Westonbirt with Mother.

The weekend we arrive back from France is supposed to be the beginning of Autumn so I pop along to The National Arbouretum with mother to see the Japanese Maples in their autumn finery. No joy as this is the warmest autumn for some time so we were a bit early. We took some treasures home for Rolfy who was a still a bit ill with the poison of the French.

France Day 5 - Dinner & Mal Manger

Our last day in France and we decided to go to the local Auberge for lunch as it was recommended by the landlady of our petit maison du vacances. As per usual, we entered into the spirit fully, consulting the dictionaire and ordering stuff we'd never heard of. It was the worst food we had while we were in France and I got very sick.

Then we had the 3 hour drive back to the Ferry in the morning after a night of constant Ertha Kitts, interspersed with multicolour yawns into the great white telephone. When we arrived in Cherbourg I looked like this.

And then when we get across the channel, after travelling about 160 miles in France (about 3 hours) we have to go 80 miles on pony English roads - 3 hours. They may have poisoned us and they haven't fought a good war since Napoleon shuffled off this mortal coil, but by crickey, Johnny Frenchman knows how to sort out the traffic.

France Day 4. Around Normandy with Claire Hargreaves

On the recommendation of possibly the best Normandy guide book ever published, we visited the little village of Carrouges. Sometimes AKA the Costswolds of Normandy. Which frankly does it an injustice.... it's much nicer than that. Plus it has a great castle. Since we were the only people there the little guide chap (who had a withered arm, interestingly) gave us the tour in English - and we asked questions of him in French. All went well until he couldn't figure out the word 'coincidence', which he used as part of a throw away sentence.... "And this, how you say? Chest? Yes, Chest. Like your bosom no? But, for storage of the sheets and towels at the feet of the bed. So. This chest, it comes from London. Very recently. It comes by... how you say..... er.... this is difficult for me, um.... sacre bleu.... I am so stupid, it comes to us by....'

'Courier?' asks Rolf,
'Telekenesis?' I suggest helpfully.
'No, by bon chance, good lick but no.... not luck'
Rolf - 'Accident?'
Me - 'Flatulence? Optician? DJ Spoony? Booby Bird?'
'No, Like a good accident. No matter, it doesn't matter, it is nothing'
Me - 'Door key? Chump change?'
Guide - 'Please, no. Think no more of it'
Me - 'Diddy Men? Jubilant flapjack?'
Guide - 'In the next room, please follow me.... there is some regency furniture of exquisite quality'
Me - 'Dingo? Special friend?'

I kept this up with occasional help from Rolf until the guide was very nearly in tears. Then we went outside and took photos of the house, the gardens,





And the couchon vert

France - Day 3. Angers & Pays De La Loire

So, off we go to Angers in the Pays De La Loire for a trip around the Musee du Cointreau, the only liqueur I enjoy to be truthful. We made it to the musee after a particularly enjoyable lunch, where I told the lady who made my chocolate desert, roughly translated "I am a very happy woman, I can die now". She enjoyed my French and Rolfy enjoyed my inability to charm other ladies.


Now then. Cointreau is made from only THE PEEL of oranges, and if you have any in your cupboard, hidden away by the fig liqueur and the old bottle of Baileys, that square bottle of orange joy was made in the room you see here. Go and put some in your glass tonight. Or on some ice-cream.


These are some calves with earings and a mini me next to a big street lamp.

After this we went and found a vineyard so we could buy some wine direct from the vineyard. After driving for some hours (because it was off season, and everywhere was closed) we finally pulled into one that looked vaugley inhabited.

After reading a sign which appeared to say, "If the cave is free of the people, please ring the bell on the ceiling for elephant jam arse catapult" (actually, it had been a long day and we couldn't be bothered to look up every other word in the dictionary, so we guessed most of it. We rang a bell and a balding man in French looking jumper, with the same haircut as Uncle Dave Knipe waved at us from his patio doors. He was on the phone and smoking wildly. His name was Olivier Faradeau and he made some damned fine wine.

He spoke English with great effort, but not much finesse. We bargained. He showed us his vats. We drank more enourmous 'tastes'. We failed to negotiate a good deal. As we left with Olivier clutching our filthy lucre, he stopped us - I was hoping he was going to tell us that we spoke French like Marie Antoinette and had a palette comme un conneseur. Mais non. He stopped us to say "Mesuierdamme!" (Clearly he'd drank so much of his own product, he thought Rolfy and me were not two people but one hermaphrdite), "Mesuierdamme! J'aime la Worthington's, et J'adore la Boddington's!" We turn to see him waving these horrid little cans at us, "C'est le creme du manchester, non?" our reply did nothing to help the entente cordial, but sometimes politeness is uneccessary in the face of such hideousness.

More soon......