Life In 79

For some reason, we had decided to take the ferry back to the UK. Less driving, cabin, meal on board...a bit like a mini cruise? We were taking the van so that Anna, my wife, could buy a few things to bring back (in my mind I was thinking a jar of Marmite and a packet of bacon, how wrong I was). We were also dropping off 43 bottles of French wine to some friends who had recently moved back to the UK, and struggling to adjust to British prices.   We found ourselves killing time in the very up market town of Marlborough (the ferry having dropped us off at 6.30am - we were awoken by three refrains of some soothing lute music piped over the tannoy).   Anna had bought a furry coat from Noz, but the English climate didn't seem to agree with it and the thing had started moulting on her all black outfit. We tried to purchase a de-fluffer from Waitrose, but had to settle for a roll of sellotape, which we wrapped round our fingers then patted her down.   After delivering the wine a...

This month Anna, my wife, and I celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary (pearl). Was it thirty years ago I was staggering around the wedding venue with £900 in my jacket pocket to pay the bar bill? It was a small affair (my mum was disappointed it wasn't a bigger do, with a marquee in the garden, ice sculptures, a firework display and a guest list to rival one of the Queen's garden parties). But the service at my family church, followed by a knees up at the Tudor Arms, Watford, suited us fine. It was perfect and we wouldn't have had it any other way.   I was quite nervous on the day for several reasons other than the £900 (I think some people must have thought I was having heart palpitations the way I kept gripping my chest). My speech was a concern. My reputation for drinking too much at social functions preceded me, so I vowed to abstain until after the speech, when I made up for lost time. Both my mother and my Scottish father-in-law were/are larger than life charact...

When people ask “Where do you live?” I reply “Fifteen minutes drive north of Parthenay, in the middle of nowhere”. A hamlet, made up of four properties (only three of which are inhabited). If we run out of milk it's a ten minute drive to the nearest shop, which is usually shut.  We used to live on a busy main road in the UK. Our windows would often rattle as a high performance vehicle cruised by with bass bins turned up to eleven; beer cans would litter the front garden; our wing mirrors were regularly kicked off and once, some charmer, took the coping stone from our gate post and dropped it on the bonnet of our car. Now, living in the middle of nowhere we occasionally see an old woman walking her old dog, a lost cyclist or an escaped cow.   Annually, a farmer will sever our telephone cable with his hedge cutting machine. This year the telephone company told us they couldn't reconnect us for a week. This coincided with an electricity cut for twenty four hours. Now, I'm all ...

This month we celebrated our six year anniversary of living in France. Was it only six years ago I crashed the hired van into the gatepost on our arrival? Ahhhh! Happy memories. Six years when we thought we had a giant rat problem coming face to face with our first ragondin? Happy memories.  My diary entry from six years ago reads: '...Eventually get back to the house from the notaires. All the lights went out; plunged into complete darkness... then can't get out of the front door, try to stay calm, but ******* ourselves! Eventually find matches, then fuse box and switch back on. Locate candle and a dicky torch incase outage reoccurs (which it does repeatedly). I erect bed and Anna makes meatballs and pasta – both feel shattered and a bit nauseous. The reality of the state of the house hits us and with that a huge hornet flies into our bedroom.' Happy memories. Not the only anniversary this month. We have had our four chickens for a year. Three eggs a day (on average) times...

I would not usually allow a fourteen year old girl in a lab coat and trainers to shove a giant cotton bud up my nose, but these are strange times we are living in and the drive-through PCR test in Parthenay was one of the hurdles I had to o'er leap if I wanted to see family and friends in the UK.   Anna, my wife, had just come back from a whistle-stop tour so helped me with all the paper work and travel arrangements. Like the Queen and Prince Charles we tend to travel separately, not because of the stability of the crown, but one of us has to look after the cat and chickens.   My daughter was moving house so I decided to take the van, to help shuttle her belongings from one part of Ealing to another. I also had to pick up several of Anna's purchases which were too big for Ryanair and had been deposited at collection points around the south of England.   The first two hours of the drive are fine (Parthenay to Le Mans), 'this is new, exciting, I'm going on an adventure...

“We're going on a short holiday to Pau.” Said Anna, my wife.  “Why and where is Pau?” said I. “It's somewhere my mum has always wanted to visit and it's near the Pyrenees.” said she. “Is your mother coming?” Said I, trying not to sound anxious. So it was, we found ourselves driving 85km from the Spanish border to Pau, not 'Pow', 'Payoo' or 'Poo', but 'Po' (as in the red Teletubby or a chamber pot). It was a grey old day so the Pyrenees were shrouded in clouds. Anna had booked an Airbnb in the centre of the town which looked lovely on the internet, but was, rather alarmingly, situated above a Cuban nightclub  Habanita Chic .  After a wander around the town, including the impressive Château de Pau, a sizeable Greek meal, several glasses of wine (with sundries), it was bedtime.  Habanita Chic  only had one customer (it was a Tuesday), but that didn't stop the pounding Cuban music... which continued until 2am. It seemed to be the same song on...

I inherited the gardening bug from my father. I don't know any of the plants' latin names, have never tested the pH levels of my soil and must be the only person in Christendom incapable of producing fruit from their orchard, but the garden is the place I go if I want to relax.  Anna, my wife, has no interest in this past time. I have tried to pass on my enjoyment of horticulture by encouraging her to join me in the vegetable patch, but she has resolutely stated, on many occasions, gardening is not for her. She loves being in the great outdoors, riding up and down on the sit-on lawn mower, but if asked to fetch the secateurs from the potting shed she would struggle. Her interests lie elsewhere.  When we lived in Lincolnshire we had a potted grape vine given to us. It did nothing, but when planted in the ground it took off, like a beanstalk, across the back of the house and within a few years was covered in grapes. Anna announced she was going to make wine. I scoffed in a suppo...