The Weather – The Good, The Bad and the Downright Ugly

We’re talking about the weather out here like the Brits do back home. It’s the main point of discussion at dinner, at BBQs, in the bar – how absolutely awful it is. However not all is bad. Bizarrely, there are some good things associated with our terrible ‘British’ weather, which is probably not an accurate comparison this year given that even Glasgow has had better weather than the Côte d’Azur.

So here’s a list of the good and the bad:

The Good

The swimming pool doesn’t need topping up because (a) evapouration is minimal and (b) what evapouration there is, is replenished by the constant rain.

The severe frost we had for a couple of days back in February killed a swarm of wasps which had made nests under my roof tiles. These horrible little creatures made life hell down at the pool but they exist no more. Unfortunately, I paid out a lot of cash to buy 10kg of wasp killing powder which is no longer needed. I’m sure they’ll be back.

I don’t have to spend hours each week watering the garden – o.k. when I did have to do this, I just set the sprinkler but I do have to remember to move it every 20 minutes or so.

Plants are thriving in the wet, humid weather. My cala lilies are growing like crazy and save me about €30 every couple of weeks in visits to the florist – that €5 for a plant I bought in Italy a couple of years ago is my best investment ever!

The Bad

The frost which killed the wasps also killed quite a few plants. One of the main casualties was the magnificent bougainvillea plant which climbed all over Tan and Angie’s terrace walls and which drew admiring comments from everybody who saw it. Now it’s a brown, shriveled, bare expanse of branches – but the other day I discovered some new shoots coming from the base – it’ll take another 10 years to get back to its former glory but at least it’s not dead as we thought it was.

The rain which falls every second day prevents me from keeping the ground around the house tidy. OK – the sun shines every now and again but the ground is still too wet to mow or work on and the rain and occasional sunny day is making the weeds grow like triffids.

We’re having to eat inside instead of spending nice evenings eating outside on the terrace.

Wearing just a t-shirt when riding my scooter is a no-no – far too cold.

My legs are white when they are normally a golden brown colour due to the fact that I’m still wearing long jeans instead of shorts.

The Downright Ugly

Well the rain which caused the flooding in the Var a week or so ago was certainly not very pleasant and I’m sure before long the weather will be so hot some fires will start in the woods down here.

Stop Press

Maybe, just maybe the weather has changed. The last three days have seen nice, pleasant, sunny weather. No in the 90s mind – just a pleasant ‘English’ 75 degrees or so. Still- it’s a start.

And more - my picture was supposed to have all the 'sunshine' symbols overlaid on it but when I copied it from the Meteo France site, all the sunshine disappeared - prophetic?

The Auberge Des Seigneurs

I’d been desperate to try the Auberge Des Seigneurs (Inn of the Lords) for years. It’s located down a quiet alley heading towards the old ramparts in Vence (Pictured) and is built of the same stone as the ancient walls. Despite efforts to try and find out about the Auberge’s history, I was unsuccessful – entries on the internet only talk about it being an ‘old inn (which it still is) and an even older postal relay station’.

 I’d looked at its menu for quite a few years and decided that it was just too expensive. Now I don’t mind ‘expensive’ if it’s had a raving recommendation, but it hadn’t – nobody I knew had ever been there and paying what would probably be near €100 a head for a trial meal, just wasn’t something I was prepared to do.

But, I’d been to my mates house which is just past the Seigneurs a couple of weeks ago and noticed that they had introduced a lunch ‘Menu’ which, on the face of it, looked really good value at €22 for two courses, or €27 for three and given that a starter can run to €20 with mains at the same price, it was just too good an offer to turn down.

So J and I met a couple of friends (Robin and Jennifer) there on Tuesday lunchtime. The starters included a plate of different types of foie gras (€2.50 extra) or fish and crevette ravioli or courgette flowers, whilst the mains included pigeon and roast veal chop.

Before the starters were delivered an amuse bouche of crab and prawn compote was produced and at the end of the meal, the waitress brought each lady a nice rose. Nice little touches.

The food however was ‘just ok’. J reckoned that apart from the veal chop and maybe the pigeon, the food had been pre-prepared and had been ‘plated up’ by the waitress. Whatever – at the end of the day it’s not a bad deal when you pay €24.50 for a largeish plate of foie gras and then roasted pigeon. The wine however was the thing which knocked the bill up - they don’t do carafes and so ordering by the bottle put a dent in the bill.

Would I go again? Probably, but I wouldn’t have the pigeon – Robin’s roasted veal chop looked a much better bet.

Today is a complete contrast. Down to the small restaurant beside the river where my two course lunch will cost a princely €9.50 and the wine will come in half-litre carafes at €5 a jug!

Another F****** Visitor

A few years ago when a government minister’s senior civil servant, a mandarin called Sir Richard Mottram, realised that his department was going to be embroiled in yet another PR disaster, the air turned blue.

‘We’re all f*****’, he reputedly told another civil servant. ‘I’m f***ed. You’re f***ed. The while department’s f***ed. It’s been the biggest cock-up ever and we’re all completely f***ed.’

Some people may have thought that was quite enough expletives in such a short paragraph but I’m afraid I can beat that. Not me personally but a guy who is coming to stay with us next week, a certain Mr Ian Wallace, who must hold the record for the most expletives ever uttered in a single sentence.

Leaving a meeting with his then boss (he worked for me shortly afterwards), he stormed out of the meeting, walked through the open plan office and uttered the immortal line of: ‘F*** it!  The f***ing f***er’s f***ing f****ed me’. Now even if you don’t swear I’d urge you to try and work it out – it’s hilarious.

After that Ian became a bit of an expletive legend although his swearing was not a surprise. It was just something he did in the course of a normal conversation, no matter who was in the company.

Given that he started working for me shortly after he was f***ed by his previous boss, J would meet Ian at the many social occasions we had in IBM, so became relatively immune to his constant swearing but it was his other anti-social characteristics which caused a problem one night.

J used to organize IBM skiing trips and such was the success of the annual event, it eventually grew to unmanageable proportions with some 40+ people signing up to travel to some of the best skiing resorts in the Alps. One year we went to a place in Italy called Courmayeur where we’d taken over the whole hotel. Ian just could not make up his mind whether he was going or not and eventually J called a halt to his prevarication and did not book him on the trip.

Consequently, the group set off from London without him and we hit the hotel late evening and after a quick supper we all crashed into our rooms. Sometime during the night there was a knock on our door and when I answered it, it was the hotel night porter saying that a Mr Ian Wallace had arrived and was asking for a room which was impossible because every room was full. Not only that, Ian had actually travelled with one of his sons Ben, who was about 7 at the time. I said that the porter should put them on the sofas in reception but apparently there was some by-law which prevented this. The porter said there was no choice – they had to stay in our room and that he had a folding bed which, without further ado he started erecting in our room.

It was about 2am by this time and J had to get up and go knocking on other doors to see who would be prepared to put up Ben which she was eventually successful in doing. About 3am, everything was sorted out and Ian settled down on his folding bed in a corner of our room and fell asleep. Within seconds there was the most raucous snoring coming from Ian’s bed but not only that, there was a cacophony of other noises coming from both ends of his body.

J nudged me, I nudged Ian but nothing would stop him. He simply fell asleep again and started the noises all over again.

In the morning, J made it clear that as he was my friend I had to sort the situation out and that if he didn’t go – she would!

I then had the delicate task of telling Ian that there was no way he was spending another 6 days camped in the corner of our room and suggested he try the restaurant down the hill as I’d seen a B&B sign outside when we’d arrived the previous day.

That night Ian and his boys arrived at our hotel for a group dinner and said he’d secured the most enormous room in the place I’d suggested and that he was absolutely delighted.

The next morning when we met on the slopes Ian looked a bit bleary eyed.

‘What’s the matter’, I asked him.

‘Tom, you wouldn’t f***ing believe it. The f***ing room they’ve given me is over a f***ing disco which goes on every f***ing night until 3 o’clock and the noise is f***ing unbelievable!’      

Justice!

Lunch With The Witches of Eastwick

Fresh, no, that’s the wrong word. Carrying on (that’s better) from Friday night’s football evening at Tan and Angie’s which ended early Saturday morning, and then a long lunch later on Saturday, I was hoping Sunday would be a nice quiet day at Le Brin until I was updated on my social diary for the weekend – we were due at Sam’s for lunch with Sarah, a friend from Tourrettes. Lucky boy! I was to have lunch with three lovely ladies.

Quick shower, grab a few bottles of wine and some champers and we were off. Still not 100% from the early part of the weekend I nevertheless looked forward to an afternoon at Sam’s.  She’s an ex BA first class air stewardess (trolley dolly to you and me) and things are always ‘just so’ when she entertains - beautiful table setting, candelabras, linen napkins, great music and the best crystal, but I knew things had gone downhill a bit when we arrived and Sam was still in her bedroom slippers and said she’d just cleared up the rat’s droppings from the terrace!

Still, the champagne was ok despite being served in different glasses, three of which weren’t crystal. Champers just doesn’t taste the same when it’s served in water tumblers.

The starter of deep fried camembert was delicious but the tone was set for the rest of the meal when Sam served the accompanying salad in an Ikea plant pot and then said we needed to lick clean our knives and forks as one set had to do us for the full meal. I was glad fish wasn’t on the menu!

After a ‘short’ interlude caused by the fact that Sam had forgotten to put the potatoes on (thank goodness we had taken cooked chickens), we had roast chicken and veggies followed by cheese and a raspberry sort of ice-creamy dessert and I have to say that eating ice cream with a chicken-tasting fork is not that great.

The meal was also taken a bit further down-market due to the fact that we were given bits of toilet roll instead of napkins, the electric pepper mill did not have any batteries in it and when coffee was served, there was more in the saucer than in the cup. Methinks Sam is training to get back to being a stewardess – with Ryanair! I reckon she’ll make it with distinction.

Still the meal was forgotten when we started reviewing last week’s photos taken at Aydin’s party, some of which were highly embarrassing especially those where I appeared in a selection of female clothes and the ones of ‘ladies’ fighting for the affections of the three 22 year old boys from Florida! Hey, it’s all part of the varied and alternative lifestyle out here in the sticks.

The afternoon was then interrupted when a vicar cycled past on the main road, presumably returning home after holding a service at the nearby church, and the three so-called sophisticated ladies hung out of the window cat calling and whistling at the poor guy (see picture).

 And they say us guys are badly behaved when we’ve had a drink.    

You Don’t Buy Me Flowers Any More

Things had been a bit quiet in the Cupples, sorry Hellon household all day. The question, ‘a cup of tea darling’, which usually was responded to in the affirmative, was met with a stony silence. I had to get my own dinner, and even Shadow was told to ‘shut up’ when he whimpered that his water bowl needed filling. Guy was taken for a haircut which he did not want and Kitty’s PC was confiscated until Saturday at the earliest. The Sky TV controller was mysteriously missing so I couldn’t watch the world cup and I was made to do the morning school run five days in a row.

Eventually the kids begged me to find out what the problem was.

‘What is it darling?’ I enquired, pouring J a glass of rosé which I anticipated being thrown back at me – literally!

J - ‘So, you’ve been buying flowers for another woman then’.

‘What are you on about’, I responded.

‘You’ve been buying flowers for another woman. I’ve seen her note.’

‘What note?’

J – ‘the note inside that book.’

‘Oh that’, I said. ‘I just gave her some lilies.’

J – ‘Lillies? Lillies? I don’t get lilies. I get those things you grow in the garden.’

‘But they’re lilies - they’re Cala lilies.’

J – ‘I don’t care. You grow mine. You buy hers.’

At this point I had to explain to J that the note on the inside cover of a book, actually an art catalogue I’d been given, was a gift in return for some water lilies I’d given one of Angie’s friends. She’d been at Aydin’s first birthday party the previous Saturday and had asked me where the water lilies in Angie’s fish tank had come from and was disappointed when I’d said I’d bought them in England and didn’t know where to get them here.

It transpired that this lady (still don’t know her first name) has an enormous house in Tourrettes and has a couple of ponds in the grounds and whilst the ultra-expensive koi carp look good, something was missing – water lilies.

It was just a coincidence that I had planned to clean out Angie’s fish tank on the Monday and was able to thin out her lilies which were literally taking over. Angie took them to her when they were both doing the school run and the catalogue was sent as a ‘thank you’.

Now if you’re wondering why an art catalogue – it seems that the lady’s husband is a famous sculpture/artist by the name of Jean-Claude Farhi and I now assume I’m the owner of a very nice catalogue signed by a famous sculpture’s wife (still don’t know her name apart from Mrs Farhi) which is probably worth millions – the catalogue, not the wife! Her too, probably!

Anyway – the lilies were easy – the gift of a catalogue with a little ‘thank you’ note (see above) was very thoughtful of her.

It seems that the Farhi’s house in Tourrettes is a ‘shrine’ to his work – see some views of it at the following URL:

http://fcanarelli.free.fr/Farhi.html