Fly off

The Loire looks harmless enough

A peaceful lunch in Vouvray before trouble arrives


I could kick myself. Here I was procrastinating, wasting my time. Indecisive, unsure of myself, doubting my ability to stand up to the ogres that I was shortly to meet. Was that the way to face up to the challenge in front of me? Are people who practice survival of the fittest in all they do, squeamish about the details? Of course not, they sit down to an elaborate Christmas lunch while the soldiers kill the women and children in Iraq. No weak stomach there. A nation admired and courted by the Russian mafia, and before that, Al Qaeda, both of whom found a welcome mat in London.

So forthwith I set off for Tours airport, determination in my every step. I took the quick route. Normally I would go the long way round and admire my two favourite roundabouts. Very well designed and maintained in a Japanese style with pinus sylvestris, hornbeam and graminées. No time to finesse today, I was meeting people who can do no better in roundabouts than stinging nettles and broken crash barriers.

I was quickly at Tours airport. It was used by Churchill during the war before the armistice and later by NATO. The latter were told to ‘fly off’ by the Général. Which they did, in a sulk. There is unlimited free parking at 100 m from the entrance and only one check in counter and boarding gate. An airport right sized if ever there was one.

Well finally I was early after all. So I sat down at the little café to have another espresso. The action had distracted my mind from my dark thoughts, but these came crowding in again. I saw the 1 million Irish dying from famine. I imagined pompous aristocrats in the newly rebuilt Palace of Westminster announcing that the world was a better place without these feckless individuals. Was I feckless also? Was I as easily expendable as the aborigines of Australia? Then, in my minds eye, I saw the faces of the travellers in the plane, with that monstrous crowd psychology which overtakes the Brits as they escape from their isle. The grotesque faces, distorted by alcohol. The grins from deformed ear to deformed ear. They started to chant; ‘We’ll get you, we’ll get you, You frog’. Soon they would be overhead, they would make a swoop over the airport with their ill maintained, vibrating, gnashing engines. I would see the gaps in their teeth, smell the bad breath.

I was terrified.

I found time for my favourite roundabout afterall

Stuffed Turkey

I sipped my calvados slowly. The burning sensation of those distilled apples warming me gently on that cold winter morning. The complex flavours of the cider and the French oak caressed my taste buds. Calvados is my favourite digestif. A pleasant contrast to the more common cognac or armagnac. The courageous efforts of those lone Spanish sailors have left us to this day a splendid drink. I empathise with them. Then as now England was practising state terrorism. Then it was shiny gold in South America, now black gold in the Middle East. Francis Drake then, Tony Blair now, the same combination of obsequiousness to the monarch and ruthless, cunning exploitation of those less vicious than they.

The monarch of Spain sent his brave seaman on a terrible voyage, the extreme perils of which he had no idea. To die drowned in the perpetual storms of the icy English seas, or, after landfall, expire of pneumonia from the never abating drizzle. One ship and one ship alone understood the hopelessness of the mission. A boat from Marbella, the El Salvador, foretold that the Brits would not come, so numerous, to their dire town if the treacherous isles were not even worse. So they shipwrecked their boat on the shores of fair France and brought their knowledge of distilling to the cider growers of Normandy. Great men of foresight, worthy of their honorary French citizenship.

Their deeds live on in the name of the drink, but also the name of the department ‘Calvados’, created by Napoleon. And there lies a bone of contention in the collective throats of the French. At the end of the Second World War the English invaded France in order to set up a coca-cola distribution network for the Americans. They soon came to Calvados and its capital Caen, a delightful city. For three months they bombarded that city with every type of armament available. Why? The English say the French lacked respect and served soggy croissants. The French don’t deny the croissants weren’t very good. Besides the American wheat they had to use, the fast food specialists from across the channel wanted the croissant immediately in order to make spam sandwiches. Now everybody knows that the crisp outer coat of a croissant can only be achieved if the dough is left to rise slowly in a cold room. The feeling in France is that it is too far fetched that the English worried about the quality of their food. The croissant enigma is a red herring. The real cause of the perfidious attacks on Caen was a rancorous reaction towards the descendants of the one galleon that got away.

I was diverging, my mind was wandering from the terrible task afore me. My Chinese 15 euro timepiece kindly sold to me by Edouard Leclerc showed that it was time to commence the journey to Tours airport. But I had no plan. The day would have to be won by French flair. That envy of the world, as the cliff top approaches and the view of the murderous rocks below is revealed. Just at that moment comes an astounding stroke of brilliance and the instant is saved. But could I do it, was I French enough? Or was I an English turkey lined up for a Christmas stuffing?

Cold feet

Well actually, I was not ready to confront the Brits. I had cold feet. It is all very well being brave and courageous on a blog, when you don’t have to look them in the whites of the eyes. But when you know that you are going to meet one shortly, in person, it is a different question.

Yes I know that I only have to shout ‘suicide bomber on the tube’ and they will run a mile. But dirty tricks are not French. When I was a youth in England I was inculcated completely into the finer art of gamesmanship, but that was a long time ago. The methods have moved on and it is the day in day out practice that an Englishman receives, doing down Mrs Jones, that makes him so strong. No there was no way out, I had to use French methods. I had to stick to the rules and be fair. We know that in almost any activity you can mention we whip them easily, and no cheating. That’s why they concentrate on money laundering and fighting wars. Ah the pleasure of being on a French team, that complicity of knowing you are all prepared to give your all for victory. To see the prima donna English playing up to the boss, and doing their colleagues down. Then doing a lengthy investigation into why they lost.

But I needed a team. I was all on my own, up against a member of the most ruthless nation on earth. I checked my watch; I had time for a digestif.

Dutch courage

So my cellar was empty of sparkling wine just before Christmas, which given my house guests was a no no. I combined a trip to Tours airport with a visit to my regular cave in Vouvray to stock up. With Champagne becoming less and less a drink and increasingly a trophy for the over rich, it is worth finding an alternative sparkling wine. Especially if you are like me and need a regular little celebration as each hurdle or challenge in life is overcome.And challenge I had in front of me. It is not up to good Champagne (though Champagne is not all good) but at 5 euro 30 the bottle, it is good value. There are quite a number of sparkling wines around but I would rate Vouvray the best. It has a great tradition, and exceptionally for a Loire wine, a long cellar life. The chenin blanc gives it a distinct flavour. The point is it is not a competitor to Champagne but a great wine in its own right. Vouvray always has the reputation as a sweet drink, and most that is sold is indeed sweet. But that's just for historical reasons, Champagne started out that way too. If you take the right brut it is perfectly dry. Don't forget that 'sec' is of course not dry and even the brut needs checking because it can have that lingering sugaryflavour so frequently met with German wines.

No doubt to Anglo Saxon eyes Vouvray village looks hopelessly old fashioned. It is not, it is traditional. Everything is well maintained, the chais have the latest technology, but the marketing men and cost accountants have not moved in. When the Anglo Saxon hype merchants and bean counters come, you can be sure that Anglo Saxon prices and blandness are soon to follow.

Vouvray is near Tours airport and that was where I was going. First though, a light meal and a glass of Vouvray in a favourite restaurant. Now I was ready to humour my first English guest.

A day in the forest

Well you all manage to blog fantastically well and my little blog has difficulty in following the standard set. I do wonder if there is some blogging on company time and whether we will see another case of Petite Anglaise. Today I’ve got two pictures for you.

I am friends with an old lady who lives on her own in a big house in the middle of the Sologne forest. She has pheasants, deer and wild pigs running around near her house. When I first met her I thought she was Scandinavian, she has a blond complexion and doesn’t talk quite like the locals. In fact she is Alsacienne. She married a Frenchman ‘de l’interieure’ as they call people from the other side of the Vosges and has lived in Orléans for yonks. But she is still very Alsacienne. I think she likes me because she considers me a stranger, like her, confronting the terrors of Orléans locals. She explains to me, in a shocked tone, that her neighbours can’t sort their rubbish. Though she does admit to a little cheating, putting leaves in with the normal rubbish, but she hides them well. A concession to local custom.

She also appreciates me because I do good turns. Living in the middle of a forest her gutters get full of leaves, and that was the mission. I spent a few happy hours up a ladder in freezing cold weather, my hands in soggy decomposing leaves and icy dirty water trickling down my neck. Better than looking for Indian restaurants I thought, or reading Colinb's blog.

In exchange for my good deed she let me photograph her tap. She also has two lovely brooms, a red one; that would go nicely with Sarah's house. I always take a professional interest in brooms. These ones had magnificent bristles, supple but efficient.The photo shows an impressive galvanised pipe coming down from the gutter, where I had spent those fulfilling hours. If you look carefully at the photo you can see my footprints. By that time I had been walking in the decomposed leaves from the gutters, hence the dirty traces.

Later I found this lovely wheel barrow; retired to the bottom of the garden. Gracefully passing its retirement without hassle nor trouble. Willing to give a hand if need be, but not endlessly and boringly recalling past glories. I fell in love with that wheelbarrow

A chat, an orange juice and it was already 5 o'clock. Time for me to wend my way along the narrow roads of Sologne and back to my lovely little wife. What a happy day.

CHRISTMAS TIME

This is a picture of our local parish church. It is one of the larger ones in our area and we are quite proud of it. Of course financially it is a bit of a strain. We organise many events during the year to raise money.

There is an annual walk of 5 km, 10 km and 15 km distances depending on your physical condition. There are tables along the way where you can buy juice, biscuits and bottled water at extortionate prices.(but the cause is honest, honest) The idea is to tire everybody so much that they need a lot of refreshment. We’re right on the edge of the Sologne forest (the biggest wooded area in Western Europe), so that’s where we go. Being the Loiret it’s as flat as a pancake and it is difficult to find new circuits, so quite honestly, it’s becoming boring. But we get new recruits each year who don’t realize quite how dull it is.

There is also an art show where you can sell your masterpieces. If you sell something the church takes a 15% commission. I like contributing but I draw the line at putting that stuff in my sitting room. The mayor always comes to the event, he likes arty types.

There is a bring and buy sale. We bake masses of cakes in order to raise a maximum of money. Then we have to buy them. Eating them is optional; otherwise they go in the dustbin. I make an English type fruitcake; it goes down very well with the French; le cake does. Or maybe it weighs down many a poubelle.

Right now we are getting ready for Christmas and decorating the church. Since it’s so big we can’t decorate everything. We have bought an enormous Christmas tree (Abies normann) and covered it with tinsel. There’s a nice angel at the top. This week we will put holly, ivy and flowers on the altar. We have a small committee to do the flower arranging, I am the only masculine member, other than the priest.

Right after the holidays I will have to go to confession. Gluttony will be at the top of the list.I'll talk about that later.

A shared passion

Good evening. I am absolutely flabbergasted by the number of people who share my passion for taps. It just shows that the majority, which is only interested in music, football, art, theatre, newspapers, films, rugby and other trivia of our daily lives, put so much pressure on us to conform, that we feel on the defensive and pursue our hobby secretly. I am glad I came out.

I can’t possibly reply individually to everybody who has written to me, I will try to cover your questions on my blog. Of course I am not able to disclose locations of the rarer taps. There would inevitably be some people who would mistreat them and masterpieces would be lost for ever. Through careful and dedicated field work each individual tap hunter will be able to constitute his own list of fascinating sites. And of course it is one’s own personal voyages of discovery that gives the deep inner sense of accomplishment. The knowledge that one has personally contributed to the furtherance of our exclusive and important field of study.

Some of you are very technical and are analysing alloy composition, rubber curing methods, dimensions, water flow, casting methods, quenching speeds, torque etc. Personally I have always concentrated on individual beauty, design and personality traits, but your leading edge work is enriching our chosen discipline. I encourage you to pursue your inspiring work.

I will give a full report on my fascinating day of field work in the Orléans forest in a later post.

The photo you've all been waiting for. Dearly beloved Saint Joan. God decided whose team he was on and gave the sign. Exit the guys from the wrong side of the Channel. Who, ever good sports, roasted her before leaving.








Now two more taps. The first one I call a pumpous tap.
I can just see that in an English suburban garden.







Here we have the hanging wire tap, that I call the Saddam tap. I wonder if those guys in Thetford are going to get the order for Saddam's gallows. Of course Thetford is not far from Ipswich. Murderous part of the country.



I am really excited about tomorrow. An extremely rare corner tap, has been sighted in the Orléans forest, I have taken the day off work to try and get a sighting. Off course I will also be looking out for other rarities, a feral tap and a topless tap. If all else fails I will surely see the good old reliable leaking tap.

Good evening everybody. I return to the blogosphere. Today I have a picture of a mini pelle for you. I have no idea what it is called in English, maybe a small digger. Were you wanting to install a tap at the bottom of your garden, this would be an excellent tool to have available. It weighs 1.5 tonnes and could easily make a nice deep trench to keep your pipe out of frosts way. Of course if you live on a mountain you may need dynamite.

Now it is true that the gentleman operating the machine, who proudly explained what he was doing, is not installing a tap. He is désouching dead thuya. 20 years ago everybody in this area planted a thuya hedge. Along comes a champignon and there are a lot of dead hedges around our houses.

And so to my point, somewhat indirectly it is true. Champignon give us a very interesting insight into French and English national character. If you choose the name of a champignon, let's say honey fungus and look it up on google, what do you find? The English sites will tell you what it attacks,what damage it does, how to get rid of it. The French sites tell you whether it tastes nice. Chacun son goût, n'est-ce pas. Incidentally you can't eat the fungus that attacks Thuya but you can eat honey fungus.
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Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité

For those who have suddenly become 'anonymous' my apologies. It seems to have happened when I switched to beta. No I don't much like anonymous. On the other hand say what you want, no inhibitions. You're responsible for your own conduct, and when I recover my password I will be able to reply.

This is a tap

Actually one of my hobbies is taps. At the top is an interesting single barrel tap. Isn't she a beauty?

Single barrel taps are good because they are simple. Not too much training to learn how to use them. On the other hand there is only one outlet. This is why the double barrel tap has been invented.

You can see an excellent example in the photo on the right. Wow real sex appeal. The advantage of the double barrel tap is that you can have two applications connected at the same time. The inconvenience is that due to lack of water pressure you usually can't operate the two applications at the same time. So you use the little red taps to turn on each application in turn. And yes you've guessed it. It is a lot simpler to reconnect the different hose pipes on the single barrel than to fiddle with the stupid little red taps.

Actually both of these taps have fascinating stories, that's why I have photos. But I can't share that information with you.

This is to see if I can publish messages

I thought you would like to see the photo of an old cart wheel