Category Archives: France

The Other Side of le Coin

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You always know the houses of the English, even if they transmit that practised French aura of noble dilapidation. The give away is the shutters. On hot or cold days the English open their shutters. If you have motored around France you will be sure to have rolled through many closed up villages with no one in sight. The English house is the one with music coming out of opened shutters. Often there will be a large imposing 4X4 and a balding man wearing boy scout shorts, a stomach overbite T shirt and sandals with socks. In the heat of the day Les Français will be lunching quietly in a crepuscular cool. Only the English mad dogs will be visible. The French mad dogs need a siesta.


There is an expression in France. It is “du coin”. Literally this means “from the corner” and translates as “local”. At a social gathering I’m given to asking folk if they are “du coin”. I do this for two reasons 1) It’s easy and 2) I think it makes me sound cool and kinda savoir faire française.  However, the answers are sometimes unexpected. “Are you from round here?” Long pause with an expression of horror. “Non! not at all – I am from the next village – nearly 2 kilometres away!” Well, that told me didn’t it. At a party I asked a lady if she was from the corner. “Non – absolument pas! I am from the North – La Rochelle.” Must have been at least 50 kilometres. I just tell people I’m from London. It is another coin of the universe.


We do not have piped gas. This has created a massive bottled gas industry. Caravan types will know all about this. In St Savinien I get my gas from the Intermarché. The vendor is the same guy who operates the petrol pump forecourt. He is a man of absolute sang froid, calm and helpfulness. If ever I am on a plane where the pilots have died and a calm passenger is needed to take over, he will be the man.  He is a Gallic shrug on legs. I admire him tremendously. He is a Buddha of Butane, a Priest of Propane. Intermarché fuel is popular and there is often a queue at the pumps. Once you have mortgaged the house and sold one of the children you can fill up and drive to the payment hut. At the same time a customer arrives wanting a new gas bottle or to exchange his empty one. My hero nods in accord, locks the hut and proceeds to the display of gas cylinders. Drivers wait. No question is too difficult and no answer is too long. One may discuss gas regulators and rubber tubing, the various current offers and the pros and cons of the entire gas business. Now, this is not the road raged streets of London. Petrol pumping ceases without anger (I think England is a very angry place these days) and Madame gets herself re-gassed. He goes back to the hut, smiles a little and the great hydrocarbon wheel rolls on towards extinction.


Emma thinx: Don’t wait to live. Live while you’re waiting.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen – Lend me a Boudin.

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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.

We All Have Our Crossing to Bear

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There’s just something about ferries isn’t there. As the holiday madness approaches and ferry tariffs lift off with the last space shuttle, many Brits will be anticipating their journey to France. Ho ho – deep foaming and churning deep joy. According to the French ministry of statistics, 19.3 million (Yes – I’ve checked it) British landings were made in France in 2009. Sure makes D day look a bit thin.  My own highly scientific silly rucksack, odd looking shoes and men with handbag survey reveals that about 19 French people have ever travelled on ferries from France to England. Hence, the whole cross channel experience is BRITISH. Yes – Abba karaoke, pints and pints of lager, shaven headed cyclists in stripey jumpers on charity rides, pink trousered loud voiced posh folk who’ve lost their yachts and tattooed parents bawling at marauding mohecan headed brats. Even Gilles has given up trying to speak French. “Poisson frites” he says in perfect Parisian “Uh..you you vant zee feesh and zee sheeps yes..? Well, to be honest on Brittany Ferries the crew are generally from Bretagne. Paris is another country. Stick to English – most of the waiters have never met a French traveller. The problem is I need a desk and I have one in England that I could bring over …..but can I bear it?


On the holiday theme, readers will know of my love for cycling. If you haven’t planned your hols and perhaps you’re a bit poorer than you’d hoped and you really want to do something fantastic, life changing and totally boast-worthy – why don’t you cycle to Paris? This was the first thing I ever did with Gilles. Luckily he has a fetish for sweaty moaning women with varicose limbs. This is what you do. You get to Newhaven; cross to Dieppe: follow an old railway line to Forge-Les-Eaux; keep to tiny car free roads until you pick up le canal de L’Ourq AND YOU SLIDE INTO PARIS! We did it second time with three kids. Just one problem. We are talking about France – yes – in Northern France many non-chain hotels close for summer holidays. YES – you did understand that. Shops close noon until 3pm. Hotels close for the summer. There are ways around this and tomorrow I’ll tell you of some folks we’ve stayed with unless something astonishing happens in Charentes. If you want info on the trip of your life just get in touch and I can give a romantic novelists guide to saddle sores, love in lycra and how to smuggle your hair straighteners, manicure set and five changes of costume to Paris on a bike. I want you guys to do this. Just think – a wet night in October – dinner party with the Beatyourazzi who’ve just come back from their own island with slaves, en suite waxing salon and a money mine……And I don’t suppose you did much on holiday?…….Ooh I’m a conniving cynical bitch!


Emma x


Emma Thinx:  Bullshit baffles brains. Sweat dissolves bullshit.

Old Boilers Like it Hot

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Even deep purple romantics need boilers. Today was the annual service day. There is something about the smell of fuel oil – like airports and cross channel ferries. With no gas mains in rural France many folk have huge tanks of diesel fuel in their garden or garage. If you’re thinking of moving to France be sure to consider winter heating costs. Last February we burned our way through about 150 Euros in a week.


When the young man had finished his toil I went to pay him by cheque. Oh dear – no cheque book to be found. After a couple of shrugs it was settled that I could pop over to see le patron at his house when I could, or he could call back when he was nearby or maybe one day something would resolve the matter. Does this sound like corporate thrusting? Money matters here, but never at the expense of etiquette. Recently I have begun to notice a ramping up of big biz rudeness – (Orange France please note), but generally commerce is conducted amongst trusting partners.  I do not exaggerate when I say that I feel that I am once again living in the times of my childhood before the rage of greed and madness tore us all apart and created a mob of competing strangers playing video shooting games. 


So – le patron can be found easily – it is the house with blue shutters. Where? Well – it’s in a place without streets called “Lieu dit Les Benons”. Now, according to Gilles, “Lieu dit” translates as “a place calling itself.” So, anxious to clear the debt, out came the bikes and we set off to find the patron. Tradition here demands that shutters may be any colour you choose as long as it’s pale blue or pale green or perhaps pale grey/cream for real rebels. Shall I bore you with the rest……Let’s just say that we got home by dark.


A quick comment on on a comeback story. Thanks to e-publishing I believe that the novella is making a comeback. I had started to think that some publishers thought that paperbacks were sold by weight. Great Favorites of mine such as “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” (56,000), “Animal Farm”(44,000) and “Bonjour Tristesse”(35,000?) are novellas all being well short of a Harlequin romance.  So today I chanced upon a novella by an American writer Barbara Mack called “Dreaming of You”. I wolfed it down in an hour and enjoyed its good old fashioned passion and what I call human juice. When someone writes with texture – you can feel it. Check her out here

Doing it by the book

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I think I was about 25 when I first heard the word icon. I guess that before that time there were not so many of them. Since then icons and geniuses have been multiplying so that soon almost everyone and everything will be one or the other if not both.  In football commentary, several geniuses play in iconic matches and venues several times a week. Well, as a Sunday treat I’m gonna talk about 2 icons. One is the Citroen Deux Chevaux (2CV) and the other is the publisher Mills and Boon. This pairing is obvious since they are both famous, successful, lightweight, cheap and are constructed to contain at least one cow and generally a prize bull. And above all – THEY ARE STILL HERE!


In Charentes, some of the oldest vehicles are still on the road – not as weekend hobbies but as up and running day to day transport. Several Deux Chevaux two cylinder pop-pop-pop up the road most days and I see many old Renault 4’s, Citroen Dyanes and even a Simca Aronde. Now, I know we romantic novelists would not be expected to be petrol heads, but I am in a kinda nostalgic fuzzy way. Jeremy Clarkson has done all he can to make me hate cars – but I think I just hate boorish juveniles. Now, don’t get me on politics!


I am reading “Pour une unique nuit d’amour” by Carole Mortimer(in translation). This is a Harlequin / Mills and Boon romance in which a female photographer loses control of her exposure and focus and winds up being at the pregnant end of a shoot. That’s as far as I’ve got and pour être honête I like it. Shoppers can take a walk into a world of international passion, glitz and romance for 3.85 Euros at the Intermarché, between the bin liners and the light bulbs. If you’re learning French get a couple of Harlequin collection Azur and tone up that vocabulary and your pelvic floor all at once . The writing is clear and avoids complex tenses and figures of speech. Find the book here.


Bon Dimanche. Emma x

Connection thymed out.

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Emotional and intellectual connection to the soil is far closer to the surface here in France. The term “Terroir” with regard to wine reflects  a deep affection for the very life giving particles which mother the roots of the vines. It is almost like the cow in Hinduism – not sacred but looked up to as a giver of life. It is as if the soil has personality and this concept extends to stones and the shape of the land itself. Deep down I believe this is what the francophile Anglais detect here – a sense of connection and belonging to a past and also a future. This is not a dressed up arty farty middle class eco connection. (I had my own shameful phase of attacking folk with rainbow righteousness).  It is a matter of fact, accepted and simply lived.


In my childhood the soil was known as dirt and represented an area where family males propped up Herbies for some mechanical repairs. However, these days I find myself afflicted with a condition known as “La main verte”, which the English call “green fingers.” Now, to me gardening is a completely counter-intuitive concept. When you are young you have time ahead to plant saplings and hope to see trees. Yet, it is only when you get old and cannot hope to achieve much that one starts to surf the green wave. Having pondered all this and the influence of subjective ideas, I have come to the view that one of the principal differences between social groups is the perception of time. Young folk with advantaged and happy lives with encouraging families see time as shorter and therefore academic success etc will seed a flowering life that is within grasp.  Kids who are told they are crap and live miserable lives expecting to be kicked up the ass by superiors see time as long and any better future just too far away to be reached. Therefore as you age and a year seems like a month, it is never long to wait for Spring, even on the 1st of June.

Stiff Upper Lip

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So, home at last to more rain. I often wonder what other folk think about on aeroplanes. Flying above clouds I kinda feel that if the engines cut out maybe they would support the weight of the plane. Flying under the clouds or in clear sky I look around for places to land in emergency. Taking off I wonder if we would just slide backwards in the event of failure and landing I kinda feel that at least it would not be so far to fall from here and that even if we skidded off the runway the fire trucks and ambulances should be able to reach us. If you add to this the queueing for security checks without shoes or belts, being frisked by guards and paraded in front of gimlet eyed officials, the whole thing is appalling.


Glancing around me this morning as we bounced through a little celestial turbulence, all the exec types looked bored. Oh – how I would love for someone to start yelling and panicking. Once someone else had started I could join in without shame. Incidentally – Did you ever start applauding at the wrong place at a show, play or opera etc.? I did it once at an opera. Well, I didn’t think anyone could go on singing with a sword sticking out of their chest. I tried to keep going so that others would join in – but they didn’t.


My man was there to meet me. He’d cut some roses from the garden. He looked well and handsome – probably nourished on several rabbits. On the subject of beasts, I wandered into the bathroom when I got in and was terrified by a bloody moustachipede. These things are one of the joys of being further south…..but if you’re in the UK – they’re moving up.

Certified organic

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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