Films to avoid

District 29: a Bizarre science fiction metaphor for our times with really shocking scenes of violence, blood and gore, Star Troopers meets Star Wars. Definitely unsettling.

The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus: Anyone with fond memories of the odd sequences in Monty Python will recognise Terry Gilliam’s over blown imagination at work. This must be the worst of his films. With a great cast including Christopher Plummer (a Canadian) Johnny Dep, and Heath Leger, this self indulgent and lottery financed romp/ morality tale is too long, too slow, too dark and almost charmless.

See:

500 Days of Summer – loads of charm bittersweet rom com.

Up looks good!

It was dark and excited francophone hopefuls were gathering! Miss Swire, Mrs. C and Mr. B were looking sharp

Colin – driver was there having spent the night in Ringwood at the Travel Inn to be fresh, but it was dark and there was a chill. We were loaded and off to Pompey to collect Ben  and find Rory our Scottish Guide. It was a very big Classic coach, 2.5 metres longer than most with 59 seats! So lots of room for our 34 students and five staff. At Portsmouth, Ben  appeared to be missing his rendez-vous, but pitched up in time.

Customs selected five bags, catching Mr. B., Chas, and three boys for summary inspection.

We boarded the Mont St. Michel of Brittany Ferries on foot and made our way to Rivains 4, the schools lobby and dispensed the yoghurts and pains au chocolat and then wandered off. The crossing would take
about six hours to Ouistreham, the port of Caen, mighty William le Batard’s home town.

Monday

The day started bright and early with a typical French breakfast of fresh bread and hot chocolate, yum!  The children enjoyed a fabulous demonstration by our Chef Pascal.  We learnt (in French) how to make
the most wonderful Crepe Aumonieres aux Pommes. We all had a go at flipping the crepes and only a few went on the floor!  The crepes tasted all the sweeter for having made them ourselves, though the caramel sauce certainly helped too!

We admired the agricultural landscape (complete with piles of turnips and potatoes) as we travelled by coach to Arromanches.  Chas gave a gripping commentary describing (vividly) the role this tiny town played in WW2, and the children were thrilled to see the Mulberry harbour for themselves.  They also found time to sample the local crepes (yes, their second crepe of the day!).  We worked off a few calories by puffing up the hill to take in the view and lunch (fresh baguettes with brie or ham) before visiting the 360 degree cinema.

The film was an emotional and moving portrayal of the D-Day Landings which certainly gave us all something to think about. The afternoon was spent at a dairy farm, and the children weren’t too perturbed to
be hearing a talk (in French of course) while standing in a field full of cows!  Magically, we all had the chance to make our own butter by whisking the milk briskly and blending the lumpy mush with water until it came good.  More sampling of the farm’s produce followed (well, it is a gastro-tour!).

By the time we had arrived back at base, it was time for supper, followed by journal writing.

Tuesday

There were alarums and excursions in the night! And 0745 came far too soon, but the tempting smell of hot chocolate and French baguette was enough and then we were walking along the very beach where Guillaume le Batard (one of the very precocious Normandy Batards) launched his invasion.

Soon we were at the Drakkar Chocolatier, outside Bayeux and their symbol was the very Norman longboat that Guillaume used to ferry his men, horses and hopes to Bexhill.

We were treated to the origins of the Mayan love of the cacao bean mixed with chillies and how they mistook Cortes for the returning Coxcacetl, the Great Plumed Serpente; presenting him with their most valuable possession, cacao beans in a very distracting gold bowl. In typical ffrench fashion there was also a confusing tale of how cacao butter was only used to coat ‘les suppositoire” and a chemist who was locked in his shop over the week-end, and starving… Now everyone enjoys white chocolate!

The aromas of chocolate were still in our minds as we loaded the bus and climbed high into the Auge to the farm of the charismatic Eric where we learned about apples from the Pays D’Auge, and then gathere them, crushed them and squeezed them to make the Mout de Pommes (very fresh testing unpasteurised apple juice) and then followed the process through Cidre, Pommeau and finally Calvados. There were pigs, chickens, goats, donkeys and of course very fine cows, some of which provided a short rodeo show!

Back at the CPCV, Chef Pascal and Poulet Pays d’Auge with cidre, onions, crème fraiche, on brochettes with more apple and mushrooms.  Very tasty indeed.

The evening was taken up with local cheeses: Livaro (very mild) Camenbert and Pont l’Eveque and then perchance to sleep and perhaps to dream.

Wednesday

Today was sadly our last day in Normandy but the pace didn’t let up. Our first port of call literally was Ouistreham for the early morning fish market. We formed a special team: F.R.O.G. (Front for the Reorganisation of Grenouilles!) Our aim? Free Larry the Lobster! We arrived as the traders were piling up their stalls, with lobster, dogfish,  scallops, squid et al.

The pupils made a mental note of the vocabulary ready for the afternoon fish cooking demonstration.

We moved along to Bayeux for the weekly street market, and the pupils were let loose among the traders to practise their French bargaining down for the best deal. The ‘chapeau’ stall must have been popular as we departed with a new group of Rastafarians, Nepalese tribesmen and Peter, aka ‘Inspecteur Maigret!’

The Bayeux tapestry was our next visit, which lived up to expectations with a fascinating tour around the tapestry and video on the symbolism of the tapestry. A quick stop at hypermarché Leclerc was followed by our final cookery demonstration, a wonderful seafood cocktail of scallops, whelks, prawns and oysters, served in a delicious ‘houlgaitaise’ sauce of cidre, crème fraiche and butter. Pascal then presented all the pupils with a certificate to authenticate their Normandy experience, not forgetting a home made honey sucette. A final run around the beach to burn off energy at sunset let to the grand finale of the ‘moules frites’ supper. Rory, our guide, led the way with 158 moules! Quelle visite! A bientot la Normandie.

(Ed and Mrs. Karsh stayed at the C.P.C.V., a Presbyterian run hostel in Houlgate, travelled with 34 childrn, and Classic Coaches on Brittany Ferries).

Regarding the other, I had forgotten what a challenging time it was having an under one year old dog. At the risk of showing off, Stig was definitely one of the stars at puppy obedience classes, to the point where it was hard not to come back rather smug each week, as he performed to perfection on command.

It’s a shame that this unquestioning willingness to please hasn’t continued.

My friend Lynne and I, having decided against a cycle ride in the rain took the dogs for a walk in the woods at Red Shoot, with the plan to finish with a warming bowl of soup afterwards…best laid plans and
all that.

Within half an hour of arriving, nattering nineteen to the dozen, having lots to catch up on we realised that we were missing one of our 4 dogs.

After tramping the length and breadth of the woods (at least 3 times), hoarse with calling and whistling, we returned to the pub to dry out and warm up. Half an hour later we were back out, still searching. Three hours and an extra dog who momentarily looked like Stig but wasn’t but who adopted us anyway, we still hadn’t found the wretched beast.

I returned to Fordingbridge to do an hour’s work and call the dog warden and check for messages on the ansaphone. No sign or sound of dog.

Back out to Red Shoot. No reports of missing dog at pub although someone might have seen a black dog that looked a bit like a great dane near Linford Bottom. Drive over there.. no dog of any description.

Back to pub, delayed a bit by dead cow in road just run over by wreckless driver. Still no dog. Now dark and late and definitely no voice left.

Back home to cook supper for family, too distracted and worried so totally incapable of cooking, send husband to get fish and chips (don’t whatever you do, however hungry, have fish and chips from the
chippy – expensively disgusting).

Phone rings, lady at pub says someone’s just spotted labrador down road who ran away when she tried to catch him. 2 chaps at pub gone to look for him.

Back to Red Shoot. No sign or sound of dog, chaps couldn’t find him. Retrace where he may have been seen -  about 3 miles from where lost him.

Call…and call…wait ….and wait…call again. Give up fumble in dark back to car, now truly worried, but trying to reassure myself it may be dark and wet but at least it’s not too cold. Suddenly the sound of thundering paws and Stig nearly knocks me off my feet in the sheer joy of finding his owner.

Lost dog found at exactly 8.30pm.

Retire home to a very large glass of wine, in the hopes that dog had frightened himself enough to learn his lesson. Following morning, owner heard calling and whistling for lost dog.

We clocked up nearly 300 miles but the last hill at Stuckton was the most challenging, perhaps knowing that The Dome was so close.

The weather for cycling was perfect and the crossings calm.  I wondered, as we sailed home in the September sun past “Old Harry”, Studland Bay and then into Poole Harbour, why we ever left behind this country for our holidays.  But then, of course, we’d miss out on the experience of those croissants. moules frites, and above all the empty roads which make cycling such a pleasure.

A bientot

Lesley

We did have an ace, a really great group of parents, and an amazingly competent group of small boy campers. The amazing weather was a bonus.

A small boy keen to join Cubs is called a Tenderpad, which makes perfect sense if you remember B.-P. ‘s original concept was wrapped around Kipling’s  Jungle Book and the wolves of the Seonee wolf pack, and the boys are called Wolf Cubs.

There was a very keen Tenderpad waiting at Brook Farm for the explosion of boys and kits and food, it was ‘Our Harry’ a 10 month old Labrador (ablely assisted by Old Brandy a sensible 9 years old).

We set up camp which was  a major exercise especially as some of the dads had brought huge palaces… We played Micro Dot, a fiendish wide game with Miss Lord ( our new Rikki) as Mother despatching agents
from behind enemy lines.

Two seductive rope swings were enjoyed (sadly one has already been surgically removed).

Dinner was fire warmed sausages in a bun and some practice singing before darkness fell and the amazing job of getting 33 small boys tucked up began. There were alarums and excursions in the night… various groups being spooked by the movements of unspecified groups of animals.

Dawn came early and it was a welly walk and then breakfast before loading and departure for Brenscombe slightly late arriving in deepest Purbeck by 1045 for archery, fire-lighting and rifle shooting. The main event was at Europe’s highest rope course where we launched and then in three groups, the cubs donned safety gear to spend the next three hours climbing, dangling, falling, jumping and generally doing alarming things in a very jolly manner (for example playing last man standing 30’ off the ground on a balancing beam, or dancing!).

We are now members of Sporks United! No more cutlery to heft! We discovered on  the canoe trip last summer that if you can design a menu that is Spork Friendly, the rest is easy! So we had chicken fajitas…. And a very fine camp fire and sing song.

Sunday was lazy as some Cubs slept in, and we had the full cooked breakfast with all the hot chocolate, eggs, bacon, toast, jam and juice a Cub could want and then we were off on a ramble across the Forest to Hyde for ice cream. Our redoubtable team lead by Mr. Fairfield and Mrs. C struck camp right down to the portaloo and we were able to deliver a pretty jolly crew back to the school by midday!

p.s. all clear confirmed by G.P.  last Monday. No more worries over scary scary illness. CC

My second nanny, was a redoubtable young German girl, Jutta. She was sensible, reliable and I loved her utterly. We could talk! And often did, quite companionably, sometimes in the bath, being washed with my little sister Toni. It was a warm secure world. Parents were wonderful, but they were so busy and always somewhere glamourous like Acapulco, or Gstaad. Morna and Louis thought nothing of going to New York, staying at the Pierre, cavorting at Jack and Charlie’s 21 Club, dining at Henry Guiget’s ‘Le Veau d’Or” and then whiling away the daylight hours at the New York Motor Show to pick out a car. One year my father came back with a Fiat Monza Spider! Wonderful in the summer… another year it was an even racier Mercedes 190 SL with a hard top for the winters (still useless in the snow).

Morna was committed to the huge station wagons that could take all the children and the dogs… somewhere, anywhere! But maybe like our friends who felt they had to send off tiny children to board, they
just weren’t cut out for the pastoral care end? I can certainly remember, in the days before seat belts; that on long journeys, the back seat would be folded flat and we’d all loll on a large cotton covered foam mattress and if there were disputes and caterwauling, an arm wielding a tennis racket would come back and swat indiscriminately until there was silence.

Another memorable occasion was the time Toni and I were taken to the local general store, and tiny toddler Toni was hoisted onto an apple barrel (that long ago!) and then when we were  finished shopping,
Morna and I carried the bag out and left. I couldn’t help noticing that Toni looked a little distressed as we drove off, but it was perhaps all for the best. Imagine my astonishment, when less than half an hour later, when I was playing quietly and happily on my own, Morna asked where Toni was. When I explained that we’d left her behind, there was a swat to the head before I was bundled back in the car. Toni was in tears, still on the barrel. Parents can be so mysterious!

And of course, the boys, our boys; had ‘nannies’. They may not have been supplied by the Norland Agency, and certainly none of them had crisp uniforms, many barely spoke English and one (Algerian) was
certainly more interested in drugs. It must have been tough for them. Our tiny house in Battersea was a far cry from the roomy splendour of my mother’s home. We were nowhere near the sylvan surrounds of Hyde Park where stiff linen cosseted real nannies proudly pushed huge prams from ‘Rods.

Some were devoted, like the wonderful Swiss girl who loved and cherished our children, and presented us with a cast bronze cow bell, our names and hers around the rim. There was an equally talented
French girl and even a seductive Belgian girl who broke hearts all around us at de Grassi and a lovely English girl. We even had a boy, Boris, who was willing but no match for Matt and had to be
repatriated to Bruxelles in tears before his time was up.

I have to say, at best they provided respite care, and meant Jude and I could go to work or even steal away for a naughty week-end in Richmond (all of five miles down the road). I look at the three huge
young men who casually wander into our home, fry up enormous meals, drink all my beer, leave the toilet seat up, abandon books, single socks, old rasor blades and the like; and disappear with my carefully
matched socks, and wonder how we did it. They tease me when I ask them to do their own dishes: “It was all right for you Dad, you had servants!” they cry disdainfully.

Servants! Servants! These three boys have had devoted retainers for over TWENTY YEARS! We’ve cleaned their bottoms, dumped their nappies, wiped their tears, examined their homework, combed their hair, mended their bikes, changed their sheets, bought their clothes, cleaned their loos, loved their friends, humped their empty beer bottles, posted their shoes, welcomed their girlfriends, taught them to drive and waved them good-bye, while all the time funding their very existence with our meagre taxed incomes.

Oh smug joy!

Yet again we found ourselves speeding to the vet for repairs (out of hours of course).  Kind Roger the vet peered at previous notes and while wondering aloud if she would be OK with anaesthetic exclaimed “Oh!  She’s done this before!”

He then asked if she was allergic to anything and then having heard the list of items she had managed to consume without any apparent effect (most recently half a stick of rock and a complete container of fish oil tablets – in one evening) decided that she probably wasn’t.

She emerged later with a large bandage and an even larger bill, not much put out and showing hardly any effect of two sedatives and an anaesthetic – ate a hearty meal and settled down comfortably in her bed.

We had been told that the bandage must on no account become wet or dirty as part of one of her pads had had to be cut off together with a bit of bone and the wound might become infected.  We racked our brains and Henry at last hit on the idea of cutting a hole in a tennis ball and fitting it over the paw! (see the pictures).  The only slight hitch was that to begin with she wanted to play with it but has now settled down and is quite used to it.

Harassed of Yew Hurst