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Published: July 20th 2011
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TUESDAY 12th July – Lovely Pierre, meter man
Despite the shared bathroom, ‘80’s décor, tiny bed and disgusting carpet, the staff quarters weren’t really too bad after all. Well, we slept OK anyway, despite the Dickensian surroundings. Let’s face it; this will probably be indescribable luxury in Vietnam…..
Woke to steady rain – woo-hoo, a day off maybe? (Dominique has been very off about any gardening attempts in the rain, not that we ever pressed for them) but no, just diverted to the courtyard and drive, more bloody nettles, stingers and other grotesque weeds that, if they were human, would have ASBO’s slapped on them. The only incident of any significance was the man who reads the meter – tiny little black car turns up, gorgeous hunk of French manhood steps out, all swept back long hair, dressed in black, exuding essence de Gauloise, asks us something way beyond our “plume de ma tante” level French, I respond with the standard “djer swees Onglaze” while Elaine stands there slack jawed with a far-away look in her eye, wondering he truly wafted in from Paradise (or the wine department in Daventry Waitrose….)
Rain didn’t stop really and in the
afternoon, to prevent from going stir-crazy cooped up in the kitchen, we took off to St. Lo, where we stalked round what little remains of the old town (95% of it got wiped out in WW2), had an argument (not about meter-man!), made up, drove to Carenton to see a really interesting bridge where a huge canal goes over the motorway (honest), got some petrol, went back for dinner. So, all in all, possibly the least interesting day so far.
WEDNESDAY 13th July - Pyrotechnics
Day 2 in Oliver Twist room. Still bearable. Ground really wet from yesterday’s rain and in Normandy that still means NO veggie patch weeding so I finished weeding front while Elaine skived off with a bit of ironing.
Lunch – today we ‘ave ze Sea Bream which Hughes (Ooog) ‘as jus’ brought back from ze trollerr. If you eat fish any fresher than this, it’ll still be flapping. Served with rice with a very tasty tomato, onion and garlic sauce which almost managed to disguise the cream content – almost. Zara quite liked this and took charge of removing all traces of it from the pan (photographic evidence provided).
Sun
finally got into gear in the afternoon and sunbathing was decreed by Elaine and Zara but first, we had to cut our way through to the lawn – the narrow path to it had been steadily disappearing as a bramble bush rampaged over it. Looking for secateurs in the chaotic “back-of-house” area, I opened a cupboard to be faced with about 6 huge guns, various shotguns and rifles, together with ammo, gun belts and all the other paraphernalia of the modern psycho. All this lot belongs to Hughes who, when he’s not knocking fish on the head, goes out shooting - mainly foxes apparently, which he and his mate get at night, by torchlight. None of yer red jackets and tally-ho nonsense in Normandy, they just go and blow their brains out! Foxes are big problem; I mean virtually everyone has a few ducks/geese/hens pecking away in their back-garden – for a fox it must be like being at a Tesco poultry counter with unlimited credit. In season, he also goes after wild boar, which is also regarded as a pest, but happily a comestible one. Dominique’s friend makes them into paté, which is more like the consistency of our
meat loaf but none less agreeable for that, laden onto a fresh baguette….
Anyway, the gun cupboard – can you imagine what would happen if a 19-year-old bloke in the UK was found to have a stash of guns and ammo in an unlocked cupboard in a house that itself is never locked? Doesn’t bear thinking about.
While the girls soaked up the rays, I wiped the swallow shite off one of the laughably dilapidated bikes and took off for an afternoon tour of the lanes – lovely, saw more bikes than cars, meandered through quaint, deserted stone villages, grand farmhouse/mansions and past fields of fat contented cows, then came back to a remote bit of coast and rode about 2 miles back to Grandcamp through dunes and over rough tracks, checking out the many old German gun emplacements on the way. Staggering how many there are – probably every 400-odd metres, and those that didn’t get a direct hit from artillery are still intact, and will probably remain that way for a century or 2 yet.
Dom told us that there were fireworks in the village that night to celebrate Independence Day tomorrow – everyone has
fireworks apparently so they have to spread the displays over the 13th and 14th, or they presumably run out of people to let the things off. I bet Ooog could stand in if needed…..
So, we & Zara trooped off down to the seafront as the sun was setting, as did a few thousand others, and then stood around for what seemed like hours waiting for the festival of fireworks to explode. In the meantime we had to have our wits about us in order to dodge bangers and jumping jacks which were casually being ignited and tossed around by the local kids. This seemed to be absolutely fine with everyone there - as none of the locals took a blind bit of notice whereas us English wimps cringed and cowered every time they let another one off. Apart from that there was not much going on – until the arrival of the Town Band.
To describe them as a marching band stretches the imagination, as they were not actually able to march and play simultaneously. However they did 4 numbers, which all seemed to be slightly different, but endearingly badly played versions of La Bamba, pausing periodically
to let some local cars squeeze by without hitting any of the assembled throng (obviously it would so un-cool and un-French to go to the bother of closing the road despite the fact that it was crammed full of eager firework watchers). Eventually – around 11.30 p.m. - fireworks were liberated - unfortunately to a sound-track of screeching bygone power-rock ballads which was enough to make us forgive the band.
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