Living in the Loire

It seems like ages since my last post, this is no doubt because it is.  So here are a few bits and pieces to catch up.

Both of our gites have been full, more or less, from mid-March onwards so we have not had a lot of time to spare and, in addition, I have been trying to finish the renovations in the old part of the building having had to curtail the work for months on end because of my dislocated shoulder.

People often ask us how we relate to all our various guests throughout the year,  in fact, we take great pleasure in the diverse nature of the people we meet through the business and have made many friends. The funny thing is that it is the fact that we get on with so well, particularly with the ones that have returned for the second, third and fourth times which can cause the problem.  The reason is that they are no longer guests but are now also friends with the result that, inevitably, one finds oneself feeling on holiday with them and the net result of that is that I manage to pass the summer months with a glass of wine almost permanently in my hand, (to refuse would be most impolite of course)!! Couple that with the simple fact of living in a wine producing village where having the odd drink is as natural as breathing and it is as easy to spot the potential problem as it is to spot a train hurtling towards you.  Oh it is a hard life but verily someone has to do it!  I also feel very lucky to be able to spend a week or so talking to an American pilot, the next week a Canadian judge who settled many of the Indian land claims, then a coach for the New York Yankees, an Australian couple who are “doing” Europe without a car, a retired American Doctor now working for the poor, who cannot afford health assurance, a Scottish hill farmer, a Welsh journalist etc. etc. It really is most interesting for my wife and I. 

Of course, in between servicing our guest accommodation and looking after our visitors, life goes on as normal or, being in France, not so normal.  I’ll just give you two examples:-

Having returned our French tax form I was staggered when the “resident terrorists” at the local Depôt des Impots in Saumur sent us a tax demand fully three times what we expected!  On investigation I discovered that the idiot who had filled in the tax form had put a figure on the wrong line.  As the idiot in question  was ’yours truly’ I decided to take all the tax documents to an Accountant and to ask him to do it.  I found one in Doué la Fontaine, explained the situation and he said if we came back tomorrow he would  fill out a new form correctly, prepare letters for all the numerous ”functionaires” involved and basically sort out the problem.  This is exactly what happened and, on returning the following afternoon, all we had to do was to sign and send the letters to the appropriate offices.  I thanked him profusely and then asked him to confirm that he would send us an invoice.  ”No”, he replied, “I have done practically nothing, there is no reason to pay me anything”.  “But you’re an Accountant”, I stammered, thinking he would be likely to be struck off if he refused to charge.   But, he adamantly refused and that was that. (I later took him  a Magnum of superb, Sparkling Saumur Brut from the Domaine de la Paliene in our village of Le Puy Notre Dame). The question is, could you imagine an Accountant in almost any other country not bothering to charge, I leave you to answer that question.    

Just before that, I had taken our car to the garage in the village because of an irritating squeak on the brakes, particularly obvious because, even in this summer, the worst in living memory, the roof has been down more often than not.  They spent several hours checking the whole system, cleaned it and put it back together again.  Once more, no charge, this time because they could not find anything in particular.  It really does make one feel very grateful.

We have had many guests from New Zealand this year which, of course, coincided with the Rugby World Cup and which led, as you can imagine, to much banter. So for all our Kiwi guests, now that they cannot answer back!, here is a joke I picked up on the internet.  “What’s the difference between the All Blacks and a teabag? Answer………A teabag stays in the cup longer!!”…………….!  

I had very mixed feelings when England defeated France in the semis.  On the one hand I was delighted that England had won and, at the same time, I felt utterly devastated that France had lost.  It was a strange feeling I have never had before and hope I never have again.  But I suppose I will, as sooner or later, France will meet England in some major sport or other.  This is what living in France for so long does to you.  At least the two are not going to meet in the European Football Championships due to England’s pathetic failure to qualify!!

In the village our new Wine Bar is finished and will be opening this Saturday, (10th. November), allegedly!   It must be a thing in France that you only open bars and restaurants when there is practically no chance whatsoever of doing much trade as the village restaurant, Le Bouchon Ponot, also opened in November (2006), carefully timed to avoid all the tourists who flood into the area in the summer months.  

Monsieur Le Maire, Dominique Monnier, has announced that he will not be standing again in next years elections.  This will be sad for the village as he has worked very hard to obtain various grants and subsidies and he is always on hand to resolve problems and help the Ponots and Ponettes, (male and female residents of Le Puy Notre Dame) over anything whatsoever.  The clever money, in the bar, is on the village doctor to be our next Maire.  I would think he would not have many people voting against him.  You can imagine him standing over you with a huge syringe the size of a grease gun, ”I understand you voted against me……..” 

In November we had a visit from our two dear old friends from the Staffordshire Moorlands, David and Janet.  Dave and I argue like cats and dogs over just about everything.  Last time we met we lay on two sun-loungers at three o’clock in the morning under the clear, starry sky, disagreeing about which direction ’The Plough’ moved in the firmament.  I even went into the house to run an astronomy programme on the computer in order to find concrete proof.  Unfortunately, I was, as is said politely in the House of Commons, “tired and emotional”, several bottles full of tiredness and emotion in fact.   Thus I was incapable of operating the programme and by the time I did manage it I had forgotten what I was looking for.  So had David!   This time the main subject of contention was evolution.  After several hours we finally reached a consensus on one thing; that it was quite clear that our respective ancestors could not have emerged from the primeval slime at the same time, as we would still be lying there, on the edge of a muddy pool, arguing about what direction to take!! 

For the last year or so Le Puy Notre Dame has been ‘dongless’.  The church bell wheezed its way to an early death and, since then, there has been no dongs to mark the passing of the day.  It has just not been the same.  I had even got out of the habit of wearing a watch whilst at home or in the village, relying totally on the bell.  “Ding-dong”, oh, it’s midday, I’ll pop in the bar for an aperitif, “ding-dong”, oh, it’s 2pm. I’ll pop home to see if lunch is in the dog!!  Anyway the good news is that, with a combination of local contributions and grants, the metal for the new bell will be poured into the mould in early December.  The village is arranging a trip to the foundry in Normandy to watch the hot metal being poured, I just hope we get out of the village before the first wine bottle is emptied.  The bell will be baptised “Marie-Louise”.   

Well that’s about all for now otherwise the Blog will go on forever.  May I wish all our friends and guests a truly Merry Xmas and a Happy and Prosperous New Year!

Bon Courage et Bonne Chance!!

Brian and Sheila      gites in loire valley

 For the first time this is a post by Sheila.  The style is a lot gentler than mine and has made me realise that whilst searching for the offbeat and quirky is always a good thing, sometimes it is just as good a thing to quietly appreciate the value of what is around you. 

 It was the beginning of July and the day had started dry and hot.  I felt it was time to take my morning stroll around our village of Le Puy Notre Dame, in the heart of the Loire Valley, a beautiful part of the world we have been lucky enough to call home for the last seven years or so. I imagine all French villages have a character unique to them, but Le Puy too has a certain quirkiness which I find delightful for many reasons (not just because of its reputation for making fantastic wines)! As I start off, I hear a cockerel’s serenade accompanied by hens clucking contentedly from a nearby shed, obviously enjoying telling the world what clever creatures they are in laying their eggs, as hens do! I walk along the narrow Rue St Jacques, just a one minute’s walk from Le Clos des Guyons, it’s such a tiny rue with no real significance, except, that is, until you start to reach the top and then you get it … the lovely smells drifting from the boulangerie.  Smells that get your taste-buds into overdrive, you know the kind I mean, of delicious croissants, pain au chocolat, brioches and warm dough, all en-route to the shop counters from the kitchens where Franck, the village boulanger, is beavering away by the hot ovens ‘tres content’ and proud that the villagers are happily buying his bread.  People are to-ing and fro-ing armed with little paper bags, ornate cake boxes and loaded with armfuls of baguettes, probably not all for themselves, orders are for neighbours, sons, daughters and husbands who will be arriving home for lunch very soon. I call in, take my place in the queue and finally reach the counter to greet Sylvie, the wife of Franck the boulanger, to order my own baguette and then placing it under my arm I bid the customary ‘Aurevoir Monsieurs/Dammes’ and everyone reciprocates.  Now, with hot bread under my arm, I begin to feel the day has begun. As I walk on further, I begin to experience the rhythm of this relaxed village. There are ladies still in dressing gowns opening their wooden window shutters. I see the postman, unlocking the post boxes to distribute the mail, (no-one here has an individual post box – we all simply walk to the cluster of boxes at the end of our rue, where our names are printed on them). Such a good idea because we all know his arrival time and then we head off to collect our letters knowing it is time to converse with neighbours, to talk about the weather perhaps or state of health, especially in my case over the last year when I have made many friends enquiring as to my progress, or Brian’s during last year, when he dislocated his shoulder.  Today the conversation will be about the iniquities of the French Tax system because it is those that Monsieur Le Facteur is placing in each post box. I pass by opened windows and hear conversations of family and friends, the clattering of  pots and pans and drifting smells from kitchens as they are preparing dejeuner – of course the most important part of their day!  They see me and shout ‘Bonjour Madame’ as if I was a long lost friend.  Of course, I respond accordingly, smiling and think how friendly everyone here is and how happy I am to be so well accepted.The pleasantries in France are a delight which I always enjoy.  I am prepared for the normal ‘Bonjour Madame’ or, wickedly, and said with a cheeky grin, ‘Bonjour Mademoiselle’, as the French love to joke, but then I wait to see what else they will think of next.  There is ‘Bon Appétit’, of course, but it will then depend on the time.  Almost every greeting from about 11.30am. is ‘Bon Appétit’, a simple assumption that from midday onwards everyone will be eating.  In my case it can sometimes be ‘Bon Sante’, or on  passing a friend who is working it will be ‘Bon Courage’, then after lunch it will be ‘Bon Apris Midi’, or even ‘Bon Peinture’ if you are working with paint, ‘Bon Jardinage’ if you are working in your garden or ‘Bon Arrosage’ if you are watering plants, it goes on, always finding something to wish you!  Sometimes it is just ‘Bon Ap’, which kills two birds with two stones covering ‘Bon Appétit’ and ‘Bon Apris Midi’ at the same time! And everywhere a pause for a handshake or, from people you know well, four kisses, two on each cheek and then a little chattering to follow! As I approach the top of Rue Notre Dame I reach the Eglise, our lovely church in Le Puy Notre Dame, an incarnation of angevine gothic architecture with its tall triple steeples, seen from far afield because it is of great size and importance, being on the route of St Jacques de Compostelle.  I hear music and a choir singing, pushing the never-locked door open I stand on the top step and for a few moments watch the people inside practicing for a concert at the weekend, it brings alive this old building, and makes me wonder what was it like when the pilgrims flocked to it on this very road, many centuries ago, to see the sacred treasure brought back by the Crusaders from Jerusalem in the XIIth century. The treasure is the Holy Virgin’s Waistband  made of linen and silk.  The story is that Anne of Brittany, and Anne of Austria, who later bore Louis XIV the future King of France, borrowed the relic which they believed encouraged fertility.  Even now, young mothers can be seen in their praying for a safe childbirth and each year there is a pilgrimage to Saint Ceinture with an evening of prayers and singing.  It is important for this village not to forget its treasure and the many centuries of history.  It is also typical of this most complicated of people, how they seem effortlessly to combine the aggressive secularity of their state with a deep if undemonstrative reverence for the Catholic Church. As I enter La Poste to take my letters and cards for posting, I find lots of people patiently waiting their turn and, in the meantime, wishing ‘Bonjour’ on entry and ‘Aurevoir’ on departure.  And, because time is now ticking on, the odd ‘Bon Appétit. The time has come now to start thinking of returning home for dejeuner, in fact, I decide to return by a different route and head down a small, narrow road called Rue Sainte. On walking down this steep old road, with its marvellous vista of fields and vineyards, framed by a tall turret at the side of a small Chateau, I pass little houses and some residents here have their duvets and blankets dangling casually from the bedroom windows (a custom you see so often over here in villages – giving the bedding a blow of fresh air) and there are many opened windows, again with fine cooking smells pervading. As I get towards the bottom of the hill I quite unexpectedly start to hear someone chiselling, probably at the old tuffeau stone, and then I hear a man singing an old French song in time with his banging.  His deep voice is just a delight to hear, so tuneful, and I have to slow my pace so I can enjoy his repertoire; little does he know he has an admirer! The flowers either side of the old tuffeau walls are hollyhocks buried deep into the ground and are waving high above my head.  Blue, pink, maroon, white, yellow, then there are the little orange poppies and blue cornflowers attracting colourful butterflies interspersed with bees skilfully and single-mindedly collecting their pollen. The sun is now shining strongly as we approach midday and I see a tiny brown and white dog with remarkably pointed ears tranquilised in the sunshine, sitting on the ledge of an upstairs window, watching me curiously as I stroll by. There are other dogs too, either sleeping contentedly in the heat or barking in their courtyards and gardens, letting you know they are bored and waiting for the owners to arrive home for lunch – after all it has  been a long morning for them too since they were given their petit dejeuner! Finally, I have reached my home in Rue du Moulin, the last house in the village that rests at the side of a walnut grove and a sea of vines. All is peaceful here and our neighbours Robert and Jeanette, with their little grandson, Joshua, are wishing ‘Bon Appétit’ as I pass their door, Joshua makes the sound of an angry lion and threatens to eat me, a repertoire taught to him by Brian when they both got bored over a particularly long meal the other week.  With my baguette still under my arm, I am finally greeted by Meg, our border collie dog, jumping for joy that I have returned. Brian too is eagerly awaiting my return, after all it is noon and our turn to eat! As I make our lunch, I think how strange it is that chores like buying the baguettes and posting letters can become such a pleasure and delight. Soon our lunchtime hunger will be sated and, in a spirit of solidarity with the rest of the village, there will be time for a short siesta.  That’s the way daily life evolves here – and we’re not complaining! 

Bon Appétit Toute le Monde!

Sheila Warren-Barcroft (alias Madame Brian souvent) !

accommodation in loire valley

The Chinese are opening one mammoth, coal-fired power station every month.  Apparently each one of these emits more carbon than the rest of the known universe. And then some. 

Which is why I decided to replace my ancient electric razor with a traditional wet one, thus doing my bit to combat the peril from the east.  All we need to do now is to stop cows farting and we are on a roll. 

So on, one of my rare sorties through SuperU Hypermarket in nearbye Doué la Fontaine, I purchased something called a Gillette Mach or Macho Razor or some suitably masculine sounding thing.  Surprisingly; it appeared to be the only item in the Men’s Hygiene Department which had no picture of David Beckham or Zinidan Zidaine stuck on it, (thankfully), but it did have a futuristic ultimate war machine on the front, or perhaps it was just a razor painted like a futuristic, ultimate war machine.  Anyway, the razor did the job excellently although, the first time, it left my face looking like the back of a self-flagellating Opus Dei monk.

(Incidentally, whilst typing this I missed the k out of Beckham and Microsoft Word told me I had spelt it wrongly. After inserting the “k” it gave me the all clear.  How did it know this?  Is David Beckham now so famous that even a computer software programme knows of his celebrity?  There must be people called Becham, without the “k”. So how did Word know I wasn’t talking about Mr. Becham and was talking about St. David of the Goldenballs himself)?!!!!  Bloody weird if you ask me.

Eventually, of course, one has to buy new blades for a razor but it is at this point that one realises that although SuperU sells the razor, by some sort of convoluted logic, they do not actually sell the replacement blades to go with it. Don’t ask me why.  It is beyond all human reason.  I havn’t bothered to ask in case the answer causes me to lose the will to live.

Now Sheila, on one of her Voyages of Discovery, or ‘shopping trips’, as they are also known, actually found out that the replacement blades were sold in Intermarché, the other large supermarket in Doué la Fontaine.  They do not, of course, seem to sell the razor!! 

But the problem is that I rarely enter through the portals of Intermarché as I find the interior dismal, their foodstuffs lacking in range, not offering the variety of goods that the discerning buyer may expect in the early years of the 21^st Century and the staff/customer ratio seems to be totally out of balance…..Oh, and it hasn’t got a bar either.

I could ask Sheila to buy me a packet but she would forget and bring me a banana.

So I have therefore been reduced to buying packets of disposable razors from our local shop in Le Puy Notre Dame.  These razors are perfectly functional when it comes to shaving the hairs on the front of my face but, surprisingly, are about as much use as a chocolate teapot when it comes to tackling  the softer hairs under my chin.  Thus, over a period of a few weeks, I acquired a noticeable layer of thick felt under the jaw, which serves no noticable purpose whatsoever, except for hiding the odd malignant mosquito, and also looks decidedly odd. 

So, finally, it  became necessary to either call a carpet layer or to go to the Intermarché to buy replacement blades for my Macho Turbo Thingy.

Well, on arriving on the car park you could have knocked me down with a pain au chocolat.  Not only had the whole store been renovated but someone has bunged a brand new bar/restaurant on the front of it.

I am sure it wasn’t there when I passed it last week.

Now, at this point, may I thank all of you who actually thought this posting was about a restaurant  for staying with me!  We have now arrived at the establishment itself. 

It is called the ‘Le Baccarat’ and is cleverly situated so that you do not actually feel that you are in the supermarket itself.  It is brand, spanking new and has a sun terrace in front, together with tables and sunshades.  Service is pleasant and attentive and the quality/food ratio is superb.

We chose the €11,00 four-course Menu, (€16,00 over the weekend).  This consisted of a self-service salad/entrée bar followed by a “plat principal”, followed by cheese and dessert.  The entrée included things like crevettes, spiced sausages, prawns, boudin noir, fresh salads, dressings, etc., etc. The main courses had about six choices including fish dishes, beef goulash, roast beef and braised ham.  I had the ‘Beef Goulash’ which was subtly spiced and very tender.  Sheila had the ‘Roast Beef’ which was done to perfection; rosy/red in the centre and, again very tender. The round dessert table was groaning, under a very large selection, sitting on a bed of ice.  Sheila chose a huge slice of Lemon Meringue which, Harry Potter like, she magically made invisible, (only House-Elves can do this without a wand)!  I, being of much sterner stuff, chose to have neither cheese nor dessert - Well, it gives you a certain feeling of moral superiority.

With a perfectly acceptable half pitcher of Anjou Rouge and Coffee, the total bill was €25,00. I didn’t even bother to negotiate a lower price to acknowledge the fact that I had not had the last two courses from the fixed menu.  I thought it was pretty good value as it was.  

They also do an à la carte which includes grills, (steaks etc.), enormous salads and there is a choice of ten different pizzas.

So, in short, excellent food, incredible prices, pretty good choice and clean, pleasant surroundings. Ideal for a family lunch, without breaking the bank.

You can also do your shopping there.  That is, of course, unless you want to buy a Gillette Mach II Turbo Razor Thingy with the Ultimate War Machine on the front.  You can get the replacement blades though!

Bon courage et à plus,

Brian

Loire Valley Gites

I’ve always thought that we have fitted in quite well around here but now I think people are developing an allergy to me.

J’explique.

Normally on Bastille Day we toddle off to Saumur where we eat a gargantuan meal in one of our favourite restaurants and then afterwards watch the firework display over the Loire. We then retire to the square in front of the theatre where we dance a bit or, at least, Sheila dances a bit, whilst I twitch and jerk for a while, waiting for someone to come along and ask Sheila to dance. This always happens and I then promptly retire to a nearby bar when I normally fall into some esoteric conversation with someone whilst keeping an eye on Sheila in case she is dancing with a holidaying Belgian mass murderer, (even psychopathic killers need a holiday).  Incidentally, last year, I passed a pleasant hour or so trying to convince a local gendarme who had once holidayed in Cardiff, that it was situated in Wales and not near Edinburgh as he was insisting.  I think I agreed with him in the end, he had a revolver!   

Anyway, this year, Bastille Day fell on a Saturday.  This is always difficult for us as we have to prepare our gîtes for new guests arriving and welcome them with aperitifs, thus we are never quite sure when we can get away.  Not that we normally do want to get away you understand, we quite like our guests.

By coincidence we had, in the village, for the first time in twenty years, a Bastille Day Fête, held alongside the Church.  It was quite late when we got there, together with Gemma and Nick, our two guests from Manchester.  Whilst they were sitting down at one of the trestle tables enjoying a very talented live band, I was standing by the bar talking to one of my acquaintances in the village.  I first became aware that there was a slight problem when he was telling me about the difficulties his parents were having in the nearby village of Chavannes because a neighbour had moved in with seven dogs. Or, as he continually put it, his seven parents had a problem with dogs that had two neighbours.  He then promptly fell over and collapsed at my feet.  I helped him to his feet, told him the bar was closed and gently pushed him in the general direction of his house.  He staggered off through the crowd, receiving helpful support and slight corrections to his course, rather like a billiard ball bouncing off the cushions, until he finally disappeared down a side street.  Ah well, I thought, C’est la vie, after all he had been drinking for about ten hours,…. On reflection,  in his particular case, make that about ten years!

A minute later I was joined by someone else and, as I leant forward to emphasise a point; he simply fell over backwards, as if I had displaced a mass of air which had rushed up against his body and propelled him backwards.  I helped him to his feet, gently pushed him in the direction of home etc. etc.  I was getting quite good at this by now.

I then started to get a bit worried, was it me?  I even sniffed under my armpits, they were reasonably OK, in fact a rather fetching odour of Brut I thought (Special offer from SuperU, 20% Extra, just on that one variety, it was obviously one that they were not particularly proud of and were trying to sell off).  But, being that all deodorants smell the same to me, I was quite happy to take them up on their largesse. Now, if they did one, like, for example, essence of ‘Cabernet Franc with a hint of oak’ perhaps…….  

I had a bit of a wander round and passed a few words with various friends and neighbours. I was pleased to note that no-one keeled over again at the sight of me and eventually finished back at the bar.  There were three young lads there who I vaguely knew through my perambulations through Doué la Fontaine. We shook hands, and the lad in the middle immediately started to wobble, spilling Calvados everywhere and, in what was an obviously well rehearsed move, was grabbed by the other two before he hit the ground.  He we go again, I thought.

They half carried their friend out of the square to the car park and returned in a few minutes.

“Is he OK?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’ll be alright, it happens all the time”

“Two glasses of wine and that’s it’, said his friend.

“Will he be OK in the car?”  I asked.

“Oh, we haven’t put him in the car, it’s new, we’ve left him alongside it.”

“We put him in a big dustbin the other week”, added the other, matter of factly.

“A dustbin”!! I said incredulously. Sounding disconcertedly like Lady Bracknell saying, “ A Handbag”!!!

I was really starting to enjoy this conversation.

“Yeah, and then we lost him”.

“In the dustbin?!

“No, not in the dustbin, he just wasn’t there when we went back for him”.

“He was alright though; he was back home before we were”,

“How did he do that?”  I managed to splutter,  in between gusts of uncontrolled laughter.

“They emptied the bins and one of the bin men knew him and gave him a lift home”.

I couldn’t bring myself to ask whether being found in a bin was a regular occurrence.

Given that by now I had laughed so much that I was in danger of collapse myself I shook hands, wished them good evening and started to head back to Sheila.  Suddenly, a thought struck me. I returned to the bar.

“If he collapses after two glasses of wine, why was he drinking Calvados”?

“Well, it happens whatever he drinks; wine, beer or spirits. So he says he may as well drink the good, strong stuff and enjoy it”.

And we all sagely nodded our heads in agreement at the incontrovertible logic of this statement.

à plus

Brian

Loire Valley Gites

It is quite a while since I have found the time to add another posting so, now I’ll quickly whip through some of the highlights and, “lowlights”, of the several months since the last one.

The biggest thing in the village of Le Puy Notre Dame has undoubtedly been the “International Fête des Camping-Car”, which took place in late May.  Over ten hectares of land in the nearby hamlet of Cix was covered in 800+ Motor-homes from all over Europe. 

With at least 16OO people attending, the population of Le Puy was more than doubled for the four days of the festival.  Although the one guy in the village who has a camping-car probably got counted twice as he drove his vehicle all of 500 metres from his house in the village to the site of the fête, paid his €90 for the four days and then, so it is rumoured, went home every day to cook lunch.

Another odd thing about the fête was that, although there was all these people on the site, every time I called in at the Buvette, (a bar in a tent), the only people hanging about were the usual suspects from the village bar, not a “camping-carist” to be seen.  I am not sure if this says more about the village residents or about people who buy motor-homes!  It is, however true, that one of the winemakers told us that, whilst they sold a fair amount of wine at their stall in the commercial marquee, hardly any of it was to the holiday makers on site!

Perhaps it was not surprising that all the bar regulars were in place as, effectively; it WAS the bar from the village.  Lulu closed the doors each afternoon and moved lock, stock and Pastis to Cix.  “Le Bouchon Ponot” Jean-Yve’s restaurant in the village closed down for all of the four days and re-assembled itself on the camping grounds amidst a beautiful green palmed marquee!  Thus the whole centre of the medieval village of Le Puy Notre Dame effectively relocated itself to a field, overlooking the vineyards, for the four day duration of the fête.

Being used to the somewhat shambolic organision of most village fêtes, (Le Puy being an honourable exception I might add with its superb hard working team of volunteers), the quality of the entertainment and that of the music and  light show at the end with the grand firework display were exceptional. The final light show was breathtaking with the huge collegiate church illuminated high on the hill in the background framed by the soaring firework display. Very professional indeed.  As indeed were the artists who were contracted to appear; these included the Gypsy Kings and some French guy who was apparently a very famous pop star and caused great excitement amongst the locals. He had a very good backing group and looked a bit like Johny Halliday and sounded like him as well -  in other words he looked like an ageing rocker who had systematically abused his body and had drunk, inhaled or injected every available substance known to man and then went on to sing like Des O’Connor.

Just afterwards, in the buvette, I met Stephane, who is ’man in charge’ of all the tourist activities, and he truly looked shattered.  Muttering over and over again “never again, never again”, although I wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the hard work he had done or the copious amounts he had drunk!!  

Anyway, will have to continue this next time as my friend, Jackie, has arrived to help me move some scaffolding.

So, must go.

à plus

Brian       Gites in Loire Valley   

Last Thursday was grey and dull which would have normally been a cause for disappointment after the gorgeous weather we have been having but, in fact, it was one of the happiest days we have had since we started the enormous restauration project that was Le Clos des Guyons.  For that day was the day that we were going to complete the final piece of ‘major’ structural work in the old part of the building, the installation of the seven metre, 35 cms. sq. oak beam which would finally enable us to put the extra floor in so that we can, at long last, have a proper bedroom instead of wandering around, from room to room, like a pair of housebound gypsies. 

So often do we change our sleeping accommodation that I often have to wander through the house and apartments for 15 minutes before I can find Sheila, normally curled up and fast asleep, before I know what bedroom we are supposed to be in!! 

Of course our list of accidents and war wounds has delayed this work for over a year and Sheila’s latest catastrophe means that I have had to devote more time to hoovering kitchens and making beds, than actually doing the building work but, hey-ho, a housemaid’s work is never done!                                                                                                            

Anyway, I had decided to do the beam work myself with the help of as many friends as possible but then, at the last moment, I decided to ask Monsieur Ségret, our village roofer/electrician/ household appliance repairer/plumber/person to ask when all else has failed, and now apparently, beam installer ‘extraordinaire’.  This about turn was decided in no small part when our friend Marcel’s face went deathly white when I was explaining my plan! 

“Pas un bon ideé” he said quietly. 

“Well how would you do it?”, I asked indignantly.

“Pay someone, ring Erik Sègret” was the short answer.

And, I am glad I did.  First of all the beam that I was planning to buy turned out to be too small, and having spent nearly two years trying to find one I was pretty disappointed, (most old beams have long since been turned into firewood).  But when I told Erik that there may be a delay he simply said that it was no problem he’d find one.  “Yes but when?” I asked?  despondantly, “Another two years!”. 

“I’ll ring you”, he replied.

The next day his wife rang, “Towards the end of next week”, she said.

“What’s towards the end of next week?”  I responded, somewhat bemused. 

“To put the beam in” she replied, “What else”!

“So you have found a beam?”, I almost screamed in delight.

“Yes, no  problem, we would have been there earlier but for the Manitou being serviced and Erik having to decide which was the best beam to use”.

So I put the phone down, elated, and wondering why I had wasted two years trying to find an old beam of the correct size when Erik was apparently falling over them.  It just shows how important it is to get to know who does what in the community. 

So, on the said day and, exactly on time, Monsieur Sègret arrived with Le Jeune and Le Plus Jeune, together with beam and Manitou.

The idea was to make a hole in the back wall for the beam to sit in and a hole right through the front of the house for it to pass through until it slotted into the facing hole.  So Jeune and Plus Jeune started to attack the back wall with real gusto whilst Erik and I retreated to the courtyard out of the dust which seems to be the main component of the local, “Tuffeau” limestone.

Suddenly, we heard a couple of very loud exclamations of  ’Merde” and everything went quiet, suspiciously quiet, and a shamefaced Jeune appeared at the upstairs window and asked us to have a look at a, “petite probleme”.  It turned out it was not exactly a “petite” - they had bashed through into next door!  There was a gaping hole of about a metre square and through it I could clearly see the beams and roof tiles of our neighbour’s grenier!  (Living in a quirky French village, dating from medieval times, means that you get used to the fact the other houses sometimes touch yours at unforeseen points no matter how large and grand they are.  I suppose that this is down to the fact that, instead of having wall to wall Planning Officers and Building Inspectors, they were all off bashing sundry enemies over the head and, anyway, building permission would have been a waste of time if you could not read.  Come to think about it, it is almost impossible to understand now, even if you have a degree in Language!!).  

“It could have been worse”, I murmured, with a forlorn attempt at humour “at least he hasn’t converted his loft space into a bedroom or something.”

Erik wasn’t the least bit put out and said he would ring the owner who, as luck would have it, he knew very well .  He only spent August and the bank holidays in Le Puy Notre Dame and so wasn’t there right now. Relief!

“In the meantime” he said,  ”we’ll get the key off the caretaker and repair the damage, and, at least” he said, with a broad smile, “It solves one problem, we will be able to put the beam in through the window, push it through into next door and then swing it into position without having to knock a hole right through the front of your house”.   In fact he said this with such assurance that I was half-tempted to believe that it had been the plan all along!

The rest of the installation went pretty straightforwardly and he soon had it swinging on a chain and pulley, hanging from the roof beams, so that it could literally be guided with one hand.  About two hours later it was cemented in place, everything had been cleaned up and the beam looked like it had been there for centuries.

As I  have mentioned, that is the last of the major structual work, leaving just the rendering to be knocked off the walls to expose the stone which has then got to be cleaned and sanded, piece by piece and then repointed. Then there is the roof insulation and covering, the huge fireplace to be finished,  the lifting and replacing most of the old, “tomette” floor tiles, the mezzanine floor to be installed, bedroom walls to be insulated and plaster-boarded, the whole thing to be wired and all the various pipes and cables to be somehow boxed in and hidden. So, no problem there then - should have it finished by tea-time!! 

As a poscript, I was in the bar the following morning having my now traditional café/calva when Sheila rang to say that our neighbour, Monsieur Rolleau, had arrived and would like to see us at their house at 11am. 

We arrived with great trepidation and knocked on his door , fully expecting world war three to break out but, to our great surprise (and relief), we found ourselves greeted by a very distinquished elderly couple, with smiling and friendly faces who promptly invited us inside to pass a pleasant two hours over aperitifs.  The problem with the beam was dismissed with a  passing sentence and a few gallic shrugs and was then followed then by a tour of their lovely house and cellars (very securely locked I might add).  The reason for  the latter being that the cellar contained literally hundreds and hundreds of bottles of wine, some dating back to the turn of the last century but the majority from the late sixties onwards , “I shall never have to buy another bottle again,” said the delighted Monsieur Rolleau, proudly, grabbing three or four very dusty bottles which he insisted we just had to try!  The house had previously been a wine domaine owned by Madame Rolleau’s parents!  Her late mother had insisted that none of the bottles of wine they produced were to be sold and were to be stored for their children and children’s children, etc.,  as a gift for them always to be remembered by with pleasure!  So we raised our glasses together and toasted the memory of Monsieur and Madame’s parents, feeling very privileged to do so!  

The house was no less amazing, (apparently it had been the village school classroom during the war, when the Germans used the original schools as barracks), and featured huge murals with a wine theme, hand painted directly onto the walls by an employee, who had been a Polish war refugee.  

As we left I suddenly went cold as the thought suddenly hit me that the beam could have gone right through the middle of one of these beautiful murals.  I don’t think Monsieur Rolleau would have been proudly showing us his bottles in that case.  I suspect they would have been hurtling past our heads!!

à plus Brian                   accommodation in loire valley

Since I wrote, on my last posting:

“Meanwhile, back at the ranch Tonto was disguised as a door…..”

I have been amazed at the number of times my blog has been read by people searching for, “Meanwhile back at the ranch Tonto……”

I followed one of these searches back to the original search entry and it appears there is an whole sub-culture of people selflesly dedicated to finding amusing things that Tonto was disguised as!  Here is my current favourite:  “Meanwhile back at the ranch Tonto was disguised as a teabag - and up to his neck in hot water”!!! 

Ca passe le temps!!

Salut!

Brian     Accommodation in Loire Valley

Well, the good news is that Sheila does not have a slipped disc as we feared, she does, however, have a badly compressed disc.  I haven’t a clue what that actually means but what is clear is that is going to take an age to get right.  Dr. Delavigne, our GP. has given her ”une ordonnance” for physiotherapy which lasts until the end of the universe or until hell freezes over, which ever comes first.

Mr L’Hommeau, our village masseur, has told us that it will be Christmas before Sheila can even use the
hoover again.  A prognosis which does not exactly send me into raptures of delight.  I thought I could discern a slight smile playing on Sheila’s lips though!

I must admit I am having some doubts about the veracity of Sheila’s afflictions.  The other day, for example, she picked up the mop and mopped the kitchen floor, the first time she has performed this operation since the key-stone of the Great Pyramid was laid.

Now, call me cynical, but I am sure she cast a sly glance in my direction and when she saw that I had watched this Herculean task  she proceeded to re-enact the dance of the dying swan, accompanied by much groaning, moaning, and oh the paining.  It was the worst acting I have seen since, as a ten year old kid,, I used to go to the Tanner Rush at the Odeon in order to watch The Lone Ranger,…….”Hiho Silver away…..and, meanwhile, back at the ranch, Tonto was still disguised as a door”!! (I have been waiting at least six months to get that snippet into a blog, and someone owes me 10 Euros for doing it, but I can’t remember who now)!

Anyway, as I was in such a state of compassion, I decided to drive to my favourite bar in Doué la Fontaine just in case the pain became insufferable.

As it was sunny and 17°, despite being only mid. January, I had the roof down and listened to Jon and Vangelis, which is music to dream by. It sends you soaring above the human condition, which makes you kindly and gentle, at peace with the world.  Or, it is, as many would have it, “crap” but then they probably bought Spice Girl records, so what would they know.  Anyway I even surprised myself by stopping at a zebra-crossing in order to let a gaggle of kids safely across; such was my feeling of contentment.  Mind you, it probably surprised them even more.  They looked stunned by the thought that it was the first time a car with French number plates has ever voluntarily stopped at a zebra-crossing, EVER.

It a funny thing, this appreciation or loathing of Progressive Rock.  I have never heard anyone say, “Yeah, It’s OK”.  It is either love or hate.

Two frequent guests of ours, who have now become good friends, have a theory:

Rob, like me, is an aficionado of Prog. Rock in general and “Yes” in particular and loves it with real feeling.

His wife, Carol, detests it and says she thinks it is just a man thing.

She could be right, after all it is clever and int…..  No, I won’t go there, as I have this unreasonable desire to go on living. - anyway, that is more than enough to wind Carol up before she arrives later this year.  So, job done there then.

Talking of frequent visitors who have become good friends.  Thank you very much Margaret and Allan for the roses.  Joking apart, Sheila is sometimes in great pain and the flowers arrived just at the right moment for her; Merci beaucoup, vous êtes trés gentil…

And thanks to everyone else who has rang, texted or emailed.  It is much appreciated!

I just can’t help wondering whether it is encouraging her!!

à plus Brian        Gite accommodation in Loire Valley

I have been a little busy lately with my new position of “travialleur social” - carer- to my wife, Sheila, who, after having spent a lifetime preparing for the big one by breaking various ankles, wrists, suffering severe whiplash and having other mysterious and complicated illnesess which were a source of great delight and edification at assorted hospitals in both England and France, has now decided to slip a disc in her back and so is incapable of any meaningful movement.  That is with the notable exception of her right hand,  which, with the utmost dedication,  she selflessly continues to use in writing page after page of lists, just in case I forget to do anything. Thus I am now trying to finish the renovations and, at the same time, do all the shopping, driving, cleaning, etc, etc.   A woman’s work is never done! 

I really cannot understand what the problem is with women these days.  In the past they would have a baby in their tea-break and then get back to the fish-gutting, corn threshing or whatever, ignoring any pain.  Now,  a little twinge from a disc pressing on the spinal nerve and that’s it - incapacitated.  I blame Mrs. Pankhurst!

One great problem was that, until recently, not only could Sheila not even stand and cook but, in her more depressed moments seemed quite prepared to put on her hair-shirt and live on stale bread and water.  This does not suit me very well as, of course, with all the extra duties plus the additional stress, (I mention stress because one feels that these days one must, otherwise it would seem as if I was the only person in the world not suffering from it),  I am normally in a state of ravenous hunger which sometimes puts me in danger of eating my own arm!!

However, salvation was on the horizon, when the new restaurant, Le Bouchon Ponot, opened in the village.  After a slightly dodgy start when Jean-Yves and his team had to overcome major obstacles like how to switch the new cookers on - and I am not joking!! - , all has now settled down and each time we (or I) go it gets better and better.

The restaurant is situated next to the small supermarket and occupies the former bread depot which, in turn, gave way to the artisan bakery just up the road.  The renovations have been tastefully done and feature lots of the local white, “tuffeau” stone, this, together with the tiled floor, gives an impression of space and cleanliness.  They have also managed to make the place look about three times the size it was before, which is a neat trick.

Lunchtime meals are €11 and like many local restaurants the menu is fixed.  The price is for three courses and, normally, is the sort of simple, well prepared food one expects at lunchtime in rural France.  The Evening menu is four courses at €16,50.  The last time we went was last week  and the entrées ranged from paté to frogs legs, (which I love and  were delicious),  whilst the main course choices were monkfish, duck, beef or venison followed by cheese and a selection of desserts.  I am afraid I neglected to ask about ‘Veggy’ options, a subject not dear to my heart, but I will do so tomorrow.  Everything was superbly cooked although our friend thought the veg was a little uninspiring.  This is often a complaint about France in general and, given that the region  is a major producer of market-garden produce, of the Loire in particular, I am afraid, that is the traditional french way with  vegetables being given only a small accompanying role, almost as a garnish.  The french generally supply the “bulk” by eating copious amounts of bread with their meals and quite often have a dish of “crudités” (raw vegetables) as a starter.  And don’t forget that four courses is often the norm. 

The wine-list has only wine from two local producers, one organic,  but it is quality stuff - the 2005 Red from La Domaine du Vieux Tuffeau is particularly interesting  - and why not drink the local wine when you are eating in a wine producing village, particularly one with its own appellation?

All in all, a very promising start exemplified by the fact that it is getting busier and busier.  The other night, (Thursday), there were just two tables empty, which is not bad for a restaurant in a small village in the middle of January and the talk in the bar on Saturday was that it had been full on Friday night.  I presume that most of the people there could easily have eaten in Doué la Fontaine or Montreuil-Bellay, both five minutes drive away and with a vast choice of eateries.  My rule of thumb in France is that if the locals use it then give it a try and I have rarely been disappointed.  We are now recommending to our gite accommodation clients that we reserve the restaurant for them if they wish to eat there when they arrive.  It really is a wonderful thing for both residents and holidaymakers to be able to walk to a local restaurant of quality, (or indeed a bar),  given the increasing governmental pressure on drink-driving which, as a result, is becoming more and more risky,  plus, of course, it really is not very sensible.  Thus I am sure that “Le Bouchon Ponot” will become a great asset to the village.

Just one postscript.  The former restaurant, La Collegiale, which closed two years ago, has now been purchased and the rumour in the village, is that it will become a Wine and Tapas-Bar,  if this is the case it will be amazing in a small, traditional village like ours. Whatever next - a Lap-dancing Club?!  

Finally, I bumped into Jean-Yves in the bar and asked him about ‘Veggie’ options and he is quite happy to discuss various options when the reservation is made.

à plus

Brian   Gite Accommodation in the Loire Valley

We were having a belated New Year’s drink with Jean-Pierre and, at the same time, watching highlights of the Ashes Test Match.  Of course, I had to try to explain Cricket to our French friend who suddenly became very intrigued not to mention stupid and deliberately asked every daft question he could think of.  However, at least he can speak almost flawless English which saved me the problem of explaining ’silly-mid-off’ in French - not though that it is particularly easy in English.  In fact, no matter how often I think, even in my more conceited moments, how good my French is, I would NEVER attempt to explain the complexity of the laws of cricket in French, as I fear madness lies in that direction! 

Here are a few examples of our conversation:-

Me: (On watching England’s tail skittled for 5 runs).  “This must be the worse tail England have ever had”.

JP:  (Bemused - genuinely, I think). “Tail, what tail, Englishmen have tails?”

Me:  “No, but the team does”.

 JP:   (Sarcastically),” Does it wag?”

Me:  (Despairingly),  “Not so you would notice”.

JP:  “So what is it then, this tail?”

 Me: ”It’s the last few batsmen who actually can’t bat”.

JP:  “So why are they called batsmen”?

Me: “Well they are not actually batsmen, they are bowlers who are not expected to be good batsmen”.

JP:  “So why are they called batsmen”?

Me:  “Because they are batting I suppose”.

JP:  “Well, why…….?”

Me:  “BECAUSE THAT’S THE BLOODY WAY IT IS”!!! 

Later I was shouting abuse at Mahmood, (why do we shout at the television?  Apparently, I have it on good authority, they can’t actually hear us), who was just too idle to run behind the wicket to back up the throw from a fielder.  To have done so would have resulted in an easy run out.

JP:  “Why are you swearing at him?”

Me:  “Because he is a useless, unprofessional, idle git who couldn’t even be bothered to do a schoolboy basic, which is to back up the fielder”.

JP:  “Back him up where?”

Me:  “No, he doesn’t actually back anyone, anywhere, he just stands behind the wickets to receive the fielders throw”.

JP:  (After a pause for reflection), “If he is standing behind the wicket how can he stand on the wicket?”

I looked confused.

JP:  “You told me that the wicket is the pitch”.

Me:  “Ah, yes it is, but the wicket  is also the three wooden poles at each end of the…..err…wicket”.

JP:   (dubiously) “Right, I see”. 

Geoffrey Boycott then decided to throw his two penny worth in by banging on about batsmen throwing their wickets away.  I saw the quizzical look on JP’s face, so, before he had the chance to ask, I said:-

‘It means to get themselves out by doing something stupid.  Simply losing ones wicket means to get out”.

 JP:  (With the exaggerated  patience of a Saint),  “So…you can lose your wicket…. whilst being on the wicket…… if someone runs behind the wicket”?

 Me:  ‘Well, yeah, I suppose so”.

“ Well, one thing is clear”, mumbled JP, “it explains why Cricket is only played in English speaking countries; you would have to be born speaking the language to understand all that nonsense”.  

And he could probably be right.  But I couldn’t be bothered to argue, being relieved that he had not picked on anything really complicated like, ”Why can’t a batsmen be ‘Leg before Wicket’ if the ball pitches outside the line of the leg stump”.  Oh, despair …….. imagine trying to explain that.  It would take an eternity, the blood runs cold!!

As an afterthought did you know that Mick Jagger sometimes plays cricket for Saumur when he is at his Chateau.  Not a lotta people know that!!

Meilleurs Voeux

Brian        Accommodation in Loire Valley