I come to you bee-yond bee-lief

On Sunday I was talking to Madame about this and that and I mentioned that Bee-boy seemed to have vanished. She said that she thought he had a caravan in a field near his bees, and that he was possibly spending a few nights there. She asked me if I had tried any of his honey and I had to say that I had not. She disappeared to get me some, and returned with a small pot, which contained a bright yellow substance which looked like mayonnaise or custard. I tried a bit and it had a very strong taste. It was very nice with a vague hint of something that I could not identify. Orange? I asked. No, his bees pollinate sunflowers. He makes 3 different grades of honey and sells a lot of it to someone from Toulouse who sells it with his home vegetable delivery service. In fact, said Madame, someone had to the house during the week, all the way from Toulouse to buy some of Bee-boy’s honey as the quality is so good. Unfortunately he was out, but he does not have any of last year’s honey left.
While Bee-boy’s family were here, I took this photo of his sister’s leg on my much misused little triangle of grass which is much in demand for various activities as previously chronicled, such as painting and dog toilet training.

The bee's knees?

I walked into town and noticed that I had a new lodger on this patch of lawn.
I could see a lone bee buzzing around it.

When I came back from town, there were hundreds of the little buzzers flying around the hive.I hope it does not stay there long. A single hive can house up to 50,000 bees. I expect he was meaning to ask me if he can put his hive there for a while………?

Rock‘n’roll

Whilst en route to my bank soiree. I spotted something that made me think that I was seeing things. Of course I took a photo of the scene. Today’s online Depeche has this photo and story from the Tarn-et-Garonne region of France.

This is what I thought might happen in the situation that I saw, only in my case the results could potentially be much worse.
Remember I am on a steep hill which overlooks the Town. Across the main road there are houses built on more, steep hillside, which drops down very steeply to houses at the bottom of the hill.
I would think it bad enough waiting for the rumble of an earthquake (we are in an earthquake zone) and an area which has frequent rock falls due to heavy rain. But the people at the bottom of the hill have the houses above them, the hillside to fall on them, and as if that were not enough. There are these babies waiting in the wings.

I could not see anything other than their size and weight holding them in place. They are holding back yet more earth and hillside.
What would you put on your insurance claim form for your damaged car.
“Large stone fell onto car while I was parked in my driveway”.
I expect the house is owned by people from Paris or the Dordogne… or a Brit who thought that they had ordered some pebbles to surface their drive....

Tiers before bedtime

Friday night was my bank's annual general meeting. It was being held in a part of town that I was not familiar with so I consulted Google and planned my pedestrian route. A 21 minute walk. I put on a proper shirt and trousers and even a jacket. It was a warm night and it would be uphill for the last half of the trip, but had a lot to look forward to.
“L’assemblée générale se poursuivra dans la convivialité autour d’un apéritif et d’un buffet , un orchestre animera la fin de soirée”
That is to say there would be a drink, a buttet and an orchestra. So I did not make myself an evening meal.
I stopped part way up the hill and took a photo of the chateau from a new (for me) vantage point.

A bit further up the hill, I took some photos of the remaining show on the hills.

I was just about to re-incline myself, when a woman in the garden next to which I had been taking the pics started talking to me. But no, it was not trouble, it was the lady from the choir that was debating over whether or not to buy a clematis. She had been cutting one of her little lawns. Did I want to see where she had positioned the clematis that she had bought? She probably thinks that I am a plant stalker. In the UK I would have got a “What the bleep are you doing here?” In France it is assumed that you are tracking down plants. I said that I would like to see her plant, and she duly took me to another part of her garden, and sure enough, if you looked very closely, you could see where it had been planted. Fearing that she might think that I was a stalker, I showed her my bank letter and explained my mission.
I noted that there was a big chain attaching the floor of the second storey of her house to the ground. It is on a very steep slope and seems to hang out over the void. Still she does get a good view of the town and surrounding mountains.
I get to my location and note two big bank signs fixed on to the railings by the entrance to the university grounds. Not a sign of anyone, although there are some people sitting in cars. It is quarter of an hour before the meeting is due to start, so I wander further up the road, wander back, then enter the grounds. No sign of any welcome party, no signs to say, “This way” so I stroll through the leafy grounds, looking closely at the buildings I pass. Nada, I become aware that I am being followed, but I continue on trying to see what their open air amphitheatre is like. I do find it, but not because the signs point to its actual location. I spot a building with some suits standing near the entrance and make for that instead. Nestling below the building I find the amphitheatre.
I hover about a bit. There are no notices up. No one goes inside. More people arrive and at just before 7pm people start to shuffle inside. I join the queue, and over my piece of paper, sign a list, and when I ask I am given the same leaflet that everyone else has been given and a biro.
I look around to plan a quick route to the food and drink after the bank gig. No sign yet.
I enter a lecture theatre, which had tiered seats and choose one. I read the leaflet, I watch the projected films. The carpets are as new, the desks in front of the seats are unmarked, no initials carved, no chewing gum stuck underneath. There is a poster on the wall advertising a tourism conference dated 2000.
Eventually, only 35 minutes after the start time, the suits take their places and we begin. There must have been just short of 100 in the audience.
The 4 suits have stupidly long, grand titles. Their business cards must continue on the reverse side. They drone on as we look at figures and pie charts. Then we are voting for things. No idea what, so I just vote for the first option each time. All the motions are passed.
Then there are presentations of flowers, someone wins a holiday for 2. We also celebrate someone being dead. Then the guest speaker, with an even longer title talks about the problem of sub-prime mortgages in America, which seems to have caused the current crisis.
Finally the talking is over, no one has any questions Hooray!
I hang back a bit as I do not want people to think that I am only there for the free food and drink. I listen for the strains of a distant orchestra.
Yes. You’ve guessed it. Not a saucisson, not a Semillion, not a sonata.
Every one leaves the building, they get into their cars, and away they go.
I make my way home, clutching my biro, stomach rumbling. Never trust a French banker, or even a bunch of bankers. Bigger bankers is not necessarily a good thing.

Time check

Just over a year ago S and I were on holiday in Albi for a couple of weeks. The point of the trip was to have a look at the property available that might be within my budget and which might generate a small amount of income.
I had been logging on most days and scouring various French Property web sites which I had discovered in the pages of my monthly issue of “French Property News”. I must have spent weeks worth of time in search of the ideal French location and / property.
I read tales of people who had sold up in the UK and who on a very small budget. (Their idea of a small budget being about 4 times my available budget) and had bought a chamber d’hote, or a cheap chateau, a vineyard, fishing lakes, hotel, bar etc etc. Many of the people were retirees or frazzled executives quitting the 24 hour rat race, cashing in on the high value of their Southern England properties and rates of exchange which would can only be dreamed of today.
I watched television programmes about seemingly clueless people who took on impossible tasks, converting a chateau into a high class b &b in France, or in Slovenia. Almond farming in France, or even snail farming. Some people barely out of their 20’s had enough money to sell up and buy a property at home and one abroad. Oh how I agonised with them over their dreadful dilemma (not!). Some were obviously complete wastes of space with no intentions of buying anything.
Anyway back to the plot. In the middle of the holiday I had arranged to spend 3 nights in a town south of Toulouse to have a look at a property which might be suitable for my purposes. The estate agency set up about 5 other viewings for us and over the three days we travelled to different areas of the Department.
Back in Albi once more, I bought the building in which I now live, by text message.
So what? Well it was just over a year ago i.e. on the 18th March 2008.
I was still doing my job in the UK, but my house had been on the market for about 8 months and it was likely that the sale would be finalised.
In fact, when I came back from the holiday, I had 3 days to pack up, put my belongings into storage and move out prior to exchange of contracts.
The sale was completed and a few weeks later the estate agency had collapsed as plummeting house prices bit into their business. Phew!
I worked on for a short while, thought “f**k it” and handed in my resignation.
This is where I went wrong. I should have got my self sacked, and then I would perhaps have qualified for unemployment benefit or some sort of job seekers allowance in France. Also if I had worked long enough to literally earn a couple of hundred pounds more, I would have qualified for a further 6 months reciprocal medical cover from the UK. I finally arrived to live in France mid August last year.
So here I am coming up to my first year of unemployment, on the 1st May, living in France. Ces choses arrivent!
I wonder what will happen in the next 12 months…….. It is amazing what can happen in a short space of time if you stop watching the TV and do something less boring instead.

LotsaPots

The plant festival / market was on today, so I set off once again to see if it would really be there. Fortunately it was, and there were lots of people there selling, buying and just looking at the plants on offer. The sun was shining, so it was quite pleasant, and now that it was under a new roof, there was little danger of it being a washout, unless the rain made vertical progress.

There were the usual array of green plants and shrubs, completely unidentifiable to the untutored eye. There were flowers, small climbers, a bonsai stall, with none of the tiny trees having any visible prices. There was someone selling hand thrown and painted pottery, an artist from Emma’s atelier selling hand painted flower pots and sections of clay pipe (not the small smoking implement variety). There was an element which had a touch of the Irish about it. O’Hara’s Ikebana stand offering ikebana lessons as well as two small flower arrangements.
A man was selling wooden bird boxes, and a woman who was knitting away quite happily, was selling wooden buttons. I think she must slice up suitable branches, strip off the bark, put in the thread holes and polish and varnish the discs. A money making scheme if ever I saw one.
I bumped into C from the choir who was looking for a clematis. I was standing in front of the clematis at the time. At 13 euros 30 for a plant in a pot, she thought that they were too expensive. I asked her if she had a big garden. She said that she didn’t. Her garden was on a slope, so she had made it into terraces. To cut a long story short, she has five separate gardens, none of which sounded very small.

The sky started to cloud over and I set off home as I had not brought a coat with me, and did not fancy going all wrinkly.
Next weekend there is a brocante (overpriced antiques) sale in the centre of town. So no stop to the free entertainment.
Monday’s paper explained that this event filled an empty slot in the town’s calendar of events and was a first. It remains to see if the Association, who had been planning the event for the last 4 months, will want to make it an annual event.
They also mentioned the ikebana stand. My suspicions were confirmed that this was a hobbly strictly for the girlies. “On a remarqué aussi la démonstration d'Ikebana, cet art du bouquet floral japonais qui, semble-t-il, a surtout plu attiré des dames.” La Depeche

On the game

On Saturday evening I went along to the local primary school in the next street. As I walked down the road, I saw three gendarmes on the pavement up ahead, their police car across the road parked in the entrance to the medical centre, and with its lights flashing. Slightly further down the road on the opposite side was a small knot of about 5 spectators.
I carried on towards the police and a fire engine with sirens going, hove into view and headed towards me, literally. I thought I was going to become a pavement statistic, but it stopped at the kerb about a metre from me. I stopped briefly then proceeded again, only to stop one pace later as a door in the side of the vehicle swung open towards me, blocking the pavement and my progress, as some firemen piled out.
I started forward again, past all the uniforms, turned the corner and continued on towards the school.
Yes tonight was the first event on the local friendly society calendar. I was expecting about 5 people to turn up, but soon there were about 30 people ranging from a 3 year old, teenagers, through to the more mature 40 pluses.
There were a range of games, including a very old Monopoly set, which had Paris railway stations etc and whose money was in the old francs.
However I was there to play one of the French nations favourite card games, Belote.
Do you know how to play?
No.
Ee dus not noe owe to play…..
Eventually I was sat at a table. Me, my partner, two opponents and an extra person to assist me.
The card sequence of values is different from what I am used to from whist, rummy etc. and having the attention span of a gnat I was a slow learner. Still by the end of the evening, some three and a half hours later, they seemed pleased with my progress. So thanks to them, I had an enjoyable evening. I may even go on next month’s family car rallye / treasure hunt / meal. (I must remember to take along a plate and cutlery. Something which is the norm at community meal events)
There were also cakes and crepes that people had baked and brought along to share during the evening. I will have to learn how to bake something to take along, but I cannot think of anything suitable British to take along. Perhaps rock cakes, as they are supposed to be hard? I will have to consult with my culinary advisor.
The teenagers had been keeping an eye on the police situation, and from what I could gather, the son (who lives in Paris) of the man who lives in the house on the corner had not heard from or been able to contact his father, so he had called in the cops. I had noticed that his mail box had not been emptied for the last week or so, but it is a teeny box, smaller than a cornflake packet. The firemen went up ladders to look in windows, but I do not know what the outcome was. Certainly no windows or doors appear to have been forced open, and the mail box is still stuffed with post and publicity….

A boy named Jesus on the staff?

This is what happens when you are a devotee of your town’s web site. You go to see the plant extravaganza under the newly reopened Halle (Thursday evening witnessed by a crowd of about 3 people and a whippet) complete with plant experts giving talks.
I amble into town and this is what the Halle now looks like.

Thinking that I might be at the wrong Halle I dodged the ever present dog? turds and headed to the other Halle beside the Abbey. Nope no plant fiesta there either. There was however, this chap dressed in typical Frenchman about town garb, du moyen age. He had these two long poles with foam taped tightly to one end of each stick with brown parcel tape. I noticed him due to the clatter he made when he dropped a pole. I had arrived just as he had decided to take a break and he headed off to the nearby café. After some time (I am a patient man) he came back and started twirling his sticks. Sometimes one stick, and sometimes the more tricky two stick combo. Now this is either some kind of medieval martial art carried out by men in sandals but without white socks so not British) and the foam ends covering or replacing sharp wooden or metal points or blades, or it could be flaming torches.

Unfortunately my camera is not fast enough to take moving targets at the instant that I press the shutter so most ended up as back or side shots. At least the Abbey wall didn't move.

They do like their flaming torch processions here and I noted just this week that at some point during the summer there will be a flaming procession, followed by a display of dextrous fire twirling. This could be one of them getting some pre- lights out practice in. If the latter is the case, stand well clear as he keeps dropping his sticks. Especially dangerous are the lunges where either one at a time or both together, the sticks are thrust out from the body in a lunging motion, the grip on the sticks is released, they shoot forward and in theory are caught and held with about a foot of stick still to spare. Tricky especially as the sticks must be pretty heavy at that point and they should be deployed to the same length.