39. Back at the ranch

16th January 2010. That sound you can hear is the last of the dust settling following Christmas and New Year.. We’re now back to our old routine.. no more champagne to drink, no more foie gras or galettes to eat. The trouble was that we stayed with 4 sets of friends in 9 days in and around Paris and each time we arrived at a new temporary 'home', the fatted calf would be killed anew and more bottles would be opened, with the result that when we finally returned home on New Years Day we were both feeling just that little bit jaded and desperately wanting to eat lightly for a few days.

That resolution lasted only 5 minutes once we got home.. because it was 5 minutes after opening the front door that I thought to check our mail box. The facteur (postman) has a master key to it and this explains how a fully formed Christmas Pudding (a kind thought from a friend in England) was found to be lurking in there.. along with all the other mail. Yes, a Christmas pudding - the one thing I hadn’t eaten over Christmas! So it was on the following Sunday that we nobly sacrificed ourselves to appease Ye Olde English Christmas Pudding Gods. The pudding was heated, hot brandy poured over it (“we have ignition..!”) and all conversation ceased for a few glorious minutes.. As always, the French have an apt expression for this moment: "Un ange passe". All was well with the world again. We retired early with snoring high on the agenda..

I could have done with this diagram on Christmas Eve - not having worn a tie for months!

Looking back over the holidays, I remember feeling 'hard done by' on Christmas Day.. With it being France, we had our Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve with O - Madame's brother - and F - his wife - and their family.. and it was excellent indeed. O knows his wine too and he offered us a wonderful Bordeaux.. The following day at 3pm, we sat down to a light lunch as we were going to be eating for Queen & Country later in the evening. This is where the mind can play terrible tricks.. I remember thinking that, at that very moment, upwards of 10 million sizzling golden brown roast turkeys were sliding out of ovens all over Britain. The fact that we’d dined like kings the night before was temporarily forgotten. As I said, it was just a passing thought born out of years of conditioning. What was it that Hemingway said about Christmas? - that "you don't know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land". There is some truth in that. Although we'd eaten royally (or should that be republicanly if there is such a word?) on Christmas Eve, I did feel a sense of seasonal deprivation on Christmas Day in the Vittles Department, if only for a few moments.

Earlier on Christmas Day, we'd gone with F to the outdoor market in nearby Saint-Germain-en-Laye which to my complete surprise was open and busy. Quite a few shops were open as well. This is a manicured little town (now effectively an outer suburb of Paris) that is clearly a very desirable place to hang one's chapeau.

On Boxing Day, we’d been invited to F's sister in the afternoon. They live in the 9th arrondissement in Paris in one of those old apartment blocks that always look so inviting. Entering Paris from the north (Porte de la Chapelle) and driving through an ‘ethnic’ part of Paris, you could have been forgiven for thinking that we were in downtown Baghdad. We fought our way through the traffic and arrived at the address (just north of Pigalle). It was such a stylish flat with its polished parquet floors with decorative moulding on the walls and ceilings. Following hard on the heels of another outbreak of handshakes and cheek kissing all round on arrival, there was the unmistakeable sound of champagne corks being popped.. (again!)

More delights followed in the form of those little multi-coloured ‘macarons’ and other chocolatey nibbles. We had to leave fairly soon afterwards as we were expected at A’s, our second ‘home’ for the next couple of days in La Varenne-Saint-Hilaire, on the south east edge of Paris on the banks of the River Marne. 

I thought I’d trust the GPS to guide us through Paris – big mistake! We ended up stuck in heavy traffic before emerging to graze Boulevard Haussmann just at the point where the major department stores Galeries Lafayette and Printemps (left) are located. Fortunately, the chosen route led us away around La Madeleine (right) and then from there, an unexpected bonus, along the expressway along the banks of the Seine with its stunning views across to the Left Bank. It lifted our spirits to see again the city we love, the city that's full of memories for us. And, in the slanting late afternoon light, it really did look like what it is - the most beautiful city in the world. (OK, who's the comedian who said "After Birkenhead.."?)

With A, we walked along the banks of the Marne, lined with trophy houses, including the one where Charles Trénet’s mother lived. If you don’t know Charles Trénet (shame on you!), he wrote & recorded “La Mer” in 1946 - well before Bobby Darin’s English version came out in 1960. (Wait for it... "Who's Bobby Darin..?")

We walked down to A’s local market and I must say that I’ve not seen a better one. Food markets in the Pays Basque are very regional & very Basque with few, if any, outside influences. In genteel St-Maur, with it being Paris, all tastes and regions of France were represented and catered for and the meat, poultry, cheese and fish stands were a real treat for the eyes. A’s 2 sons were visiting – the elder being Madame’s godson – and we enjoyed catching up with them.

After a couple of days with A, we moved back into central Paris to stay with N – Madame’s copine of old – and A, who live in the 11th in a chic top floor flat with a terrace, not far from the Place de la Bastille. This is a lively area, full of arty workshops and designers who’ve been allowed by the Ville de Paris to establish themselves in the curved spaces beneath a long viaduct. We walked along this fascinating row of avant-garde ateliers (workshops), studios and galleries heading for the Place Bastille and then to the Place des Vosges (above & right) in the Marais. We walked around the square in the cover of the galleries before stopping for a hot wine to keep the cold at bay. We sat outside a café under a heater and gradually warmed up. This is one of our favourite places in Paris for many reasons and we always find ourselves homing in on this particular spot. Chekhov said it best: "The golden moments pass, and leave no trace."

I make no apologies for this next one - one of the greatest songs ever written:

 

The next day, we had a tasty lunch at a local Chinese restaurant in the 11th before leaving Chibby (our golden cocker spaniel) with N & A (as dogs aren’t allowed in the Métro) while we went off for a walk up the Champs Elysées. Privately we were already starting to miss the sea air of the Pays Basque and the sea side. 

When I first set foot in the Champs Elysées in the mid-sixties, it - and Milan - were undeniably the style capitals of the world and the ne plus ultra of luxury shopping in western Europe. The broad pavements were also the territory of some spectacularly beautiful nanas, either cruising or stepping hither and thither from one luxury shop to the next. 

Over the years, the general malaise in the standards of western society saw a decline in the fortunes of these emporia for the excessively wealthy as street fashion now largely dominates the pavements. When we were there, it seemed that every man and his dog was out there walking up and down – and many of them were in baggy jeans and back-to-front (ooh trendy) baseball caps. And to crown it all, white painted Christmas market stalls selling imported tat had been set up lower down the grand Avenue. I never thought I'd live to see it. I'd've thought anywhere but here. We walked past the Drugstore (above left) at the top of the Champs Elysées. This is the Drugstore in its current incarnation (right) – OK for the fairground at Southend perhaps but at the top end of the Champs Elysées..? I'd call it council-sponsored vandalism. In Paris, the lunatics are now officially running the asylum. We decided we'd escape the madding crowd and so we circumnavigated the Arc de Triomphe and it was with a great sense of relief we headed off down into the tranquillity of the Avenue Victor Hugo in the 16th. This was a different world.

At one point I spotted a stylish restaurant across the road and I realised I was looking at Prunier – the classic seafood restaurant of Paris that dates waay back. I think it’s fair to say that its heyday was probably in the Golden Age but I’d still give my right arm to have lunch there.

I found myself standing outside a shop for gents like wot I am and, looking in the window, I saw quite a few things I liked. Stepping inside, Madame said I was looking for a jacket. After a single practised look at me, the owner reached into a rail of jackets, selected one and held it open for me to try. It fitted as though made for me. I don’t think we spent more than 10 minutes inside the shop. My kind of shopping!

We went into a few shops looking for things for Madame but without much luck.

This area of Paris is almost like a village – only a few minutes walk from the Arc de Triomphe but a haven of peace and calm. I shudder to think what an apartment there would cost.. As the old saying has it: if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it. And with that, with night fast approaching, we headed back to N & A’s.

You’ll have to look elsewhere to find out how Johnny (Halliday) is doing.. he’s been headline news for weeks now in France with a near-death experience in Los Angeles due to medical complications arising from an 'op' he'd had in Paris. And then there was the Euro-tunnel fiasco with trains marooned for hours. I didn’t see an English newspaper but I’m sure that more than one of the tabloids would have been unable to resist that old headline: “Tunnel shut-down; Continent isolated..”

To round off our stay in Paris, here’s the incomparable Yves Montand singing Les Feuilles Mortes.. (Autumn leaves in the English version). Enjoy..

  

Places to go? An ideal day would start with an 'apero' (aka attitude adjuster, bracer, snifter, heart starter..) at Au Franc Pinot on the Ile St-Louis before walking to the Taverne Henri IV (13 Place du Pont Neuf) for a light lunch. Try their rillettes de canard (right) with some crusty bread and a glass (or two) of Madiran. In the afternoon, head across to the Place des Vosges area for a mooch around the galleries, cafes and shops various before dinner at Bofinger, just off Place de la Bastille. This is the oldest brasserie in Paris and you may need to book. Tip: ask (demand!) to be seated downstairs under the dome. Try their excellent fixed price 3 course menu - which used to include wine. (It was the equivalent of £18 for years - menus here) After that, stroll down to the Latin Quarter for a rhum or two at the Rhumerie. There's always the Slow Club to finish off with..

Aide memoire!
Start: Au Franc Pinot. 1, Quai de Bourbon. (A while since I was last here - heard it had closed - now believed to have re-opened. Might be worth one visit)

Lunch (or a long afternoon!): Taverne Henri IV.
Dinner: Bofinger.
Drinks after: Rhumerie.
Finish: Slow Club. You're on your own now..!

It occurred to me the other day that Woody Allen nailed the essence of New York with the opening credits of his film "Manhattan" - the marriage of images and music (courtesy of George Gershwin) has never been bettered. Has something similar ever been done for Paris? And if not, why not? Here's a reminder:

Edited to add: Woody Allen put together some great images of Paris to open his 2011 film 'Midnight in Paris'. Well worth enjoying if you haven't seen it.   

Three down, one to go..! Our final stop before returning home was at Tours but we thought we’d go via the cemetery at Chartres – to pay our respects to Madame’s father & mother. The family grave is well situated in a beautifully maintained cemetery with a splendid view of the great cathedral which soars up to dominate the landscape for many miles around. It’s not a sad place - it’s not overgrown with moss or ivy – and as a final resting place it’s hard to think of one better.

We had a problem when it came to leave Chartres in that it seemed to be in a ‘black hole’ as far as the GPS was concerned! Unable to get a signal, we battled our way around the tangled inner parts of the town which were already starting to clog up with the early evening traffic. I think it took us a good 30 minutes to leave Chartres behind and get established on the road for Tours where fortunately the GPS kicked in once again. The temperature was just above freezing and as we approached Tours I could see a classic “line squall” developing fast out to the west. One half of the sky was black as pitch while the other was a benign early evening blue. Suddenly, there was a deluge of rain and gusts of wind - the noise in the car was deafening and all road markings disappeared. The sheer volume of water that came down was astonishing but gradually it tailed off and we breathed a sigh of relief.

At Tours, we stayed with our good friends J-M and M. Two years earlier we’d broken our journey with them overnight on the way south when we moved down from England. It was lovely to see them again and on New Year’s Eve, we took a walk along the Loire on a bright but bitterly cold afternoon. He’d bought his boys a Wii thing, a Beatles program with a couple of ‘modded’ guitars but he was suspiciously well practised at playing along with the Beatles..!! All too soon it was New Year’s day and time to leave again and head south.

The wintry weather we’d had in Paris extended as far south as Tours and we were both feeling the cold. As we drove south towards the Pays Basque though, we saw the first breaks in the cloud and before long we were under a cloudless sky and the temperatures started to rise.

And when we finally turned off the autoroute at Bayonne and crossed the familiar bridge over the Adour, it seemed like we hadn’t been away. Beautiful, grand and invigorating though Paris is, we were glad to be back home in the south west, in the Pays Basque.

It struck me in the wee small hours this morning that I haven’t really said much about the ‘gastronomique’ specialities of the Pays Basque. In my view, it’s a significant part of what makes this corner of France so special.

38. It's a sign!

Sitting in traffic this evening I felt my attention being drawn to a hypnotic green neon sign for a Pharmacie (chemist). The green cross design was sequencing through a mind-boggling series of rotations and flashes, including displaying the time and the temperature before going back into the flashing cycle. It reminded me of yet another difference in daily life between this side of the Channel and the other. Some French shopping institutions have evolved their own particular street signs - here are a few for the pharmacy.

The other distinctive ones I can recall are for Tabac (Tobacconists) and (this is where it gets slightly curious) Chevaline - horse butchers. You might wonder why they bother but if you happen to be looking for a specific type of shop they do make finding one that little bit easier.

I was trying to think of the UK equivalents.. and all I could come up with was the red and white spiral-striped barber's pole and the three golden balls for the pawnbrokers. Chemists sometimes had a gold mortar and pestle sign.

The illuminated Tabac sign is said to resemble a double ended carrot, often with TABAC spelled out.. Apparently the 'carrot' symbol stems from former times when pipe smokers would keep a piece of carrot in their tobacco pouch to keep their tobacco moist. When I used to smoke and I was gasping for a ciggy, the illuminated Tabac signs were a godsend.

I can understand the need for a easy-to-spot sign if you've a desperate need for a pharmacie or a Tabac - but a horse butchers? The sign for a horse butchers is a gilded horse's head that juts out from the wall. How many times have you found yourself dashing out of the house, all of a quiver for a horsemeat steak ("Just gotta have one!").. running around town with wild eyes looking for a shop with the gilded horse's head sign..? Exactly.. Here's a somewhat battle-damaged horse butchers (above right) from what looks like the immediate post-war years - and, incidentally, I don't think I'd be busting a gut to step inside this shop, would you? I'm reminded of the butchers in the film "Delicatessen".. 

I'm not sure that many Brits would ever contemplate the idea of eating horse meat - I think most would find the whole thing quite repugnant - but I must be honest, having tried it on 2 occasions, I have to admit that they were two of the best steaks I've ever had. I tried it once knowingly in France and the second time, in Italy, unknowingly. I won't be doing it again though.

During the Balkans conflicts in the mid 90s, over a period of 4 years I probably spent half that time based in Italy, just to the north of Venice. Madame came out a few times and, on one memorable occasion, we were out having dinner in a traditional restaurant in town with J, the wife of a colleague who was working. I'd become reasonably adept at decoding Italian menus and, being all pizza'd out, we decided we'd go for a meat dish. Feeling like trying something different, looking at the meat section, I spotted filetto di puledro.. It was clearly a fillet of some kind of meat so we ordered three. They arrived served in a reduced red wine sauce and we enjoyed them very much.. When it came to the bill, I asked the waitress what they were and eventually she said the word for a horse in Italian (cavallo) and then said 'piccolo' - meaning little.. ie, a foal. Eek!

Neither Madame or I felt too happy about that but our unease was as nothing compared to J's. I should have mentioned that she was a keen horsewoman. She went white and so I quickly ushered her outside as I thought she looked very close to a spectacularly lavish demonstration of projectile vomiting..

Moving swiftly on, while we're on the subject of Italy, one year I found a delicatessen in Italy that stocked two of Madame's favourite things combined into one.. It was a tin decorated in an ornate fin de siècle style that contained marrons glacés* that had been dipped in plain chocolate. To say that these hit the spot would be understating the case. And needless to say, I've never been able to find them again since.** And, coming back to the Pays Basque, last Christmas I went around all of the specialist chocolatiers in Bayonne hoping that one of them might have them, or might make some for me. I described what I was looking for but I met with the same universal response - or rather, lack of response - everywhere. No-one was interested in dipping a few marrons glacés in dark chocolate for me.. It was a demonstration of French culinary chauvinism -

"We don't do them like that here.."

Yes, I know that, but could you - just this once?

"If you want marrons glacés like that, you'd better go back to Italy.."

Etc etc.

Back to more domestic issues, we're having our Christmas dinner here at the weekend before we leave next week to go up to Paris. Commander-in-Chief (Home) has decreed that a Christmas pudding might just be on the agenda. Be still my beating heart!

* The brand was La Castagna Glassata Di Majani.. ricoperta di finissimo cioccolato fondente..

** Just found another site in Italy that has them! Guiliani I'll order some when we return in the New Year.

37. One to try at home

I'm not sure where this story fits in the overall scheme of things but I'll leave that for you to work out. Down at the rowing club one of the rowers is M.. He used to play scrum half for Aviron Bayonnais (the local top 14 rugby club) and he's a bit of a character. We were all out having a social event somewhere - it was a standard French night out, the red was going down well, everyone was talking, no-one was listening - when he suddenly came out with his patent method of how to return safely to the marital bed in the wee small hours after a late night out on the town.. on his own.

He said what he does, if he wishes to avoid a prolonged stay in the:

is to open the front door of his house ultra quietly, then tiptoe slowly upstairs before getting completely undressed in the spare room. (Been there, done that) Now this is the part that made us all laugh - he then backs slowly into the marital chamber. The idea being that if his wife wakes up and puts the bedside light on, all he has to do is to stop dead and freeze - facing the door - which is when he claims that he's just got up to go for a Nelson*. Works every time apparently! His demo (clothed!) had us all crying with laughter!

* Nelson Riddle (Cockney rhyming slang m'lud)

I picked up the new car this evening.. and I must sit down and give the handbook a good read because there's a daunting amount of technology in the thing. Problem is the handbook's in French so the VW dealer said he would order one for us in Anglo-Saxon and give it to us free of charge.. (that has a pleasing ring to it!)

Tonight we're having a real winter's favourite - Potée Auvergnate. This is real comfort food - and it's guaranteed to make you feel better.

It's a French country dish from - well, several regions have staked a claim to it - but the Auvergne probably has the strongest ownership claim. A joint of gammon, sausages various, potatoes, Savoy cabbage, carrots - all braised in a rich stock.. Add a splodge of grainy moutarde à l'ancienne (wholegrain mustard).. and stand well back while I get to work.

This picture is the closest I could find to Madame's version. If you're thinking that I'm spoiled, then you'd be absolutely right! Wonder why we didn't have Savoy cabbage as kids? It's delicious.. We once went to a restaurant in Paris that specialised in country cooking from the Auvergne and Savoy cabbage featured quite heavily. Forget the terminally boiled soggy cabbage of school dinners of days of yore - Savoy cabbage lends itself to all kinds of imaginative and tasty recipes.. not least of which is the one above.

I'm going to drift downstairs now and see if I can get in the way of the chef.. so talk amongst yourselves for a while!

36. Computery stuff

A little bird tells me that Père Noël (aka Father Xmas), in the form of Madame, might just be popping a mini camcorder into my Christmas stocking in a few weeks time. I managed to sneak a quick peek at the packaging to read the all-important system requirements. (system meaning my PC) I appear to be OK for space on my hard drive but it looks like I'll need a Pentium 4 2.8 or equivalent central processing unit or CPU as my current one won't be up to the job. What I know about CPUs could be typed, double spaced, in a large font, on the back of a postage stamp so I've just spent the last few hours researching the subject on the internet. This saga is slightly complicated by the fact that my processor isn't a Pentium - it's an AMD. Figuring out the equivalence and whether my motherboard can take a hot new processor is a riveting way of spending an afternoon.. I won't bore you with the details except to say that they are offered on ebay around the world at fairly hefty prices but I managed to find a local chap in Anglet (5 mins away) who has one for sale at a reasonable price.

Quick diversion: the cartoon below shows what you can easily end up doing on the internet if you're not careful..

Saw a car sticker here today that made me smile: "No ABS or airbags - I'll die like a man!"

If you feel in the mood for some escapism, I suggest you look no further than the following clip from "Out of Africa":

Madame spent some of her formative years at Brazzaville in the Congo - her father was in the French Air Force - and we've often thought about going back there. The sticking point is that Brazzaville has, for many years, been on the list of the world's most dangerous towns, along with Pointe Noir on the coast where she used to have holidays. While she has many fond memories of Africa I'm not too keen on the idea of having a one-way conversation with someone who's idly dangling a rusty machete at his side and so we're now thinking of visiting Kenya instead one day.. I'm tempted by Lamu on the coast.

35. Seasonal thoughts

At this time of the year, our thoughts are inevitably drifting towards Christmas. We're going to be staying with family and friends in and around Paris over Christmas and the New Year and we've been thinking of what we can bring them.. One thing springs to mind as a "cannot fail" crowd-pleaser and that's champagne. The famous quote by Tante Lily Bollinger (right) of the eponymous champagne house says it all.. In reply to the question posed by a Daily Mail journalist, "When do you drink champagne?" - she offered this very memorable answer:

"I only drink champagne when I'm happy, and when I'm sad. Sometimes I drink it when I'm alone. When I have company, I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I am not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never touch it - unless I'm thirsty."

I wouldn't argue with a single word of that.. except to add I wish I could afford such largesse!!

The following summer after Madame and I were married, we were driving back up to England from the Pays Basque after our first holiday together there and we'd been invited to break the journey with P & A, two of her good friends. P was the marketing manager for Mumm champagne.. (you can see where this is going already can't you!) Anyway, we arrived at their lovely house at St-Maur on the banks of La Marne just outside Paris in the late afternoon to find P & A sat around a table in their garden with their two boys. After much vigorous kissing and handshaking, P disappeared inside the house, emerging moments later with a bottle of Mumm and some glasses.

"Pop" went the cork, glasses were clinked, toasts were drunk and Madame and I soon started to unwind after the long hot drive from the Pays Basque. It wasn't long before the bottle was "morte" and P went off to fetch another.. I'd not been accustomed to drinking champagne in quantity before - normally, a glass or two at a wedding, or maybe a bottle between friends... but this was different. P seemed to have an unlimited supply of the stuff in his cellar because when we went inside for dinner, another bottle appeared on the table. And I think another one or two after that. In fact, we drank nothing else from the time we arrived to when we finally (much later) crawled gratefully up the stairs to bed.

With it being available in such quantity, I felt able to experiment with different methods of drinking it. Firstly, the discreet economical sip (as practised at weddings - when there's some doubt as to whether or not there's going to be a refill). Then there's the "go for it" method, taking a large un-English mouthful and gulping it down. Or filling one cheek and squirting it from side to side.. Or, as in a personal fantasy of mine, filling a washing up bowl with champagne and going face-down in it! (one of these days!) The possibilities were endless.. This was another one of those "I could get used to this" moments. The perfect drink on a warm summer's evening.

I remember once overhearing a couple of women re-stocking the drinks shelves at a supermarket in England. One said to the other, "What do you think of champagne..?" to which her friend replied, "Well, it's only glorified apple juice innit.." I must be honest: years ago I never used to be that struck on it because my experience of it was limited to sipping it warm at wedding receptions.

If, for some reason, I had to be limited to only one drink for the rest of my life, it would be champagne. I just wish I could afford to indulge in a bottle* every day as Winston Churchill is reputed to have done.

* Winston's favourite was Pol Roger.

Other champagne-related quotes - but who said 'em? (Answers below)

1. Three be the things I shall never attain: Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

2. In victory, you deserve Champagne, in defeat, you need it.

3. There comes a time in every woman's life when the only thing that helps is a glass of champagne.

4. Champagne is the only wine that leaves a woman beautiful after drinking it.

5. Champagne's funny stuff. I'm used to whiskey. Whiskey is a slap on the back, and champagne's a heavy mist before my eyes.

6. My only regret is that I did not drink more Champagne.

7. I drink champagne when I win, to celebrate . . . and I drink champagne when I lose, to console myself.

8. The feeling of friendship is like that of being comfortably filled with roast beef; love is like being enlivened with Champagne.

9. In success you deserve it, and in defeat you need it.

10. I'm only a beer teetotaller, not a champagne teetotaller. I don't like beer.

Finally: how not to open a bottle of champagne:

Although why not!! Now where did I put that washing up bowl..?

________________________________________________

Answers:
1. Dorothy Parker
2. Napoleon
3. Bette Davis (from the movie Old Acquaintance)
4. Madame De Pompadour
5. James Stewart (from the movie The Philadelphia Story)
6. Lord Maynard Keynes, on his deathbed
7. Napoleon Bonaparte
8. Samuel Johnson
9. Winston Churchill (sounds like no 2 to me!)
10. George Bernard Shaw

34. Jura service

/contd. The next day we finished the long drive to Dôle, in Jura, where Tante S & Oncle M lived and checked into a nearby hotel. The celebration kicked off at midday on the following day at the local church where we met up with all their family, relatives & friends. This being the first time I'd met them all, the introductions took a while. Afterwards there was a vin d'honneur.. following which we all set off to where the lunch was being served at a hall in a park high up overlooking the town.

A great L-shaped table had been set up in the hall with M and S sitting at the corner angle while all the other places were seated by age order.. "Oldest on the right, youngest on the left.." I think there were about 50-60 of us. M knew his wines and he told me he'd been saving up his best bottles for this occasion. One of the wines that was new to me was a wonderful vin jaune (yellow wine) from Arbois, a neighbouring town. As each course was demolished, the next one was brought in by the traiteur. I don't think there's a direct equivalent in the UK for a traiteur - perhaps an upmarket caterer. Traiteurs provide fine food for meetings, weddings, receptions, etc.

We were sat next to Madame's cousins from Belfort (in eastern France) whom she hadn't seen for years. As the wine disappeared, the jokes, the singing and the dancing started.. I think I must have danced with every female member of the family - including one with a spectacularly cantilevered bosom. This had the unfortunate side effect of keeping us at arms' length! Unfortunately I can no longer recall what we ate - except that it was all superb. The wines too were memorable - the taste of the Graves lingered long in the memory. With the coffee, unlabelled bottles of rocket fuel appeared from under the table and were passed around. At 5pm, we ground to a halt and we all got up to go for a short walk around the park before reconvening back in the hall for Part 2 at around 6pm...!! (Only in France!)

It all started again - except this time it was dinner! I seem to remember saying to Madame at about 11pm that perhaps we should be heading back to the hotel soon. Being France, you just can't get up and leave - we went round everybody (repeat handshakes & kissing) to say au revoir before finally driving (yes I know!) back to the hotel.. By this stage we'd been eating and drinking more or less continuously since midday and we were more than ready for bed.

When we arrived at the hotel there wasn't a light to be seen. I tried the front door only to find it was locked. Ringing the bell proved fruitless. There was a phone box across the road but again, no response.. So we got back in the car and drove to S's house where we parked on her drive and, putting the seats back, we fell quickly into an instant coma.

Some time after 1.30am, we were awoken by the sound of returning cars. After explaining to all and sundry what had happened, S said that one of the neighbours had a spare room all prepared in the event of an emergency overspill.. We drove around the corner to the house of S's friend where we parked outside and went into the house through the basement garage before tip-toeing up to the bedroom earmarked for waifs and strays on the ground floor.

The next morning I woke up with an urgent need to see a man about a dog.. Madame was vehement in her demand that I shouldn't as she was convinced that I'd wake up the family but after a short passage of time I persuaded her that it would be in all our interests if I went..!

I stood there in the bathroom with one of my Dad's wartime expressions running through my mind: M for sema, N for mation, O for the garden wall before getting to P for relief..* Opening the door quietly I crept out only to find a lady standing there looking at me.. with a quizzical expression.

Using the complete gamut (at the time) of my French language skills, I ventured a "Bonjour madame!" Hearing that, Madame sprang out of bed and took over.. (phew!) The lady and her husband had seen a car with a GB plate outside and put deux and deux together.. She'd been shushing her husband too in case he woke us up so it was fortunate I broke the circle.. He'd been out and bought fresh croissants too.

We had breakfast and before long we were chatting like old friends.. they were a charming couple. It was a bizarre experience though to wake up in a strange house with no idea who our hosts were.

* The other letters go like this: A for Horses, B for dinner, C for miles, D for ential, E for brick, F for vescence, G for police, H before beauty, I for nate, J for dollar to spare, K for teria, L for leather, M for sema, N for mation, O for the garden wall, P for relief, Q for hours, R for Bitter, S we have no bananas, T for two, U for mism, V for La France, W for a bob, X for breakfast, Y for mistress and Z for the doctor..

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Answer to November's quiz - What was it that Audrey Hepburn could have done all night, and still have begged for more..?

While most of you got the correct answer - which was of course "danced" - there were one or two colourful suggestions that I won't repeat here. But thanks anyway!

33. Christmas countdown..

25th November 2009. With the erection of 40 or so wooden chalets (aka garden sheds) in front of the Hôtel de Ville in Bayonne - ready for the Christmas market - there's now no hiding from the fact that Christmas is coming. The lights aren't up yet though.

When I was over in England in September, the previously mentioned Major Bloodnok was kind enough to make me a present of 2 large Christmas puddings. They've been sat in the cellar ever since and each time I go down there I'm tempted to bring one up into the light of day and sweet-talk Madame into heating one up. (Fat chance!) She does like them - but only at Christmas. (Rats!) I think that, as a food item, appreciation of them is usually limited to those of an Anglo Saxon origin. We're going up to Paris to stay with Madame's brother for a few days over Christmas and, for a few crazy moments, I thought that one of the Pudding Brothers would make an excellent contribution to the Christmas fare. That is, until the mental image of a table full of chauvinistic Gauls swam across my mind - each regarding their steaming slice of pudding with the utmost suspicion, poking and prodding it with looks of disdain as if it were still alive.. reluctantly tasting a morsel that could be harbouring e-coli at the very least. And this from a nation wot eats andouillette!! No, I don't think I'll bother. The French have a great expression for this: donner de la confiture aux cochons.. or to give jam to pigs!

At the risk of annoying those who live to the north, I must mention the unseasonably good weather we've been enjoying here for the last week (after the storms!). Temps of 24C and today it must be ~18-20C.. with matching blue skies.

With my knees giving me gyp at the moment, it's clear that our Golf is too small for us (ie, me) if we want to visit Tante S, Madame's auntie who lives in the Jura near the Swiss border (830kms away) as well as doing any long trips of exploration into Spain and Italy. After an hour's driving, I need to extend my legs which, in the Golf, I'm unable to do. So for the last few months we've been looking at all the options. We've test driven all kinds of cars and now we've homed in on the VW Tiguan as being the most suitable. With a little luck we should have one in time for our Christmas jaunt up to Paris..

Mentioning Tante S reminds me of the time when she and her now late husband were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary one summer in the mid 90s. They'd decided to have a celebratory dinner and had invited a representative from each part of the extended family (to keep the numbers down to a manageable level) and so we came to be invited. We'd planned our annual visit to the Pays Basque such that at the end of it we could drive up & across to the Jura to arrive in time..

We wanted to avoid the boredom of the autoroutes so we thought we'd simply "straight-line it" across France - going by the Departmentale* roads - thus seeing a bit more of the country. After driving all day on lonely roads through mountains, forests and villages we stopped overnight at a village called Bourganeuf (between Limoges and Clermont-Ferrand) which is as near as dammit in the centre of France. We quickly dropped our bags in a 2* "Logis" hotel in the centre and then went out for a swift leg stretch before dinner. I remember being amazed to find a fish shop still open at 7pm. What's more, the display of gleaming fish on ice under the lights looked as fresh as could be and - remember - this was in a village 200 miles from the coast..!

We returned to the hotel and went into the cosy and heavily beamed dining room. Looking around, it was clear that this was the real France (aka la France profonde). After browsing the menu for a few minutes I realised that this was somewhere that took its food seriously. All the classic dishes were there. Madame often says that food is the second religion in France but I'd go further and say it's the first - as more people go to restaurants than go to church. Looking through the wine list I couldn't believe what I was seeing - most of the wine was priced at somewhere between £200 and £800 a bottle.. There were some fabled wines there that I'd only read about - Château Palmer, Château Gruaud-Larose, Château Haut-Brion and Château Yquem - and this in a un cheval village in the middle of nowhere.. Who was buying this? Needless to say, we had a bottle of something far more modest!

/to be continued..

* Autoroutes (motorways) are A roads.. as in the A63 from Bayonne to Bordeaux (UK equivalents? The M1, M5, M6 etc).

Nationale roads are N roads (as in N7) - these equate to the A roads in the UK.

Departmentale roads are D roads - and are equivalent to the UK's B roads.

Hope that's cleared up any confusion there may have been!

32. Spain

We went across the border to Irun in Spain today as Madame was in need of some retail therapy. Her "SHOPPING" low level warning light had been indicating steady red for a few days!

On arrival, we stopped for a hot chocolate at a cafe we'd been to before.. These are the real thing here - made with dark chocolate melted into hot milk - and are highly recommended. Looking around at the clientele of the cafe, it looked like they were auditioning for a Pedro Almodovar film.. There were a couple of middle aged guys who looked suspiciously "light on their loafers" and a number of excessively well dressed women who looked like they each had a story to tell (for a small down payment!). After that Madame went loose to look at clothes various - an activity which I was mercifully spared from - so I walked the pooch around.

I wished I'd brought my camera with me to take a few pictures of things that caught my eye - such as a shop that declared itself to be a Zapateria (a shoe shop in case you're wondering), a shop (in the main street) that curiously just sold domestic internal doors, a bar that advertised strep tease (yes, it was spelt like that), and a cafe that offered hamb urguesas (no prizes for guessing that one). There was a very pleasant square there with plenty of shade provided by plane trees that still had their leaves.

In the middle was a chap sat in a ONCE* booth not much bigger than an old-style red phone box selling tickets for the fabled Spanish lottery. La Loteria Nacional is played every Thursday and Saturday; the Bonoloto, which is drawn every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday; la Primitiva, which is drawn every Thursday and Saturday and the large jackpot, El Gordo de la Primitiva, or "the Fat One" as it's known, is drawn every Sunday. The main prize is a dizzyingly huge number of euros.

Spanish pedestrian crossings are quite novel and show a countdown in seconds of how much time to wait before the display changes from an animated Pacman-esque green one to a stationary red figure.

Back in the car, the outside temperature was reading 24C as we passed through Behobia on the border.. which I thought was very reasonable for 19th November.

Hmm, I think I've just worked out why Madame sometimes refers to me under her breath as El Gordo..

* ONCE = Organizacion Nacional de Ciegos Españoles (Spanish National Blind Organisation)