French frolics

For all the love the French have of bureaucracy, I always find it surprising that they manage to ignore so many rules, regulations and, especially, dictats from the Big Brother in Brussels, otherwise known as the European Parliament (or Commission, which is rather like an unelected parliament with the power to make its own laws). Take, by way of one example, the average French tractor. Yes, I know that many French farmers, courtesy of the European Common Agricultural Policy and the French government, which seems to think that farmers and fishermen have more rights than anyone else, there are many rich French farmers. But there are just as many who simply scratch a living. Certainly they are better off than peasant farmers in, say, Bosnia, but rich they are not. Their tractors are often twenty or more years old, which means they don't possess some of the modern safety features which are required by law in England - and probably in France as well. Many is the tractor one sees in the fields or lanes where there is no roll bar to protect the driver in the event of the tractor overturning.

Sometimes, however, the French seem to delight in going to the other extreme. When one sells a house in France, there are several reports the seller has to have prepared - at his expense. This is possibly because the French rarely have a survey done when buying a house; they rely heavily, it would seem, on these reports. Until quite recently there were three of them, covering lead paint, asbestos and termites. It doesn't matter if there are no termites withing a couple of hundred miles of the house you are selling, you still have to have the survey and report done. Now there is a fourth report if the house you are selling is not on mains drainage.

Our holiday home in France is not on mains drainage. I think our house and the one next door are the only ones in the village that don't enjoy this amenity. Sewers were installed along our road when two small developments were built, one each side of the road, way back, but for some reason the drains didn't get as far as our house. Maybe the elderly occupiers of the two houses decided they couldn't afford - or didn't want to pay for - the extension of the sewer to our house. It means, of course, that we have a fosse septique, a cess pit. It works quite adequately, but. . .

Back in 2004 new rules were introduced. All houses not on mains drainage were to be surveyed and, where necessary, the drainage systems had to be brought into line with the new requirements by the end of 2005. I am not aware that our house has ever been surveyed and we have certainly never been told officially that our drainage system is not up to standard - but I know it isn't. I also know that we have insufficient land for us to bring the system up to the required standard, which states that the whole system must be a minimum distance from passing traffic. We - the Old Bat and I - just assumed that, as in so many things, the French were being pragmatic and just shrugging their shoulders in a Gallic way. We should have known better. There is now a fourth survey and report required when selling a house, a report confirming that the drainage system is up to standard.

Quite how we shall overcome this problem I have no idea. Oh yes I do - we don't sell but leave the house to our children and they can have the problem!

On the subject of hotels

I consider Skip a very good friend despite him being a Californian

My very good friend Skip posted pictures of the oldest hotel in California here and I made a cheeky comment. To rub even more salt in his wound, here is a picture of the White Hart Hotel in nearby Lewes.


You may be able to spot a blue plaque just to the left of the door. This is a close up shot of the plaque.

Thank you, Blogger - I don't think

I suppose if I were to adopt an infuriatingly positive approach I would say Blogger is looking after my interests. On the other hand, I could accuse Blogger of being an infuriating Big Nanny. But the truth of the matter is that Blogger has developed in infuriating glitch. I wondered at first whether it was Blogger or my computer, although I think I should have realised from my usually futile efforts to correct matters that the problem lay with Blogger. The number of blogs I follow has been increasing almost alarmingly over the phttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifast few weeks and has reached a stage where it can take me half an hour or more just to catch up with them all. So, in an attempt to save me from myself, Blogger has very kindly developed a thingummy which blocks some of the blogs I follow from my dashboard. This, of course, means that I am completely unaware of any new posts on all such blocked blogs and it is not until I suddenly think, "why isn't so-and-so blogging these days?" and go to the blog that I discover what has happened.

(If you are another one of those who have been affected by this glitch, which has apparently featured quite strongly on Blogger's own forum without a remedy being made available, you might like to read the solution suggested by Perpetua on her blog here.)

(Another little Blogger glitch is to insert a piece of code - http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif - at a random place in the blog whenever I post a link, thereby producing the little bull's head you can see further up. And why, I wonder, did the insertion of that code by me not produce a graphic?)

(Which reminds me of an infuriating habit of one of the most senior - indeed, the most senior - TV newsreader who, when warning of horrific pictures to come, would announce, 'The following report contains graphic images'. Aren't all images graphic?)

So, Blogger is obviously aware that my life was in danger of shrinking to a screen 12" x 9" and took steps to rescue me. After all, it is important to connect with the real world, to feel the dampness of rain, the coolness of wind, the warmth of the sun, to hear robins sing, to see the buds swell on the trees in spring. . .

I was getting carried away there. Sorry about that.

But there is more to life than reading the minutiae of the daily life of other people. Although, when all is said and done, all blogging is, is the modern, electronic equivalent of two housewives gossiping over the garden fence while hanging out the washing or two old boys putting the world to rights over a couple of pints and a game of dominoes in the village pub.

So what have you been up to today?

Thanks, Nina

Not really a claim to fame, but my cousin's son's wife is a BBC weather girl. She was on duty on Monday and can be seen here warning us of some pretty foul weather to come. And it has. Monday was bright and sunny - a gorgeous day, as you can see from the photo on my Stanmer blog today. (The photo was taken on Monday.) Yesterday I had difficulty in walking from the car to the side door with the shopping as the wind down the drive was gusting at about 60mph. Granted, it's not exactly hurricane weather, but neither is it quite what we are used to.

My cousin's son's wife. That makes him my first cousin once removed, so is Nina my first cousin-in-law once removed? Or just my cousin's daughter-in-law?

And does it matter?

But to get back to the weather. The wind and rain lasted all morning then, around about lunch time, some blue sky appeared. The wind eased off a little, the skies cleared, and I was able to take the dog for a walk across the Downs without getting soaking wet. I drove to the Clayton windmills and walked up from there, knowing that this is a stony track so Fern should not get too muddy. She enjoyed a paddle, though, as there was a substantial stream flowing down the edge of the track - and sometimes right across it.

It rained again later.

And there is a complete dearth of anything that piques my interest on the goggle box these days. Even the channel that shows repeats is repeating repeats it repeated only a few weeks ago.

I wonder if I used the correct word in that last sentence. Should I have written "the channel which" or was I right to use the word "that"? But since I assume everybody who reads that sentence will know exactly what I meant, does it really matter? Will the earth stop spinning if I used the wrong word?

Now I must get on the phone and chase up the company which (or that) owes me money - £370 no less.

Lists

I may have mentioned this before. . . No, not "may have"; I'm pretty sure that I have actually mentioned this before. It's just that I can't find exactly where I mentioned it. I'm a list person. No, not Brahms and Liszt. That's Cockney rhyming slang for. . . Anyway, I'm the sort of chap who makes lists. If I had been on the Titanic I would probably have been making a list of how many deckchairs were floating off to sea or something just as idiotic. But I did find when I was working that a few minutes spent at the end of the working day drawing up a list of the important things to be done the next day paid off. Now I'm retired I still make lists. Lists like shopping lists. Even if I have only four or five things to buy, if I don't take my list with me I'm bound to come home without something vital. Before going to a Lions meeting, I make a list of the things I need (or want) to say. I don't always say everything on the list but at least I have thought things through. This train of thought comes courtesy of Skip, via Matt and Suldog, all of whom have posted lists on their blogs in recent days (or weeks or even months/years). Having seen their lists, I have felt the itch, the yearning, the burnig desire to create another list. But what should I list? My CDs? No, perhaps not. Books I plan to read in 2012? Hardly, since I never plan to read books, I just pick up those that look interesting. No, none of those. I'll make it a list that might, just might, be of interest or use to other people, other people who are travelling in Europe. Here are a few of the things that I have found in cities across Euro pe and that have delighted me. Whimsical, stunningly beautiful, just plain surprising: all, to my mind, well worth seeing.


Postman's Park, London. This is one of the many parks in London and is one of the smallest and least well-known. It gets its name from its situation, very close to what was at one time the General Post Office, which itself is close to St Paul's cathedral. It is this park that one finds a very moving memorial, the Watts Memorial, which has over 50 plaques made of Royal Doulton tiles, each commemorating somebody who died trying to save another life. Each is full of tragic detail, like that to David Selves, aged 12 of Woolwich who "supported his drowning playfellow and sank with him clasped in his arms".

Begijnhof, Amsterdam. I found this delightful little square when visiting Amsterdam with my family (wife and three children) and with my friend Chris and his family (wife and two children). It offered a peaceful spot for a picnic in a city with few green spots in the centre.



Sainte-Chapelle, Paris. Paris, like London, abounds in tourist attractions but, to my mind, this is the most magnificent and yet it is one of the least known. Situated on the Île de la Cité not far from Notre Dame and tucked away behind the Ministry of Justice. Another of those places I have found by accident,the first time I visited was a sunny morning. The stained glass around the upper chapel is absolutely stunning with the sun shining through. I have not found a picture to really do it justice but the rose window gives a taste of what is there.

Florence - the Baptistry. Forget the cathedral, the Ponte Vecchio, the statue of David and the art galleries. Facing the main west door of the cathedral is the Baptistry. The doors of this building consist of several metal panels - highly polished brass, I should think - on which are depicted biblical scenes such as the one on the left. Absolutely stunning.













Jeanneke Pis, Brussels. Possibly the best known attraction in Brussels is the Manneken Pis, a statue of a small boy urinating and thereby providing an amusing fountain. The original statue dated from the 14th century but was replaced in the 17th. However, in a nod to feminism, another statue was made in the 1980s - Jeanneke Pis. This is a little girl squatting and urinating. Tucked away in a narrow, dead-end alley, it is found by few tourists.


Figline in Val d'Arno, Italy. Greve-in-Chianti is noted for its triangular piazza but when I visited I found it unpleasantly crowded. A few miles away the little town of Figline also has an attractive, triangular piazza where it is possible to sit at a cafe terrace enjoying a coffee while locals go about their business without the hassle of umpteen tourists.

And, in my opinion, two well worth not visiting: the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen Harbour is too small to be worth bothering with and is poorly situated. You can't get close enought to the Mona Lisa to see the picture, which is behind thick glass anyway and always has a hundred or so people elbowing each other in an attempt to get closer.

Cheers!

It couldn't happen nowadays - and even back then it was probably not that common. I don't remember when the traditional morning tot was abolished by the Andrew - and I have never found out just why the Royal Navy should have been given that nickname - but the story I am about to relate dates from the days when every matelot aged 18 and over was entitled to it. I had pretty much forgotten this little episode until I read a post by Stephen Hayes, aka the Chubby Catterbox, sorry, that should read Chatterbox. He describes (here) what Manhattans and a drink known as AMF have done to him in the past and goes on to ask what drinks do the same for others.

Perhaps before I go any further I will make it quite clear that these days I drink very little, certainly never enough to land me on my back. I take a regular glass of wine - purely for medicinal purposes, you understand - and have been known to drink the occasional Scotch and water. That's plain tap water, none of your fizzy soda water which just spoils a good drink. And definitely no ice.

Back in the days almost beyond recall I was under the impression (mistaken, as it happens) that my family on my father's side had been deep sea fishermen for generations until my grandfather joined the Royal Navy, in which he served for more than 20 years. Likewise my father. With the youthful enthusiasm which has long since left me, I really wanted to keep up the family tradition. Unfortunately, I had suffered with asthma all my life and there was no way that I could pass the medical for entry into the Andrew. However, we were living in Hove then and, as luck would have it, there was a division of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve with its headquarters on the seafront. One parade night I diffidently showed myself and, much to my surprise, was accepted for entry so long as it was into a sedentary rating and I eventually found myself in the uniform of a Writer, RNVR.

As well as attending weekly parades, all reservists had to undertake two week's training each year. For most, this involved going to sea on board HMS Curzon, the minesweeper allocated to the Sussex Division RNVR. There was no place for a writer on the Curzon so, after I had attended all the obligatory courses at Chatham barracks, I was sent to a proper ship or establishment for my training every year. One year I travelled to Devonport to join HMS Lynx. Almost as soon as I was aboard she sailed. We travelled westabout round England, Wales and Scotland, passing through the Pentland Firth in a force 8 gale soon after eating greasy pork chops. Not a pleasant experience, the Pentland Firth being one of the roughest sea areas around our coast. Our destination was Bremerhaven, Germany, where we were to make a "fly the flag" visit.

We arrived in the morning and shore leave was granted to the whole ship's company from 11.30 or thereabouts. Pretty well all the hands in my mess went ashore straight away, leaving just three or four of us who had decided to eat lunch on board before exploring the town. "Up spirits" was piped as usual at noon and the killick of the mess went to collect the tots for our mess. Naturally, no mention was made of the matelots already ashore who were, technically, not eligible to receive their tots that day. The rum was brought back to the mess and the four of us had our tots. It was not permissible to keep any rum, not even for an hour or so, and there was still rum in the fanny. We ended up drinking about three tots each that day - all on empty stomachs - and Navy rum was slightly stronger than the rum one usually buys in the supermarket. I have a feeling it was about 90% proof.

After lunch we went ashore and piled into the first bar we saw. We ordered a round of drinks (beer) but one of the locals insisted on paying. All the locals, one after the other, bought us a round of drinks until, after four or five beers, we staggered out and into town where we almost fell into a cellar wine bar.

I never did remember anything between the second bottle of wine and me staggering along a railway track at the harbour. Heaven alone knows how I got there! So to answer Stephen's question, it was - on that occasion - a mixture of rum, beer and wine that knocked me on my back.

Resolutions? Not me!

I don't do resolutions at New Year or any other time. If I did, I might just adapt the old fourth Scout law (at least, I think it was the fourth):

A Scout is a friend to all and a brother to every other Scout no matter to what colour class or creed the other may belong.

There are words of wisdom in the Lions' code of ethics as well:To accept no profit or success at the price of my own self respect lost because of unfair advantage taken or because of questionable acts on my part.

• Whenever a doubt arises to the right or ethics of my position or action towards my fellow men, to resolve such doubt against myself.
• To hold friendship as an end and not a means. To hold that true friendship exists not on account of the service performed by one to another, but that true friendship demands nothing but accepts service in the spirit in which it is given.
• To be careful with my criticisms and liberal with my praise; to build up and not destroy.

I do try to remember those words every day, not just on 1st January. It isn't always easy, but who promised that life would always be easy?.


2011 was a pretty tumultuous year in several ways, what with the uprisings in Tunisia, Egypt and Libya, unrest in Bahrain and continuing problems in Syria. Then there have been the deaths of Osama bin Laden, Muammar Gadaffi, Kim Jong-wotsit and the former Czech President Havel. Closer to home we had the excitement (for some) of William and Kate becoming the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and the further excitement of riots in various cities in August for no apparent reason. Even closer, I was introduced to my Macmillan nurse one Tuesday and had almost come to terms with the fact that I had lung cancer when ten days later I was told it wasn't: I just had a lump of mucus in my lung. I wish I could say that every day since then has seemed like an extra one, but they haven't. I think I was reasonably certain in my mind that I was going to beat that bugger - but then I didn't have to anyway, which was a great relief.

I am not going to do an Old Moore and gaze into a crystal ball so we shall just have to wait and see what this new year holds in store. Whoever and wherever you are, I hope 2012 treats you at least as kindly as it treats me.