anotherbanana

https://www.thelocal.fr/20180131/a-submissive-press-should-state-handouts-to-french-newspapers-be-scrapped

Well, there we were, sitting on a seemingly endless, empty beach on the west coast of France, ‘twixt Nantes and La Rochelle in late October, backs hard against the dunes, out of the easterly wind, two joyfully wet dogs and me, getting old with joints creaking and diabetes wandering round my body, enjoying, respectively, a bowl of water and some left over chicken, and a somewhat crushed pain au chocolat (which was definitely not on the doctor’s diet sheet!) washed down with coffee from a flask, to which a little nip of something had been added. And we got to talking, as one does with dogs, about this strange place and those who have coveted over the centuries. There were Picts here some 14,000 years ago, who founded villages and left their megaliths around the place, getting in the way of farmers who smashed many but left a few all the same, and who fished the rich waters, probably close to where we were sitting. Closing the eyes, it is not difficult to imagine groups of animal skin clad people rummaging round the rocks for different types of shellfish, eating as they went, laughing at the abundance. In fact, I somehow reckon that the early bikini made of fur was all the rage amongst the Picts. Surely they would not have been troubled by the men with measuring sticks who stop modern shellfish pickers and measure the size of their cockles and whelks to make sure they are not too small. Then came the Romans who built straight roads, followed by Christians who straitened men’s souls but who had a right battle with the druids to get their way. Secretly, I think the druids are still there, hidden in the deep woods and valleys inland. Then came Visigoths, Arabs, Franks, some on their way to Spain and North Africa. Did they have trouble crossing over, put in camps, left to rot? And the Vikings who were able to slip up the long rivers unnoticed and spring on unsuspecting communities raping, pillaging, taking whatever they fancied. Even the English were here, helped by the Gascons, Flemings, Germans… and just about any other band of thieving Europeans who were keen to rip the wealth out of France. After that the French took the place over and then spent centuries fighting each other here because one believed that a little biscuit was a symbol and another that it was literal – well something like that. The last lot of invaders with evil intent were the Germans who littered the coast with their modern day dolmens made of concrete which won’t last half as long as the originals. And now, it is invaded again by incomers: by Parisians who are just about tolerated, but woe betide one whose car falls in the ditch, for the farmer on his tractor will drive by on the other side. Plus people like me, English, mainly pensioners, who come here to escape our own country, to live a better life and to gently sozzle ourselves away on cheap wine. But, of course, we do need our marmite and tea bags and digestive biscuits – well some do. Who will come next? My money is on the Kraken!

When, in our minds, does overweight become fat become obese?

Hang on here. Anyone looking at supermarket trollies at the checkout will realise that pizza is the national dish of France followed.by pasta. Fastfood indeed and not American.

Deserving of what, GG, Life? Such manipulation seems Brave New Worldesque. Should vaccinating the whole country, for example be stopped because some BAME communities are refusing to get jabbed?

It boils down to Brussels incompetence and the inability of the French system to react. That is my polite version anyway! GG, cant UKers go to Boots etc?

Fair comment, Ernie, but until the EU learns to behave itself I am afraid that such will occur often enough.

I cannot express my anger on a public forum but suffice it to say that I am sharpening the assegai, rubbing off the spike in the knobkerrie. and ....... May pop over to Boots and get done.

I have not told the full story, Lori, for fear of offending delicate ears!

Well, le Vieux Georges has left us, and gone to meet his Maker, though quite what He is likely to make of him is another matter for it is doubtful if Georges was what he had in mind on the Sixth Day of Creation, though the catalogue is pretty large. And we must mourn his passing, if only for a fleeting moment, along with the very large number of people who packed the church and courtyard. He, his wife and his tribe of squalling, squabbling brats, (some of whom were fathered by an understudy, so the local gossip goes, and to be fair, at least one daughter does not look in the least like any of the others), grand brats, unexpected great grand brats, barking dogs, breeding cats, fleeing rabbits, erring sheep and chickens were my neighbours for close on 10 years. They subsisted, as far as I could judge, on various pensions, benefits, hand outs and contributions from a very generous French State. Plus a very well run vegetable patch, whatever fell off the tree, could be begged, borrowed and not returned. During that time our minds never met; we were each as aliens to the other, observing and circling warily, I from an urban, rootless, pseudo-intellectual background, he from the oldest and deepest roots of peasant stock that la France Profonde has to offer. For most of his 90 years, for which he owed at least 15 to the perseverance of French medicine and its ability to fix his eyes, knees, heart, blood, feet and arms, winter or summer, wet or dry, he greeted the morning, and the whole hamlet by clearing his throat, long and loud and spitting copiously, which act spoiled the coffee and croissants of my frequent visitors, myself being inured to it. His next task, if it was the weekend or a school holiday, would be to bellow in a deep, rusty voice that carried across ten fields "Loïk, Loïk", which, if he was lucky, was answered by an irritated growl, if at all, from somewhere over yonder where his son was up to no good. The conversation carried on at an equal distance, usually ending up in the boy getting a mouthful of obscenities, of which I picked up quite a few. Loïk, his son of 45 winters, was a perpetual problem and disappointment to the old man. According to local gossip, and, wow, was there a load of that, the boy was born normal but at about five years old his brain was got by the “worms” which made him a bit abnormal, and, let’s be frank, just plain nasty. The difficulty was that the manboy had a problem with young girls; he liked them rather too much and had a record for being too attentive to them- and was kept in a special institution during the week, returning to the supervision of his parents at weekends, from which he 'escaped' regularly as they were too old to watch him. And I had daughters and we liked our privacy, so the problem becomes apparent. Old George had been a domestique de ferme, by which he meant a farm labourer, whose job had been to take care of and drive les boeufs , though when we met he was already 88 and long retired. He spent his time observing the vegetables grow, in wonderfully straight lines, a state achieved by the efforts of his son under the howling supervision of himself, from the comfort of a bench in a warm corner of the garden, a small round man with sharp, searching eyes, wrapped in generous layers of clothing, looking rather like an elderly hobbit. Our meeting ground was always neutral or indirect and concerned hedges and fruit, for, on these topics we were as chalk and cheese. Hedges, he believed, should be two feet high and about three inches wide and should be trimmed at least twice a year. This is what he had been trained to do, and whenever he had the chance to cut and cut and cut, usually when I was away, he would send Loïk into my garden with the hedge trimmer to carry out the massacre. Which meant that he and his tribe could see exactly what we were up to and boy did they watch, but then, everybody watches everybody else in rural France. Remonstration over this cutting was useless; on other boundaries I grew proper hedges to encourage wildlife, two or more metres high, three or four metres wide, and he offered to cut them. When I showed him a poster from the Mairie advocating my practice, he laughed. I had forgotten that he could neither read not write. When I pointed out that there were pheasants nesting in the hedge, he told his son-in-law, and in appropriate season, shot them. Now fruit was his other major concern. Not eating it, but getting enough to make gniôle, a brew first fermented at home then distilled in one of the few itinerant stills which the French government has allowed to remain in operation under strict control and paying the appropriate dues and brewing only to 50° proof. However, control did not extend beyond working hours, by the end of which the still had to be empty and cool. As the customs and excise people who exercised the control left for the day with a very pointed comment that they would not return until 0830hrs the next day, the wood was thrown into the embers and the serious business of brewing 80° proof or better began. This was of course subsequently smuggled away via backroads, and, in my early and gullible days, under a blanket in my car, which, had we been stopped could have been forfeit, with a large fine. To this was added grape and fruit juice and any other substance which the maker fancied. The subsequent brew was drunk in caves (a cave, in the Vendée, is a men-only drinking den often in the cellar of the house, but it could also be at the back of an outbuilding; any woman entering it would be shouted out). I went to George’s cave only once, and took several days to recover, not from the drunkenness, but from the poor hygiene! He, his son and his sons-in-law drank copious amounts of the stuff from dawn to dusk, until their health broke, when they merely drank a bit less for a few months, then started again. To make his litres and litres of hooch Georges needed mainly plums, mirabelles and reine claudes in any condition. Under his trees and those of his neighbours, more often than not without their knowledge, he would have spread enormous sheets of plastic into onto which the fruit would fall, aided by copious shaking of the trees. Where he could not do so, he and his son would be seen at dawn, on their hands and knees, picking up even the slightest remains of soggy, stinking fruit. We clashed of course because he thought my fruit was his by right, to which I naturally objected. That I wanted to bottle some and turn the rest into jam seemed a sacrilege to the old man. Many a time I had been away overnight in the picking season to return to denuded trees, and broken branches as the locusts from next door were not over scrupulous. When confronted , he, of course, denied any knowledge and blamed someone else (who, being seriously diabetic, would not have touched the fruit with a bargepole). However, he was concerned about this potential loss of fruit in the future and was quiet, pondering, his little eyes moving about as he thought. "May I have the fallen fruit then?" To which I agreed immediately, and forgot about it. A while later I was awoken at half past six in the morning (I looked at the clock) by a strange noise in the garden. There was Old Georges shaking my fruit trees with an ardour that almost broke them. Seeing me he stopped immediately and pointed to the ground. "Look, they have fallen and you said I could have those." I went back to bed. But there was another man beneath the comic exterior. Towards the end of the war, he once told me, when slogging back my single malt with gusto, he was 'volunteered' to go on the forced labour programme in Germany. He arrived there hungry and with a bad back. Which the Germans operated on and fixed. But he spun it out and never did a day's work. Our George was a one man weapon against Nazism! Then, when it was all over, in the chaos that ensued, he simply set off in the middle of winter with just what he stood up in, and on frozen canals, broken roads, scrounging cabbages and roots, maybe a bit of bread here and there, sleeping in isolated barns, freezing, he simply walked home to his beloved Vendée and never left it again. RIP George.

sid, I think you definitely have to reapply. Theoretically having the ‘old’ CDS is supposed to mean a simple exchange for the new one but it seems that there is a variation across Départements, as ever.

Thank you, Sid, be like Norman and feel a new man!

My daughters howled with laughter when they read them. They were very much aimed at the snobbish middle classes, I suspect. Have some interesting sewing patterns in them though.

Cant remember if it is mine or Google. Suspect mine as I tried to keep the original style a bit.

Yes, Gigi, found on an old storage disc. Some of them do go back a bit. I thought the texts were worthy of an airing whilst I maybe thing of some new ones. In a way they represent my experiences and thoughts over about 23 years in La Belle.

Same wooly, sid, different name. The dreaded forum software wouldnt let me back in after I had to have a clear out of the rubbish on the ipad which was beginning to stagger. So, despite the best efforts of Hoddy to help it seemed better to tap the name of another family member and start again. My sister, Randywoolybanana offered herself but given her reputation I felt it better she was not involved!

Couldnt agree more, Judith. I have posted another one, not quite the same type, to make folks laugh a little, I hope.?

My path is a wide one, so it seems best to keep the texts separate. I hope this one makes you laugh a little on this dank day in a depressing time. A little while ago, whilst cleaning up an old barn, I found a pile of 50 or so ladies magazines dating from 1903 to 1913, called La Femme Chez Elle. They contain, amongst other things, some delightful tips, such as How to Raise your Daughters, a small part of which have been translated and are presented for your and your daughters’ education and delectation! La Coquetterie Why does the word coquetterie scare timid spirits as if it were some fatal personality defect? Everyday, do we not see mothers of otherwise irreproachable reputation struggling to stamp out this pernicious defect in their daughters. Let us reflect for a moment however. It may be good, once and for all, to examine this habit which some see as the crowning female grace and which other harshly condemn, as representing in their eyes the lies and perfidiousness of the weak sex. If we understand coquetterie to be part of the wily armoury of cuteness, little deceits, ruses and boldness employed by a great number of women, then there can never be enough curses with which to flog it and no sufficient means to root it out of an education programme. But if, on the contrary, we understand it to mean the elegant choice of dress, care of the person, the desire to please which is possessed by all women of delicacy and sensitivity, then we find ourselves having to recognize the utility of a legitimate seduction which we can reckon a permitted quality. Certain women who lack even the most elementary coquetterie have inspired profound and lasting passion, though this does not mean that one should imitate them to achieve the same result; this peculiarity simply shows that in life luck and privileges are dealt out by chance and that one should not count on it because destiny is more miserly with her gifts than prodigal with benefits. Let us look now at different instances where a woman has recourse to coquetterie to conserve her physical charms and maintain her beauty. In the world, the refined care of 'Me' is part of the tyrannical obligations of an elitist society: noblesse oblige. A question of pride controls the different parts of the lives of the rich; running a household involves hundreds of details which are managed by a strict code, deviation from which would shock accepted wisdom; toilette and dressing, the table, servants, receptions, all have their respective importance; no one who moves in high society can escape their demands. The women of society who pass their time taking care of themselves, embellishing themselves, trying to push back the ravages of age have few problems because they have the two great advantages of money and time on their hands; The same cannot be said for the middle classes where women accumulate the multiple tasks of motherhood, household management, and managing the budget, all of which are strewn with difficulties when resources are modest and which need constant courage and permanent devotion and perseverance. Which is why a woman of the petit bourgeoisie who cuts and sews her clothes and those of her children and makes their hats, and who manages her household with love and who knows how to stay, despite so many jobs, seductive and appealing, has a hundred times more merit than than the beautiful Madame whose greatest occupation consists in getting into her carriage and being driven to her stylist and her dressmaker. If we look at random at many households, a similar spectacle is always to be seen. From sixteen years old, young girls become interested in coquetterie, and though the resources to achieve it are limited, such is their wish to please that they can always find modest baubles to enhance their young beauty and highlight their natural charms. She marries young. And then with a young family, she is worn, faded and deprived as never before. The children absorb all the resources, money is so tight that there is just enough for food, if that! Where will she find the means to buy the frills which tempt her as she can barely find enough for her family? Before she can even think of cheap ribbons and lace there are the essential clothes which may even have to be bought on credit. Poverty is hardly compatible with good dressing and toilette. If it were only such fripperies that she gave up it would be acceptable, but a woman who lives in perpetual discomfort sacrifices her own health, she gets worn, she neglects her hair, her teeth, her hands, her colouring, because dentists are expensive, and she has to put her family ahead of the other needs. The life of the simple wife is made up of sacrifices but when her husband is hard working and reasonable, the joys of the family compensate for the sacrifices but if she also has to fight laziness and drunkenness, what misery. In the 'mixed' classes, coquetterie is part of feminine dignity; the companion of a teacher, a doctor, a civil servant must look after herself. If she allows herself to dress inappropriately, she will be harshly judged. But the main reason for coquetterie in a woman is not fear of what others will say, nor the obligation to copy one's neighbour, but, above all, the desire to keep the affection of her husband until old age. Many women make the mistake of letting themselves go as soon as they are married and do not bother any more. A husband must never think his wife inferior to that of a neighbour. There are some women who are consummate geniuses at discerning just what it is that will keep their husband interested in them and what will not because they have understood that for some men, the power of the loved one diminishes as the physical graces lessen. They know that it is not necessary to cover themselves with jewels and expensive clothes to keep their husband's eye. It is sufficient to keep changing toilette, not to allow personal negligence and to ensure absolute cleanliness. But after all, what is this but true coquetterie which contains nothing reprehensible in essence and which all mothers should teach to their daughters.

Go on doudoune, post it , under “Trials of a Couette!”

This is a collection of meanderings about life in France and urban Belgium, over the last twenty three odd years, observed and commented on in my own, rather irreverent way. My idea of heaven is to rummage through the byways of French culture, places and people, peeping down alleyways, following scents or lifting stones and even skirts to see what lies beneath. In no particular order, nor hurry, nor, I hope, with any agenda; just a butterfly in the garden of French life and history. For a while I chundered round in a mobile home but found that most of the time was spent wracking up huge mileages without really doing any nosing beyond a few fotos, and anyway, it was an excuse not to try and stay still. Every person who settles or tries to settle in France has a different reaction to, the place depending on their character and mood, I suppose, where they settle, whether they have a young family, or if they are retirees or here to work and whether they speak French or not. A friend who lives down a litter strewn passage in a gritty southern town tells me that his reaction and experience of France is very different from mine. Some see Her (remember that the national emblem of France, representing the State and its values is Marianne, modelled over the years by such ladies as Bridget Bardot and Catherine Deneuve) as the Promised Land, others as an escape from the homeland, and still others as a right pain. Some people hate the place and flee at the earliest opportunity or hide inside an expatriate community, not learning to speak French, shouting at the locals as if they will understand English better that way and becoming avid Daily Mail readers. If you want to have a bit of fun, go onto a forum about France or approach a group of Brits and ask them whether they are expatriates or immigrants; few will accept the label “immigrant” because of an unwillingness to equate themselves with the generally Third World people who come to Europe and the YewKay(sic) to seek a new life. Some expats seem to spend their time praising the innocuous trivia, such as the price of wine and decrying the availability of French plumbers, others try with varying degrees of success to become part of the community and disappear. To many, it is a place to retire, where the climate is mainly good, in the south at least, though with surprisingly cold and wet periods and where they can eke out their pensions in genteel but declining comfort. Others get trapped here when the dream goes sour, property prices tumble and they cannot afford to return to Blighty. (How I hate that word!) So often, one hears the word ‘integrate’ used by expatriates as some kind of Holy Grail, and some are very disappointed that they never achieve it. Remember the French expression ‘avoir garder les cochons ensemble’ – have looked after the pigs together, meaning to have shared life’s experiences from youth upwards. To achieve this in the small rural communities in which many expats settle one would have to have been there since birth, or almost. If you are a Parisian, it can never happen! And of course, there is the question of family ties. Rural France is, and has been, notionally at any rate, a secular society since the French Revolution, but in fact retains many Catholic values – perhaps catholic better describes it, summed up by the Petainist slogan Travail, Patrie, Famille, which are both a strength and a weakness, but which make it very difficult for others to penetrate and integrate. Long term French incomers from other parts of France who have been living near by for 30 years and raised families tell me that they have never truly felt accepted and are often referred to by a noun referring to their origins, such as La Normande, for someone who came from Normandy, la Bretonne, for someone who came from Brittany, Les Parisians or even les Anglais or perhaps Les Anglois (which refers to the language but which has a pejorative undertone). I am far from having the rose tinted spectacles or the mouths open with awe of a goodly number of visitors or expatriates. Indeed, France sometimes makes me wanna scream when she is at her obtuse worst – when for example some bad tempered fonctionnaire (public servant) will not admit their mistake, even when shown a copy of the rules, or insists on an expensive translation of your grandmother’s birth certificate to prove your right to a shoe lace allowance. And She makes me wanna cry when I find that my elderly, diabetic, peasant neighbour has stacked ten staires of logs after they were delivered when I was away because someone might have pinched them and will accept no payment for his pains, though I did later manage to slip him a decent bottle of single malt which he was not allowed but loved and hid in the barn in case his wife saw it. But on a beautiful spring day, miles from anywhere, when I stumble into some obscure little village and a local person, unasked, takes an hour to show me where the battles were fought, where the wool market was when it was a big and prosperous place, and where the church is with the painted murals, then I love Her all over again. Or when an old lady picking enormous hydrangeas insists on thrusting a huge bunch into my arms.

About then, doudoune. Had it shortened when I went to Libya, I think.

Yes, it is what they do to billy goats to calm them down. Or, as Dylan Thomas mentions, corgis with cleavers.??

As regards French customs you might find this explanation useful. Apologies if it has been posted before: https://www.douane.gouv.fr/actualites/acheter-en-ligne-au-royaume-uni-apres-le-brexit?fbclid=IwAR0sr7u99aLYMzQ9Gsx3PZVQkXaayezge5hYEEmWl4oV-W04JenEq17z6Fs Nimt, always though of you as a closet Mail reader!?

Aurochs is very. very big cows, now extinct. The ones in the photo seem rather small. Been extinct for 400 or more years.

When does aa species become native? What about pheasants? Bring back the aurochs?