It ain't all courgettes and sunflowers!

If you read one of my earlier posts this summer, you will recall I was bemoaning the surfeit of courgettes with which my neighbours were keen to supplement my diet.

However, dear readers, I am here to tell you a few things about the fertile soils of Nowhere-in-France. I will tell you the tale of the Mystery of the Disappearing Marijuana..

Towards the end of my summer stay, I was (as in the courgette story) invited to dinner with my friend Karine. She, and indeed I and many others, have known for some time that her neighbours have a small area of their large back garden dedicated to the cultivation of recreational drugs which, I should add, are entirely for their own consumption and mainly for medicinal purposes. Nobody minds, except when the Gendarmes take their helicopter up for a spin. But then, the Gendarmes don't seem to mind, either. They (the Gendarmes) may make an appearance later in this tale, however, for another reason.

So, on the evening in question, I arrived at Karine's and let myself in, calling out a "Hello!" to which there came no reply. I wandered into the back garden and saw her far down the garden, deep in conversation with a man I didn't recognise. She introduced me to her neighbour, and together they explained that he had come over to tell her that, during the previous night, someone had come into her garden, and, using a stepladder that was already set up under a nearby tree, they had scaled the fence between their two properties and helped themselves to a couple of dozen cannabis plants.

Despite the indifference of the local Gendarmes to the existence of these plants, this is clearly not the sort of theft that is easy to report, but the neighbour, in a very pleasant way, had come to see if Karine might know of any visitors to her home who might have taken a shine to the plants and hatched a plan to steal them. We laughed together at the thought that a hotch-potch of mostly septuagenarians or under twelves would be able or willing to carry out such a dastardly plot, given that most of the former have had heart operations or hip replacements, and that any such scheme would probably make good material for an episode of "Last of the Summer Wine". And, talking of wine, we all had a glass of rosé whilst wondering aloud what the world was coming to when a person couldn't cultivate something a bit more interesting than courgettes without having it stolen. How anyone could have found them and carted them off in the dead of night seemed destined to remain a mystery, but Karine and her neighbour were both unsettled by this, although for different reasons. The neighbour was doubly miffed, because, as he explained, the plants weren't even ready for harvesting! That let me even further off the hook, as I wouldn't know a ripe-for-harvesting cannabis plant form a courgette.

Anyway, the neighbour left, we had dinner, and I took my leave of Karine at about 9.30. It's a short drive home, passing through the village, round the square and down the road to my house. As if the evening hadn't been eventful enough, I was just turning into the top end of the square when, suddenly, a man in uniform jumped out of a shrub opposite the boulangerie. A Gendarme, no less. No, wait, there were two of them!

We often joke that the centre of our village is so quiet after 9 in the evening that you could get arrested for having squeaky shoes. Well, I guess that the Gendarmes must feel the need every so often to make their own entertainment. What better way than to lurk in the bushes (on an evening when the local bar is closed, as well) and stop unsuspecting motorists and breathalyse them?

It came as a bit of a shock to both of us, I can tell you. Me, because I had recently consumed a glass of wine, them because despite my French licence plate, I exited the vehicle on what they assumed was the passenger side, so there ensued a brief moment of confusion while they checked that my car wasn't being propelled by a person of restricted growth who was hiding because they'd been drinking all evening. Once we'd all taken stock, I blew into their machine as requested, produced a negative result ("Nickel! " proclaimed the Gendarme) and was allowed to go about my business. If only I could have said "Look, instead of stopping innocent drivers and doing random breath tests, why not go and solve some real crimes, like the theft of a quantity of recreational drugs! " but discretion is, etc., etc..

There is a popular misconception among many Brits abroad that rural France is an idyllic place, where there are no drugs, no crime, and everyone can leave their doors open without fear. I am here to tell you that there's a lot more going on than meets the eye. It really isn't all courgettes and sunflowers, you know!

Happy New Year from the Frog chorus!

That's the frog-in-the-throat chorus, of course.

The eve of 2013 saw me laying in stocks of various medications, as my voice slowly dwindled to a husky wheeze. The woman in the local Pharmacie seemed miffed that I hadn’t at the very least made a doctor’s appointment. She seemed to be taking it quite personally that I deemed it unnecessary. She rallied a bit when I left the choice of appropriate over-the-counter medicines to her, and I think she might have proposed marriage when I asked her for a throat spray to go with the tablets she’d chosen for me.  Over the course of the New Year’s opening days, the husky wheeze was joined by a blocked nose. In an interesting twist, every time I blew my nose, somewhere in the inner pipework a sort of air lock developed, causing a sound not dissimilar to that made by a school of dolphins to start up inside my head. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to have a cold, as I’ve been mercifully  spared the experience for about three years.

Luckily (no, really!)  I’d popped off to France to celebrate the New Year with some friends, so, once they had left, I was able to indulge my germs and lie on the sofa like a Victorian consumptive, with an industrial-sized box of tissues within easy reach. No-one had to witness my suffering, and I didn’t have to make futile attempts to cover my red, peeling nose, or disguise the bags under my eyes.

Communication with the world at large was almost confined to text messages. TH retired hurt after calling for advice on how to cook some meatballs and trying to make sense of my wheezing and heavy breathing as I gasped out the instructions. After that, a daily “Are you feeling any better?” text seemed to be easier.  I was invited to various lunches and dinners by concerned friends, just to keep my spirits up..have they never heard that you should starve a cold? And you should definitely starve a woman who has had to resort to leaving the country to get away from the Christmas leftovers! They kept telling me how well I looked for someone who sounded as though their vocal chords had been stolen and replaced with some odd nuts and bolts in a biscuit tin. I think they were trying to be kind, but a quick look in the mirror soon revealed the dreadful truth. There were healthier-looking people than me dancing in Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video.

On the eve of my return, I had to pop down to the village Co-op for some supplies. Upon hearing my (much-improved) voice, the lady behind the counter informed me that since the New Year reopening, the vast majority of her customers either had voices like mine, or were calling in to stock up on those well-known staples that no self-respecting French family with a bout of gastro should be without: Coca-cola, rice and carrots. I wasn’t too sure about the carrots, but she was very clear that carrots played a vital role.

A tiny positive aspect was that, when I arrived at the airport for the return journey, I wasn’t worrying about just how long it might be after my return before I succumbed. I wasn’t trying to cover my mouth/nose/eyes as all around me sniffled and wheezed in the queue, on the plane and in the customs hall.  I am wearing my immunity to further infection like Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak. 

My voice has almost returned. Which is just as well, as I’ve started having to use it for work again. I’ve tried teaching English through the medium of mime, and it’s not a method I’d recommend.

I hope your New Year was germ free, and that we can all have a healthy 2013! If, however, you feel you may be coming down with a sore throat, I can supply some excellent medication for the cost of an SAE. You know how it is in France: I’ve got plenty to go round!

Jailbreak!!!!

Good heavens!

Firstly, warmest seasonal wishes to one and all.
Secondly, profuse apologies ditto ditto.
Thirdly, never use Blogger on an Ipad in a foreign country.

I have no idea what I did, either literally or to deserve what transpired, but whilst in France I exited Blogger one day, and could not get in without it insisting that I use the French version. That, I could have coped with, but the French version seemed to want me to do many other things upon which I was less keen, and before I knew it, I had been denied access to my own blog.

Subsequent life issues (I WILL blog about some of them) have left me with little time to delve into the engine-room problems and break back into my blog, until now.

It is 3.30 a.m. on Christmas morning, and I am trying to avoid catching some form of virus from TH. The prodigal children have returned for the festivities, and I am waiting for TH (too ill to socialise, well enough to work) to arise from his slumbers and toddle off to work. Yes, on Christmas Day. At which point I will go to bed.

Much has happened since we last spoke, to me and, I am sure, to you. I also lost my Google Reader rights in the general meltdown, and I have much reading of others' blogs to catch up on.

For the time being, however, I wish you a Happy Christmas and an excellent 2013. For myself, I wish nothing more than to find this tab still open when I switch my computer back on.

There's a hole in...

My roof. Somewhere. Unfortunately, I have no idea where.

It all started back in the spring, when we arrived in Nowhere-in-France to discover that water had been dripping into the kitchen via a little recessed window . Or rather from the "ceiling" of the recess.

TH, who is very handy and competent, went up into the roof void above the source of the drip. This was no mean feat, given that within said void there was a deep covering of ageing insulation material..you know, the type that makes you itch, cough and worry about long-term lung damage. So, we dressed him up in overalls, gloves, coat and cap and covered his face with a fetching purple-and-pink tie dyed scarf for which I had no further use (no doubt you can understand why, from the description) and he climbed up to conduct his investigation.

After some time and a lot of banging about and rich language, he descended and declared that we needed to sally forth to a nearby DIY emporium to purchase remedial supplies. A temporary fix was achieved, and TH made a list of materials required to bring back in order to complete the task on our next trip.

When we arrived here a few weeks ago, the weather was accommodating enough to rain on us and allow TH to don his fetching outfit again and take himself and his building materials up into the roof void to complete the repairs..

It turned out to be easier said than done. The leak refused to desist, and yet more expletives drifted out of the small trapdoor in the roof. A further bout of rain did little to un-dampen TH's mood, but then...oh joy! It appeared that the leak had been stopped!

TH went home a couple of weeks ago, since when there has been no further rain. Until last weekend, that is. I awoke to drizzle, and set off mid-morning to meet some friends for a coffee, returning at midday to find a small pond on the kitchen floor. The leak had moved about half a metre to the left, and drips were dripping (as drips are wont to do) from various places in the kitchen ceiling. In a lucky coincidence, earlier in the week my pet bucket had given up the ghost, so I had bought a brand new buckety-bowly thing, but, as another downpour ensued, I ended up adorning the kitchen floor with a combination of buckets, bowls, pans and, eventually, a wok. As the rain grew heavier, it sounded as though a bunch of deranged chimps were forming a steel band in the kitchen. Any momentary lapse of concentration on my part when walking to the fridge resulted in an almighty din and the sloshing of water from various receptacles onto the kitchen floor.

Luckily, it's dry again now, and although I don't mind the occasional shower, my frantic phone calls have galvanised TH into booking a flight to come back and make another valiant attempt to effect repairs.

If news of rain in SW France reaches you, please spare a thought for me. Apart from anything else, it will mean that I am unable to stir-fry....


IMPORTANT P.S: To all the lovely people whose blogs I follow..
Owing to the poor quality of my current Internet connection, I am finding it almost impossible to open and read blogs at the moment. I am missing being able to keep up with you all, but would like to assure you that it is is, rather than laziness or lack of interest, that is keeping me away.

Courgette fatigue

I must say in my defence that I have no axe to grind with the humble courgette, but, let's face it, you wouldn't describe it as vegetable royalty, would you? Well, I wouldn't, anyway.

As usual, I seem to have landed in France in peak courgette season..
My neighbours, who are lovely people and who look after me and my family with the greatest kindness at all times, are currently providing me with a seemingly unending supply of the French national seasonal vegetable. The main trouble is that I am now alone. Alone, that is, except for the company of about five kilos of courgettes. In fact, this morning when I surfaced after an evening of patriotic fervour, having bravely stayed awake until 2a.m. To watch the entire Olympic opening ceremony, it was to discover that another three giant specimens had been left on the table outside, along with about half my body weight of green beans. I like green beans, but I rarely consume them in quite such substantial quantities, especially when all alone.

To add insult to injury, I was just wondering how to transform this surfeit of vegetables into something interesting for dinner when the phone rang, and my friend Karine asked if I would like to pop round for dinner with her. She had cooked a chicken, and her neighbours were bringing some vegetables to have with it (so no opening there for me to volunteer to provide a courgette-and-bean based offering). I dismissed any thoughts of knocking up a courgette mise en bouche and offered to bring the wine, heaving a quiet sigh as I realised that I'd have to leave the courgette dilemma pending until tomorrow...

I arrived at Karine's house a little later, just as her neighbour was putting the finishing touches to the vegetables on the hob. Courgettes. It was courgettes.
I may have to grate a few into my breakfast muesli if I want to make any impression on my stockpile. I just hope I can find a solution before the next lot arrive....

Getting connected.....

So here we are in the land the Internet forgot.
Week 1, and the attempt to get online begins....
Before leaving Nowhere-on-Thames, I had been pleased to see that Bouygues Telecom had launched a new 3G Internet offer for a very reasonable 9.90 Euros a month. On a contract with no tie-in period, this seemed like the perfect solution to my needs whilst in Nowhere-in-France.

As is oft the case, the road to connection was to prove long and rocky...

Before we set off, I had tried very hard to sign up online. I would probably have derived more satisfaction from trying to extract one of my own teeth with a cocktail stick. Firstly, the dongle I was offered to accompany the deal was priced at a sum similar to the current Greek national debt. Some judicious button pressing revealed that there were other choices, but Bouygyes - without knowing my "needs" had chosen for me a dongle which best met them. Or, in other words, they'd offered me the most expensive one in their range. I felt quite smug that I had managed to circumvent their dastardly plan. Until I tried to proceed with my order and found that the one I actually wanted, together with most of the others, was out of stock.

I tried many ways to contact Bouygues with a few other questions, but, to be frank, I would have had more luck with a Ouija board than any conventional method... Undaunted, I decided that the personal approach might be more effective, and so decided to leave things until we arrived, and then to visit a shop and do the deal in person.

Monday morning dawned. Now, I know that Monday morning is not the best time to get things done in France, but we had other business in the local metropolis, so I decided that I would try a visit to Bouygues. And it was then that I found that whilst Orange and SFR were open on Monday morning, Bouygues had stuck a notice in their window to the effect that from July 11 to August 20, they would NOT be opening on Monday mornings...

Thursday. I thought that by now I had given them ample time to ease into their working week, and that it would be a good day to try again. They were, at least open, which was an encouraging start. I joined the queue in the shop. It goes without saying that the queuing part took some time. However, eventually my turn came. I explained to the assistant that I wanted to subscribe to their 9.90 Internet deal, and that I required a particular dongle, which I believed might be out of stock.

"That one isn't available on this particular offer"said the assistant. "we only have this one at 69.99". I managed not to swallow my teeth.

"But on your website I am sure it is available on this tariff" I replied "although I think it might be out of stock"

"Are you sure it was this one?" she asked, having gone into the back of the shop and returned, carrying exactly the one I wanted.

"Yes" I said "That's the very one!"

"Well, I can't sell you this one, because it's the only one we have and it isn't available on this offer" She said, waving the object of my desire tantalisingly under my nose. "You can only have this other one and it's 69.99"

"But" (I tried not to sound too pleading) "But....it IS available on this offer according to your website!"

And so, in an attempt to prove to me once and for all that I was a pathological liar, she logged onto the website, found the page, and triumphantly announced "See? It's not there!"

"No" I agreed, "But if you scroll down to....there...and press....that....." and the dongle I wanted was shining back at me from their web page. It might as well have had "England 1 France 0" inscribed on the side. I tried not to sound smug.

"Yes, but look" she said "here is a list of the shops that have that one in stock, and our shop isn't on it" I felt that she might be trying a bit too hard to regain the upper hand, or else she had forgotten that she had just shown me one that they clearly DID have in stock. "And anyway, it's also 69.99"

"I think you might find it is cheaper than that" I said .

She clearly felt by now that reinforcements were needed, so she called upon her colleague. Unfortunately, the colleague quickly confirmed that yes, she could indeed sell me the dongle I wanted under the terms of the offer, even though it was the last one they had in stock, and that no, it wasn't 69.99, but that the price was (smugness was now starting to ooze from my pores despite strenuous efforts to disguise it) 39.99.

England 2, France 0....

Cutting a long story short, I lost round 3 on a technicality, as they refused to complete the sale without a RIB and I had forgotten to take the cheque book. Or, to be strictly accurate, I wanted to complete the transaction using my credit card...still a surprisingly alien concept in France, along with the idea that a non-resident might want Internet access without necessarily going to the lengths of opening a French bank account. Not to worry, though..I made sure that I had agreement to put the thing aside for me until I could pop back with the cheque book, a notarised certificate confirming my shoe size, a copy of the family tree going back to the 17th century and my last 85 utility bills.

Tomorrow, limited Internet access will be mine, and I shall publish this small insight into the joys of life in a strange land. At least, that is the plan.....

And here I am...but I have to go back tomorrow with proof of my shoe size...

If the future IS orange....then we're doomed!

Some months ago, France Telecom became Orange. Now, for various reasons I've just concluded my divorce from Orange in the UK, so this news did not fill me with confidence. However, over in France, my dealings with our telecoms provider consist of activating and deactivating our telephone landline during the periods I'm in residence over the summer, so there's not too much to worry about. Or so I believed!

As we're about to sally forth to la terre promesse, I needed to ensure that we have contact with the outside world via a landline, and so I set about going through the process to get ours reconnected.

Now I've got another of my heads.

I started last night, thinking it would be a 5-minute job. Which was my first mistake.

Step 1: Créer votre Espace Client

What could possibly go wrong?
Enter name and address: OK
Enter e-mail address: Your e-mail address is not valid. YES IT IS!
Your e-mail address is not valid...GRRRR!
Your e-mail address is not valid.....OK, try this: it's the one I never use for anything.
(It works fine)

Step 2: Ajouter un compte fixe

Now this is where it really started to go wrong.

Enter your phone number: OK
Enter your account number, which you will find on top of your bill.

Slight problem there.  You see, we opted for online billing. Which, of course, means that I can only view my bill ONLINE. And I can't see my bill online until I've added my landline account to my Espace Client. Which I can't do without my account number. Which is on top........

But, hold on a minute! Surely the "Ref. Client" which appears on the top of each letter I get from FT confirming they've activated my phone MUST be my account number? Of course it must!


It isn't.


And the "No. de contrat" isn't it, either. Nor is the reference number which appears next to any of the direct debit payments on our bank account.

By now, I've been locked out of the Orange website 3 times for 30 minutes each time because I've exceeded my number of attempts. I have a feeling it's a sort of blessing, designed to prevent angry punters from throwing laptops from upper-storey windows.


AHA! but not to worry, I can do this by phone.

Not exactly......

Plan A: Phone the automated helpline, pronounce the words "Activer ligne résidence secondaire" and Robert est ton Oncle.

Unfortunately, since the advent of Orange, you need a four digit PIN code to do this. Which I haven't got. Apparently, however, this is not a problem, as I can simply phone the number and, provided I have the total of my last bill, I can set one up. Only my bill, as I may have mentioned, is only available online.....

Plan B: Phone the English-speaking Helpline.

Cue a recorded message, lots of Muzak and an interminable queue. When I got through (bang on opening-time, so I would not have imagined there'd be a queue) there was a queue. "Your waiting time is estimated at less than 2 minutes" they said, encouragingly.

NINE minutes later, I was greeted by the lovely Sarah, who was going to help me. In English. Although a close look at Orange's website reveals that, if you phone Orange France from overseas, this is the only number you can call, irrespective of whether you speak English or not.

Anyway, Sarah was more than happy to organise activation of my phone line for me. But I wanted more. I wanted my account number, so that I could set up my Espace Client, and do all those other things all by myself like a big girl.

"Can I speak to you in French?" I asked. I just prefer it...I sort of feel more in control of both sides of the conversation then.
"Well, we're not supposed to, because this is the English Speaking helpline..."
"Look", I said, " I just need to get some information". And I explained. In French, because I'm paying for the call and, like Frank Sinatra and Sid Vicious, I'll do it my way.
"No problem" said Sarah, after slightly misunderstanding my question and trying to explain to me how to get an internet account with Orange (or was it a cunning marketing ploy?).

"Here's your account number" she said "Have you got a pen?"  I assured her that my writing implement was poised and at the ready.

At which point, she began reading the account number that had already got me locked out of the Orange website 3 times. I completed the last few figures for her.

"But that one doesn't work!" I wailed "I've been trying it for ages!"

"Well, normally, you just need to put a zero in front" she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world and I was clearly stupid not to have though of it.

Marvellous.

I wonder if I can get a carrier-pigeon on ebay?

Meanwhile, in a mere 4 hours from now, the Olympic Torch Relay will be jogging around the local castle. If only I had a copy of my Orange bill, I would jog along and try to set it alight on the flame.

Let them eat steak

When we first set up camp in Nowhere-in-France, we put up for a night at the local bar/hotel/resto, having a distinct lack of furniture in our new abode. It was thus that we came to know the patron, the lovely Yves, who has remained a close friend ever since.

At that time (and still) the premises, as is so often the case, belonged to the local commune, and the fonds de commerce to Yves. It had been a stipulation of the commune that the person running the business should live “over the shop”, but Yves has his own home, wife and children in the village and didn’t want to move into the then rather cramped accommodation at the bar.

Back then, the place was a thriving village bar, with baby-foot, billiards and an excellent menu du jour (or soir), where locals and a few of us non-locals would congregate for coffee, lunch, New Year and other occasions. Yves is a wonderful cook, and his pronouncement that he would knock up “something simple” for New Year’s Eve resulted in one of the best evenings in terms of food and company that we have ever enjoyed in France. The whole place was “proper”. Slightly fading, full of various characters from around the village, and, simply, a centre for life and exchange of gossip.

Yves, however, became tired of having to keep the place going whilst not living on the premises, and his family life and free time was suffering. So, some five or six years ago, the place was sold.

The new owners, a couple, fresh from running a catering operation at a seaside camp-site, clearly had delusions of grandeur. Over time, the menus became more and more pretentious, the prices more and more ridiculous, and the number of cheesed-off locals increased exponentially with each change. Gone was the homely atmosphere, replaced with transparent plastic chairs in shades of bright orange and green. The local youngsters were banned, along with the billiard table and the baby-foot, and vegetable accompaniments were served in minute Kilner jars whilst the meat was garnished with a floral tribute. The whole thing was a real triumph of style over substance.  The local building firm, whose workers regularly numbered a good 12-15 people, moved to a Routier some 10Km distant to take lunch, and the waitress suddenly had to wear a radio microphone to liaise with the kitchen.   Just about everyone in the village had a tale to tell about how they had been upset by the chef-patron.

There was thus a current of excitement running through the village last week, as the couple from hell packed up and left, and a new couple moved in. The Grand Reopening (well, just a very low-key opening of the doors at lunchtime) was scheduled for last Thursday, and along with a group of friends, I went along to see what was what.

The new owners (the wife of the partnership is English, from Newcastle, whilst her husband is French and the chef – of course) seemed very pleasant and welcoming. She seemed genuinely surprised to see so many customers wishing to eat there on their very first service, but maybe they reckoned without the natural curiosity and optimism of a village deprived for so long of a convivial place to enjoy lunch.

We were a table of seven. Other tables were occupied. Since my recent car accident, I cannot set foot outside the house without bumping into the woman who hit me, or her husband, and they were seated at the adjacent table! Yves also joined us. He never got on with the previous incumbents, and I think he was hopeful that “his” bar would slowly become a more pleasant place again.

Oh dear. Somehow I’d sort of forgotten how very little it can take to annoy the discerning French. Never mess with a Frenchman’s lunch. You may as well go round to his house and immolate his family.

1. The prices had gone up (not much, but too much for some)

2. The set menu price was one where the choices were Entrée/Main/Dessert or Entrée/Main or Main/Dessert (let’s face it, first day of opening..they had no idea whether they’d be catering to the masses or watching tumbleweed rolling across the village square)

3. The helpings were deemed too small

4. THE WINE WAS NOT INCLUDED IN THE MENU PRICE

5. WINE WAS BEING OFFERED BY THE GLASS OR BY THE BOTTLE (the latter only came to light later) 

During the meal, small mumblings of dissent could be heard. By the time we walked outside into the afternoon sun, there was the start of a local revolt. 

“Well, we won’t be coming back for at least a month until they’ve got their act together” said my car accident woman’s husband “the helpings are far too small” (I can see his point: he’s built like a Sumo wrestler and half a small cow could well be too small for him)

“I’m not standing for this ‘glass of wine’ business:  it’s absurd having to call a waitress every time your glass is empty” said one of my party “I think we should tell them! They bought the 'fonds' so they must still have the pichets!"

“And what’s happened to the idea of being able to have just a Plat and wine?” wailed someone else “I had to have a dessert, because I was going to have to pay for it anyway”

The thing is, I suspect that the outgoing tenants had intimated that the village yokels wouldn’t recognise haute cuisine if it came up and smacked them, and that a pretentious, overpriced restaurant is just what the village needs, whether they want it or not.

I sincerely hope that someone takes the newcomers aside and explains that they can be as upmarket as they like in the evenings, or when there’s an “R” in the month, but that the lunchtime core business is predominantly the steak-frites-and-a-pichet brigade, who need more than a couple of miniature new potatoes to sustain them until dinner.

They seem like lovely people. I so badly want them to make a go of things and to have our local bar-resto back as a pleasant place to be. I suspect, though, that no-one will step up and actually voice these concerns to them, and that they will plough a lonely furrow, trying to drag the locals “upmarket”…

I have to say that my lunch was extremely enjoyable. I had a delicious pork dish with a rich and flavourful sauce, followed by a café gourmand. No wine problems, as I stuck to water. Maybe I’m too easily pleased? Or is this one of those times when Not Being French is a real problem?

The Magic Roundabout

One of the best and most surprising bits of news from Nowhere-in-France last week was the arrival of Our Very Own « feature roundabout » !!

After my earlier blog post extolling the virtues of these local landmarks, I was very surprised to find that we now have one on the main road at the entrance to our village. Even more surprised, as it literally appeared overnight!

Having been to dinner with friends the previous evening, (via the roundabout which, at that time, sprouted some rather sad brown grass and a rectangle of earth) I was driving into the village to join them again for lunch in our local bar-resto (which, incidentally, is Under New Management – more of which anon…) and, as I approached the roundabout, I saw a whole host of people, cars parked all over the verges alongside, and this:

It’s a replica of the main doorway to our XII Century local church and, although it looks a little stark at the moment, I am assured that it is to be landscaped in the coming weeks, so I look forward to returning next month and seeing the finished article.

I later discovered that our neighbour can claim a certain responsibility for the success of the project thus far. Apparently, it was too heavy to lift into position, so he was summoned with his tractor to winch it upright. Very splendid it looks, too.

SO....what's been happening??

An interesting and fairly packed week in Nowhere-in-France for me last week. Or, as I sometimes call it, “the land the internet forgot”. I manage without the internet whilst in France, apart from checking for e-mails on my phone or falling upon the kindness of friends for a WiFi connection. The other alternative is McDonald’s, and I really HAVE to be desperate to darken their door.

Last week, however, N-i-F also became the land that TV forgot.  

Whilst I am by no means a TV addict, I do find it useful for keeping in touch with the world outside, and when I’m alone in France I enjoy curling up on the sofa to watch the odd programme.  Last week, however, the Freesat box decided to die a death.  No UK TV for me…

 Image: Wikipedia

“What’s wrong with French TV?” I hear you ask. Well, it’s like this: we can’t get French TV. There’s a perfectly serviceable ariel on the roof, but it’s never managed to convey whatever signal it receives from up there to down below. I did think that, with the advent of digital TV in France I might have a chance of getting something, but having borrowed the neighbours’ French free-to-air digital receiver and plugged it all in, it showed me what I could be watching, alongside a blue screen with the words of doom “pas de signal”.

Despite being a woman with vertigo, desperation saw me leaving the house via the bathroom window, sidling along the roof like spiderwoman (well, a sort of “off duty” spiderwoman  in shorts and a t-shirt), gripping the chimney and climbing onto the garage roof, and thence to the satellite dish, in order to do as exhorted by the error message on the TV and “check all cables and connections”. They were all fine. I checked, several times.  Don’t worry, I had the foresight and common sense to execute this manoeuvre in the company of visiting friends, in order that if things went wrong then my decomposing remains would not later be discovered on the patio below by a passing neighbour. One friend was stationed by the TV looking for signs of life, whilst the other shuttled back and forth in the garden, passing information between us and limbering up in case called upon to rush forward and catch my plummeting body.

Having read several times on the internet prior to the event that “the French” (for whom many British expat residents seem to believe themselves the official spokesperson) would not give a hoot about the Diamond Jubilee, and that any slightly patriotic gesture on the part of British expats would result in shame being brought upon the rest by association, I had to spend the rest of my stay confessing that I had no idea how wonderful it all was, as I didn’t see any of it. My unofficial and unwilling straw poll of “the French”, comprising most of my friends, the couple who run the tabac, the boulanger, three men in the bar and my neighbours, seems to indicate that they did give at least a small hoot, and were somewhat surprised that I couldn’t add any comments or observations of my own. 

TH will be present on the next visit. I’m relying on him (and on the purchase of a new box) to fix the problem. A week without TV is fine. Three months without TV is NOT.