Late August..... I was writing a draft for my blog. The everlasting party that is the French summer season was winding down, we seemed to have more outings than ever
Saturday, 15 November 2008
Saturday, 5 July 2008
Oh gosh. I'm here just because I'm appalled that I've not updated you for so long. And I'm here since we spent this morning mixing concrete and although I have tons to do I need a break. And although the sun went, blessedly, behind a cloud this morning so we laboured in coolth, we were a bit morning after the night before.
Last night was my Line-Dance group's 4th July picnic. We arrived late, as per, (yesterday was stone picking and earth-moving where the roofer's Caterpillar had left grooves in the grass, it was in the shade so we did it in preference to laying concrete, then we needed showers, we couldn't have got there any sooner...). We staggered in with the Lakeland picnic bag and a Lidl carrier bag full of burgers, coleslaw, fruit salad and beer. Why does one hugely over-cater for picnics and barbeques? Somehow, in between 'Doctor, Doctor', 'Red Hot Rock 'n' Roller' and 'Beer for my Horses' I managed to eat some of it and drink a bottle of wine.
Not wise.
P, given the simple task of taking a few pics, was either outside at the picnic tables in the cool evening air, supping ale, or inside, with his back firmly to the action, (my best exposition of 'Chill Factor') and the camera switched off, nattering to Chris Wild about restaurants. Oh well.
The week has been busy with end-of-term French lessons preceded by French lunches, seriously interfering with our preparations for the Wedding, or, more importantly, the Visitation afterwards of the wedded pair, enfant, other in-laws, before which I have a flurry of cooking and cleaning tasks to complete. I am now working to a time-table for a 16- day countdown. But with a clear week ahead, I now think we'll make it. After all, I've had my outfit ready for 2 months.
Speak soon...
Last night was my Line-Dance group's 4th July picnic. We arrived late, as per, (yesterday was stone picking and earth-moving where the roofer's Caterpillar had left grooves in the grass, it was in the shade so we did it in preference to laying concrete, then we needed showers, we couldn't have got there any sooner...). We staggered in with the Lakeland picnic bag and a Lidl carrier bag full of burgers, coleslaw, fruit salad and beer. Why does one hugely over-cater for picnics and barbeques? Somehow, in between 'Doctor, Doctor', 'Red Hot Rock 'n' Roller' and 'Beer for my Horses' I managed to eat some of it and drink a bottle of wine.
Not wise.
P, given the simple task of taking a few pics, was either outside at the picnic tables in the cool evening air, supping ale, or inside, with his back firmly to the action, (my best exposition of 'Chill Factor') and the camera switched off, nattering to Chris Wild about restaurants. Oh well.
The week has been busy with end-of-term French lessons preceded by French lunches, seriously interfering with our preparations for the Wedding, or, more importantly, the Visitation afterwards of the wedded pair, enfant, other in-laws, before which I have a flurry of cooking and cleaning tasks to complete. I am now working to a time-table for a 16- day countdown. But with a clear week ahead, I now think we'll make it.
Speak soon...
Monday, 28 April 2008
Jardinage and Lunatics
Today is St Valérie's day and the moon is in its last quarter, details highly significant to the French gardener, who is guided by the Calendar when deciding which job to do.
On April 23rd, large signs appeared in hardware stores and Horticulturalists, (unaccompanied, sadly, by the Union Flag,):-
'St George's, C'est le moment de planter!'
No matter that it had, until last week, rained solidly for 6 weeks after a fine and spring-like February. No matter that the soil is cold and so waterlogged that it mustn't be trodden on. Overnight, out of the shop went the wood-burners, log-baskets, bird-feeders, chestnut-roasters and wood-pile tarpaulins, in have come barbeques, sun-loungers, parasols and racks upon racks of bedding plants, herbs, vegetable plants, tubs full of olive trees, rose bushes and oleanders.
We are saved from the immediate injunction to plant, by the phase of the moon, however. While the moon is waning, one should mow, prune, strim and dig. The weak gravitational pull of the moon means the water table is lower, sap, despite the Spring, slower to rise. (I have to say, it has taken a pretty strong mug of Ethiopian Roast to get my sap rising today.) So we have more than a week to allow the garden to warm up in the newly-appeared sun, until the moon once more draws up the water table to allow plants to be bedded out, seeds to be sown and for cutting any growing thing to become, suddenly, taboo.
So for St Valérie, my French gardening Almanac exhorts me to fertilise the soil, split perennials, cut shoots from the base of the peach and apricot trees. I can't wait to get some of the lovely plants into pots and tubs, though. Surely the moon will let me do that? A little garden centre nearby that spreads its floor with whatever the wholesale market has had on offer is a Persian carpet at the moment. I want to get some verveine and heliochrysum in some hanging baskets, flaming geraniums and nepeta in two big terracotta pots.
My fingers itch to buy other interesting plants, but we are between gardens at present, my plant garden has been dug out to make a shady patio, pots will have to do. We have designs for a spring garden in front of the house, where the lines of a lovely planned garden can still be seen, despite year's of the former owner's neglect, and months of our builder's depredations.
P has been bringing some much-needed attention to the neglected conifers in the 'Parc', removing 30 foot lengths of bramble and cutting off thigh-thick trunks of ivy. We have yet to work out where 'my' garden is to be, and yet again I think how the one thing I miss of our last home is the garden, and dream of majoram and celendine hanging over a pond, oriental poppies reflected in another, a graceful, arching maple...
But this is such progress, no? I am no longer bewailing the state of our drains, charting the builder's travails with MainLaw's bluddy dog. We have got artisans on site; a Roofer and his mate, (she really is his mate, Laurent and Valérie are husband and wife. As they teeter over our tiles, I pray that they don't Fall Out. boom boom.) We realised that the time had come to admit the roof had to be done when the final guest bedroom, newly decorated, sprung a leak in its ceiling, so now a large green Manitou is parked on the drive. But we can contemplate a time not too far away when no heavy machinery will be trundling in and the drive can be 'done', a decent gate fitted, and we can sit in the garden and drink wine. People here do that sometimes, apparantly.
But this St Valérie, Valérie is not here, rain has kept her & Laurent away from our slippery toiture and us out of the garden. So here I am, blogging, updating my i-pod, topping up the phone and the Tom-Tom in anticipation of a quick trip home to pick up an ebay purchase. We look at the grey clouds scudding in from the Bay of Biscay, hoping for our neighbours' sake that the sun will be out again for le premier mai.
May 1st, carrier of 'bonheur', goodluck, when neighbours and friends give each other bunches of Lily of the Valley. I like to wilfully interpret 'the day for the bringing of good luck' as 'let the good times roll'. And if the sun re-appears, they will. Roll, I mean. Our neighbours, the Lespines, up at Montaillac, are opening their chai and winery to the public for the day. The real purpose is the launch of their daughter's business selling rare plants. Oh dear, my fingers will be itching again.
Eating and drinking will naturally be part of this, tables will be set before their stunning view of the bowl of vineyards that curve up to Bernac, 10 of us will be there - IF the weather improves.
If it does, I'll take some piccies and put them here. The moon is due to rise at 4.31 that morning. As it sets at seven minutes past four in the afternoon, we'll be rolling back, full of soup and duck, not TOO much of their tasty wine, carrying pots of rare plants and then we'll be waiting for 10th of May when the waxing moon will allow us to plant them.
(Ste Solange's day, in case you were wondering.)
On April 23rd, large signs appeared in hardware stores and Horticulturalists, (unaccompanied, sadly, by the Union Flag,):-
'St George's, C'est le moment de planter!'
No matter that it had, until last week, rained solidly for 6 weeks after a fine and spring-like February. No matter that the soil is cold and so waterlogged that it mustn't be trodden on. Overnight, out of the shop went the wood-burners, log-baskets, bird-feeders, chestnut-roasters and wood-pile tarpaulins, in have come barbeques, sun-loungers, parasols and racks upon racks of bedding plants, herbs, vegetable plants, tubs full of olive trees, rose bushes and oleanders.
We are saved from the immediate injunction to plant, by the phase of the moon, however. While the moon is waning, one should mow, prune, strim and dig. The weak gravitational pull of the moon means the water table is lower, sap, despite the Spring, slower to rise. (I have to say, it has taken a pretty strong mug of Ethiopian Roast to get my sap rising today.) So we have more than a week to allow the garden to warm up in the newly-appeared sun, until the moon once more draws up the water table to allow plants to be bedded out, seeds to be sown and for cutting any growing thing to become, suddenly, taboo.
So for St Valérie, my French gardening Almanac exhorts me to fertilise the soil, split perennials, cut shoots from the base of the peach and apricot trees. I can't wait to get some of the lovely plants into pots and tubs, though. Surely the moon will let me do that? A little garden centre nearby that spreads its floor with whatever the wholesale market has had on offer is a Persian carpet at the moment. I want to get some verveine and heliochrysum in some hanging baskets, flaming geraniums and nepeta in two big terracotta pots.
My fingers itch to buy other interesting plants, but we are between gardens at present, my plant garden has been dug out to make a shady patio, pots will have to do. We have designs for a spring garden in front of the house, where the lines of a lovely planned garden can still be seen, despite year's of the former owner's neglect, and months of our builder's depredations.
P has been bringing some much-needed attention to the neglected conifers in the 'Parc', removing 30 foot lengths of bramble and cutting off thigh-thick trunks of ivy. We have yet to work out where 'my' garden is to be, and yet again I think how the one thing I miss of our last home is the garden, and dream of majoram and celendine hanging over a pond, oriental poppies reflected in another, a graceful, arching maple...
But this is such progress, no? I am no longer bewailing the state of our drains, charting the builder's travails with MainLaw's bluddy dog. We have got artisans on site; a Roofer and his mate, (she really is his mate, Laurent and Valérie are husband and wife. As they teeter over our tiles, I pray that they don't Fall Out. boom boom.) We realised that the time had come to admit the roof had to be done when the final guest bedroom, newly decorated, sprung a leak in its ceiling, so now a large green Manitou is parked on the drive. But we can contemplate a time not too far away when no heavy machinery will be trundling in and the drive can be 'done', a decent gate fitted, and we can sit in the garden and drink wine. People here do that sometimes, apparantly.
But this St Valérie, Valérie is not here, rain has kept her & Laurent away from our slippery toiture and us out of the garden. So here I am, blogging, updating my i-pod, topping up the phone and the Tom-Tom in anticipation of a quick trip home to pick up an ebay purchase. We look at the grey clouds scudding in from the Bay of Biscay, hoping for our neighbours' sake that the sun will be out again for le premier mai.
May 1st, carrier of 'bonheur', goodluck, when neighbours and friends give each other bunches of Lily of the Valley. I like to wilfully interpret 'the day for the bringing of good luck' as 'let the good times roll'. And if the sun re-appears, they will. Roll, I mean. Our neighbours, the Lespines, up at Montaillac, are opening their chai and winery to the public for the day. The real purpose is the launch of their daughter's business selling rare plants. Oh dear, my fingers will be itching again.
Eating and drinking will naturally be part of this, tables will be set before their stunning view of the bowl of vineyards that curve up to Bernac, 10 of us will be there - IF the weather improves.
If it does, I'll take some piccies and put them here. The moon is due to rise at 4.31 that morning. As it sets at seven minutes past four in the afternoon, we'll be rolling back, full of soup and duck, not TOO much of their tasty wine, carrying pots of rare plants and then we'll be waiting for 10th of May when the waxing moon will allow us to plant them.
(Ste Solange's day, in case you were wondering.)
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Oh Gawd
Is it really October when I last Posted?!?
Since then I have been 6o, had a big do in UK, done Christmas, gone back home for Granddaughter's 1st birthday, been poorly, gone skiing with friends in Pyrenees, & now our daughter & son-in-law are here for her birthday. The sun is shining, snowdrops, violets & early narcissi are out & birds are collecting nesting material. We are about to go for the walk round the block, (see pics.)
Speak later, I'm bound to have time some day, if only I could wean myself from The Archers (BBC) Message Board.
Since then I have been 6o, had a big do in UK, done Christmas, gone back home for Granddaughter's 1st birthday, been poorly, gone skiing with friends in Pyrenees, & now our daughter & son-in-law are here for her birthday. The sun is shining, snowdrops, violets & early narcissi are out & birds are collecting nesting material. We are about to go for the walk round the block, (see pics.)
Speak later, I'm bound to have time some day, if only I could wean myself from The Archers (BBC) Message Board.
Sunday, 28 October 2007
Autumn
At 6.45, in glimmering light, a mist beyond the red-checked curtain, I was crouching by the woodburner, carefully feeding small sticks into the embers, coaxing the friendly monster back to life. A small flame rewarded me, how little it takes to give one huge pleasure. Not normally an early riser, I had been unable to find the knob to wind me back an hour last night, and there was a certain glow in the mist that hinted of a glorious day to come that got me up.
As the mist shifted later, I jumped out of bed, ( yes, dear Reader, I had retired again, with Whittard's Assam and 'Winter In Madrid',) grabbed jeans, fleece and camera and rushed out to catch images before the light changed. I'll post a few here later; having taken a few between the vines, the fusillade from the chasseurs up in the woods drove me to the safety of our own garden.
Yesterday I did the walk 'round the block' that some of you have done with us when you arrived after a journey. The vines from which we picked merlot or sauvingnon grapes in September are now stripped and turning sage and mustard. Against pale french navy hills, the yellow candles of poplars stood, and here and there a field maple blazed, its rich colours stealing the eye from the less showy oaks and chestnuts. (Our other local walk, around the lake, takes us round a mirror on which are reflected ducks and herons, black and white blobs on a plate of blue.) A woman passes on a higher path. We wave. She is not near enough for me to ask 'have I missed the Grues?'
The grues, - cranes- are one of the sights and sounds of autumn and early spring. My diary records their passage on the 28th and 29th October, in the previous 2 years, so perhaps they've not yet passed, although it has been cold for a week. You hear them first; they are named for their call; perhaps one evening as they arrive at a nearby lake to settle for the night, or the next morning as they wait for the sun to warm them up a bit, encouraging them to spiral and jostle and flap, finally arranging themselves into an orderly and stately upward reel into the sky, where they circle for a while, arguing about the direction, until a vote is taken and they head South for Africa once more. Or you hear them and look around, then up, searching the sky for the source of 500 birds 'grrrue-grrue'-ing and there they are, far higher than you would have thought from the volume of the sound, a long, trailing, wavering 'V' that trembles up and down with each wing beat. You can still hear them long after they've gone. Wonderful.
Passerelles. Birds of passage. Which we are, now. From the moment we made our decision to leave our home, we were detatching ourselves from Home. And where is that, now, exactly? Sometimes I ache with homesickness, but I am not as I was when I left, and to where would I return? Unlike the swallow and the crane, we can never return the the same place twice, at least not without feeling how different it is, we are, now. I look at Britain now with a judgement influenced by how 'we do things here', although the French-encompassing 'we' doesn't fit me either. I still struggle with the everyday communication of non-school French. I have French acquaintances, but friends?... Unless I bump into someone from the village, I haven't a clue what's going on in the community; who's died, who's left, ( although leaving home is something few French do.)
For some time I felt totally adrift, cut off from 'there', committed to 'here' but no part of it, alienated from it. Sometimes I woke in a panic in the night. Sometimes I wept.
But now I am part of a network of similar migratory creatures of several nationalities. We share our experiences of dislocation, our very different views of Britain. The footpaths, fields, ponds and woods are completely familiar now - I know the terroir, where the hunt looks for pigeons, where for deer, which vines grow red wines, which white, and even, sometimes, who owns which vinyard. Distant views are familiar too, although I don't always know the names of the hills I know roughly where they are. But I can never be rooted in this soil and I don't know which soil I might one day really feel is Home.
It is less hard now, we have, after all, come to land, settled for the night, 'found our feet'. We pay our taxes, are in the Health System, (and still will be after Sarkhozy's spiteful law disallows that sanctuary to several people I know. As if that will make any difference to his Budget deficit!), we have French driving licences and French Wills; conquering each of these bureaucratic nightmares has been a little triumph and several, an excuse for a bottle of Fizz!
But one day we will spiral upward, arguing about which way to go......
As the mist shifted later, I jumped out of bed, ( yes, dear Reader, I had retired again, with Whittard's Assam and 'Winter In Madrid',) grabbed jeans, fleece and camera and rushed out to catch images before the light changed. I'll post a few here later; having taken a few between the vines, the fusillade from the chasseurs up in the woods drove me to the safety of our own garden.
Yesterday I did the walk 'round the block' that some of you have done with us when you arrived after a journey. The vines from which we picked merlot or sauvingnon grapes in September are now stripped and turning sage and mustard. Against pale french navy hills, the yellow candles of poplars stood, and here and there a field maple blazed, its rich colours stealing the eye from the less showy oaks and chestnuts. (Our other local walk, around the lake, takes us round a mirror on which are reflected ducks and herons, black and white blobs on a plate of blue.) A woman passes on a higher path. We wave. She is not near enough for me to ask 'have I missed the Grues?'
The grues, - cranes- are one of the sights and sounds of autumn and early spring. My diary records their passage on the 28th and 29th October, in the previous 2 years, so perhaps they've not yet passed, although it has been cold for a week. You hear them first; they are named for their call; perhaps one evening as they arrive at a nearby lake to settle for the night, or the next morning as they wait for the sun to warm them up a bit, encouraging them to spiral and jostle and flap, finally arranging themselves into an orderly and stately upward reel into the sky, where they circle for a while, arguing about the direction, until a vote is taken and they head South for Africa once more. Or you hear them and look around, then up, searching the sky for the source of 500 birds 'grrrue-grrue'-ing and there they are, far higher than you would have thought from the volume of the sound, a long, trailing, wavering 'V' that trembles up and down with each wing beat. You can still hear them long after they've gone. Wonderful.
Passerelles. Birds of passage. Which we are, now. From the moment we made our decision to leave our home, we were detatching ourselves from Home. And where is that, now, exactly? Sometimes I ache with homesickness, but I am not as I was when I left, and to where would I return? Unlike the swallow and the crane, we can never return the the same place twice, at least not without feeling how different it is, we are, now. I look at Britain now with a judgement influenced by how 'we do things here', although the French-encompassing 'we' doesn't fit me either. I still struggle with the everyday communication of non-school French. I have French acquaintances, but friends?... Unless I bump into someone from the village, I haven't a clue what's going on in the community; who's died, who's left, ( although leaving home is something few French do.)
For some time I felt totally adrift, cut off from 'there', committed to 'here' but no part of it, alienated from it. Sometimes I woke in a panic in the night. Sometimes I wept.
But now I am part of a network of similar migratory creatures of several nationalities. We share our experiences of dislocation, our very different views of Britain. The footpaths, fields, ponds and woods are completely familiar now - I know the terroir, where the hunt looks for pigeons, where for deer, which vines grow red wines, which white, and even, sometimes, who owns which vinyard. Distant views are familiar too, although I don't always know the names of the hills I know roughly where they are. But I can never be rooted in this soil and I don't know which soil I might one day really feel is Home.
It is less hard now, we have, after all, come to land, settled for the night, 'found our feet'. We pay our taxes, are in the Health System, (and still will be after Sarkhozy's spiteful law disallows that sanctuary to several people I know. As if that will make any difference to his Budget deficit!), we have French driving licences and French Wills; conquering each of these bureaucratic nightmares has been a little triumph and several, an excuse for a bottle of Fizz!
But one day we will spiral upward, arguing about which way to go......
Sunday, 26 August 2007
Fireworks (2)
I have just got round to putting the final mud pictures on, since Viki thought the blog finished abruptly & she thought we were still in a mess. ( Leave comments, Vik; however am I going to get the notoriety of the 'myboyfriendisatwat' woman otherwise? Or the publishing deal?) Well of course we are still in a mess, this place is huge & ancient, but the grass has grown & the potager is restored. I will post prettier pics soon, but include the final one as it shows the famous pile of rocks, viewed by all visitors who had read about it in earlier Round Robins with gasps of mingled admiration & horror. We truly have dug them & heaved them ourselves, (yes, this is pretty much a royal we but I did do some,) and now the pile is a haunt of lizards.
On July 20th we gave ourselves a break & took a trip to the Vendée with the French class above mine. Marie-Christine has got it into her head that I am a person of culture & despite my absolute refusal to join her 'Civilisations' group to discuss history & politics, ( my French truly isn't up to it,), I am often included in their jollies.
I have to say this person of culture raised an eyebrow at the chosen venue, a sort of historical theme park with grand staged 'Spectacles' instead of rides, called Parc du Grand Fou.
We watched a cod rehash of Gladiator in an impressive amphitheatre & moved on to the Viking village. After happy bronze age people frolicked free of hunger, syphilis or bad dentistry, the V's arrived. One longboat sailed impressively round a bend in the river, (the settings for the spectacles were just that, spectacular,) but then one appeared to slide down a hill rather than round it & another rose from beneath the water. Marie-Christine must have heard Paul murmur in my ear,
"Hmmm, I never knew the Vikings had invented the submarine..", for as we all wandered off to watch 'Falcons Les Phantomes' (this won't let me do an ascii 'o' with a hat), she sidled up to me & said apologetically,
"I don't think this is quite your thing?!" with perfect 'ths'.
However, the Falcon thing was quite stunning, we had never seen so many birds of prey together, including huge vultures & eagles who were set loose from a tethered balloon way up in the sky, & all set skimming above our heads by the handlers. It was jaw-dropping & well-worth the entrance fee & bad food, all on its own.
I'm being unfair; the point of the visit was the evening show, a 'Cinescenie' which is the biggest Son et Lumiere in the world, ( I know, accents, it won't work today,) & this was quite stupendous; I would gladly travel back to see it all again.
We climbed up the side of what felt like a roller coaster, through an entrance hall like the NEC & emerged high up on an enormous grandstand, seating about 10,000 people, over-looking an outdoor 'stage' at least 1/2 a kilometre across. As Darkness fell, we took in the details: a huge lake, behind it a chateau, around were spread woods, a village, lanes, grassy swards, bridges, hovels & distant windmills. The spectacle began as a lone figure with a lantern walked around the setting while a voice set the scene; we were going to see the history of the Vendée. For 2 hours, despite the cold, we watched a cast of 1-2,000 actors, 24 horses, stunning light effects enact a history full of struggle & war. Wonderful set piece followed wonderful set piece, I abandoned my camera.
The finale was optimistic, even a little triumphal, & then the fireworks began. Only a week earlier I'd thought I'd seen the best fireworks ever, but these were even more amazing, they filled the night sky with light & flaming colours, burst after burst, around me everybody gasped, laughed, cheered, one lady wept. I have no pictures of this. If you're visiting the Vendée in the future, go, see.
On July 20th we gave ourselves a break & took a trip to the Vendée with the French class above mine. Marie-Christine has got it into her head that I am a person of culture & despite my absolute refusal to join her 'Civilisations' group to discuss history & politics, ( my French truly isn't up to it,), I am often included in their jollies.
I have to say this person of culture raised an eyebrow at the chosen venue, a sort of historical theme park with grand staged 'Spectacles' instead of rides, called Parc du Grand Fou.
We watched a cod rehash of Gladiator in an impressive amphitheatre & moved on to the Viking village. After happy bronze age people frolicked free of hunger, syphilis or bad dentistry, the V's arrived. One longboat sailed impressively round a bend in the river, (the settings for the spectacles were just that, spectacular,) but then one appeared to slide down a hill rather than round it & another rose from beneath the water. Marie-Christine must have heard Paul murmur in my ear,
"Hmmm, I never knew the Vikings had invented the submarine..", for as we all wandered off to watch 'Falcons Les Phantomes' (this won't let me do an ascii 'o' with a hat), she sidled up to me & said apologetically,
"I don't think this is quite your thing?!" with perfect 'ths'.
However, the Falcon thing was quite stunning, we had never seen so many birds of prey together, including huge vultures & eagles who were set loose from a tethered balloon way up in the sky, & all set skimming above our heads by the handlers. It was jaw-dropping & well-worth the entrance fee & bad food, all on its own.
I'm being unfair; the point of the visit was the evening show, a 'Cinescenie' which is the biggest Son et Lumiere in the world, ( I know, accents, it won't work today,) & this was quite stupendous; I would gladly travel back to see it all again.
We climbed up the side of what felt like a roller coaster, through an entrance hall like the NEC & emerged high up on an enormous grandstand, seating about 10,000 people, over-looking an outdoor 'stage' at least 1/2 a kilometre across. As Darkness fell, we took in the details: a huge lake, behind it a chateau, around were spread woods, a village, lanes, grassy swards, bridges, hovels & distant windmills. The spectacle began as a lone figure with a lantern walked around the setting while a voice set the scene; we were going to see the history of the Vendée. For 2 hours, despite the cold, we watched a cast of 1-2,000 actors, 24 horses, stunning light effects enact a history full of struggle & war. Wonderful set piece followed wonderful set piece, I abandoned my camera.
The finale was optimistic, even a little triumphal, & then the fireworks began. Only a week earlier I'd thought I'd seen the best fireworks ever, but these were even more amazing, they filled the night sky with light & flaming colours, burst after burst, around me everybody gasped, laughed, cheered, one lady wept. I have no pictures of this. If you're visiting the Vendée in the future, go, see.
Saturday, 4 August 2007
Feux D'Artifices 1
I think I need the 'X' & the 'S', (anyway, there were lots of them, over 2 weekends.)
This is like homework: have I spelt it correctly? Gotta get it posted before we go back to the UK for 2 weeks...
To whom am I handing it in, though? Who is reading this, red pen in hand?
Anyway, the fireworks.
For years we came to France in the summer holidays, expecting to celebrate Bastille Day with cheering, merry French Republicans, but we must always have been in the wrong places. Campsites on the Loire & Ardèche, small villages, central squares in medieval towns were more deserted on the 14th July than normal. Where did the celebrating go on?
In 2005, we heard distant crackling & saw golden showers from our isolated garden, so in 2006 we headed for our local town. We had to queue to get in, at a crossing, as every child under 10 crossed in front of us, dressed in frills, pastels minature suits & ties, spotless socks, each carrying a candle lantern & accompanied by a proud adult, holding their hands as they progressed to the Chateau. There was a fairground set up in the centre, ( not a very big one as it isn't a very big centre.) Stalls full of gaudy gewgaws lined the streets, so we retreated down the steps to our favourite bar. I'm not sure why we prefer this place as we must double the average age, anyway, we got a drink & joined the groups standing in the road, looking up at the chateau waiting for the fireworks.
Well, there were 3. One was red. 2 were gold. Between them they created, oooh, 10 stars & 1 bang? We drank our drink. We went home, yes, waiting first for the 100+ children to cross back over the crossing. All that finery for 3 feu(x) d'Artifice(s) in 10 minutes! They didn't seem too disappointed, but I bloomin' was.
So when a friend from Bergerac said, 'Come to dinner & we'll walk to the old Port to watch the fireworks', I thought, 'Well, it will be nice to go to Bob's for dinner, anyway' And so it was. Afterwards we walked through a warm evening towards the Port. More & more people joined us. The streets were lined with cars, one wheel on the pavement, de rigeur parking but VERy politically incorrect, probably why they do it. When we got to the bridge, there were hundreds of people, excited, chattering, the children carrying those little multi-coloured flashing things that look like neon sparklers... Amazing! We settled on the cobbles of the Port, the place was packed. Before long the PA started, telling us that the Ville & Commune of Bergerac welcomed us to their celebration of le Quatorze, that the theme was 'cinema' & they wished everyone good luck for the coming twelvemonth.
With that began the most amazing firework display I have ever seen. We tried to 'spot the Movie' as clear, loud stereo sound blasted wonderful themes, from Gladiator to Brief Encounter, from James Bond to Top Hat, with perfectly choreographed & coloured rockets, starbursts, wheels, rains & shooting stars crackled & banged across the river. Wonderful.
And afterwards, several thousand people, with no marshalls & few Police in evidence, got themselves & their children from the port, along the narrow streets & alleyways of the old Town, to sit in delightful bars beneath plane trees & eat an ice-cream or drink a beer. A lovely evening, so civilised, so elegant, & I thought with sadness of what happens these days in English town centres....
(to be cont.)
This is like homework: have I spelt it correctly? Gotta get it posted before we go back to the UK for 2 weeks...
To whom am I handing it in, though? Who is reading this, red pen in hand?
Anyway, the fireworks.
For years we came to France in the summer holidays, expecting to celebrate Bastille Day with cheering, merry French Republicans, but we must always have been in the wrong places. Campsites on the Loire & Ardèche, small villages, central squares in medieval towns were more deserted on the 14th July than normal. Where did the celebrating go on?
In 2005, we heard distant crackling & saw golden showers from our isolated garden, so in 2006 we headed for our local town. We had to queue to get in, at a crossing, as every child under 10 crossed in front of us, dressed in frills, pastels minature suits & ties, spotless socks, each carrying a candle lantern & accompanied by a proud adult, holding their hands as they progressed to the Chateau. There was a fairground set up in the centre, ( not a very big one as it isn't a very big centre.) Stalls full of gaudy gewgaws lined the streets, so we retreated down the steps to our favourite bar. I'm not sure why we prefer this place as we must double the average age, anyway, we got a drink & joined the groups standing in the road, looking up at the chateau waiting for the fireworks.
Well, there were 3. One was red. 2 were gold. Between them they created, oooh, 10 stars & 1 bang? We drank our drink. We went home, yes, waiting first for the 100+ children to cross back over the crossing. All that finery for 3 feu(x) d'Artifice(s) in 10 minutes! They didn't seem too disappointed, but I bloomin' was.
So when a friend from Bergerac said, 'Come to dinner & we'll walk to the old Port to watch the fireworks', I thought, 'Well, it will be nice to go to Bob's for dinner, anyway' And so it was. Afterwards we walked through a warm evening towards the Port. More & more people joined us. The streets were lined with cars, one wheel on the pavement, de rigeur parking but VERy politically incorrect, probably why they do it. When we got to the bridge, there were hundreds of people, excited, chattering, the children carrying those little multi-coloured flashing things that look like neon sparklers... Amazing! We settled on the cobbles of the Port, the place was packed. Before long the PA started, telling us that the Ville & Commune of Bergerac welcomed us to their celebration of le Quatorze, that the theme was 'cinema' & they wished everyone good luck for the coming twelvemonth.
With that began the most amazing firework display I have ever seen. We tried to 'spot the Movie' as clear, loud stereo sound blasted wonderful themes, from Gladiator to Brief Encounter, from James Bond to Top Hat, with perfectly choreographed & coloured rockets, starbursts, wheels, rains & shooting stars crackled & banged across the river. Wonderful.
And afterwards, several thousand people, with no marshalls & few Police in evidence, got themselves & their children from the port, along the narrow streets & alleyways of the old Town, to sit in delightful bars beneath plane trees & eat an ice-cream or drink a beer. A lovely evening, so civilised, so elegant, & I thought with sadness of what happens these days in English town centres....
(to be cont.)
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