Saturday is market day

Pézénas Market - charcuterie stall

An early morning call for the girls
We have our younger daughter Kerrie and granddaughter Lauren with us at the moment, together with Lauren's friend, Issy (Isabelle) known currently as Dizzy to avoid confusion with the Berti of the same name. (see yesterday's entry) Dizzy somehow seems rather more appropriate as it happens. Much to my amazement, the early morning call worked and we managed to get them all out of the house by 08h15. Given their performance over the few days with us so far, this can be classed as a minor miracle.

The weather was lovely this morning so we took the girls to Pézénas market, a great place to while away a couple of hours. Pézénas itself is a lovely town, just ten minutes in the car and very popular with those of us who live here, and our visitors alike. This wonderful market has been in existence since the Middle Ages and attracts merchants from all over the region, selling a huge range of products. It's a refreshing change from the markets of the UK, which are now worked, seemingly, by an extended family of British Asians, mostly with Manchester or 'Bromwicham' accents and mostly selling leather jackets and clothes at prices too good to be true. My mother always told me that if something was too good to be true, it very likely wasn't - true that is.

Pézénas Market - The Sweetie Man

Strolling down the Cours Jean Jaurès, the main street in Pézénas, there are stalls which take one back 50 or 60 years to one's own early childhood. The girls couldn't believe that we used to get 8 of those sherbet flying saucer things for an OLD penny not to mention four black-jacks or fruit salad chews for the same price. Mind you, the girls had no concept whatsoever of what an old penny was worth and very little more of the value of a new one, as it doesn't really buy anything worthwhile nowadays.

It can take some time to get from one end to the other. The wide array of tempting things to buy (most of which you don't really need of course) is one reason. But Saturday morning in Pézénas is also a place to meet a lot of folk who you have managed, successfully, to avoid for the past week or two.

Seemingly not for everyone

Val has never been a great market fan but I love it - all of it; the buzz of the crowds, the vast range of produce and colours and, of course, the characters. I particularly like the clever people who demonstrate with such ease, those fantastic tools and potions that do everything from peel a grape to clean a pan which would have been long since thrown out, even in the austere days of post-war Britain. But I'm a real sucker for a good demo and, consequently, our kitchen drawer is overloaded with a variety of "magic" peelers, scrapers, choppers, slicers, cleaners, fixers and gadgets to do just about every thing and, at the moment of purchase, every one of them that I just couldn't do without. Some of them I have had for thirty or more years; few of them have I ever managed to use effectively and not one did I really ever need in the first place. Every now and again one of them sees the light of day, fails miserably and is put back to spend the next part of its life buried in utter redundancy.

For me, however, the real joy of market day is sitting at a pavement cafe with an overdose of caffeine, simply watching the world go by. And some days it does, together with his dog. I could sit there forever.

So what happened to the Loto then?

Often, immediately prior to the festival dinners, such as the one we have just had to celebrate 14^th July - Bastille Day, we have a bingo session held on the village Square. For some reason they call it ‘loto’ here, which of course means something quite different in Britain, a cause of great confusion to the newly arrived Brit who thinks he/she may be about to become a multi millionaire. Tombola, too, commonly a pseudonym for bingo in Britain is but a humble raffle in these parts.  

  

Sad as it may sound I LOVE bingo. It is fantastic and I always make a point of attending. It’s not the sort of event you get nowadays in the UK where Simon or Jason or Samantha, the ‘presenters’ in some remote, hi-tech studio in Leeds, or wherever, transmit randomly selected numbers electronically down a fibre optic, at which point, ten thousand purple rinsed lovelies, scattered around halls all over the country stare eagerly at a digital light board, poking it furiously every time one of their numbers comes up and even more furiously when it doesn’t, causing a mini tornado from the consequent oscillating of ‘wings’.

  

Oh no! This is for real. We have fifty or so of the village’s doyennes of the ‘Quine’ (the local call for a winning card) together with me and a handful of equally enthusiastic interlopers, keenly eyeing the boards in front of us. Join the queue and pay your money - it usually costs a Euro for a card and this will last the whole session – usually between 12 and 20 ‘quines’, depending on the prizes available. It is important when buying the cards, to take a sufficient quantity of dried maize kernels to cover the numbers – none of your flashy electronics here. However, the real diehards, now sport little plastic counters with ferrous edges, which can be swept up, quickly and easily with the swish of one’s magnetic wand.

 

 

A drink from the bar and we are ready to rumble.

It's all in the action.........

Our Mayor, Jacques Libretti, appears to have secured, for life, the job of Jason or Simon or Samantha and, balls safely bagged in his lap, he gives them a lengthy and rigorous shaking under the table and with a contented smile and to our great relief, eventually produces the first number and away we go, taut with the anticipation of winning a hamper of fruit, a ‘barquette’ of meat or a romantic meal for two (wine included) at the local pizzeria. Not for the faint hearted this stuff.

  

Having been brought up on “Kelly’s eye, two fat ladies and legs eleven,” I was fascinated and delighted to hear that we have a similar argot to announce the appearance of each of the ninety numbered balls from the ‘mayoral sporran’; obscure references to obscure events or characters in history for the most part but all seemingly relevant to those who play as, like when I was a boy, the mention of them incites the players to respond with even more bizarre whoops, whistles, quacks and other suggestive remarks. (Note: In all my playing days here, I have never heard anyone shout “Shake ‘em up Jacques” as they anxiously and interminably wait for that elusive one last number to win. Strange that!)

  

A meeting of minds

It was at one of these that I was introduced to the wonderful ‘Berti’s’ - Sybil, Nigel, Michael, Sam and Issy, collectively an object lesson in how to bring up children and how to get the most out of parents. They own an old village house, which they have been renovating, slowly for the past seven years or so. They had decided to bring the kids to France whilst they were young enough to spend a couple of years here without it affecting their formal British (Scottish) education. I am so pleased they chose Margon as they are the most delightful group of individual characters imaginable.

  

As is my wont, I digress. Back to the ‘loto’. 

This was Sybil and the kids’ first time, having just recently arrived in the village – bingo virgins all. Now, I should explain that the norm is for each game to last only until a player has covered all five numbers on one of the three horizontal, lines on the card – ergo, a ‘quine’. Unlike in the UK, it is not usual to continue to a ‘full house’ for a much larger prize, like a chicken (ready butchered of course), for example. No, this is not the case - except and unless the Mayor indicates it and then invariably only on the last game of the session. So, we arrive at the final game and, unheard by all but the most devoted and regular of local bingotees, Jacques announces a full house and it’s eyes down one last time.  

  

Barely 25 numbers into the game, a wee Scottish voice cries, excitedly, “Oui, oui” to the dismay of every other winged wonder present. “C’est pas possible. Merde alors !” and other exclamations of disaffection and xenophobia before discovering that the lovely Sybil had but the one line covered at which point she visibly showed her wish for the ground to open up and swallow her forever. With some relief and feeling of contentment and a few satisfied smiles, it was eyes down again. I felt so sorry for her and, in true Galahad style, shouted some comforting words to her in a forlorn attempt to ease the shame.  

Neither of us won the chicken but we have become the firmest of friends and long may that continue.

As for this years ‘loto’, would you believe, it wasn’t held and Bastille Day passed without a grain of maize being spilt. I have yet to find out who is responsible for disappointing us fans but be assured, dear reader, I will not rest until it is restored to the festive agenda. Shake ‘em up Jacques!

Timing is everythng

Off to Shakespeare country......

Way back in the distant past of May 2000, I needed to get a job to complete the financing of our new home venture here in Margon. I had been working as a freelance property consultant to a water supply company in the south-east of England. As often happens, new management teams come in and feel the need to change things even when they aren't broken. So it was that I felt thought it prudent to find someone else to sponsor our move south. 

For the second time in my life I found myself working for an American company "doing rather well over here" They were a nice bunch, based in Warwick. The work entailed a great deal of travel all over the United Kingdom and so it seemed sensible to sell up and move north. Perfect timing again, as it focussed our minds on the project in France and allowed us to invest the proceeds of the house sale for a short time before we left the UK. After 17 years in Bracknell, it was a bit of a wrench; but hey, it was only a temporary thing and, as luck would have it we really landed well having found this place.

 Our lovely home for two years

Consequently, in May 2000, Val and I found ourselves in the Midlands, close to Stratford-upon-Avon. We have travelled in many places arond the world but this was one of the most beautiful. I must add, immediately, that we were the proud tenants of the two windows immediately to the left of the main door in this picture and not the whole thing. We rented in this rather grand 18th century manor house, the former home of a local dignitary, now converted into apartments.

Not a good omen........

We arrived on a damp morning in late May with our removal truck already there and waiting for us. Having just started to unload and squeeze our life's collection of goods and chattels into a 3 roomed apartment, we were welcomed by a friendly voice with a distinct 'colonial' accent. "You're timing is great, " said he. "The sewage treatment plant has gone down - again!" and he raced off with something in his hand akin to a large spanner, presumably to fix it – again. "Great timing!", I thought too, and immediately had visions of having to roll up my sleeves and shove my arm up somewhere I would rather it didn't have to go. I knew I shouldn't have had that extra coffee and doughnut on the way here. We carried on moving in and needed at some stage to test the plumbing, which worked fine. As it happened, I was able to keep my shirt on thanks to Charlie's obviously successful intervention. What a way to meet!

The timing was perfect because, among the wonderfully eclectic group of people who made up our fellow inmates, were the Saworths, a great couple who were to become great friends in the years to follow. Over the next two years, Charlie and I, between us, kept the creaking old sewage plant, the pool and much of the rest of the old house running - against all the odds. Had we moved a day or two later, we may not have met them as they were about to leave for Italy.

Bologna bound..........
A much travelled and worldly-wise couple, Charlie prefers technology to people and it takes a while for mutual acceptation to ferment, but is so worth the effort if one perseveres. Shelley is the warmest, kindest individual one could ever wish to meet. Together, they are the most likeable and generous of couples. For the better part of the past thirty years, they have been renting the same house near Bologna in Italy for entire month of June. They were once living in Bologna itself while Charlie was lecturing at the university there. Almost since we have known them, they have been inviting us to join them there for a few days; an invitation we had always hoped to take up but never managed to accept due to other demands on our time, particularly with the B&B business.

Neptune’s statue in central Bologna

Until this year that is, when we found ourselves with a clear window towards the end of June. Five days; just sufficient to warrant and achieve the 900 km drive to get there and spend long enough with our lovely hosts to make their efforts worthwhile for us all.

The timing, once again was spot on. During our stay Charlie and Shelley announced that this was likely to be their last year renting. We are so glad we found the time to accept the offer. We have seen very little of Italy and, being so close, it seems crazy not to have done so, but it does figure very highly on our agenda. From what we saw last week, it won't be too long before we go back.

It was festa time in the village, which was a great experience; a typical southern European shindig with every man and his dog out and about eating, drinking, wandering, apparently aimlessly, but all with the single purpose of enjoying life. The atmosphere was alive and I was impressed by how such a small village could put on a show as big as they did. All kinds of stalls, most run by one or other of the local benevolent societies to raise funds. The main attractions were the eateries, serving traditional dishes of prosciutto di Parma, tagliatelle and an infinite variety of tarts, puds and other sweet things designed to make my doctor shake his head in dismay. Well, it is la festa after all said and done. We finished the evening with the best cup of coffee I have ever drunk and a large cone full of ice cream, home made at the local bar. Fantastico!

A typical medieval fortress in Emilia-Romagna 

One for the road? Perhaps not, well...............

One of the many highlights of the trip for me was when Charlie and I went off on a wine hunt. Charlie is rather prone to the local version of prosecco, a stick dry fizzy white wine which makes you suck the sides of your mouth when you drink a sip. A few days prior to our arrival, he had stumbled across a new supplier, a great, larger than life character who owned around 8 hectares of vines, a bunch of fruit trees and the most ramshackle collection of buildings you ever saw in your life. Gianluca, was a star. He spent most days, asleep, swinging in a hammock struck between two old almond trees at the end of his driveway, just a few metres away from the main road - but VERY visible. Passing trade would stop and wake him with their orders for whatever it was he had ready to go. I suspect many stopped, just to check he was still actually sleeping and had not passed on to the great vineyard in the skies

With a smile from ear to ear and words spewing out from it faster than a Gatling gun, he ushered into one of the barns, to check out the latest brews. We tried the wines, fizzy white, fizzy red and fizzy pink. He then winked at me and said the Italian equivalent of, "You likea summating a leetle ...you know?" "Si, si!" I proffered eagerly, at which time he beckoned us to follow him into the inner sanctum. It was a typical shambles of a place with old boxes, torn up newspapers, baskets and dusty piles of junk everywhere – and a single, dusty glass. Amongst this collection of old, but nonetheless useful, garbage were a number of carboys, all wrapped in their protective wicker coats. These were full of his latest distillations ranging from about 50% to 80% alcohol. Each was carrying a container of fruit of one kind or another, slowly infusing its flavours into the alcohol and fermenting, slowly but surely, in its individual cauldron. "You wanna try?" "Si, si! I said again, fluent by this time and even more eager.

Gianluca’s apricots, drying in the sun

Armed with his length of rubber tubing and an old glass, he sucked a good mouthful of liquid air into his lungs to syphon a good dose of tincture into the glass. "Dissa one eeza limons – sessante cinque per cento," he announced, passing me the glass containing raw, unfinished ‘limoncello’. "Bere!" he ordered, smiling again and again until we had not only drunk that glass but had gone through the whole range of fruity digestives. "Come!" and we followed obediently into a labyrinth of junk filled holes to where the oldest, most valuable piece of junk stood in all its rubbish littered glory. His still. Home made some generations before and still working to dribble out some kind of supplementary income for the family. He explained then that the house had been there since Adam was a boy, well three hundred years anyway and it was still standing firm.
The best part of a great hour with him was, descending a further two levels down to see where and to listen to the story with expansive Latin gesturing, of how, during the war, his forebears (he arrived just post-war) had joined the locally based German forces deep in the bowels of the place to shelter from the American bombardment from the surrounding hills. But the still remains intact, as he stated with enormous pride, smiling ever more broadly.

Charlie and I left Gianluca to climb back into his hammock to wait for the next wake-up call and we made it home, safely, with our wine and some fruit. A great character indeed, but his wine didn't travel well - not even the 7 kms to home. It was not good. Charlie tried to get us to bring some back to France with us but we declined, respectfully of course.

La Piazza at Ravenna - home to the most stunning mosaics

There were so many things to photograph in Bologna, it was impossible to choose. It is home to 28 kms of old, arcaded shopping streets and, surely, the finest collection of scaffolding and hoardings in the universe. We simply didn't bother taking shots of everything. We bought a book instead. Italy is a marvellous place. Personally, I couldn't live there, if only for the suicidal drivers who would drive me mad or kill me - or both - but it is THE most beautiful of places to visit. The people and the food are terrific and we will go back again and again for sure. We have the flavour now and it is bellissimo!

Am I losing the plot?

Grandadughter Kirsty and best friend Samantha at Roquebrun

Having just become another year older (but not wiser - ed.), I wonder if there is anything in this 'All downhill after 50' theory, or whatever age the particular pundit tags on to their pearl of doomed wisdom. I pose the question because, whilst good times never lasted long enough, they seem to race into the past  even more quickly, the older one gets.  

For example, they left us less than a month ago now, but it was with some difficulty that I recalled the 8 days spent with Kirsty and Samantha. It really was a blur. Okay, I hear you all saying, "It's your memory that is on the blink, old feller; simple as that!" True as that may be, and I would be hard pushed to doubt it in my own case, I still maintain the perception is 'blinked and missed it'.

It was a delightful week, in spite of the unusually inclement weather lasting for just about the whole time they were with us. A great shame but we managed, nonetheless, to get out and about on most days. We visited the windmills (see 28th May) the market at Pézénas, and generally showed them the local 'paysage' which is rather special even on a dull day.

Fabulous views over the Costa Brava

E viva Espana

On their final day, the sun was, once again, struggling to make its mind up about what to do so we decided to 'do' Spain. One of the great things about living here - and particularly full time - is that Margon is the centre of our universe. It used to be Bracknell, from where we could be on the M3 or M4 within 5 minutes of leaving home. the M25 was a further 15 minutes distant and from those points one could escape to anywhere one wanted. The first time we drove from Bracknell to Margon, via the Channel Tunnel, we did not stop at one single traffic light during the whole trip, door to door. That's just about 750 miles without a stop, other than to board the shuttle car at the Chunnel and once again for diesel. "Amazing!", as my granddaughter was prone to saying, ad nauseum.

But I digress (yes, that's an age thing too I guess). From here in Margon, we can be almost anyhwere in western Europe within a day or two's drive. It's really handy. Many of us pop into Spain for lunch and think nothing of it.  Our favourite trip is to drop down to Perpignan, turn left towards the sea and then run along the spectactular coastal road into the northern limits of the Costa Brava. It adds another hour or more to the journey but, what the hell. After all, it is only 90 mins in the car to the now defunct border and, frankly, what else would we be doing? There are some lovely little fishing ports and seaside resort towns all along this coast and Puerto de la Selva is one of the finest. This is usually  our lunch destination unless we are picnicking and then it could be a shady spot just about anywhere.

El Port de la Selva

It is oft said that people grow to look like their pets. Well, I have to tell you, Old Mama owns and runs one of the fish restaurants on the quayside at Puerto. Unlike many others, it has a (very nice) toilet situated across the road next to the kitchens (where else would you put it then?), which she guards like a rotweiler from passers by, tourists, and all other lower life forms who MUST spend many pennies in her establishment before qualifying to spend the proverbial one across the road. In the thirty or so years that we have used this place, she has grown to look increasingly like a grouper. It's all in the mouth and the way it gashes the whole width of her face, turns sharply down at the corners and snaps open and shut constantly as she barks orders to the waiters as they dodge the cars to deliver our lunch and warnings to anyone poor unwitting soul who looks remotely in need of relief. My grandson Daniel suggested that she looked just like the monkfish he had chosen for his lunch. Frankly, I don't think he was doing the fish any favours by the comparison. Bless her! A looker she ain't but she keeps a great lavatory.

There I go again, off at another tangent. Back to the plot.

After a pleasant luncheon at 'Senora Peces' place, we then head inland and climb, seemingly forever, until Peurto appears but a tiny, distant squint on the horizon and the road rolls over the edge of the mountain and free-falls to the plain below and Figueres.

The Dali Museum in Central figueres

Nice town, Figueres. Pleasant pedestrian central area, cafes, restaurants, bars and assorted shops, all of which make it worth a stop. Its main claim to fame of course is being the birthplace of Salvador Dali; a character of obvious great talent and who for many reasons, not least of which is the wonderful museum devoted to his art, dominates the town. However, in common with so many hugely talented people - some would say geniuses - he was, without doubt, completely nuts!