’s not as if I’m setting up a fish and chip shop selling battered oysters and snail fritters. Mind you – if there are any entrepreneurs out there please feel free to have a go. “I suppose you will be leaving…uh…..places for zee plants?” commented a shrugging well wisher. No – it is the avoidance of plants AND WEEDS that je cherche. I do hope to have a vine up the South face of Chateau Calin – but I’m kinda in dread of the well wishing grape harvesters who doubtless will know that the soil is better on the south western slope. When I was in England for my tooth re-build I saw a virgin fertile field on the outskirts of Romsey which was being raped/ bulldozed for several thousand houses. Such an event here would lead to kidnapping of developers and the construction of guillotines. Here people respire, live and die. But the soil BREATHES and is immortal.

A wonderful neighbour has just arrived with a huge bucket full of mirabelles. I tasted some a few days ago for the first time. They are a variety of greengage/plum and are a kinda large cherry size. Gifts of fruit are a currency of affection and acceptance. I feel humbled and doubly ashamed of my Anglo patio. I’ll do a barbecue to make up for things. I mean, what can a romantic novelist do for people?

There’s problems at the beaches of La Palmyre. The naturists (nudists) are shivering. Finally they have given up and are wearing clothes. Now – whatever your religious beliefs, you must accept this as evidence of evolution.

OK – I’m sorry about this cycling stuff. BUT, Thomas Voeckler is still in the yellow jersey of the Tour de France. Today was an historic day in the history of La Grande Boucle. Andy Schleck attacked on a do or die mission. Tommy held on and gave everything he could and still leads by a fragile 15 seconds. He is a hero and a gentleman. I’m proud to be a kinda half Francaise. More candles burning for you tonight Tommy! On vous aime.

Emma thinx: Is a guide dog an aware wolf?

The Whole Truth

Posted on July 16, 2011 by emmacalin

Sometimes you have no choice. I stood for several minutes at the meat display at Carrefour.There they were- whole rabbits, gourmet rabbits and chopped up rabbits. The whole ones are – well – whole. They look at you with their soft eyes from naked earless heads. I know Gilles will love me if I do this for him. It will be an act of cultural respect, loyalty and prostration. I went for the chopped up (could be anything on legs) budget pack. It’s only a casserole isn’t it.

And now it rains. The forecast promises more rain but it has come too late for the sunflowers. They look to be about half their normal size. What joy they are, turning their ever hoping faces to the sun. They are the flowers that a child would design – like those suns that blaze in the right hand corners of all those fridge door paintings of “my house”. They are impossible gaudy badges of ecstasy even in their impoverished state. Vincent Van Gogh painted them in a transcendent frenzy, often squeezing yellow pigment straight from the tube in an attempt to capture their unequivocal moment of blazing passion. I think he got them for us don’t you.

Many folks will be planning to holiday in France. My little town of St Savinien is part of a big push to attract tourism. Enthusiasm for foreign travel has not reached President Sarkozy. He has advised members of his government to holiday in France. He has also advised them that they may relax but remain on duty. OK – you can be a tourist – as long as you stay at home.

Emma thinx: One seed is enough.

A Strife on the Ocean Wave

Posted on July 15, 2011 by emmacalin

Home – yes home and re-toothed. Another fabulous Breakfast at Brittany’s aboard Le Normandie. The restaurant staff are just a delight of friendliness and efficiency. The trip began badly with hundreds of kids running wild on the ferry. Seemingly several coach loads of them were on their way to see historic battlefields in Normandy in order to civilise and pacify them. Let’s hope it works. Looks like a mountain to climb. At least their keepers didn’t seem bothered if I can judge by their absence. A wonderfully politically incorrect broadcast was pushed out by the ship’s staff.

“Children who are travelling in groups. Go now to your cabins and stay there until you come out for breakfast!” A further broadcast asked the would be pacifist historians to “Respect other passengers.”

It’d been centuries since anyone in England spoke thus to brats. Several of them will live their lives as emotional cripples as their creative externalisation of personality expressed in charging downstairs knocking others aside was thwarted.

As I left the UK the phone hacking frenzy appeared to be spreading to the USA. A comforting note was that British politicians have found someone to blame at last. It is of course the police. Why didn’t the Metropolitan Police take all their officers away from suicide bombers and drug cartels and investigate the newspapers, the editors of which dined as courted mates with the prime minster? That’s one tough question. And who should answer it?

Regular readers- (by the way I love you all) must have begun to think that I am obsessed with baguettes. Once I had offloaded my father’s old desk and the tandem bicycle I went to the local Intermarché. I bought une baguette at the cost of 50 cents and gave the Monsieur a one Euro coin. Now, at the time a family of shoppers had arrived with a new baby and there was a kiss-kiss-hand-shaking fest being held over the counter. Le Monsieur gave me change of 50 cents AND my original one Euro which he kept in his hand and not put in the till. I pointed out his kind error.

“You gave me 2 Euros!” He informed me with a flat dismissive finality.

I hackled and argued back. “Non- You gave me too much change – I did not have any 2 Euro coins.”

A shrug of surly wounded pride accompanied the coin as it was tossed into the till. I had hurt him. I felt ashamed.

Emma thinx: Being right is just as likely to land you in the wrong

Breakfast at Brittany’s

Posted on July 13, 2011 by emmacalin

The garage mechanic/roof tiler/drain unblocker/washing machine fixer/brain surgeon/lawyer/dentist are all descendants of the same gene. You have arranged to see them and you guess you’re just another Joe with a worn ball valve solenoid collapsed pipe spring widget divorce synapse enamel issue. They will have seen it all before. You are boring! And yet every time you encounter such people there is a huge intake of breath accompanied by a shaking of the head. Eventually those fateful words emerge ” Oh dear – dear Oh dear – this isn’t the normal sort of thing – dear me- this is more serious than I thought. Don’t know what we can do about this – dear oh dear- who fitted this brain/pipe/marriage/ widget sprocket/tooth?

Does this sort of thing happen to you? Perhaps I just leave things too long.

So, I arrived in England on the overnight ferry. Sat naff sat with me all the way giving me impeccable instructions in French. My wonderful 1997 Mercedes 250 diesel shrugged off her 264,000 mile history and delivered me to Brittany ferries. I slept and awoke to the gourmet breakfast of smoked salmon, boiled egg, ham and cheese. There is also a choice of all manner of juices and fibres for people who have body temples. I don’t do commercial plugs, but Brittany Ferries posh restaurant breakfast buffets are WONDERFUL. So I drove to Rosina’s place, had coffee and set off for the dentist at the little market town of Romsey. I emerged an hour later a new woman. Dear me – I was a big job. I was pinned and shuttered like concrete gate post by a most meticulous guy called Dr Thomas and his lovely assistant Julie. If you’re in the area and need a tooth job – these are the guys.

Then the desk. I collected it from my old house. England no longer seems like home but sometimes neither does France. Tomorrow is the 14th Juillet – the national day with fireworks and well – fireworks. It is a celebration of the storming of La Bastille (a Paris prison) in 1789. I could join in of course but somehow I’m kinda glad to leave it to those born to it. Elgar’s Nimrod from his Enigma Variations, the peel of church bells and the bark of a dog across the meadows this evening are my home. Sometimes I think of all those frontier guys who set out to make the USA and could never come home or know again those subtle rhythms and aromas of their own place. As I have said before, everything that we are and that we have was paid for by some poor soul.

Emma thinx: Home is where the artful are.

Sharp Practice

Posted on July 5, 2011 by emmacalin

“Try anything in life once except incest and folk dancing.” These words are attributed to none other than one of my heroes – Oscar Wilde. I suspect that a survey of British folk would reveal the view that folk dancing equated to Morris Dancing. A further survey might reveal a certain element of sniggering and derision as if Morris dancing was a form of train-spotting on acid. Please let me assure any train spotting dancers that this is not my own view. (I was most relieved last week to stop the car near at a railway crossing and chance upon a French train spotter complete with notebook and camera). Returning to the dancing, the French have a completely different view. It is neither eccentric, comic nor quaint. It is the living manifestation of a shared tradition which is rooted in the soil of the soul. Readers will have noted my comments on the relative carelessness with which buildings and bones are treated. This is because France is not a museum. It is a land of living tradition and pride. Old stuff may fall down – this is the nature of time – but love of community and patrimoine is constantly renewed and handed on. France is a country of French people. Any one can enter but it’s not a theme park. The dancers are not entertainers, they are professeurs of pride.

When I first arrived I used to study some odd looking knives in the Intermarché. I thought it was a very blunt peeling knife. Soon enough Gilles explained to me that it was an oyster knife. OK, my experience of shell fish was the whelk and cockle stall at Southend and the best thing about these shell fish was that they didn’t have shells. Next time at the shop I bought knives and 6 oysters. Once I had stopped the bleeding, the oysters were ok. You have been warned. Hold the mollusc in a towel or chain mail gauntlet. I’m told that a scarred palm is a rite of passage.

Emma thinx: If the fall didn’t kill you be proud of your reflexes.

Stand up Comedienne

Posted on June 29, 2011 by emmacalin

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Yes – there are still stand up loos in France. Now, we females have quite correctly sought equality and in this regard for long periods we have been able to use true unisex stand up toilets. The last one I found was on the autoroute services close to Poitiers. However, these are not stand up toilets! One squats the bot……there was a time when I did not know this. Also be aware that toilet paper is not always provided. You have been warned. I have also found that when cycling with kids, minor cases of Diarrhoea can be turned into instant constipation when the stand up threat is rolled out.(One day the child abuse van will pull up outside and uniformed politically correct guards will grab me). I didn’t intend to make this blog a toilet tantrum but if you are an affecianado of deep luxury quilted double silk tissue that will caress your flesh with the kiss of the soft southern breeze – FORGET IT. If that’s what you want take your own. But again beware! For UK drainage users, the design of sewer here is often of smaller bore and lesser gradient, but let’s not plunge into such depths.

Just before we lower the seat down on this issue I must tell you about one evening in Paris two months ago when I was dining at a Pot au Feu restaurant. We were seated near a door which opened into an airless cupboard which housed la toilette. Another diner dashed into the cupboard and appeared to be immediately swept up in something involving a bullet train and a volcanic explosion. He emerged appearing soothed and returned coolly to his table to continue his elegant life of chic Parisian. We were engulfed in a cloud of gas that contravened the Geneva convention and the laws of physics. I struggled for air while Gilles calmly lifted a bone from his stew to his lips. ” La vie – it is about flesh you know….” He said. He was born there.

As I rode through the town today I saw the cat lady. (See my blog “The cat’s out of the bag”) She was standing in the road with a large pair of binoculars held to her eyes. She was studying the church tower. I must point out that the cat lady is also the bird lady. She is also an angel but probably escaped. She saw me and we did the four kisses.
“Oh my little bonhome, my little flea – you are there.” She explained as if I would understand.
“Quoi?”
“My little man, my love, my ‘plume blanche’, he is there alive.”
A while ago she found a dazed crashed baby dove with a white breast feather, fed and did whatever angels do to fallen doves and set it free. She watches over it. One day an angel may need a dove for a special mission. As gangstas say on the streets of South London -“Respect”.

Emma thinx: Leaders – Leave out a little seed. A dove may land.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen – Lend me a Boudin.

Posted on June 26, 2011 by emmacalin

It’s hot! Only the English would be that interested. I mean it’s hot – shrug. Gilles and I cycled down to Saintes which about 12kilometres. Essentially you follow the valley of the river Charente. Now Saintes is a very historique and beautiful city which is twinned with the Wiltshire town of Salisbury in the UK. Both have magnificent cathedrals, a river running through and buskers who can’t sing. The Euro to pound exchange rate means that the French performers are far more expensive. Whilst Salisbury is quite near to Stonhenge (Oh why oh why can’t someone reveal that it is fake?), Saintes has the most fantastic Roman amphitheatre. Being France, it’s kinda in the middle of a housing estate with a shed at the entrance. Cars can pull up half on the kerb or on a gravel pavement. Visitors to Stonehenge may walk around the hallowed stones via the heritage centre, through a roped off path and see the stones from some untouchable distance. At the Saintes amphitheatre you can stand in the middle, practice your “Friends, Francais, Countrymen” or simply run out from the dark sinister cavern where the “performers” waited into the blinding light and roar of 28,000 baying, blood lusting Simon Cowells…..if your imagination can stretch to that. Look- just believe that you are Wayne Rooney trotting out to meet a few thousand tabloid readers. Bref – come to Saintes and help me earn my commission from the ministry of tourism! Are you reading this Sarko?

Yesterday I said I was gonna say a few words about travelling on a bike in France. Now, there are many places you can stay called “chambres d’hôte” Really this means Bed and Breakfast in someone’s house. A curious aspect of this can be the hovering host. On one occasion travelling with the kids we were served a meal of mashed potato and boudin blanc sausage. Now, this is a dish of some character made from bloodless pork meat and often milk. I think the gourmet term would be “sloshy”. The kids, weaned on Jamie Oliver’s cheeky chiploatas, slithered dripping pale slosh into their gobs. The host ,in full chefs hat and apron, paced up and down the room beaming and nodding “Oh – delicieux n’est-ce pas?” he repeated. The kids swallowed and nodded. “Tomorrow Big Mac.” I promised, smiling and swallowing. No one died. It’s called character building. I think the Duke of Edinburgh may be adopting it as a challenge.
Emma x

Emma thinx: If I had a sausage dog I’d call it solo.

Certified organic

Posted on June 10, 2011 by emmacalin

Walking on the banks of le Charenton I chanced to see a very large but cute beast in the water. It looked like a cross between a scottie dog and a rat. Excitedly I told my neighbour. She shrugged and replied “Ragondin – you can eat them”. Seemingly there are thousands of escaped coypu in streams and ditches that are regarded as vermin – but edible. Life has two separate forms here in France. The first form is edible life. The second form is inedible life and comprises of human beings and outside of revolutions and long strikes, their pets. Yes – everything else is edible including all moving parts, bones, organs and plumbing. It’s just the same in the UK but it’s shaped up, covered in yummycrum and sold as swizzle twizzle escalopes. Ragondin makes a delicious terrine or pate I was told – mmmmm.

Tomorrow I’m gonna fly to the UK from La Rochelle. Gilles will be left to his own devices and I know just what he’ll do. He’s gonna go native. I’ve seen him eyeing up the rabbits chez le boucher. The minute I’m gone he’ll be down there. By dinner time the pineau will be out and les garcons will be round to re-find their roots in the soil. Pineau? well that’s another tale from Charentes. It’s a kinda liqueur and it’s definitely kinda nice. When I was a kid in London my father had a scheme to breed meat rabbits. We ended up with over 30 pets and a desert garden. No one ever ate one. He died poor.

Still reading Fantasy Lover. Emma x