La Fête des Camping-Cars

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   

  

The Day the Beam Arrived

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

More on Tonto

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

Prescriptions, Masseurs and Prog. Rock

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

“Le Bouchon Ponot” – Le Puy Notre Dame

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

  

Trying to Explain Cricket

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

Living in a French Village

If you read my last post If you will remember that I was going to continue with the story of Jeune, but, having thought about it I now realise that it wasn’t really going anywhere. In addition Peter Mayle has done it much better and  so I am not bothering!

But what I am going to do is to answer a question that several people, who are thinking of moving to France, have asked , which is:- “What is it like living in a small French rural  village like Le Puy Notre Dame?” Well, the short answer is that it is very much like you make it and probably depends more on you, the incomer, than the people of the village.

A short story, (probably apocryphal), will illustrate what I mean. A Brit after living in France for over two years decides to sell his house and move to another French village.  Having not had too happy a time at his old address he determines to cover all the angles this time round. So, before buying his new house he goes to see the Mayor of his chosen village.

“Bonjour Monsieur le Maire, I am thinking of buying a house in the village and moving from my current address.  Can you tell me whether the population will be receptive to foreigners,  like myself,  living amongst them?”  

The Mayor does not answer directly but instead asks how the residents of his old village acted towards him.

“They were horrible”, says the Brit, “they never helped me, hardly ever spoke and were generally very stand-offish”.

The Mayor ponders this for a while and then sadly says;

 “In that case Monsieur I think you will find the villagers here exactly the same. You will probably not be happy here”.

Disappointed at this remark the man sells his existing house and returns to England.

A year later the Mayor finds himself in exactly the same position when another Brit asks to see him and asks  the self-same question to which the Mayor replies in exactly the same manner.

“Well, how did the residents of your old village treat you”?

“They were great”, enthused the prospective villager, “They could not do enough for us, they invited us to every social thing going, helped us with the language, the bureaucracy, and nothing was too much trouble”.

And the Mayor happily gets to his, feet, shakes the hand of the Brit and replies:-

“In that case Monsieur I suspect you will find the villagers here exactly the same!!

Welcome to the village, when are you arriving?”

I am sure you get the point.  You undoubtedly reap what you sow.

The second point I should make is to be very patient.  The French are, in our experience, very private and very much family oriented.  I read recently that someone had said that, before going on holiday, the average Frenchman would drive 200 kms to leave the family dog with his mother before thinking about asking the guy next door.  This, I think is very true and I will give you a further couple of examples.

This very morning I knocked on the door of someone who I thought was Mr. P. who had some land for sale next to our property.  Unfortunately, I knocked on Number 9 and not Number 6, having misread the number, (I must confess at this juncture,  that I had been in the village bar beforehand where it happened to be Lulu’s birthday and I had to console him as he said mournfully, “Xmas is so hard; what with the Xmas celebration themselves, a close friend’s birthday on the 28^th, my birthday on the 30^th. and now the New Year Celebrations”.  Yeah, right Lulu, but a man has to do what a man has to do).

Anyway where was I?  Oh, right, at Number 9 and not Number 6.  Having started to speak to him and indeed offered to buy his land, I wondered why he looked somewhat bemused as he stared, whistfully, at his small front garden, no doubt considering where he was going to rehouse his two garden gnomes. (Incidentally France now has a Gnome Liberation Front, based in the Limousin. They keep kidnapping gnomes from gardens and resiting them in areas of sylvan beauty; alongside rivers or in forest glades – bloody barking if you ask me).

So, eventually, it materialised that he was not in fact Mr P. had never heard of Mr. P and so had no land for sale, but would I like to come in for an aperitif!  For once in my life I refused and continued my search for Mr. P.  which, in fact, was not too difficult as Number 6 was almost directly opposite and slightly to the right, about 100 metres away.  Amazingly the existence of Mr P, at number 6, was a total mystery to the proprietor of No 9!

On another occasion, after paying for their accommodation in the Loire Valley some two months earlier and having slogged for 15 hours from the North Midlands across the channel and down from Calais, an English family, on arrival in the village, asked an old dear where, first of all, le Rue du Moulin was to be found, to which, after much consideration,  the reply was that she had no idea – there cannot be more than a dozen “rues”, in the whole of Le Puy Notre Dame! They then asked another old dear where Clos des Guyons was – “never heard of it”, although she was only 20 metres away, just around the corner.  Finally, they asked an even older dear the same question and, obviously mistaking Clos des Guyons for Charles Guyons, she announced that he had died years ago and that his wife was 92 and in an Old Peoples Home in Nueil sur Layon and that their property was up for sale.

I have no doubt that receiving this news, about the holiday accommodation they had yearned for during the grim English winter, would have been somewhat disconcerting to anyone.  To someone who had been driving for an eternity, complete with kids and mother-in-law, it must have been shattering.  However, they were immensely relieved when the next person they asked happened to be the Mayor and undoubtedly the best dancer in the village, (not that has anything to do with this story, but credit where credit is due)! and, to their great relief,  he safely delivered them to chez nous.  

So, to summarise, it is our opinion that to live happily in a French Village, you need to try very hard and be very patient.

It also goes without saying that being able to talk to your neighbours could also count as something of an advantage.

Oh, and buying a lot of drinks in the bar helps too!!

We wish you Bonne Santé pour la Nouvelle Année 2007! 

Cheers !

Brian and Sheila     Accommodation in Loire Valley 

“Jeune” et Administration

To my great delight we have got a, “Jeune”.

 

For those of you who have read Peter Mayle’s book, “A Year in
Provence”.  You will be aware of Mayle’s plumber, Monsieur Menicucci, the cause of fifty percent of Mayle’s problems and the solution to the other fifty percent.

 

In the book Monsieur Menicucci had an assistant who was always referred to as ‘Le Jeune Homme’ or simply ‘Jeune.’  I suppose this would translate as, ‘Young Un’ or perhaps even, “Our Kid”.

 

The relationship between the plumber and Jeune has always struck me as gently amusing, particularly as the latter was, in fact about 45 years old and is, by now, very probably running the business and has acquired  a Jeune of his very own.

 

We are very lucky, in the village to have Monsieur Ségrét who is extremely multi-talented and, in addition to having an electrical shop, is also a qualified electrician and plumber, repairs household  appliances and is also a couvreur, (roofer).  It is quite rare in France to find someone like this as artisans tend to stick to their own area of expertise, not least because France being France everything has to be accompanied by a forest of paperwork and to set yourself up in a particular profession means that one must have the paper qualifications to go with it. So, to have five areas of expertise, Monsieur Ségrét must have gone through the administrative hoops on five separate occasions besides, of course, being able to fulfil the statutory French requirement to be able to prove which ape you were originally descended from!

 

Although I am digressing here for a paragraph or two, I will give you one example of how mind-bogglingly irritating the French obsession with paperwork can be.  A few months ago we decided to move our bank account from Saumur to Doué la Fontaine as the latter town is only five minutes away as opposed to the fifteen minutes for Saumur and, in addition, we are always in and out of the Doué branch paying in cash, withdrawing etc. as one does.  

Now, I stress that we did not move banks, just branches.  However, having been in
France for over six years, it did not really come as any surprise when the Manager asked for all the documents which we had already given to the Saumur branch when we first opened our account. He duly asked for:- proof of identity;  proof of residence; birth certificates and  a utilities bill. 

As by now we understand the game, we do not, as you might expect, waste time pointing out that his bank already had copies of all this data, instead, a week later we duly troop into his office armed with all the things he had asked for. 

Game over you may think?  Not at all.  Merely the start of the second half.

Having photocopied all the relevant papers, the manager then leans back in his chair and, most apologetically, says that we have not bought our Marriage Certificate and that, therefore, he cannot proceed any further.  He did not originally ask for our Marriage Certificate but that is by the by.  

However, he has made a cardinal error, which is, to never underestimate your opponent!   What he does not know is that, after years of battling French bureaucracy and following the advice of several French friends, we have accumulated a file full of every single bit of paper that has ever been issued to us since the beginning of time.  This we call the, “Stuff That up Your Jacksie File”.

But do we give him the Marriage Certificate straight away?  Mais non, of course not, that would give him time to outflank us by asking for a copy of Sheila’s Certificate of Confirmation  or, the Vaccination Certificate of our dog or some other totally useless and irrelevant piece of paper.

No, the trick is then to work him into a corner by asking innocently, “So that is the only thing you need now, the Marriage Certificate?”

“Yes, that’s all we need”.

“You are sure, just that one thing?”

Now this is the danger period, a really experienced “functionnaire” would start to sense the manoeuvring and therefore have to invent a few more things that are indispensable before the office could begin to think of carrying out its functions.

But in this case the Manager, obviously overconfident, just smiled and confirmed that the Marriage Certificate was the golden key that would allow us to pay our money into the reluctant coffers of Le Societié Generale, Doué Branch.

 

Now is the time to strike, this is the moment when one extracts the document from the Stuff That up Your Jacksie file and looking him firmly in the eye to push it slowly across the desk towards him. 

A momentary start, a brief, rapidly controlled stutter and then a gracious admittance of defeat.  He duly copies the Certificate and welcomes us to his branch, (I am surprised there is no award for successfully negotiating the administrative minefield), and then we are home and dry. Voila, QED.

 

But, as I have said, I digress. Unfortunately the digression has grown to become too long to be merely an appendage to a blog and, more importantly, I am getting fed up of tapping these infernal keys, thus I will continue the tale of, “Jeune”, which was supposed to be the subject of this posting, on my next post.

 

Until then Bonne Chance et Bon Courage. 

Brian                               Accommodation in Loire Valley

The Committee

As our new village Restaurant got nearer and nearer to completion the owner and indeed Chef, Jean-Yves, started to spend more and more time on site which inevitably meant more and more time in the bar, just across the road.  This, perhaps, explains why the final work which should have taken a week took almost three!

Ever eager to help, the habitués of the bar soon formed themselves into an ad-hoc, self-elected, Restaurant Advisory Commité.  There was one strenuous condition of membership which was that one had to be in the bar at the same time as Jean-Yves.  Then, in the normal selfless manner, advice was offered on everything from colour schemes to the cooking of cassoulet.  The only strange thing was that ‘le chef’ actually seemed to listen!!

One evening Jean-Yves and his electrician were discussing light fittings over a glass or two.  The committee was hurriedly convened into an emergency session and the catalogue was then passed around so that everyone could get in their two-penny worth.

I was particularly taken with some illuminated footballs. ‘Non, non, they are for children’s bedrooms’, said the electrician. 

“You wouldn’t say that if you had won the world cup”, I replied

“I always said the English were mad”, interjected Jackie, and then, digging me in the ribs, “Or, in your case, drunk”.

“Rubbish”, I retorted, “I’ve only had one Ricard”.

“You fell off a ladder”, he stated firmly, referring to the occasion some months earlier when I fell off a ladder and dislocated my shoulder.  He obviously thought this was conclusive evidence that most of my days were spent totally under the influence.

“That was nothing to do with alcohol”, I replied indignantly, “Anyway what about you, you fell over in your courtyard, your flat courtyard and cracked two ribs and that was because of the alcohol”.

‘Exactement’, he stated firmly.  And then, with the air of a man who had just won a great victory, turned back to the catalogue.          

I, on the other hand, was slightly miffed, not to mention mystified as I could not, for the life of me, work out how I had apparently lost that one.  After all, the facts seemed to have been wholly on my side.  I am obviously no Rumpole!

And so, I wandered off to the other end of the bar and bought a Euro Lottery Ticket.  If I win a zillion Euros, I thought to myself, I’ll build a restaurant shaped like an illuminated football, that’ll show em!!  

Anyway, having got over my sulk, I returned to the committee meeting and ultimately we recommended, by universal acclaim, a sort of modern, chrome version of a medieval torch.  Jean-Yves must have agreed because that is what the restaurant now has.  The commité was then  adjourned for the evening, conversation turned to other things, drinks came and went and I slipped a double Ricard into my round for Jackie, with a bit of luck he might fall over again!

The restaurant has now opened, although with no great fanfare, because, apparently EDF could not guarantee sufficient electricity should the eatery be full, (in fairness to EDF I must add that there is currently lots of work being done in the village replacing cables and placing others underground, so everything seems to be operating on  temporary branchements and a prayer)!

So here is a ‘Special Toast’ to Jean-Yves, to all our Clos des Guyons guests both past and future and to all Bloggers pour ‘Une Année de Chance, de Success, Bonheur et Santé’!

 

‘JOYEUX NOEL’ TOUTE!  From Myself and Sheila

The Stamina of the French

One of the things that has continually amazed us during our time here in the Loire
Valley has been the stamina of our French friends and neighbours when it comes to eating, drinking and partying.We just can’t hack it!!

This first became apparent when Milo, a farming friend, invited us to the catchily named, “25^th Anniversary Celebrations of the Cléré sur Layon and District Agricultural  Machinery Co-operative” in the village Salle de Fete.  That’s going to be a load of fun we thought!  And you know what?  It really was.  It started  at 10.30am on the Saturday morning and was still going strong when we finally admitted defeat and crawled off to our beds at 4.00am the following morning!  I seem to remember, at that point, that everyone was seated on the floor, between each others legs, forming a long snake and singing the French equivalent of the Eton Boating Song, whilst cheerfully rowing non-existent oars. I can vaguely recall extracting Sheila from the snake just as she was rounding the Cape of Good Hope as her navigation skills were much in demand to get the car from the scene of the celebrations to Chez Nous, all of 2 kms away.  

I felt rough for two days afterwards. 
Milo, on the other hand, was cheerfully feeding his cows petit dejeuner as normal at 06.30am with no outward sign whatsoever that he had not slept at all.  Of course, I merely relate this latter information as I was not an actual witness to it, being still in bed, desperately trying to stop my head exploding.

 

A few weeks ago we went to the 20^th Wedding Anniversary Celebrations of our  friends, Robert and Jeanette, who live just opposite. As we have, by now, come to expect, there was the compulsory mammoth period of time spent, “a la table”, in this case five hours, (although even this was easily beaten a few days ago when we spent a buttock-numbing eight hours at our other friends, Jean-Pierre and Clara’s, 10^th Wedding Anniversary Celebrations). However, what made this one special was that when we arrived at the Salle de Fete in Le Puy Notre Dame each table had a song sheet on it so that we, literally, had to sing for our supper!  Being the first time we had sung in French in front of sixty odd French people was a trifle off-putting, to put it mildly.  However our table did a manful job of singing, “L’amour Est un Bouquet de Violettes” and I think we acquitted ourselves quite well.  I have copied the first verse below, just in case you fancied a go.

 

“L’amour est un bouquet de violettes
Quand le bonheur en passant
Vous fait signe et s’arrete
Il faut lui prendre la main
Sans attendre a demain
L’amour est un bouquet de violettes
Ce soir, cueillons, cueillons, ces fleurettes
Car au fond de mon ameIl n’est qu’une femme
C’est toi, qui sera toujours mon seul amour”.

and so on and so forth! 

Later in the evening, much later I must admit, I offered to sing a song in English for the amusement and edification of the other guests but, unfortunately, the accordionist did not seem too familiar with Rod Stewart’s “Hot Legs”.  So we had to pass on that one.

The myriad and assorted sons and daughters of Robert and Jeanette, (much to Sheila’s frustration, I can never quite work out who is married to whom and who is a sibling of the other, a failing that could be, I suppose, quite embarrassing in other circumstances), did a sort of cabaret featuring hysterically funny, satirical sketches of Robert doing such things as:- his morning dissertation on the days weather, (this normally takes so long that one can disappear, take breakfast and walk the dog through the vineyards before he has decided which side of the village each cloud is going to pass on);  his weekly speech when he comes home empty handed from La Chasse, “Il n’y’a plus, même les pigeons, il n’y’a plus”, and his other eccentricities, all taken in good stead and done with real affection and humour.

Then, after the evening’s gargantuan meal and accompanying wine, (the latter never being a problem in Le Puy Notre Dame as almost everyone is a winemaker, works on a wine estate or comes from a winemaking family), the dancing started, with music played by a DJ who, somewhat unusually, occasionally broke off to perform feats of magic.  These primarily seemed to consist of putting his lady assistant in a series of different boxes and then trying to kill her by inserting various swords into the box or attempting to cut her in half. These attempts were normally accompanied by half the men in the audience taking imaginary pot shots at the box, presumably to show their solidarity with the attempts at ending her life.  At one point a huge cheer went up when one of the swords seemed to strike something solid, (it having been noticed that the lady assistant was not, how shall we say, exactly sylph like).  But, to certain, audible sighs of disappointment, she emerged OK and then proceeded to grab the microphone and sing along with the music.  Not Karaoke, I stress, she just sang along with the Supremes or Abba or whoever, as if she was one of the group – normally the one out of tune!  Which prompted one of my neighbours to grumble, that perhaps she was better off being left in the box!

During this period I did force myself to have a few dances but, really, there is only so much violent activity that a man can do after eating five tons of food and drinking a gallon of wine.  This period should be a time of reflection and quiet contemplation not a time for whirling around like a demented Dervish.  Not that it seemed to worry any one else, especially Sheila, who was enjoying being danced around by other guests intently obeying their instructions on how to do ‘Le Marche’, despite spraining her ankle only a few days before (though she did suffer for her frivolities the next day)!! 

Just to be serious for a moment, I cannot tell you how much we really  enjoy these evenings.  The whole thing is done with a total lack of inhibition, an openness, sincere friendliness and a “joie de vivre”, which is a delight to behold and, if only his truly formidable dancing skills are taken into account, Monsieur le Maire will have no problem whatsoever being re-elected whenever  the village next goes to the polls.  

à Plus Tout le Monde et Bon Courage

Brian         accommodation in loire valley