Christmas Meal 2011

CHRISTMAS AT 'LES MOUSSEAUX'

It was Christmas Day at 'Les Mousseaux',
But no turkey nor goose had we there,
The pantry slab, was all empty and drab,
And the kitchen and larder were bare!


The sprouts in the garden were frozen,
The carrots were deep in the ground,
And if truth is told, the rooms were all cold,
And no comfort there could be found.


Instead we decided to visit
A hostelry not far away,
Where a true gourmet spread, was offered instead
Of a spartan lunch on Christmas Day.


So 'Au Pelican', we were now going,
Which promised an excellent feast,
With sauce bordelaise, and framboises and fraises,
With paté, and oysters at least!


Madame, La patronne, she was waiting,
She was smiling from each ear to ear,
'Bonjour mes amis,' she announced with great glee,
'Merry Xmas and Happy New Year'


She oozed with her seasonal unction,
As she counted our euros with joy!
The restaurant's so small, please just sit in the hall,
Or next to this ill- mannered boy!'


We soon found the English 'ghetto',
Where 'Les Anglais' were jammed in the room,
The French were all right, by the windows in light,
But we were ensconced in the gloom.


Soon we were sitting at table,
And la patronne came round to announce,
For les clients 'loyale', voici 'kir royale',
(As long as their cheque doesn't bounce!)


The first course was 'velouté de crustaces,'
So rich and so smooth and so sweet,
And with 'coquilles St Jacques', on our plates in a stack,
We were soon feeling rather replete.


But the courses kept on coming,
Rich sauces with butter and cream,
There was duck and chevreuil, and 'paté mille feuilles',
A gourmand's mid winter dream!


We thought we had almost finished,
When the main course arrived on our plates,
It was wild boar poivrade, mousseline d'épinard,
And an artichoke sauce topped with dates.


We struggled to empty the platter,
But cheese and dessert there remained,
Our appetites sated, we just sat and waited,
Our wine glasses now fully drained.


'Mon Dieu!' cried the new young waitress,
'You are looking so very queer!
'Was it 'la roulade', which made you 'malade',
'On espère vous n'allez pas vomir!


But we would NOT be defeated,
Although we'd had too much to eat,
And eager to please, we just scoffed the goat's cheese,
And soon we were facing the sweet!


It towered in a glass full of liqueur,
Tarte de mangue avec vanille and cream,
Our stomachs were churning, our throats they were burning,
Was this meal, a nightmare or dream?


We swallowed a few dainty morsels,
But Sally had turned a deep green,
And the 'chocolate surprise', just brought tears to our eyes,
The feeling was really obscene!


So although only four, we rushed for the door,
And asked la patronne for our bill,
'Mais Monsieur,' she quick snapped, 'I fear you are trapped!'
'There's the 'digestif' and café still!


But now quite awake, I started to quake,
And escaped 'toute suite' from the bar,
Though weak at the knees, I groped for my keys,
Hopped in and drove off in the car!

Epilogue


Now this year as Christmas approaches,
We are planning our meal for the Yule,
But we're staying 'chez nous', and cooking some stew,
With brown rice, potatoes and gruel!

Christmas Letter 2010

Les Mousseaux

49490 Breil

France

Telephone : 0033 241 825360

Email: holidays@loire-gites.eu

Website: www.loire-gites.eu

To all our old colleagues, friends, family, previous guests of 'La Moussette' and others, 'bonne annee' and 'joyeux Noel'.

'Sharp Boreas Blows'

' Winter is nature's way of saying, 'Up yours,' ' said Robert Byrne.

That quotation just about hits the nail on the head. It reminds us of our summer complacency when we are basking in warm sunshine and everything is bursting with life.

Here, as with many of you, we have had the coldest start to winter in living memory. Summer visitors tend to imagine that France is always sunny and warm (I think we used to think that), and they forget our winters are every bit as cold as yours. On the edge of a continental climate, temperatures can plunge as low as minus 20, and although the sun may return more frequently, winter is rarely any fun here.

Now in December with snow on the ground, we watch the herons, egrets and cormorants fishing desperately for food in the River Lathan, as the lake is frozen over, and flocks of birds disconsolately take to the air at dawn and dusk. Even the geese and ducks are miserable and cold. The dogs love the cold, perhaps because they know they have a warm house to which they can return, and they rush through the forest hunting deer, pheasant and partridge as if it was still midsummer. Then Billy, our hound, slumps down in front of the wood stove for the rest of the day.

Summer already seems so long ago. 'La Moussette', our 'gite', had its best season so far and we welcomed guests from all over the world: India, Australia, Ireland and of course the UK, including a Dane. True, a bath tap broke off between lets, flooding the workshop, and other water leaks caused by the previous cold winter appeared and reappeared. Even draining the system didn't prevent the frost damaging joints and valves in which water still sat. Thanks to the fantastic work of our Scots plumber, John, disaster was always averted when he rushed over to save us just in time.

Many guests fished the river very seriously this year and some had more luck than others. Their patience was rewarded, though the large carp and 'silures', which can always be seen lurking under the banks when the river is full in the spring, seem very hard to catch in summer.

Our Next Gite

Each year I write, 'Our cottage conversion will be completed 'next year'.'

But something always seems to thwart us: cold weather, hernia operations, polytunnel repairs and sheer indolence! But we have decided that 2011 WILL be the year we finish it. I produced a rigorous work schedule in summer, itemising each task that needs to be done before April. No sooner was the last dot put on the page when my back, already suffering the odd spasm from plasterboarding the ceilings, decided enough was enough. We were moving packs of heavy floor tiles into the boot of the car when something unpleasant happened. I tried to stand up again and found that was not on my back's agenda. I drove home from the DIY megastore, slumped painfully in the driving seat, wondering if I would ever stand to attention again.

I spent a week barely able to move with agonising shooting pains first in one leg, then the other. I never achieved the knack of moving suddely when it was between the two! We spent a week with friends in Asturias but my nights were passed sleeping on the floor and my days limping around bent double. But the Rioja helped a lot.

Two months later, my back is almost better, but the weather has turned so cold that I have found an excellent excuse not to work in a freezing cottage! Fate has intervened to delay the work again!

Summer and autumn were productive and we completed the 'tuffeau' stonework, making 'Bath stone' surrounds for the doors and windows. We also finished the bedroom and bathroom inside and by September had an effective solar hot water system and working shower. There is just the living room and kitchen to be completed and fitted out.

What's in a Name?

Naming our first gite was easy. We thought of a diminutive for 'Les Mousseaux' and came up with 'La Moussette'. We were astonished to discover that the word already existed and is the name of a small crab in the south of France. There is even another gite called 'La Moussette' on the Cote d'Azur.

But what shall we call the cottage? It was once a grazing ground for sheep, so 'Les Agneaux' is possible. (Would that make me the 'Seigneur des Agneaux', I wonder? Think of Tolkien if you don't get the joke!) It used to be surrounded by poplars, but 'Les Peupliers' is not very original, and would be misleading since they've all been cut down!

Being near the Lac de Rillé we could always call it 'La Rillette'. But that's a meat paté, and may not appeal to vegetarians.

If YOU can think of a good name for our next gite, we'd love to hear from you:

Victor Meldrew Rides Again

As we grow older, we all turn into grumpy old men (or women) and 2010 was no different for me. It's so easy to be irritated by poor customer service and ignorant and inconsiderate officialdom.

Customer service is a concept totally alien to France. I think it must have been outlawed in the Revolution and customers are expected to be grateful for being served at all. Here is a typical example from this year.

We had loaded two huge trolleys with DIY supplies in a Tours superstore and were pushing them towards the till. I still had to load a dozen bulky sheets of plasterboard on to a third trolley, so I was relieved when I found a 'willing' assistant to help. We had loaded only three sheets when he glanced at his watch:

'Ah!' he exclaimed. 'C'est le fin de mon travail. Au revoir. ' And he left.

I was told nobody else could help, so I was left to load the rest of the sheets of heavy plasterboard with only a weak female (Sally) to help me.

The till girl irritably scanned all the goods. It was 5.15 and she went home at 5.30. How could customers be so unreasonable as to fill the last fifteen minutes of her shift with work? We pushed our trolleys into the growing gloom and were left to load the car trailer entirely on our own in the rain.

But our experiences in the UK in February were far worse.

The UK has become extremely unfriendly to dogs, and we'd taken our 'nearly' Breton spaniel, Bertie, with us on his first visit to Albion.

In Westbury, our old home town, we decided to have lunch at a pub. I asked the barman if I could bring Bertie into the bar, but he shook his head. 'Sorry,' he said. 'but health and safety rules are so strict nowadays and we are about to start serving food.'

We popped Bertie into the car and told him to contain his hysteria while we left him. He looked at me with his deep brown eyes and seemed to say, morosely, 'I understand, Papa. Ne t'inquietes pas!'

We were enjoying a bowl of soup, when from behind the bar trotted a large golden labrador. He came up to us, wagging his tail, and begging for a crust of bread.

We patted and petted him.

'Nice dog,' said a retired military type, the owner, strolling into the bar. 'We've had him for years. The customers love him.'

'We love dogs too,' I said. 'A pity your barman told us we couldn't bring our dog in the bar for health and safety reasons!'

Colonel Blimp went red and gurgled apologetically: 'Er, er ... he shouldn't have said that... '

I decided to forgive him, and we went on to discuss European attitudes to dogs and how you can take them into restaurants in France but not into a newsagents in Spain. We didn't realise then that Britain can be even more hostile to dogs than we remembered.

After lunch we planned to visit a small bookshop in Trowbridge, a good place for 'remaindered' books at low prices. It was at the far end of the Shires shopping precinct. A light snow was falling so we were glad to get into the warm of the covered area. Sally held Bertie on his lead while I visited the nearest loo.

When I returned, Sally said: 'A woman told me we aren't allowed to have a dog in the precinct. We have to leave.'

To get to the bookshop without going through the precinct we would have to walk about three quarters of a mile, through the snow, right round the building. We'd also paid to park in the precinct car park. My mind was made up.

'Tell them to get stuffed!' I snapped, and set out at a brisk walk dragging Bertie at my heels as I strode the hundred metres or so to the exit where the bookshop was located.

I went in and began browsing.

Maybe two minutes later, the door was thrown open. There stood a peculiar little man in a neo-Nazi uniform (well, ok it was actually a gaberdine mac). He had a tiny 'Hitler' moustache, and was grasping a walkie talkie in his gloved hand. He stamped towards me.

'You!' he screamed. 'We told your wife no dogs was allowed in the Shires, but you disobeyed our orders!'

I tried to keep calm despite being assailed in this way in public. 'That's true, ' I replied, 'But I've now left the Shires. Having paid to park, we weren't going to walk all the way round just to obey a stupid rule. Sorry. Goodbye.'

Instead of walking away, as I had hoped, his face turned vermilion. 'Don't you shout at me!' (he shouted). 'I'm ORDERING you to get out of this bookshop.'

I tried to explain to him that when we had last lived in the UK it still had some kind of democracy, and that as far as I was aware things hadn't changed that much, despite Gordon Brown, so he didn't have the authority to order me to go anywhere.

'The Shires OWNS this bookshop, ' he insisted, petulantly. 'I'm ORDERING you to go outside.'

With hindsight, I should have just ignored him, or thought of something really witty or legally unanswerable to say, but instead I thought discretion was the better part of valour, and so I followed him outside.

'Is it all right if I stand here on the pavement?' I asked, 'or do the Shires also own all the pavements in Trowbridge?'

Our argument continued as he demanded to know my name, which of course I refused to give, and at some point I lost my patience and told him (politely) that he was an officious and egotistical little man who was exceeding his authority.

'Don't you swear at me!' he responded.

I pointed out that neither the word 'officious' nor the term 'egotistical' are recognised as oaths in common parlance, so instead he began feverishly pressing all the buttons on his phone as he mumbled something about 'summoning assistance.'

Three minutes later a plump woman arrived, with an embarrassed Sally following morosely behind. The woman had clearly not enjoyed the same SS-Junkerschule Bad Tölze training as her colleague and so at last we were able to have a sensible conversation. It was agreed that walking your dog through a shopping precinct was not exactly the crime of the century. We bid adieu to the Shires and Trowbridge.

But as I walked away, I could swear I heard the little man softly humming, 'Das Lied der Deutschen'. As people often say when they are losing an argument, 'This is just how Hitler started.' But England! England! What is happening to you?

We did the rest of our shopping in nearby Frome. Here shopkeepers acknowledged Bertie as a 'nice doggy.' and welcomed him into their emporia. So it's just Trowbridge that has succumbed to the canine hating Stasi.

I have crossed the town off our list of future UK shopping venues. Love my dog or you must answer to me!

France: All roads at a standstill?

In January Sally's niece was getting married and we had planned to come to the UK for the event. However, 'Sharp Boreas blew and Nature felt decay'. The snow descended and it was far from certain that we could make it to the ferry port, let alone to the south east of England.

Instead we came over in February when the weather was warmer. (Though they'd left the church by then, admittedly). There was no more than the odd flurry of snow and we returned to Portsmouth a few days later in ideal conditions before catching the overnight ferry to Caen.

We awoke in our cabin at 7 a.m. to the strains of Dmitri Shostakovich - Waltz No. 2 to hear the announcement:

'Tous les conducteurs doivent rester á Ouisterham. La route á Caen est bloqueé.' (Drivers must stay in Ouisterham. The road to Caen is blocked.)

Leaving the ship, we were astonished to see the entire landscape blanketed with thick snow. Even the Norbert Dentressangle lorries laboured, wheels spinning, as they left the ship and precariously descended the ramp to the quay.

We crunched our way across the snow covered quayside towards the customs building at the edge of the port. Standing there, stamping his feet, a balaclava clad customs officer was checking the incoming vehicles.

'Bonjour,' we said, 'We are heading south towards Tours. Est-ce qu'il y a beaucoup de neige plus au sud?' (Is there as much snow further south?)

'Mais oui!' he shivered. 'Trente centimetres. C'est pas possible d'aller au sud. Il faut rester à Ouisterham aujourd'hui, peut-être pour quelques jours!' (There's a foot of snow. You can't go south, so you may have to stay in Ouisterham today or maybe for a day or two.)

Dismal and depressed we slithered through the half-deserted snow-packed streets to the main square in the port. We parked and went for some breakfast and a coffee at a nearby café which was full of marooned lorry drivers.

We found a spare table and sat down, listening to the conversations of the stranded drivers. The TV was full of scenes of abandoned lorries on snow-swept motorways and towns and villages covered in a deep blanket of white. As picture followed picture, the hysterical commentator from Meteo France spoke of a 'catastrophe'. We began to imagine France brought to a standstill and blizzards sweeping across the countryside from the Camargue to Brittany.

We spoke to a lorry driver who explained that it was 'impossible' to get to Caen as the road was blocked by jack-knifed lorries. It could be several days before the roads were cleared. Best to make ourselves comfortable and find a room for the night.

We sulked into our coffee cups and grumbled about what we could do. Bertie lurked under the table, wagging his tail and looking excitedly at every driver who came into the bar. Snow! Great stuff What was all the fuss about?

After an hour or two watching the same depressing weather news on the TV, we began to get bored. Outside the weather looked a little warmer now it was light; the deep snow in places was turning to sludge and here and there sheets of ice were sliding from car roofs and houses. On the road, one or two vehicles were now moving cautiously along the icy surface, and seemed to be leaving the village headed towards the motorway and Caen.

'Is it worth having a go?' I asked. 'With the heater on we will be just as warm as in here, and even if we have to turn round and come back, it will pass the time.'

Soon we were driving cautiously along the single cleared carriageway which led from Ouisterham, but ominously, there were no other vehicles travelling either in or out of the village. The going was fairly easy and we made slow progress for five minutes until we reached the dual carriageway twelve kilometres from Caen.

As we rounded a bend, we saw a long tail of traffic, bumper to bumper, stretching down the road as far as the eye could see. It wasn't possible to turn around, without crossing the blocked central reservation.

In front, the traffic began to move: one metre, two, sometimes three or four metres at a time. Then it stopped and nothing moved. Four or five minutes later, the same thing happened and we all moved forward, but only a few car lengths at a time.

I calculated that at this speed we might reach Caen by mid afternoon.

We came to a road bridge over the main road. A group of bored adolescents, freed from school, were standing at the railings, throwing snowballs at the slowly moving traffic below. They bounced off windscreens and self-destructed on the roofs of the vehicles below. As we crawled slowly beneath the bridge, a loud bang came from the roof of our car.

Already in a foul mood, I jumped out of the car and screamed in my best French, gesticulating towards the youths on the bridge:

'NON!! ARRETEZ!'

Instead of the expected jeers and abuse which life in the UK has led me to expect, the youths turned tail and fled, and the hail of snowballs abruptly ceased.

Instead of feeling triumphant, I felt like a miserable kill-joy. I slumped in my seat waiting for the traffic to move again.

Two hours later we came to the cause of the jam. The traffic had abruptly begun to move again, first a few car lengths at a time, then a crawl, then a steady ten miles an hour. As we reached a short hill, we saw a large lorry which had been dragged from the carriageway to the side of the road. It had jack-knifed and just one lorry had blocked all the traffic into one of the largest towns in Normandy.

We reached the ring road around Caen, and soon were crossing the Orne on the road bridge which leads south. Traffic was moving freely on the snow covered roads and there were no real hold ups.

Soon we were heading towards the town of La Falaise. Surely the deepest snow would be when crossing the high plateau at Alencon and facing the '30 centimetres' promised further south.

But at La Falaise, the snow was no more than a light powder on the surrounding fields and there were whole areas where no snow had fallen at all.

The sky was clearing and the sun pushed through the clouds. By the time we reached Alencon, there was only the odd drift of snow in dips and hollows.

We stopped at a roadside bar for a much needed coffee. 'What's happened to all the snow?' we asked. 'Isn't Tours 30 cm deep in it?'

'Neige??' said the barman. 'Neige? Non, nous n'avions pas un flocon de neige ici, toute la nuit.' (Snow? It hasn't snowed here all night!)

We completed our journey with only the occasional flake falling from the sky. We got home to find that all the snow had fallen in the far north of Normandy and Brittany and that near Tours there hadn't been a 'flocon' all day.

Boating on the Loir

Summer was quiet, apart from welcoming paying guests and playing host to a few of Sally's relatives. During August her 84 year old mother arrived, with one of Sally's sisters and her brother in law. One sunny day we decided a boating trip and picnic would be a good idea. We loaded the canoe on the roof of our Daihatsu van, coupled up the trailer with the rowing boat, and all set out to Vas on the Loir, the little river south of Le Mans, La Loire's 'little brother'.

There is a quiet stretch of river downstream from Vas, with wooded banks and water meadows on the other side, so the plan was to go downstream for an hour or two and then enjoy a picnic.

We parked near the launching point where a mill race rejoined the river. The canoe was unloaded, the rowing boat carried to the water, and arguments started about whether Bertie would travel in the rowing boat or the canoe. In the end, Sally and I took Bertie in the rowing boat, with her mother in the stern and me rowing. The others took the canoe.

Everything was ready to cast off until we looked for the canoe paddles. We had the oars for the rowing boat, but as for the paddles, where were they? Who put the paddles in the van? Was that REALLY up to me?

At first we thought the trip would have to be abandoned. Then some bright spark suggested that we could use the rowing boat to tow the canoe.

It seemed like a good idea, so the rowing boat cast off with Sally's half-blind mother in the stern, the dog in the middle, me rowing, and Sally at the prow. Following in the canoe, tugged along by a heavy rope, were Anne and Darryl with the vital cargo, the picnic.

Theory and reality soon parted company. Trying to row while towing another boat is extremely hard work and trying to manoeuvre both vessels is practically impossible. As the rowing boat headed towards the left bank, the towed canoe headed straight on dragging us back and round to the right. As the passengers tugged on the rope, the canoe even overtook the rowing boat and the whole flotilla spun round and just drifted aimlessly downstream. Bertie was having great fun, and dashed from one side of the boat to the other peering at imaginary fish, causing the rowing boat to lurch dangerously from side to side.

Eventually, we drifted into the bank a few hundred metres downstream and decided to have our picnic earlier than planned. The spot we had 'chosen' was where a large herd of cows had been drinking, a quagmire of liquid mud and grassy tufts. Darryl volunteered to jump out and pull the boats into the shore. He disembarked but his left leg immediately disappeared up to the thigh with a loud 'squelching' noise.

He sprawled over clutching at the grassy tufts and pulled his leg out of the mire. Covered in mud he grabbed the lines to both boats.

With Darryl tugging on the ropes, we managed to get the boats more securely on to dry land. As we struggled out, I glanced to my right and noticed that ten metres away there was a perfect dry landing place where we could all have stepped out with no problems. I decided perhaps I would not mention this to Darryl, who was still sponging the wet mud from his leg with his handkerchief.

We enjoyed our picnic, a bottle of sparkling wine, home made quiche, and smoked salmon. We waited for the usual picnic weather when the blue sky turns black, great anvils of towering clouds appear from nowhere and within 15 minutes there is torrential rain and a violent thunderstorm. But for once, we were lucky.

On the return trip we towed the boat with the canoe, using the oars as paddles. That worked far better. Next time we will always doublecheck we have both paddles and oars.

Gijon and a sunny November

Every year in late summer, Sally goes apple picking in the orchards near Parcay les Pins, our next village. Not only does it earn a little extra money, but the social taxes taken from her wages provides us both with French health insurance for the next year. I use the opportunity to get on with some hard work, of course, restoring the cottage But one sunny day, when she returned home early unexpectedly, I did get caught in a deckchair with a good novel and a glass of wine by my side! Don't I deserve the odd break?

That's why we take our 'holiday' very late in the season. We decided to visit Asturias again to see our friends, Roger and Sheila, who live there in a beautiful mountain village.

In the newspaper we read that a new ferry service was starting, between St Nazaire in Brittany, and Gijon in northwest Spain. Gijon was only twenty kilometres from our planned destination. Even better, the route was being heavily subsidised by the French and Spanish governments. It was part of the 'motorway of the sea' project, designed to get lorry traffic off the roads, and making it cheaper and less polluting for them to get from northern France to Spain and Portugal.

The overnight ferry left at 9 pm and arrived at 11 the next morning. A cabin was included in the fare, and there would be no problem with Bertie, who could sleep in the car.

I should explain that this was all Sally's idea. We'd experienced a particularly nasty voyage many years before from Santander to Plymouth, and she'd vowed never to do the Bay of Biscay again, so I was surprised at her nonchalance and equanimity in choosing this particular way of getting to Spain. I wasn't going to argue as I hate driving long distances, and the road trip takes a good day and a half with an overnight stop.

As our departure date approached we began to get very anxious. The French dispute over the retirement age (planned to increase from 60 to 62) had thrown the country into turmoil. The refineries had been blockaded for days and now the petrol stations had run out of fuel. We had no diesel for the car and we began to think we would never get to St Nazaire to catch the ferry. But a few days before we were due to leave, the government unblocked the terminals and the strikers began to disperse and go back to work.

French trade unionists are not prepared to let the government push them around. This is particularly the case when it involves removing any of their feather-bedded benefits which the French see as a birthright, such as early retirement, total security of employment, and generous sick leave and holidays.

What is less appreciated, is that there are other major factors at play when it comes to militancy. In Britain, strikers seem fond of using holidays as a good time to strike to cause maximum disruption to the public. So airports are closed, trains cancelled and ferries postponed. But in France, early November is the last chance for some good holidays before Xmas. And strikers and trade unionists expect to enjoy their holiday entitlement along with the rest of us. November 1st is known as 'Toussaints' or 'All Saints Day'. November 11th is Armistice Day, which is also a national holiday. If the days fall just before a weekend, on a Thursday say, there's a chance to make a really good long weekend, even a week, out of one (or both) of those days.

The trouble is, that if you are on strike, then you miss out on these holidays, and as people don't expect anyone to be working at that time anyway, striking becomes pretty pointless.

It was inevitable that all the national strikes would end just before the beginning of November, and then being so close to Christmas, there could be no question of continuing them.

We had no trouble filling up the car with diesel and heading off for St Nazaire on November 1st.

As this was both a Sunday AND a public holiday, there was virtually no lorry traffic on the roads. We found the ferry port, an industrial depot miles outside St Nazaire, signposted as the 'Terminal Sablier' or 'sand loading yard'. There was only a handful of cars parked in the small fenced car park and no lorries at all. The 'terminal' consisted of a tiny portakabin with a couple of bored ferry employees sitting behind a counter, and a gendarme lolling against the wall by the door. We got our boarding passes and asked about the state of the ocean.

'Elle est tres calme,' he soothed. 'La mer est tres tranquille. Pas de probleme. Ne vous inquietez pas.' (The sea's very calm, no problem. Don't worry!)

He smiled like the Sphinx, and we believed him implicitly.

We drove on to the boat an hour later, and took the lift from the car deck to the reception area five decks up. A Portuguese girl at the desk handed us our cabin key: 'Two floors further up, ' she explained. 'Right at the top of the ship.'

'There's nothing worse than being down in the bowels of the ship,' I said. 'How good it is to have a cabin high up in the ship'

How wrong we were!

The ship was already suffering from an identity crisis. Called 'The Norman Bridge', it had been cruelly and abruptly snatched away from its normal Channel route to alien waters which took it from Brittany to Spanish Asturias, via the perilous Bay of Biscay. In confusion, it lurched out of the harbour and straight into the Atlantic swell, trying to decide which direction to go in.

Normally there are many lorries parked on the lower car decks. This adds ballast and helps with stability. Because of the holiday, there were only a few cars and caravans on the car deck, and the ship was bobbing about on the water like a cork.

'Bit rough', said my wife, peering anxiously through our cabin porthole. 'Just a little swell, ' I reassured her. 'Further south it will be like a mill pond.'

We got into our bunks and listened to the boat's engines labouring against the waves. From time to time the ship rolled rather more than we'd expected, but it was nothing exceptional.

We slept far better than we'd expected, but around 5 a.m. awoke to a strange sensation and a noise like Thor fashioning thunderbolts on his forge. The sensation was like shooting up several floors in an escalator. It's fun, but your stomach gets left behind. Then the feeling was one of going into free fall, with your stomach still somewhere near the ceiling, followed by a loud crash and clang as the ship's hull struck the surface of the water again with what sounded like metal-rending force.

'I don't like this, ' complained Sally, petulantly. 'They told us it was going to be calm!'

We napped for another couple of hours, doing our best to ignore the storm, but then I sat bolt upright. I had just remembered that Bertie was locked in the car on the car deck. He'd been there since 9 o'clock the previous night. He would be terrified by the storm. He'd be miserable and scared, in need of water, of food, of comfort. We HAD to go down to the car deck and make sure he was all right.

We'd been told we could visit our dog at 'a reasonable hour', and I hoped seven a.m. wasn't unreasonable. I woke Sally again and insisted she got out of her bunk. Bleary eyed and complaining she made her way to the cabin's loo and shower room.

Two minutes passed, then three. 'Come on!' I shouted, hammering on the door. 'Bertie needs us. He's been alone in the car for ten hours.'

From behind the door came a strange strangled sound.

'Don't be like that,' I snapped. 'You agreed we'd go to see him first thing in the morning. Hurry up!'

Another peculiar sound, like a large buttered turnip being pushed through the thin end of a funnel, came through the door. At this point, Job 20: verse 15 came to mind.*

The penny dropped, and I don't mean for the toilet door.

'Are you being sick?' I asked irritably.

'Yeuksssk!' came the retching reply.

Finally, she emerged, and I wondered why her face had turned the same light green colour as the cabin's metalwork.

'But it's not THAT rough,' I insisted, inconsiderately.

'It's horribly rough,' she wheezed. 'They said it was going to be calm!'

But my true sympathies still lay entirely with Bertie. I pictured him, cowering in the car, terrified by the turbulent ocean, the strange sounds, in desperate need of food and water. He would think we had deserted him. We HAD to act.

Dragging the unfortunate Sally with me, we stumbled down two flights of stairs to the reception area as the ship rose and fell alarmingly. The Portuguese girl was still there, and I wondered for a moment whether she had been standing there all night.

'Can we see our dog now?' I stammered. 'Quickly, as my wife's not feeling very well.'

To prove the point, Sally disappeared from view hurling herself towards the sick bag dispenser attached to the wall. Grabbing one of the paper receptacles, she collapsed to the floor, imitating the noises made when you pull the plug from a large sink full of dirty washing up water.

The girl peered accusingly at Sally, but picked up the phone and summoned aid. 'Someone will come for you, ' she said. 'Soon. You will be able to see your dog.'

A few minutes later a tall Polish seaman appeared. He spoke broken English but agreed to lead us down to the car deck to check on Bertie.

'Can we take the lift?' I asked.

'Oh no,' he replied. 'It's storm... it would be dang'rous... it would... rock around. It could...er... plummet!'

Instead we made our way slowly down the eight flights of stairs leading to the car deck, with Sally clinging desperately to the rails.

'Your vife is all right?' he asked, looking at Sally as she continued to perform a good imitation of a sealion which has eaten too many mackerel and then overdosed on squid.

'Oh, she's fine, ' I said. 'Just a little 'mal de mer'.'

'Ah, I 'ad that too, ' he said. 'for the first six months on LD Lines. But I get better. Ve work for two months ... no breaks.. and then we have new contract, or be sacked... now it's better... twenty days non stop.. then three days holiday... then we come back.... Much better now! But not good as I no zee vife and family back in Poland.'

I tried to engage Sally about the abuse of workers' rights and the exploitation of low paid immigrant labour, but for some reason she seemed to lack interest in the subject. Typical! No interest in political issues.

Finally we reached the car deck and crept towards the vehicle where I fully expected to find Bertie hanging from his lead, with a hastily scribbled note pinned to the dashboard saying, 'Sorry Papa, but I could stand the isolation no longer. Adieu!'

Instead, there on the front seat was a ginger shape curled up in a tight ball. From the inside of the vehicle came a loud snoring sound. The little ingrate! He was fast asleep and unconcerned.

I opened the car door and tried to coax him out for a brief walk around the car deck and a sip of water. He looked at me and yawned. 'Do we HAVE to? What time do you call this? Are you MAD?'

We closed the car door again, and he snuggled back into the comfort of the front seat.

'I told you!' snapped Sally. 'We didn't need to disturb him. I told you he'd be fine.'

Embarrassed, we left the car deck with the Polish seaman and clambered back up the eight flights of stairs, stopping at each landing for Sally to vomit into her brown paper bag.

We arrived at Gijon (pronounced 'Hee-hon', a bit like a 'burro' braying) at 11 a.m. promptly. Sally's complexion slowly turned from aqua-marine to deathly white.

Our friends met us at the port and soon we were heading up the coast to Villaviciosa, where we would find coffee and a welcome glass of Rioja. Finally, Sally's complexion had almost returned to normal.

Holy Mary!

The previous year the weather had been unexpectedly good. November in Asturias had been like September in France. There had been warm, sunny, balmy days and we'd been able to walk along the beach and cliffs in comfort, and sit outside at cafes and bars. The weather this November seemed to be equally good and the sun was shining. It was far warmer than the France we had left the day before.

My back injury was still causing me a great deal of pain, so we couldn't envisage any long mountain walks or plunging down ravines and up cliff paths. We decided instead on some cultural visits.

Our friend, Roger, has developed a passionate interest in Romanesque architecture for which Asturias is famous. So we welcomed the chance to visit the ruins of an ancient palace and church, Santa María del Naranco at Oviedo.

The building is located high up over Oviedo, and is reached via a steep track.

When we got to the church, the interior was locked and barred and the guide was nowhere to be seen. The last visit of the morning was due, according to the schedule on the door, but a Spanish couple was standing outside complaining bitterly. They had been trying to find the guide for almost 50 minutes.

While they disappeared to search for her one more time, she arrived with a couple of other visitors in tow. Unsmiling, she took our money for the visit and we asked if we could bring Bertie into the ruin with us.

'No!' she snapped. 'No perros!'

Roger agreed to look after Bertie while we went inside, but asked the guide if she could give us any information in English or French as our Spanish was very rusty.

'No!' she snapped again. 'No Ingles. No Frances! Solamente Espanol!'

Reluctantly we followed her into the church while Bertie, looking panicky, sat outside with Roger.

The Guide began her history of the 'palacio' but had no sooner started when the couple who had disappeared returned from their search for her.

'No!' she snapped, as they entered the church. 'No! Esta demasiado tarde. La visita ha commenciado.' (Too late! The visit's started. Go away.)

There followed an interesting argument with a few incomprehensible Spanish expletives, but the Gorgon finally relented.

So far, we had still been visible to Bertie who was sitting gloomily with Roger near the entrance, but the door was now closed and we went upstairs to the main part of the church.

'La palacio......' began the Gorgon. 'La palacio de Santa Maria....' Suddenly, her voice was drowned out by a gut-piercing howl from the 'perro' outside. 'La palacio...' she tried to continue. 'Ouaaah!' came the screech from Bertie, wondering where we were. 'Ouuuuaaaaaaaah!'

This continued for several minutes and each time she tried to speak, most of what she had to say was drowned out. She glared at us, and we glared back. After all, whose fault was it?

The visit ended, rather more rapidly than normal, I suspect, and Bertie rejoined us with boundless joy.

There was a second old church nearby to be visited. The Gorgon sent us up the hill to the ancient building, keeping her distance from Bertie and casting him evil glances. She jumped into her car to drive the two hundred metres to the church while all the visitors laboured up the hill.

The second building was another ancient Romanesque church though a great deal of the original building had disappeared. We followed her inside. Bertie again sat balefully outside glaring at the Gorgon.

'No!' she snapped, looking at Sally who had our digital camera grasped in her hand. 'No photos. Forbidden. Interdit. Verboten. Prohibido!'

We listened to her script for another five minutes and finally rejoined our friends, and Bertie. We waited until the guide had finally left for her lunch, having been very careful not to tip her. But then Sally crept round to the narrow slit windows.

'Look!' she said. 'We can take photos after all.' And sticking the camera through the windows she proceeded to take numerous photos of the interior.

Revenge is sweet.

There's an old mill by the stream, no esta bien?

Over the next few glorious days, we enjoyed several dishes of fabulous fabada, numerous glasses of rare, rich Rioja, plates of scrumptious squid and other choice crustacea, as we luxuriated in the welcome sunshine.

Living in Les Mousseaux, an old watermill, we have a particular interest in old mills so were particularly interested when Roger and Sheila told us of an ancient one in a wooded valley not far from Santa Eulalia de Cabranes where they live.

It was extremely remote, accessed from a precarious single track road, and finally we came to a halt at the end of a precipitous narrow track leading down into the forested valley. The track was next to some farmhouses and outbuildings, but the only turning point had been blocked off with a wire fence.

'This is where we normally turn round,' explained Roger. 'I don't know why there's a fence.'

A moment later , the grizzled inhabitants of the farmhouse emerged. The old man had spent some time in France, so we tried to explain in a mixture of broken French and Spanish that we wanted to visit the ancient mill. This was no problem, he said, but the couple had had their firewood stolen and therefore had fenced off the turning point to stop the thieves. Could WE turn here, we asked?

'Si,' said the old man. 'I'll take down the fence'

'NO!' said the old woman, his wife, definitively and finally. If an exception was made for us, they would have to allow everybody. It was tough luck, but we'd just have to reverse along the narrow track.

We put the immediate problem out of our minds and walked down the footpath to the ancient mill. The mill building was beneath a waterfall fed by a mill race carved into the rock face twenty feet up on the side of the rocky valley. Above this was a mill pond where kiwi fruit were growing in the forest. It was beautiful and spell binding, and the mill may even date back to Roman times. We came away feeling we had seen something really special.

As we returned to the car we began to appreciate that leaving might present more of a problem. The track was barely a car's width. To one side was a steep bank falling precipitately away, and to the other, various walls, sheds, buildings and trees. There was also the odd rusty old car and tractor parked protruding on to the track. It meant reversing carefully for a hundred metres or so, until there was a steep slope dropping abruptly away to the left, where, theoretically, it would be possible to turn around.

While Roger and Sally tried to guide me, I reversed a centimetre at a time along the track, looking carefully to my right where the road ended and an eight foot vertical drop began. 'Left, left, left!' they screamed at me, as to my left the car scraped against concrete walls and banged the wing mirrors of parked vehicles.

As I manoeuvred the car gingerly back along the track, one by one, other local residents emerged from their hovels. The air was full of their shouts: 'No! Izquierda! No! Derecho.' Or simply 'No!'

More and more embarrassed, I imagined the locals preparing to beat their fists on the roof of the car. 'Estupido gringo! Ingles loco!' I could almost hear their shouts as they grew angrier and angrier.

But centimetre by centimetre, the Doblo reversed until I was finally able to back drunkenly down a 45 degree camber and carry out a bizarre three point turn to point the car in the opposite direction.

My companions rejoined me in the vehicle.

'Were the locals furious?' I asked. 'They must have been so annoyed by a stupid foreigner banging into their vehicles and buildings!'

'No, not at all,' said Roger. 'I explained that their neighbours at the end of the track had stopped us from turning, and they said, 'Oh no! Not those old idiots again. We only stole their firewood as we can't stand them!'

A few days later we made our way back to France. The day we left, a huge storm swept across Asturias bringing torrential rain and strong winds. I'd wanted to take the ferry back to St Nazaire, but Sally threatened both divorce and going alone by train via Madrid rather than face another trip through the Bay of Biscay. I reluctantly agreed to drive.

Bonne Annee

A new year beckons and who knows, perhaps both of our gites will be functioning next summer. The vegetable garden already beckons as we read the seed catalogues and sow a few impossibly early seeds in the polytunnel.

Will the rest of winter be as bad as November, or will we be able to sit out on the patio in the sunshine in January or February as we have done occasionally in previous years? We shall see.

To all our friends and guests, there will always be a warm welcome here should you want to come to visit us and stay. It would be wonderful to see some of those of you who have never made it here yet.

And to everybody, a Merry Christmas and a very Happy and Prosperous New Year.

Best wishes,

Adrian and Sally,

*' Job 20: verse 15 He swallows riches, But will vomit them up; God will expel them from his belly.'

Adventures in France: Xmas Letter 2009

Dear Friends,

As that Roman chap once said, 'Tempus Fugit', and Tempus has certainly done more than his fair share of 'fugiting' this year.

Here we are already, with 2009 'recessing' into 2010 but we have come through, if not unscathed, then surviving. I did read somewhere recently that we are all £40,000 in debt, a bit hard to understand, but I will take their word for it, as long as they don't ask us to pay it back! We could always see if the French tax office will allow us to enter it as a tax allowance next year, but I don't think they'll be fooled.

BASIL FAWLTY COMES TO 'LES MOUSSEAUX'

Despite the collapse in the pound, we had almost as many gite guests as last year, though some of them brought out the Basil Fawlty in Adrian. We had more New Zealanders and Canadians than British! Running the risk of libel actions, I must say that one of two of them had their idiosyncracies and peculiarities.

I know New Zealand is often warmer than the UK, but April certainly isn't the 'cruellest month' here. Our first NZ guests found it very cold. Using the electric heater occasionally is one thing, but it was on permanently, with all the lights; and one morning we discovered they were heating the kitchen with all four rings and the oven of the gas cooker. No wonder the cylinder was exhausted in two days!

The Canadians turned up in a small sports car. They were a last minute booking, on their way north as part of a 12 month tour of Europe. They booked us on the basis of our extravagant claim to have 'Wifi' broadband. Unfortunately we can only get 512k/s when the wind is blowing from the west and nobody else is using the Internet. Our wonderful Orange 'Livebox' has a range of about ten feet, so you can see the problem.

Our guests became surprisingly irritable when they discovered the only way they could get the Internet was by sitting in the driver's seat of their car and sticking half the laptop through the window. They depended on Skype for essential communication, but here it is about as speedy and effective as the signal from Mariner One as it left the orbit of Uranus.

We also wondered (on the days when they were still talking to us) how they travelled all over Europe with so little luggage in a tiny sports car. 'It's easy,' I was told. 'Every time we get too much stuff, I mail it home.' A day or two later he came back from Noyant complaining bitterly about how much it had cost to post a pair of trousers and a couple of shirts back to Canada.

Later, they asked to borrow the washing machine. That was no problem, until they asked where the 'dryer' was. Sally happily pointed to the line in the orchard.

'What?' said our guests, 'You hang your washing OUTSIDE in the AIR?' (These quaint French customs). We were tempted to say that as the river was so low, we could no longer wash the clothes on the stones, but resisted.

Few of the other guests were as memorable, though one couple regularly used 300 litres of scalding hot water (from the solar panels) by 9 a.m. each morning. We could only speculate on what they were doing with it. On the day they departed, they said how marvellous the solar panels were to provide so much hot water. At the other extreme, a couple of blokes who came for a week's fishing, didn't use any hot water at all!

Winter was incredibly cold. It froze on several nights to minus 20C and we awoke to find there was no water; the well was frozen solid. After some tinkering, we managed to get a trickle flowing from the 'mains' water we seldom use, but the supply from the 'puits' remained frozen for a week. When we coaxed the electric pump back to life, it complained loudly and vibrated madly; water shot out around the metal collar where the pipes were connected. The ice had cracked the steel and we had to call out the plumber and search high and low for a replacement piece to repair it. Despite the intense frost, it was amazing how many tender plants, like cannas and dahlias, survived the winter and burst into growth in the summer.

The summer was extremely dry and almost as hot as in the heatwave of 2003. Despite the drought, our 'deep mulch' system seemed to work, as we had bumper crops of tomatoes, peppers, courgettes and aubergines. We launched ourselves into sun drying tomatoes this year, preserving them in olive oil or in the freezer for the winter.

AUTOMANIA

In February, we decided to buy a car, as the Daihatsu van is noisy and blows over on windy days (well, almost). I decided on a Citroen Berlingo and went on-line to request a test drive in Saumur. Weeks passed, and there was no response, so I tried again. Still no response. Finally, I telephoned the dealer.

'Oui, Monsieur,' he said, 'Come for a test drive at 10 a.m. on Thursday.'

We arrived promptly for the test drive, but nobody seemed in any hurry to acknowledge our presence. Finally, a salesman shuffled out. It is important to understand the relationship between a French salesman and the public. A French salesman sees himself as 'la creme de la creme'. The customers should think themselves fortunate if they are allowed some of his valuable time, and what he says should be accepted without question.

'Oui, Monsieur?' he enquired, looking down his Gallic nose at us. I explained we were there for our test drive.

'Mais, c'est pas possible!' he chortled. 'La vehicle, c'est à Angers!' Anyway, the test drive would have been pointless as now Citroen was producing a new model. It would cost more but was infinitely better than the old one (which in any case was as rare as hen's teeth now). If we were really good, he might consider ordering us one for delivery in June or July, or perhaps August. He could offer us a 50 euro discount if we ordered immediately.

We asked about the full price and he snorted. 'Ça depend!' The price was a closely guarded national secret, but surely one we could afford, with credit. When we insisted on knowing, he acknowledged it would probably be somewhere between 16,000 euros (for a basic model, not worthy of our consideration) to 22,000 for a diesel with a few extras.

We hurriedly bid him 'adieu' (definitely NOT au revoir). He looked slightly affronted, but he clearly 'ne regretted rien'.

We vowed we would never be seen dead in a Citroen, even in a Citroen hearse; and moved on to Fiat. Here we found, remarkably, a friendly and co-operative salesman, though he looked about 14. The dealership was deserted, except for a dozen staff who were very busy shuffling pieces of paper and operating computers. The workshop was empty while three mechanics swept an immaculate floor. But there WAS a Fiat Doblo to try out.

The test drive went well and we were impressed with this car, until we asked the price. The price again, was unnegotiable and varied from 16,000 euros for an underpowered petrol model to about 19,000 for the diesel 1.9. The salesman seemed fatalistic when we said we would need time to consider. 'Je suis sûr que vous trouverez votre bonheur!' he purred, in a rather existential fashion.

That evening, knowing some English friends had imported cars from Belgium or Poland, I went on the Internet. I didn't fancy driving the Daihatsu to Warsaw, but if needs must..... But to my astonishment, I discovered a 1.9 diesel Doblo was available in the UK for £8,500. Under half the French price! A rapid telephone call to the dealer in Portsmouth and we had placed order, with a sales rep. who treated us as if we were royalty and he was the lowest peasant in the kingdom.

By March, we made the trip to the UK. The ferry was due into Portsmouth at 8 a.m. and we would be met to be taken to the dealer's to pick up our shining new Doblo. We planned to travel to Frome and later that weekend to Reading, before getting the ferry back on the Sunday evening.

As we drove out of Portsmouth an hour later, we were besotted with our new vehicle. It was quiet; it was fast; it was comfortable. It even had a luxurious sound system. Such a sensible purchase! Such a good deal! Such a fantastic car! Ah, beware hubris!

We decided to stop in Salisbury. We found a large store on an industrial estate on the outskirts accessible by a narrow road. I tried to do a three point turn. The first 'point' went like a dream. I'm sure the third 'point' would have worked well. But the second 'point' involved using reverse.

I moved the gear lever into the recommended position. Nothing. No resistance. No 'clunk'. No gear! I tried pressing the gear handle down. I tried pulling it up. I tried shaking it all about. Nothing. Rien. Nada.

By now, there were nine or ten cars trailing back in the road behind us and Sally became impatient. 'Push it to the left, ' she snapped. 'No, push it to the right'' Exasperated by my inability to do something as simple as put the car in reverse gear, she clambered into the driving seat. She tried once. She tried twice. She tried a third time. She had to admit defeat.

By now, several impatient drivers had jumped out of their cars and thinking here was a simpleton who didn't know how to drive, jumped into the Doblo themselves and tried to find reverse gear. It took some time for them to be convinced the vehicle didn't have even a suspicion of a reverse gear.

With help, we completed the three point turn by pushing and pulling, and drove into a store carpark. We begged the use of a telephone ('We don't need a mobile?' said Adrian) and angrily phoned the car dealer.

'It's almost five o'clock, ' they said. 'We're closing for the night. Take it to the Salisbury Fiat dealer.'

At the Salisbury dealer, a grizzled old mechanic, the embodiment of all wisdom on things vehicular, shook his head sadly. 'Don't tell them I said this,' he muttered, 'but I don't think that car has EVER had a reverse gear!'

Devastated by this news, and fearing the worst (they'd sold us a pup thinking we'd be on the next ferry out of there!) we had no alternative but to press on to Frome to get a bed for the night.

The next morning at the crack of dawn we headed back to Portsmouth, arriving as the dealer opened at 8.30 a.m. I brushed aside the salesman's apologies by repeating the damning allegations of the Salisbury mechanic. 'I don't think this car has EVER had a reverse gear,' I screamed, stamping my foot.

The salesman, another fresh-faced callow youth, became very flustered but insisted, like a schoolboy, 'But honestly, I DID reverse it yesterday! Cross my heart and hope to die' (the latter words accompanied by the appropriate hand gestures.)

When I suggested we would leave the car with them and tear up our cheque, the manager was summoned, who until this moment had been enjoying a day off. He came dashing into work ten minutes later, still dressed in his gardening clothes.

He did his best to resolve the issue. We had a reassuring telephone call with the head of Fiat customer relations in the UK, assuring us the warranty was Europe wide; we had extracted signed statements from the manager that taking the vehicle did nothing to affect our statutory rights, and a mechanic had done his best to discover the fault. As it was now late on Friday, and we were due back in France on Sunday, he couldn't guarantee to fix the fault that quickly. The best plan was to take the vehicle, with no reverse gear, and have it fixed under the warranty in France.

We had several more adventures that weekend as we travelled from Somerset to Reading and back to Portsmouth. The vehicle was trapped in a pub car park. We met on-coming traffic on narrow lanes ('No, YOU reverse! But we CAN'T. I don't believe you! YOU reverse!'). Finally we were asked to reverse into a narrow compartment on the ferry.

The final ignominy was taking the vehicle to the dealership in Saumur.

'Alors, votre Fiat d'Angleterre n'a pas une marche en arriere!' said the mechanic, with irony. 'Now 'ad you bought it 'ere!'

The salesman drifted gloomily into the workshop. 'So you 'ave found your 'bonheur'', he mused, unaware of the even greater irony of his statement.

But they fixed it, under the warranty, and now it works fine. The French tax office tried hard to make us pay VAT twice. They wouldn't believe it cost so little, but we did finally convince them.

'SHIPWRECKED ON THE LOIRE'

During the summer, we managed a few canoe trips on the local rivers. One trip ended abruptly with us getting soaked in a heavy thunderstorm; and the second one, with some friends from Saumur, almost ended in disaster.

We'd decided to padddle across the Loire to Montsoreau on the south bank where we would have lunch. The Loire here is broad, and looks tranquil.

When we first surveyed the site, the river came right up to the banks, but on our return visit, there were large expanses of mud banks which meant dragging the canoe and our little rowing boat across shallow water and sand. This was fine for us, who are used to such things, but our friends had turned up in their best clothes and shoes and were not at all happy. Sally and I were soon well out into the current in the canoe, with Bertie sitting between us, heading for the far bank a kilometre away. About two thirds of the distance across I looked back to see where our friends were in the rowing boat. There was no sign of them!

Straining my eyes, I peered downstream where the Loire wrapped around a large sandbank and then headed towards a railway bridge. On the horizon was a little blue boat, bobbing on the current, with someone waving madly, as they headed downstream in at a rate of knots.

Eventually they made it to the far bank, but about a kilometre downstream of where they were heading. We heard later that the story of how Adrian and Sally tried to drown them was circulating in the 'ex-pat' community! But the Loire is a very deceptive river and an expanse of calm, placid water hides a raging current below the surface!

VIVA ESPANA

Sally went apple picking from late August to November. As well as earning a little money it also signs us up for French health care. We are both now officially agricultural labourers. Sally will even be entitled to a French pension of around 15 euros a year when she retires!

In November, we set off south to visit our friends, Roger and Sheila, in Northern Spain (Asturias).

The journey was mostly uneventful, except for one stretch of road between Bordeaux and Bayonne in south west France. The motorway here abruptly becomes a dual carriageway, and the speed limit is reduced to 90 km an hour. There is also a stretch where overtaking by lorries is forbidden for about 40 kilometres. The result is a convoy of 100 lorries travelling nose to tail at 89.5 km an hour.

By pulling into the fast lane, you can overtake the lorries very slowly, but only if you exceed the speed limit. Then you have the impossible job of getting back into the slow lane through a solid line of lorries while other French speed freaks flash their lights at you for hogging the fast lane.

While you are trying to avoid a horrible death in a multiple pile up, French road engineers have set a cunning little trap for you. For no explicable reason, the speed limit is suddenly reduced to 70 km an hour for a stretch of road one or two kilometres long. By the time you notice the sign, it's already too late, as your attention has been grabbed by the flashing lights of speed cameras hidden in trees by the roadside.

The 'locals' all know about this and slow down just before the cameras, but unwary foreigners, like us, always get caught. These small sections of road generate enough speed fine income in one day to repay the French national debt for a month. More of this later.

When you cross the border into Spain, you only realise that you have entered a different country as you pay to leave the motorway and the road signs look slightly different. There are no customs or immigration controls. Britain remains the only place in the EU where you are cross-examined about the purpose of your journey going in, and searched and X-rayed on the way out. Such is the UK paranoia about 'Europe'.

The Spanish have no word for 'environment', or if they do, they have long since stopped using it. Spanish motorways wrap round the mountainsides and Atlantic coast, slicing through ancient picturesque villages with Roman bridges and tunneling through areas which would be proclaimed of outstanding natural beauty in the UK. It is in the cities and towns that their indifference to the environment reaches its peak. Six lanes of motorway are perched on flyovers that pass quite literally two or three metres from windows in the blocks of workers' flats. Everyone drives flat out at 100 km an hour, and overtaking occurs to left and to right, even as you plunge into an urban tunnel. At one point, Bertie was so terrified by a large black SUV looming up on us, that he leapt from the back seat into my arms (and I was driving at the time!)

We stopped, nervous wrecks by this time, in Laredo, a coastal town near Santander. We found bars which had magnificent seafood menus on the doors, but found them packed with elderly men in flat caps, drinking 'vino tinto' and cider. Asking about the food, we were told that was for the 'turistas' in the summer, not in November.

Eventually we found a 'gourmet' restaurant, open even in November, called 'El Snack Bar'. (I'm not kidding!) The customers were drinking rather than eating, though the sun was shining and tables were outside. The menu choice reminded me of the 'spam, spam, spam' sketch in Monty Python, but I ordered fried merguez, fried egg, fried chorizo and fried chips.

It was some hours later when we arrived in Santolaya de Cabranes in Asturias, where our friends lived. A beautiful little village set in the mountains, it was a marked contrast to the urban nightmare and environmental holocaust which represents most of the Spanish coast. But I had hardly time to greet our friends before 'El Snack Bar' took its toll on me and I rushed to use the local sanitation. I was laid low for the rest of the evening.

We enjoyed our visit, but discovered that in Spain, unlike France, dogs are unwelcome anywhere! Not just bars and restaurants, but shops and museums all had the same sign ... 'No perros!' Bertie almost suffered nervous breakdowns having to be left alone so frequently, so far from home. For November, the weather was surprisingly warm and sunny, and lots of late holidaymakers thronged the little port by the estuary and lemon trees were in flower, with bougainvillea and morning glories. Wonderful! Our stay was far too short.

FINES AND DRIVING LICENCES

A few days after our return, a buff envelope appeared in the postbox at the top of the drive. In it was a speeding fine for exceeding the 90 km limit by 3 km an hour. A stain on Adrian's driving record, unblemished for 40 years!

Now the French don't mess about when collecting fines. You have several options. Pay up NOW and it costs 45 euros. Want to appeal? Ok, pay 70 euros NOW, and risk losing it all. OR don't pay at all. The fine will go up to 250 euros and they'll come round and shoot your dog! Guess what? I paid up on line.

Now I'm not one to whinge about a speeding fine, especially after all the times I've sanctimoniously told friends, 'Well, if you don't want to be fined, you should stick to the speed limits!' But an annoying sequitur was that my UK driving licence had to be replaced with a French one, so that the points could be added to it. I'd had the UK one for decades, and the photo still shows me as a cherubic youth with hair.

The bright sparks who run our 'departement' of Maine et Loire had the clever idea some time ago that they would move lots of things done in the 'sous prefectures' in places like Saumur, to the main Prefecture, a massive palacial building in the centre of Angers. No doubt they thought this would save money, but it means that those living on the fringes of the Departement have to travel over 100 kilometres there and back.

Our first journey to Angers was uneventful, but we discovered that the Prefecture had no easy access, except from a warren of one way streets, and that the extensive roadworks to put in a new tram system made travel anywhere in the vicinity nearly impossible. The Prefecture was crowded that day, with hundreds queuing for car registrations, driving licences and other requirements. There was a ticket system for each 'window' but some people just vanished from the queue, having given up or expired during the long wait.

Now a French 'fonctionnaire' is not there to serve the public; it is the public's job to earn his respect. His main objective in life is to catch you out, and prove to you that you are a congenital idiot. 'Quoi?? You 'ave forgotten ze certified copy of your maternal grandmother's wedding certificate! Idiot! It says clearly on ze form WRY678, 'ere, in small print, grandmother's certificate, essentiel!!'

However, he was to be disappointed as Sally had checked all the forms carefully and we had a sackful of the necessary documents and proofs of identity. Of course, the licence couldn't be issued there and then. It would be ready in a 'quinzaine'.

Just over a week later, the phone rang. The licence was ready.

'You must come and fetch it, and hand in the old one, ' we were told.

'But it's 130 kilometres there and back,' we explained. 'Surely we can exchange them by 'courrier'.' That sounded reasonable, we were told. Ok, by post would be fine.

A few minutes later, the phone rang again.

'Non!' said a voice. 'It is impératif you must come vous-même! Par courrier, c'est pas possible!'

My objections to this on the grounds of global warming and sustainability fell on deaf ears. He was adamant.

Our second journey to Angers was not easy. Road works at Baugé‚ caused the first hold up; then there was a serious accident on the motorway into Angers, causing huge tailbacks. We took an alternative route into the centre, and became lost. As we parked it started to rain.

Sally pointed across a little park near where we had parked and to a little church half hidden amid office blocks. 'That's the church by the Prefecture, ' she asserted. I wasn't so sure. Besides, it looked to be a couple of kilometres away.

As we walked across the little park, the rain began to fall more heavily. The shower became a downpour; the wind blew. Neither of us had brought coats as the sun had been shining when we left.

Soaked to the skin, we reached the little church, but the Prefecture seemed to have vanished. None of the landmarks looked familiar.

We asked in a 'boulangerie'. 'J'ai aucune idée, ' she said. We asked in a bar. 'Prefecture???' Qu'est-ce que c'est?' said the barman, pretending not to understand us, while glowering at the two drowned rats in front of him, who were clearly not going to order anything. 'Il n'y a pas une 'Prefecture' à Angers!'

In desperation, we asked some workmen in the little park. They pointed to a boulevard off to the left, and told us to follow that. It would be about a ten minute walk.

Forty five minutes later, having walked in what amounted to a complete circle, we reached the doors of the Prefecture. It was about twenty five metres from the other side of the little church we had reached an hour previously.

We looked as if we had just swum the Loire, but today the Prefecture was uncharacteristically quiet. We only had to wait five minutes while the hatchet-faced harridan behind the 'permis de conduire' counter humiliated a young French woman wanting her first licence.

Then it was our turn. I explained we'd come for our driving licence.

'Mais, Monsieur,' she said, 'je suis desolé, l'ordinateur est en panne!' (The computer system has broken down.) It was impossible to issue a driving licence that day.

She was on the point of asking us to call again, when she saw the murderous look on my face, and the way I grasped my pen like a stiletto. Sally was also looking daggers and groaning, 'C'est impossible! '

'Mais vous dites c'est pas possible d'envoyer le permis par courrier!' I snapped.

Now a French bureaucrat's entire motivation in life is to cause inconvenience and anguish to the public (especially the English), but a miracle happened. The harridan's face cracked into a beatific smile:

'Mais, Monsieur, TOUT est possible!'

Today would be that rare day, that one day in a lifetime, in a career, when she would actually HELP a member of the public. It would be a story to tell her grandchildren in later years.

It only took ten minutes to take all our details. She even allowed us to keep the provisions in the UK licence which allowed us to tow caravans and drive small lorries, something the French licence doesn't normally allow without a doctorate in HGV engineering.

The licence arrived by post, three days later!

Meanwhile, work on our next 'gite' continues, as it seems to continue every year. It's a little like the Forth Bridge, because as soon as I think I'm near finishing, another major job appears, like having to render the walls or replace a beam. But I scoff at the TV programmes in which a one-armed asthmatic single-handedly renovates a rusty water tower in six weeks, usually for around £10,000, turning it into a luxury home with an Aga and hand-carved furniture. Life really ain't like that! One day soon, our 'Grand Design' will be complete and I can get back to gardening.

We have a 'new' website as the lovely people at freezoka.com decided to stop hosting the other one with 24 hours notice. That means our website at mousseaux.co.cc and all the email addresses ending that way is defunct.

Our new website is http://www.loire-gites.eu linked also to the domain 'loire-gites.co.uk'. Our friends in Spain kindly suggested we should call our website 'loire-GITS.eu' but we decided that might create the wrong impression.

Have a great 2010.

Lots of love and best wishes from,

Adrian and Sally

Emails:

holidays@loire-gites.eu

adriangfox@gmail.com

sally.scott-white@orange.fr

adrian.fox@orange.fr

lacderille@orange.fr

adrian.fox@gawab.com

moussette@gawab.com

...that's enough emails... ed.

Xmas Song: Rudolph the Red Nosed Banker

Rudolph the red-nosed banker,

Thought he really had it made,

When he was selling sub-primes,

He was really highly paid.

All of the other bankers,

Viewed him with jealousy,

They realised old Rudolph,

Thought that every lunch was free.

Then one fateful Xmas Eve,

Creditors came to say,

"Rudolph with your money stash,

Give us back our hard-earned cash!"

Then all the people loathed him,

As they shouted angrily,

"Rudolph the red-nosed banker,

You'll go down in history!"

Jacques of All Trades: DIY disasters in Rural France

Jacques of All Trades! Disasters in Rural France

Part I

Jacques of All Trades: DIY disasters in Rural France

Le Ramoneur Anglais.. the joys of wood central heating.

After two freezing winters ("it never snows here," said the French neighbours), we decided that the romantic appeal of the 'poêle à bois' was becoming rather jaundiced. With firewood available from our little copse, and generous grants available from the French state, we decided the time had come to install wood fired central heating. (So ecological, so cheap, so simple!)

The first hurdle came in finding an artisan or 'professionnel' to do the job. We knew a French plumber who had installed our solar panels, the son of our immediate neighbours, so he had to be the first port of call. But his work had been expensive, and this time we decided to look elsewhere at the same time.

The moment he arrived the alarm bells began to ring.

'What is your budget?' he asked. An extraordinary question suggesting that his price would be tailored to what he thought we could afford. Despite our 'actuarially-reduced' reply, he scoffed at doing the job for anything remotely like the figure we had suggested. Instead, he said he would provide a range of estimates for several systems, ranging from the 'basic' to something which might meet our full requirements.

While he rubbed his hands thinking of how many 'sous' he might extract from us, there was a knock on the door. We were startled to find a second plumber standing on the threshold. We had asked him to call the next day!

To our embarrassment it was evident that the two plumbers were close buddies. A conspiratorial, whispered conversation in unintelligible French followed, and then plumber one bade us 'au revoir', promised the estimates in the next ten days, and headed out into the night.

The second plumber showed little further interest. He went through the motions of measuring rooms for the 'cuisinière' and 'ballon', but his heart was no longer in it. Promising us an estimate in the inevitable 'dix jours', he left.

'Une quinzaine' later, an estimate arrived from plumber one. The 'basic' price was high, but only provided for a rudimentary stove in the kitchen which would heat one radiator. Each subsequent estimate increased the price, culminating in the most expensive one, which promised an Aga-lookalike, which would heat three radiators; but not the hot water as we had requested. The price was more than double what we'd expected. Despite the tax rebates which would pay for half the price of the stove, the estimate was out of our range. (If you will forgive the pun!)

We never again heard from Plumber Two. His cosy agreement with Plumber One was that he wouldn't trespass in his 'territoire.' We told Plumber One, that we would 'réflechir'.

"Comme vous voulez," he sneered, when we telephoned him.

In the meantime we picked up the phone book and trawled through the 'plombiers' in other towns in a 50 kilometre radius. Having heard stories of 'alien' artisans being harangued by "locals" for 'taking the bread from the mouths of our children' when seen working in villages outside their normal territory, this was a strategy full of peril.

But we wanted wood central heating, we wanted a system that would heat the house and water, and we wanted it at a reasonable price.

Numerous other visits from disinterested plumbers later, we finally met someone who wanted the work, and received an estimate that fitted our budget. We rapidly signed on the dotted line and scrawled the statutory 'bon pour accord' across the 'devis'.

So far so good, but the 'cuisiniere' came in two colours (something of a novelty for a French manufacturer!) : an attractive 'terre' or red-earth colour which would match our kitchen fixtures, and a bland refridgerator-white, which looked clinical and unattractive.

Three weeks later, we decided to pay the deposit for the work. The plumber had his premises in a suburb of a nearby town. We handed the cheque to the young woman at the desk.

"We'd like the cooker in 'terre', " I explained. "And could you ask Monsieur B to contact us to let us know when he might be able to start the work."

She smiled. "Monsieur B will be telephoning you this evening. "

That night the phone began to ring frantically. It was a flustered Monsieur B, who seemed to be very upset with us.

"Mais, I 'ave already ordered you a superbe 'white' cuisiniere", he began. "Maintenant, it is 'impossible' to change the order. "

'Blanc' was the 'default' colour. Nothing but blanc could we have! We must be content with blanc!

When we expressed our astonishment that he had ordered the cooker before asking us our preference, he conceded that for a mere 250 euros extra, it might, just, prove possible. This was what his 'wholesaler' would charge him for changing the order. The new cooker had already been made. Our unreasonableness would cause massive problems to French production in the kitchen equipment industry.

Uncertain what to do, we told him we would ring him back with our decision.

Fortuitously, our bilingual English neighbour was also planning a new central heating system. She wanted an expensive heat pump with under-floor heating. A ruthlessly modern consumer, determined to get the best bargain possible, she had already contacted several dozen heating engineers, including the one who was planning to install our system.

Over a comforting glass of 'vin rouge', we explained our dilemma and her eyes brightened. Here was a challenge! She would soon put this artisan in his place!

"Telephone me tomorrow morning at ten a.m.," she said. "I have a 'rendez-vous' with Monsieur B who is coming to prepare an estimate for me. If you check that he's arrived, you can confront him directly."

We were on her doorstep about twenty minutes after his arrival the next morning. But Monsieur B was not there. Instead, he had sent his fresh-faced young son. Dressed in an ill-fitting suit, he was already nervous, and his face fell on seeing us.

We sat down with him over a coffee and politely explained our dissatisfaction with the fact that being forced to accept a wood stove in a colour we didn't want was hardly 'service de client'. His only response was a gallic shrug and a few sympathetic words.

"But Monsieur, Madame, " he began.....

"Ecoutez-moi!" interrupted our bilingual neighbour, exasperated and losing patience with him. She was an ex-head teacher, a feminist dragon, and did not suffer fools gladly.

"Ecoutez-moi," she continued, in perfectly fluent French. "Are you saying," she added, her voice dripping in irony, "that you expect Monsieur et Madame Fox to see before them each morning, a cooker which they did not choose and did not want? Do you really expect that afterwards they will think favourably of you, and recommend your work to others? Do you think that this is what is to be expected from a true French artisan? Monsieur, your attitude is inexplicable, unjustifiable, and absurd. Even if it results in extra cost to your father, you must know that customer satisfaction is the most important thing to you if you are ever to get any more work from the English in this area!"

By now, Monsieur B's son had wilted, and was agreeing enthusiastically with her on every point. He saw large swarms of euros flitting away into the distance, as he feared his father's company would lose not just one contract, but dozens.

"I am sure that what you say is right," he said, turning to us, an older and wiser young man. "I am sorry. I will do my best to convince my father about what you say. He will give you an 'appel' tomorrow."

True to his son's word, Monsieur B phoned the next day to confirm that the 'cuisiniere' in 'terre' was already on its way to him and that it would be installed within the next month. Of course, he agreed, the 'client' is always right!

Shunned by the Neighbours and Thierry's Revenge

Meanwhile, there were two further developments.

Our neighbours knew that their dearly beloved son (plumber one) had given us an estimate for an expensive central heating system. They anxiously enquired daily whether we had accepted their son's estimate and wanted to know when the work would start.

Embarrassed, awkward and plagued by guilt, we said we were still 'reflecting' on the decision. But finally we bit the bullet and telephoned their son. We explained we would not be accepting his estimate; it was simply too expensive.

The next time we saw our neighbours, they were out in the fields around their cottage. We waved to them. Had they seen us? They turned their backs and continued working.

Since our arrival, whenever they had a surplus of plums, asparagus, peaches, or apples from their productive small-holding, they would arrive at our door with a share in their bounty. There would be smiles, a pleasant word or two and we would offer them an aperitif.

Now, the supply abruptly ended. We tried little acts of contrition; a jar of our honey left on the doorstep, an exotic vegetable or fruit for them to try. But there was no response! We had been ostracized!

It was two years before they spoke to us again.

Meanwhile, Monsieur B's team arrived to install the stove and central heating.

The bulky cooker/wood burner only just came through the door. The hot water tank weighed a ton, and was only dragged up the stairs into the old 'grenier' with great difficulty.

Soon all was in place. A young 'ouvrier' called Thierry would start to install the pipework and wiring the next week.

Thierry was an enthusiastic, tidy and careful workman. He was a reformed alcoholic as we discovered when we tried to present him with a bottle of expensive wine as a thank you for his good work. This was to be the first of many 'faux pas.'

Even his Job-like patience began to dissipate when my wife, well-intentioned but lacking in empathy, decided that all the radiator pipes had to be hidden behind walls. This meant that upstairs, Thierry had to crawl in pitch-darkness on his hands-and-knees through a roof cavity at the eaves, half-filled with fibreglass and other detritus. He had to avoid obstacles such as live wiring and existing water pipes, and wild creatures that had been trapped, and expired there.

He protested that the pipes would lose heat into the void. But to no purpose; his words fell on deaf ears.

The next drama occurred when he began to drill a hole through the living room doorway, to route the pipes to a large radiator. Anxiously, he enquired whether there was any electrical wiring hidden in the walls. As I hadn't installed any wiring in that room, I blithely assured him that all was well. There wasn't the slightest danger.

Mounted on a step-ladder, he took out his huge 'perceuse' and began drilling enthusiastically through the plasterboard. Soon, a cloud of dust rising around him, he was through the stone walls into the rubble-filled cavity beyond.

There was a blinding flash. The drill stopped abruptly and the smell of cordite filled the air. All the lights in the house were suddenly extinguished.

Trembling, Thierry staggered from the step ladder, and explained that it appeared he had hit a main electricity cable.

I apologized profusely. But for the rest of the work, he seemed a broken man.

Thierry's Revenge

I should have noticed the gleam in his eye; I should have guessed that his silence was more than just concentrating on the work in hand; but finally Thierry began to install the tube from the 'cuisinere' into the chimney.

The ancient chimney was already lined with a stainless steel tube for the old wood stove. But the cooker stood to the left of the chimney breast, and the connection had to be routed at a tight angle. I should have watched carefully, I should have realized the implications, but I was busy drinking coffee at the time and dreaming of balmy winter evenings in front of the new radiators.

An enigmatic smile on his face, Thierry attached a 70 degree bend in the centre of the chimney and clamped it to the vertical tube. From this he took a two metre piece which went horizontally through the chimney wall, protruding into the room directly above the stove. Here he attached another right angle bend, and a further 30 degree section which made the connection via a short piece of straight tube to the top of the cooker.

It looked a little odd. The chimney twisted tortuously from the stove and through the wall, like a large metal snake seeking a cosy lair for the winter.

But everything worked perfectly when the central heating boiler was first lit. It seemed sensible to seal off the bottom of the main chimney to retain the heat in the kitchen. The fact that the right angle junction in the tube could no longer be accessed seemed unimportant at the time.

Now, I'd heard all about chimney sweeping 'rules'. I knew our chimney should be swept once a year. I knew that if you had a fire and the chimney hadn't been swept by a card-carrying certified chimney sweep, with a doctorate in 'ramonage', then your insurance was invalid. And the 'pompiers' would ask you to pay their bill if they had to turn out for a chimney fire. This was French regulation at its worst.

But what I hadn't realized at the time, was that Thierry and Monsieur B. already had a subtle plan in place for their revenge on 'Les Anglais difficiles'.

Next: Fire! And how I learnt to become a chimney sweep.

Part 2 of 'Jacques of All Trades: DIY Disasters in Rural France

Fire! And how I learned to become a chimney sweep.

The first few weeks after the wood powered central heating was installed proved to be a revelation. Within 30 minutes of a fire blazing in the firebox, the 200 litre tank was full of scalding-hot water; the kitchen was tropical; the tiny bathroom with its oversized radiator suddenly became a sauna! We could even bake good bread and roast potatoes in the stove's oven. We planned pineapples in the parlour and date palms in the dining room!

We had no doubt we'd made a good investment, and now we could face the coming winter with equanimity, whatever it threw at us. We even had a big tax refund to look forward to the next year.

We didn't worry too much about the strange twisting chimney and I mentally made a note to call the 'ramoneur' at the end of the winter.

It was about three months later, in late December that the problems began. For some inexplicable reason, the cooker wasn't as efficient as it had been. Smoke blew out from under the hot plates every time the kitchen door was opened and shut. The oven refused to reach temperatures much above 100C. The radiators were tepid and the wood sulked and refused to burn, preferring to smoulder.

Desperate to get the cooker going one morning, my wife piled on lots of twigs. She opened up the ventilation, pulled out the ashtray, and left the stove door ajar to let more draught penetrate.

She put a match to the scrunched up paper beneath the twigs. The paper burst into flame and she turned her back on the fire. It was time to feed the cats and dogs.

Five minutes must have passed when I came downstairs and into the kitchen. I had heard what I guessed was a MIG-15 buzzing the house, but now I heard a loud roaring noise like a blowtorch on speed. The cooker was gently pulsating and the chimney tube was glowing cherry-red. The kettle on the hob was pouring steam and the kitchen was rapidly becoming a Turkish bath.

Rushing outside to find my wife, I saw black smoke pouring from the chimney and there was an acrid stench of incinerating soot.

My wife came rushing back from serving the cats' breakfast, to discover why I was panicking and screaming.

"The house is on fire," I roared.

Back in the kitchen, I continued panicking while she calmly thrust wet towels against the front of the firebox door, sealing off all the air. The towels were soon adding their steam and smoke to the fume-filled kitchen.

But after another five minutes, the roaring began to subside; the stove groaned, then gulped in protest and began to cool down.

Ten minutes passed, during which the chimney tubes, once pristine shining stainless steel, changed colour from glowing red to a shade of burnt-caramel.

They were still too hot to touch.

Another half hour passed, and realization dawned; perhaps it was time to sweep the chimney!

How to Sweep a Chimney in One Easy Lesson

The next day we telephoned an English friend, a self-taught plumber, who was prepared to turn his hand to anything when asked.

At this point, the thought of dismantling the warped and disfigured chimney tubes caused me some trepidation. But it had to be done. To remove them, I had to lever off the heavy metal plates which formed the top of the cooker and then wrestle the whole assembly sideways until it came away from the base.

Ten minutes, three falls, and a submission later and it was done. But would a chimney brush go horizontally through the wall, and twist its way into the vertical chimney?

Our friend wasn't even going to try. He was determined to sweep the chimney from the top, down. This was the macho approach. Sweeping from the bottom was for wimps!

Shinning up a ladder, and borrowing a wonky home-made roof ladder made of fragile, wormy timbers, he managed to crawl safely up the chimney breast, where he removed the chimney cover and found the egress of the tubing. He thrust his sweep's brushes down the tube and twisted them round and round. Meanwhile, in the kitchen below, I stood balanced precariously on a stool, a bucket in my hand, hovering below the tube where it came through the wall.

Two or three tiny fragments of black 'coke' rattled down the tube into the bucket with a faint 'plonk'. These were followed by a dozen tiny particles of soot. And that was all. Where was the rest?

Before I could ask our friend, he had slid back down the roof to safety and had come in to inspect the fruits of his labour.

"Couldn't have been very dirty!" he snapped, seeing the pathetic quantity of black powder and ash in my bucket. I explained about the chimney fire, and he gave a grunt:

"Must have burnt out all your soot. Your chimney's been cleaned by the fire. "

He laughed, "But don't do it again, it's highly dangerous. The tube could melt and the fire could spread into the main chimney and set your house on fire."

But the job had been accomplished. We could now relax. We sat down at the kitchen table, and opened a celebratory bottle of Pastis. We topped up each glass with water from the well, and congratulated each other in the traditional way.

"Santé, prospérité et bonheur!" I joked. And then we talked about the trials and tribulations of wood stoves, chimneys, homes full of dust and wood ash, and the on-going debate about whether chimneys should be swept bottom-up, or top-down.

An hour later he staggered from the table and clambered into his car.

Feeling confident that I was now capable of solving any problem thrown at me, I reassembled the stove and forced the recalcitrant 'snake' back into place. Convinced the wood stove was as good as new, I built a large fire in the firebox and put a match to it.

For some peculiar reason, the match went out as soon as I held the flame in the firebox. I tried again. The same thing happened.

Finally, with the third match the paper began to burn anaemically, but the smoke billowed back into the room.

"Must be too cold," I thought. "As soon as the fire heats up, the smoke will go straight up the nice clean chimney."

I shut the stove door and waited.

It must have been just a few seconds later, but by then smoke had begun to pour through the hotplates of the stove. It was even coming from the gaps around the chimney fittings and the edges of the steel plates which comprised the top of the cooker. It was even coming from under the oven door!

For the second time that day I began to panic. I summoned my long-suffering wife to the task of extinguishing the fire, which by now had really begun to take hold. The kitchen was full of smoke, the smoke alarm was bleating in protest, and the dogs had taken cover under the table, whimpering.

We opened the kitchen doors on to terrace beyond and pulled the still-blazing wood on to the gravel, where we doused it with a nearby bucket. The mess was terrible and so was the smell.

"What's happened?" I coughed, angry with my wife for no reason at all. "Why won't the b****y stove work any more?"

Images flashed through my mind: tubes completely parted or burnt through half way up the chimney; dead pigeons jammed in the junctions; hornet nests melted like liquid fudge in the interstices of the cuisiniere.

A return wrestling match was played. Soon the tubing submitted and lay in a warped pile on the kitchen floor.

Next I balanced one-legged on a tiny stool with my hand plunged deeply up the tube through the wall, like James Herriot at the backside of a heifer with a breach birth on a bad day.

Straining further into the pipe, my fingertips came across a mass of thick crusty powder. I scooped some into my palm and extricated my arm, now a deep black colour along its entire length.

"That's your best sweater!" snapped my wife, looking at the now ruined garment!

My hand was full of burnt soot. At the junction of the vertical chimney tube where it met the 90 degree bend, there was a congested mass of soot. Everything our friend had pushed down the chimney was stuck there. A total impasse of soot. And virtually unreachable, unless a friendly orang-utang or a freak from a circus with a love for burnt carbon was somewhere in the vicinity.

A light bulb flashed on in my brain. This is a job for 'Super-Vac'!

Dismayed and disillusioned by our long-suffering Dyson, which positively refused to sweep up plaster, building rubble, metal shavings, sand and mortar dust, without becoming completely blocked, I had made an impulse purchase of a wet and dry R2D2-lookalike from a DIY superstore. This baby was up for anything, and was prepared to get down and dirty. Or so I thought.

Shoving the protesting vaccuum tube into the chimney, it finally made contact with the mass of black sticky magma. There was a sound like someone with chronic constipation who has in desperation been given an overdose of an enema.

Dust and debris hurtled down the vacuum tube into the machine, which coughed loudly in protest and then began to whine as the bag filled, the tube blocked and the flow of soot ended. R2D2 was dismantled (where was C3PO when you needed him?) the tubes unblocked, the filter beaten clean, the bag emptied.

By now the kitchen looked like a landscape after a pyroclastic flow, only everything was black rather than grey.

By the time R2D2 had submitted to his colonic irrigation five times, the chimney was finally clean.

The chimney tubes were reconstructed (it was getting easier each time!) ; the cooker reassembled. Normality had been restored as a refreshing blast of cool air blew up the chimney and a lit match sent its smoke swirling into the darkness beyond.

No, I'm not really implying that Thierry really knew that this would happen. But to be honest, I'm not sure!

It's just that now and again I have this graphic dream. Thierry and Monsieur B are in a bar, joking and laughing over an aperitif .

"You remember, " says Monsieur B, " 'Les Anglais' ? Zee ones who made me change la couleur de la cuisinière! Vot vas wrong wiv zee poêle blanc?"

"Oui!" replies Thierry. "Et I 'ad to 'ide all zee 'tuyaux' be'ind zee walls. Zere were millions of araignées zere! Et ze Anglais tried to électrocute moi!"

"Oui! Mais 'ave zay managed to sweep zere cheminée?" giggles Monsieur B.

But the years have passed and we have grown to live with our wood central heating. The water is always piping hot; we still bake bread; we run four large radiators. And as long as you don't mind sweeping the chimney at least five times a year, there's absolutely no problem

Practice makes perfect. We have discovered that chimneys can be swept from the bottom up. R2D2 has become proficient at doing his stuff, though his filters are ragged and worn. A good shower soon rids me of the soot on my skin, in my hair, in my eyes and beneath my nails.

It's my clothes that have suffered the most. Most of my sweaters have a left sleeve which is mysteriously darker and dustier than the right.

That's me, 'Le Ramoneur Anglais.' At your service. If you've a difficult chimney to sweep, I'm your man!

Posted by Bertie Fox at 09:35 0 comments