C’est dans l’ordre des choses — It’s one of those things
Beware of strange lorries in the road. We popped out for half an hour this morning, and all was well. We passed an ERDF (Électricité Réseau Distribution France) vehicle just beyond our house. We returned to find the electricity had been cut off. The man next door said he had seen two men clamber out of the lorry and run down the road, which didn’t sound too promising. And his wife’s cooking had also been abruptly interrupted mid recipe.
Cue several telephone calls; being re-routed to numbers that didn’t exist and eventual connection to someone who had a vague idea what was going on.
The electricity, we were confidently told, would be restored at 16.30 that afternoon (it was then 12.15), as there had been an “incident”. Twenty minutes later it was back. To hedge our bets, we had stuck a post-it note to the lorry asking what was going on. It’s probably still there.
Tomorrow we’re scheduled to have our annual visit from the meter reader, probably not the best time to pick given today’s events. Their letter instructs householders to keep all animals under control for the duration of the visit. Think he may just have to take his chances with the cats!
mardi 28 décembre 2010
vendredi 24 décembre 2010
C is for Christmas
C is for Christmas
Si le temps le permet — weather permitting
Health and what? It’s difficult to imagine this happening in the UK. A few days ago, we helped out with the town’s annual candle lighting ceremony. This involved placing 2,000 tea lights in individual glass holders, lighting them, then distributing them around the old streets of St Antonin. There they remained, unsupervised, for several hours. After that, they were collected and stored away ready for next year.
After the ceremony, a ladder was brought to the local estate agent’s shop. Father Christmas then clambered out of an upstairs window, onto the ladder and wobbled down, clutching a sack of gifts for the children. Makes a change from Lapland.
It all finished with everyone singing carols — in English.
There’s not as much of a build up to Christmas here as there is in the UK — at least the French are spared the interminable DFS adverts and Jamie Oliver. Some Christmas lights have appeared in the streets. Lamp-posts, shop fronts and the bridge over the Aveyron have been adorned with prettily-wrapped parcels and ribbons. They will remain there — unvandalised — until the New Year. A few inflatable Santa Clauses have been attached to the chimneys of some houses where they will probably stay until about March. It’s pretty difficult to buy a proper Christmas card here; you generally have to make do with ‘Bonnes Fetes’ (happy holidays) — or order your cards from Amazon.
A stall selling oysters set up shop in the car park. The local supermarket has a couple of punnets of Brussels sprouts for sale each day that are fought over by traditionally-minded Brits. We missed out, but our friend Di knew of a secret source and kindly even battled through the snow to get them to us. We asked for the head and feet to be taken off our turkey, to the amusement of the French customers standing nearby.
British friends with the slightest baking skill enthusiastically start making mince pies, the mincemeat having been bought on trips to the UK. One friend swapped a plate of hers for a brandy in the local café. Our French neighbour popped round with a plate of treats — dates, nuts, dried apricots stuffed with marzipan and other goodies. She seemed enchanted with the Amazon-bought Christmas card of two dancing snowmen that we sent them.
Gavin’s choir has given two concerts. One, a short distance away, was in the coldest church I have ever been in. The fact that it was -6˚C outside didn’t help — it had been 14˚C earlier in the day! His second concert unfortunately coincided with the great candle-lighting ceremony, so was somewhat sparsely attended.
Of course, despite Gavin giving it its usual Christmas card, the boiler stopped working the day a group of friends were due to come round to sing Christmas carols around the piano. Our friendly boiler repairman was somewhat bemused by this spectacle, but completed the repair successfully.
And now it's snowing… H
appy Christmas and New Year to everyone. (And thanks to Glynis for the photo.)
Si le temps le permet — weather permitting
Health and what? It’s difficult to imagine this happening in the UK. A few days ago, we helped out with the town’s annual candle lighting ceremony. This involved placing 2,000 tea lights in individual glass holders, lighting them, then distributing them around the old streets of St Antonin. There they remained, unsupervised, for several hours. After that, they were collected and stored away ready for next year.
After the ceremony, a ladder was brought to the local estate agent’s shop. Father Christmas then clambered out of an upstairs window, onto the ladder and wobbled down, clutching a sack of gifts for the children. Makes a change from Lapland.
It all finished with everyone singing carols — in English.
There’s not as much of a build up to Christmas here as there is in the UK — at least the French are spared the interminable DFS adverts and Jamie Oliver. Some Christmas lights have appeared in the streets. Lamp-posts, shop fronts and the bridge over the Aveyron have been adorned with prettily-wrapped parcels and ribbons. They will remain there — unvandalised — until the New Year. A few inflatable Santa Clauses have been attached to the chimneys of some houses where they will probably stay until about March. It’s pretty difficult to buy a proper Christmas card here; you generally have to make do with ‘Bonnes Fetes’ (happy holidays) — or order your cards from Amazon.
A stall selling oysters set up shop in the car park. The local supermarket has a couple of punnets of Brussels sprouts for sale each day that are fought over by traditionally-minded Brits. We missed out, but our friend Di knew of a secret source and kindly even battled through the snow to get them to us. We asked for the head and feet to be taken off our turkey, to the amusement of the French customers standing nearby.
British friends with the slightest baking skill enthusiastically start making mince pies, the mincemeat having been bought on trips to the UK. One friend swapped a plate of hers for a brandy in the local café. Our French neighbour popped round with a plate of treats — dates, nuts, dried apricots stuffed with marzipan and other goodies. She seemed enchanted with the Amazon-bought Christmas card of two dancing snowmen that we sent them.
Gavin’s choir has given two concerts. One, a short distance away, was in the coldest church I have ever been in. The fact that it was -6˚C outside didn’t help — it had been 14˚C earlier in the day! His second concert unfortunately coincided with the great candle-lighting ceremony, so was somewhat sparsely attended.
Of course, despite Gavin giving it its usual Christmas card, the boiler stopped working the day a group of friends were due to come round to sing Christmas carols around the piano. Our friendly boiler repairman was somewhat bemused by this spectacle, but completed the repair successfully.
And now it's snowing… H
appy Christmas and New Year to everyone. (And thanks to Glynis for the photo.)
samedi 11 décembre 2010
L is for Lunches
J’ai une faim de loup — I’m famished
Tis the season for lunching. The first was with my photography club. The plan was to meander through the countryside snapping scenic scenes along the way, calling into the odd Domaine to taste some wine, and then having lunch. Unfortunately, we started late because I got the time wrong, all the Domaines we past were shut, and it was raining. So we just had lunch. And very nice it was too.
A couple of days later and it was time for the Christmas lunch with the Ainés Ruraux. The name literally means elderly country folk; it’s open to anyone over 50 and Gavin gives a group of members an English lesson once a week. It was the usually seven-course feast you get on such occasions, complete with aperitif, red, white and rosé wines and brandy. (In case anyone is interested, it cost €13 each, including the drinks.) It must be that they have been conditioned from an early age, but there were octogenarians there munching their way through everything and then having seconds. I recall my mother-in-law at that age would have struggled to get through a whole Happy Meal.
A charming lady opposite began telling us about her new kitten, and showing us where it had scratched her. She was off to Nice for Christmas, so I asked what was happening to the kitten. It turned out she was using the cattery run by a British friend of ours. Our companion told me: “She speaks really good French — much better than yours!” Thanks, I’ll pass that on, so if you’re reading this Gill…
It so happened that this lunch took place on one of the two days recently where the temperature got up to 18 degrees C during the day. At one stage, two of the club’s members appeared brandishing long bamboo poles. We couldn’t imagine what they were for. Then a large black swathe of cloth appeared; this was tied between the two poles and the whole contraption was then carefully raised so it blocked the sun that was streaming in through the windows. We’d shivered through a couple of weeks of temperatures hovering around zero, and now it was too hot for them!
Then there was a raffle. We actually won a teapot and a lavender bag. What more could you want?
Tis the season for lunching. The first was with my photography club. The plan was to meander through the countryside snapping scenic scenes along the way, calling into the odd Domaine to taste some wine, and then having lunch. Unfortunately, we started late because I got the time wrong, all the Domaines we past were shut, and it was raining. So we just had lunch. And very nice it was too.
A couple of days later and it was time for the Christmas lunch with the Ainés Ruraux. The name literally means elderly country folk; it’s open to anyone over 50 and Gavin gives a group of members an English lesson once a week. It was the usually seven-course feast you get on such occasions, complete with aperitif, red, white and rosé wines and brandy. (In case anyone is interested, it cost €13 each, including the drinks.) It must be that they have been conditioned from an early age, but there were octogenarians there munching their way through everything and then having seconds. I recall my mother-in-law at that age would have struggled to get through a whole Happy Meal.
A charming lady opposite began telling us about her new kitten, and showing us where it had scratched her. She was off to Nice for Christmas, so I asked what was happening to the kitten. It turned out she was using the cattery run by a British friend of ours. Our companion told me: “She speaks really good French — much better than yours!” Thanks, I’ll pass that on, so if you’re reading this Gill…
It so happened that this lunch took place on one of the two days recently where the temperature got up to 18 degrees C during the day. At one stage, two of the club’s members appeared brandishing long bamboo poles. We couldn’t imagine what they were for. Then a large black swathe of cloth appeared; this was tied between the two poles and the whole contraption was then carefully raised so it blocked the sun that was streaming in through the windows. We’d shivered through a couple of weeks of temperatures hovering around zero, and now it was too hot for them!
Then there was a raffle. We actually won a teapot and a lavender bag. What more could you want?
mercredi 1 décembre 2010
C is for Chocolate and Curry
Tu me mets l’eau a la bouche — you are making my mouth water
The other day we went to one of our favourite local restaurants. At one stage, I trotted off to the ladies. Unfortunately, when I tried to wash my hands, a piece of the chic soap dispenser broke off and fell down the plug hole. Using various means, which I won’t go into here, I managed to retrieve it and stuck it back on the bottle, albeit in the wrong place. All this took some time and Gavin and the friend who was with us were about to mount a search party to see if I had locked myself in a cubicle. It has happened. The friend in question will remember the time we went camping in France together in our youth and I locked myself in the loo at a campsite. I managed to shout ‘au secours’ several times and was eventually rescued by some burly young men. It is difficult to make a dignified exit after that, while clutching a toilet roll.
Gavin, in turn, came back from a trip to the gents laughing at a notice he’d spotted. It read: ‘Nine out of 10 people love chocolate. The tenth is lying'. No — and it was cruel to laugh — the tenth is me. I can’t eat chocolate. Even one Smartie gives me such a bad migraine that I have to lie in a darkened room for a day. (Luckily I do not have this reaction to red wine or cheese.)
Given this sad affliction, we always ask whether a dessert has any chocolate in it, however unlikely it may seem. We did it that day. “Non,” said the waitress. When the dessert arrived, it had chocolate sprinkled over it and an artistic swirl of chocolate sauce. We pointed this out. The response was that it was just a little bit. I settled for ice cream.
Most Brits living in France pine for a decent curry. They are not easy to find. We recently discovered two lovely ladies who run a curry delivery service. We are somewhat out of their delivery area, but they will arrange to meet you at a mutually convenient spot. We opted for the car park of the swimming pool we go to in the winter. At the appointed time, foil containers were transferred from one car to another, like a scene from a bad spy movie. It was worth it. Lamb balti, sag aloo… delicious!
The other day we went to one of our favourite local restaurants. At one stage, I trotted off to the ladies. Unfortunately, when I tried to wash my hands, a piece of the chic soap dispenser broke off and fell down the plug hole. Using various means, which I won’t go into here, I managed to retrieve it and stuck it back on the bottle, albeit in the wrong place. All this took some time and Gavin and the friend who was with us were about to mount a search party to see if I had locked myself in a cubicle. It has happened. The friend in question will remember the time we went camping in France together in our youth and I locked myself in the loo at a campsite. I managed to shout ‘au secours’ several times and was eventually rescued by some burly young men. It is difficult to make a dignified exit after that, while clutching a toilet roll.
Gavin, in turn, came back from a trip to the gents laughing at a notice he’d spotted. It read: ‘Nine out of 10 people love chocolate. The tenth is lying'. No — and it was cruel to laugh — the tenth is me. I can’t eat chocolate. Even one Smartie gives me such a bad migraine that I have to lie in a darkened room for a day. (Luckily I do not have this reaction to red wine or cheese.)
Given this sad affliction, we always ask whether a dessert has any chocolate in it, however unlikely it may seem. We did it that day. “Non,” said the waitress. When the dessert arrived, it had chocolate sprinkled over it and an artistic swirl of chocolate sauce. We pointed this out. The response was that it was just a little bit. I settled for ice cream.
Most Brits living in France pine for a decent curry. They are not easy to find. We recently discovered two lovely ladies who run a curry delivery service. We are somewhat out of their delivery area, but they will arrange to meet you at a mutually convenient spot. We opted for the car park of the swimming pool we go to in the winter. At the appointed time, foil containers were transferred from one car to another, like a scene from a bad spy movie. It was worth it. Lamb balti, sag aloo… delicious!
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