Mountain bike trials.

It's been quite a while since my last update but frankly nothing's happened! We’re still waiting for the house to sell and the move to happen. Best guess; it's still a few weeks away but in the mean time this little tit-bit...

One of our trips to France last year coincided with a mountain bike trial taking place in our village. It's quite a big deal apparently, a national level event where riders race over an insanely dangerous course which passed by the front of our house.

On the day we were visiting Grumpy Welshman (5 mins walk across the village) and, when the little one got tired, we made our way home to put her to bed.  Arriving at our house we found the way cordoned off and various neighbours chatting with course marshals in the road.  Retired Farmer from next door insisted that we hang on as the riders were due past in 5 minutes.

After 20 minutes of waiting and desperately trying to keep the little one happy we found that the only way she would calm down was to be put down on the road where she could play with stones and in the mud.  Wife came up with the genius idea of getting everyone a glass of wine which left us in the bizarre situation of sharing wine in a country road with strange Frenchmen and the baby sitting down playing on the tarmac and occasionally attempting to crawl off into the path of passing mountain bikes!

Standard day in village life I guess! :)

Bastille Day and Mrs T's Knockers.

We had the great privilege of spending last Bastille Day (or Just "le quatorze Juillet" as the local French seem to know it, I'm not sure they worry to much about the storming of the Bastille, it's much more the party preparations that dominate their thoughts) in France.

The Mayor puts on a party/ lunch in the village park and invites a local restaurant to prepare meals for all of the residents.  The first time we met the Mayor, my wife, in a translation horror moment, managed to tell him that she was very aroused rather than excited at the prospect of moving.  French speakers will know exactly the error that was made there.

We had come over especially for this event and had already paid for our ticket (to get our meal) but were unprepared for Grumpy Welshman (GW) to tell us, at 7pm on the 13th, that everybody brings plenty of food along to share with their neighbours.  Now being a couple of very competitive people, keen to ingratiate ourselves with the locals, we couldn't possibly miss this opportunity so a mad supermarket dash had to be made.  What we produced, to be fair, was quite good, 4 individual pastry sheets with savoury toppings of hams, cheeses, balsamic onions, roasted peppers etc in various combinations.

On the day itself we decided, on advice from GW to get to the park early to make sure we'd get seat, He'd assured us that the French were very punctual on such events.  We should have known better.

We arrived at the park at 10.45 for an 11 o'clock start and were the first ones there!  After wandering among the empty tables for a few minutes wondering if we had the right day, Local Service (LS) caught up with us and insisted that we come back to his house, adjacent to the park, for a drink.

So now we are drinking Pastis in LS's house at 11 in the morning with a varied collection of other old men sitting around his kitchen table, LS's wife scowling at us and all watching Nicolas Sarkozy giving his Bastille Day address in front of the troops.  Not so much culture shock as shell shock.

The party did get going in the park and we were introduced to quite a lot of people and our pastries were even given the thumbs up by a local pastry chef.  While our new neighbours circulated past bringing a selection of illegally produced forms of alcohol, one in particular went into a long story including a hand gesture (Which I'm fairly sure means "Madonna" in sign language) and, quite clearly "Margret Thatcher"!

Intrigued we sought translation and were told that he used to work security in Brussels and had to deliver Mrs T a message whereupon she answered her hotel room door in a skirt and bra.  A further translation revealed he had used words to the effect of "Great knockers".

It would be a shame to write any more than that!

Builder's advance!

Well it hasn't taken long for something odd to happen.

We have a father and son builders team working on the french house. Originally from deepest Essex, they live in the area and work for €10 an hour each (doesn't cost us too much though because they only manage to work 4 hours at a time and a full Monday to Thursday would be a very good week!). If ever you thought the term "salt of the Earth" was a cliche then you need to meet our Clacton builder and his octogenarian dad complete with matching roll up fags, tattoos and a beaten up old car as a works van.

I heard from my wife (She's over at the house with my mum for the week.) last night, that they were going for a pizza with the builders and a couple of other friends we have met over there.  Not so surprising as it seems to be difficult to work with/employ someone in rural France without socialising or becoming friends, which for all it's wonderful positives, adds to the whole culture shock thing.


After they got back the word was that my mum had a few hand squeezes with octogenarian builder and would accept a dinner invite if he asked! Oh good god, it's uncomfortable writing about it sitting in another country.  At least they are home tomorrow, hopefully both of them.

Welcome to the village.

One of my early trips to the houses was a week of intensive cleaning and painting of the little house.  I came on my own without knowing anyone in the village and with rather a single minded objective that would never withstand events in the village!

On about my third afternoon 3 gentleman approached the house and introduced themselves as the retired farmer from next door, "Local Service" (See below) and a grumpy Welshman (GW) who could do some translating for me (My French is probably better that school boy but not a lot) especially for Local Service (LS) as he speaks a local Patois which is barely French.

It was explained to me that as a welcome to the village I was to be taken into Retired Farmer's (RF) cellar. Once safely ensconced there I was thankfully served alcohol and none of the other things which came to mind. Drinks (Given this was mid-afternoon) included with wine (2 bottles), pineau (Eau de vie and grape juice) and some rocket fuel made from blackthorn shoots.

During my stay I was shown RF's collection of corkscrews and given a crash course on the local patois the LS regularly saying incomprehensible things followed by "Traduction!" as instruction for GW to translate. This game was fine and perfectly normal until he grabbed a topless calendar and proclaimed loudly "titties traduction!". There are after all many similarities between the English and French languages.

After this bewildering afternoon we emerged blinking into the sunshine and all piled into LS's car (Yes I know but still!) and drove about 200 meters to LS's house where he insisted that we start on the Pastis. GW had bailed by this stage and I was left to fend for myself for 40 minutes of stuttering French/Patois and sign language.

After I'd staggered back I have to confess I didn't get any more painting done.