Téléthon
It's been said that the French don't do as much charity work as the English and it appears to be true. It probably isn't true that the French do less volunteering though; lots of local activities are made possible only with the help of many volunteers.
However, once a year the nation succumbs to a positive orgy of charity giving: the Téléthon weekend at the beginning of December. It works much like Children in Need bonanzas on English television except that it isn't directed at a single charity but at each and every one. In the village it kicks off with a knees up and a meal on the Friday evening. Then there are various parades, demonstrations and tournaments on the Saturday, plus an all-day fruit and vegetable market; there was a moules/frites lunch on offer and more music and food in the evening. And a bit more of the same on the Sunday.
I decided to take part in the boules tournament, “à la melée”, meaning pairs to make teams were drawn out of a hat. With a good partner, anything would be possible. As it happens, I drew someone of about my standard and we won one match before being eliminated. Organisation of the tournament was something that could only happen here though. The tournament was due to start at 14.00 so I went along just before then. At about 14.10 someone appeared with a piece of paper and two or three of us put our names down; then a hiatus. Finally the announcer called for more participants and repeated that several times over the next 20 minutes or so. Realising I was in for a wait I looked to see what else was on and saw there was to be a demonstration of shooting (at boules) also scheduled for 14.00; so I asked about that. It turned out that the person taking the names was to give the shooting demonstration, so was otherwise occupied. I then asked where we were playing, as the centre of the Téléthon organisation was in the St Marcel room, on the other side of the village to the boules pistes. “Don't know”, was the helpful answer. Eventually 16 participants were found and we scratched around for somewhere to play, the only viable space being around a cake-stall tent with people wandering around it all the time. Nevertheless, I did enjoy it, although the demonstration of shooting seemed to be forgotten.
Next year, if I can intercede in time, I'll suggest having the shooting demonstration 30 minutes before the tournament starts. That will attract all the potential boules players to one spot without the need for multiple announcements. And I'll suggest having both organised from the Cafe des Sports, right hext to the boules pistes. Only in Provence............................................
Translation
I've found a solution to one of the translation difficulties I mentioned in my last posting: the double-entendre in the word “feu” (fire and deceased). It came to me while I was sitting on the loo, of course. “Allumer un feu”, with the double meaning, can be translated by “light a pyre”. I think it's going to take a few more visits to the loo to sort out the other translation problem but burns in place of blisters may come to my rescue. And in the meantime........another double entendre has emerged: “au courant”, meaning “in the know” but containing the word “courant” which can imply electricity. Ah well, it was only something of a game anyway.
Global Warming
I went with Daniel to collect some wine from his favourite cooperative in St Cécile Les Vignes and to visit a friends of his, Jean-Claude, who grows some of the grapes the cooperative uses. Over aperitifs and lots of genial chat, two points emerged. One is that global warming (temporary, lasting, due to carbon dioxide or not) is having an effect on the local agriculture. Jean-Claude (more or less my age) said that the grape harvest was always on the 25th of September, give or take a day or two. This year and last it has been the 5th of September. And, for the olive harvest, orchard owners put out nets to catch the olives when they start falling, which until very recently was always at the end of November or early December. Now the nets are out at the end of October.
samedi 12 décembre 2009
jeudi 3 décembre 2009
Joke Translation and Carols
Joke Translation
One of the things we do to entertain ourselves on the pizza evenings is to tell one another jokes. However, I am increasingly finding that many English jokes are untranslatable into French. This is not because the French lack a particular style of humour that is peculiarly British. Indeed many class ironic humour as English and enjoy it. The reason is always to do with language and sometimes the problem is not very obvious.
Perhaps the simplest problem is where there is a play on words. An example is the joke where two doctors discussing a new nurse say she is hopeless because she gets things the wrong way round. One says he ordered a patient to be given two aspirin ten hours and she gave him 10 aspirin every two hours and nearly killed him. The other says he ordered an enema for a patient every 24 hours and he nearly exploded under the 24 enemas. So far, no problem (except for the patients!). The doctors suddenly hear an agonised scream coming from a ward, and here comes the translation problem. One doctor says: “Oh my God! I asked that nurse to prick a patient's boil”. I defy anyone to translate that punchline so that the joke stands.
Here is a much more subtle example. It's one of a series about blonds who, stereotypically, have no brains. Someone says to a blond: “Look at that dog with one eye”. So the blond covers one eye with her hand and says:”Where?” The translation problem lies with the preposition “with”. You can't really translate the first “with” by “avec” and so the joke loses it's point. Conceivably, adding “seulement” after the first “with” might do it but it's doubtful if the French would express themselves that way. They would most likely use “borgne” or “qui n'a qu'un seul oeil”; either way, the joke loses its point. I think prepositions are often the most difficult words in translations between languages.
More Translation Difficulties
Daniel has written a sketch for the Rue des Granges festival next summer and wants it translated into English. The theme of the festival is light. However, he warned me this evening that there are many plays on words in the script.
One such is on the word “ampoule”, which means both a light bulb and a blister in French. A similar double-entendre in English is not going to be easy to find. Another is the word “feu”, meaning fire or deceased, Again I can see real difficulties in translating that. It may be possible to find an analogy in English that would work but one that has to do with light...........? We shall see.
Christmas Carols
Friend Jo had the idea of singing Christmas carols, in English, French and Provencal, outside the Bar du Pont, the local old people's home and maybe one or two places more. It seemed like a good idea with people from the pizza evening and other friends and acquaintances all joining in. It has since become clear though that this an English, or certainly not a French, thing to do. One by one the French contingent have all excused themselves; they are happy to come along but not to sing. It never occurred to Jo (or to me) that singing carols in the street at Christmas might be an English peculiarity. Anyway, we have decided not to push against the tide and so have postponed the idea for a year or maybe forever. The reaction of the French surprised me because it was not so long ago that we all happily crooned away to French songs of the 1950s/60s in the Bar du Pont on one of our pizza evenings, as I described in a previous post. However, there seems to be a distinction between doing that inside the Bar and, more publicly, outside the Bar. Strange but true.
One of the things we do to entertain ourselves on the pizza evenings is to tell one another jokes. However, I am increasingly finding that many English jokes are untranslatable into French. This is not because the French lack a particular style of humour that is peculiarly British. Indeed many class ironic humour as English and enjoy it. The reason is always to do with language and sometimes the problem is not very obvious.
Perhaps the simplest problem is where there is a play on words. An example is the joke where two doctors discussing a new nurse say she is hopeless because she gets things the wrong way round. One says he ordered a patient to be given two aspirin ten hours and she gave him 10 aspirin every two hours and nearly killed him. The other says he ordered an enema for a patient every 24 hours and he nearly exploded under the 24 enemas. So far, no problem (except for the patients!). The doctors suddenly hear an agonised scream coming from a ward, and here comes the translation problem. One doctor says: “Oh my God! I asked that nurse to prick a patient's boil”. I defy anyone to translate that punchline so that the joke stands.
Here is a much more subtle example. It's one of a series about blonds who, stereotypically, have no brains. Someone says to a blond: “Look at that dog with one eye”. So the blond covers one eye with her hand and says:”Where?” The translation problem lies with the preposition “with”. You can't really translate the first “with” by “avec” and so the joke loses it's point. Conceivably, adding “seulement” after the first “with” might do it but it's doubtful if the French would express themselves that way. They would most likely use “borgne” or “qui n'a qu'un seul oeil”; either way, the joke loses its point. I think prepositions are often the most difficult words in translations between languages.
More Translation Difficulties
Daniel has written a sketch for the Rue des Granges festival next summer and wants it translated into English. The theme of the festival is light. However, he warned me this evening that there are many plays on words in the script.
One such is on the word “ampoule”, which means both a light bulb and a blister in French. A similar double-entendre in English is not going to be easy to find. Another is the word “feu”, meaning fire or deceased, Again I can see real difficulties in translating that. It may be possible to find an analogy in English that would work but one that has to do with light...........? We shall see.
Christmas Carols
Friend Jo had the idea of singing Christmas carols, in English, French and Provencal, outside the Bar du Pont, the local old people's home and maybe one or two places more. It seemed like a good idea with people from the pizza evening and other friends and acquaintances all joining in. It has since become clear though that this an English, or certainly not a French, thing to do. One by one the French contingent have all excused themselves; they are happy to come along but not to sing. It never occurred to Jo (or to me) that singing carols in the street at Christmas might be an English peculiarity. Anyway, we have decided not to push against the tide and so have postponed the idea for a year or maybe forever. The reaction of the French surprised me because it was not so long ago that we all happily crooned away to French songs of the 1950s/60s in the Bar du Pont on one of our pizza evenings, as I described in a previous post. However, there seems to be a distinction between doing that inside the Bar and, more publicly, outside the Bar. Strange but true.
lundi 30 novembre 2009
Winter Life
Winter
Winter is now here and Christmas is coming. The evenings have been gradually getting colder, although nothing like to the extent they can if they put their minds to it, and the weather has become more mixed. Today was fine again, with the temperature this evening only slightly below zero. The two previous days however were overcast and yesterday brought a lot of rain and high winds. The ground needed the rain so it was not unwelcome. Driving down the Ouvèze valley to Buis this morning, however, I noticed that most of the colour has gone from the hills, not surprisingly as the hills behind Buis were blanketed with snow down to about 1000ft. And the high wind has stripped most of the remaining leaves from the trees and vines. There were also layers of cloud down to not much more than 500ft. Even so, the scenery in that clothing still has a great deal of charm; it certainly beats the view from my former house in Reading.
Christmas is coming because the Christmas lights have been put up in the village. This involves a day in which one street after another becomes blocked off (and each time blocks off access to half the village) because a big chair-lift truck is needed to put them up. However, the village has the good taste to put up lights in Chelsea blue and white colours, which proves I was right to come here.
Life In General
The winter routine has taken on its habitual form. I've been to eat with Daniel and Steve and Jo, they and Mana have been to eat with me. I've been to see two films, one very good and one definitely missable. The Ruban Blanc (a German film whose German title I don't know) was a kind of social study of the repressive social scene in an extremely puritan Germany before the first world war and was very much worth seeing. The other, a Japanese film with the title Une Jeune Fille à La Derive, was supposed to be a landmark in Japanese cinema and may be but didn't seem worth the time. An Iranian film, A Propos d'Elly, promises to be good and I shall see it later this week or early next week. With the variety of films on offer I usually have little idea from the cinema programmes, which have promotional descriptions of course, as to whether a film is worth seeing (or to my taste) or not so I use the imdb.com database to check the films out before deciding whether to go or not.
I've commented previously on French acceptance of sub-titles allowing a far wider range of films to be shown than is the case in the UK. Another factor is that French cinemas are subsidised (at the moment). UK towns similar to Buis, Nyons and even Vaison with its “massive” 6000 population would never be able to support a cinema and the same would be true here without subsidy. To have three within easy driving distance is, in a sense, a luxury, but is an enormous boon in the winter. For as long as that lasts.......The universally derided Sarkozy has removed the wealth tax on companies that helped pay for such luxuries and already the cinema in Buis is asking for volunteers of all sorts (even projectionists) to help the cinema stay afloat. You can argue whether companies should have such an imposition placed on them but you can also ask what has been done in the UK to help keep village communities alive.
The printers have produced the proof of the village guided tour brochure I did the translation for and it looks good, running to some 40 A5 pages. Daniel showed it to me briefly this evening at the pizza get-together and I immediately spotted one mistake I made. Hopefully there won't be too many more; the problem is that as my French becomes more fluent so my English becomes less so. I'll have to practise over Christmas! A new library, now fancily called a “mediatech” (but do you know of any in English villages?), is being opened in the village in January and the brochure is destined to be unveiled at the same time so we should be ready. I shall be interested to be able to get my hands on the village archives, which have been difficult to access previously but will be freely available in the new mediatech. That will give me the incentive to really lobby for a good website for the village in place of the feeble excuse for one which we now have.
Winter is now here and Christmas is coming. The evenings have been gradually getting colder, although nothing like to the extent they can if they put their minds to it, and the weather has become more mixed. Today was fine again, with the temperature this evening only slightly below zero. The two previous days however were overcast and yesterday brought a lot of rain and high winds. The ground needed the rain so it was not unwelcome. Driving down the Ouvèze valley to Buis this morning, however, I noticed that most of the colour has gone from the hills, not surprisingly as the hills behind Buis were blanketed with snow down to about 1000ft. And the high wind has stripped most of the remaining leaves from the trees and vines. There were also layers of cloud down to not much more than 500ft. Even so, the scenery in that clothing still has a great deal of charm; it certainly beats the view from my former house in Reading.
Christmas is coming because the Christmas lights have been put up in the village. This involves a day in which one street after another becomes blocked off (and each time blocks off access to half the village) because a big chair-lift truck is needed to put them up. However, the village has the good taste to put up lights in Chelsea blue and white colours, which proves I was right to come here.
Life In General
The winter routine has taken on its habitual form. I've been to eat with Daniel and Steve and Jo, they and Mana have been to eat with me. I've been to see two films, one very good and one definitely missable. The Ruban Blanc (a German film whose German title I don't know) was a kind of social study of the repressive social scene in an extremely puritan Germany before the first world war and was very much worth seeing. The other, a Japanese film with the title Une Jeune Fille à La Derive, was supposed to be a landmark in Japanese cinema and may be but didn't seem worth the time. An Iranian film, A Propos d'Elly, promises to be good and I shall see it later this week or early next week. With the variety of films on offer I usually have little idea from the cinema programmes, which have promotional descriptions of course, as to whether a film is worth seeing (or to my taste) or not so I use the imdb.com database to check the films out before deciding whether to go or not.
I've commented previously on French acceptance of sub-titles allowing a far wider range of films to be shown than is the case in the UK. Another factor is that French cinemas are subsidised (at the moment). UK towns similar to Buis, Nyons and even Vaison with its “massive” 6000 population would never be able to support a cinema and the same would be true here without subsidy. To have three within easy driving distance is, in a sense, a luxury, but is an enormous boon in the winter. For as long as that lasts.......The universally derided Sarkozy has removed the wealth tax on companies that helped pay for such luxuries and already the cinema in Buis is asking for volunteers of all sorts (even projectionists) to help the cinema stay afloat. You can argue whether companies should have such an imposition placed on them but you can also ask what has been done in the UK to help keep village communities alive.
The printers have produced the proof of the village guided tour brochure I did the translation for and it looks good, running to some 40 A5 pages. Daniel showed it to me briefly this evening at the pizza get-together and I immediately spotted one mistake I made. Hopefully there won't be too many more; the problem is that as my French becomes more fluent so my English becomes less so. I'll have to practise over Christmas! A new library, now fancily called a “mediatech” (but do you know of any in English villages?), is being opened in the village in January and the brochure is destined to be unveiled at the same time so we should be ready. I shall be interested to be able to get my hands on the village archives, which have been difficult to access previously but will be freely available in the new mediatech. That will give me the incentive to really lobby for a good website for the village in place of the feeble excuse for one which we now have.
lundi 16 novembre 2009
More On Autumn
Autumn Summary
Signs of winter came and then receded, so it's definitely still autumn. People are sitting out late into the evening on the cafe terraces, admittedly with pullovers and jackets on, but sitting out in comfort. And I've been playing boules in the afternoons in my shirtsleeves.
A week ago there was snow down to about 2000ft. The surrounding hills had snow towards the top and Mt Ventoux had taken on its familiar Christmas cake look, with snow down to the Mt Serein ski station. A small puff of cloud on the summit gave it an almost dream-like quality, viewed from below. In the middle of the wintery spell cloud was clinging halfway down the hills between here and Buis. The “winter” lasted only 2-3 days however and after the past few days of sunshine have totally eliminated the snow, even on the summit of Mt Ventoux.
Moreover, the brief wintery spell wasn't enough to knock the leaves off many trees and so the autumn leaves colour show goes on. The show seems even to have improved recently with more red showing up amongst the yellow, orange and brown. Tomorrow I plan to go up to Le Crestet, which provides a high-level view of the Ouvèze and Toulourenc valleys and see if I can take a decent photo from there.
Garden
The gaura and gallardias at the back have continued blooming and been joined by a blaze of chrysanthemums. These are ones I bought last year, on sale in all the garden centres at this time of the year, which failed miserably in the pots on my balcony and survived the winter. So I dumped them in the back garden last spring, since when they have gone from strength to strength.
I've also started planting the blue pansies in my pots in the front, which were so enjoyed by my neighbours last year. I've managed to vacate two of the bigger pots to be planted up and a third is awaiting the final demise of French marigolds which show no sign of stopping blooming at the moment.
Shades of Jean de Florette
At a recent gathering I got talking to Paul, an Englishman who has been out here for 30 years or more. We got onto the topic of changing attitudes and he recounted how a Parisian couple bought a house and some land overlooking the house we were visiting. They apparently intended to start a small market-garden holding and were drilling for water in various places over their land. They never found any and eventually sold up and moved on. The people they sold to also wanted to find water and asked a neighbour if he knew where it could be found. He did and they found it. When Paul asked the neighbour why he hadn't pointed this out to their predecessors, who could clearly be seen drilling earlier, and he replied: “They never asked me”. All this was a propos of discussion about how and whether people were welcoming or accepting or not and our respective experiences with other nationalities, French, English, Spanish and Italian. Whatever, it's a changing world.
Signs of winter came and then receded, so it's definitely still autumn. People are sitting out late into the evening on the cafe terraces, admittedly with pullovers and jackets on, but sitting out in comfort. And I've been playing boules in the afternoons in my shirtsleeves.
A week ago there was snow down to about 2000ft. The surrounding hills had snow towards the top and Mt Ventoux had taken on its familiar Christmas cake look, with snow down to the Mt Serein ski station. A small puff of cloud on the summit gave it an almost dream-like quality, viewed from below. In the middle of the wintery spell cloud was clinging halfway down the hills between here and Buis. The “winter” lasted only 2-3 days however and after the past few days of sunshine have totally eliminated the snow, even on the summit of Mt Ventoux.
Moreover, the brief wintery spell wasn't enough to knock the leaves off many trees and so the autumn leaves colour show goes on. The show seems even to have improved recently with more red showing up amongst the yellow, orange and brown. Tomorrow I plan to go up to Le Crestet, which provides a high-level view of the Ouvèze and Toulourenc valleys and see if I can take a decent photo from there.
Garden
The gaura and gallardias at the back have continued blooming and been joined by a blaze of chrysanthemums. These are ones I bought last year, on sale in all the garden centres at this time of the year, which failed miserably in the pots on my balcony and survived the winter. So I dumped them in the back garden last spring, since when they have gone from strength to strength.
I've also started planting the blue pansies in my pots in the front, which were so enjoyed by my neighbours last year. I've managed to vacate two of the bigger pots to be planted up and a third is awaiting the final demise of French marigolds which show no sign of stopping blooming at the moment.
Shades of Jean de Florette
At a recent gathering I got talking to Paul, an Englishman who has been out here for 30 years or more. We got onto the topic of changing attitudes and he recounted how a Parisian couple bought a house and some land overlooking the house we were visiting. They apparently intended to start a small market-garden holding and were drilling for water in various places over their land. They never found any and eventually sold up and moved on. The people they sold to also wanted to find water and asked a neighbour if he knew where it could be found. He did and they found it. When Paul asked the neighbour why he hadn't pointed this out to their predecessors, who could clearly be seen drilling earlier, and he replied: “They never asked me”. All this was a propos of discussion about how and whether people were welcoming or accepting or not and our respective experiences with other nationalities, French, English, Spanish and Italian. Whatever, it's a changing world.
lundi 2 novembre 2009
Autumn Smells And Recollections
Autumn Smells
One of the things that most reminds me that it is now autumn is the smell of garden refuse burning: dead leaves, twigs, branches, etc, providing swirls of smoke that perfume the air. The boules court is so covered in leaves that we have trouble seeing the cochonnet when it lands and generally have to clear the leaves away from it so that we can see to point. Sylver, a boules regular, spends some time sweeping up the leaves but last night's high wind left a lot to do.
Sylver is a village character, 82 years old and with a limited brain capacity not helped by his age. He can be seen wandering around the village most days and likes to do odd jobs that help, like sweeping the boules court, making piles of leaves and burning them. Only recently, Daniel told me that his father was a foundling from Marseilles, like Sylver, but with much better luck. Both were part of the programme to find homes for foundlings in Marseilles at the beginning of last century in the Drome/Ardèche areas. Daniel's father, though, was placed with a family without children who treated him as their son and inheritor. Sylver, by contrast, was placed with a family that exploited him as an unpaid servant. Daniel says that, for that reason, he always has a soft spot for Sylver; the difference between his circumstances and Sylver's were a matter of chance.
Added to the smell of burning leaves here is the smell of wood smoke, coming from a number of chimneys and the result of a local liking for wood stoves. Every other household seems to have one. I'm not sure what the French have in the way of a Clean Air Act but it clearly doesn't apply to wood stoves or garden bonfires. The smell of wood smoke always reminds me of Herat in Afghanistan. I remember arriving there from the Iran border and wandering round the main square in the evening to be confronted by numerous stalls cooking bread and various dishes all on wood fires. The air was grey/purple with smoke and the smell of wood burning everywhere.
Nostalgia
Autumn is also often a nostalgic time for me and this evening was a prime example. At the pizza evening in the Bar du Pont, Jacques, the bar owner had set the TV for a programme that showed Petula Clark reminiscing about the 1960s, which was about the time virtually all the usual crowd were in their teens or early twenties. So we had Petula Clark herself singing, as well as the English Beatles and Rolling Stones and the French Johnny Halliday, Sylvie Vartan and Françoise Hardy, and the film scene of the time represented by François Truffaut, Grigitte Bardot and Jeanne Moreau. Plus of course the previous generation who were still in full swing such as Edith Piaf, Juliette Gréco, Georges Brassens and Jacques Brel. And fashion was represented by the Mini car, mini-skirt and Paco Rabanne.
It all brought back to me what an inventive era that was. The French “nouvelle vague” films were swiftly followed by the English kitchen-sink dramas. I don't think the French quite made it on the music front, compared to the Beatles, Rolling Stones and others, but Johnny Halliday was certainly something something new for them. And they added their own gift for chic to the English mini-skirt. I remember Petula Clark as a rather pure, slightly gauche, English rose who became much more seductive and wider in range after marrying her French husband. And mini-skirts on French girls always seemed to me at the time overtly the same as those on English girls but somehow less blatant and more provocative.
“Those were the days, my friend..........”
One of the things that most reminds me that it is now autumn is the smell of garden refuse burning: dead leaves, twigs, branches, etc, providing swirls of smoke that perfume the air. The boules court is so covered in leaves that we have trouble seeing the cochonnet when it lands and generally have to clear the leaves away from it so that we can see to point. Sylver, a boules regular, spends some time sweeping up the leaves but last night's high wind left a lot to do.
Sylver is a village character, 82 years old and with a limited brain capacity not helped by his age. He can be seen wandering around the village most days and likes to do odd jobs that help, like sweeping the boules court, making piles of leaves and burning them. Only recently, Daniel told me that his father was a foundling from Marseilles, like Sylver, but with much better luck. Both were part of the programme to find homes for foundlings in Marseilles at the beginning of last century in the Drome/Ardèche areas. Daniel's father, though, was placed with a family without children who treated him as their son and inheritor. Sylver, by contrast, was placed with a family that exploited him as an unpaid servant. Daniel says that, for that reason, he always has a soft spot for Sylver; the difference between his circumstances and Sylver's were a matter of chance.
Added to the smell of burning leaves here is the smell of wood smoke, coming from a number of chimneys and the result of a local liking for wood stoves. Every other household seems to have one. I'm not sure what the French have in the way of a Clean Air Act but it clearly doesn't apply to wood stoves or garden bonfires. The smell of wood smoke always reminds me of Herat in Afghanistan. I remember arriving there from the Iran border and wandering round the main square in the evening to be confronted by numerous stalls cooking bread and various dishes all on wood fires. The air was grey/purple with smoke and the smell of wood burning everywhere.
Nostalgia
Autumn is also often a nostalgic time for me and this evening was a prime example. At the pizza evening in the Bar du Pont, Jacques, the bar owner had set the TV for a programme that showed Petula Clark reminiscing about the 1960s, which was about the time virtually all the usual crowd were in their teens or early twenties. So we had Petula Clark herself singing, as well as the English Beatles and Rolling Stones and the French Johnny Halliday, Sylvie Vartan and Françoise Hardy, and the film scene of the time represented by François Truffaut, Grigitte Bardot and Jeanne Moreau. Plus of course the previous generation who were still in full swing such as Edith Piaf, Juliette Gréco, Georges Brassens and Jacques Brel. And fashion was represented by the Mini car, mini-skirt and Paco Rabanne.
It all brought back to me what an inventive era that was. The French “nouvelle vague” films were swiftly followed by the English kitchen-sink dramas. I don't think the French quite made it on the music front, compared to the Beatles, Rolling Stones and others, but Johnny Halliday was certainly something something new for them. And they added their own gift for chic to the English mini-skirt. I remember Petula Clark as a rather pure, slightly gauche, English rose who became much more seductive and wider in range after marrying her French husband. And mini-skirts on French girls always seemed to me at the time overtly the same as those on English girls but somehow less blatant and more provocative.
“Those were the days, my friend..........”
dimanche 1 novembre 2009
Autumn And The Cinema
Autumn
There's a poem by some French poet I can't recall about autumn leaves, put to music and sung by Juliette Gréco, that just about gets the mood here now. The extended warmish weather has meant the trees and vines have kept their leaves longer than usual and all are now putting on a great autumn display: yellow, orange, red through to brown. And it's everywhere. Opposite the front of my house Mt Bluye is full of cover and the back road to Vaison through St Marcellin, which goes quite high up, gives some beautiful panoramic views.
I hadn't expected as much. There are a lot of fir and pine trees here and the truffle oak which also abound don't turn brown in autumn (they do later on). However, the vines can put on a display and this year the fruit trees haven't lost their leaves yet (plus the poplars, lime and plane trees). After a few years of wandering around arboreta in England and wondering at Japanese acers I decided that these were a bit too showy. A group of them can look quite startling but you never get enough to make a broad panorama; for that you have to rely on the native trees and the natives here this year are doing great.
Cinema
Autumn is also the time to start scrutinising the cinema programmes. I went to see Fish Tank, which I liked, then Le Syndrome du Titanic which was a worthy documentary on the state of the world's resources but a bit too worthy and obvious. Despite some great photography I fell asleep in places. Then I saw Partir, which disappointed me. Despite good acting from Kristin Scott Thomas et al, and good reports on the IMDB database, I felt the plot lacked something and didn't feel much in sympathy with any of the characters except perhaps the kids, whom I don't think were supposed to figure much in the overall film. Maybe that is just me (and the wrong film for me). Next week it's off to see Le ruban Blanc
There's a poem by some French poet I can't recall about autumn leaves, put to music and sung by Juliette Gréco, that just about gets the mood here now. The extended warmish weather has meant the trees and vines have kept their leaves longer than usual and all are now putting on a great autumn display: yellow, orange, red through to brown. And it's everywhere. Opposite the front of my house Mt Bluye is full of cover and the back road to Vaison through St Marcellin, which goes quite high up, gives some beautiful panoramic views.
I hadn't expected as much. There are a lot of fir and pine trees here and the truffle oak which also abound don't turn brown in autumn (they do later on). However, the vines can put on a display and this year the fruit trees haven't lost their leaves yet (plus the poplars, lime and plane trees). After a few years of wandering around arboreta in England and wondering at Japanese acers I decided that these were a bit too showy. A group of them can look quite startling but you never get enough to make a broad panorama; for that you have to rely on the native trees and the natives here this year are doing great.
Cinema
Autumn is also the time to start scrutinising the cinema programmes. I went to see Fish Tank, which I liked, then Le Syndrome du Titanic which was a worthy documentary on the state of the world's resources but a bit too worthy and obvious. Despite some great photography I fell asleep in places. Then I saw Partir, which disappointed me. Despite good acting from Kristin Scott Thomas et al, and good reports on the IMDB database, I felt the plot lacked something and didn't feel much in sympathy with any of the characters except perhaps the kids, whom I don't think were supposed to figure much in the overall film. Maybe that is just me (and the wrong film for me). Next week it's off to see Le ruban Blanc
lundi 19 octobre 2009
English, French and Cooking
Happy Birthday To Me
It was my birthday last week and, apart from receiving cards and presents as usual (but gratefully) from old friends and family, I received similar this year from relatively newly acquired French friends. A key was a round-table session of the week before discovering what star sign everyone was born under, through which my birthday date had to be revealed. I was very touched by the good wishes I received and felt that some kind of response, other than thanking the individuals concerned personally, was required of me.
The weather having been suddenly colder recently, thanks primarily to a light but persistent Mistral, I have tended to stay indoors and embarked on a cooking jag. So, I took my reputation if not actually my life in my hands and decided to cook something for everyone at the next “pizza” evening, which was tonight. To say that the English haven't the best reputation for their cooking ability in France is an understatement: many have not been to England for a long time and remember English cooking as it was before cooking programmes took over prime time television. Anyway, I decided to cook a cherry tart from the cherries that had been taking up too much room in my freezer and and an apple tart as well, apples being plentiful and cheap at the moment. As it turned out, Roberto had decided to offer mussels and chips as well as pizzas tonight and there was something of a record turnout, around 30-40 of us. So it was as well I had decided to cook two tarts and both were well received, and at least the English cooking reputation was not harmed. Everyone seemed genuinely appreciative of the tarts, as well as of the effort and the gesture.
House Sizes
There has been a spate of renovation of old houses in Mollans recently which reminded me again of the disparity between the size of French houses, at least in rural areas, and those in England. I have friends in England who have recently undertaken extensions to add a room or two to their houses. Here, even when renovated, houses tend to have fallow space, unconsidered and to be used as cellars or whatever. The reason seems to be that, in rural areas, the French have built houses not only for themselves and their family (often extensive) but also to accommodate farm equipment and/or livestock. The result is that even a small house locally tends to have as much space (at the very least) as a modern 4-5 bedroom detached house in England.
Accentuating this trend is a French insistence on selling houses according to the amount of living space it has. The square metres of living space is multiplied by a magic number, according to the area, and thereby the state agent comes up with a valuation of the house. This value may be modified by the internal condition of the house, the modernity of the facilities, but factors such as open beams, beautiful views, facing south or north, etc, seem to have no impact whatever on the valuation. The perception is quite different to that I have been used to in the UK. My own house would suffer, if it were to be sold, quite considerably in the matter of square metres, although it is more than sufficient for my needs, and all the things I love about it would not be taken into account. The result is that my house would attract a much higher price from an English buyer than a French one. The effect is also that an English buyer can still find a bargain in France, even despite the currently awful exchange rate, if buying by typically English rather than French criteria.
Hon(ni) Soit Qui Mal Y Pense
At the recent village vide grenier, equivalent to a car boot sale in England, I bought a book with the above title which is a history of the influence of French on the English language and vice-versa. It turns out to be a very interesting book. I had always assumed that the French influence on English dated from the arrival of William the Conqueror (1066 and all that). Not so, it seems. For around three centuries there were effectively two separate societies in England (not surprising in feudal times) and one – the nobles – spoke French and the other – the peasants – spoke English; and the two didn't communicate much and so didn't need a common language. Moreover, the French, in the form of William and the Conqueror and his acolytes, didn't speak French; they spoke Normand. It wasn't until Chaucer came along and decided to write in English that the English language became, as it were, legitimate in its own right. Then Chaucer found that the then current version of English was inadequate for any vocabulary that wasn't in the peasant idiom and so borrowed lots of words from the nearest alternative, which was Normand becoming French. You can tell some of the earlier versus later influences because the Normand "ca" beginning to a word tends to become "cha" as Normand developed into French. Subsequently, other writers, notably Shakespeare (who, did you know, never wrote his own name with that spelling?), added more than 100 words to the language and other writers, more concerned with legal and ecclesiastical matters, went back directly to Latin rather than to the then current French equivalents; which accounts for many English words of Latin derivation being much closer to their Latin origins than French equivalents, which had already been bastardised into French.
Isn't that interesting..........?
The brackets around Honni are because the older version lacked the extra “n” and “i”. And do you know how that phrase became the motto not only for the Order of the Garter but for England? I didn't. Apparently, Edward/Henry the 2/3, (I've lent the book to Daniel and Patrique is also waiting to borrow it, so can't check) had a mistress who dropped a garter when dancing at some palace function and the king promptly picked it up and uttered those now famous words. I find it very amusing that our national motto should derive from an incident with a king's mistress. Good for us!
It was my birthday last week and, apart from receiving cards and presents as usual (but gratefully) from old friends and family, I received similar this year from relatively newly acquired French friends. A key was a round-table session of the week before discovering what star sign everyone was born under, through which my birthday date had to be revealed. I was very touched by the good wishes I received and felt that some kind of response, other than thanking the individuals concerned personally, was required of me.
The weather having been suddenly colder recently, thanks primarily to a light but persistent Mistral, I have tended to stay indoors and embarked on a cooking jag. So, I took my reputation if not actually my life in my hands and decided to cook something for everyone at the next “pizza” evening, which was tonight. To say that the English haven't the best reputation for their cooking ability in France is an understatement: many have not been to England for a long time and remember English cooking as it was before cooking programmes took over prime time television. Anyway, I decided to cook a cherry tart from the cherries that had been taking up too much room in my freezer and and an apple tart as well, apples being plentiful and cheap at the moment. As it turned out, Roberto had decided to offer mussels and chips as well as pizzas tonight and there was something of a record turnout, around 30-40 of us. So it was as well I had decided to cook two tarts and both were well received, and at least the English cooking reputation was not harmed. Everyone seemed genuinely appreciative of the tarts, as well as of the effort and the gesture.
House Sizes
There has been a spate of renovation of old houses in Mollans recently which reminded me again of the disparity between the size of French houses, at least in rural areas, and those in England. I have friends in England who have recently undertaken extensions to add a room or two to their houses. Here, even when renovated, houses tend to have fallow space, unconsidered and to be used as cellars or whatever. The reason seems to be that, in rural areas, the French have built houses not only for themselves and their family (often extensive) but also to accommodate farm equipment and/or livestock. The result is that even a small house locally tends to have as much space (at the very least) as a modern 4-5 bedroom detached house in England.
Accentuating this trend is a French insistence on selling houses according to the amount of living space it has. The square metres of living space is multiplied by a magic number, according to the area, and thereby the state agent comes up with a valuation of the house. This value may be modified by the internal condition of the house, the modernity of the facilities, but factors such as open beams, beautiful views, facing south or north, etc, seem to have no impact whatever on the valuation. The perception is quite different to that I have been used to in the UK. My own house would suffer, if it were to be sold, quite considerably in the matter of square metres, although it is more than sufficient for my needs, and all the things I love about it would not be taken into account. The result is that my house would attract a much higher price from an English buyer than a French one. The effect is also that an English buyer can still find a bargain in France, even despite the currently awful exchange rate, if buying by typically English rather than French criteria.
Hon(ni) Soit Qui Mal Y Pense
At the recent village vide grenier, equivalent to a car boot sale in England, I bought a book with the above title which is a history of the influence of French on the English language and vice-versa. It turns out to be a very interesting book. I had always assumed that the French influence on English dated from the arrival of William the Conqueror (1066 and all that). Not so, it seems. For around three centuries there were effectively two separate societies in England (not surprising in feudal times) and one – the nobles – spoke French and the other – the peasants – spoke English; and the two didn't communicate much and so didn't need a common language. Moreover, the French, in the form of William and the Conqueror and his acolytes, didn't speak French; they spoke Normand. It wasn't until Chaucer came along and decided to write in English that the English language became, as it were, legitimate in its own right. Then Chaucer found that the then current version of English was inadequate for any vocabulary that wasn't in the peasant idiom and so borrowed lots of words from the nearest alternative, which was Normand becoming French. You can tell some of the earlier versus later influences because the Normand "ca" beginning to a word tends to become "cha" as Normand developed into French. Subsequently, other writers, notably Shakespeare (who, did you know, never wrote his own name with that spelling?), added more than 100 words to the language and other writers, more concerned with legal and ecclesiastical matters, went back directly to Latin rather than to the then current French equivalents; which accounts for many English words of Latin derivation being much closer to their Latin origins than French equivalents, which had already been bastardised into French.
Isn't that interesting..........?
The brackets around Honni are because the older version lacked the extra “n” and “i”. And do you know how that phrase became the motto not only for the Order of the Garter but for England? I didn't. Apparently, Edward/Henry the 2/3, (I've lent the book to Daniel and Patrique is also waiting to borrow it, so can't check) had a mistress who dropped a garter when dancing at some palace function and the king promptly picked it up and uttered those now famous words. I find it very amusing that our national motto should derive from an incident with a king's mistress. Good for us!
dimanche 4 octobre 2009
September Summary
This And That
September has been a glorious month: temperatures down to a respectable low to mid 20s, lots of sunshine and warmth that has continued until late in the evening. The mornings have been noticeably cooler as the sun struggles to get above Mt Bluye, in front of my house, until around 9.30. Usually, the evenings cool rapidly at this time of the year but this has not happened yet and I can leave my balcony door open or even sit on the balcony until late in the evening without the need for a sweater.
Pizza man Roberto took a week off last week but Dominique and Chantal, two of the usual crowd, stepped bravely into the breach and offered everyone a spaghetti bolognaise at their home. It was a generous gesture and appreciated by all the usual attendees. Their house is magnificent with a steeply stepped garden on one side and a lawn and swimming pool on the other. Sometimes I wish I had a place like that and then I think how much work it is to maintain such a place and what all the running costs are, let alone the purchase price: what would you pay in England for a 4-bedroom house with large living rooms, an acre of garden and a swimming pool in an area with a good climate? Still, it's great to visit.
My “bulbing” in the front of my house is now complete, with bulbs in the pots that have had plants that have finished in them as well as groups of bulbs in new holes in the road outside the front and under the honeysuckle to the side. I'm also getting seriously to grips with the back garden, which has unfortunately but necessarily meant ripping up the Valerianne that is still blooming but was covering up patches of ground that I needed to see to. I think I'm now getting a feel for how the garden should look next year.
Friend Steve came over to help me fit some lights that I'd brought back from England (sale bargains) that needed 3-4 hands rather than the two I'm limited to. So the terrace room and terrace itself are now properly lit. Daniel has been back in La Réunion for just over a fortnight so I've been feeding his dog, Crevette, in the evenings; Jean-Marie does the honours in the morning. Daniel is often my boules partner and my form over the last week or so has been terrible; so I'm blaming that on him!
September has been a glorious month: temperatures down to a respectable low to mid 20s, lots of sunshine and warmth that has continued until late in the evening. The mornings have been noticeably cooler as the sun struggles to get above Mt Bluye, in front of my house, until around 9.30. Usually, the evenings cool rapidly at this time of the year but this has not happened yet and I can leave my balcony door open or even sit on the balcony until late in the evening without the need for a sweater.
Pizza man Roberto took a week off last week but Dominique and Chantal, two of the usual crowd, stepped bravely into the breach and offered everyone a spaghetti bolognaise at their home. It was a generous gesture and appreciated by all the usual attendees. Their house is magnificent with a steeply stepped garden on one side and a lawn and swimming pool on the other. Sometimes I wish I had a place like that and then I think how much work it is to maintain such a place and what all the running costs are, let alone the purchase price: what would you pay in England for a 4-bedroom house with large living rooms, an acre of garden and a swimming pool in an area with a good climate? Still, it's great to visit.
My “bulbing” in the front of my house is now complete, with bulbs in the pots that have had plants that have finished in them as well as groups of bulbs in new holes in the road outside the front and under the honeysuckle to the side. I'm also getting seriously to grips with the back garden, which has unfortunately but necessarily meant ripping up the Valerianne that is still blooming but was covering up patches of ground that I needed to see to. I think I'm now getting a feel for how the garden should look next year.
Friend Steve came over to help me fit some lights that I'd brought back from England (sale bargains) that needed 3-4 hands rather than the two I'm limited to. So the terrace room and terrace itself are now properly lit. Daniel has been back in La Réunion for just over a fortnight so I've been feeding his dog, Crevette, in the evenings; Jean-Marie does the honours in the morning. Daniel is often my boules partner and my form over the last week or so has been terrible; so I'm blaming that on him!
lundi 28 septembre 2009
Gardening and Food
Gardening
The recent weather (temperatures close to 30 degrees during the day and warm evenings) have convinced me it's not yet time to start on winter work like scraping the paint off those bloody beams in my bedroom. So, I've been digging more holes in the road to plant bulbs and still have about another 30 of those that I brought back from England to find somewhere to plant. Should look OK next spring.
My plumbago, in a pot under the balcony, has decided to go mad this year for some reason and has spread itself outside amongst the honeysuckle growing between Jean-Marc and Flo's house and mine and is covered in bloom. At the same time, the Dublin Bay rose has decided to climb and start blooming again so that corner is looking good. My false jasmine (trachelospermum jasmoinides) in the pot on the balcony is also doing its nut and is now within four bars of completing its trip across the balcony, as well as pushing up above the grape vine to just below my bedroom window. Near-neighbour Jean said he counted three separate groups of people stopping outside my house and taking photos and wanted to know why I didn't charge them. Maybe I should put a box out for donations for the village school. The local man who refurbishes old cars as a hobby and whose sister makes scented candles has started making ceramics with phrases on them, one of which reads “Place de l'apero”. A bit twee but I think I might get one for my balcony nonetheless (in blue, if course).
The back garden needs weeding again and it will soon be time to sort out what has survived and thrived and where the gaps are. What is already clear is that the ground there is very poor and needs lots more fertilizer; job for February/March. I've decided that when the winter pansies come around, in 4-6 weeks, I'll transplant the perennials I have in two pots out front into the back and fill the pots with pansies as I did last year.
Food
French prepared meals are generally better than their English counterparts but still not as good as the real thing generally. However, I got a flammekueche from the local supermarket which Steve and I ate this evening and it was really quite good. I'd assumed it was a Flemish dish but it in fact hails from Alsace: it's sometimes referred to as a French pizza but the base is quite different, more like an English water biscuit, and the toppings focus more on ham, cheese and onions. I think it could be good as a less usual first course to a meal.
And......more fruit. The house on one side of me that is let out to all and sundry has a damson tree that is currently full of ripe fruit with no one interested in picking it. I can't just let it go to waste and yet don't want to contemplate yet more jam. I think I may pick it (I know the owner well enough to do that) and freeze it while I decide what to do with it. Maybe a fruit tart or two......
The recent weather (temperatures close to 30 degrees during the day and warm evenings) have convinced me it's not yet time to start on winter work like scraping the paint off those bloody beams in my bedroom. So, I've been digging more holes in the road to plant bulbs and still have about another 30 of those that I brought back from England to find somewhere to plant. Should look OK next spring.
My plumbago, in a pot under the balcony, has decided to go mad this year for some reason and has spread itself outside amongst the honeysuckle growing between Jean-Marc and Flo's house and mine and is covered in bloom. At the same time, the Dublin Bay rose has decided to climb and start blooming again so that corner is looking good. My false jasmine (trachelospermum jasmoinides) in the pot on the balcony is also doing its nut and is now within four bars of completing its trip across the balcony, as well as pushing up above the grape vine to just below my bedroom window. Near-neighbour Jean said he counted three separate groups of people stopping outside my house and taking photos and wanted to know why I didn't charge them. Maybe I should put a box out for donations for the village school. The local man who refurbishes old cars as a hobby and whose sister makes scented candles has started making ceramics with phrases on them, one of which reads “Place de l'apero”. A bit twee but I think I might get one for my balcony nonetheless (in blue, if course).
The back garden needs weeding again and it will soon be time to sort out what has survived and thrived and where the gaps are. What is already clear is that the ground there is very poor and needs lots more fertilizer; job for February/March. I've decided that when the winter pansies come around, in 4-6 weeks, I'll transplant the perennials I have in two pots out front into the back and fill the pots with pansies as I did last year.
Food
French prepared meals are generally better than their English counterparts but still not as good as the real thing generally. However, I got a flammekueche from the local supermarket which Steve and I ate this evening and it was really quite good. I'd assumed it was a Flemish dish but it in fact hails from Alsace: it's sometimes referred to as a French pizza but the base is quite different, more like an English water biscuit, and the toppings focus more on ham, cheese and onions. I think it could be good as a less usual first course to a meal.
And......more fruit. The house on one side of me that is let out to all and sundry has a damson tree that is currently full of ripe fruit with no one interested in picking it. I can't just let it go to waste and yet don't want to contemplate yet more jam. I think I may pick it (I know the owner well enough to do that) and freeze it while I decide what to do with it. Maybe a fruit tart or two......
lundi 21 septembre 2009
Fruit, Weather And A Dog
Fruit Galore
Two weeks ago I went with some friends to help a local small-holder harvest his plums from around 60 plum trees. We picked just over 500kgs in the afternoon and, for our time, got back about 80Kgsand some aching limbs. We were also royally entertained for an hour by the small-holder with aperos that were home-made. There was a fad in the 1970s in England to make your own beer and wine; I remember Boots having a whole department selling the kits and cans of grape juice of various sorts. However, rising wages and reducing booze prices, plus the efforts of Camra and new world wines, knocked this little home industry on the head. And, given that good if unsensational wine is cheap in France relative to the UK, I was surprised that the French would try any home-made stuff. But, it appears, they do; and it can be good as an aperitif rather than as a wine to go with a meal.
Afterwards, I took my two cases of plums home and shared them with the neighbours and the Monday evening pizza crowd. The remainder have since been transformed into jars of jam and chutney. I hadn't intended making plum jam but the chutney was always on the agenda. Many years ago in England my mother had wanted to make chutney and dredged up a recipe from a 1940s edition of Good Housekeeping called Old Dower House chutney. We found that, by doubling the amount of spices recommended, we had a very good chutney. As a base it has plums, apples, tomatoes and onions, all in plentiful supply here in autumn. And the small-holder let me pick a couple of handfuls of apples. All that, plus brown sugar, vinegar and plentiful spices (cloves, cinnamon, ginger, allspice, chili and garlic) makes a great chutney. Of which I now have very many jars to give away when invited out and, of course, to eat myself. I know from experience in England that this chutney keeps for 2-3 years (at least) and even gets better the longer it is kept.
And............the local man who sells his produce on the car park wall opposite the Mairie had a notice offering tomatoes, olives and figs today, all at more than reasonable prices. He had, however, run out of figs when I got to him but promised more for Wednesday. So I shall be there on Wednesday. At the supermarket right now they are selling for over 4 euros per kilo, the market not yet being in full flood. If I can get them for less than half of that then the planned fig jam will be on the way.
Weather and Plants
I was very abstemious this time when going back to see my mother in England and came back with only one clematis (Bill Mckenzie) and one succulent (plus, admittedly, a few bags of bulbs). The former are planted already; I need to think about the latter. I was going to plant some of the bulbs in my pots hanging from the balcony but am a bit worried about what winter and spring winds might do to them. A friend from England should be coming out to see me this autumn so I think I may ask her to bring me some bulbs of miniature daffodils/narcissi and plant those in the pots on the balcony.
The weather here has been much as in southern England over the past 2-3 weeks although slightly warmer here; overcast at times, raining at times but with sunny periods. A bit like classic April weather in England. Here, however, the remnants of summer should hang on for a bit longer so we are due for a spell of better weather to come. Whether we get it or not is another matter. Today, anyway, I was able to resume playing boules and didn't play badly.
And A Dog....................
Daniel has gone off on an assignment to La Réunion for ten days and left the care of his dog, Gillette, to myself and various friends. I feel slightly guilty about not saying I would have Gillette with me all the time, although Daniel didn't ask that. He had already arranged with Jean-Marie to walk Gillette in the morning, with Michelline to let it out at midday and asked me simply to feed her in the evening, which I am doing. She seems quite happy with that and, even though when I feed her I stay around for a time so that she can roam the garden, she seems content to return to “captivity” within the house before I leave. So I don't feel too bad about it; but I do wonder.
Two weeks ago I went with some friends to help a local small-holder harvest his plums from around 60 plum trees. We picked just over 500kgs in the afternoon and, for our time, got back about 80Kgsand some aching limbs. We were also royally entertained for an hour by the small-holder with aperos that were home-made. There was a fad in the 1970s in England to make your own beer and wine; I remember Boots having a whole department selling the kits and cans of grape juice of various sorts. However, rising wages and reducing booze prices, plus the efforts of Camra and new world wines, knocked this little home industry on the head. And, given that good if unsensational wine is cheap in France relative to the UK, I was surprised that the French would try any home-made stuff. But, it appears, they do; and it can be good as an aperitif rather than as a wine to go with a meal.
Afterwards, I took my two cases of plums home and shared them with the neighbours and the Monday evening pizza crowd. The remainder have since been transformed into jars of jam and chutney. I hadn't intended making plum jam but the chutney was always on the agenda. Many years ago in England my mother had wanted to make chutney and dredged up a recipe from a 1940s edition of Good Housekeeping called Old Dower House chutney. We found that, by doubling the amount of spices recommended, we had a very good chutney. As a base it has plums, apples, tomatoes and onions, all in plentiful supply here in autumn. And the small-holder let me pick a couple of handfuls of apples. All that, plus brown sugar, vinegar and plentiful spices (cloves, cinnamon, ginger, allspice, chili and garlic) makes a great chutney. Of which I now have very many jars to give away when invited out and, of course, to eat myself. I know from experience in England that this chutney keeps for 2-3 years (at least) and even gets better the longer it is kept.
And............the local man who sells his produce on the car park wall opposite the Mairie had a notice offering tomatoes, olives and figs today, all at more than reasonable prices. He had, however, run out of figs when I got to him but promised more for Wednesday. So I shall be there on Wednesday. At the supermarket right now they are selling for over 4 euros per kilo, the market not yet being in full flood. If I can get them for less than half of that then the planned fig jam will be on the way.
Weather and Plants
I was very abstemious this time when going back to see my mother in England and came back with only one clematis (Bill Mckenzie) and one succulent (plus, admittedly, a few bags of bulbs). The former are planted already; I need to think about the latter. I was going to plant some of the bulbs in my pots hanging from the balcony but am a bit worried about what winter and spring winds might do to them. A friend from England should be coming out to see me this autumn so I think I may ask her to bring me some bulbs of miniature daffodils/narcissi and plant those in the pots on the balcony.
The weather here has been much as in southern England over the past 2-3 weeks although slightly warmer here; overcast at times, raining at times but with sunny periods. A bit like classic April weather in England. Here, however, the remnants of summer should hang on for a bit longer so we are due for a spell of better weather to come. Whether we get it or not is another matter. Today, anyway, I was able to resume playing boules and didn't play badly.
And A Dog....................
Daniel has gone off on an assignment to La Réunion for ten days and left the care of his dog, Gillette, to myself and various friends. I feel slightly guilty about not saying I would have Gillette with me all the time, although Daniel didn't ask that. He had already arranged with Jean-Marie to walk Gillette in the morning, with Michelline to let it out at midday and asked me simply to feed her in the evening, which I am doing. She seems quite happy with that and, even though when I feed her I stay around for a time so that she can roam the garden, she seems content to return to “captivity” within the house before I leave. So I don't feel too bad about it; but I do wonder.
jeudi 30 juillet 2009
Festivals And Jokes
Fête Votive
Last weekend was the Fête Votive in Mollans, which is probably best translated as the annual village fair. However, it doesn't correspond very well to the English version. True there are a couple of stands of games for kids, hooking plastic ducks or shooting ballons, but there's no cake stall, no cream teas and no vegetable/flower show. Instead there are boules competitions, contested by all comers and many do come from neighbouring villages and towns, and three evenings of music and dancing. The bands weren't up to much but that didn't seem to spoil anyone's enjoyment.
The Fête Votive more or less marks the end of the festival “season” in the village, which begins with Feu de la St Jean on the 23rd June. There is another small festival, the festival of the Rue des Granges, which this year is devoted to the theme of music, but that is quite a small event even by village standards. Of course, there are major arts festivals ongoing in Vaison and Avignon but they don't count as village life.
French And Territory
I was struck once again by a difference between village life here and in England when an unknown (to me) girl turned up at boules the other day. She appeared to be known to Kevyn, Daniel's son, but was certainly not one of his usual retinue of girlfriends. Daniel explained the connection, which was more or less as follows. Daniel had met the girl somewhere and, on hearing her surname, mentioned that he had known soneone of the same name when he was young. This girl turned out to be the grandaughter of Daniel's old friend, whom Daniel hadn't seen since his youth. The old friend was now living in nearby Malaucene.
People here seem much more often to retain connections with their early stamping grounds than I have found to be the case in England. Why? I believe that land ownership could explain it. How often in Enland do we find people who own small plots of land around places where they grew up. Very seldom, I think. In England, I very rarely met anyone who owned any land: a large house and garden perhaps, perhaps even several houses, but not small plots of land. French inheritance law tends to keep land in the family and, unless the land is obviously commercially very valuable, in the family it tends to stay. There is a lot more land in France than in England (which also makes it de facto less likely to be commercially valuable) and if you have a plot or plots of land you naturally tend to retain a connection with that place. That is my explanation, until I get a better one.
Joke
Pizza evenings tend to mean jokes. A bartender in a small village who had exceedingly strong hands used to squeeze lemons and nobody in the village had ever managed to extract another drop of juice from a lemon after he had squeezed it. So he put up a notice in the bar for the benefit over anyone passing through offering a 100 euro prize for a 5 euro stake if anyone could get more juice out of lemon after he had squeezed it. Over the following months several strong men tried but none
succeeded. Then, one day, a rather weedy, besuited individual came into the bar, saw the notice and asked to take up the challenege, much to the amusement of the others in the bar. At first, the barman was reluctant to take the man's five euros. However, the newcomer persisted so in the end the barman took a lemon and, to knowing smiles all round, squeezed the lemon apparently dry. The newcomer then took the squeezed lemon, squeezed hard himself and managed to extract not one but several more drops of juice. Everyone in the bar was astonished; after all, how could such a weedy individual extract more juice than the barman? The newcomer was asked what he did in life to enable him to carry out such a feat? . He replied, “I am a tax inspector”.
Last weekend was the Fête Votive in Mollans, which is probably best translated as the annual village fair. However, it doesn't correspond very well to the English version. True there are a couple of stands of games for kids, hooking plastic ducks or shooting ballons, but there's no cake stall, no cream teas and no vegetable/flower show. Instead there are boules competitions, contested by all comers and many do come from neighbouring villages and towns, and three evenings of music and dancing. The bands weren't up to much but that didn't seem to spoil anyone's enjoyment.
The Fête Votive more or less marks the end of the festival “season” in the village, which begins with Feu de la St Jean on the 23rd June. There is another small festival, the festival of the Rue des Granges, which this year is devoted to the theme of music, but that is quite a small event even by village standards. Of course, there are major arts festivals ongoing in Vaison and Avignon but they don't count as village life.
French And Territory
I was struck once again by a difference between village life here and in England when an unknown (to me) girl turned up at boules the other day. She appeared to be known to Kevyn, Daniel's son, but was certainly not one of his usual retinue of girlfriends. Daniel explained the connection, which was more or less as follows. Daniel had met the girl somewhere and, on hearing her surname, mentioned that he had known soneone of the same name when he was young. This girl turned out to be the grandaughter of Daniel's old friend, whom Daniel hadn't seen since his youth. The old friend was now living in nearby Malaucene.
People here seem much more often to retain connections with their early stamping grounds than I have found to be the case in England. Why? I believe that land ownership could explain it. How often in Enland do we find people who own small plots of land around places where they grew up. Very seldom, I think. In England, I very rarely met anyone who owned any land: a large house and garden perhaps, perhaps even several houses, but not small plots of land. French inheritance law tends to keep land in the family and, unless the land is obviously commercially very valuable, in the family it tends to stay. There is a lot more land in France than in England (which also makes it de facto less likely to be commercially valuable) and if you have a plot or plots of land you naturally tend to retain a connection with that place. That is my explanation, until I get a better one.
Joke
Pizza evenings tend to mean jokes. A bartender in a small village who had exceedingly strong hands used to squeeze lemons and nobody in the village had ever managed to extract another drop of juice from a lemon after he had squeezed it. So he put up a notice in the bar for the benefit over anyone passing through offering a 100 euro prize for a 5 euro stake if anyone could get more juice out of lemon after he had squeezed it. Over the following months several strong men tried but none
succeeded. Then, one day, a rather weedy, besuited individual came into the bar, saw the notice and asked to take up the challenege, much to the amusement of the others in the bar. At first, the barman was reluctant to take the man's five euros. However, the newcomer persisted so in the end the barman took a lemon and, to knowing smiles all round, squeezed the lemon apparently dry. The newcomer then took the squeezed lemon, squeezed hard himself and managed to extract not one but several more drops of juice. Everyone in the bar was astonished; after all, how could such a weedy individual extract more juice than the barman? The newcomer was asked what he did in life to enable him to carry out such a feat? . He replied, “I am a tax inspector”.
mardi 21 juillet 2009
Eating And Language
Eating In Company
One of the big differences in my life here to that in England is the number of times I eat with friends. While in England I could probably count on both hands the number of times I ate with friends in a year and those occasions were mostly in restaurants. When friends are even just 30 miles apart, it always seemed to take a significant effort to arrange to meet up and eat. Here it all seems much simpler.
Part of it may be distance, part may be the meal itself. Part of it also must be the love of food and drink and conviviality. Since most of my friends here are within walking distance or a very short car ride, it's just much easier to get together. And since the meals generally mean giving thought to just one dish, it's easy to invite people off the cuff. Starters are easy (Russian salad with egg, some charcuterie and salad, melon), then the main course, then cheese, then fruit or buy a flan or ice cream or, if I'm energetic, do some pancakes. And that happens here always more than once a week.
This week, for example, Steve and Jo came over to eat on Sunday and I did pork chops à la Estremadura. Pretty simple really. Monday, I was going for a pizza evening when two friends emailed to invite me to eat with them: Anita and Pierre Boillot, he an ex-diplomat mostly in the Middle East and south America and she a Louisianan. They had family staying with them, Pierre's sister who had married an Englishman and who are now living 100 miles north of London. Good conversation and a good meal. Tomorrow, Dave and Hazel, friends of Steve and Jo who have rented a neighbouring house, have invited me to eat. And so it goes on................I'm probably due to make another shepherds' pie for Daniel (it always has to be that when he comes) and there are others whom I shall invite to eat once the annual round of grandchildren visiting has passed, when September comes.
It was never like this in England. Is it France, the make-up of the meals or just small village life? And that's not including the numerous invitations to aperos.
Language
When Steve and Jo came over on Sunday we got to talking about language, Steve having been reading Pinker's “The Language Instinct”. So I lent him my copy of “Words And Rules” and the Cambridge Encyclopedia of Languages. Language always seems to be a fertile topic of conversation, even if we are (as we often are) just puzzling over French expressions, similarities and disparities with their English equivalents and their derivations.
It's surprising how often, usually in pizza evening discussions, we discover that French and English expressions have exact equivalents. On the other hand, if the similes/metaphors are obvious and from common life experiences, perhaps it's not so surprising. It's the differences that are more interesting: while we English sometimes have a frog in our throat the French have a cat in theirs. We go for the sound, they go for the feeling. The French actually make a lot of use of cats in colloquialisms; what have cats done to deserve this?
Added to all this is the use of particular words. I feel that that best basis for understanding usage is to try to get at the root meaning of the word (the meaning not the lexicography), which usually involves getting back to the Latin or Greek origin. However, how the French came up with tiring (fatiguer) a salad rather than tossing it still defeats me.
Charles Simonyi at Microsoft tried for years to formulate a language (although he refused to call it such) of what he called “intentions” (meanings?), a formulation that would be computer-language independent. Thus, an intentional object would have a computer language as a method for expressing it. For some time (early 90s) Simonyi would talk about nothing else. It no doubt had its fallout in Microsoft's intermediate language but never really got anywhere (as far as I know). It always struck me as Chomsky-esque territory at its most theoretical and I ventured into that only with the most awful dread.
One of the big differences in my life here to that in England is the number of times I eat with friends. While in England I could probably count on both hands the number of times I ate with friends in a year and those occasions were mostly in restaurants. When friends are even just 30 miles apart, it always seemed to take a significant effort to arrange to meet up and eat. Here it all seems much simpler.
Part of it may be distance, part may be the meal itself. Part of it also must be the love of food and drink and conviviality. Since most of my friends here are within walking distance or a very short car ride, it's just much easier to get together. And since the meals generally mean giving thought to just one dish, it's easy to invite people off the cuff. Starters are easy (Russian salad with egg, some charcuterie and salad, melon), then the main course, then cheese, then fruit or buy a flan or ice cream or, if I'm energetic, do some pancakes. And that happens here always more than once a week.
This week, for example, Steve and Jo came over to eat on Sunday and I did pork chops à la Estremadura. Pretty simple really. Monday, I was going for a pizza evening when two friends emailed to invite me to eat with them: Anita and Pierre Boillot, he an ex-diplomat mostly in the Middle East and south America and she a Louisianan. They had family staying with them, Pierre's sister who had married an Englishman and who are now living 100 miles north of London. Good conversation and a good meal. Tomorrow, Dave and Hazel, friends of Steve and Jo who have rented a neighbouring house, have invited me to eat. And so it goes on................I'm probably due to make another shepherds' pie for Daniel (it always has to be that when he comes) and there are others whom I shall invite to eat once the annual round of grandchildren visiting has passed, when September comes.
It was never like this in England. Is it France, the make-up of the meals or just small village life? And that's not including the numerous invitations to aperos.
Language
When Steve and Jo came over on Sunday we got to talking about language, Steve having been reading Pinker's “The Language Instinct”. So I lent him my copy of “Words And Rules” and the Cambridge Encyclopedia of Languages. Language always seems to be a fertile topic of conversation, even if we are (as we often are) just puzzling over French expressions, similarities and disparities with their English equivalents and their derivations.
It's surprising how often, usually in pizza evening discussions, we discover that French and English expressions have exact equivalents. On the other hand, if the similes/metaphors are obvious and from common life experiences, perhaps it's not so surprising. It's the differences that are more interesting: while we English sometimes have a frog in our throat the French have a cat in theirs. We go for the sound, they go for the feeling. The French actually make a lot of use of cats in colloquialisms; what have cats done to deserve this?
Added to all this is the use of particular words. I feel that that best basis for understanding usage is to try to get at the root meaning of the word (the meaning not the lexicography), which usually involves getting back to the Latin or Greek origin. However, how the French came up with tiring (fatiguer) a salad rather than tossing it still defeats me.
Charles Simonyi at Microsoft tried for years to formulate a language (although he refused to call it such) of what he called “intentions” (meanings?), a formulation that would be computer-language independent. Thus, an intentional object would have a computer language as a method for expressing it. For some time (early 90s) Simonyi would talk about nothing else. It no doubt had its fallout in Microsoft's intermediate language but never really got anywhere (as far as I know). It always struck me as Chomsky-esque territory at its most theoretical and I ventured into that only with the most awful dread.
lundi 20 juillet 2009
Artists, Apricots and Bastille Day
Bastille Day
July 14th was duly celebrated in the village with a bit of flag waving and, much more importantly, an extremely agreeable evening of alfresco entertainment in front of the Bar du Pont. The centre of the village was blocked to traffic, the Bar put on a meal of lamb chops, chips, cheese and ice cream and the chairs and tables in the Place Banche Cour in front of the Bar gradually swelled with people who had simply come to drink, listen, maybe dance and generally socialise, around 300 of them packed into the tiny square.
It's one of my favourite evenings, along with the Feu de la St Jean, because all ages come. The entertainment this year was a very basic band and a surprisingly good girl singer. It's amazing what an atmosphere you can conjure up with a squeeze box, a piano, a bit of percussion, a good singer and the right tunes. The entertainment started, the statutory Provencal half-hour late, with the similarly statutory Marseillaise, and continued until after midnight. I ate, drank, chatted, wandered among the tables seeing friends and then engaged in my favourite sport of people watching. Everyone seemed relaxed and happy and the night was pleasantly warm without being too sultry. A lovely evening.
Artists In The Streets
The weekend, the third in July, is when artists both local and from various parts of France, display their paintings in the streets of the mediaeval part of the village. I didn't wander round them this year. Usually, I go to the Mairie to get myself a costune and take part in the parade through the village of some 60 of us all dressed in costumes dating from the Middle Ages through to the 18th century. This year however, Pierre Dieux, who organises the parade wanted a year off so there was no parade; plenty of visitors, though, with cars parked all round the village.
Previous years walking through the old village in procession have taught me that unfortunately there is seldom much work of any originality among the paintings displayed. Whilst nothing descends to the extreme banality of the classic large-eyed boy/girl with a tear in one-eye, a very large proportion consist of “typical” Provence scenes (fields of lavender/sunflowers, dotted with the odd cabin roofed with semi-circular tiles). The prices posted for these works show more imagination than the paintings themselves, a triumph of hope over expectation. This, despite he fact that there are three prizes of various sorts on offer. I find it all rather depressing and would much rather gaze into the studio window next door to admire the work of my artist neighbour, Florence Gosset.
Unfortunately too, the entertainment on offer in the evening, in the 14th of July square, behind the Mairie, was similarly banal. Posters proclaimed high-kicking girls in exotic feathered costumes, bare-breasted too. It's not my preferred form of entertainment but a good show of the sort can be enjoyable. Two girls alone, though, struggle to provide the same elan that a chorus line can (-can). The crooners, male and female, were just that and the songs uninspired. One singer did get her tits out (appeared in a transparent bra) but the effect was sleazy, almost obscene, in that there appeared no reason for it. The idea, presumably, was to titillate (excuse the pun) but the effect (on me) was almost the opposite.
Nonetheless, since the entertainment was free it is hard to quibble too much and I quite enjoyed myself sitting watching people as much as the stage. And most people seemed to be enjoying themselves. The sky helped, turning at one stage to a deep velvet blue. Really, the skies in Provence have to be seen to be believed. However, I decided that an hour of the entertainment was enough and left before the grand finale(?).
Almost Clochemerle
I commented previously on the beautiful stone wall built to hide the wheelie bins for our street. Ah, but there was a problem, almost a Clochemerle moment. The workmen who built the wall moved the bins originally; they had to in order to start work. But whose job was it to move them back behind the new wall? The workmen had long gone and it wasn't the job of the binmen. The matter probably had to be referred to the commune for arbitration. However, my neighbour Jean-Marc, simply took the job on himself, since the bins were then parked in front of his house, and moved the bins the 20 yards to their original position. It was brave of him: there could have been a binman strike, a dispute over commune power usurped and heaven knows what but all is calm in the street this morning so presumably the matter is resolved.
Apricots Galore
The apricots here have to be tasted to be believed. Some large as peaches, some red and gold in colour, they are a delight. And there seems to be a glut this year. At the depot by the boules court, small lorries packed with cases of them have been arriving by the dozen to unload and huge pantechnicons blocking the road to take them away. In the markets they are now below a euro a kilo, a very small price for a piece of gastronomic heaven. However, I have already made around 4 kilos of jam and friend Jo has amassed some 42 jars of it so the only thing left to do is eat them while they are still around. Next up are figs!
July 14th was duly celebrated in the village with a bit of flag waving and, much more importantly, an extremely agreeable evening of alfresco entertainment in front of the Bar du Pont. The centre of the village was blocked to traffic, the Bar put on a meal of lamb chops, chips, cheese and ice cream and the chairs and tables in the Place Banche Cour in front of the Bar gradually swelled with people who had simply come to drink, listen, maybe dance and generally socialise, around 300 of them packed into the tiny square.
It's one of my favourite evenings, along with the Feu de la St Jean, because all ages come. The entertainment this year was a very basic band and a surprisingly good girl singer. It's amazing what an atmosphere you can conjure up with a squeeze box, a piano, a bit of percussion, a good singer and the right tunes. The entertainment started, the statutory Provencal half-hour late, with the similarly statutory Marseillaise, and continued until after midnight. I ate, drank, chatted, wandered among the tables seeing friends and then engaged in my favourite sport of people watching. Everyone seemed relaxed and happy and the night was pleasantly warm without being too sultry. A lovely evening.
Artists In The Streets
The weekend, the third in July, is when artists both local and from various parts of France, display their paintings in the streets of the mediaeval part of the village. I didn't wander round them this year. Usually, I go to the Mairie to get myself a costune and take part in the parade through the village of some 60 of us all dressed in costumes dating from the Middle Ages through to the 18th century. This year however, Pierre Dieux, who organises the parade wanted a year off so there was no parade; plenty of visitors, though, with cars parked all round the village.
Previous years walking through the old village in procession have taught me that unfortunately there is seldom much work of any originality among the paintings displayed. Whilst nothing descends to the extreme banality of the classic large-eyed boy/girl with a tear in one-eye, a very large proportion consist of “typical” Provence scenes (fields of lavender/sunflowers, dotted with the odd cabin roofed with semi-circular tiles). The prices posted for these works show more imagination than the paintings themselves, a triumph of hope over expectation. This, despite he fact that there are three prizes of various sorts on offer. I find it all rather depressing and would much rather gaze into the studio window next door to admire the work of my artist neighbour, Florence Gosset.
Unfortunately too, the entertainment on offer in the evening, in the 14th of July square, behind the Mairie, was similarly banal. Posters proclaimed high-kicking girls in exotic feathered costumes, bare-breasted too. It's not my preferred form of entertainment but a good show of the sort can be enjoyable. Two girls alone, though, struggle to provide the same elan that a chorus line can (-can). The crooners, male and female, were just that and the songs uninspired. One singer did get her tits out (appeared in a transparent bra) but the effect was sleazy, almost obscene, in that there appeared no reason for it. The idea, presumably, was to titillate (excuse the pun) but the effect (on me) was almost the opposite.
Nonetheless, since the entertainment was free it is hard to quibble too much and I quite enjoyed myself sitting watching people as much as the stage. And most people seemed to be enjoying themselves. The sky helped, turning at one stage to a deep velvet blue. Really, the skies in Provence have to be seen to be believed. However, I decided that an hour of the entertainment was enough and left before the grand finale(?).
Almost Clochemerle
I commented previously on the beautiful stone wall built to hide the wheelie bins for our street. Ah, but there was a problem, almost a Clochemerle moment. The workmen who built the wall moved the bins originally; they had to in order to start work. But whose job was it to move them back behind the new wall? The workmen had long gone and it wasn't the job of the binmen. The matter probably had to be referred to the commune for arbitration. However, my neighbour Jean-Marc, simply took the job on himself, since the bins were then parked in front of his house, and moved the bins the 20 yards to their original position. It was brave of him: there could have been a binman strike, a dispute over commune power usurped and heaven knows what but all is calm in the street this morning so presumably the matter is resolved.
Apricots Galore
The apricots here have to be tasted to be believed. Some large as peaches, some red and gold in colour, they are a delight. And there seems to be a glut this year. At the depot by the boules court, small lorries packed with cases of them have been arriving by the dozen to unload and huge pantechnicons blocking the road to take them away. In the markets they are now below a euro a kilo, a very small price for a piece of gastronomic heaven. However, I have already made around 4 kilos of jam and friend Jo has amassed some 42 jars of it so the only thing left to do is eat them while they are still around. Next up are figs!
vendredi 10 juillet 2009
In Our Street
Street Party
The first Sunday in July is the day of the street party. Those who live in the rue du Faubourg like to think they're a bit special, more outgoing, friendly and cosmopolitan than the rest of the villagers. And it's certainly true that we're an outgoing and friendly crowd. The street party is a chance to demonstrate this and no other street in the village has its own party. Normally, the street is blocked off to traffic by barriers supplied by the Mairie but these were all in use elsewhere this year so we blocked off the street with cars.
A few years ago frinds as well as inhabitants of the street were invited and numbers rose to nearly 100 but some of the residents objected to the friends so it is just those living in the street at the time who can now attend. There were 56 of us this year. Everybody brings a dish of some sort or some drink and we all share.
Just as we were about to put up the tables the heavens opened and a thunder storm broke. Fortunately it lasted only an hour so we were able to proceed as usual slightly later than planned. I made the mistake of offering Jean-Pierre, who was sitting next to me, a Calvados at the end of the meal. Other empty glasses were quickly presented and three quarters of the contents of the bottle immediately disappeared. I'll make sure I have less than a full bottle to offer next year!
Goodbye To Clochemenle Moments
There have been Clochemerle moments, mentioned previously, when people from the houses around have gathered outside the wash house to discuss what can be done about the wheelie bins across the road from me. Petitions to the Mairie have followed and at last seem to have borne fruit. The bins are now hidden behind a new stone wall. When things get done here, they aren't done by halves. A foundation about a foot thick was laid and breeze block walls, with two openings for the dustmen, were built up on it. These in turn have been covered in rendering at the back and faced with stone in front. It certainly looks better and the stone faced wall in front is actually rather attractive. So no more Clochemerle moments.
Petunias
Petunias can be fickle and mine have certainly not flourished this year as in previous years. The result is that the balcony and hanging baskets don't look anywhere near as eye-catching as they should. I'm wondering whether to persevere with a sub-standard display or whether to replace them; but with what? The obvious replacements are geraniums but I regard red ones, at least, as something of a cliché to be avoided. Whatever I do this year I think I shall plant something other than petunias on the balcony and in the hanging baskets next year.
The first Sunday in July is the day of the street party. Those who live in the rue du Faubourg like to think they're a bit special, more outgoing, friendly and cosmopolitan than the rest of the villagers. And it's certainly true that we're an outgoing and friendly crowd. The street party is a chance to demonstrate this and no other street in the village has its own party. Normally, the street is blocked off to traffic by barriers supplied by the Mairie but these were all in use elsewhere this year so we blocked off the street with cars.
A few years ago frinds as well as inhabitants of the street were invited and numbers rose to nearly 100 but some of the residents objected to the friends so it is just those living in the street at the time who can now attend. There were 56 of us this year. Everybody brings a dish of some sort or some drink and we all share.
Just as we were about to put up the tables the heavens opened and a thunder storm broke. Fortunately it lasted only an hour so we were able to proceed as usual slightly later than planned. I made the mistake of offering Jean-Pierre, who was sitting next to me, a Calvados at the end of the meal. Other empty glasses were quickly presented and three quarters of the contents of the bottle immediately disappeared. I'll make sure I have less than a full bottle to offer next year!
Goodbye To Clochemenle Moments
There have been Clochemerle moments, mentioned previously, when people from the houses around have gathered outside the wash house to discuss what can be done about the wheelie bins across the road from me. Petitions to the Mairie have followed and at last seem to have borne fruit. The bins are now hidden behind a new stone wall. When things get done here, they aren't done by halves. A foundation about a foot thick was laid and breeze block walls, with two openings for the dustmen, were built up on it. These in turn have been covered in rendering at the back and faced with stone in front. It certainly looks better and the stone faced wall in front is actually rather attractive. So no more Clochemerle moments.
Petunias
Petunias can be fickle and mine have certainly not flourished this year as in previous years. The result is that the balcony and hanging baskets don't look anywhere near as eye-catching as they should. I'm wondering whether to persevere with a sub-standard display or whether to replace them; but with what? The obvious replacements are geraniums but I regard red ones, at least, as something of a cliché to be avoided. Whatever I do this year I think I shall plant something other than petunias on the balcony and in the hanging baskets next year.
mardi 23 juin 2009
Summer and Eagles
First Day Of Summer?
The locals seem to be slightly out on the first day of summer but maybe the tradition dates back before anyone did the calculations. So, the 23rd of June is the Feu de la St Jean, a celebration of the first day of summer. The centre of the village is shut off to traffic and a large contingent of villagers congregates in front of the Bar du Pont to eat, drink and listen/dance to a band. When darkness descends, a bonfire is lit beneath the bridge over the Ouvèze river. The first year I was here the bonfire was actually on the bridge and the fire brigade had to stand by to see it didn't get out of hand. Since the, it's been down on a stone bank in the middle of the river, presumably because there's plenty of water around to put it out, if necessary.
Two things contrast with my English experience. Firstly, I've never lived anywhere in England where this kind of thing happened, except some vague memory of a street party in London at the time of the current Queen's coronation. Secondly, all ages come: grandparents, parents, adolescents, kids, dogs, cats, etc, and everyone seems to have a good time. It really is a family occasion.
A couple of years ago the entertainment was a couple playing the guitar and singing Brassens songs. Most of the people were singing along to the well-known songs, which are generally pretty bawdy. You can't really dance to Brassens but a number of 6-7 year-olds weren't to be put off and duly bopped away to the music. I can't think of anywhere else where you would happily have teeny boppers dancing away to songs with words like “when Margot undid her bra” and “I took her into the countryside and lifted up her skirt to introduce her to nature”. Nowhere but in France.
Dog Fight
I was playing boules a couple of days a go when we all stopped and looked up into the sky. A dogfight was going on between an eagle and a number of house martins. The eagle had somehow got amongst a flock of them and was desperately trying to catch one. Every time it got near one, the house martin would swerve or turn up or down at the last minute. We watched fascinated for a while but didn't see the eagle have any success. It must have been like some of the scenes over Britain at the time of the second world war.
The locals seem to be slightly out on the first day of summer but maybe the tradition dates back before anyone did the calculations. So, the 23rd of June is the Feu de la St Jean, a celebration of the first day of summer. The centre of the village is shut off to traffic and a large contingent of villagers congregates in front of the Bar du Pont to eat, drink and listen/dance to a band. When darkness descends, a bonfire is lit beneath the bridge over the Ouvèze river. The first year I was here the bonfire was actually on the bridge and the fire brigade had to stand by to see it didn't get out of hand. Since the, it's been down on a stone bank in the middle of the river, presumably because there's plenty of water around to put it out, if necessary.
Two things contrast with my English experience. Firstly, I've never lived anywhere in England where this kind of thing happened, except some vague memory of a street party in London at the time of the current Queen's coronation. Secondly, all ages come: grandparents, parents, adolescents, kids, dogs, cats, etc, and everyone seems to have a good time. It really is a family occasion.
A couple of years ago the entertainment was a couple playing the guitar and singing Brassens songs. Most of the people were singing along to the well-known songs, which are generally pretty bawdy. You can't really dance to Brassens but a number of 6-7 year-olds weren't to be put off and duly bopped away to the music. I can't think of anywhere else where you would happily have teeny boppers dancing away to songs with words like “when Margot undid her bra” and “I took her into the countryside and lifted up her skirt to introduce her to nature”. Nowhere but in France.
Dog Fight
I was playing boules a couple of days a go when we all stopped and looked up into the sky. A dogfight was going on between an eagle and a number of house martins. The eagle had somehow got amongst a flock of them and was desperately trying to catch one. Every time it got near one, the house martin would swerve or turn up or down at the last minute. We watched fascinated for a while but didn't see the eagle have any success. It must have been like some of the scenes over Britain at the time of the second world war.
mardi 16 juin 2009
Fruit, roses, etc
Fruit, Fruit, Fruit,.....
The fruit season is now in full swing. Even the strawberries, which were first, are still going strong although the markets haven't yet started offering several kilos for a few euros for jam making. The cherries, which were second are also still around and the village man who sells his own stuff opposite the Mairie is selling a white variety for a euro a kilo. Apricots the size of peaches are plentiful and the peaches themselves are now fully ripe. Add the Charentais melons to that lot and there really is a cornucopia of fruit. Jam making is definitely just around the corner.
Rose Identified
I gave a rose to friends Steve and Jo several years ago to plant by their pool and it has bloomed magnificently and repeatedly. However, I had forgotten which variety it was although I knew whom I bought it from, a man in the Nyons market. I've now tracked down the name: it's Pegasus. I shall get one for myself if I can find one.
Watering
Watering is now a constant chore with the weather consistently in the 30s. As Steve and Jo are away there is their garden to look after too, as well as my own, although there is Hallie to help with the former. Two of my clematises still haven't bloomed so I have yet to discover whether the colour it said on the ticket (blue in each case) is actually the colour they are; it isn't always the case with flowers bought in the market.
Eating Outside
Eating out side is always one of the big pleasures here at this time of the year, morning noon and night. Had Hallie round for a meal on Sunday and we ate on the balcony around 9.00 in the evening. Lent Hallie my DVDs of The Jewel in the Crown and those are now occupying a large part of her time.
Translation
My first success with translation work apart from the guided tour of Mollans. Going to pick up some Viognier which I had heard they had in bag-in-box at the Rieu Frais vineyard in St Jalle, I also picked up the Ehnglish translation of their brochure. The woman who gave it to me said to let her know if there were any mistakes. Well, it was a brave effort but trying to make changes was a hopeless job; it was easier to translate from the French again, which I duly did. Took to the vineyard and said they could have it for free as long as they acknowledged my translation work. They were very grateful and insisted I take a couple of bottles of wine: a Viognier and a Cabernet sauvignon.
Rieu Frais is a good example of a vineyard that produces very good wine but is outside the AOC area and so has to classify all its wines as Vin de Table. It really makes even more of a nonsense of the AOC system.
The fruit season is now in full swing. Even the strawberries, which were first, are still going strong although the markets haven't yet started offering several kilos for a few euros for jam making. The cherries, which were second are also still around and the village man who sells his own stuff opposite the Mairie is selling a white variety for a euro a kilo. Apricots the size of peaches are plentiful and the peaches themselves are now fully ripe. Add the Charentais melons to that lot and there really is a cornucopia of fruit. Jam making is definitely just around the corner.
Rose Identified
I gave a rose to friends Steve and Jo several years ago to plant by their pool and it has bloomed magnificently and repeatedly. However, I had forgotten which variety it was although I knew whom I bought it from, a man in the Nyons market. I've now tracked down the name: it's Pegasus. I shall get one for myself if I can find one.
Watering
Watering is now a constant chore with the weather consistently in the 30s. As Steve and Jo are away there is their garden to look after too, as well as my own, although there is Hallie to help with the former. Two of my clematises still haven't bloomed so I have yet to discover whether the colour it said on the ticket (blue in each case) is actually the colour they are; it isn't always the case with flowers bought in the market.
Eating Outside
Eating out side is always one of the big pleasures here at this time of the year, morning noon and night. Had Hallie round for a meal on Sunday and we ate on the balcony around 9.00 in the evening. Lent Hallie my DVDs of The Jewel in the Crown and those are now occupying a large part of her time.
Translation
My first success with translation work apart from the guided tour of Mollans. Going to pick up some Viognier which I had heard they had in bag-in-box at the Rieu Frais vineyard in St Jalle, I also picked up the Ehnglish translation of their brochure. The woman who gave it to me said to let her know if there were any mistakes. Well, it was a brave effort but trying to make changes was a hopeless job; it was easier to translate from the French again, which I duly did. Took to the vineyard and said they could have it for free as long as they acknowledged my translation work. They were very grateful and insisted I take a couple of bottles of wine: a Viognier and a Cabernet sauvignon.
Rieu Frais is a good example of a vineyard that produces very good wine but is outside the AOC area and so has to classify all its wines as Vin de Table. It really makes even more of a nonsense of the AOC system.
dimanche 31 mai 2009
Garden, lierature and supermarkets
Water, water......
It's been a couple of weeks of intensive watering as temperatures in the sun have been well into the 30s. However, most of the plants in the front, as well as the rose I planted across the road, seem to be doing well. The greatest success is clearly going to be a late-flowering clematis that has made its way out from the pot by the front door up to the porch roof and out and up the grapevine which ends up over the balcony. Also, the trachelospermum jasmoinides in a pot on the balcony has got about two thirds of the way along the balcony and is now covered in bloom. The pansies are finally giving up; however, as I planted them in November and they have given a brilliant display for most of the time since, they don't owe me anything. I shall plant pansies again next November.
I had spotted one or two interesting wild plants by the roadside and was about to go and dig up some samples but the local commune has been round clearing the verges so that is that for another year. I've had a real bonus from the poppy seed I scattered on the back ground last year, though; poppies popping up all over the place. Against that, there is a wild yellow poppy that I snaffled from the roadside last year that didn't look as though it would take but survived long enough to produce seed; the seed clearly hasn't taken yet. I say “yet” because Jo had admired some wild sweet peas I had tumbling over a fence in my garden in Reading and I brought out lots of seed for her garden about three years ago. Nothing......until this year when several plants have appeared. Sometimes you can't hurry nature.
The back garden is in full flow. I've eliminated some of the plants I didn't know but have discovered I don't want but most of the perennials I have bought this year seem to be taking. It'll be a year of wait and see. The stocks I grew from seed are all planted but haven't got very high or robust; the compost they sell here seems to be quite poor (mostly chewed up wood) and quite expensive. Will bring more back from England when I take the car over.
Literary Festival
Daniel has been helping to organise a literary festival, Lire en mai, in Nyons and so I went along to sample it. The main sessions are by authors invited to discuss their work. The setting was superb: the walled garden of a house right in the centre of Nyons. The talks I heard were, however, disappointing. The microphone being used seemed to scramble what was being said to the point where it often defeated my command of French. Also, I was reminded that people who can write well can't always speak well (or interestingly). The French do love their theory and “philosophy” but when the discussion turned to “the necessary tension between the author, his characters and the reader” I gave up. Still it was a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.
Supermarkets
The English, or Anglo-saxon, “model” for driving the national economy is much criticised here, for some good reasons, although I'm not sure model is the right word (muddle, maybe?). There is much more emphasis here on quality of life, although also much anguish at the persistent unemployment rate. About three months ago, one of the supermarkets in Vaison, Intermarché, decided to open on Sunday mornings, totally against the prevailing work ethic. I went soon after it started and found the place heaving with customers. I thought then that the other supermarket, SuperU, would have to follow suit. Sure enough, it has now happened. The tensions between customer focus and free market forces on the one hand and sensitivity to workers quality of life still have to be worked through. I find the common French knee-jerk reaction to favour the quality of life of workers encouraging but quality of life also requires having an income (i.e. job) and there are too many French people without the latter. Over time, perhaps there will be a way to resolve these tensions better.
It's been a couple of weeks of intensive watering as temperatures in the sun have been well into the 30s. However, most of the plants in the front, as well as the rose I planted across the road, seem to be doing well. The greatest success is clearly going to be a late-flowering clematis that has made its way out from the pot by the front door up to the porch roof and out and up the grapevine which ends up over the balcony. Also, the trachelospermum jasmoinides in a pot on the balcony has got about two thirds of the way along the balcony and is now covered in bloom. The pansies are finally giving up; however, as I planted them in November and they have given a brilliant display for most of the time since, they don't owe me anything. I shall plant pansies again next November.
I had spotted one or two interesting wild plants by the roadside and was about to go and dig up some samples but the local commune has been round clearing the verges so that is that for another year. I've had a real bonus from the poppy seed I scattered on the back ground last year, though; poppies popping up all over the place. Against that, there is a wild yellow poppy that I snaffled from the roadside last year that didn't look as though it would take but survived long enough to produce seed; the seed clearly hasn't taken yet. I say “yet” because Jo had admired some wild sweet peas I had tumbling over a fence in my garden in Reading and I brought out lots of seed for her garden about three years ago. Nothing......until this year when several plants have appeared. Sometimes you can't hurry nature.
The back garden is in full flow. I've eliminated some of the plants I didn't know but have discovered I don't want but most of the perennials I have bought this year seem to be taking. It'll be a year of wait and see. The stocks I grew from seed are all planted but haven't got very high or robust; the compost they sell here seems to be quite poor (mostly chewed up wood) and quite expensive. Will bring more back from England when I take the car over.
Literary Festival
Daniel has been helping to organise a literary festival, Lire en mai, in Nyons and so I went along to sample it. The main sessions are by authors invited to discuss their work. The setting was superb: the walled garden of a house right in the centre of Nyons. The talks I heard were, however, disappointing. The microphone being used seemed to scramble what was being said to the point where it often defeated my command of French. Also, I was reminded that people who can write well can't always speak well (or interestingly). The French do love their theory and “philosophy” but when the discussion turned to “the necessary tension between the author, his characters and the reader” I gave up. Still it was a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.
Supermarkets
The English, or Anglo-saxon, “model” for driving the national economy is much criticised here, for some good reasons, although I'm not sure model is the right word (muddle, maybe?). There is much more emphasis here on quality of life, although also much anguish at the persistent unemployment rate. About three months ago, one of the supermarkets in Vaison, Intermarché, decided to open on Sunday mornings, totally against the prevailing work ethic. I went soon after it started and found the place heaving with customers. I thought then that the other supermarket, SuperU, would have to follow suit. Sure enough, it has now happened. The tensions between customer focus and free market forces on the one hand and sensitivity to workers quality of life still have to be worked through. I find the common French knee-jerk reaction to favour the quality of life of workers encouraging but quality of life also requires having an income (i.e. job) and there are too many French people without the latter. Over time, perhaps there will be a way to resolve these tensions better.
lundi 11 mai 2009
Aix, Veggies and Pizza
Aix and the Var
Daniel was going to Aix to see his son Kevyn and then both were going on to a vineyard in the Var so he offered to take me along with him. I accepted gladly. The 2-hour drive to Aix passed quite quickly with Daniel pointing out sites of interest and, particularly, a three-span suspension bridge over the Durance just outside Cavaillon which is now by-passed and has a wooden roadway. It would have been interesting (probably in a Chinese sense now) to have been able to cross over the wooden roadway.
Lunch at Kevyn's flat, then on to the obligatory boules, then an apero watching the world go by at a cafe on the Cour Mirabeau, the Champs Elysée of Aix, and then on to a wine tasting evening that Kevyn had helped organise in a seminary. The seminary was built around a large courtyard in the middle of Aix and included a chapel, the chapel of the Oblats. The Oblats were apparently a sect of lay people who wished to observe a quasi-religious lifestyle. The peace and quiet in the courtyard, after the bustle of Aix just outside where we had had the apero was striking. And the wine tasting was informal and enjoyable; a really good evening.
The following morning we were up early to go to the Terre Promise vineyard, about 40-minutes drive away in the Var, which had provided two of the wines at the tasting, a rosé and a red. Kevyn and a number of his student friends work there in the summer helping to get in the grape harvest. It turned out that Jean-Christophe, who bought the vineyard a few years ago and is a wine enthusiast, had sold all his stock of rosé but hadn't got all of it bottled, so needed help with the bottling. We duly piled in and, after a longish but very enjoyable day, had managed to bottle and package 4000 bottles and around 200 magnums. The work was done, by a half-dozen of us, in a great atmosphere: focussed but relaxed and joky with a short sampling break and a leisurely lunch. I came away with half a case of bvery good wine for my pains.
On the journey back, Daniel did a detour to show me more of the Var countryside and the St Victoire mountain, oft-painted by Cézanne. The countryside surprised me in that, being significantly farther south, I had expected it to be more arid than that around Mollans. In fact, the opposite was the case: the greenery was generally much softer, more like southern England or the Morvan in Burgundy.
Vegetables
My terrace is now beginning to look like a nursery. The veggies I've sown primarily for Steve and Jo's veg. garden have needed potting on and there are now myriad pots of tomatoes, aubergines, courgettes, peppers and cucumbers cluttering it up, plus trays of perpetual spinach, broccoli, stock seedlings and sprouting dahlia tubers. This is all very satisfying but the plants in the wall at the back of the terrace are blooming and it's difficult to see them for all the pots around. I've resolved to get most of this sorted by the end of the month so that I can enjoy the terrace. The vegetable plants that Steve and Jo don't want will go to neighbours; Monique has already said she wants some perpetual spinach and Jean-Marc and Florence next door have a new veg. garden with only tomatoes in it so far.
Pizza Evening
The pizza evening tonight was outside on the terrace of the Bar du Pont, the first time this year. Barring rain, it should be outside now until the end of September at least. Even Mt Ventoux has been losing its snow. There's still some on the north side but the south side is clear. To be exact, it wasn't entirely a pizza evening as Roberto came with a huge supply of mussels and chips as an alternative. Whatever.........as my friend Steve commented, it's evenings such as this that remind me why I came out here. “Balmy” is the English word that best describes it and I love such evenings. Also, for the past week I've had the door from the balcony into the living room open most of the day and can now enjoy breakfast and lunch on the balcony. And the flower show out front has started to attract the camera enthusiasts who pass by. That's summer.
Daniel was going to Aix to see his son Kevyn and then both were going on to a vineyard in the Var so he offered to take me along with him. I accepted gladly. The 2-hour drive to Aix passed quite quickly with Daniel pointing out sites of interest and, particularly, a three-span suspension bridge over the Durance just outside Cavaillon which is now by-passed and has a wooden roadway. It would have been interesting (probably in a Chinese sense now) to have been able to cross over the wooden roadway.
Lunch at Kevyn's flat, then on to the obligatory boules, then an apero watching the world go by at a cafe on the Cour Mirabeau, the Champs Elysée of Aix, and then on to a wine tasting evening that Kevyn had helped organise in a seminary. The seminary was built around a large courtyard in the middle of Aix and included a chapel, the chapel of the Oblats. The Oblats were apparently a sect of lay people who wished to observe a quasi-religious lifestyle. The peace and quiet in the courtyard, after the bustle of Aix just outside where we had had the apero was striking. And the wine tasting was informal and enjoyable; a really good evening.
The following morning we were up early to go to the Terre Promise vineyard, about 40-minutes drive away in the Var, which had provided two of the wines at the tasting, a rosé and a red. Kevyn and a number of his student friends work there in the summer helping to get in the grape harvest. It turned out that Jean-Christophe, who bought the vineyard a few years ago and is a wine enthusiast, had sold all his stock of rosé but hadn't got all of it bottled, so needed help with the bottling. We duly piled in and, after a longish but very enjoyable day, had managed to bottle and package 4000 bottles and around 200 magnums. The work was done, by a half-dozen of us, in a great atmosphere: focussed but relaxed and joky with a short sampling break and a leisurely lunch. I came away with half a case of bvery good wine for my pains.
On the journey back, Daniel did a detour to show me more of the Var countryside and the St Victoire mountain, oft-painted by Cézanne. The countryside surprised me in that, being significantly farther south, I had expected it to be more arid than that around Mollans. In fact, the opposite was the case: the greenery was generally much softer, more like southern England or the Morvan in Burgundy.
Vegetables
My terrace is now beginning to look like a nursery. The veggies I've sown primarily for Steve and Jo's veg. garden have needed potting on and there are now myriad pots of tomatoes, aubergines, courgettes, peppers and cucumbers cluttering it up, plus trays of perpetual spinach, broccoli, stock seedlings and sprouting dahlia tubers. This is all very satisfying but the plants in the wall at the back of the terrace are blooming and it's difficult to see them for all the pots around. I've resolved to get most of this sorted by the end of the month so that I can enjoy the terrace. The vegetable plants that Steve and Jo don't want will go to neighbours; Monique has already said she wants some perpetual spinach and Jean-Marc and Florence next door have a new veg. garden with only tomatoes in it so far.
Pizza Evening
The pizza evening tonight was outside on the terrace of the Bar du Pont, the first time this year. Barring rain, it should be outside now until the end of September at least. Even Mt Ventoux has been losing its snow. There's still some on the north side but the south side is clear. To be exact, it wasn't entirely a pizza evening as Roberto came with a huge supply of mussels and chips as an alternative. Whatever.........as my friend Steve commented, it's evenings such as this that remind me why I came out here. “Balmy” is the English word that best describes it and I love such evenings. Also, for the past week I've had the door from the balcony into the living room open most of the day and can now enjoy breakfast and lunch on the balcony. And the flower show out front has started to attract the camera enthusiasts who pass by. That's summer.
vendredi 1 mai 2009
May = Summer
May = Summer
It's been a good few days. Today is muguet (lily of the valley) day in France (and celebration of workers, etc, of course). But driving the short distance into Buis I saw several roadside vendors of bunches of lily of the valley. Traditionally, you give it to your beloved on the 1st May here. And Chelsea got a good result in Barcelona!
Steve, Jo and Mana came round to eat a curry and that reminded me that the French have no taste for chili. I put none in it but the cloves and ginger had Mana gulping glasses of water although she declared the curry to be very good. When I cook a curry here, I hold on the chili and put a little bowl of cayenne pepper on the table for those with more tolerant and chili-friendly palates. I think Indian cuisine is still something the French as a whole have to discover.
The weather, after a spell of being changeable but dry, has really started warming up and the roadsides have begun showing their full range of colours. The coronilla are still providing a blanket of yellow on the slopes and the broom is about to join in. Judas trees (I've never seen one in England, don't know if they have an English name) and tamarisks are joining in as also are amalanches, which grow wild as small bushes rather than trees here, and the early valerianne which generally seems tot be coral red rather than the more pervasive pink which shows later. At closer to ground level, poppies are now abundant and show well against the type of euphorbia, with lime green bracts, that grows all over the place. The purple salvias are out and I first saw today the blue wild chicory. White campions are everywhere (I've never seen the pink variety here, which is much more common in England) and irises of course. Ladies slipper is abundant as also is vetch and star of Bethlehem, which again I have never seen in England. A few are now residing in my back garden. Against that, the show of blossom on almond, cherry, apricot and peach trees is now over and I'll have to wait a month or two to see the results of that in the market; cherries first and then peaches and apricots.
I haven't done a lot in the garden other than water, prick out some seedlings and plant the star of Bethlehem. However, I did dig the little trench needed for one side of the arch I want to put in. It really needed to go down 18 inches but, a foot down, I hit solid rock. So a foot it is going to have to be, with some concrete around; it should do the job as there won't be much growth up it this year.
And I've started playing around with possible formats for the brochure that will contain my English translation of J-F Colonat's guided tour of the village. Single rather than double column, the column running ~2/3 across a landscape A5 page with French and English pages facing one another seems to work best and I think it can be all made to fit, with photos and maps, on 16 pages of A5 but.................On decent paper, people will probably pay a couple of euros for that, which will get the production money back. Double column A5 portrait, will require 24/32 pages, which is what Daniel originally had in mind, so I may have a persuasion job on my hands.
It's been a good few days. Today is muguet (lily of the valley) day in France (and celebration of workers, etc, of course). But driving the short distance into Buis I saw several roadside vendors of bunches of lily of the valley. Traditionally, you give it to your beloved on the 1st May here. And Chelsea got a good result in Barcelona!
Steve, Jo and Mana came round to eat a curry and that reminded me that the French have no taste for chili. I put none in it but the cloves and ginger had Mana gulping glasses of water although she declared the curry to be very good. When I cook a curry here, I hold on the chili and put a little bowl of cayenne pepper on the table for those with more tolerant and chili-friendly palates. I think Indian cuisine is still something the French as a whole have to discover.
The weather, after a spell of being changeable but dry, has really started warming up and the roadsides have begun showing their full range of colours. The coronilla are still providing a blanket of yellow on the slopes and the broom is about to join in. Judas trees (I've never seen one in England, don't know if they have an English name) and tamarisks are joining in as also are amalanches, which grow wild as small bushes rather than trees here, and the early valerianne which generally seems tot be coral red rather than the more pervasive pink which shows later. At closer to ground level, poppies are now abundant and show well against the type of euphorbia, with lime green bracts, that grows all over the place. The purple salvias are out and I first saw today the blue wild chicory. White campions are everywhere (I've never seen the pink variety here, which is much more common in England) and irises of course. Ladies slipper is abundant as also is vetch and star of Bethlehem, which again I have never seen in England. A few are now residing in my back garden. Against that, the show of blossom on almond, cherry, apricot and peach trees is now over and I'll have to wait a month or two to see the results of that in the market; cherries first and then peaches and apricots.
I haven't done a lot in the garden other than water, prick out some seedlings and plant the star of Bethlehem. However, I did dig the little trench needed for one side of the arch I want to put in. It really needed to go down 18 inches but, a foot down, I hit solid rock. So a foot it is going to have to be, with some concrete around; it should do the job as there won't be much growth up it this year.
And I've started playing around with possible formats for the brochure that will contain my English translation of J-F Colonat's guided tour of the village. Single rather than double column, the column running ~2/3 across a landscape A5 page with French and English pages facing one another seems to work best and I think it can be all made to fit, with photos and maps, on 16 pages of A5 but.................On decent paper, people will probably pay a couple of euros for that, which will get the production money back. Double column A5 portrait, will require 24/32 pages, which is what Daniel originally had in mind, so I may have a persuasion job on my hands.
lundi 20 avril 2009
The Significance of 1000
Meeting
The meeting with Jean-François to make final changes to the guided tour text was effectively aborted because Jean-François couldn't come. It's something that happens very frequently in these parts, I am finding. However, I had a good apéro dinant with Daniel and some of his friends: Ann, Jacques and Claudine, all very interesting people. We went to Ann's house for coffee afterwards as Daniel's cafetière was broken. Her house has an unusual layout and ground floor walls that have a smooth finish rather than the rough finish that is common here. The effect, since the walls were far from flat although with a smooth finish, was what you night see in an English cottage a couple of hundred or so years old. I'm finding that there is no standard layout to the houses here, or rather the old ones; each has been built according to the space on the land, hardness of the rock and contours available.
The Significance of 1000
In the Mayor's end of year briefing last December he announced that a census during the year showed that Mollans now has a population of 1001. So what? I thought. In fact, it turns out to be quite significant. Firstly, it opens up for the village a new level of possible subsidies from the state and also helps to keep alive the village school. There is a general move in France to consolidate facilities such as schools and hospitals and whether you keep such facilities or not depends on the number of inhabitants. The number 1000 is apparently an important threshold.
There's another angle to this which could well lead to a Clochemerle moment (of which there have already been a few). At 1000 inhabitants, Mollans has the right (but not the duty) to have a chemist in the village. At the moment, the nearest pharmacy is in Buis, 8km away. In fact, there are two chemists in Buis. The number of chemists in towns/villages is strictly controlled by the professional body and goes according to the population. As an aside, there are two types of chemist in France: one which corresponds to an English chemist and one that can sell only toiletries and harmless therapeutic concoctions; they can't even sell aspirin or paracetamol. It is the former that are controlled by the professional body. Buis originally had only one chemist but a spat between a doctor and the chemist many years ago produced the need for another chemist. Buis added the Mollans population to its own to create a catchment area that justified having two chemists. Now Mollans is entitled to a chemist in its own right, what happens? Watch this space............
The meeting with Jean-François to make final changes to the guided tour text was effectively aborted because Jean-François couldn't come. It's something that happens very frequently in these parts, I am finding. However, I had a good apéro dinant with Daniel and some of his friends: Ann, Jacques and Claudine, all very interesting people. We went to Ann's house for coffee afterwards as Daniel's cafetière was broken. Her house has an unusual layout and ground floor walls that have a smooth finish rather than the rough finish that is common here. The effect, since the walls were far from flat although with a smooth finish, was what you night see in an English cottage a couple of hundred or so years old. I'm finding that there is no standard layout to the houses here, or rather the old ones; each has been built according to the space on the land, hardness of the rock and contours available.
The Significance of 1000
In the Mayor's end of year briefing last December he announced that a census during the year showed that Mollans now has a population of 1001. So what? I thought. In fact, it turns out to be quite significant. Firstly, it opens up for the village a new level of possible subsidies from the state and also helps to keep alive the village school. There is a general move in France to consolidate facilities such as schools and hospitals and whether you keep such facilities or not depends on the number of inhabitants. The number 1000 is apparently an important threshold.
There's another angle to this which could well lead to a Clochemerle moment (of which there have already been a few). At 1000 inhabitants, Mollans has the right (but not the duty) to have a chemist in the village. At the moment, the nearest pharmacy is in Buis, 8km away. In fact, there are two chemists in Buis. The number of chemists in towns/villages is strictly controlled by the professional body and goes according to the population. As an aside, there are two types of chemist in France: one which corresponds to an English chemist and one that can sell only toiletries and harmless therapeutic concoctions; they can't even sell aspirin or paracetamol. It is the former that are controlled by the professional body. Buis originally had only one chemist but a spat between a doctor and the chemist many years ago produced the need for another chemist. Buis added the Mollans population to its own to create a catchment area that justified having two chemists. Now Mollans is entitled to a chemist in its own right, what happens? Watch this space............
samedi 18 avril 2009
Gardening and Translation
Gardening
The weather has continued to be changeable but with sufficient good spells to allow some gardening and the odd game of boules. The hanging baskets are now planted although it will be a few weeks before they really start to look good. And the back garden is starting to take shape. The couple of salvia pratensis I pinched from the roadside last year have not only survived but also self-seeded, so I now have four of them. I've also identified some poppies coming up, gifts from the wind or birds no doubt, and one sunflower which surely came from one of the bird feeders. That apart, I've planted some tigridia pavonia and transferred two redcurrant salvia from pots in the front that they were taking over. A planned visit to a big garden centre just outside Avignon next week should see the main shape of the back garden in place. And my seeds are starting to germinate: stocks, tomatoes and broccoli all showing, plus (so far) one morning glory from seed collected off the plants I grew last year.
More Translation
The translation of the guided tour is now “finished”, meaning subject to second thoughts, of which there will be some. I'm going to Daniel's tomorrow lunchtime to meet with him and Jean-François Colonat to make final adjustments. The English text has come out to about 4/5 of the French, which is about right and should leave some space for photos and maps. Just as well we are not doing a German version, which would have been at least 30% longer than the English.
Two points emerged for me from the translation work. First, I seem to be losing my English fluency in proportion to my gain in fluency in French. I took the precaution of asking friends Steve and Jo to read the text for infelicities, of which they found several. In particular, I had translated monument aux morts as monument to the dead, which of course it is. But that is not what we say; we say “war memorial”.
Most of the other inelegancies they found were the result of very long sentences in French. I eventually found a method to tackle these but didn't always manage a good English version. The method was firstly to parse the French sentence into clauses, then translate the clauses, then find the best way of combining the clauses into English sentences. That should have given me the best chance of producing a good English version but still resulted in some clumsy phrasing. I found that one long French sentence generally became 2-3 English sentences.
The weather has continued to be changeable but with sufficient good spells to allow some gardening and the odd game of boules. The hanging baskets are now planted although it will be a few weeks before they really start to look good. And the back garden is starting to take shape. The couple of salvia pratensis I pinched from the roadside last year have not only survived but also self-seeded, so I now have four of them. I've also identified some poppies coming up, gifts from the wind or birds no doubt, and one sunflower which surely came from one of the bird feeders. That apart, I've planted some tigridia pavonia and transferred two redcurrant salvia from pots in the front that they were taking over. A planned visit to a big garden centre just outside Avignon next week should see the main shape of the back garden in place. And my seeds are starting to germinate: stocks, tomatoes and broccoli all showing, plus (so far) one morning glory from seed collected off the plants I grew last year.
More Translation
The translation of the guided tour is now “finished”, meaning subject to second thoughts, of which there will be some. I'm going to Daniel's tomorrow lunchtime to meet with him and Jean-François Colonat to make final adjustments. The English text has come out to about 4/5 of the French, which is about right and should leave some space for photos and maps. Just as well we are not doing a German version, which would have been at least 30% longer than the English.
Two points emerged for me from the translation work. First, I seem to be losing my English fluency in proportion to my gain in fluency in French. I took the precaution of asking friends Steve and Jo to read the text for infelicities, of which they found several. In particular, I had translated monument aux morts as monument to the dead, which of course it is. But that is not what we say; we say “war memorial”.
Most of the other inelegancies they found were the result of very long sentences in French. I eventually found a method to tackle these but didn't always manage a good English version. The method was firstly to parse the French sentence into clauses, then translate the clauses, then find the best way of combining the clauses into English sentences. That should have given me the best chance of producing a good English version but still resulted in some clumsy phrasing. I found that one long French sentence generally became 2-3 English sentences.
lundi 13 avril 2009
Easter and Translation
A Quiet Easter
Easter has been quiet because the weather hasn't been good: overcast skies and one day of drizzle. However, today spring/summer returned with a temperature of 24 degrees and bright sunshine. That meant: gardening, a (successful afternoon of boules) and tourists roaming around the village. There's no competition here to spot the first tourist (as there used to be in The Times to report the first cuckoo) but tourists roaming around and taking photos are definitely a harbinger of summer. And I have seen the first poppies appearing at the roadside. There can be whole fields of these when they really get going and a few have already self-seeded in my garden.
Translation
The previous few days of inclement weather have made me do more work on translating the village guided tour. I'm now on page six of ten. I came across a phrase I couldn't translate, droit de souquet, and couldn't find in my dictionary. So I tried it on the crowd at the pizza tonight in the Bar du Pont and no one there knew what it meant either. Daniel knew it. It was a right endowed on communes in the late Middle Ages to exact a tax on the consumption of alcohol, which for some unknown reason had to be 17% (of purchase price). The revenue from the tax could be used by the commune as it deemed fit. This tax was levied in Mollans and, perhaps ironically but very appropriately, was used to fund piping water from a nearby spring into the village via a fountain and wash-house circa 1713. That was the first time that the village had had fresh water other than from the river or rain water butts.
Another interesting fact to emerge from the translation work was an explanation of why the chapel at one end of the bridge spanning the Ouvèze and which overhangs the river bed doesn't just fall into the river. It has no obvious support. It turns out that stones were cut to run under the floor of the chapel and into the adjacent square with a sufficient weight and length to counterbalance the weight of the overhanging chapel. The chapel also was built in the early 18th century so somebody around the village then understood those old Greek mathematicians. But, if somebody in the future drills a hole in the wrong place in the square...................
Easter has been quiet because the weather hasn't been good: overcast skies and one day of drizzle. However, today spring/summer returned with a temperature of 24 degrees and bright sunshine. That meant: gardening, a (successful afternoon of boules) and tourists roaming around the village. There's no competition here to spot the first tourist (as there used to be in The Times to report the first cuckoo) but tourists roaming around and taking photos are definitely a harbinger of summer. And I have seen the first poppies appearing at the roadside. There can be whole fields of these when they really get going and a few have already self-seeded in my garden.
Translation
The previous few days of inclement weather have made me do more work on translating the village guided tour. I'm now on page six of ten. I came across a phrase I couldn't translate, droit de souquet, and couldn't find in my dictionary. So I tried it on the crowd at the pizza tonight in the Bar du Pont and no one there knew what it meant either. Daniel knew it. It was a right endowed on communes in the late Middle Ages to exact a tax on the consumption of alcohol, which for some unknown reason had to be 17% (of purchase price). The revenue from the tax could be used by the commune as it deemed fit. This tax was levied in Mollans and, perhaps ironically but very appropriately, was used to fund piping water from a nearby spring into the village via a fountain and wash-house circa 1713. That was the first time that the village had had fresh water other than from the river or rain water butts.
Another interesting fact to emerge from the translation work was an explanation of why the chapel at one end of the bridge spanning the Ouvèze and which overhangs the river bed doesn't just fall into the river. It has no obvious support. It turns out that stones were cut to run under the floor of the chapel and into the adjacent square with a sufficient weight and length to counterbalance the weight of the overhanging chapel. The chapel also was built in the early 18th century so somebody around the village then understood those old Greek mathematicians. But, if somebody in the future drills a hole in the wrong place in the square...................
vendredi 10 avril 2009
Translations and Orchards
A Busy Weekend
Daniel's son Kevyn descended on him on Saturday together with a half-dozen friends. I had invited Daniel to eat with me that evening but, in view of Kevyn and friends' arrival, Daniel reversed the invitation. So, the boules square was fully used and afterwards the gang of students set about cooking a leg of lamb and veggies. The following day was a celebration of the birthday of one of the friends, Laure, and Daniel had already invited me to meet Jean-François Collonat (of whom more later) for aperos at midday. So I stayed on for the barbecue and birthday celebration (Happy Birthday To You.... seems to be international and was duly sung in several languages). And on to boules again...............
Guided Tour Translation
Jean-François Collonat does a guided tour of the village, relating its history along the way, every weekend in July and August and on special occasions in between. The tour lasts about an hour and a half. Over the past 18 months Daniel has been busy videoing J-F doing his stuff and subsequently has drawn up a commentary, based on what J-F recounts, to go with the video. The video will be converted to DVD and I offered to do an English commentary to go as an alternative to the French on the DVD. So, I am busy doing a translation of the commentary text. I had the idea of producing the text as a brochure, in the two languages, and both Daniel and J-F have accepted this. With a few photos and maybe a map or two added, it should make for a good 16-page brochure. And a budget is available to print it.
A brief perusal of the French text made me think that the translation would be straightforward. In the main it is, apart from some obscure terms relating to times past. However, there are a couple of things that have caused me to stop and think carefully. Firstly, some words/terms simply don't translate; for instance: Mairie. “Town Hall” doesn't get it; you don't have them in villages and anyway that's more of a “Hotel de Ville”. “Village Hall” doesn't get it either; it's a different thing, a salle de fêtes or similar. “Mayor's Offices” won't do the trick either as that is a town hall and, anyway, small English villages don't have mayors. In the end I decided a Mairie was a Mairie and left it at that. Notaire is similar; we don't really have an equivalent; “notary” is probably the best translation but how often do you encounter that word in English? The other problem has been that the French use very long sentences. Three or four subordinate clauses is the norm and 6-7 are frequent. You simply can't do that in English without creating incredibly complex (and opaque) sentences. So, to hell with faithfulness to the original in that respect, I've chopped the French up into much more manageable English sentences. At the moment, it's working out at about two hours per page, which seems to be reasonable progress.
Vaison Market
I hadn't been to Vaison market for a while so I went to check it out. At this time of year it's just moderately crowded, not heaving as it is in summer. Asparagus is now in full flood, white, green, thick or thin. I personally prefer the thin green stems. And the prices are beginning to fall and will fall further, even though they are half the price of asparagus in England already. I also caught sight of the first strawberries from nearby Carpentras, reputed to be the best in France. The really good ones are known as garrigues and tend to be small and misshapen, not what you would find in UK supermarkets (which is their loss).
Inevitably I also bought some plants, including a clematis I think may be a Gypsy Queen, like the one I brought back from England. It looks very similar from the label and is the same flowering period but had no name on it and the stall owner didn't know its name. It will go outside the front door.
Orchards
Fruit-growing being a principal occupation around here, the area is full of orchards. At the moment the almond trees are full of bloom and the peach trees are also starting. Before long the cherry trees will join in and there will be whole panoramas of blossom. Not to be outdone, the local roadsides are displaying irises (mostly various shades from light blue to mauve), coronilla and the wild wallflower, merysimum. Broom and valerian are just beginning to show but will be in abundance in a couple of weeks or so.
Daniel's son Kevyn descended on him on Saturday together with a half-dozen friends. I had invited Daniel to eat with me that evening but, in view of Kevyn and friends' arrival, Daniel reversed the invitation. So, the boules square was fully used and afterwards the gang of students set about cooking a leg of lamb and veggies. The following day was a celebration of the birthday of one of the friends, Laure, and Daniel had already invited me to meet Jean-François Collonat (of whom more later) for aperos at midday. So I stayed on for the barbecue and birthday celebration (Happy Birthday To You.... seems to be international and was duly sung in several languages). And on to boules again...............
Guided Tour Translation
Jean-François Collonat does a guided tour of the village, relating its history along the way, every weekend in July and August and on special occasions in between. The tour lasts about an hour and a half. Over the past 18 months Daniel has been busy videoing J-F doing his stuff and subsequently has drawn up a commentary, based on what J-F recounts, to go with the video. The video will be converted to DVD and I offered to do an English commentary to go as an alternative to the French on the DVD. So, I am busy doing a translation of the commentary text. I had the idea of producing the text as a brochure, in the two languages, and both Daniel and J-F have accepted this. With a few photos and maybe a map or two added, it should make for a good 16-page brochure. And a budget is available to print it.
A brief perusal of the French text made me think that the translation would be straightforward. In the main it is, apart from some obscure terms relating to times past. However, there are a couple of things that have caused me to stop and think carefully. Firstly, some words/terms simply don't translate; for instance: Mairie. “Town Hall” doesn't get it; you don't have them in villages and anyway that's more of a “Hotel de Ville”. “Village Hall” doesn't get it either; it's a different thing, a salle de fêtes or similar. “Mayor's Offices” won't do the trick either as that is a town hall and, anyway, small English villages don't have mayors. In the end I decided a Mairie was a Mairie and left it at that. Notaire is similar; we don't really have an equivalent; “notary” is probably the best translation but how often do you encounter that word in English? The other problem has been that the French use very long sentences. Three or four subordinate clauses is the norm and 6-7 are frequent. You simply can't do that in English without creating incredibly complex (and opaque) sentences. So, to hell with faithfulness to the original in that respect, I've chopped the French up into much more manageable English sentences. At the moment, it's working out at about two hours per page, which seems to be reasonable progress.
Vaison Market
I hadn't been to Vaison market for a while so I went to check it out. At this time of year it's just moderately crowded, not heaving as it is in summer. Asparagus is now in full flood, white, green, thick or thin. I personally prefer the thin green stems. And the prices are beginning to fall and will fall further, even though they are half the price of asparagus in England already. I also caught sight of the first strawberries from nearby Carpentras, reputed to be the best in France. The really good ones are known as garrigues and tend to be small and misshapen, not what you would find in UK supermarkets (which is their loss).
Inevitably I also bought some plants, including a clematis I think may be a Gypsy Queen, like the one I brought back from England. It looks very similar from the label and is the same flowering period but had no name on it and the stall owner didn't know its name. It will go outside the front door.
Orchards
Fruit-growing being a principal occupation around here, the area is full of orchards. At the moment the almond trees are full of bloom and the peach trees are also starting. Before long the cherry trees will join in and there will be whole panoramas of blossom. Not to be outdone, the local roadsides are displaying irises (mostly various shades from light blue to mauve), coronilla and the wild wallflower, merysimum. Broom and valerian are just beginning to show but will be in abundance in a couple of weeks or so.
jeudi 2 avril 2009
Flowers, Books and Films
Back Again, With Plants
I'm now back from my visit to England to see my mother, kids and friends. Everything went well; and daffodils everywhere, in profusion..........very Wordsworthian.
I came back with a suitcase full of plants, mostly bought at 99p to fill holes in my terrace wall, but also a Guinée rose and a clematis bought at Wisley. I find the Guinée rose difficult; I'd had it in Reading but with only modest success. However, the specimen I found looks strong and so I shall try again here; it's worth it for its exquisite perfume. I feared for the clematis which, despite being a late-flowering variety, had put on considerable growth and had to be doubled up in my suitcase, cushioned by dirty shirts. But it survived the journey and is now planted on my terrace at the back.
Meanwhile, Mana had acquired some plants which she called Hépatiques Trilobés, from a bank of wildflowers near here. A dictionary search identified these as Liverwort, a very English name, but I'd never seen anything like them in England and they are wild flowers supposed to grow just about anywhere in Europe. They are very short and have a blue anemone-like flower. Interestingly, Keeble Martin doesn't include them in his book but the RHS encyclopedia I have identifies three varieties as Hepatica(for which the Trilobés doesn't help much since they are all Trilobés), but a search in a French wildflower book I have suggests they are Hépatiques Nobles. The name Liverwort suggests they have had some medicinal use in England in the past but I'm puzzled by their absence from Keeble-Martin's book and by my never having encountered them in England. Anyway, I acquired some too and they are duly planted in the back garden.
Films and Books
Daniel had kindly invited me to eat with him on my return so that I wouldn't have to cook that evening. Over the meal, I mentioned having seen Slumdog Millionaire and Mana's reaction to it and we got into a discussion of books and films thereof. I initially took the stance that you can't compare books and the film of the book because they are different media: what you can do in a book you can't necessarily do in a film and vice-versa. Daniel took a different tack; he reckoned it could be very interesting to compare the two, not to assess similarities but to ask questions about why any differences have been introduced. Some may be for banal reasons of what is possible in one medium or the other but others may give much more cause for thought. I think he's right and it's a point that hadn't occurred to me.
I'm now back from my visit to England to see my mother, kids and friends. Everything went well; and daffodils everywhere, in profusion..........very Wordsworthian.
I came back with a suitcase full of plants, mostly bought at 99p to fill holes in my terrace wall, but also a Guinée rose and a clematis bought at Wisley. I find the Guinée rose difficult; I'd had it in Reading but with only modest success. However, the specimen I found looks strong and so I shall try again here; it's worth it for its exquisite perfume. I feared for the clematis which, despite being a late-flowering variety, had put on considerable growth and had to be doubled up in my suitcase, cushioned by dirty shirts. But it survived the journey and is now planted on my terrace at the back.
Meanwhile, Mana had acquired some plants which she called Hépatiques Trilobés, from a bank of wildflowers near here. A dictionary search identified these as Liverwort, a very English name, but I'd never seen anything like them in England and they are wild flowers supposed to grow just about anywhere in Europe. They are very short and have a blue anemone-like flower. Interestingly, Keeble Martin doesn't include them in his book but the RHS encyclopedia I have identifies three varieties as Hepatica(for which the Trilobés doesn't help much since they are all Trilobés), but a search in a French wildflower book I have suggests they are Hépatiques Nobles. The name Liverwort suggests they have had some medicinal use in England in the past but I'm puzzled by their absence from Keeble-Martin's book and by my never having encountered them in England. Anyway, I acquired some too and they are duly planted in the back garden.
Films and Books
Daniel had kindly invited me to eat with him on my return so that I wouldn't have to cook that evening. Over the meal, I mentioned having seen Slumdog Millionaire and Mana's reaction to it and we got into a discussion of books and films thereof. I initially took the stance that you can't compare books and the film of the book because they are different media: what you can do in a book you can't necessarily do in a film and vice-versa. Daniel took a different tack; he reckoned it could be very interesting to compare the two, not to assess similarities but to ask questions about why any differences have been introduced. Some may be for banal reasons of what is possible in one medium or the other but others may give much more cause for thought. I think he's right and it's a point that hadn't occurred to me.
lundi 23 mars 2009
Cinema and England
To The Cinema
I went with Mana, a local friend, to see Slumdog Millionaire at the cinema in Buis yesterday evening and was impressed. I found the mixture of realism and fantasy, Bollywood and other genres effectively blended and the whole well acted and photographed. A thoroughly engaging film, if not a great one. Mana was not impressed, having read the book and finding the detail on the poverty from which Jamal had emerged lacking and dismissing the tinseltown episodes as American, although I think they were Bollywood. Plenty to talk about afterwards, anyway.
The film was dubbed into French, which is what happens to most films here that will run on the main cinema circuits (which doesn't include Buis and neighbouring towns). I find the range of films shown locally much better than that I was used to in Reading, primarily because the French seem to accept subtitles easily. Subtitling is what happens to any film that is not going to be a blockbuster on the main cinema circuits. That turns out to be a very important difference. If you can accept subtitles, then you don't have to bulk out cinema programmes with inferior films because you are constrained by a single language. You, literally, have the whole worlds films to choose from. So, since I have been here, I have seem films originated in, for instance, Morocco, Mongolia, Algeria, Spain, and China, all good films that I would never have had the chance to see in Reading.
The cinema in Buis has promoted a debate on whether films in languages other than French should be dubbed or subtitled. The general argument is that dubbing compromises the integrity of the film, whilst subtitling obviously introduces some visual interference, with the inference that purists will opt for subtitles. I suspect the debate is academic; economics rather than aesthetics will determine whether films in other languages are dubbed or subtitled. However, sometimes you can take your pick; Slumdog Millionaire was earlier showing in a subtitled version. The important point for me is that, if you accept subtitles, then a far wider variety, and a greater overall quality, of films becomes available.
And Back To England.............
Tomorrow I fly back to England to see my kids and my mother for a week. I gather that the weather in England, or the southern part, has changed for the worse: lower temperatures and rain. Which is a pity because here the weather is forecast to stay fair for the next several days. However, I love England in the spring (“Oh to be in England.....etc) and so will doubtless find things to please me. And I shall no doubt bring back various plants in my suitcase for my garden here.
Résumé en Français
Je suis conscient de ne pas avoir fait les résumés que j'avais proposés. C'est plus difficile que je ne l'avais pensé: pas le français mais le résumé. Cependant, je les écrirai de temps en temps.
I went with Mana, a local friend, to see Slumdog Millionaire at the cinema in Buis yesterday evening and was impressed. I found the mixture of realism and fantasy, Bollywood and other genres effectively blended and the whole well acted and photographed. A thoroughly engaging film, if not a great one. Mana was not impressed, having read the book and finding the detail on the poverty from which Jamal had emerged lacking and dismissing the tinseltown episodes as American, although I think they were Bollywood. Plenty to talk about afterwards, anyway.
The film was dubbed into French, which is what happens to most films here that will run on the main cinema circuits (which doesn't include Buis and neighbouring towns). I find the range of films shown locally much better than that I was used to in Reading, primarily because the French seem to accept subtitles easily. Subtitling is what happens to any film that is not going to be a blockbuster on the main cinema circuits. That turns out to be a very important difference. If you can accept subtitles, then you don't have to bulk out cinema programmes with inferior films because you are constrained by a single language. You, literally, have the whole worlds films to choose from. So, since I have been here, I have seem films originated in, for instance, Morocco, Mongolia, Algeria, Spain, and China, all good films that I would never have had the chance to see in Reading.
The cinema in Buis has promoted a debate on whether films in languages other than French should be dubbed or subtitled. The general argument is that dubbing compromises the integrity of the film, whilst subtitling obviously introduces some visual interference, with the inference that purists will opt for subtitles. I suspect the debate is academic; economics rather than aesthetics will determine whether films in other languages are dubbed or subtitled. However, sometimes you can take your pick; Slumdog Millionaire was earlier showing in a subtitled version. The important point for me is that, if you accept subtitles, then a far wider variety, and a greater overall quality, of films becomes available.
And Back To England.............
Tomorrow I fly back to England to see my kids and my mother for a week. I gather that the weather in England, or the southern part, has changed for the worse: lower temperatures and rain. Which is a pity because here the weather is forecast to stay fair for the next several days. However, I love England in the spring (“Oh to be in England.....etc) and so will doubtless find things to please me. And I shall no doubt bring back various plants in my suitcase for my garden here.
Résumé en Français
Je suis conscient de ne pas avoir fait les résumés que j'avais proposés. C'est plus difficile que je ne l'avais pensé: pas le français mais le résumé. Cependant, je les écrirai de temps en temps.
jeudi 19 mars 2009
Gardening, History and a Joke
Gardening and History
The weather has been getting better and better. For the last few days I've been playing boules in temperatures in the low to middle 20s. My car was recording 29 degrees this morning but it's usually optimistic by a few degrees. The days have been spent gardening. I've pinched a couple of inches off the footpath at the back of the house to plant a row of irises given to me by friends Steve and Jo, who have been splitting and replanting theirs. They won't do much this year but should look good next. Have also dug two more holes in the road in front of the house and planted a climbing rose (Iceberg) up against a lime tree on one side and a clematis (Jackmanii) to climb up the honeysuckle on my side. Scraping the paint off the beams in my bedroom will have to wait.
As an alternative to Sudoku over breakfast, I have been reading a history of Pierrelongue, a village 3 km from here along the road to Buis,. It seems there's a still unresolved dispute between Pierrelongue and Mollans over grazing and timber-gathering rights on Mt Bluye, the large hill (3000ft) which spans the two villages. Nothing remarkable in that except that the legal process started in the mid-18th century. There's not a lot that grazes on Mt Bluye now, except a few wild boar, so maybe that's why the case is still unresolved; or maybe everybody just got too tired or forgot what the problem was. Mt Bluye is also the source of many of the springs that bring water to the two villages, which might be more of a problem (viz. Jean de Florette and Manon des Sources) except that there seems to be plenty of water for both. Pierrelongue didn't get its own fountain (i.e. source of fresh water) until as late as 1898. (By contrast, there are eleven fountains in Mollans, dating from ~1770). Before that the villagers of Pierrelongue had to cross the river on a large plank, which occasionally got chopped up for firewood when the weather got cold. Or they could use the river water but the people of Buis had a song that ran along the lines of “we piss in the river and the Pierrelongais drink our piss”. Local villages pissing on one another, or doing something rather more violent, seems to have been all the rage in the 14th and 15th centuries but is a sport that has fortunately died out.
Joke
Here's another of René's stories, which he tells in an Alsatian accent that I could never reproduce. A local yokel introduced himself to a new neighbour and enquired what he did for a job, as he clearly wasn't a farm worker. The newcomer replied that he was a professor of deductive logic at the nearby Strasbourg university. After thinking for a few moments, the yokel asked: “Er....what exactly is that?”.
The professor replied: “ Well, let me give you an example. For instance, I see that you have a kennel in your garden, so I deduce from that you probably have a dog”.
“Yes”, says the yokel.
“I notice also,” says the professor, “that there are toys in your garden and I deduce from that that you have children”.
“Yes”, says the yokel, increasingly impressed.
“Since you have children,” continues the professor, “I conclude that you probably have a wife and that you are heterosexual”.
“Yes again”, says the yokel, now extremely impressed.
A few days later the yokel yokel meets another (yokel) neighbour and tells him about this brilliant professor who has moved into the village. The conversation proceeds as follows.
Yokel 2: “What is this new guy a professor of”?
Yokel 1: “Deductive logic”
Yokel 2; “What exactly is that”?
Yokel 1 (puffing out his chest): “Well, let me give you an example. Have you got a dog kennel in your garden”?
Yokel 2: “No”
Yokel 1: “Homosexual!”
The weather has been getting better and better. For the last few days I've been playing boules in temperatures in the low to middle 20s. My car was recording 29 degrees this morning but it's usually optimistic by a few degrees. The days have been spent gardening. I've pinched a couple of inches off the footpath at the back of the house to plant a row of irises given to me by friends Steve and Jo, who have been splitting and replanting theirs. They won't do much this year but should look good next. Have also dug two more holes in the road in front of the house and planted a climbing rose (Iceberg) up against a lime tree on one side and a clematis (Jackmanii) to climb up the honeysuckle on my side. Scraping the paint off the beams in my bedroom will have to wait.
As an alternative to Sudoku over breakfast, I have been reading a history of Pierrelongue, a village 3 km from here along the road to Buis,. It seems there's a still unresolved dispute between Pierrelongue and Mollans over grazing and timber-gathering rights on Mt Bluye, the large hill (3000ft) which spans the two villages. Nothing remarkable in that except that the legal process started in the mid-18th century. There's not a lot that grazes on Mt Bluye now, except a few wild boar, so maybe that's why the case is still unresolved; or maybe everybody just got too tired or forgot what the problem was. Mt Bluye is also the source of many of the springs that bring water to the two villages, which might be more of a problem (viz. Jean de Florette and Manon des Sources) except that there seems to be plenty of water for both. Pierrelongue didn't get its own fountain (i.e. source of fresh water) until as late as 1898. (By contrast, there are eleven fountains in Mollans, dating from ~1770). Before that the villagers of Pierrelongue had to cross the river on a large plank, which occasionally got chopped up for firewood when the weather got cold. Or they could use the river water but the people of Buis had a song that ran along the lines of “we piss in the river and the Pierrelongais drink our piss”. Local villages pissing on one another, or doing something rather more violent, seems to have been all the rage in the 14th and 15th centuries but is a sport that has fortunately died out.
Joke
Here's another of René's stories, which he tells in an Alsatian accent that I could never reproduce. A local yokel introduced himself to a new neighbour and enquired what he did for a job, as he clearly wasn't a farm worker. The newcomer replied that he was a professor of deductive logic at the nearby Strasbourg university. After thinking for a few moments, the yokel asked: “Er....what exactly is that?”.
The professor replied: “ Well, let me give you an example. For instance, I see that you have a kennel in your garden, so I deduce from that you probably have a dog”.
“Yes”, says the yokel.
“I notice also,” says the professor, “that there are toys in your garden and I deduce from that that you have children”.
“Yes”, says the yokel, increasingly impressed.
“Since you have children,” continues the professor, “I conclude that you probably have a wife and that you are heterosexual”.
“Yes again”, says the yokel, now extremely impressed.
A few days later the yokel yokel meets another (yokel) neighbour and tells him about this brilliant professor who has moved into the village. The conversation proceeds as follows.
Yokel 2: “What is this new guy a professor of”?
Yokel 1: “Deductive logic”
Yokel 2; “What exactly is that”?
Yokel 1 (puffing out his chest): “Well, let me give you an example. Have you got a dog kennel in your garden”?
Yokel 2: “No”
Yokel 1: “Homosexual!”
dimanche 15 mars 2009
Cycle Races, Wild Flowers, Rugby and Bobbies
Cyclists and Flowers
Yesterday I went to see the Paris-Nice cycle race go past the village. It's not as big a deal as the Tour de France, obviously, but it is supposed to be one of the big races. It turned out to be a real anti-climax, my having got there far too early. Nothing happened apart from a few sponsor cars racing past until a break-away group of about a dozen cyclists surged past with a couple of support cars behind. They had a lead of about 5 minutes on the main peloton, which then came past with about as many support cars as cyclists. And that was it. No wonder the village didn't turn out for it. Anyway, I'm glad I saw it.
Arriving too early meant I looked around at the herbiage at the edge of the field where I was standing and saw several helianthemums growing. I think one or two of those might end up in the wall at the back of my terrace. The flowers that grow wild here are quite a surprise to me. First, there are irises everywhere, some of which are already blooming at the back of my garden. But they are everywhere in the hillsides around and there is a dwarf variety, very similar to those that grow from bulbs in England, but these have rhizomes: they are blue, yellow or white. Another surprise was to find wild tulips, although these are not yet out, which grow in the lavender fields just to the north of the village. They are all a combination of yellow and red in colour, have a much slimmer form than most cultivated tulips and the petals come to an elongated point at the top. I prefer their shape to that of the cultivated varieties. Plus red violets, one has taken root in my wall, coronilla, the salvia pratensis and numerous varieties of sedum. All wild, all common, and some destined for my back garden.
Rugby and other forms of play
Today, Steve and Jo invited me for lunch and we ate outside in some 23 degrees of sunshine. They have done a good job on the veg.beds and Jo is eager to get started on sowing; indeed, she's already planted a bed and a half of rattes, the small potatoes that are grown here, much like the earlies in England but these grow all the year round. I pruned their roses and then went on to play boules and, after boules, to meet Steve and René in the Bar du Pont to watch the second half of the France-England rugby match. England were already 29-0 ahead so it was an occasion to witness local disgust. Rugby puzzles me, although I have played it (very badly). A player was penalised for putting his hand on the ball at the wrong time; simultaneously, one player was gaily gouging lumps out of another player's midriff and shirt with his studs and yet another was busily trying to stomp an opponent's head into the ground. But that, it seems, is not against the rules. I found myself straining to see, when an object emerged from a scrum, whether it was actually the ball and not some player's head.
In the evening I went to Daniel's to celebrate his finishing the script of La Partie de Boules n'aura pas lieu. A bit prematurely, as it turned out, as he feels he has some final revisions to make. Nonetheless, we drank to the script. We still don't know what to do with it but if any reader wants a copy, I'll happily send it if I have their email address. I happened to notice, on a TV programme guide he had, a mention of les flics. Which reminded me of “going to the flicks” (to see a film) in my youth. The term, now dated, presumably derives from when kaleidoscopes were a popular form of film but where does “les flics” come from? Daniel didn't know either but a search through his etymological dictionary suggested it might derive from the sound of the whips which French policemen had in the early 19th century. It seems the French had their flics before the English had their bobbies, which is something else I didn't know.
Yesterday I went to see the Paris-Nice cycle race go past the village. It's not as big a deal as the Tour de France, obviously, but it is supposed to be one of the big races. It turned out to be a real anti-climax, my having got there far too early. Nothing happened apart from a few sponsor cars racing past until a break-away group of about a dozen cyclists surged past with a couple of support cars behind. They had a lead of about 5 minutes on the main peloton, which then came past with about as many support cars as cyclists. And that was it. No wonder the village didn't turn out for it. Anyway, I'm glad I saw it.
Arriving too early meant I looked around at the herbiage at the edge of the field where I was standing and saw several helianthemums growing. I think one or two of those might end up in the wall at the back of my terrace. The flowers that grow wild here are quite a surprise to me. First, there are irises everywhere, some of which are already blooming at the back of my garden. But they are everywhere in the hillsides around and there is a dwarf variety, very similar to those that grow from bulbs in England, but these have rhizomes: they are blue, yellow or white. Another surprise was to find wild tulips, although these are not yet out, which grow in the lavender fields just to the north of the village. They are all a combination of yellow and red in colour, have a much slimmer form than most cultivated tulips and the petals come to an elongated point at the top. I prefer their shape to that of the cultivated varieties. Plus red violets, one has taken root in my wall, coronilla, the salvia pratensis and numerous varieties of sedum. All wild, all common, and some destined for my back garden.
Rugby and other forms of play
Today, Steve and Jo invited me for lunch and we ate outside in some 23 degrees of sunshine. They have done a good job on the veg.beds and Jo is eager to get started on sowing; indeed, she's already planted a bed and a half of rattes, the small potatoes that are grown here, much like the earlies in England but these grow all the year round. I pruned their roses and then went on to play boules and, after boules, to meet Steve and René in the Bar du Pont to watch the second half of the France-England rugby match. England were already 29-0 ahead so it was an occasion to witness local disgust. Rugby puzzles me, although I have played it (very badly). A player was penalised for putting his hand on the ball at the wrong time; simultaneously, one player was gaily gouging lumps out of another player's midriff and shirt with his studs and yet another was busily trying to stomp an opponent's head into the ground. But that, it seems, is not against the rules. I found myself straining to see, when an object emerged from a scrum, whether it was actually the ball and not some player's head.
In the evening I went to Daniel's to celebrate his finishing the script of La Partie de Boules n'aura pas lieu. A bit prematurely, as it turned out, as he feels he has some final revisions to make. Nonetheless, we drank to the script. We still don't know what to do with it but if any reader wants a copy, I'll happily send it if I have their email address. I happened to notice, on a TV programme guide he had, a mention of les flics. Which reminded me of “going to the flicks” (to see a film) in my youth. The term, now dated, presumably derives from when kaleidoscopes were a popular form of film but where does “les flics” come from? Daniel didn't know either but a search through his etymological dictionary suggested it might derive from the sound of the whips which French policemen had in the early 19th century. It seems the French had their flics before the English had their bobbies, which is something else I didn't know.
jeudi 12 mars 2009
Boules and Giraudoux
Boules and Giraudoux
Three days of glorious weather have meant three afternoons of boules and my form seems to be returning; seven wins in nine matches is not so bad. More importantly, my “feel” of the boules and the piste seems to be better; the force is with me. Just as important have been the afternoons in shirt sleeves and sunshine with pleasant company.
The weather has also meant some more gardening and the purchase and planting of a vine to go at the back, to supplement the one at the front. With luck it will grow along a wire fence at the side of my back garden. I also have a rambling rose and a clematis going along the same fence so, “inshallah”, it should look good and be productive a couple of years from now.
Meanwhile, Daniel has been beavering away at the script for “La Partie de Boules n'aura pas lieu.” It now runs to nearly 20 pages and he has one final scene to write (the 13th, as in 13 points to win a boules game). He should have it finished by the weekend and then it will be time to revise, if necessary, and decide what can be done with it. I think the script is very good. Daniel was a Professor of French literature, specialising in drama and film, and so has a good grasp of how to write a script. I love the way he has managed to marry the eternal elements of classical Greek theatre, some of the characters of Giraudoux's play, and his own personal reflections on man/wife relationships (in the context of the Helen of Troy story) into a mundane game of boules. He has managed this with both the Greek originals and the local boules-playing characters being recognisable. That's quite a feat.
The problem is what to do with the script when it is finished. At a rough estimate, the play would run to 40-50 minutes, which would probably be too long for a skit to be staged at one of the village festivals. Daniel suggested an English translation, which would be possible (although the poetry would be difficult), but that would remove the local character element and necessarily assume an English familiarity with boules. I think that, ideally, it would be played at boules pistes around the area (I'm sure our local characters have their counterparts in local villages) but have no idea how to arrange that. I think, anyway, we should publish the result and see what happens. Maybe I'll do that as an adjunct to this blog.
Three days of glorious weather have meant three afternoons of boules and my form seems to be returning; seven wins in nine matches is not so bad. More importantly, my “feel” of the boules and the piste seems to be better; the force is with me. Just as important have been the afternoons in shirt sleeves and sunshine with pleasant company.
The weather has also meant some more gardening and the purchase and planting of a vine to go at the back, to supplement the one at the front. With luck it will grow along a wire fence at the side of my back garden. I also have a rambling rose and a clematis going along the same fence so, “inshallah”, it should look good and be productive a couple of years from now.
Meanwhile, Daniel has been beavering away at the script for “La Partie de Boules n'aura pas lieu.” It now runs to nearly 20 pages and he has one final scene to write (the 13th, as in 13 points to win a boules game). He should have it finished by the weekend and then it will be time to revise, if necessary, and decide what can be done with it. I think the script is very good. Daniel was a Professor of French literature, specialising in drama and film, and so has a good grasp of how to write a script. I love the way he has managed to marry the eternal elements of classical Greek theatre, some of the characters of Giraudoux's play, and his own personal reflections on man/wife relationships (in the context of the Helen of Troy story) into a mundane game of boules. He has managed this with both the Greek originals and the local boules-playing characters being recognisable. That's quite a feat.
The problem is what to do with the script when it is finished. At a rough estimate, the play would run to 40-50 minutes, which would probably be too long for a skit to be staged at one of the village festivals. Daniel suggested an English translation, which would be possible (although the poetry would be difficult), but that would remove the local character element and necessarily assume an English familiarity with boules. I think that, ideally, it would be played at boules pistes around the area (I'm sure our local characters have their counterparts in local villages) but have no idea how to arrange that. I think, anyway, we should publish the result and see what happens. Maybe I'll do that as an adjunct to this blog.
dimanche 8 mars 2009
Spring and Mairies
Spring
The weather has changed over the last two days and spring seems a genuine prospect. So I've cut down the pentstemons and taken a large number of cuttings, fed handfuls of chicken shit around the hole I dug in the road for my wisteria, hopefully to persuade it to finally reach the underside of my balcony at the front, and surveyed the small back garden. I've thrown hundreds of seeds down there since the autumn, even some from a visit to Wisley in England when I kindly decided to do some dead-heading for them, so I'm anxious to see what will take and not sure what it will look like if and when it sprouts. However, there are some definite weeds so I'll take advantage of the weather, if it continues, to clean the space up a bit. There's no sign yet of the bulbs for which I dug holes in the other side of the road but I got the idea and planted them late so there's still time for them to show. The narcissi in pots at the front of the house are all in bloom, along with the pansies.
I still intend to dig another hole in the road opposite my kitchen and plant a climbing rose to go up one of the lime trees. The neighbours all say this is fine and just to go do it but I wonder what they really think about this mad Englishman who keeps digging holes in the road. I may have to claim officially that I'm doing a public service by calming the traffic (what there is of it).
Mayors
The mayoral system in France is quite different to anything in England. Mayors and Mairies here have a lot more power and the system is certainly open to abuse. However, I think that, on the whole, the system works quite well, certainly within a small village like Mollans; I find it is definitely preferable to the neutered local government in England, which apparently has the most centralised local government in Europe. If I feel strongly about anything, I have absolutely no problem in bending the ear of the mayor or any of the councillors here (most probably in the Bar du Pont). Many people take advantage of this easy access and below I reproduce a sample of extracts from letters received in Mairies in the region, kindly supplied by one of our councillors, Jacques Thibault.
Les ralentisseurs que vous avez mis devant l'école sont trop hauts et ma femme se fait sauter quatres fois par jour.
Depuis que vous avez acheté un ordinateur à la Mairie il n'y a plus moyens de trafiquer les papiers comme vous faisiez avant.
Le cimetière est dans un ètat pas possible et tous ceux qui y habitent pensent comme moi.
Est-ce qu'on ne pourrait pas déplacer le bal du 14 juillet jusqu'au 15 août?
Oui, Monsieur le maire, vous êtes responsable des cacas des chiens même si ce n'est pas vous qui les avez faites personnelllement
Le toit de l'église fuit depuis longtemps et la vierge est toujours mouillée. Faites quelquechose pour elle s'il vous plait, Monsieur le maire
Parce que vous avez fait la route pas assez large mon voisin est obligé de faire pleins de manoeuvres difficiles dans son garage et alors ce qui devait arriver est arrivé. Un matin où il était sûrement bourré, il a fini par réussir à rentrer dans ma femme.
Si c'est le maire qui est chargé d'enlever les ordures, que dois-je faire avec ma femme?
These quotes are reproduced faithfully. The French expression and grammar are not mine.
The weather has changed over the last two days and spring seems a genuine prospect. So I've cut down the pentstemons and taken a large number of cuttings, fed handfuls of chicken shit around the hole I dug in the road for my wisteria, hopefully to persuade it to finally reach the underside of my balcony at the front, and surveyed the small back garden. I've thrown hundreds of seeds down there since the autumn, even some from a visit to Wisley in England when I kindly decided to do some dead-heading for them, so I'm anxious to see what will take and not sure what it will look like if and when it sprouts. However, there are some definite weeds so I'll take advantage of the weather, if it continues, to clean the space up a bit. There's no sign yet of the bulbs for which I dug holes in the other side of the road but I got the idea and planted them late so there's still time for them to show. The narcissi in pots at the front of the house are all in bloom, along with the pansies.
I still intend to dig another hole in the road opposite my kitchen and plant a climbing rose to go up one of the lime trees. The neighbours all say this is fine and just to go do it but I wonder what they really think about this mad Englishman who keeps digging holes in the road. I may have to claim officially that I'm doing a public service by calming the traffic (what there is of it).
Mayors
The mayoral system in France is quite different to anything in England. Mayors and Mairies here have a lot more power and the system is certainly open to abuse. However, I think that, on the whole, the system works quite well, certainly within a small village like Mollans; I find it is definitely preferable to the neutered local government in England, which apparently has the most centralised local government in Europe. If I feel strongly about anything, I have absolutely no problem in bending the ear of the mayor or any of the councillors here (most probably in the Bar du Pont). Many people take advantage of this easy access and below I reproduce a sample of extracts from letters received in Mairies in the region, kindly supplied by one of our councillors, Jacques Thibault.
Les ralentisseurs que vous avez mis devant l'école sont trop hauts et ma femme se fait sauter quatres fois par jour.
Depuis que vous avez acheté un ordinateur à la Mairie il n'y a plus moyens de trafiquer les papiers comme vous faisiez avant.
Le cimetière est dans un ètat pas possible et tous ceux qui y habitent pensent comme moi.
Est-ce qu'on ne pourrait pas déplacer le bal du 14 juillet jusqu'au 15 août?
Oui, Monsieur le maire, vous êtes responsable des cacas des chiens même si ce n'est pas vous qui les avez faites personnelllement
Le toit de l'église fuit depuis longtemps et la vierge est toujours mouillée. Faites quelquechose pour elle s'il vous plait, Monsieur le maire
Parce que vous avez fait la route pas assez large mon voisin est obligé de faire pleins de manoeuvres difficiles dans son garage et alors ce qui devait arriver est arrivé. Un matin où il était sûrement bourré, il a fini par réussir à rentrer dans ma femme.
Si c'est le maire qui est chargé d'enlever les ordures, que dois-je faire avec ma femme?
These quotes are reproduced faithfully. The French expression and grammar are not mine.
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