I did not really want to go but I asked myself why not? I could not really come up with a satisfactory answer and so I went.

I was seated next to one of the village’s oldest inhabitants, opposite a draughty door and the starter was foie gras on which I am not keen.

Not a good start.

I had prepared myself for a miserable two hours when the old man started talking to me.

I sat and listened, amazed, as the village that I live next to, suddenly became alive.

Had I noticed the hole under a certain house? Yes, I nodded.

“Ha, that’s were I hid from the Gestapo when they came,” he chuckled.

The splintered stone at the side of the washing fountain apparently was not caused by age, but by Nazi bullets when they executed fifteen young men from the village.

The bend going out of the village he smiled, was not always as narrow as it is now. The French Resistance halved the width of the road so that German trucks could not escape when they attacked from the woods.

He ran, in his bare feet, through10cm of snow for three miles to escape once more when the Gestapo returned to arrest him.

The Germans never had enough food and set snares to trap rabbits. He would go out at first light, and take the rabbits from the traps before the German’s could get them.

Instead of suffering two miserable hours, I sat enthralled for the whole meal as accounts of horror and bravery were offered across the tablecloth.

I spend the war in London during the blitz, it lasted a few months.

My tablemate had it much, much worse, German thuggery – for four years.

And I got enough story lines for three short stories that I shall write some day.

My neighbour was driving home. A rather disreputable figure was beside the road holding out his thumb. It was raining and cold and the neighbour, who never picks up hitchhikers, for once stopped.

The man was extremely greatful and for the next mile did not stop offering his thanks.

The flashing blue light and the siren stopped the conversation and the neighbour was pulled for speeding. Both the driver and the hitchhiker were ordered out of the car. The PC made notes in his notebook and issued a ticked from his ticket pad.

Some ten miles further the hitchhiker reached his destination,

as he left the car he turned to the neighbour.

“I know I look pretty dreadful, but I have just come out of prison.” He said.

“You have been very kind giving me a ride and I should like to show my thanks.’

He handed the neighbour two books, the policeman’s notebook and ticket pad.

A nearby abbey, that is open to the public, sells produce produced by the monks. A friend was taken aback when he found a jar of local honey he had purchased was labelled PRODUCE OF ITALY.

The monk was unperturbed. “Everything is local to the lord.” He replied. My friend pointed out he had not bought it from The Lord but from the monk.

“We are all in the common market.” Replied the cool monk.

My friend left, deciding that taking on The Lord, the cool monk and the might of religion was a little too much for the trading standard’s office.

This is an artwork outside the castle at Lacoste in the Luberon in France. It has no name, so one has to guess what it represents. For me, they are the arms of a fisherman describing his latest catch.

But Lacoste castle was the home of the maquis de sade(sadism). And it was in the castle he conducted his famous orgies. So perhaps the artwork is indicating the size of something else.

A friend who was recently married cooked a leg of lamb for her new husband.

“Why did you cut it in half and cook the two pieces next to each other?” He asked. “Because that’s the way my mother cooks it.” She replied.

“Does it improve the flavour?” Her husband wondered.

She did not know, so she called her mother.

“I cook it like that because my mother cooks it like that.” Her mother’s unhelpful initiated a call to her grandmother. Her expectation of a wise and traditional culinary tip was rapidly dashed.

“I cook it like that,” smiled her grandmother, “otherwise it wont fit in my dish.”

How about this for a rum baba? If you don’t want the rum, just the ba ba, don’t press the phial!

If you drink wine you have most likely heard of Chateauneuf du Pape.

To the right is a picture of the Chateau. There is not much left of it.

During the last war, after the defeat of France, the Germans requisition buildings to work in. Nearing defeat, with the allies allies advancing rapidly the Nazies retreated, their policy was to destroy any buildings they had used.

Chateauneuf du Pape was no exception. The German commander was particularly evil, ordering explosive charges to be placed, ensuring that the Chateau would topple onto the village below. The armourer, horrified by the order, ‘forgot’ to wire in the charges on the village side, saving the village and the villagers from destruction. The Chateau attracts thousands of visitors each year, but alas now there is only a couple of walls.

Took this pic a few weeks later – someone had drunk all the wine!

Made a big mistake today. In France you read your own electricity meter every two months on receipt of an email from the electricity company.  I read mine two days ago and, comparing it with the last couple of months I realised I had used 9euros of current.

Impossible! So I checked again yesterday. The meter numbers had not moved despite using washing machines, kettles, etc. Obviously the meter was jammed.

There was an ant’s nest at the side of the meter, this time I gave it a blast from an ant killer aerosol. Obligingly the ants started dropping away from the meter and … NO! The meter was turning again!

If I had let the ants alone goodness knows how much electricity I would not have had to pay for. 

This is a wine vat full of wine, as you can see from the size of the man beside his van on the left, it is quite large.

I took the pic from an old railway viaduct that crosses the vat that is now a cycle and pedestrian path. The giggle is when you cross the viaduct. By taking in deep breaths of the fumes that rise from the vat you get the effect of having drunk a couple of glasses of wine by the time you reach the other side – all for free!

The other plus is if you climb the rail and dive headfirst into the vat, it has got to be one of the best ways to commit suicide!

This is a pic of the English flag. It is on the wall of the tunnel that leads to the pitch in the rugby stadium at Twickenham. It is the last thing the players see before they go out to do battle for their country.

The slogan reads “Hundreds before you, thousands around you, millions behind you”. Even when packed the tunnel can be a very lonely place for a player. The flag is to remind him or her that they are not alone.

THE PSYCHOLOGICAL BIT

The flag and the slogan are also on the other side of the tunnel – to remind the visiting team just how lonely they are feeling – before they move forward into the English cauldron!

This is a pic I took from the Captain’s seat on the bridge of HMS Belfast, the WW2 battleship moored in the Thames in London. The vessel’s a huge tourist attraction, but notice the guns are all pointing in the same direction and are also of the same elevation.

The guns have a range of fourteen miles, so if they were fired, where would the shells explode? A field behind the Scratchwood services on the M1 motorway would be turned into a huge and deep hole – Health and Safety and the anti-terrorist branch think of everything!

“Nothing to do with rain water,” said a local.” They used to be used to empty ‘the night jar’.”

Visited the latest Parisien tourist magnet. Finished in just twenty years and at a cost of E220M the result is breathtaking. If you are interested in architecture a visit is a must. If you are an architect, a visit is a must but I guarantee you will be green with envy at the result of such dedication.

It cannot be described as a building, more of a cloud hovering above the woods in Boulogne in the centre of Paris. I was lucky, I arrived at feeding time for the er…er…er. I arrived at feeding time for the blue er…er…er. Well I arrived.

It’s the hopper head at the side of the window I found baffling

The translation:   ‘Here, killed by the Nazis, corporal Roger Salomez. He died for France on August 20th 1944’. This is one of many, many plaques of remembrance that can be found in the streets of Paris. As you can see I took the picture from below as these plaques are all at least 3 metres high. When I asked why, a friend said, “if they were any lower they would be stolen.” Seems the Free French fighters still have value.