Last Saturday saw the long awaited “School Lotto” night. Well, it was long awaited by my nine year old at least. Both myself and my wife had for the previous three days been desperately racking our brains on how to avoid this awesome and auspicious event. Needless to say in the face of peer pressure from other parents and the constant whining on the said nine year old, we reconciled ourselves to our fate.
I say awesome event, as in our little bit of France, not a lot happens in the winter and usually, any event is better than none. I say auspicious, for surely it must have been, as the start time was given as nine pm. Obviously this is an auspicious time as defined by the ancient Mongolians who presumably used the rotation of Saturn to determine good start times for lotto evenings.
Note that above I said “School Lotto”. Unlike normal “Lotto” the proceeds of which usually end up in barrels of beer in Rugby and Football clubs, the proceeds of this event were to be ploughed back into school trips for the kiddies. A laudable event then. Well it could have been, but the down side of school lotto is that the Kids get to go too. Given the pre-arranged start time of nine in the evening and that the event takes on average four hours, we feared the worst. Imagining 20 or so eight year olds at one in the morning conjured scenes of tears and general mayhem. As it turned out I need not have worried about the late start time. As with all village events the start time given was for indication only, and we duly started the evening at nine forty eight, prompt.
The hall itself was packed. Over 190 of the strangest collection of people I think I have ever seen gathered in one place. The teachers were the easy ones to spot, woolly jumpers and sandals. Next were the farmers woolly jumpers and boots. The professionals were easy to spot. These were to be found as we entered, giving a very good impression of the French rugby team chasing a loose ball. Upon the entrance table were hundreds and hundreds of lotto cards, and these were being scrutinised, and fought over by some exceedingly zealous females. Apparently, getting the right selection of lotto cards is “oh so vital”. Seeing the scrum, my wife and I headed for the “Bar” where we were able to purchase warm Heineken and cold coffee.
We stood and watched as the professionals picked the table clean of all the “good cards”. Each one taking an average of ten cards. Upon regaining their seats, which I have no doubt they had been carefully reserving since the day before, to obtain the best acoustics, they proceeded to lay out, with what can only be described as reverence, the sacred lotto cards. The ceremony was not however over, as each of these “pros”, and there must have been at least 60 of them, then produced their special magnetic see through counters. These were scattered on the table and then magically swept up with a “Star Wars” like magic baton. We were awestruck, what chance would we have against this lot? It was left to my other, wiser half to remind me that, lotto is a game of chance. Looking at the assembled pros, I was not convinced.
Eventually we wandered over to the table and bought two cards each. We did not have magic counters, or light sabre batons, but we did have the contents of the kitchen piggy bank, all the small coppers. As we laid the coins on the table, next to our supply of beer and coffee we attracted some very strange looks, not just from the “pros” but from the rest of the villagers as well. More than once I heard “Ah its Peter, the English” followed by an understanding “Ahhhh” from across the room. It was at this point that we realised that we were the only non French in the room. I immediately thought of Basil Fawlty and had to keep reminding myself not to mention either Azincourt or Trafalgar.
The tension in the room was mounting by the second as one of the woolly jumpers mounted the stage and for the next ten minutes went through the rules. RULES !! It is lotto, children of five play it in the UK, but this is France, the country where the word Bureaucracy was invented. Thankfully there were no questions following the rules explanation and as the balls rolled around in the big metal cage an absolute silence filled the room. Then he was off.
In France there is none of the “Legs Eleven” or “Two slightly overweight ladies”. No. It is straight in with the numbers, and at speed! Number followed number in a machine gun like fashion until, after about ninety seconds, an almighty shriek went up. Some one had got a line. Not one of the “pros” either, but a spindly chap sitting next to the bar with a solitary card. The “Checker” was dispatched to verify his claim, following which he was presented with his prize, a huge hamper full of cheeses and wine. Given that his card had cost him all of two Euros, his broad toothless smile was exceedingly genuine. The other half and I looked at each other and within an instant we too were as avidly involved as every other person in the room.
Number followed number, shriek followed shriek and prizes ranging from whole ducks WITH the Foie Gras to Huge legs of dried ham followed in an endless stream. We were both so absorbed that we did not even get up to replenish the liquid supplies until woolly jumper announced the “Intermission”. This immediately led to a second scrimmage around the bar. Being British we stood back, until we were advised by our erstwhile “Monsieur Le Maire” to get in before all the cold pancakes went. We duly pushed, shoved and generally weaselled our way to the front, which surprisingly brought, not condemnation, but rather admiration from the assembled masses.
Five minutes later we were back at our table with coffees, beer and cold pancakes. Sheer bliss. The fact that the other half had brought a large hip flask with Armagnac in it made the coffee even more enjoyable. We sat and surveyed the room, which contained just under half the entire population of our village. The time did not matter, the fact that there were children everywhere did not matter. Every single person in the room was enjoying themselves, partaking of a simple, yet, oh so serious, fun evening.
We eventually left the Salle de Fete and ventured out into the road at just after half one in the morning. Whole families began walking back up the hill towards the village, which, due to the special event still had the street lights on. We had had a simply fantastic evening, and next year we will get there just a little bit earlier, to make sure that we at least get hot coffee. Oh and it was a bit of a success for the other half as well. She won a voucher for dinner for two at the local café. All in all, a great night!
Copyright with Peter Driscoll
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
SMOKING. THE NEW YEAR ROUND OUTDOOR COOKING AND BBQ EXPERIENCE
(OR: "HOW I STARTED SMOKING AND SAVED THE WORLD")
I never could quite work out why all the American films showed signs saying “Barbecue AND Grill”, after all I used to Barbecue on the grill all the time! It has only been over the past few months that I have finally realised why there are two words, and now accept that up until a few weeks ago I had never actually barbecued anything, merely grilled.
So then what is the difference and does it matter? Well, let me tell you a story.....…….
I used to love barbecuing , but then Karina stopped me. I could not see what the problem was, nor could most of my male friends. During good weather we would light the Barbie and then cook, or rather, then “burn” all the food that she had lovingly prepared. Traditionally the male idea of a BBQ was to grill some chicken a bit of steak and some sausage etc. Usually this was done whilst having a few beers in front of the grill. The result (8 times out of ten) was blackened basic food which was raw on the inside and more like charcoal than anything else on the outside. Karina finally rebelled, put her foot down and for the last three years all the "BBQ" food was firstly cooked in the oven and then given to me for the last two minutes to play with over the coals. Real BBQ flavour being imparted by one of our famous sauces.
This state of affairs we have discovered was not unique to us. Nigh on everyone was in the same boat as ourselves. Loved barbecues. Struggled with charcoal, never really mastering the stuff and then tried gas. Gas was easy to control but still the risk of burning was ever present, flare-ups to light up half the neighbourhood were common and the only way you could get flavour into the food was still out of a jar.
Then web sites about BBQ began to spring up and all of a sudden we learnt that there was a whole new world of outdoor cooking just waiting to be discovered. For us it all changed this Christmas when in an effort to find me a new toy my wife spotted the ProBBQ smoker range of Outdoor Cookers and found a web site that actually taught you how to BBQ properly. This is where we discovered the real meaning of OUTDOOR COOKING and REAL BARBECUE.
In essence Barbecue means cooking anything at all “Long and Slow”. This means that things such as steaks and “Burgers” are not really suited for the barbecue (or “Q”) treatment as steaks in particular taste far better when seared directly over a heat source. However, talk about legs or shoulders of Pork, Chickens, Turkeys, Wild Boar, Whole fish (Even Salmon), wrapped breasts of duck, whole suckling Pigs or even haunches of Venison, then a “Q” (Barbecue) is probably one of the best and healthiest ways to cook. Now add some “smoke” to the cooking process and you will enter into the most exotic of cooking places that you have ever visited. The real beauty being that this whole process can be done by the total novice all year round!!
In essence you take whatever piece or pieces of meat you want to cook and start your charcoal off. (Three kilos of good briquettes should enable you to cook for about five hours.) A few weeks ago I cooked two chickens, a half shoulder of pork, a piece of veal stuffed with sausage meat and six Toulouse sausages (Cut open, brushed with Dijon mustard, filled with Agen prunes and then wrapped with bacon), all in the same smoker at the same time! I used three kilos of charcoal and was cooking for eight people. Once the fire was started I took a couple of handfuls of Alder wood chips and threw them on the fire. The smoke rose and permeated all the meats. Four and half hours later my guests were giving me the “Wow” of the week (Including the local chef from our village restaurant!!)
Quite simply the food was delicious and SO simple to do. Because the food on the grills is separated from the charcoal by a pan of water (into which I did place a few herbs), the food is never exposed to direct heat and as such can never burn. Further, the water provides a really moist cooking environment , which means succulent and tender meats. But it did not end there either as my wife then used the left over chicken carcasses to make a terrific soup stock. The smoky flavour giving a real “Zing” to the broth. This we added to some Chinese noodles and with the smoked pork that was left over we had an authentic Chinese smoked pork and noodle dish. Try doing that with your standard “Q”!!
But it does not end there! Having shown the world that I am the worlds best cook, (Only one week previous I was not even allowed to cook toast unaided) I branched out and decided to do a few things that on a normal BBQ just would not have been possible. Our next door neighbour is a very rare beast in France, he is a Vegetarian!. I love a challenge, so what better than to do a “Q” for a veggie! So on to the top level of the machine went a selection of veggies. Courgettes hollowed out and filled with cheese, (wrapped in foil with holes in to the let the smoke in) Aubergines lightly coated with Olive oil, Tomatoes and Celery and a few pieces of sweet corn. Just to keep my hand in I also prepared two long green peppers, which I sliced and filled with goats cheese, added a few chili flakes and then wrapped it all in a chicken breast, which I folded streaky bacon over!
The smoker was set up and this time I used Cherry wood to produce the smoke. Two hours later and we all had a feast. The point here is that having a BBQ should not be limited to the long days of summer nor to simply charring meat over an open fire. The modern smokers allow you to roast and smoke food all year round, and does also work as a standard BBQ Grill, which being portable allows you to even take it to the beach.
My latest venture was Cold Smoking! I used the same machine and smoked three mackerel, a duck breast and a camembert cheese!!. To do this I used just a few lumps of charcoal briquette with the water pan filled up with cold water. The fish was hung from the lid of the “ProQ” and the cheese and duck breast placed on the lower grill. I used apple wood (as it is fairly light) and smoked away merrily for five hours. The temperature inside the machine never got above the ambient air temperature and the smoke just wafted all around, giving the most wonderful smells!!!. The result, I now have perfectly smoked fish, cheese and duck and my Dutch neighbour is convinced I cheated and bought the fish!
As people master 'basic' barbecuing there seems a real interest growing back into 'traditional' barbecuing. What I mean is using charcoal, and playing with fire. Well if we are honest that's what us boys like doing most - we just need the excuse! We are discovering a growing number of two barbecue families. Usually a hooded gas barbecue suitable for those occasions when they come home from work, the weather is pleasant and they fancy cooking and eating outdoors. So instead of being in a hot stuffy kitchen with all the associated smells and mess they take the chops outside and enjoy the occasion. The second barbecue tends to be a charcoal one, quite often a smoker where, time permitting, one can explore and play and this is where we start the real barbecue story.
Next Time ......How I cooked 27 Legs of Lamb for 180 Residents of our village...and lived to tell the tale!!
Copyright with Peter Driscoll
I never could quite work out why all the American films showed signs saying “Barbecue AND Grill”, after all I used to Barbecue on the grill all the time! It has only been over the past few months that I have finally realised why there are two words, and now accept that up until a few weeks ago I had never actually barbecued anything, merely grilled.
So then what is the difference and does it matter? Well, let me tell you a story.....…….
I used to love barbecuing , but then Karina stopped me. I could not see what the problem was, nor could most of my male friends. During good weather we would light the Barbie and then cook, or rather, then “burn” all the food that she had lovingly prepared. Traditionally the male idea of a BBQ was to grill some chicken a bit of steak and some sausage etc. Usually this was done whilst having a few beers in front of the grill. The result (8 times out of ten) was blackened basic food which was raw on the inside and more like charcoal than anything else on the outside. Karina finally rebelled, put her foot down and for the last three years all the "BBQ" food was firstly cooked in the oven and then given to me for the last two minutes to play with over the coals. Real BBQ flavour being imparted by one of our famous sauces.
This state of affairs we have discovered was not unique to us. Nigh on everyone was in the same boat as ourselves. Loved barbecues. Struggled with charcoal, never really mastering the stuff and then tried gas. Gas was easy to control but still the risk of burning was ever present, flare-ups to light up half the neighbourhood were common and the only way you could get flavour into the food was still out of a jar.
Then web sites about BBQ began to spring up and all of a sudden we learnt that there was a whole new world of outdoor cooking just waiting to be discovered. For us it all changed this Christmas when in an effort to find me a new toy my wife spotted the ProBBQ smoker range of Outdoor Cookers and found a web site that actually taught you how to BBQ properly. This is where we discovered the real meaning of OUTDOOR COOKING and REAL BARBECUE.
In essence Barbecue means cooking anything at all “Long and Slow”. This means that things such as steaks and “Burgers” are not really suited for the barbecue (or “Q”) treatment as steaks in particular taste far better when seared directly over a heat source. However, talk about legs or shoulders of Pork, Chickens, Turkeys, Wild Boar, Whole fish (Even Salmon), wrapped breasts of duck, whole suckling Pigs or even haunches of Venison, then a “Q” (Barbecue) is probably one of the best and healthiest ways to cook. Now add some “smoke” to the cooking process and you will enter into the most exotic of cooking places that you have ever visited. The real beauty being that this whole process can be done by the total novice all year round!!
In essence you take whatever piece or pieces of meat you want to cook and start your charcoal off. (Three kilos of good briquettes should enable you to cook for about five hours.) A few weeks ago I cooked two chickens, a half shoulder of pork, a piece of veal stuffed with sausage meat and six Toulouse sausages (Cut open, brushed with Dijon mustard, filled with Agen prunes and then wrapped with bacon), all in the same smoker at the same time! I used three kilos of charcoal and was cooking for eight people. Once the fire was started I took a couple of handfuls of Alder wood chips and threw them on the fire. The smoke rose and permeated all the meats. Four and half hours later my guests were giving me the “Wow” of the week (Including the local chef from our village restaurant!!)
Quite simply the food was delicious and SO simple to do. Because the food on the grills is separated from the charcoal by a pan of water (into which I did place a few herbs), the food is never exposed to direct heat and as such can never burn. Further, the water provides a really moist cooking environment , which means succulent and tender meats. But it did not end there either as my wife then used the left over chicken carcasses to make a terrific soup stock. The smoky flavour giving a real “Zing” to the broth. This we added to some Chinese noodles and with the smoked pork that was left over we had an authentic Chinese smoked pork and noodle dish. Try doing that with your standard “Q”!!
But it does not end there! Having shown the world that I am the worlds best cook, (Only one week previous I was not even allowed to cook toast unaided) I branched out and decided to do a few things that on a normal BBQ just would not have been possible. Our next door neighbour is a very rare beast in France, he is a Vegetarian!. I love a challenge, so what better than to do a “Q” for a veggie! So on to the top level of the machine went a selection of veggies. Courgettes hollowed out and filled with cheese, (wrapped in foil with holes in to the let the smoke in) Aubergines lightly coated with Olive oil, Tomatoes and Celery and a few pieces of sweet corn. Just to keep my hand in I also prepared two long green peppers, which I sliced and filled with goats cheese, added a few chili flakes and then wrapped it all in a chicken breast, which I folded streaky bacon over!
The smoker was set up and this time I used Cherry wood to produce the smoke. Two hours later and we all had a feast. The point here is that having a BBQ should not be limited to the long days of summer nor to simply charring meat over an open fire. The modern smokers allow you to roast and smoke food all year round, and does also work as a standard BBQ Grill, which being portable allows you to even take it to the beach.
My latest venture was Cold Smoking! I used the same machine and smoked three mackerel, a duck breast and a camembert cheese!!. To do this I used just a few lumps of charcoal briquette with the water pan filled up with cold water. The fish was hung from the lid of the “ProQ” and the cheese and duck breast placed on the lower grill. I used apple wood (as it is fairly light) and smoked away merrily for five hours. The temperature inside the machine never got above the ambient air temperature and the smoke just wafted all around, giving the most wonderful smells!!!. The result, I now have perfectly smoked fish, cheese and duck and my Dutch neighbour is convinced I cheated and bought the fish!
As people master 'basic' barbecuing there seems a real interest growing back into 'traditional' barbecuing. What I mean is using charcoal, and playing with fire. Well if we are honest that's what us boys like doing most - we just need the excuse! We are discovering a growing number of two barbecue families. Usually a hooded gas barbecue suitable for those occasions when they come home from work, the weather is pleasant and they fancy cooking and eating outdoors. So instead of being in a hot stuffy kitchen with all the associated smells and mess they take the chops outside and enjoy the occasion. The second barbecue tends to be a charcoal one, quite often a smoker where, time permitting, one can explore and play and this is where we start the real barbecue story.
Next Time ......How I cooked 27 Legs of Lamb for 180 Residents of our village...and lived to tell the tale!!
Copyright with Peter Driscoll
Monday, 25 January 2010
The Continuing Story......
The market in Morlaix is not so different from many other French markets. That is to say it bears no resemblance at all to markets in the UK. Obviously the idea of neat and regimented stalls set out in lines was at one time the idea in Morlaix , but the market, rather like the café from earlier, has probably not been updated for at least forty years. Brand new vans selling Pizza snuggle up to wheelbarrows full of potatoes. Note I said wheelbarrows. The owner had three wheelbarrows, obviously bought from a local hardware store, full of potatoes. There was no sign of a van or even a horse and I spent quite some time wondering how the stallholder, a middle aged lady with a very round figure, had actually managed to get all three barrows into the market square. I never did find out as Karina was calling me from across the square.
‘But Daddy I want to keep it’,
were the first plaintive words out of my daughter’s mouth. She was holding a very large and plump rabbit with both hands and gently snuggling up to it with her cheeks. The stall holder, an even rounder lady than the potato seller, was looking at us as if we were insane. Karina was, for once, on my side.
‘Of course she can’t keep it. We have no room for a rabbit at home and besides it would need a pet passport to get back into the UK’.
This was a delicate situation. The round lady had now addressed me and had informed me that at only seven Euros a Kilo it was great value. She had reared the animal herself and there was no better eating in all of Brittany. I knew I had to act fast as little one was beginning to think of ways to smuggle ‘Bunny’ back into the UK.
‘Miximatosis’
I replied to the round lady. Her eyes opened even wider than before and she hastily began stating that the animal was perfectly healthy. I immediately translated all of this to Karina and my little angel as:
‘Apparently the animal is very sick and the lady has brought it here to see the animal doctor.’ It worked; in fact it worked rather too well, as little one immediately dropped the plump little bunny on the floor. The rabbit sensed that this was his chance to escape the cooking pot and began hopping away under the fruit and vegetable stall next door. The round lady glared at all of us and disappeared under the counter hunting for bunnykins. Rather than staying around to apologise or explain we all decided that retreat was probably the best course of action and within thirty seconds we were again swallowed by the crowds of the market.
The market stalls were all in the road area, behind were the shop fronts. It was these shop fronts that now attracted our attention. Estate agents, with windows full of promising properties beckoned. Obviously we were not going to be buying anything, though with Karina I was not one hundred percent certain. We had however, decided to get a feel for the housing market in what we perceived as being a quite underdeveloped and unfashionable corner of France. Quite honestly we were shocked. Prices seemed not too different from those at home and of course being Brittany, the style of house was very different, not only from the UK but also from our perception of what our house in France should look like. In short we were disappointed. Peter and Lea on the other hand were both very happy.
‘Does that mean we don’t have to look in any more windows then’? Being the almost immediate response. Both Karina and I had had exactly the same thought. Obviously looking at houses in an area of France where we knew we were not going to live was a little pointless. The rationale behind the quick trip was to get a feel of what France was like, and so far with Cafes, Wheelbarrows full of potatoes and ‘Houdini’ rabbit impersonators, we were fast establishing that life in France was indeed different.
The Rose Coast (La Cote Rose) is so named due to the colour of the rocks that form the cliffs looking out into the Channel. As the sun glints off the green blue of the ocean it strikes the rock, which seems to glow in the late morning sunshine. We were heading off to Lannion via Tregastel and following the coast road all the way. The coast here is rugged and stunningly romantic, or at least it would have been romantic without the kids in the car. Driving by the sea anywhere in the world has its own charm and here was no exception. We stopped several times on the road to take in the views and breathe in the ozone filled air, which only served to remind us that it was getting near lunchtime. Fresh air can do that to you!
We arrived in Lannion at just after half twelve. We parked at the top of the town and walked down the narrow cobbled and empty streets. That is another thing different about France. All the shops close at lunchtime. Not for an hour but for at least two hours. Everywhere was closed. A thriving bustling town was empty. Except of course for all of the restaurants, which were, as we discovered, full. When I say restaurants, I am not talking of Burger Bars or Fish and chip shops, but real, honest to goodness, Restaurants. All offering three course meals, with wine, for about eleven Euros! We tried three in a row. At each the same question was asked,
‘Do you have a reservation’? Of course we did not,
‘Ah then, Sir, we can not help you, have you tried next door’?
Driven by despair we entered a small bar, where we were made exceedingly welcome, probably because we were the only ones there, the other clients having long had their ‘aperitifs’ and departed for the now full restaurants scattered around the town. It was here that we were told of a little ‘creperie’ just around the corner. The idea of Pancakes for lunch immediately struck a chord with both children and five minutes later we were seated at a tiny table in a very small creperie, designed probably to seat twenty and now full with about forty diners. We immediately surmised that at least the food was going to be good, if only by the numbers of locals crammed into the place.
We were not disappointed. The complete meal was a roaring success. Savoury Crepes, or ‘Galettes’ as they are known are a specialty of Brittany and the flour they use is a coarse brown flour called ‘Sarrasin’ (Buckwheat), which produces a savoury texture most unlike any familiar ordinary flour and water variety pancake found in the UK. The fillings were different and plentiful, with cheese, tomatoes, herbs, spicy sausage, ham and raw eggs making for a wonderful mix of flavours and colours. The star of the show was, however, as far as the kids were concerned, the chocolate sweet crepes, most of which my daughter managed to wear, rather than eat.
Having paid out the princely sum of about fifty Euros for a full meal for four people, including a bottle of the local Brittany cider, we took off for a tour of the local area. Places with exotic names, which I am certain are pronounced wrongly even by the locals, pass by the open windows as we once again head for the coast, arriving at the small fishing village of Locquemeau . Small wooden boats bobbed around in the tiny harbour and whilst Karina and I enjoyed a cold drink in the only café in the village, the kids busied themselves fishing for minnows on the rising tide. The place was lively, not with locals but with French tourists, all just sitting around and soaking up the calm of a perfect afternoon. For once, and as this story unfolds you will appreciate my comment, nothing went wrong. No one fell in the water, no one hooked another child and for once both children seemed relaxed and happy to enjoy each other’s company.
The drive back to Roscoff and the ferry home was via a supermarket in Morlaix. We, like every other car heading for the ferry, were busy stocking up on all things French and unobtainable at home. Cheeses, dried sausages, pre cooked Galettes, melons, mustard and of course wine! With a bulging car, we arrived in Roscoff and dined at a very reasonable and friendly fish restaurant in the heart of the old granite town. Little did we know that over the next twelve months we would become very regular customers of this establishment. Again the meal was flawless and as we wearily drove on to the ferry we were all strangely quiet.
The ferry trip home was uneventful. No storms, no rain and no high seas. Again the food on board was great, probably because the ferry operator was French, and the staff friendly and helpful. The children had enjoyed the food, the trying out of the language and the scenery, though the trip to the seaside had helped there. Karina had fallen in love with the markets and, predictably, the shops and found that she also could get by with the French language.
Strangely, something had touched us all on our little trip. I say strangely, since, as I said, I had lived in France before. Only now did I realize just how much I missed the country and the very special way of life. If it had not been before, my mind was now made up. Karina and the children thought along the same lines and the idea was now no longer a fantasy. We were going to be living in France, and the sooner the better. All we had to do now was to sell up in the UK, find an area of France we liked, buy or rent somewhere to live, find schools for the children, find out how to set up a business, arrange a removal company, and go. I mean, how hard would it be?…....To be Continued......
Copyright with Peter Driscoll
‘But Daddy I want to keep it’,
were the first plaintive words out of my daughter’s mouth. She was holding a very large and plump rabbit with both hands and gently snuggling up to it with her cheeks. The stall holder, an even rounder lady than the potato seller, was looking at us as if we were insane. Karina was, for once, on my side.
‘Of course she can’t keep it. We have no room for a rabbit at home and besides it would need a pet passport to get back into the UK’.
This was a delicate situation. The round lady had now addressed me and had informed me that at only seven Euros a Kilo it was great value. She had reared the animal herself and there was no better eating in all of Brittany. I knew I had to act fast as little one was beginning to think of ways to smuggle ‘Bunny’ back into the UK.
‘Miximatosis’
I replied to the round lady. Her eyes opened even wider than before and she hastily began stating that the animal was perfectly healthy. I immediately translated all of this to Karina and my little angel as:
‘Apparently the animal is very sick and the lady has brought it here to see the animal doctor.’ It worked; in fact it worked rather too well, as little one immediately dropped the plump little bunny on the floor. The rabbit sensed that this was his chance to escape the cooking pot and began hopping away under the fruit and vegetable stall next door. The round lady glared at all of us and disappeared under the counter hunting for bunnykins. Rather than staying around to apologise or explain we all decided that retreat was probably the best course of action and within thirty seconds we were again swallowed by the crowds of the market.
The market stalls were all in the road area, behind were the shop fronts. It was these shop fronts that now attracted our attention. Estate agents, with windows full of promising properties beckoned. Obviously we were not going to be buying anything, though with Karina I was not one hundred percent certain. We had however, decided to get a feel for the housing market in what we perceived as being a quite underdeveloped and unfashionable corner of France. Quite honestly we were shocked. Prices seemed not too different from those at home and of course being Brittany, the style of house was very different, not only from the UK but also from our perception of what our house in France should look like. In short we were disappointed. Peter and Lea on the other hand were both very happy.
‘Does that mean we don’t have to look in any more windows then’? Being the almost immediate response. Both Karina and I had had exactly the same thought. Obviously looking at houses in an area of France where we knew we were not going to live was a little pointless. The rationale behind the quick trip was to get a feel of what France was like, and so far with Cafes, Wheelbarrows full of potatoes and ‘Houdini’ rabbit impersonators, we were fast establishing that life in France was indeed different.
The Rose Coast (La Cote Rose) is so named due to the colour of the rocks that form the cliffs looking out into the Channel. As the sun glints off the green blue of the ocean it strikes the rock, which seems to glow in the late morning sunshine. We were heading off to Lannion via Tregastel and following the coast road all the way. The coast here is rugged and stunningly romantic, or at least it would have been romantic without the kids in the car. Driving by the sea anywhere in the world has its own charm and here was no exception. We stopped several times on the road to take in the views and breathe in the ozone filled air, which only served to remind us that it was getting near lunchtime. Fresh air can do that to you!
We arrived in Lannion at just after half twelve. We parked at the top of the town and walked down the narrow cobbled and empty streets. That is another thing different about France. All the shops close at lunchtime. Not for an hour but for at least two hours. Everywhere was closed. A thriving bustling town was empty. Except of course for all of the restaurants, which were, as we discovered, full. When I say restaurants, I am not talking of Burger Bars or Fish and chip shops, but real, honest to goodness, Restaurants. All offering three course meals, with wine, for about eleven Euros! We tried three in a row. At each the same question was asked,
‘Do you have a reservation’? Of course we did not,
‘Ah then, Sir, we can not help you, have you tried next door’?
Driven by despair we entered a small bar, where we were made exceedingly welcome, probably because we were the only ones there, the other clients having long had their ‘aperitifs’ and departed for the now full restaurants scattered around the town. It was here that we were told of a little ‘creperie’ just around the corner. The idea of Pancakes for lunch immediately struck a chord with both children and five minutes later we were seated at a tiny table in a very small creperie, designed probably to seat twenty and now full with about forty diners. We immediately surmised that at least the food was going to be good, if only by the numbers of locals crammed into the place.
We were not disappointed. The complete meal was a roaring success. Savoury Crepes, or ‘Galettes’ as they are known are a specialty of Brittany and the flour they use is a coarse brown flour called ‘Sarrasin’ (Buckwheat), which produces a savoury texture most unlike any familiar ordinary flour and water variety pancake found in the UK. The fillings were different and plentiful, with cheese, tomatoes, herbs, spicy sausage, ham and raw eggs making for a wonderful mix of flavours and colours. The star of the show was, however, as far as the kids were concerned, the chocolate sweet crepes, most of which my daughter managed to wear, rather than eat.
Having paid out the princely sum of about fifty Euros for a full meal for four people, including a bottle of the local Brittany cider, we took off for a tour of the local area. Places with exotic names, which I am certain are pronounced wrongly even by the locals, pass by the open windows as we once again head for the coast, arriving at the small fishing village of Locquemeau . Small wooden boats bobbed around in the tiny harbour and whilst Karina and I enjoyed a cold drink in the only café in the village, the kids busied themselves fishing for minnows on the rising tide. The place was lively, not with locals but with French tourists, all just sitting around and soaking up the calm of a perfect afternoon. For once, and as this story unfolds you will appreciate my comment, nothing went wrong. No one fell in the water, no one hooked another child and for once both children seemed relaxed and happy to enjoy each other’s company.
The drive back to Roscoff and the ferry home was via a supermarket in Morlaix. We, like every other car heading for the ferry, were busy stocking up on all things French and unobtainable at home. Cheeses, dried sausages, pre cooked Galettes, melons, mustard and of course wine! With a bulging car, we arrived in Roscoff and dined at a very reasonable and friendly fish restaurant in the heart of the old granite town. Little did we know that over the next twelve months we would become very regular customers of this establishment. Again the meal was flawless and as we wearily drove on to the ferry we were all strangely quiet.
The ferry trip home was uneventful. No storms, no rain and no high seas. Again the food on board was great, probably because the ferry operator was French, and the staff friendly and helpful. The children had enjoyed the food, the trying out of the language and the scenery, though the trip to the seaside had helped there. Karina had fallen in love with the markets and, predictably, the shops and found that she also could get by with the French language.
Strangely, something had touched us all on our little trip. I say strangely, since, as I said, I had lived in France before. Only now did I realize just how much I missed the country and the very special way of life. If it had not been before, my mind was now made up. Karina and the children thought along the same lines and the idea was now no longer a fantasy. We were going to be living in France, and the sooner the better. All we had to do now was to sell up in the UK, find an area of France we liked, buy or rent somewhere to live, find schools for the children, find out how to set up a business, arrange a removal company, and go. I mean, how hard would it be?…....To be Continued......
Copyright with Peter Driscoll
Sunday, 24 January 2010
The Long road to France, OR How we eventually got to Live in the Tarn et Garonne
The idea of living in France had always appealed. The practicalities however, were, to say the least daunting. Over the next few weeks I shall post here the trials, tests, temptations and tribulations that accompanied our arrival in Roquecor:
I love France. I love the climate, the way of life and the wide open spaces. I love the open, non congested roads, the slower pace of life and the feeling that somehow I belong here. I love people saying ‘Bonjour’ when you pass in the morning, and with very few exceptions, love the French habit of kissing women when you meet. In short, I am a Francophile. What better then to shut up shop and move to France, to live, with thousands of other ‘Brits’, ‘The French dream’.
It is 2004. A typical June day in Plymouth. Grey skies and rain. I am sitting in my back office looking out over the Cornish slate rooftops at a trio of screaming seagulls that are intent on waking my three-year-old daughter from her afternoon nap. The phone rings and I begin talking to a client wishing to move to France. I go through my usual explanations as to what we do and the client then asks me where we are physically located. This is not the first time that this has happened. Here, I should explain that I was trading as a Removals Broker. Putting people in touch with removal companies that would then move them to their dream homes in France, Spain and Italy, in fact anywhere other than the UK.
No matter how many times I explained, I would receive the
‘Oh I wanted someone local, and you are in Plymouth’ reply from the less enlightened clients. I decided to resolve this little problem by always replying to the question by giving a wide variety of replies. The most common I used was ‘New Delhi’, followed closely by Sydney Australia, and if I were feeling particularly fanciful I would give our location as Barbados. Little did I realize where this would lead. My wife, who helped in the office by keeping papers in files instead of piles, heard my flippant comments and in true female style linked my comments to our move to France.
‘Why not’ she said. ‘It really does not matter where we live as the business is all Internet and telephones anyway. As long as we are in the same time zone we can live virtually anywhere’. I was livid. Here was I, a confirmed Francophile, living in abject misery under leaden Plymouth skies, dreaming of sunny France, and my wife had in two sentences changed all of our lives for the better. Now just imagine what that did for my ego.
It took me all of half a nano second to digest the enormity of what Karina was saying to me and simultaneously work out a way to make it appear it had been my idea all along. I believe that readers of both sexes will be able to relate to this! I seem to recall saying something along the lines of ‘But I thought you wanted to stay here’. Which elicited the sort of stare that only a wife can give a husband. I of course was ecstatic and within an hour I was saying to clients that we actually based in Cahors France. This, strangely had a very positive and uplifting effect on the business, as clients moving to France felt somewhat comforted by the fact that their broker was already there!
At this point I feel that I have to confess to two very important facts. The first is that I had previously lived in both Paris and Montpellier and the second is that I speak fluent French. These two points are crucial as I of course considered myself an expert on France and the French nation, whereas my wife had neither lived in France nor spoke French. I was therefore the oracle on all things France and French. My position as supreme commander and decision maker in chief lasted all of four minutes, that being the time it had taken my wife to reappear in the office and inform me of the family strategy for moving lock stock and keyboard to France.
It probably took about another ten minutes for the doubts to come flooding in on both sides. Petty problems such as ‘Where in France, when to move, buy or rent, what about the Kids and school, what about family, we don’t know anyone in France etc’, to raise their heads. Each time a difficult question was posed it was dealt with in a prompt and efficient manner, which both myself and Karina had perfected by the end of the day. The method involved writing down the questions and perceived problems and then writing the solution next to the question. This was an invaluable tool. By the end of the evening we had a page of questions with the words ‘Resolve later’ next to each and every one.
The next day, a Thursday, sanity had returned to our household and a family decision was made to really think about the idea, not to go off half cock and to carefully consider all aspects of such a change to our lives. Lea our little three year old liked the idea especially as she wanted to live where it did not rain all the time. Peter our son was more skeptical worrying about how he would chat up French girls if he was not fluent in French (he was 13). Karina took a more practical approach, which is why at 2300hrs on the Friday night we found ourselves on a Ferry bound for France, to get a real feel for what it would be like as a family.
We were booked on the night ferry out of Plymouth, and due to the lateness of the booking, coupled with Karina’s budgeting policy, we were allotted a broom cupboard next to the engine room, several decks below the water line that had hastily had four camp beds thrown into it. Whereas the sleeping accommodation was somewhat basic, the restaurants and bars were fantastic. Eating good food on a calm flat sea heading for France whilst the kids enjoyed themselves in the lounge, both of us were sure that we were about to do the right thing. Even the four hours sleep gently breathing in the diesel fumes from the engine seemed like fun. Both of us knew it was right. The next day we would begin our search for French serenity, or at least establish whether Karina and the kids really would want to live in France.
I awoke the next morning feeling slightly les exuberant than the night before, climbed up on deck and was greeted by a howling wind and lashing rain. My first thought was that we had done a ‘U’ during the night, but NO, it was raining in France. By the time we got off the boat however, the rain had ceased and my head was feeling better by the minute. Saturday morning is market day in Morlaix, and is only twenty minutes pleasant drive from Roscoff. That was to be our first destination.
The small town of Roscoff itself offers little to see, and at six in the morning nothing is open. This prompted us to set off very, very slowly towards Morlaix along the coast road via St Pol de Leon, a small town right on the sea, where again, nothing was open. The drive from St Pol to Morlaix is truly beautiful. The road meanders along the estuary that takes, at high tide, yachts and other large vessels right into the heart of Morlaix, a town the size of Totnes. Arriving in Morlaix from the estuary, the first sight is that of an enormous stone bridge several hundred feet high that dominates the town. About two hundred metres after the bridge on the right hand side of the road is a café where they serve the most delicious croissants and coffee.
We trouped in through the old wood and glass doors and into an art deco interior swathed in a blue haze of cigarette smoke. The old wooden counter, huge mirrors and painted ceilings looked as if they had not changed for forty years, and I later established from the owners that there had indeed been no decoration for about that length of time, because it was not needed! We placed our order at the bar and walked outside to sit at one of the tables on the pavement and to watch the market traders setting up their stalls. The coffees, hot chocolates and croissants arrived at exactly the same time as the sun came out. Life was looking up and what was more, the magic of paracetemol had finally restored my head to a form of normality. Within ten minutes we were all on top of the world and raring to go. To the toilet that is.
Trying to explain to a three year old the concept and rationale behind a ‘Turkish Toilet’ is a bit like trying to explain to someone why the food on British Trains is so awful. It just is. The actual idea of a hole in the floor is terribly hygienic, better perhaps than having a seat that thousands of other ‘derrieres’ have sat upon over forty odd years, but to a three year old it just is NOT a toilet. Perhaps, thankfully for many other three and four years, as well as those of a more sensitive nature, the old French ‘Launch Pads’ have now been phased out in most establishments and ‘normal’ toilets can be found nearly everywhere. Six years ago in Morlaix, however, it took us twenty minutes to find a real toilet. For the rest of the trip and in order not to traumatize the little one any further, all toilets were firstly inspected to ensure that they were suitable for a three year old with a very loud voice. To be continued........... Copyright with Peter Driscoll
I love France. I love the climate, the way of life and the wide open spaces. I love the open, non congested roads, the slower pace of life and the feeling that somehow I belong here. I love people saying ‘Bonjour’ when you pass in the morning, and with very few exceptions, love the French habit of kissing women when you meet. In short, I am a Francophile. What better then to shut up shop and move to France, to live, with thousands of other ‘Brits’, ‘The French dream’.
It is 2004. A typical June day in Plymouth. Grey skies and rain. I am sitting in my back office looking out over the Cornish slate rooftops at a trio of screaming seagulls that are intent on waking my three-year-old daughter from her afternoon nap. The phone rings and I begin talking to a client wishing to move to France. I go through my usual explanations as to what we do and the client then asks me where we are physically located. This is not the first time that this has happened. Here, I should explain that I was trading as a Removals Broker. Putting people in touch with removal companies that would then move them to their dream homes in France, Spain and Italy, in fact anywhere other than the UK.
No matter how many times I explained, I would receive the
‘Oh I wanted someone local, and you are in Plymouth’ reply from the less enlightened clients. I decided to resolve this little problem by always replying to the question by giving a wide variety of replies. The most common I used was ‘New Delhi’, followed closely by Sydney Australia, and if I were feeling particularly fanciful I would give our location as Barbados. Little did I realize where this would lead. My wife, who helped in the office by keeping papers in files instead of piles, heard my flippant comments and in true female style linked my comments to our move to France.
‘Why not’ she said. ‘It really does not matter where we live as the business is all Internet and telephones anyway. As long as we are in the same time zone we can live virtually anywhere’. I was livid. Here was I, a confirmed Francophile, living in abject misery under leaden Plymouth skies, dreaming of sunny France, and my wife had in two sentences changed all of our lives for the better. Now just imagine what that did for my ego.
It took me all of half a nano second to digest the enormity of what Karina was saying to me and simultaneously work out a way to make it appear it had been my idea all along. I believe that readers of both sexes will be able to relate to this! I seem to recall saying something along the lines of ‘But I thought you wanted to stay here’. Which elicited the sort of stare that only a wife can give a husband. I of course was ecstatic and within an hour I was saying to clients that we actually based in Cahors France. This, strangely had a very positive and uplifting effect on the business, as clients moving to France felt somewhat comforted by the fact that their broker was already there!
At this point I feel that I have to confess to two very important facts. The first is that I had previously lived in both Paris and Montpellier and the second is that I speak fluent French. These two points are crucial as I of course considered myself an expert on France and the French nation, whereas my wife had neither lived in France nor spoke French. I was therefore the oracle on all things France and French. My position as supreme commander and decision maker in chief lasted all of four minutes, that being the time it had taken my wife to reappear in the office and inform me of the family strategy for moving lock stock and keyboard to France.
It probably took about another ten minutes for the doubts to come flooding in on both sides. Petty problems such as ‘Where in France, when to move, buy or rent, what about the Kids and school, what about family, we don’t know anyone in France etc’, to raise their heads. Each time a difficult question was posed it was dealt with in a prompt and efficient manner, which both myself and Karina had perfected by the end of the day. The method involved writing down the questions and perceived problems and then writing the solution next to the question. This was an invaluable tool. By the end of the evening we had a page of questions with the words ‘Resolve later’ next to each and every one.
The next day, a Thursday, sanity had returned to our household and a family decision was made to really think about the idea, not to go off half cock and to carefully consider all aspects of such a change to our lives. Lea our little three year old liked the idea especially as she wanted to live where it did not rain all the time. Peter our son was more skeptical worrying about how he would chat up French girls if he was not fluent in French (he was 13). Karina took a more practical approach, which is why at 2300hrs on the Friday night we found ourselves on a Ferry bound for France, to get a real feel for what it would be like as a family.
We were booked on the night ferry out of Plymouth, and due to the lateness of the booking, coupled with Karina’s budgeting policy, we were allotted a broom cupboard next to the engine room, several decks below the water line that had hastily had four camp beds thrown into it. Whereas the sleeping accommodation was somewhat basic, the restaurants and bars were fantastic. Eating good food on a calm flat sea heading for France whilst the kids enjoyed themselves in the lounge, both of us were sure that we were about to do the right thing. Even the four hours sleep gently breathing in the diesel fumes from the engine seemed like fun. Both of us knew it was right. The next day we would begin our search for French serenity, or at least establish whether Karina and the kids really would want to live in France.
I awoke the next morning feeling slightly les exuberant than the night before, climbed up on deck and was greeted by a howling wind and lashing rain. My first thought was that we had done a ‘U’ during the night, but NO, it was raining in France. By the time we got off the boat however, the rain had ceased and my head was feeling better by the minute. Saturday morning is market day in Morlaix, and is only twenty minutes pleasant drive from Roscoff. That was to be our first destination.
The small town of Roscoff itself offers little to see, and at six in the morning nothing is open. This prompted us to set off very, very slowly towards Morlaix along the coast road via St Pol de Leon, a small town right on the sea, where again, nothing was open. The drive from St Pol to Morlaix is truly beautiful. The road meanders along the estuary that takes, at high tide, yachts and other large vessels right into the heart of Morlaix, a town the size of Totnes. Arriving in Morlaix from the estuary, the first sight is that of an enormous stone bridge several hundred feet high that dominates the town. About two hundred metres after the bridge on the right hand side of the road is a café where they serve the most delicious croissants and coffee.
We trouped in through the old wood and glass doors and into an art deco interior swathed in a blue haze of cigarette smoke. The old wooden counter, huge mirrors and painted ceilings looked as if they had not changed for forty years, and I later established from the owners that there had indeed been no decoration for about that length of time, because it was not needed! We placed our order at the bar and walked outside to sit at one of the tables on the pavement and to watch the market traders setting up their stalls. The coffees, hot chocolates and croissants arrived at exactly the same time as the sun came out. Life was looking up and what was more, the magic of paracetemol had finally restored my head to a form of normality. Within ten minutes we were all on top of the world and raring to go. To the toilet that is.
Trying to explain to a three year old the concept and rationale behind a ‘Turkish Toilet’ is a bit like trying to explain to someone why the food on British Trains is so awful. It just is. The actual idea of a hole in the floor is terribly hygienic, better perhaps than having a seat that thousands of other ‘derrieres’ have sat upon over forty odd years, but to a three year old it just is NOT a toilet. Perhaps, thankfully for many other three and four years, as well as those of a more sensitive nature, the old French ‘Launch Pads’ have now been phased out in most establishments and ‘normal’ toilets can be found nearly everywhere. Six years ago in Morlaix, however, it took us twenty minutes to find a real toilet. For the rest of the trip and in order not to traumatize the little one any further, all toilets were firstly inspected to ensure that they were suitable for a three year old with a very loud voice. To be continued........... Copyright with Peter Driscoll
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