Bonjour
mes choufleurs
Greetings
from MacaDee.
We
have attempted le ski…a challenge for me psychodogically given my last run
ended in the big yellow stretcher and Colgate ring of confidence man asking
permission to touch me in “an inappropriate place ma’am” followed by 2 hours
alternately sitting on frozen peas and wheatbags. Some noticeable differences
in US and French skiing
– the helpful US brush any snow off the
chair lift upon which you are about to sit…the French don’t, even when it’s that snow that
really wets you
- the French shout at you even if you are
not planning to go through the gate onto the ski lift, in the US it is have a
nice day.
- The French will not necessarily stop the lift
roller mat thingy on which you are standing even tho’ they told you to stand
further forward and you are in danger of coming of the end before the lift chair
arrives. The Us are scared witless of being sued.
- The French automatically think you want
wine for lunch despite the slippy footwear to be redonned, the first time you stupidly accept without
thinking.
I
was not dancing with these the first time, I know they’re huskies. You can go
on day trips with them and if you fall down in the snow, they drag you back
home by your hood so you don’t die, at least I think that’s what the brochure
said.
We
were also testing the new technology that day - car snowshoes
On
the creative side we have planted 2 rows of spuds. P is still battling with les taupes and has
attempted to rotivate his way through the earth’s core to join our surrogate
son Mr B in Sydney. There has been ash put down, a chisel poked in moments
after a hill has appeared, foul language, and big heel stomps. At the point of
writing this the mole equivalent of a two finger salute appeared almost in the
back kitchen and he resorted to jumping off the chicken house roof.
I
need someone to write to P advising of the danger of looking like Victor Meldrew
in the hedgehog scene. Meanwhile I have
quietly got on and weeded all this
We
have commenced decoration of the lounge as the rainy day project..we only do it
when it rains. In the UK there is B & Q, stateside go to Home
Deeeeepoooooot and in France Mr Bricolage, Bricomarche or Castorama. Who said
the French are not into DIY;well it is possibly true based on the woman
pursuing an assistant round the shop with “Ceci, que fait-il? “ on a loop. They
even seem to have pensioner Wednesday.
And
we have been kept on the DIY straight and narrow due to a tempet violent
without the Caliban, unless you class P contorting and snorting with derision
whilst trying to move lights and re-wire switches with wiring akin to the Paris
metro map. This has been exacerbated by the fact that when putting new paint on
the old paint has obligingly come off!
Anyway the tempet has been so violent that our patio by the back door
which is 11 bi 10 bi 3 inches in depth filled up and this is in spite of a
legally required soak away..we watched our wellingtons float away from under
the patio table cover AND…….the rain has come through the window shutters (we
battened down all the hatches). As the young man in the café in Salies de Bearn
once said and it could have been a direct quote from any of the cafés in Hawes,
Coniston or the Ribble Valley ….”It doesn’t get this green by magic you know”
ou “Ce ne develop pas ce vert par magic, tu sais”.
Many
a time has it been said P knows how to show a girl a good time. My birthday was
spent at the Foire d’Occasion in Navarrenx.
I was not entirely sure what one of these might be except I knew there
was to be a vide grenier which is like a French car boot come temporary
brocante, an antique/junk shop. So there we were working up and watching a
steam being worked up on aged agricultural machinery whilst Lionel Ritchie’s
Caribbean Queen is being blasted out over the village tannoy system. Party on Wayne.
I
negotiated expertly the very excited woman who asked where she could see the
animals. I told her I had walked right round the village and seen none and she seemed
to understand.
Scared
of being asked to dance by the guy in the shell suit or P whipping out a scale
model of hawk, Nimrod or JSF to the words:
“Call
that a machine? This is a machine” I dragged him off to find the vide grenier which
was in the school sports hall, the walk to which was highlighted by the local
village character hitching her trousers up in a manoeuvre which seemed to
suggest the opposite was about to happen, this was followed by her picking up a
piece of stray ivy and some mistletoe and wrapping it affectionately in a rain
mate and then the piece de resistance; looking in each parked car and then
kissing the window…………it seems the world over we give lost souls the same
askance look and twenty foot wide berth.
I
was hoping the animal lady had walked this way as the vide grenier was also
advertising the chance to see “les beaux animaux” and there they were
….chickens and cockerels of all shapes and sizes…why are most breeds named
after Orpington in Kent? Then there was
a very rowdy German cockerel and all the French breeds bar one looked like the
teapot version of Angela Lansbury in Beauty and the Beast complete with
bloomers. The cutest were the two little brown ducks who I would have just
loved following me round the house as pets.
But it also brings me to the newest phrase I have learned which is “leche la vitrine”…which translates literally as lick the windows and actually means window shopping.
This bit also brings me to the faux pas of P when we were first looking for a house. We
brought a present for the owners of the chamber d’hote in which we stayed a
couple of times and Muriel – a Parisian version of a young Hannah Gordon (those
under 45 look it up). She had fallen in love with P in part because he ate
everything she put in front of him. Anyway I taught him to say a phrase when handing
over the present (a box of Yorkshire teabags…as she kept offering me a tissane –
I may have short legs like him but there the resemblance to Hercule Poirot
stops…yes I know he’s Belgian). The evening went like this:
While
changing for dinner:
S P you say “Muriel - Un petit cadeau pour
vous”
P Muriel, un petit cadeau pour vous
Muriel, un petit cadeau pour vous
Muriel, un petit cadeau pour vous
Muriel , un petit canard pour vous”
S No, no don’t say that; it means a little
duck for you
P Oh ok, Muriel, un petit cadeau pour vous
Muriel, un petit cadeau pour vous
But
the seed was sown. At dinner:
M Bonjour Philippe et Sharman.(followed by
mwah, mwah on each side of face except P gets three off her, only two is
customary if just an acquaintance)
S Bonjour Muriel
A
(lain, Muriel’s husband) Bonjour Philippe et Sharman (mwah mwah…I
don’t get three off Alain)
P Muriel
M Oui Philippe (eyelashes almost fluttered
off)
P Un
petit canard pour vous
M Oh (as only the French can oh…you could
eat your dinner off that pouting lip)..mmmmerci beaucoup
S Cadeau, cadeau.
6 months later
S Philippe, pour mon cadeau je voudrais
deux petit canard
Maintenant
a second ski trip, I think I have finally understood what I should be doing when
skiing and that is to concentrate all the time…because whilst you may be
getting to grips with the technique you can’t just float off and admire the
view because some norrty pearsonne ‘as left les grands divots of snow which
upset the back of your skis and send you into a perilous wobbell.
The
weather was a little better so no worries about a sopping tush.
It
was touch and go whether we would get there because the main route via Arette was
shut due to a landslip. The alternative was via St Engrace and the gorge de
Kakaouetta …which I think is a Basque word meaning “pooh your pants” on account
of the road which looks like it too should be designated a landslip. Stunning
but
then it dawned on us that if this road did slip we would have to make our way
back via Spain….obviously not all of it but enough for us not to get back in
time for tea and a long time to be in messy underhosen.
Time
to head home, sun’s gone to bed, but still stunning…hopefully there will be no
landslides
We
have also been to our inaugural village event; lunch to celebrate the
combattants ?????????? of the village, we know of the first world war and Gaston
Febus holed and repelling tout le monde for many a long day. P was not looking
forward to this on account of being shy and not speaking much French. The day
had not started well as it was our first real up close and personal with an old
house. We had been aware of this leak…from the brown stain which had appeared
on our bedroom ceiling and the gentle kerplink sound. My chevalier who is now
sporting a beard had gone up to investigate 3 days earlier, an activity which
required him to hug the chimney breast for dear life, become besmirched in
cobwebs and discover a bucket cunningly hidden on the other side of said
chimney breast. The general problem was sorted by a canny move of the bucket to
the near side of said cheminee on account of the rain having changed direction,
OBVIOUSLY. But this am just after the church bells clanged 7, the first
kerplinkers were joined by the second kerplinkers and a lone kerplonker which
forced its way through the ceiling to form a pool on the bedroom floor. P
straight from dressing gown and morning tea to cobweb caghoul in one bound,
Flashing Blade eat your heart out….meanwhile the lady of the house invents a
new way of working out where to put the bucket in a darkened area with no hope
of light (our house has only 2 rooms with central lighting). This is to place
the bucket where you think it should be, peer closely at the spot and wait for
the freezing cold kerplonk on the back of your neck to tell you got it wrong.
Try this a couple of times and you miraculously develop night vision.
So….it
becomes:
P “I guess we are going to this do…………………………………………………”
S “Of course. We have told them we would
and I haven’t had the lady of the committee shriek down the phone “that she
doesn’t know me” and then slam the phone down on me for nothing!
The
silence is deafening.
S P you can’t come into a small community
(97 inhabitants) and ignore them.
The
sun comes out, P trims his beard, I wonder whether it is acceptable
to wear a vest to these types
of occasions.
And off we go through
the village, P inspecting every drain, arbour, well, garden and window shutter to
delay the inevitable. He even persuades me to walk past la salle de
convivialite (how can it not be a friendly place with such a name) where the
meal is being prepared so he can “look” at the other part of the village (he’s
had 5 weeks to do that). The church clock tolls midi, poor P is a whiter shade
of pale. We enter, and the wife of the mayor approaches welcomingly. Lots of
villagers enter and the bonjouring increases and every farmer tries to tell us
which farm they have including the one who seemed to be saying that his was
near big trees and had little houses (he gesticulated roof shapes low to the
ground and plus petited) which might have been for bees but then that would be
our neighbour Patrick who only has an orchard for the hell of it and the trees
may be mediumish but not GRANDE.
Then we are invited to
the bar;
- le martini (last time I was about 16) and le whisky,
We
are invited to sit at a long table with everyone:
- le starter (5 lots of canapés) and
bread and punch,* editor’s note 1,
- lanother starter of soup and bread
and punch, * editor’s note
2,
- the main course – veal in a cream
and tomato sauce (first time for veal probably one of many first times I won’t
be sure of…did I mention I am trying each cheese we encounter and I hate cheese),
strange no veg but bread and wine, * editor’s note 3,
- ah the actual main course – duck and
vegetables with meat wrapped round them and potatoes gratin and…..bread and
wine, *
editor’s note 4,
- and now cheese and what have we here…
bread and wine, * editor’s note 5,
- oh god le pudding – chocolate and
cream accompanied by br… no champagne * editor’s note 6
- and a speech by Monsieur le mairie
along with slide show where combattants seem to be the villagers and their
community activities since 2007 (when M le Maire was elected)…there has been a
lot of drain digging, church restoration and the installation of a timer to
ring the bells at 7 am, 12 pm and 7pm tree chopping, swashing down the pelotte court
and the uncharacteristic appearances of farmers’ lower legs on their annual outing which made much
merriment and mirth. There was no evidence of fighting …or they weren’t telling
the new people in town anyway and we didn’t like to mention Nelson even though
unlike Napoleon, he paid for all his soldiers billets and nosh and the ladies
were able to keep their hands safely on their tuppence.
P
then washes up and I talk philosophical with Madame la Maire and it is time to
au revoir and a bientot.
9.30 – Sunday evening of the meal P thinks he’s having a heart attack more commonly known in France as “Un crise de foie”. If you’re wondering what foie is, it would be eaten by the English with onions, possibly sausage and gravy with a big chunk of bread for dipping and mash. The editor is happy to report this has not stopped him checking his home made bramble wine through to the bottom of the bottle (an Englishman and homebrew in France why does this feel like another mole campaign), having seconds of home-made orange scented almond torte (Williams and Sonoma Mediterranean cooking), home-made tarte tatin and brebis which is sheep cheese matured for 2 years and yes I have even tried that.
2 days later another
invite to the annual thank you from the local hunt, who cook a meal for being
allowed to run their hunt through your land (this was not in the small print).
I think P’s mole isn’t a mole at all but some poor deer gone to ground and
living the subterranean life.
Happy
window licking
Editor’s
note 1 – P has seconds
Editor’s
note 2 – P has seconds
Editor’s
note 3 – P has seconds
Editor’s
note 4 – P has seconds
Editor’s
note 5 – P has seconds
Editor’s
note 6 – seconds not offered
