THE ADVENTURES OF UN PEU LOUFOQUE

The feast of the Assumption or the need for a breathe of fresh air

2011-09-21T08:10:00.003+01:00

What should have been, as was predicited a hot summer, festered and died and we are left with an early autumn and a pervading dampness that blots out any hope of sunshine from our lives. Due to the long and rather unaccounted absence of the Chief Pattiseur who it would appear has developed an unsavoury compulsion to seek out the secrets of the perfect cheese tart , The reluctant children and I were forced ,by propriety and our elevated postion of social standing in the community, to go forth amongst the masses and represent the Loufoque family for the fete of the 15^th August, the day when our Lady was assumed into heaven and the greatest feast of the Breton calendar. Normally one hopes for a fine hot day so that at least some of the festivities are able to be performed in the open air but alas and most vexaciously this year a slight drizzle and dark clouds meant the entire commune were trapped like sardiness in a tin within the confines of the chapel of St Cenyyd through out the long and tedious service.

The Breton peasants have always in my experience been somewhat lacking in even the most basic skills when it comes to the genteel matter of personal hygene and cleanliness. The men when they marry are given 12 shirts one for each month of the year, made by thier dear mothers coarse and work worn hands from linen grown on their own land, this affords them one shirt a month which is worn for that entire month then according to Madame Grognonne ,who is somewhow privy to such matters, discarded in a corner until washday, where one presumes resident mice cats and rats make themselves at home, and the dirty shirt is replaced with a clean one. Washing is done once a year at the village lavoire when the women trundle thier dirty linen in a wheel barrow and spend the day scrubbing and gossiping and, one presumes, praying for fine weather so that the wet and relativley clean washing may be dried on the hedges and bleached in the sun. Sadly this only applies to the linen, the black velvet and heavy formal dresses and clothing of thier traditional attire has it would appear to make do with a rub down with a damp cloth and a brisk brush. This may work wonders to dislodge the dust of summer and mud of winter but I can assure you that it does nothing to dislodge the smell of stale sweat and the sour aroma of clothes dried inadequietly due to inclement weather conditions.

St Cenydd if you are not aware was a rather disadvantaged and unattractive child with some sort of bodily deformity which led his father, rahter sensibly I feel, to set him adrift in a wicker basket of some sort persuambly in the hope of never having to see him agian. God being renowned through out history for having a rather obtuse sense of humour guided the little basket to the shores of an island where the birds and a rather unlikley breast shaped bell fed him and kept him alive on a diet of milk bread and rice until he grew up to be a hermit, his father on repenting prayed to God for his body to be cured however Cenydd like ungrateful ofspring everywhere, objected strongly and decided to remain a hermit on his island thus enjoying the company of birds and avoiding having to spend assumtpion day surrounded by the unpleasant and all pervading aroma of damp clothes and incontinent elderly and infants villagers. How he managed to become a saint I am uncertain but I suspect God rewarded him for his comon sense of choosing rice pudding and that of the company of seaguls to cheap cider and Breton peasants.

It eas not a day a care to remember with much joy. My only concillation through out the entire ordeal was the knowledge that the clergyman officiating at the service was none other than he whom had comsumed far too much of our cider than was good for him at his last visit to the Loufoque household and whose intestines appeared some weeks later to be still suffering rather unpleasant after shocks. His sermon was thus mercifully short and I was accorded the pleasure of keeping him corned in the cloisters after mass and engaging him in appropriately banal and long winded conversation regarding the health of the poor of the parish whilst watching his face contort and his limbs twitch in an obvious desire to escape with the utmost speed possible to avail himself of the nearest convenience Having allowed sufficient time for madame Grognonne to have prepared a decent repas for the family and feelign thsat the unfortunate priest had deonhis penance for the day I bid him aduie and left him to scurry unceremonoiusly off with the upmost haste to a place where he could safely releive himself in relative privacy which was in this case a rather uncomfortable yet conveniently planted abundance of goarse bushes. Well they do say God will provide do they not ?

...................................................................................................................................................................

The photograph shows a group of young Breton housewives watching despondently the gloomy horizon in the forlorn hope of a break in the clouds so that they may dash home, grab their wheel barrow full of dirty linen and rush off to wash it before the next storm clouds appear.

2011-08-08T13:19:00.001+01:00

The first of August has arrived and with it all the glory of the season that one may expect n Brittany. We have had fierce winds and torrential rain and the famers are fighting to get the grain in before it is ruined. With all this comes the mud, only yesterday poor Loic had to be dug from the pottager when his wooden leg sunk in the potato patch, I am forever warning him of the foolhardiness of venturing out into the potager wearing his dibber attachement on his leg when the ground is soft. If he goes too near the edge of the pond we may have to launch the boat to retrieve him. It is al very vexacious.

The boys friend has had to return home unexptedly to his parents after an unfortunate incident involving his slipping from the top of the roof whilst attempting to hoist a pair of madame Grognonnes capacious under garments on to the cockeral weather vain as part of some boyish prank, luckily none of the slates were broken but the boy will ,I fear , forever walk with a slight limp.

Due to the inclement weather no one has been eager to remount the cock and disengage Madame Grognonnes undergarments, thus in the high wind they wave thier voluminous legs above the turret in all thier glory like some salop advertsing her wares. It is far from decorous ,neither is it an attractive edition to the ediface however, my one concillation is that should the village cleryman ever fully recover full control of his bowels after having participated of our rough cider on his last visit ,Madame Grongonnes pantaloons festonned as they are with lace and emblazoned with the Brton Motto Cassis tutissima virtus ( virtue is the safest helmet) will be sufficient to enourage him to beat a hasty retreat.

There is always the risk that due to their vluminous proportions they may become over inflated by the strong winds and rip the cock right off the roof. The cock was placed thier by the grandfather of Chief Pattiseuir, it is a proud of the symbol of the Loufoque family thus to have it ripped from its rightful place by a pair of oversized knickers would indeed be most unfortunate.

The Loufoques are inordinately proud of thier cock although heaven only knows why, it is, compared to others I have seen ,a puny specimen and seems to require constant attention in order to keep it erect and in its proper place. Over the years its surface has become pitted and poor loic is forever up there giving it a thorough rub down and polish in order to satisfy the chief Pattiseur. Of Late it has indeed been sadly neglected. One may onlyhope that the wretched thing will meet its end at the hand of madame Grognonnes bloomers and we can continue to live in peace and harrmony without its rather unsightly presence looming above us.

In which Un Peu contemplates how God does indeed move in mysterious ways

2011-07-29T06:35:00.003+01:00

There are times in ones life when one must rise above the mire into which fate has unkindly chosen to jettison ones dreams and whilst dodging the slings and arrows of uncertainty grasp the nettle and seize the day. There are other times when one might be better advised to remain in ones boudoir with the shutters firmly closed and nothing but a bottle of chilled champagne (with a fortifying dash of brandy) for company. Alas, and vexatiously so, I took today, upon awakening, to be the former when in fact it turns out I would have been better served to embrace the latter, however I digress.

The morning had commenced with promise. Eldest being away visiting friends, the boys gainfully amused attempting to persuade a young school friend who is spending the summer here to jump blindfolded from the stable roof onto the haycart below, in an effort to prove to him the theory of gravity. I sat under the fruit trees pondering on whether cowpox might be fatal, and lamenting my ignorance on the fact, when my cogitations were rudely interrupted by the arrival of Madame Grognonne bearing news of an unwelcome visitor.

France may well be a secular state but unfortunately someone seems to have been remiss in informing the Breton clergy of this singular fact, thus my daily contemplation of Loics handiwork in the dahlia beds, and my thoughts on bovine health matters was interrupted by the appearance of our local priest , who it it appears, had come to sure up my flagging spirits and liberally refresh his own with a small part of the contents for the well renowned loufoque wine cellar.

Good breeding forced me to offer the man some refreshment which, comme habitude, he accepted after a barely noticeable hesitation and I sent madame Grogonne to the cellars to uncork a bottle. She herself being stoically anti the church since the incident of the veneration of Loics wooden leg chose to bring him a ceramic pitcher of rough cider , a beverage normally purchased as horse lineament in our household . It is very important to serve this in a small earthenware bowl in true Breton fashion as the cider tends to eat its way through glass within an alarmingly short space of time which can cause all sorts of problems as you may well imagine. The least of which being the dramatic effect of a beverage if drunk too quickly has upon the imbibers bowels.

Having drunk his beverage with ill mannered speed my visitor seemed to settle himself to conversation and became quite agitated when I attempted to waylay him with a discussion on saints days and the sanctity of marriage. it appeared he had remembered a prior more pressing engagement. Thus at least I was spared too much of the tiresome clergyman pontifications by his sudden and urgent need to make another call of a more personal nature. I was left therefore in peace to ruminate over the matters I was previously occupied with whilst the priest made a dash for the relative privacy of the open countryside outside the gates of the Loufoque estate clutching his stomach as he ran. It is comforting to know that the church can ,if spurred on, can act swiftly when necessary.

…...........................................................................................................................................................

In order to illustrate the terrible dangers of drink and the debilitating effects of cider consumption on he peasant classes the photograph above shows the newly married Claude Marie-Pommier and his wife Angeline. Claude is 24 whilst his blushing bride is 18 years of age.I think I may rest my case.

Un Peu Lost in thought

2011-07-20T18:55:00.003+01:00

It is some time since we have visited Un Peu Loufoque and we find her in changed circumstances. See her, there, under the apple trees , sitting at the small table, her early morning tissaine untouched, Her gaze fixed on something only the heart can see ,her long fingers turning her wedding band , her silk peignoir with its abundant bright and Japanese chrysanthemum design partly hidden by the shawl falling about her shoulders , ill protecting her from the from the early morning chill that the feeble sun can not vanquish.

Oblivious and seemingly unobserved, She has the air of a woman made tedious by the world and disinclined to engage its trifle worries any further. She stares out over garden, the box hedged beds of which are laced with bejewelled cobwebs decorated with the diamonds of dewdrops. In the house her children sleep and the servants step quietly about their tasks. Her husband is nowhere to be seen. He has long gone. She is a woman alone.

So then what frightful and vexing events have brought our brave heroine to such a pass, have the wicked but persistent sardine gutters finally had their revenge? Perhaps the fearsome looming shadow of Anck has darkened her household, or is it possibly that Loic ,startled into a fit of frozen animation by something such as the unfortunate backfiring of the lambique still in the outhouse at an inappropriate and inopportune moment, has tumbled from the towering turret above Un peu's long neglected studio, whence he has smashed , like a plummeting stone, through the glass of the hot house several metres below ,thus destroying the melon beds and flattering madame grongoines spiked German helmet in one swift but foul swoop? Who can guess, we shall just I fear have to gird our impatient loins and wait as the story unfolds as no doubt it will in due course....

.........................................................................................................................................................................

The painting is "two breton women sitting under an apple tree" by paul serusier, if you would like to see mroe o f his workthis online gallery is excellant. Serusier was born in Paris on 9 November 1864 and was a French painter who was a pioneer of abstract art and an inspiration for the avant-garde Nabi movement, he moved down to Pont Aven in Brittany in 1880 to become one of Gaugans band of followers.

A note from the Author

2009-01-16T15:32:00.002+01:00

The author and translater would like to let it be known that, for the moment at least ,the stories of Un Peu Loufoque household tales and adventures have come to an end. However all is not lost for there are other daubings on the wall in http://ttheothersideofme.blogspot.com/ if you really can't find anything uplifting to read in your bookshelves may I suggest a short trip there. I belive the number 7 bus travels in that direction and one only has to change at Hornsley.

Insane as ever but not quite Loufoque.

I thank you for your kind indulgence.

Autumnal musings on a Lions Lunch

2008-09-20T13:01:00.010+01:00

It has been some considerable time now since the unexpected departure from our lives of Mademoiselle Amanda Delacourt. Her time with us is a period upon which we chose not to dwell too deeply.
As a lady, I naturally pride myself on coping with what ever fate and my servants throw at me with the resolute measure of decorum and tact that is to be expected of my station. Past experience has shown that I can be relied upon to provide, without faltering, the appropriate mot or gesture to suit even the most unfortunate occasion. However, in my opinion, even I cannot be expected to be deliver at the drop of a hat, the necessary dictum to deal with a situation whereby a member of my domestic staff chooses to be devoured by a lion at the Saturday afternoon performance of a travelling circus and in full view of the entire commune. Even my inestimable resources I have their limits.

I am quite at a loss. It was so typical of that Mademoiselle’s attention seeking to make her demise a public spectacle, and wearing vivid green tutu and orange sparkling stockings. The English have no dress sense whatsoever. It does not say much for her claims to have been a cat lover to find herself eaten by a “Panthera Leo”, after foolishly berating him about the nose and a decidedly poor specimen at that. It is so difficult to get good staff these days.

Soon after the event and by way of distraction, Madame Grognonne, supervised by myself, carried out the irksome task of packing Mademoiselle Delacourt’s effects away. In amongst the unsuitable garments and fripperies stuffed into the Amoire we were astonished to discover a Russian Samovar which had been missing for some weeks, several pairs of dentures, a large road sign indicating the direction of Rennes, numerous ecclesiastical candlesticks, statues and icons, and a set of fish knives. Under the bed was an old trunk containing a large bottle of petroleum spirit, a box of matches and inexplicably a box of cartridges from Madame Grognonne’s shot gun. I have no idea what she planned to do with the latter items I am sure. And finally tucked inside her night dress, one of dirty Loic’s sock in which was secreted a significant horde of Francs and what appeared to be personal items stolen from his potting shed. Of course having only one leg Loic can not be expected to have noticed he had a sock missing but one might have thought he would have been alerted to the absence of his thermal underwear, especially since it has been such disappointing summer weather wise.

Where possible, we have returned those items we could to their rightful owners, the rest we have bundled in the attic until someone emerges to claim them. The money will of course go towards defraying the unforeseen expenses incurred by her inopportune departure.

We were obliged to pay compensation to the circus for loss of earnings and veterinary fees. An amount that put rather a severe dent in the family house keeping and about which Chief Patissier was far from happy but as I pointed out, we were ,at least we were spared the cost of a funeral as there was nothing left of her but her boots and hat and the curé felt that to be insufficient remains to merit a Christian burial, particularly when evidence suggested that the deceased was a kleptomaniac with a taste for, amongst other things, the religious artifacts.
It appears that Mademoiselle did not agree with the King of the Jungles regal digestive system and he was taken rather poorly as a result. As I sternly informed the children, this is what one must expect if one indulges ones appetite unwisely between meals. On top of everything we also had to purchase a new dibber attachment for Loic as the lion had mauled it quite terribly when attempting to eat Miss Delacourt‘s hat by way of dessert.

It is one of life’s little ironies that, although during her time with us we had tried unsuccessfully to find some evidence of her kith or kin so that we might return her to the bosom of her family, once news of her death reached the lower ranks of the British public via the gutter press several hitherto unknown relatives appeared to make claims on her estate. However, as one might expect of such people, all swiftly evaporated once we presented them with the bill for a new dibber plus vets fees.

Life here has, at last, begun to return to normal. The bean harvest is in and the potato harvest well under way . The chestnuts are beginning to fall from the trees and autumn is upon us. Madame Grogonne and the widow are preparing for the cidre making season which will soon here, although this years crop of apples is sadly disappointing and Loic, armed with his new attachment, is merrily engrossed in the potager once more. Even Chief Patissier is relativly happy.
All it seems is right with the world and the rightful order of our lives has been restored now that the circus has finally left town.

...................................................................................................................................................................

The illustration above is the new poster produced by the travelling circus after the demise of Madmoiselle Delacourt, for whom she proved to be the Lion's lunch. As you can see the Lion fully recovered from his ordeal and it proved to be the making of both him and the circus itself. It is my understanding that, after it became common knowledge that he had eaten her , audience sizes increased considerably in the hope of his repeating the act with some other unfotunate person . Under the cicumstances one might have thought that we would be refunded the vets fees but alas no. Sometimes the labouring classes can be so churlish when it comes to the matter of money.

A night at the circus

2008-07-13T17:58:00.006+01:00

I apologies, for it is some time since last I wrote and I realise, with discomfiture, that I have been shirking my duties to the less fortunate amongst you, in not writing more promptly, for I am only too aware that some of you lead dull, sad, lives and may well have been bereft, awaiting the next installment in the tiresome yet true escapades of Mademoiselle Delacourt and the more interesting goings on chez Loufoque. I hope you will forgive my tardiness and understand that there are some of us who have lives of our own to live and thus you must either learn to be patient or take up knitting. When last we spoke myself and the children were about to endure an evening of tent bound tedium in an effort to avoid an entirely more wearisome one at the chateau in the company of the afore-mentioned Delacourt and her halitosis and horrendous head gear.

As it happened we might have avoided both by staying at home Mademoiselle Delacourt, wearing her mobile lightening conductor, having accompanied us uninvited only to vanish into the ether somewhere between the entrance to the circus and the make shift public amenities erected at the rear of the field.

Breathing a sigh of relief at her ungainly departure and with Madame Grognonne instructed to keep a weather eye out for signs of our misplaced mad woman, we had settled ourselves in our ringside seats all prepared to be amazed and enthralled by the pathetic posing of the rather weak strongman and to endure the painful pantomime of the decidedly toothless lion cringing in its cage whilst the trainer, wearing a faded red tail coat and a top hat that had seen better days, attempted to cajole it into leaping through a ring of flames. When the petrified lion refused to perform the clowns were called in to distract the crowds who were getting a bit restive. Youngest for one was particularly disgruntled that the lion showed no sign of savaging the ring master.

The diminutive entertainers scuttled about the sawdust ring drawing the audiences attention away from the miserable big cat whilst a small person wearing a rather vivid green tutu and orange sparkling stockings attempted to tempt to lure the lamentable lion down from his star spangled perch by tempting him with morsels of sardine fillets. I remember thinking to myself that they might have done better with horse meat. After some difficulty the figure managed to attach a large blue ribbon about the neck of the reluctant Lion and finally dragged him down from his plinth. The beast however was patently not happy and was further more greatly agitated by the cavorting dwarf sized harlequins who seemed for some bizarre reason to be intent on the dangerous task of distracting the unlikely lion tamer, much to the amusement of the masses.

All at once, and quiet unexpectedly, the king of beasts found his spirit and, roaring a deep primeval roar , with one giant paw swatted the head of his captor ,knocking her finery askew and causing her to rock backwards and fall heavily amongst the scattering clowns.

The audience ceased to laugh.

All was frozen.

With one communal intake of breath all were transfixed by the enormity of what was unfolding before their eyes. Looking more surprised than hurt the small lion tamer raised her head and turned her face to the creature with a look of confusion and betrayal. In that instant each of our party recognized under the swathes of pink toile, purple ostrich feathers and sequins the unmistakable millinery of Mademoiselle Delacourt, her face painted in a terrifying parody of a smile and her voice ringing crystal clear in the silenced tent.

” Naughty Fleur must not hit mummykins” and smacked the lion hard across his nose.

By way of response the Lion ate her.

..............................................................................................................................................................

It was an irksome task to find a painting suitable for the illustration of this missive. however "The Circus" by Georges Seurat portraying the crowd holding its collective breath at the dangerous act performed for their delectation is, I think , fairly fitting. It was his last large-scale painting, on which he worked between 1890-1891 and is both abstract and decorative,. The Circus was left unfinished at Georges Seurat's death. I do not however believe this was caused by his being eaten unavoidably by a lion. However I am happy to be proved wrong, after all stranger things have happened.

A Quiet evening out

2008-06-24T15:54:00.003+01:00

It must be said that in terms of the mental stability of our erstwhile English employee events are moving from bad to worse. Mademoiselle Delacourt has added to her already interesting head gear a startling appendage in the form of, what one may only assume to be, a primitive lightening conductor of some sorts. Admittedly the weather has been excessively close and a storm is threatening but I feel this is a trifle unnecessary and typically attention seeking, after all Madame Grognonne has been struck by lightening several times and has suffered very few long-term side effects. The overall effect is bizarre in the extreme, added to which its appearance has played havoc with the asparagus bed as Loic is convinced that this newest fashion accessory bears a remarkable resemblance to the dibber attachment to his artificial leg which has been missing from his potting shed for some time and as a result he is thoroughly disagreeable and therefore is most unwilling to leave the potting shed incase anything else goes missing.

It was, with some relief then that yesterday afternoon my spirits rose at the site of an unusually large erection in the Place de l’Eglise. A garish board covered in images of prancing horses and women in sequins heralding the arrival of a travelling circus in the village and a chance for some much needed distraction. At last something to inflame the senses and keep ones mind off malevolent milliners.
With vivid memories of the magnificent circuses of my childhood, in a rash moment of “espirit maternelle “, I sent Jacque out to reserve seats and gathered the children up for a family sortie to the premiere evening performance. Sadly Chief Patissier was unable to attend as he and Antoine had a prior engagement, a soirée of oiling sprockets at the biscuiterie which alas could not be rescheduled.

Dressed in our finest and with the children scrubbed to within an inch of their lives we set forth in the motorcar myself, the children and Mademoiselle Delacourt, the latter of whom was an unexpected and late addition to the party having secreted herself in the front seat of the vehicle and refused to move so that we were forced to allow her and her ridiculous hat to accompany us. In consequence Madame Grognonne was also obliged to join the outing and rode between Mademoiselle Delacourt and Jacque to act as a form of human shield should there be a need to restrain the mad English woman. What I had hoped would prove to be a merry interlude was developing farcical facets even before we even left the Chateau, with Mademoiselle, her head thrust out of the window at a strange angle in order to accommodate the lightening conductor whilst at the same time attempting to wrest the wheel from Jacques . Happily Madame Grognonne, who had worn her padded Kendo suit for protection, repeatedly intercepted her lunges with admirable skill, thus saving us all from almost certain death several times.

On stopping the car at the entrance to the circus encampment, Mademoiselle Delacourt broke free of Madame Grognonne and fled into the milieu of the milling crowds shrieking hysterically. Try as they might neither Jacque nor Madame Grognonne were able to recapture her and I watched helpless as her bobbing hat disappeared behind the tents in the direction of the caravans. Thus frankly our arrival did not have quite the elegant air one had imagined, but then alas neither did the circus.

It was, without doubt, a shabby affair, the canvas of the tent faded and patched, the painted images flaked and chipped in places the whole thing wrapped in a llachrymose air of dejection, but needs must and when one is seeking some sort of distraction from deranged domestic staff one circus is very much like another in a time of need. We had at least lost Mademoiselle Delacourt for a short time, for which we were all extremely thankful.

Circled around the main tent were a menagerie of exotica, a rather moth eaten Lion who had seen better days, several small ponies adorned with bedraggled feathers , an Ostrich advertised as the biggest chicken in the world, and an aged tattooed lady with a colourful map of France penned across her chest . Sadly her splendid art work had somewhat drooped with age and the expansion of girth the passing of time had evidently brought her.This had an interesting effect on the geography of the French Nation, giving the uneducated the impression that Paris had been relocated and was now only slightly above Provence. By her side sat “The Strong Man” with baggy tights and a vast moustache whose appendages far from being muscular rivaled Loics by their noticeable absence. Moving around amongst all these were an assortment of jaded circus folk wearing spangled costumes that obviously predated the Great War and possibly even the Crimean one, and in many cases still being worn by their original owners.

As we took our places in the main tent, one could not help but notice that on each available surface the handsome face of one man was posted. The once blazing star of his generation, who had in his youth performed in front of the crown heads of Europe. The redoubtable Sebastian Sommellier, the last remaining of the three once famous Sommelier triplets, the other two having tragically met their death as a result of a freak accident during a gala performance in Rennes some seasons earlier. Their act (in which two of the brothers, blindfolded and with one arm tied behind their backs, juggled flaming torches with their toes , the third supporting them on his feet whilst at the same time balancing on one hand on a spinning ball on the high wire the other hand somewhat incongruously holding an umbrella) was renowned through out Brittany. Alas on the fateful night of the accident it was Sebastian who was the one supporting the other too. It was a tragic story. He fell asleep mid spin thus causing his brothers and the Opera House to go up in Flames. Had it not been for the fast thinking of the Elephant it is very probable that Sebastian Sommelier too would have perished? Of course had his illness been diagnosed earlier the whole history of the French Circus may have been entirely different. As it is he now the only surviving narcoleptic tightrope walker and acrobat in France. It is, I am sure, a dying art.

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

The photograph is of a once rather famous tattooed lady who travelled the world and worked under the unlikely name of Princess Beatrix. Thankfully no photograph is available of the tattooed lady at our visiting circus; suffice it to say something’s are best left to the imagination.

Mad as a hatter

2008-06-23T08:33:00.004+01:00

Besotted as she was with her dear departed pussy, soon after his disappearance the already odd behavior of Madmoiselle Delcaourt has taken a strange turn and she has fallen , if that were possible , even further into foolishness. In an effort to divert her Madame Grognonne has been feeding her dishes of rabbit in exceptional sauces , all to no avail and she has taken to rambling the byways , wearing a fur trimmed hat, fashioned by herself from an old military helmet of Loics and what appeared to be some discarded animal skin of vaguely familiar markings, to which she has attached , a brids wing, species unspecified, a large blue ribbon, twisted into a ostentatious bow, and a somewhat avant-garde red flower made of the torn remnants of what appear to be flannel petticoats.

Regardless of the weather Miss Delacourt can be seen tramping the lanes and calling piteously for Fleur and her behaviour has begun to attract comment about the commune. Monsieur le Mairee , in a rare sober moment, called upon Chief Patissier at the biscuiterie and suggested some thing must be done to curb her excesses. But here lies the dilemma. we, having no return address for her, and thus being unable to dispatch her back to the shores of Tooting Beck from whence she came , have become by default, utterly responsible for her. Madame Grogonne has kindly offered to take her for a short walk in the woods and return alone, but alas it is too late, should she dissapear now her absence might prove difficult to explain. She has become like one of those foul plaster ornaments depicting a vaguely obese cherub frolicing amongst badly formed flowers and holding an impossibly large cornucopia above its head in whihc the artist intends one should dispaly fruit or flowers. A gift given to one fro Christmas by an affluent but annoying aunt. One cannot bear to look at the thing but can not risk parting with it incase awkard questions are asked later.

I fear the time is fast approaching for steps to be taken to be provide her with suitable lodgings at the local mental hospital and very probably at our expense , since, despite our extensive enquiries, and the pacing of adverts in the Tooting Chronicle, she appears to possess no living relatives willing to claim her.

.....................................................................................................................................................................

The painting above is by Henri Matisse of his wife who , alas, seems to have ungone an unfortuante millinary experience. simular to that of Madmoiselle Delacourt. Madame Matisse, one hopes was lucky enough to recieve suitable help form a local habidasher before it was too late. Although one might well imagine being married to an Artist madness may well be an occupational hazard. No doubt he inadvertantly cleaned his brushes on her best lace collar uthinkingly mistaking it for a rag. That at leat would explain the strange splodges of colour on her face and neck and teh utter contempt in her eyes.

More than one way to skin a Rabbit.

2008-06-11T10:16:00.005+01:00

We have been luxuriating in a few splendid days of early summer, the orchard is heavy with the promise of apples, still no bigger than hazelnuts but growing by the hour and the garden is a mass of blooms. All has been tranquil and calm, and Eldest and I have spent pleasant hours together reading in the garden in silence whilst the boys are at ecole and Chief Patissier engrossed in the world of biscuits. We did plan to entertain ourselves with an energetic game of tennis only to discover the rackets needed re stringing, youngest having unstrung them to make traps with Loic in the vegetable patch. Madame Grogonne has been busy diving for fish in the lake with her harpoon and the widow has been baking numerous gateaux and desserts to make use of the glut of eggs our generous hens have provided.

The only fly in the ointment has been Mlle Delcacourt who, if it were possible, has become daily more distracted since the unexplained disappearance of her incontinent pussy Fleur who mysteriously vanished sometime after the unfortunate incident involving the stolen lobster.

I remember the day well. It had been the first day of the warm weather and on doing my habitual tour of the chateau to check on the housekeeping I was overcome by the unmistakable smell of Cat Pee emanating from the copious folds of newly hung summer curtains in the Salle. On closer inspection I was most distressed to discover the cream damask curtains tinged with yellow fluid the source of which was too obvious. Alerting Madame Grognonne to the problem she and the widow spent the entire morning washing the curtains and laying them out to dry in the sun, pausing only to prepare luncheon .

I recall that lunch was a light affair, with one’s staff unexpectedly occupied one must make do with what one can but one endeavours to be stoical about such things. However her household tasks done Madame Grogonne prepared a miraculous feast for dinner of terrine of salmon, Rabbit cooked in cidre and garnished with prunes, new potatoes steamed , asparagus tips and served with a choice of several excellent desserts.

By dinner time Mlle Delacurt was in full cry searching everywhere for her pungent pussy and I remember well how uncharacteristically kind Madame Grognonne had been by especially preparing Mlle Delacourt her own special dish of something called ”Mumbled rabbit”, from an English recipe, which she served her on a platter all of its own. I must say it looked and smelt quite unlike any lapin I have ever know, and it seemed to have rather considerably more meat than one would expect on a bunny. I did venture that I might try it but Madame Grognonne was adamant I really should not, thus I took her advice and refrained. One knows the English palate is quite different to our own and despite her obvious distress Mlle Delacourt finished the entire dish on her own.

Sadly, no one appears to have seen neither hide nor hair of Fleur the felonious feline since that day. On a totally unrelated point I am happy to announce that Loic has managed to source a plentiful supply of cat gut and thus repair our tennis rackets at last, so that Eldest and I will be able to enjoy our game again. I do thank God that I have been blessed with such splendidly resourceful servants.
………………………………………………………………………………………

The illustration is by Albrecht Dürer a German artist and engraver who painted it in 1502 and is one of a series of paintings in watercolour of meadow life inspired by an earlier trip to the Alps. People often refer to it as Durers Rabbit It is not of course a rabbit at all but a large hare, however for things are not always as they appear at first glance.

Nocturnal Omissions

2008-06-01T10:01:00.007+01:00

I am not, alas, at my best this morning. I slept badly last night. It was hot and I was unaccountably plagued by a fly that seemed intent on tangling itself in my coiffure, and, if that were not enough , after Chief Patissier finally retired to bed I had to contend with unwanted attentions from another quarter.

The evening itself had been a pleasant enough one, Antoine had joined us for dinner and Madame Grognonne and the widow had prepared a veritable feast, with oysters, lobster and Wild Boar , followed by chilled champagne on the terrace by candle light. The tranquility of the latter only slightly marred by the robust, if muffled, accompaniment of Madame Grognonne and Jacque singing traditional Breton sea shanties in a somewhat discordant harmony , as they made space in the cave for next weeks delivery of wine. I have stopped purchasing Absinthe for the horse, much to Jacques disquiet, but he seems to do very well on rough cider and it saves a fortune on the vintner’s bills. After dessert Mademoiselle Delacourt had retired to her room early with a headache, a restorative gin and lemon, and her revolting Tom cat Fleur, her absence making the end of the evening far more agreeable than it might have been otherwise.

Antoine and Chief Patissier had, comme habitude, taken themselves off to the library to look at some new purchases, which include a rather rare first edition copy of Pierre Choderlos de Laclos’ " Les liaisons dangereuses", which I understand to be an early treatise on health and safety in the workplace . I must admit I find the idea of spending an evening perusing such a book quite tiresome. I understand , of course that , since his brothers unfortunate accident, it is a genre that interests Chief Patissier immensely, although I am sure poor Antoine must have been bored to tears.

About 1.30 this morning, I was disturbed by Chief Patissier entering my boudoir, and was startled , a short time later, by an altogether unexpected stirring under the bed sheets and the rather unpleasant sensation of something hard and damp against my thigh. I lay absolutely rigid not wishing to alert Chief Patissier to the fact that I was awake, I find on nights, such as last, where he has over indulged with Antoine in the Library, it is better to feign sleep rather than risk being forced into activities best suited to the day light hours, activities such as discussing whether Antoine's cuff links are in fact real diamonds and where he might obtain a pair for himself.

Beside me in the dappled dark , Chief Patissier's breathing was heavy and laboured and as the hard damp object dug against my skin I fell an extremely unpleasant sensation of moisture on my night attire and a strong smell of something fishy. Realising instinctively that something was horribly wrong, I shrieked in alarm and flung back the bed covers to reveal a nauseating sight, a sight that no woman married or otherwise should be forced to view without sufficient warning, that of the wretched Fleur devouring the remains of a large crustacean in our bed.

Having been woken untimely from his somewhat intoxicated slumbering and not being quite awake, Chief Patissier grabbed the offending feline without a seconds thought for his own safety and hurled it with great presence of mind , out of the open shutters where it landed with a crash beneath. I was so overcome at this unexpected bravery I quite forgot myself.

Luckily Mademoiselle Delacourt ,being unable to sleep and seeking the comfort of her pussy and the cool night air , had chosen that particular moment to take a turn in the courtyard below our bedroom and it was therefore, she on whom the cat landed, the Lobster still clasped in its jaws. Had she not been there there is every possibility that the foul creature might well have landed in the large ornate flowerpot below . An event which would have caused poor Loic deep distress as he has been training a rather impressive passionflower for weeks to entwine itself around the obelisk therein which he and youngest had cunningly constructed from his discarded artificial leg and a few old iron bedsteads acquired at the local decheterrie. As it was all was well and only a few tendrils were displaced. Mademoiselle Delacourt however was most taken aback and retired to her room with her cat where both have remained since.

.........................................................................................................................................

The painting today is by an unknown 19th century Indian Artist . After the disintegration of British Colonial Rule in India, which inevitably resulted in a lack of patronage for artists, Bengali art turned away from the Mughal and traditional Hindu schools of art towards the rustic styles of folk art. The area around Kalighat , its art typified by its sweeping brushstrokes and bold forms, of which this is an excellent example, producing some of the most invigorating. Initially the Kalighat art concentrated mainly on Hindu religious subjects for themes. But later turned to more contemporary social and political Indian Artist . This painting is entitled “Cat with Lobster”. How horribly apt.

Un petit Fleur de pee...

2008-05-22T10:05:00.006+01:00

We have, en famille , unwaveringly attempted to avoid reacting to the failings of Mademoiselle Delacourt with anything but the most stoical politeness. The position of governess companion is always a tricky one in any household, the post falling, as it does, somewhere above the class of servant but below the status of family member or guest. In the case of Miss Delacourt it must be acknowledged to fall considerably lower. I have always felt that it is ones duty as a personage of some social standing to rise above the inconveniences of life and to set an example to those of less fortunate position and bearing. However even with my unequalled breeding and well honed comportment there are some things with which I find hard to tolerate. Miss Delacourt has pushed my composure to the brink for she has, it appears, fallen hopelessly and unwisely in love. With a cat.

I am well aware that felines have a fine part to play in many households, with their catching of mice, their useful skills in decimating bird populations and saving the family fruit trees from marauding sparrows.I know also that there are many to whom a cat is a cherished thing, a boon companion in an otherwise friendless life, even perhaps in some bizarre circumstances a child substitute. All this I can understand and to a certain extent empathise. Small fluffy kittens with saucer eyes have even to my eye a certain appeal, albeit transitory in nature. However, and here there is no kind way to state my case more clearly, Miss Delacourts cat is none of these things. Hers is not a fluffy kitten and what is more, Miss Delacourts cat stinks.

The cat has been named "Fleur" and is she assures us in her lilting lisping way that "Fleur is her mummies very own widdle fluffy kins". The latter statement was met initially with perplexed glances by the household and it took sometime to be able to decipher the exact meaning of the word" widdle". The name "Fleur" was only slightly less confusing but for different reasons. As a name it is not inapt for a kitten. It conjures up images of freshness , and of beauty, a lightness of spirit , a certain fragrant joy in life . It would be endearing as a name if it not for the in alterable fact that the creature is not only sloth like and the size of a small piglet, but is very certainly a male. Under the circumstances one feels perhaps "Widdle" might have been a more appropriate .

I am given to understand that Fleur was discovered by his new love at the edge of the river when she was out walking and was alerted to his piteous cries. How he managed to get himself stuck inside a sack weighted with stones and tied tighly aroudn thetop one can only hazard to imagine. But he was rescued and brought home where he now resides in splendour complete with a large satin bow of a floral design in shades of pink about his rather beefy neck. Since his arrival he has divided his time between the scratching of our furniture and his fleas and has taken upon himself the odouress task of scent marking all the household linen with his urine. Anyone who has tried in vain to remove the smell of Tom cat from white Damask table clothes will appreciate this has not made him popular with Madame Grognonne ,who may be seen scouring her cook books for a recipe for cat stew which she insits is a eastern European delicacy.

On a more positive front insufferable though her presence has made our daily life and as unpleasant as her unfortuante appearance, choice of garments and unforgivable halitosis may be there is a bright side to this dank dark English cloud of a woman. The mere mention of her name has proved sufficient to quell even the greatest flurry of insolence in Eldest, and her arrival in any room sends our daughter to swiftly seek refuge in edifying pursuits such as reading and needlework , she has taken to studying her catechism with vigour and even volunteering to assist her youngest siblings with their homework unasked.It would appear anything is to be regarded as better than being obliged to endure even five minutes longer than necessary with her English companion.

......................................................................................................................................................................

The illustration is by the unfortunate Artist Mr Louis Wain, who is a great favourite of Madmoisele Delacourt. She arrived from Tooting Beck with several representaions of his work wrapped in plain brown paper, a fact that in itself should have rung loud warning bells with me had I not been more than usually occupied at the time. He was , she tells me, born at Clerkenwell in 1860 and married his sisters' governess, a fact that I fear gives our own governess companion aspirations to do simular,. Add to this the fact that after his marriage he took to drawing nothing but cats , a subject with which he became unaccountably obsesive, I think is perfectly understanable that the poor man ended his days in a mental assylum.

The terror of Tooting Beck

2008-04-16T09:00:00.003+01:00

Months have passed unnoticed since I last wrote to you. It is incomprehensible how time has flown. See how the lily of the valley are breaking into flower, the cherry trees frothing with exuberant pink blossom, the birds playing their seasonal game of cache-cache between the branches, and yet still it does not feel spring like Chez Nous for with us lives the very chill and epitome of winter, One Miss Amanda Delacourt.

Let us consider then this , our latest arrival. Let us examine her with the scrutiny deserved by any new member of a respectable household. Who is she and whence has she come?

Her title implied maidenhood or at the least a celibate state however these things can be frankly deceptive, take for instance mademoiselle Salope in the next village who although unmarried and therefore technically still a maiden has managed to bring forth 7 smaller Salopes onto this earth within a space of 6 years, all of whom bear an uncanny resemblance to the local curé. Even allowing for God working in mysterious ways, one would, I suggest be hard pressed, to deny the family connection as they all have his ears.

Jacques dispatched on the feast of the epiphany to collect Miss Delacourt from the station went armed with a photograph kindly supplied with her application for employment. It showed a clear skinned young woman with fine features and a good head of hair.

He returned with a withered bag of bones bearing a sour face and a pinched mouth. I am well aware that travelling can be frightfully debilitating if one allows it to be and does not take the correct precautions however, even allowing for this, our new governess had either undergone some sort of unpleasant metamorphosis en route from Folkestone or the photograph was an extremely old one.

Sadly, we were swift to discover, her temperament matched her face. She is a woman of indeterminate age brimming with the bitterness of one whose life has failed to live up to her expectations. The slightest hint of joy or humour in others she squashes with a tart word or a sneer which renders her face even more unattractive, if that were possible. She will have the last word on any subject as she is convinced she knows all. Added to all her charms is her indecipherable French spoken in what one presumes, she views as an appealing lisp and delivered with a coquettish angle of the head, which renders it all but inaudible hence one must, should one wish to understand, bow ones head towards her, having first taken for oneself a large breath of clean air in defence against her halitosis. Her simpering, which was no doubt alluring in her youth, and her style of dress all give the impression of some nightmarish hag dressed in a young girls clothing. Although she must have undoubtedly been a maiden once I suspect her fruits have long since been tasted and discarded by many in favour of riper and more luscious morsels. It is perhaps this that has soured her.

In short, she is not the joyful addition to our entourage that we had hoped. Madame Grognonne has taken to ominously polishing her gun at the slightest provocation and Jacques for whom Miss Delacourt appears to have taken a fancy may be found at all hours hiding in the shrubbery with Loic to avoid her attentions. This is proving to be a trifling irksome should one require his services. She is the fly in our ointment the grit in our familial eye, Loic’s widow who kindly has adopted the habit of helping Madame Grogonne in the kitchen, in order to prevent the latter from accidentally discharging her firearm should Miss Delacourt enter her domain, swears one look from her will curdle the milk and prevent the butter form churning.

Life has become under her presence more than a trifle vexatious. I fear something must be done to rid us of this carbuncle on the face of our happy family. The question remains is what and by whom?

.........................................................................................................................................
The painting above entitled Old Woman Drinking Tea,( c. 1907) is by Antonio Mancini an Italian artist born in Naples in 1852, although not a portrait of her will, I hope, give the reader a fair impression of the visage of Miss Amanda Delacourt of Tooting Beck. Mancini once said that “Vulgarity is often the daughter of poverty” and in this case I fear that the same may be said of Miss Delacourt. I have instructed Chief Patissier that should I ever show the slightest inclination to visit Tooting Beck he has my permission to have me committed to the care of the local mental institution where I am sure, if Miss Delacourt is anything to go by, I would find the inhabitants far better educated and agreeable.

Christmas chez Loufoque

2007-12-13T17:15:00.000+01:00

A new year approaches at unfaltering speed. Christmas has come and thankfully departed leaving only the remnants of candle stubs and glass baubles and the shredded needles of the sapin de noel to remind us of its brief visit. Apart from a brief diversion caused by the unexpected arrival of a Christmas gift from the Americas (taking the form of a rather large packing case filled with an interesting melange of sprogets, dibbets and preserving jars of muddy coloured unctuous matter labeled peanut butter, which after some careful consideration we conjectured must be some type of engine lubricant)courtesy of our erstwhile friend Elma Bucket of the American flying corps,we were as ever assaulted on all sides with it the usual dull litany of unsuitable and unwanted gifts.

What ever possesses ones friends and acquaintances to burden one with a seemingly endless supply of scented handkerchiefs, un-wearable items of knitwear and utterly undesirable objects d'arte is beyond my understanding. Thankfully we find ourselves blessedly bereft of relations on the Loufoque side and mine only relatives having estates in the Bordeaux region acknowledge sensibly their familiar obligations with a seasonal benison of several cases of their own exceedingly good Bordeaux Superior.I dread to think what My dearly departed Belle-Mere might have felt suitable for our household, a set of mathcing antimacassars embroidered with the passions of Christ possibly or a life size reproduction of the painting of the martyrdom of the 10,000 by Durer,to hang over our nuptial bed, the latter of which at least one supposes might prove to be quite a conversation piece although sadly also likely to squash any lingering passions not already quenched by the hand knitted Khaki bed socks she undoubtedly would have sent with it.I understand from Madame Grognonne that one of the old Madame Loufoques started the knitting of bed socks for the troops during the Napoleonic campaigns and it has become rather a familial tradition one which I have refused to embrace.Some traditions are better left to die a lingering painful death and that one is I fear one of them.

We celebrated the Revellion of Christmas in the traditional manner with the entire family and staff attending midnight mass with Antoine joining our happy band for the feast afterwards, although the term happy may be a trifle over stating the joviality of the atmosphere since the inclusion in our party of the new priest of the parish did nothing to enhance our festive spirits and neither the cloying clerics insistence on telling rather inane jokes although dinner nor the way he brayed like a donkey at his own wit did much to improve any of our tempers.Finally the awkward situation was resolved after Madame Grognonne thankfully suggested to Chief Pattisiers that our honoured guest might enjoy a taste of our special reserve eau de vie, to which he happily agreed. as a result of which the we were able to enjoy the rest of our celebrations in peace and tranquility the cleric having predictable fallen into a comatose state soon after being foolish enough to down his glass in one. Jacques very kindly returned him to the village and propped him up against the main doors of the church where I understand his parishioners found him in the morning his hand frozen to the door knocker.

Since last I wrote, the duties and obligations of the festive season not withstanding, my time has been almost entirely taken up with the task seeking a means of ensuring Eldests future edification and improvement and having sought advise from relaible sources I have taken the step of placing an advertisement in a respectable English newspaper and engaging one Mademoiselle Delacourt as a tutor governess for Eldest whom I hope will be able to polish our not so little rough diamond into a shining gem. She comes highly recommended by Lady Caroline something or other and I understand is well qualified, although in what I am not quite clear.

Miss Amanda Delacourt of Tooting Beck, I pin my hopes then, entirely upon you.

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

The painting illustration my small missive is Durer's depiction of the martyrdom of the 10,000 painted in 1508. The topic portrays peasants and servants being dispatched by their betters and was one imagines a reminded to the lower classes to be mindful of their placve in society.Although one can clearly sympathise with Durer's problems with his domestic staff it does beg the inevitable question as to whom Durer thought would do the tiding and cleaning up after all the slaughter,so typical of a man to forget such matters.

Serious thoughts from the salle de bain

2007-11-14T21:09:00.000+01:00

Having fully recovered from the ructions and ramifications of recent weeks I was lying in the bath the other evening, prior to dinner , and appreciating the milky beauty of my slender and elegant ankles when my thoughts drifted to the contemplation of the physical failings of others less fortunate and thus was, alas, sadly reminded of the rather unpleasantly disappointing thickness of Eldest ankles. A thought that naturally led me to a pondering upon her visage in general and in consequence what the future might hold for her. I ended my ablutions quite depressed as a result and quite unable to do justice to Madame Grognonne’s excellent Rognons de Veau flambés au Madère .

It is, to say the least; regrettable that a couple as handsome as Chief Patissier and myself should produce such a rather plain creature, especially when one considers the unsurpassable beauty of her brothers. Nature can at times be tiresomely unfeeling in the distribution of her bounty, bestowing on our boys the clear nursery complexions of the English upper classes, the large violet blue eyes of their father and the thick dark lashes of their mother whilst absentmindedly condemning our female offspring with straight short lashes, thick eyebrows and a figure that owes more to robust stolidity of the Breton horse than to my own fine elegance. One must blame of course the Loufoque genes of her Fathers Ancestry. I know little or nothing of mine own antecedents but one can clearly see that the boys obviously take after my side.

Children can be such a bitter disappointment. I imagine this is why Helen of Troy never embraced motherhood, what is the point ,after all, of being the face that launched a thousand ships if ones female progeny are naught but puddings?

With a face as lamentable as hers one must accept the fact that she is unlikely to win hearts. After her rather disastrous attempts at learning Russian I have somewhat shied away from interfering in her education however, as good a job as the nuns have done with her in attempting to impart the finer points of needlepoint, piano and watercolours their knowledge of the world is naturally rather limited. Loathed as I am to add yet another domestic appendage to our troubled household perhaps a tutor is called for.

I shall have to contemplate the matter closely meanwhile I have set my self to the task of preparing her for the wilder world and investigating the possibilities which a girl of her background might choose as a suitable career and to that end have managed to get a copy of Cassell’s Book of the household, which has a highly informative chapter on Careers for Girls, sandwiched between an article on the cultivation of Dahlias and a brief history to time. Admittedly it is English and is a little out of date but one must work with what one can.

If all else fails she could of course join the convent although since she has adopted a rather unbecoming habit of truculent door slamming and grunting as her chosen means of communication I think we might seriously rule out a silent order.
..............................................................................................................

The painting above is one of several studies by Degas of a woman going about her private ablutions. He seems to have been quite obsessive in fact about this particular theme, a fact that perhaps should not undergo too much scrutiny. I am sure that in some artistic circles it is perfectly acceptable for a gentleman to spend his time hanging about the bathrooms of ladies and watching them undress, but no tin my bathroom I can assure you. Far be it for me to comment on his choice of model but I really feel if he was going to concentrate on this particular subject the might have chosen someone slightly more attractive to paint. To be fair her wrists are fairly elegant in a coarse sort of way, even if her hands are a trifle red, but she definitely leaves a lot to be desired in the foot department and as for the state of the water one can only wonder exactly she has been doing that has caused the water to be covered in green scum.

The story ends and all is explained..almost..

2007-11-02T10:55:00.000+01:00

If you will recall back we left Madame Grognonne , Loic disguised as the widow, the widow dressed as a woman of ill repute, Jacques frail farmhand and Antoine attired as a sardine gutter, for no apparent reason, at the entrance to Chateau Loufoque. We thus continue to the story’s end, its culmination pieced together from the accounts of all involved.

Arriving then at dawn to be met by the over excited pigs ,no longer confined to the pantry and greedily devouring the hydrangeas, our hearty heroes knew, without doubt, that something was a miss Chez Loufoque. Leaving Jacques and the widow to unravel Loic’s artificial leg from the sacking, Antoine leapt from the cart to unravel the mystery. Sadly this was not all that he unravelled, catching, as he did his petticoats and slipping face first into the festering fish guts. With help from Madame Grognonne, and unperturbed by the awful offal, he drew his cloak around him and pulled up his hood the better to scrub off the sticky sardine scales adhering to his skin, and a good job too for otherwise he would have certainly have come off far worse when he slipped on the pig excrement, as he descended from the cart, their recent meal of hydrangeas obviously not agreeing with their digestion.

The crash of his clattering of his clogs alarming the pigs and no doubt alerting whoever was in the house to his arrival there was now little point in attempting to sneak up on them unawares. He marched onwards then boldly towards the kitchen.
Thrusting open the door, whilst at the same time being careful not to smear the brass handle only recently polished by Madame Grognonne, his eyes smarting from the reek of his fouled clothing, Antoine could see nothing in the darkness save a lone figure at the table. He moved forward to demand the interloper identity themselves only to find his voice hoarse and unfamiliar no doubt from his sleeping open mouthed on a cold night in an open cart. Spying chief Patissier’s decanter of best cognac on the table, he raised his arm to grasp it, intending to rescue it from the thieving hands of that unidentified figure at the table and hoping the restorative liquid might sooth his throat.

However he found, due to the rigidity of the whalebone corset he was wearing, he was unable to lower his arm again, his stays having been rather battered out of shape by his tumble from the tumbrel and he had the unpleasant sensation of something hard and sharp threatening to penetrate his person should he attempt to lower his limb. This was not a risk he was willing to take. In his discomfort he barely had time to give the figure at the table at the table a second thought for in the instant he realized he had been harpooned by his whalebone another figure entered the room, one whom he instantly recognized and at whom he rushed with relief, for if there is any man in the world skilled and experienced in the art of releasing Antoine from the confines of a woman’s corsets this is he! However before he can reach his saviour and seek succour the figure at the table shrieks and slumps in a most ladylike manner as only a person of her breeding and natural poise can do.

Here then is all made clear. The mysterious spectre at the kitchen door is none other than Antoine and here are Antoine’s filching thieves, none other than Chief Patissier and his dear and charming wife Un Peu Loufoque. A rush of relief is felt by all.

Madame Grognonne, stout in limb and heart , hoists her mistress from the floor and carries her off to her chamber to recover her composure and repose in peace. Chief Patissier releases Antoine from his confining corsets and washes away the smell of sardines outside in an as oil drum as off old , a fire is lit and a hearty breakfast is prepared by the widow. Stories are exchanged and tales of intrigue and woe. Chief Patissier tells Antoine briefly about his abortive friendship with Lawrence and Antoine recounts tales of his carousing with the local cleric. All is put right over a shared meal and a few restorative cognacs. Upstairs, sitting in the sunlight, Madame Grognonne silently watches over her mistress sleeping whilst she silently polished her gun and ponders upon life.

But what of the Gendarme? What fate has befallen him?

Only Time will tell, and time, as ever, is in no haste to do so.
.................................................................................................................................................................

The engraving above purports to depict the rather touching departure of the local cleric shortly after the the conclusion of the events described above. Some say he left to seek his fortune in Vannes where he worked as a missionary to sailors , others that he chose a life of penitence as a hermit on one of the small islands off the coast of Cape Breton. Some tell tales that he was called upon by a mysterious visitor, late one night ,accompanied by a person disguised as a sardine gutter, and that what happened at that meeting caused him to see the error of his ways. Truth is an elusive creature, but all that is certain is that he left the commune and was never seen again, and that the night of his departure the shrine to Loic and his miraculous limb was secretly dismantled and the money collected from it was found all neatly stored in a coffer in the clerics kitchen with a note donating it to the restoration of the church tower.

Homeward Bound

2007-10-20T07:11:00.000+01:00

Whilst our motley band of misfits slept the day away in the cool shade of the woods, and Antoine valiantly stood guard puffing on Madame Grognonne’s pipe to keep the flies at bay, there happened to pass, not far from them, the figure of a young lad intent on his duty.

It was none other than the lost and grubby figure of Jean Luc Perdu, carrying in his satchel an urgent telegram from myself ,which was sadly by now somewhat ragged and stained owing to his unhygienic habit of storing his baguette and bloater paste repas in his satchel along with his mail.

Little did he know that had he but chosen to rest his velocipede under the trees and taken the opportunity to perform some much needed ablutions in the clean waters of the stream he would have stumbled across Madame Grognonne, the rightful recipient of the telegram and thus saved himself several more days on the road.

Of course had he come across Madame Grognonne, there in the woods, he would have very likely not continued along the road to Paimpol and therefore perhaps never had the opportunity to make the intimate acquaintance of one Fleur Fleton a friendly fish filleter who introduced him with to the delights she usually reserved solely for the entertainment of members of the Breton fishing fleet, before sending him on his way back in the direction in which he had come. So overcome was he with Fleur Fletons and her fishy tales that, very soon after delivering his bloater paste stained telegram at Chateau Loufoque, he returned to Paimpol and bound himself as a cabin boy on a cod fishing boat sailing for the far flung shores of Cape Breton in Canada where, having discovered that due to an unfortunate inner ear imbalance he was ill fitted to the life of a sailor, he apprenticed himself to a fur trapper called Finnius Finnigan and eventually married Finnegan’s fine daughter Fenoulla. That however is another story altogether.

Anyway, I digress. As the day began to cool and evening fell the party reassembled themselves and adjusted their disguises, not easy in the case of Loic whose backward facing foot had become inexplicably tangled in the widows garter elastic, then, having eaten a restorative repas of herring fillets and anchovy paste tarts washed down with the remains of the cider, they resumed their journey homewards with many a backward glance fearing with every turn of the carts squeaking wheels that they the perfidious port policemen at Paimpol may even now be pursuing them .

The night being cold, all except Jacques, who was driving the creaking cart, took refuge in the back lying huddled together on top of the sacking in the rear gaining what heat they could from each others bodies and the festering fish guts, which although they make excellent organic fertilizer for the garden do not make particularly desirable bedding. Happily, none of them were discerning characters and were not ,therefore, greatly discomforted by their odiforous mattress although Loic did take the precaution of removing his twisted limb and hanging it over the side in order to avoid further petticoat entanglements and the danger of the joints becoming seized up with sardine scales. There was I am sure many an unfortunate traveller that night who felt their time had come seeing the creaking cart go past in the mist its back piled high with bodies.

On reaching the outskirts of our village the cart stopped with the intention of allowing Antoine to dismount and make his way across country to his home unseen. However he slept so soundly that none had the heart to wake him , and it was in fact lucky for them they had halted for in doing so they narrowly avoided an accident when a small but swift dog cart, its drivers muffled and travelling at speed shot past them unseeing and would have almost collided with them had they not been parked under the protective branches of an overhanging chestnut tree. Who could it have been rocketing past at such urgent velocity and at such an early hour? Fearing they had been found out and suspecting the worst they travelled onwards in silence choosing the little used roads until, as dawn broke the sky with its first shards of tentative light they arrived, Chez Nous ,to find some other person had arrived before them and the door to the silent house stood open...
..............................................................................................................................................

The photograph is of none other than that of Finnius Finnigan, future father in law to young Jean Luc Perdu and Grandpere to all the little Perdus that Jean Luc and the fercund Fenoulla produced in the way of offspring, including Fanny, Florence, Fabian, Francois, Felice , Ferdinand, Phillipe and last but not least poor little Elodie . Early on in their marriage they made the sensible decision to ensure all their children were given prenoms starting with the letter F so as to save on the the cost of name tapes for their clothing. Poor little Elodie however was the exception and was named after Jean Luc’s maiden aunt whose crossed eyes she had unfortunately inherited. Phillipe was a spelling error, one that could have happened in even the best regulated families unless sensible precautions are taken.

Floundering with the fisherfolk.

2007-10-17T10:18:00.000+01:00

Having partaken of a restorative luncheon I shall now continue the tale of our intrepid travellers.

You may remember we left our devious band of domestics travelling incognito by night in an open cart borrowed from Yannick for the transportation of fish offal, Jacques disguised as an old deaf farm labourer, Loic garbed as a mariner, the Gendarme dressed as the widow, the widow dressed as a woman of ill repute, Antoine dressed as a sardine gutter and Madame Grognonne dressed as herself. The night was a cold one and their journey long but they were amply prepared for the hardship, Madame Grognonne having assembled a hamper of comestibles and the widow providing an interesting assortment of beverages of various varieties and levels of potency.

The gently plodding of the cart horse well known for its soporific sound unsurprisingly soon sent all into a deep slumber until their sudden rude awakening as the cart wheel struck a rock and the wheel jarred by the jolt , jettisoned the passengers into the ditch. All would have been badly bruised had they not fortuitously fallen on the Gendarme. Happily, with each lending a hand, and using the still comatose and rigid body of the Gendarme as a prop, Antoine and Jacques were able to replace the wheel. Sadly as a result of the mishap Loics leg had become twisted and the foot was pointing backwards, a problem they knew from previous experience could only be remedied with professional help. Therefore after some worried discussion it was decided that he and the Gendarme should exchange disguises, the widows long skirts would thus hide Loics deformity for even in Paimpol , the home of the Breton fishing fleet, the sight of a sailor with a foot facing backwards was bound to draw attention. This exchange of clothes was not easily undertaken for disrobing a drunken man without his acquiescence is not an easy task, and as a result they were forced to leave his corsets and bloomers on under the sailor’s tunic and trousers. However finally they were able to continue.

Cresting the brow of the hill they saw below them the distant lights of ships at anchor in the port shining like stars in the early morning darkness and the cart, now squeaking alarmingly made its way to the town quay where the colourful cursing of female fish filliters drifted across the cold air as they hauled the catches up from the boats below. The plan had been that once they arrived at the bustling port they could easily discard the drugged Gendarme, dressed as a woman in the widows clothing, in some out of the way spot propped outside a tavern where he would eventually sober up. Meanwhile they would fill the cart with fish offal and would all be home and safe before he had been discovered. The Gendarmes recent diet of laudanum laced with eau de vie would almost certainly ensure his amnesia and failing that, his female garb would be sufficient to discredit any tale he told which might implicate the Loufoque households involvement in his predicament.

Unfortuantly, whilst they sat outside a tavern, pondering a new course of action, they were spotted by a Sardine gutter, the very one that Madame Grognonne had seen off with a bucket of water some weeks previously at the height of Loic fever. Recognising her tormentor and casting suspicious glances in Loics direction, for even dressed as a widow woman his charisma stood out, she called upon her friends to come and help her reek her revenge and it could have turned a trifle tiresome had it not been for Antoine’s swift intervention.

Screaming shrilly he leapt from his seat, between Jacques, disguised you will recall as a deaf farm labourer, and the Gendarme, dressed as a Sailor on shore leave, and slapped the sailor soundly about the head accusing him of interfering with his person and making such a fuss that they were soon surrounded by a crowd of indignant dalliers under cover of which Madame Grognonne and Loic were able to slip swiftly away leaving the widow behind to offer the others support. Although even at a distance anyone would have been remarkably desperate to make advances at Antoine dressed as he was, the other Sardine gutters were quick to rush to a fellow woman’s defence and all set upon the Gendarme who, as luck would have it, was just that minute regaining consciousness.

Finding himself aroused from his opiate induced slumbers by a bevy of big breasted beauties he lurched forwards to make himself acquainted but in doing so tore his tunic on a nail thus revealing to all his women’s corsets under his mariners uniform. At the same time his breaches, designed for a smaller figure, burst their buttons and the widows lace bloomers billowed out. Such a commotion followed as the sardine gutters surged forward intent on finding if this was a man in woman’s clothing or a woman in mans and in either event disrobing the pervert. A fish gutters life is not a gay one and thus they must find amusement where they can.

Jacques and the widow managed to remove Antoine, who was eager to remain and join in the fun, swiftly had the cart filled with fish entrails and were safely back on the road homewards before anyone had time to note their dissapearance. As luck would have it the day was a warm one and their progress was accompanied by a swarm of flies to escape from which Antoine and the others drew their hoods over their heads. It was decided it would be safest to secrete themselves somewhere and stop until nightfall thus they might avoid the attention of the flies and other travellers on the road. The rested in a wood where Antoine volunteered to sit guard by the cart whilst the others slept.

Thus we must leave them once more, a little closer to home and perhaps a little closer to phantom at the kitchen door, for I too am tired from their exertions to continue further.
........................................................................................................................
Above is the photograph is of a group of fisherwomen sorting crabs on the shore at Paimpol. I think you will agree that they look indeed , a formidable force not to be trifled with and that Jacques and the widow were wise to extricate Antoine from their vicinity with such speed for goodness knows what might have happened to him had they discovered that far from being a harmless sardine gutter of advancing years he too was a man in disguise!

The cunning plan commences...

2007-10-09T14:26:00.000+01:00

Whilst anxiously awaiting my response to the urgent letter Madame Grognonne had sent me seeking advise regarding her “spot of trouble” ( by dint of repeated applications of large and regular doses of an intoxicating mixture of absinthe, eau de vie and cider laced with laudanum, and the occasional blow to the head) the Gendarme was successfully concealed in a semi comatose condition in the cellar at Chateau Loufoque for several days. Meanwhile Loic and the widow took turns to stand guard, sharing the domestic tasks in order that Madame Grognonne was able to go about her business and maintain the façade of normality, shopping and visiting the lavoire so as not to arouse suspicion in the village.

When, after almost a week, no reply was forthcoming and supplies of laudanum were running dangerously low, it was decided that help must be found elsewhere, and therefore Jacques was sent out to seek Antoine, who had been left in charge of the biscuiterie in Chief Patissier’s absence. Thankfully Antoine , on hearing the peril in which the entire Loufoque household lay, rushed to their aid bringing with him extra supplies of opiates and fresh engine oil , the latter for Loic’s knee caps which were in danger of seizing up after long hours spent in the cold and damp cellar.

Meanwhile the Telegram I had sent urging Madame Grognonne to do nothing remained un- delivered in the canvas post satchel of Jean Luc Perdu, the delivery boy, who was lost somewhere on the backroads of the Cotes D’armor having taken a wrong turning at Clegerac and headed off in a southerly direction by mistake.

After an ample meal and lengthy discussion around the kitchen table Antoine and the brave troupe came up with a perfect plan to rid themselves of their troublesome guests whilst not arousing the wrath of local law enforcers, none of them having any desire to end their days at the hands of the guillotine!

The plan was this. Dressing herself in the Gendarmes clothes, liberally stuffed with pillows,( the Gendarme being slightly more full frontally endowed than she)Loic’s widow, as dusk was falling ,was to make her way to la place de la poste in the village which lies in the shadow of the church and is notoriously badly lit. There, under the gaze of any late pilgrims still lining up to fondle the miraculous appendage otherwise known as loics limb at the priests make shift shrine , she would , to her utmost surprise, happen upon none other than Madame Grognonne who would be innocently loitering on her way to collect a baguette or two to accompany the servants evening repas. There they would engage in jovial conversation in full public view and part amicably in front of witnesses thus quashing any rumours that the Gendarme had disappeared or that he and she were on bad terms.

As if to answer a call of nature the widow, disguised a the Gendarme would hasten behind the church wall and secrete herself under a blanket in the backseat of Antoine’s automobile which would be conveniently parked there whilst he sought out the curés company for a timely aperitif. Madame Grognonne meanwhile, having purchased her bread, would engage the lurking limb fondlers at the shrine in pleasant conversation regarding the weather until Antoine, returning to his car, would pass the square and , noticing her there ,offer her a lift back to Chez Loufoque .

Once out of site of the village Antoine would drive to a pre-appointed rendevouz point where they would pick up the drugged and drunken Gendarme, now dressed in the widows clothes and supported by Loic who thanks to the contents of the children s dressing up box would be dressed as a sailor on shore leave. Here the group would part company Antoine to return by automobile to the village stopping briefly to have a warming drink at the bar tabac where he would let slip his planned visit the following day to his maiden aunt in Rennes, in order to establish his alibi. The rest of the group would wait in the shadow of the trees for Jacques arrival in a cart, borrowed for the purpose from Yannick under the pretence of needing it to collect fish guts from the sardine fishermen at Paimpol as fertilizer for the vegetable garden. Hidden under the sacks placed in the cart for the transportation of the fish fertilizer, they would travel under cover of darkness towards the coast stopping briefly on the road to Guingamp to collect Antoine, now dressed as a Sardine gutter. There was actually no need for the party to include Antoine dressed as a Sardine gutter but since he still had his old spoon sellers costume and got such obvious enjoyment form dressing in women’s clothing it seemed churlish for the others to draw attention to the fact.

Thus far the plan worked well however the party, which now consisted of Jacques disguised as an old deaf farm labourer driving the cart, Loic dressed as a sailor, the Gendarme dressed as the widow, the widow dressed as a woman of ill repute, Antoine dressed as a sardine gutter and Madame Grognonne dressed as herself, had many hurdles to leap before they were home and dry again in the safety of Chateau Loufoque.

Alas! I fear this story is far too arduous for a woman of exhausted spirit and shattered nerves such as myself to recount in one sitting thus I shall rest here for a restorative cognac and a light luncheon of poached salmon and artichoke hearts dipped in butter and resume my telling later.

..........................................................................................................................................................

The photograph shows the long line of women siting on the bank by the shrine with some remarkable patience fro their turn at polishing poor loics purloined appendage. Some evenings I understand there are as many as thirty of them gathered there, and they use the opportunity to exchange local news and knititng patterns.

The story behind the tale...

2007-10-06T10:00:00.001+01:00

Over the past week I have been able to piece together, from accounts given by the various members of the household, exactly what it was that happened here, Chez Loufoque, in our absence and an explanation for the appearance of the phantom figure in the kitchen. The story is a strange and complex one but I shall do my utmost to render if faithfully.

As I had discovered from Madame Grognonne’s somewhat idiosyncratic carte postales which I received whilst taking the cure in the South. After a series of unfortunate events she and Jacques had been left in a spot of trouble arising from the Police maltreatment of animals and in consequence had unconscious Gendarme in the confined in the cellar. Jacques immediate reaction had been to finish off the Gendarme and bury his body in the garden however he and Madame Grognonne had been unable to agree on a suitable spot in which to safely inter him, the melon beds having already been earmarked for possible later use, and were in the midst of a heated argument regarding this topic when who should arrive buy Loic and his widow friend who had come to deliver the latest produce from the widows orchard . Cider, and a few bottle of Pomig , a deceptively strong spirit made form cider, of their own fabrication. Loic had of course been in hiding with the widow after the religious fervour surrounding his miraculous body appendages had got a trifle out of hand.

This momentarily distracted Jacques and Madame Grognonne who were, out of politeness, forced to taste the latest alcoholic offerings, a social obligation that inevitably took sometime. However after all were well lubricated from their tasting it was decided to store the remaining drink in the cellar and allow it to mature a little. Loic being the steadiest on his feet, an interesting fact in itself since he has an artificial leg which I understand had at that time an attachment for crushing apples. Unfortunately, whilst removing the cider to the cellar Loic ,who had not his apple picking attachment on his false arm and therefore his grip was not as well as it might be, was startled by the sound of groaning, obviously this was the gendarme gaining consciousness, and accidently dropped the barrel in fright, it smashing on the Gendarmes head and drenching him in the cider. Miraculously, bearing in mind this was the second major blow to his cranium within a relatively short period the blow did nothing worse than render him unconscious again.

Hearing the commotion in the cellar Jacques the widow and Madame Grognonne rushed to Loic’s aid fearing he had been set upon by sardine gutters lurking in the dark , and having discovered the cause Jacques and Madame Grognonne were obliged to tell the whole sorry tale of the Chief Druid and the Gendarme to Loic and the widow. After which they were all in need of further refreshment so they made themselves comfortable, by sitting upon the recumbent Gendarme ,and opened a bottle of absinthe which was fortuitously to hand, whilst deciding what course of action to take next.

It was after the Absinthes bottle was emptied and they had moved on to sample some of the special wines Chief Patissier had arranged to be sent up from Bordeaux that they hit upon their cunning plan. A plan which requires an explanation all of its own and which revealed to me the identity of the terrifying creature whom I encountered upon my return here, the identity of whom I have discovered and will reveal to you. Meanwhile, all I shall add is that, bizarre although the entire tale is it only proves that as I have always perceived it to be, that is that fact truly is stranger than fiction.

.......................................................................................................

The rather idyllic painting is called The Cider mIll and was painted in 1880 by John George Brown an American artist of rather fanciful tastes who specialized in idealised portrayals of impoverished peasant children at work and play all of them looking remarkably well nourished and clean. I can not imagine that Loic and the widows cidre production however it is cidre none the less for that. I am given to understand from Loic and the widow that hygiene and health and safety is not high on their list of needs when it comes to producing their products and that the odd dead rat in a ask only serves to add to the flavour. I shall not I think be sampling their Pomig.

Dance with Death

2007-09-29T15:30:00.001+01:00

I must have passed out for a mere second, before I regained my senses, the invidious aroma of the spectres pungent scent , as it crossed the expanse of the dark Kitchen lumbering towards my husband , reviving me almost instantaneously. As it approached Chief Patissier, it threw back its hood to reveal its face, and he lept forward to embrace the figure, as one embracing death itself.

It was at this point that, despite being a woman of stoical nature and backbone, I lost all sense of reality; I remember sliding floor wards, the cold sensation of the flagstones on my skin and the sound of wooden clad feet hurriedly entering the kitchen, metal scraping on stone. The noise of a commotion and raised voices and the vague sensation of being lifted up by strong arms and then after that all was quiet and dark until I woke here in my bed with the figure of Madame Grognonne sitting at my side polishing her rifle quietly in the sunlight.

It was as if all was normal, and always had been thus, as if the strange events in the kitchen had never happened.

............................................................................................................................

The image above is of Ankou, who, in Breton Folklore, is the spectral personification of Death, his appearance usually is taken as a portend of death itself coming to take a member of a family. The Ankou is said to be the spirit of the last person to die in the area. It can be male, but more often is female, and is a tall, haggard figure in a wide hat with long white hair, or a skeleton with a revolving head who sees everybody everywhere. The Ankou is said to sometimes drive a deathly cart with a creaking axle and piled high with corpses. Bretons beleive if one is out late at night and hears a creaky axled cart coming along the lane behind you it's generally not a good idea to try and hitch a lift.

Un Peu meets her Nemesis

2007-09-25T18:58:00.000+01:00

Seen from the darkness of the hushed kitchen the figure before us stood frozen, a looming shape outlined by the lightening sky, its face shrouded, having thrust the door wide open its arm remained raised in the air, its trembling finger pointed as if in accusation. Even the pigs outside were hushed into deadly silence by its awesome presence.

I clutched the cognac glass and stared resolute at what must surely prove to be my nemesis. Shrouded in dirty skirts and shawl the vision stood a good six feet tall or more, an unearthly height for a Breton. From its body emanated an unholy smell of decaying flesh and excrement as if it had risen from the very bowels of hell itself.

The only sound was that of Chief Patissier in the other room searching in the pantry for the means of lighting a fire and something to cook upon it.

The spectre spoke, shading its eyes as it did so as if the better to see into the gloomy room.
”Who dares to enter here uninvited? “ it demanded its harsh tones gruff and disturbing. “Answer me” it yelled “or I shall set the very hounds of Hell itself upon you!”

I could not speak.

Outside were the sounds of other footsteps moving closer, and the apparition turned its head swiftly so that its face was partly revealed in profile. It was as if the Devil, upon hearing a description of Eve, had attempted to manufacture himself his own feminine companion to rival God's creation, but had instead created a grotesque travesty of womankind. The voice, the height, all was wrong, and yet,I held it strangely familiar in some repellent way.

Chief Patissier called out to me ,some prattle about having found matches and paraffin, and at the sound of his voice the figure tore its attention back to the kitchen as if jolted by electricity. I gasped loudly as my husband, oblivious to the danger therein, re-entered the room armed with his treasure and immediately seeing the intruder cried out in shock. The figure rushed forward, arms outstretched.

The last thing I saw as I collapsed into unconsciousness was the sight of those large strong arms stretching out to encircle my poor husband.

...................................................................................................................................................................
The illustration is a photograph of the young Bernadette Soubirous who, in 1858 saw the ghostly apparition of a small woman who appeared to her eighteen times. The lady, as she called her, was wearing a white veil, a blue girdle and had a golden rose on each foot as well as "holding" a string of Rosary beads and caused roses to bloom in February. One can only ask oneself why is it that this young uneducated peasant girl is blessed with such a vision when I am rewarded by a grotesque apparition stinking of rot and built like a Blacksmith? Sometimes I really feel there is very little justice in the world!

A dark Dawn Breaking

2007-09-21T10:39:00.001+01:00

Chief Patissier made excessively disagreeable company on the return journey home, having had to abandon a camping expedition with his friend Lawrence because of our sudden departure. He was petulant at missing their proposed trip, but was forced to face the seriousness of the situation when we returned to find an empty house. Strange he should be so swayed by Lawrence to camp I really never saw Chief Patissier as a camper, however, I digress.
As dawns light broke, casting its weak rays on the bleak scene of the cold kitchen Chief Patissier ushered the pigs into the yard, they had become quite irksome in their determination to eat his shoes, and closed the door firmly. It was chilly and I shivered although I knew not whether it was from the damp Breton climate or the deep unrest at finding our home thus. He kindly handed me a restorative glass of his best Cognac and I had not the heart to tell him it was really a concoction of eau de vie, cheap brandy, cooking sherry and cold tea the recipe for which Madame Grognonne and I had had long ago mastered in an attempt to curb escalating vintners bills.

Out in the yard the pigs were quite agitated, but I discerned, over their commotion, the sound of footsteps approaching across the cobbles. As the porcine excitement rose to a frenzy I realized that these were the heavy steps of sabot clad peasants and not as I had thought those of our children arriving with the luggage. We had left them to walk back from the station with our cases, Fresh air is, after all, very good for children. The walk from the station would have taken an hour at the very least. We had sensibly made the journey by dog cart in order to make the greatest haste possible.
If not the Children then who could it be approaching our door at this ungodly hour? Was it the sardonic sardine gutters in search of Loic? The might of the law come to waylay me for my part in the demonic Druids demise or perhaps worst still the spirit of a ghostly gendarme returning to seek revenge? As the noise of the pigs reached a crescendo the kitchen door was thrust open and there before us silhouetted against the light was a figure. It was an image I shall never forget.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The photograph is Madame Illettré, in the very dogcart which we borrowed to travel home from the station, Due to the early hour , and her being, amongst other things, a trifle deaf, we had been unable to raise her thus Chief Patissier had resourcefully left her a note pinned to the dogs kennel advising her that we had taken it. Of course Madame Illettré can not read but hopefully she will get the gist of the message and as Chief Patissier so unkindly pointed out since there is every chance I am currently being sought by the Police for spreading libelous rumours regarding the Chief Druid I may as well add theft of a vehicle to my criminal record. I am sure you will appreciate I found his levity a trifle inappropriate under the rather circumstances. I was not amused.

The return of Madame Loufoque

2007-09-19T22:02:00.000+01:00

I can not truthfully describe to you the depth of trepidation with which I undertook the long journey north to Brittany. Having received Madame Grognonne’s last communication, and having had no response from my telegram to her, I had no idea what I might find at Chateau Loufoque on our return . It would seem my worst fears were justified when we arrived in the dark hours of the early morning, tired and travel weary from our long journey, to find the doors wide open and no sign of life.

We had come as fast as we could but it would seem we had arrived, alas, too late.

The kitchen range was cold, no lights were lit, and all was dark and empty. There were signs of an apparent disturbance in the pantry plus an all pervading and unmistakable aroma of stale fish in the air. I had neither strength nor stomach to inspect the cellar nor the melon beds but feared the worst. The only sound was the slight snoring and snuffling of Loic’s pigs curled up under the kitchen table, not I admit the most appropriate place for them to sleep but, under the circumstances, I had not the heart to disturb them.

..................................................................................................................................................
The etching above is of the Prison in Vannes, an insanitary place with little in the way of comfort. When I imagine Madame Grognonne incarcerated there in, possibly shut away for ever for her crime my blood runs cold. As a housekeeper her faults were undoubtedly many and various but good domestic servants are so hard to find these days and where on earth would I retrieve another capable of pulling a governess cart unaided and wielding a Kendo stick with such accuracy, it has taken me years to get her to understand the finer points of English tea making! Had I been a lesser woman I should have wept.

URGENT TELEGRAM

2007-09-16T18:36:00.000+01:00

URGENT TELEGRAM

FAO Madame Grognonne,

Alarmed to hear recent turn of events. STOP. Do nothing until I return! STOP.Returning by train tonight. STOP. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES allow Jacques to finish off cellar dweller and inter in melon beds.STOP.

Madame Un Peu Loufoque.

Footnote..

The photograph is of Jean Luc Perdu, the truculent and tardy telegram boy for the commune who sadly, due to a diminished sense of direction delivered this Telegram to its rightful recipient some days after it was dispatched by the sender. The missive eventually arrived at its destination via Paimpol where, by chance, Jean Luc was luckily waylaid by an friendly female fish gutter who recognised the recipients name and , after a short delay, sent him back in the right direction armed with a baguette and a pot of Bloater paste for the Journey.

A spot of trouble...

2007-09-11T10:08:00.000+01:00

Dear Madame,
I am very (retissent, rottiscent , rattissscent),umm not willing to upset your holiday especially when sir sounds as if he is having a good time rolling in he mud with his new friend Lawrence but we have had a slight problem with the gendarmes here on account of you telling me the chief Druid was dead. I do not know who told you he was dead but they are very wrong because he was here only half an hour ago and very cross with me he was too for telling the sardine gutters he had snuffed it and was in trouble for nicking underwear and such like.
I told him it was you who said it and now the Gendarme has come , him who has a wife whom I shot in the bottom, and he would like a quiet word with you too, only I explained that you were not here and then it got nasty cos the gendarme said “AHA!! “ in a very loud voice “So she has spread rumours and now has run away in to hiding !” and I said no you was on your holiday cos you needed a rest what with Loic and the sardine gutters and you were somewhere and I was pretty sure it wasn’t a place called Hiding cos that dint sound very French to me and he said likely story and I said are you calling me a liar and he said yes and Jacques hit him on the nose for calling me one and then the gendarmes nose bled like a nobodies business and there was lots of shouting and the noise upset Loics pigs who were in the kitchen with us at the time being on account of them still missing Loic like mad and they bit the gendarme on his derriere so the gendarme kicked the pig and Jacques said that was not a nice thing to do to a harmless pig and kicked the gendarme and said ”see how you like it cochon!” and the gendarme fell over backwards and hit his head on the fender and is out cold but breathing..Just. I think.

Jaques says we should finish him off and no one would know and then we could bury him in the melon beds but I said know you and I were saving that place for a just in case we needed it thingy.

Please advise as quick as possible what is best to do.. I await your swiftest response. Meanwhile we have locked the gendarme in the cellar.

Yours Madame Grognonne,

ps I have enclosed a photograph of the gendarmes wife so you can see what she looks like, as you can see she is still having trouble sitting properly as her behind is a bit sore after I accidentally shot her. I Reckon she is an efnic monarity too but Jaques reckons she might be portuguese.

Dear Madame.....regarding efnics...

2007-09-03T20:55:00.000+01:00

Dear Madame Loufoque,

I was very sorry to hear that the Chief Druid had drowneded, even though he were a creepy bloke and a bit of a groper as I mentioned in my cartre postale I wouldn’t have wanted him dead. And fancy him being a plant thief and all!! Cor, you know more about it than I do and I is here!! I suppose they are saying it was by accident his being drowneded, probably slipped picking plants by a river or something like that and his dress pulled him under. Although you do hear a lot about police brutality and efnic moniroites so perhaps it was the police what did away with him because he was an efnic.

Not sure quite what an efnic moniroite is, but I reckon wearing a dress and an embroidered muffin cover on his head probably made him one of them, that and the flowers. And what about the Gendarme then I always thought he was a bit odd but never thought he was one for stealing knickers!! Do you reckon that he and the Druids were in carhoots together what with the gendarme stealing womens clothes and the druid wearing dresses?

I told the sardine gutters , who are still lurking about the village green after dark hoping for a quick grope of Loics lower limbs about the chief Druid and they said they were not surprised because he often came to riffle the fish entrails on account of being able to read them or something but they reckoned it was so he could have a closer inspection of their cleavages, probably after fashion tips.

I have asked Jacques why he has an Eparé as requested by you but he says what is one and why should he have one and if anyone says he has one and he shouldn’t then he is a liar. Since it was you who asked I hit him with the frying pan for him being so insubordinatttive, insoorbinateeet, unsabordinatttit, rude to you. He was not very happy about it but we had a new batch of cider from Loic which was very good indeed and we soon made up.
I hope you and Sir are enjoying rolling in the mud with your new friend.

Yourse respectfully

Madame Grogonnne.

ps I am sending you a picture postcard of a Gendarme in uniform whioch the postman thought you might like to see on account of my telling her about the Gendarmes and the Druids, I reckon this one has been knicking ladies undergarments as well.

As clear as mud...

2007-08-29T11:38:00.001+01:00

Madame Grognonne,

Charming though it was to receive yet another carte postale from you, I do wish that you had headed my advise regarding using my notepaper and writing in a large script. It was rather difficult to follow all of your news but I think I got the gist.
I am saddened to hear that the Chief Druid has drowned whilst under the influence of Cider attempting to steal Aconites from sacred sources, but I suppose it is all one might expect from a man who goes about the place wearing other peoples Muffin covers. Let this be a lesson to you all not to over indulge in the harvesting of deadly poisons whilst having partaken of alcoholic beverages. I do wonder why on earth he was collecting such a toxic plant and can only assume it was something to do with his religion. I must say I had no idea Druids rendered their garments like that. One learns something new everyday!

Do I take it from the references to mud on your face and rolling in murky pond water that you are attempting to replicate the therapeutic experience of the spa waters here? If so I strongly advise against it. It will by no means cure your”ruddy cheeks” nor, as far as I am aware, will the application of chicken droppings. What ever were you thinking of woman? There is more to a Thermal Spa than frolicking naked in the pond and covering your face in mud and if you try it at home you are more likely to gain a dose of dysentery than improve your complexion. If you do get a fever as a result of your pond dipping , you might see if there is any of the Chief Druids aconite left and take it a few drops in water two or three times a day.

I agree with you it is not wise to bury the remains of the Chief Druid in our hot beds no matter what Jacques and the mayor think his dying wishes may have been, we have enough trouble chez Nous with religious fanatics hounding Loic without adding a band of Aconite crazed grieving Druids dancing semi naked in the pond.

Who is the he who has cut a large hole in something and what has he cut a large hole in and why? It is all very confusing! Fancy the Gendarme being arrested by the mayor for stealing women’s under garments! The deprivation of the lower orders never ceases to astound me.
We are having a very tolerable time here in the mountains, Chief Patissier has made a new friend called Lawrence and who is an English baronet of some kind. They do seem to have a lot of interests in common despite a lack of shared language. Lawrence has a motorcycle and he and Chief Patissier have taken to driving off together into the mountains, Goodness only knows what they get up to all day but they come back every evening absolutely exhausted and filthy dirty!
Yours Un Peu Loufoque.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
I have enclosed the carte postale showing the Spa as I thought it might interest you . Please heed my warning regarding taking the waters and do not try it at home. Have just re read your carte postal with some difficulty in order to try and decipher more information and am rather worried about the cellar key , what is an “Eparé and why does jacques have one? Please advise by return of post.

A postcard regarding something in the water from Madame Grognonne.

2007-08-26T11:39:00.000+01:00

Dear Madame,

We have had a slight problem ici on account of me doing as you requested and searching the Chief Driuds garments for incriminating laundry marks.
I just happened to be lying on top of old chicken house on the pond taking advantage of the sudden and unexpected sunshine and indulging myself in a bit of a bain de soliel when who should I hear but him creeping through the gooseberry patch whispering away to someone else. Not wishing to be found in my state of undress and minus all but my undergarments ( I had to keep them on in order to keep the cellar key safe from Jacques like I promised I would) I sculled the chicken house across the water into the cover of the willow tree by the old grotto at the fontaine de la source all the better to hide myself.
However when I got there I discovered that he and his companion had been heading in the same direction and were busily occupying themselves with the filling of copious containers from our spring, which Chief Druid or not I reckoned was a ruddy cheek on his part.
Acting on instinct like any good and reliable chatelaine would in order to protect the families assets I shot up to accost him in his felonious deed only to slip on some chicken droppings catching my all togethers on a protruding nail and falling head long on top of the Chief Druid , ripping my under garments asunder in the process. so that we was both forced to the ground in a tangled heap.
Realizing that I was not dressed for visitors and wishing to protect my reputation I grabbed the nearest thing to cover my bits and pieces up which turned out to be the Chief Druids white thingy wot he wears. In the tussle that followed I accidently knocked of his hat and I must say for a man who has forsaken contact with the fairer sex he certainly knew which bits to grab as we plunged into the murky waters of the pond. Madame believe me when I say for a man of the cloth he could certainly give a sailor a run for his money regarding groping women where he shouldn’t.

Anyway Jacques who was sleeping off some cider from last night (the kind widow lady who has been taking care of Loic has introduced him to the art of cider making and we has been a testing of it quiet a lot of late, being that it is ever so good. The horse likes it too which is saving us no end of money on absinthe ) heard the kafuffle and came running to see what was a miss. Seeing me near naked in the pond flapping about with what appeared to be a strange man and not having much fun with it, he dived in after us and gave the Chief Druid quite a seeing to before pulling him out of the water and holding his head in the fontaine so that he was not able to see me as I climbed out of the weeds and covered up me dignity with the his discarded garment.

Jacques was that cross he was quiet ready to get me gun and have away with the bloke Chief Druid or not but I persuaded him not to, mainly cos he was planning to bury the body under the hot beds and I remembered our conversation regarding that before so persuaded him to take the man to the mayor, I would have suggested the Gendarme but after I shot his wife in the derriere we have not been too friendly with them. Well, it turns out that The Druid and his acolyte what run away as soon as I appeared naked on top of the hen house and has not been seen since, ( I always thought that was a plant but apparently its some sort of follower so I is told) were stealing water with the idea of bottling it and saying it was from Loics holy well and that he had blessed it. Added to which you was as ever perfectly right in your opinion that it was the Chief Druid who had whipped our table linen for there, plain as the mud on my face ,was our laundry mark embroidered on the linen as what you said it would be.
The mayor has gotten the Gendarme to arrest the Druid on grounds of theft of water and laundry and planning to deceive the general public with false claims. He was going to charge him with attempting to defile a woman of good repute but we all agreed we might have trouble getting that to stick.

Anyway I have cleaned and mended the linen but since the Chief Druid cut a large hole in the middle of the cloth I doesn’t think it will be any good for anything but napkins so I have done that with it and made the rest into some new undergarments for myself which I hope you will not take amiss.

On a sadder note in the mayhem and struggle I misplaced the key to the cellar in the water and we can not find it anywhere but Jacques says not to worry cos he has a spare one anyway.

Hoping your holiday is going well.

Yours
Madame Grognonne

Ps the postcard is of the mayor, that the post mistress gave me from her collection. I hope you like it. She did want me to send one of her like the ones she was selling at the vide grenier but I was not sure it would arrive as they are a bit popular and tend to get nicked in the post. I don’t think anyone would want to knick a carte postal of our mayor though so I hope this arrives OK.

A postcard from Ceret to Madame Grognonne

2007-08-23T11:31:00.000+01:00

Dear Madame Grognonne,

How thoughtful of you to send me a cartes Postale of the Chief Druid. However it was rather difficult to decipher as your writing is a trifle small and the tendency to cover the card in script then turn it at an angle and continue writing in the other direction across the original text makes reading if quite impossible in places. May I also point out that ink blots did not make the task any easier? Should you feel the urge to communicate again perhaps you would consider utilising some of my writing paper from my desk and writing in bold script with a sharp pencil and confining the text to one direction only please?

I sit here under the fig tree in the shade and hear nothing but the cicadas and the excited trill of the fast running river beyond the trees, hurrying its eager way to its lascivious rendezvous with the sea. The air is hot and heady with the scent of wild thyme and rosemary. The world is at peace.

Here, on the border with Spain, we have taken private rooms at a chalet at the very foot of the Canigou Mountain where, according to Catalan legend, God placed his hand on the earth and declared that in this place all men would be at peace, which, I imagine, accounts for the distinct lack of Sardine gutters in the vicinity. A fact that is refreshing in itself.

I take it Chez Loufoque is also Sardine gutter free but would appear from what little I can make out from your missive seems to be under attack from Druids. Please take extra precautions with the household’s linen. The last time the chief Druid called in unannounced I recall we discovered, after his departure, several good damask tablecloths missing and a number of other items , including a muffin warmer that I can not help but notice closely resembles the hat he is wearing on the front of the cartes postal. Would it be too much to ask that, should the opportunity arise, you might be able to check the laundry mark on his hat and robe and if they contain the Loufoque crest retrieve them with as much tact as possible? The Muffin warmer was a wedding gift from the Belgium Nuns in Bordeaux and I am quite sure Reverend Mother did not intend it to be used as a hat by a heathen!

We travelled by automobile to Quimper where Jacques loaded us and our luggage on board the sleeper train to Bordeaux, all went well, apart from a minor inconvenience concerning youngest , a freight train and a lump of coal, which I mentioned in passing in my carte postale, and spent a few pleasant days enjoying the busy thrill of the bustling city, the opulence and elegance of a wealth built on fine red wine, the theatre, the opera house, long elegant boulevards, and promenades en Famille in all the fashionable places. The warm days echoing with tantalising half remembered memories, images glimpsed fleetingly in passing, recalling others long lost in childhood. Revitalized by a revisiting of a more civilized world and our wardrobes refurbished for the southern climate we travelled onwards through Carcassonne and Perpignan upwards to the cool mountain air, fresh and welcoming after the intense heat of the plains.

We have come here to the mountains for the cure, three weeks of taking the hot sulphurous waters at the thermal spa, of evenings spent sipping chilled champagne in languid contemplation of nature’s beauty, of mud baths and massage to rinse and pummel and ease away the drab, damp Breton Summer and fortify me for the cold wet winter that inevitably lies ahead. Meanwhile Chief Patissier will indulge himself with good wine, fine food and the company of others of similar persuasion, whilst the children will run wild like street urchins tickling trout in the streams and chasing each other like wild goats on the mountains passes.

I do hope all is well Chez Nous but trust you ,Madame Grognonne, to maintain the family home in some semblance of order in our absence. If there are any problems please do not hesitate to alert me to them.

Yours Madame Un Peu Loufoque

.............................................................................................................................................................
The painting is by Spanish artist Juan Gris, who was born in Mar. 13, 1887 previously known as Jose Victoriano Gonzalez, he changed his name having become the friend of a man called Picasso in Paris, , although Jacques never mentioned Picasso in person, I wonder if he knew him. Perhaps you might ask him? The painting shows the town of Ceret, through which we travelled en route to our chalet. The painting captures the heat and the strength of the landscape depicted in the cubist style that is so modern and popular here. If you can get to grips with the strange angles and the odd juxtaposition of trees and houses I think you might find it quite appealing in a rather avant-garde sort of way.

A postcard to Madame Loufoque from Madame Grognonne

2007-08-22T23:15:00.000+01:00

Dear Madame,

I am writing to inform you that the cases of wine master ordered have been delivered and that that I have made sure Jacques has stored 'em with care in the cave chez Loufoque as directed. I have taken the key myself and hidden it in my bodice in order to keep it safe and out of harms way. I had thought to secrete it in my combinations but thought it the first place he would look. Apart from the other evening when I accidently shot the new gendarmes wife in the derriere, mistaking her for an intruder, as she was bending over in the melon beds all has been quiet. having mistaken her for an intruder having seen her bending over in the melon beds. She claimed she was admiring the cantaloupes but I suspect she was hoping for a free fondle of Loic’s appendages when no one was about. What she thought she was doing coming and sticking her nose in uninvited I have no idea but she was most discombobulated she was! A small fight broke out in the village between the chief Druid and the curé regarding sharing the offerings at Loic’s shrine, as the chief Druid says fertility is a pagan thing and the church has no right to go pinching his customers. The druids have set up a rival stall close by the village lavoire and are selling postcards of the chief druid for 2 centimes each so I has got one here to send you so as that you knows what he looks like. I am not sure why he is dressed in a large napkin but think it must be cos Druids is notoriously messy eaters. Meanwhile the pigs have been very lonesome since Loic has been away and Jacques has taken them into the stable with Marron the horse to keep them company. This makes it rather hard for me to sleep what with Jacques, the pigs and the horse all snoring and farting in their sleep. It does however keep the place warm on these unseasonably chilly nights.

respectable regards from Madame Grognonne
Ps please send grosse bissoux to the children.

A Postcard from Bordeaux

2007-08-21T22:26:00.000+01:00

Cher Madame Grognonne,

As you can see from this carte postal we have safely completed the first stage of our voyage and, despite your fears, have lost neither luggage nor children, although we did have a slight moment of panic on our arrival at Bordeaux station when youngest accidently found himself unexpectedly bound for Italy on a transcontinental freight train, having stepped briefly on board to examine the driving mechanism of the engine.

Luckily he had the foresight to judiciously employ his sling shot and with the aid of a well aimed ,and unusually large, lump of coal ,was soon reunited safely with us unharmed when the train was forced to return to the station in order for the driver to receive urgent medical attention for an unexplained and rather nasty head wound.

Chief Patissier has ordered a quantity of wine for the cellar and asks that you keep an eye out for its arrival and ensure that Jacques does not mistake it for horse liniment in our absence. I trust all is well Chez Nous and that you have had no further trouble with fickle fishwives and others of their ilk.

I leave the household in your capable hands.

Yours un peu loufoque

Adeui mon amis!

2007-08-10T07:40:00.000+01:00

Quite frankly it has been rather a vexing week, what with the incident of the sardine gutters invasion and all that came after it, together with the arrival of some rather unsavoury characters dans le village, and a rather unexpected turn in events, regarding which I shall no doubt enlighten you further at some later date. Chief Patissier has decided ,therefore, that he shall close the biscuiterie, it being the week of the assumption, and we shall, as will all of France ,indulge in a small vacances.

Jacques has packed the autombobile, Madame Grognonne has prepared a splendid hamper and the children are all scrubbed and dressed. We shall leave at dusk once the cooler air affords us more comfort to travel. I have no idea where we are headed but trust as ever in my dear Chief Patissier to provide a firm hand on the helm and to steer us to calmer waters, far from the constant clamouring that seems to have invaded our once tranquille home. We felt it wise under the circumstances to leave Loic in the tender care of a rather charming person , whom, he met at the lavoire on the fateful day of his clandestine leg fitting, I am sure in their kind hands he will be safe from unseemly followers and yet more unfortunate events.

The honour of the family name and the chateau are to be left in Madame Grognonnes capable hands and what with the dogs and her rifle I am sure she will be more than capable of dealing with any interlopers in our absence.

Adeui my dearest hearts and I wish you well and hope that we may meet again!

......................................................................................................................................................

Today's painting is by the Artist Mark Gertler 1891-1939 Supper (Natalie Bevan), I rather like the languid feel of it, so calming amongst all the frenetic activity of late!!

Un Peu Loufoque with girded loins and Sardine gutters

2007-08-04T09:34:00.000+01:00

I lay in my bed just as the faint light of dawn pressed its way unasked through the shutters, listening intently to the unmistakable sound of the drawing back of a heavy bolt down in the yard below my window. My immediate thought was that it must be Jacques and Madame Grognonne having difficulty lifting the laundry basket in which Loic was concealed and inadvertently dragging his metal leg along the ground in the process, but in my heart I knew it was something far more sinister.

Creeping to the window and gently pushing open the shutters, as far as I dare without attracting attention, I caught that tell tale aroma, the unbegiuling melange of stale fish and unwashed bodies, carried on the light breeze like the exotic scent of some foreign flower but far more loathsome and nauseous, the unmistakeable aroma of a girlish gang of sardine gutters, grappling with our gates!

Taking a restorative glass of Cognac from my bedside decanter, kept there for just such an emergency, I attired myself quickly in a pair of chief Patissier’s trousers and a knitted pullover and, adding Madame Grognonne’s Kendo Breast plate and the colonels helmet for protection, made my way stealthily towards the tower room where I might afford myself a better view. Chief Patissier and the rest of the household having already left on their mission to safely obtain a new limb for Loic; it remained to me to protect the children and chateau Loufoque from the marauding Mademoiselles de la mer! The fish filiters had taken their first false steps and if they were lucky would live to regret their foolishness for the remainder of their days! I was confident for, in the words of the family motto carved above the front door: "Ce n'est qu'un couillon qui embête un Loufoque ".....Only a fool fools with a Loufoque!

From my new vantage point I could see their shapes outlined in the dim light, the great wooden gates were pushed open and a group of 4 fish filleting females were stealthfully making their way across towards the rear of the stables in the general direction of the potting shed that Loic calls home. I say stealthfully but it is virtually impossible for well built women to tiptoe undetected in wooden sabots and the fish filiters, not being renowned for their intellectual quick thinking, had not thought to remove them.

This was there second mistake, the sound of their metal studded clogs on the cobbles alerted the dogs sleeping inside the stables with Marron the horse and they barked vociferously and leapt at the door forcing it open in their haste to get at the intruders. We had had heavy dew in the night, granite cobbles being slippery when wet and metal studded clogs not being designed as footwear for athletic pursuits, it is unsurprising then that one slipped on her efforts to outrun the hounds and was set upon by them having knocked her self unconscious on the granite. Alas, I suspect the liberal application of old cooking oil I had applied earlier on the stones had not done much to help their sure footedness either.

That left three heading off past my potager, their third error of judgement, I find fish filiters so predictable.

Passing past the pottage and into the undergrowth of the overgrown vegetation, it has been a trifle difficult for Loic to successfully tend to the artichokes of late what with his foot being on backwards and his cult status, they disappeared from sight but not until I heard the satisfying sound of a muffled grunt, the like of which might easily have been caused by an unsuspecting fish filliter catching her foot in a well hidden snare and being catapulted skywards to hang upside down in the apple tree, having first been knocked insensible by a cricket ball launched by a giant catapult hidden amongst the potatoes which she had inadvertently triggered by her careless footwork.

That left two, treading down my asparagus and trampling the tomatoes in their unseemly rush to ransack Loics rucksack.

Since returning from Passiondale poor Loic has never quite settled to civilian life, having I suspect left so much of himself upon the battle field, except for the piece of him he carried in a jar pickled in formaldehyde but we try not to think about that too often. He has eschewed all attempts at domesticity and lived like the boy soldier he once was, his scant possessions piled in his grubby military knapsack camping in he corner of the potting shed with the pigs.

During the interminable rainfall of this wet summer Youngest, Loic and Jacques had constructed a sophisticated drainage system designed to divert flood water to the basin at the end of the orchard. The sun being finally with us and fear of flooding past, they had put this to good use as a slurry pit for the fumier from our many and various animals, its bulk being recently increased greatly by a timely contribution from Yannick of this year’s cow dung. Youngest has high hopes of building a machine to produce fuel from methayne gas. In order to preserve the heat the top of the slurry pit is concealed with reeds and straw. Sadly our sardine saboteurs were unaware of my budding physicists plans and I could not help but smile as heard the unmistakable sound of someone falling headlong into the pit having trodden upon the straw.

That left but one wicked wench left crashing her way towards the door of Loics lair, cleverly avoiding the slop bucket left suspended above the door to deter intruders. Alas though for her not clever enough, as I clearly discerned the sound of the door being pulled open was swiftly followed by the noise of disgruntled pigs disturbed untimely from their sleep by the invasion of the potting shed. Pigs are very territorial creatures as our last vile voleur found as she was pushed backwards in the Basin by a dozen cross cochons searching for their breakfast.

Happy in the knowledge that all was now well I returned to my room to dress myself in more suitable attire and having done so flung open my shutters to the jolly vision of the now sunlit courtyard below , with 4 filthy fish filliters retreating out of the gates in an ungainly fashion pursued by barking dogs and grunting pigs.

It is always a fine feeling when one starts the day with a good deed done before breakfast!

.........................................................................................................................................
I have included a picture of the fisher girls of finsitere to give you an idea of their general build and dress, although in this photograph they are busily employed transporting fresh tuna from the fishing vessel, I am sure you get the general impression of them and can well imagine their rather odorous aroma, fish being a notoriously difficult smell to banish I can only hope the additional of animal manure can only serve to mask its pungency. One can quite see that they might go to any lengths to get hold of some of Loic’s belongings to act as charms for fertility after all it would take a strong stomach to get close enough to get to know them let alone anything else!

The Itinerrant spoon seller and other intrigues

2007-07-28T13:59:00.001+01:00

Details have been finally completed for Chief Patissiers daring attempt to replace Loic’s missing appendages without the whole operation being turned into a fiasco of pseudo religious mania by his increasingly large group of followers. Under cover of darkness they intend to smuggle Loic out of the potting shed and take him to a secret location where he can have his limbs reconstructed by a skilled blacksmith who is to be paid handsomely for his silence.

Chief Patissier already had the blue prints drawn up for Loic’s first replacement leg and Antoine and he have improved upon the original design and added drawings for a new hand as well. One clever little truc will be a small metal seal embossed on the first digit of the artificial hand so that Loic may stamp his mark on any products sold under his name and thus vouch that they are genuine and meet with his approval. This we hope may stop the recent rash of theft s of handcarts from around the neighbouring villages which appear to be stolen to order to meet the growing market for wooden souvenirs. The mayor who is still rather aggrieved that the church seems to be doing so well out of the destruction of its tower, the churches takings yesterday alone were rumoured to be in excess of 95 Francs , 12 centimes and a pig. He has agreed that only mementos stamped with Loic’s seal will be allowed to be sold in the village, providing that no approval is given to the curé. In return he has promised to provide the labour and any new stone needed to replace the fallen tower. Of course for reasons of safety only we know what the seal will look like and where it is kept. Obviously we do not want to risks Loic’s new hand been stolen and auctioned like his last!

The idea is this before dawn has broken; Jacques will transport Loic hidden inside a laundry basket, in the governess cart, to the outskirts of a distant village. There he will climb out of the basket, dressed as an ancient washerwoman and make his way to the village lavoire along with the basket of dirty linen and Madame Grognonne who will be acting as his bodyguard in case he is spotted by gangs of marauding souvenir hunters intend on stealing his leg. Both will be wearing large shawls and bonnets to hide their faces. There, hopefully having first completed the laundry, they will be met by Antoine, dressed as an itinerant spoon seller, who will offer them a lift in his cart to the crossroads from whence he will take them to a small abandoned Inn behind which Chief Patissier and Jacques will be waiting with the governess cart and automobile. I say him but understand that Antoine has decided to dress as a female spoon seller for reasons that I can not quite grasp.

Once Loic is secreted in the trunk at the back of the vehicle, Madame Grognonne will accompany Jacques in the governess cart back to Chateau Loufoque with the basket of wet washing in time to prepare lunch, leaving the cart in a disused barn at the inn. Chief Patissier and Antoine, who will by then, hopefully, have abandoned his disguise; will drive to a garage where, by prearranged rendezvous, the blacksmith will be waiting. Chief Patissier will claim he has a problem with his pistons and he and the car will be taken inside the workshop. Once hidden inside, they will do the necessary work to reinstate Loic with the normal number of appendages. All being well they should be back before sunset in time for Loic to put the pigs to bed.

There are, risks involved, it goes without saying, but I must say the whole thing is not without an element of excitement as well!! I will of course have to go without my morning tea unless I have it exceptionally early or persuade Eldest to make me one, Madame Grognonne being otherwise occupied. My only fear is that left alone in the house with the children I might be in danger from a surprise attack by rampaging sardine gutters if they get wind of Madame Grognonne’s absence and seize the opportunity to ransack the potting shed for articles of Loic clothing!

................................................................................................................................................................

The photograph is of the old woman who sells wooden spoons at Quimper market. I have included it to give you an idea of what Antoine will look like in his disguise. Although of course he is considerably less wrinkled, having rather a nursery complexion, and is better built. According to Madame Grognonne Antoine was very upset when Chief Patissier forbade him to wear earrings and a necklace as part of his disguise. I can sympathise with both sides, no woman feels properly dressed with out a few bijoux but on the other hand I think by insisting on wearing emerald drop earrings and a diamante necklace he may have roused some suspicions, after all I do not imagine spoon sellers make a great deal of money!

Riding Loic's Bandwagon

2007-07-28T10:57:00.000+01:00

Wednesday evening we had the unexpected pleasure of a surprise visit from Antoine. Luckily Madame Grognonne was able to stretch the Saucisse au choux she had planned by throwing another head of cabbage into the pot and hurling in some Strasbourg sausages and a spare ham bone so he was able to stay to dinner!

We have hardly seen Antoine at all over recent weeks since he has taken to spending his evenings with the handsome young village curé, what they find to discuss eludes me as Antoine never struck me as one interested in ecclesiastical concerns. However he has now abandoned the curé in disgust, they having had a falling out over the latter’s purchase of Loic’s pilfered appendage.

We are all concerned for Loic and his present position as a walking miracle and had long discussions late into the night as to what we might do regarding the matter. The entire region is in uproar over his supposedly heavenly powers and yet Loic continues as ever, placid as a bovine in a field of clover and apparently oblivious to those who seek to exploit him for their own gain. It would seem to me that Loic is the sole person not profiting from his recent resurrection from the dead. Even the Pompiers are selling their story to the local journal and have posed for photographs with a handcart in front of the now rather grand shrine. I say “a” rather than “THE” handcart as the original has already been dismantled and converted into wooden souveniers for the tourist trade which is growing daily.

Some clever but rather unkind person has hit upon the idea of throwing fireworks in Loic’s general direction thus startling him into freezing rigid in terror. They then rush forward with a camera and take his photograph which they sell to the eager women who seem to have elevated him to some sort of cult status. We also heard that one local farm boy was escorting parties of tourist around the estate and hiding with them behind trees to leap out at Loic then charging them 4 francs a go to fondly his artificial leg whilst he is catatonic. Madame Grognonne has taken to patrolling the grounds wearing her Kendo outfit, Colonel von Krompts German helmet and carrying her gun. So far this week she has shot 4 pheasants, a junior clerk and chased off a troop of school girls from a lycee in Rennes who were accompanied by a nun. She almost got a school master from Plougonevel but he threw himself into the pond and she lost him in the weeds. It is all very tiring and time consuming.

Antoine and the Chief Patissier are of the opinion that ,if handled properly, the affair may be turned to Loic’s advantage and Chief Patissier came up with the clever idea of making Galletes, each bearing a miniature hand print and packaged in a small wooden box bearing a likeness of Loic, and selling them under the name of Loic’s delight at 45 centimes a piece. Jacques has agreed to make the boxes and I have produced a small pen and ink sketch of Loic which I made for an earlier portrait of him as a war hero. All profits will go into a fund for Loic , with a small part put aside for Jaques in payment for the boxes. This hopefully will ensure he has a secure old age as well as providing him with sufficient money to replace limbs as necessary.
Meanwhile we must do something about his lack of a hand and his backward facing foot.

.................................................................................................................................

The rather impressive and stern looking gentleman in the photograph is none other than Le Chef de Pompiers Herve le fol de Tremagat, although I see in the journal they have managed to get his name wrong which I am sure must have proved extremely vexatious for him as he is an extremely pompous fellow as I am sure you can tell by his moustache!

Loic Fever !

2007-07-26T19:59:00.000+01:00

News of the seemingly miraculous recovery of our accident prone gardener would have appeared to have travelled far and fast and the village is heaving with sightseers and thrill seekers from as far afield as Roscoff and St Malo. The village square, in the shadow of the church, is filled, on a daily basis, with an ever growing number of people paying to stroke Loic’s highly waxed and well oiled artificial hand, lost by the Pompiers on final journey home. Of course the swineherd who accidently discovered it when falling drunk into the fosse by the wayside is now claiming it was a divine providence that led him to it and earning himself a nice living retelling his tale for 10 centimes a time. The shrine itself has altered beyond all recognition, no longer an upturned apple box, it now boasts a rather fine granite structure decked with an ornate alter cloth embroidered with, what one supposes to be, images of Loic intertwined with gardening tools and various salad crops. Poor St Fiancre is hardly getting a look in!

The local artisans have been impressively swift to produce a variety of Loic linked ephemera for the tourists and pilgrims to purchase at exorbitant prices and there would appear to be no end to their ingenuity. The potter has sculpted row upon row of small terracotta figures of Loic spread-eagled and legless under a diminutive statue of St Fiancre, and a range of commemorative cider bowls with a primitive painting of Loic waving his artificial limb and bearing the Motto “ Make mine a large one” in Breton. The carpenter is selling wooden Plaques carved with Loics image and apparently made from the very handcart upon which the Pompiers had transported Loic’s crumpled body Chez Nous after the latest of his terrible accidents. One can only surmise that the handcart was in reality much bigger than I remember as some of the plaques are quite large and there are rather a lot of them.

The village Bar is selling a special drink called “Loic’s reviver” which is, or so I am given to believe, a volatile mixture of Absinthe, cider and crème de menthe served in a stumpy glazed clay pot which looks remarkably like those in which Yannick sells his yoghurt . The recipe is naturally a secret but is said to include Absinthe for the fireworks, cider to honour the Pompiers who were drinking it when they discovered Loic and crème de menthe to symbolize the green salad that Loic was wearing when he recovered his spirits. It comes with a lettuce leaf wrapped around a pickled cucumber and harpooned on a wooden skewer which is quite an original touch. Jacques assures me that it actually quite pleasant but he thinks it may well be quite lethal in large quantities.

Our village being unaccustomed and ill equipped to deal with such a sudden influx of travellers the many visitors noticeabley outnumbered the scanty accommodation offered by the one small Inn. Enterprising farmer’s wives have set up auberges in their longeres and barns and are happily making a lucrative living providing overnight lodgings for all and sundry. I understand the going rate is 2 francs per person a night with sheets extra.

All in all, the entire commune seems to be thriving as a result of Loics little mishap, which since we are having such a wet summer will be a blessing in itself, the potatoes rotting in sodden earth and the hay ruined and too damp to harvest.

The only person who finds no joy in this new prosperity would appear to be Nicolai Fartoocozy who, as the chairman of the committee for the commune health and sanitation with special responsibility for fosse septiques, finds himself rather overworked arranging for the emergency empting of communal fosses which are not surprisingly overflowing with all the extra use they are getting.

…………………………………………………………………………………..

As you can see from the accompanying photograph even old Jerome and his wife are doing very well selling hand carved and painted effigies of Loic and the Pompiers as ”pignoles” . How effective they will be remains to be seen as of course Loic is rather lacking in the limb department and by tradition the pignoles limbs revolve at speed in the wind to frighten away birds. If you look closely you will see that Jerome seems to have got over this handicap by depicting Loic with a very large spade like attachment in place of his missing hand and has given him to legs, a fact that seems not to have deterred his customers at all.

Loic and the unholy relics.

2007-07-24T04:46:00.001+01:00

In the short space of time since Loic’s resurrection from the dead there seems to have developed some sort of cult surrounding him and it is now virtually impossible to go anywhere about the grounds of Chateau Loufoque without espying one or two females hiding behind trees or walls hoping to get a glimpse of him. It is most distressing m especially as some of them managed to inadvertently trample the asparagus bed in their eagerness to get closer to their idol.

Only yesterday evening Madame Grognonne was forced throw a bucket of water over a group of young sardine gutters from Paimpol who had come all the way from the coast just for a chance to stroke Loic’s leg which they apparently believed would cure their “fish filliters finger”, a common affliction amongst their profession, it is, so I am given to understand, a similar complaint to tennis elbow but decidedly more odoursome and less socially acceptable.

Unfortunately all this interest has meant that Loic is still disporting himself about the place with a skip in his step. Jacques is worried that should he remove the leg in order to straighten it out with a few well aimed hits with the lump hammer someone might steal it for a souvenir the moment his back is turned. This is not as unlikely as it sounds as an enterprising old swineherds form the next village, who fortuitously for him, discovered Loic’s missing hand after falling in the fosse on the way home from a rather drunken evening at the bar tabac, put it up for auction to the highest bidder and the curé purchased it for the princely sum of 12 Francs, a bottle of holy water and a dozen church candles.

The curé has now given it a polish up and has had it chained to the makeshift altar so that wives of all shapes and sizes may now pay highly for the privilege of lining up in order to kiss it in the hope of ensuring fertility. I understand that this was causing quite a disruption this morning as several men came from their work to find the midday repas unprepared and the hearth cold as their wives were out in the square pinning their hopes upon my gardeners discarded appendage.

At one stage the gendarmes had to be called away form their luncheon as a fight had broken out between some of the women who were accusing each other of spending too long fondling the fingers and therefore depriving others of the experience. All I can say is that obviously news of the devastating effects of his groin injury is not as yet common knowledge.

..............................................................................................

This photograph was taken just before a slight fracas at the shrine today. Behind the shrine you can spot a group of men returning from work and seeking out their wives in the crowd. As you can see the curé has moved fast in constructing a more formal structure for the veneration of St Fiancre and Loic’s hand. If you look carefully at the girl at the front of the picture you will of course be able to instantly recognise the distinctive dress of the unmarried fish filleters of Paimpol although obviously the sardine embroidery on the lace cap is not clearly visible from the photograph. The gentleman standing next to her is commenting unkindly on the fishy aroma which is an unfortunate hazard of their trade. However since he is the swineherd who sold the curé Loic’s hand I hardly think he is in a position to cast aspersions on the personal hygiene of others.

Divine intervention

2007-07-21T14:57:00.000+01:00

Loic’s astounding powers of recovery never cease to amaze me. During the short span of his eventful life he has so far managed to lose most of an arm and a leg, suffered shell shock, suppurating sores and an infected arrow shot in his derriere. He has been blown up by the Germans, shot at with an arrow and set alight by youngest, and on two separate occasions, been almost flattened by his patron saint and a homemade aeroplane, and all with barely a whimper uttered.

If it were not for a rather unpleasant groin injury received at Passiondale, and his missing appendages he would be a fine figure of a man. Since his most recent escapade he appears to have gathered quite a little following amongst the women in the village, a fact that has not gone unnoticed by amongst the clergy.

The young village cure has swiftly come up with a somewhat cunning plan to supplement his income; using several large pieces of the fallen and charred masonry from the church tower, an old sheet and an upturned apple box, he has hastily constructed a rude shrine to St Fiancre , complete with votive candles, flowers and the slightly damaged statue of the saint himself, next to which he has placed a small wooden bowl with a slot for collecting offerings of money supposedly for the restoration of the church tower. Already the bowl is quite heavy with donations and he has also sensibly provided large covered baskets for those who may wish to contribute offerings other than coins of the realm. I understand yesterday alone the saint received a large piece of salted cod, two chickens, a cabbage and a quart of milk , which should fill the presbytery larder nicely, not to mention 15 Francs in small coinage and a brass button.

There have been mutterings in the village about miracles and it is hoped that the Bishop will be asked to come and consecrate the shrine and even say mass. All sorts of tales are running about concerning the saint’s powers and there has even been talk that the statue has been blessed with the gift of healing after Loics resurrection from the dead. As for Loic himself , It is only a matter of days since his death and yet already this morning I espied him out in the potager hoeing the asparagus bed looking for all the world as if nothing had happened. Of course if one looks closely one can see his foot is on back to front and there is a rather strange kink in the artificial leg which is causing him to walk with a slight spring in his step but nothing that the Jacques can not cure with the help of a lump hammer and a bit of brute force.

............................................................................................

I thought you might be interested to see the makeshift shrine erected by our young curé. The rather rustic gentleman sitting behind the box with a small bell is Herve la Bile whom I understand the curé has employed at a rate of 3 jugs of rough cider a day to guard the statue of St Fiancre. The bell is for those moments when he may need to take a break for a call of nature the curé having insisted that he is not allowed to relieve himself in front of the saint. I understand from Madame Grognonne that Herve being a lifelong sufferer of Haemorrhoids is rather hoping for some divine intervention himself.

Madame Grognonne and the dinner of the living dead...

2007-07-19T14:44:00.000+01:00

I feel quite exhausted, frayed and frankly fragile as I write my diary. It has been an unexpectedly eventful, not to say vexingly traumatic, week what with the village firework display resulting in the burning down of the belfry and the arrival of the body of poor Loic on a handcart accompanied by a band of peripatetic Pompiers. Then just as we were coming to terms with our grief, the most unimaginable thing happened sending all our emotions into disarray again.

Madame Grognonne and I were both so shocked we were forced to have several very large restorative absinthes and a lie down in a darkened room and believe me when I tell you that choosing to lie down in a darkened room in the company of Madame Grognonne and a unspecified quantity of absinthe is an activity to be considered only in the most extreme circumstances. It has been all so upsetting that I am only now able to even begin to talk about it.

It all happened just before dinner shortly after the departure of the Pompiers with the handcart. Madame Grognonne was busy in the kitchen preparing some grilled steaks and a light salad as best she could under the somewhat distressing circumstance. Loic’s body having been laid on the kitchen table by the Pompiers she was, as I am sure you will understand, operating in very restricted space and was having to improvise a little, using Loic’s chest as a makeshift work surface. She had just finished balancing the pan of hot potatoes between his knees whilst she prepared a dressing for the lettuce which she had propped in a bowl under his chin and was crushing the pepper corns for the seasoning when a sudden movement behind her startled her and she turning her back on the kitchen table for a second, the pepper grinder sliding from her hand showering everything with fine pepper grounds. Her nerves were a little on edge, what with overindulging in alcohol at the Bastille celebrations and having to work in a makeshift morgue so she was I imagine more than a trifle jumpy.

The movement she discovered was nothing more than an escaped piglet rooting about in the vegetable baskets and in an effort to banish her sense of unease, she yelled unnecessarily loudly to Jacques to come and remove it and to search out some food for the poor creature whose welfare had obviously been neglected due to the households understandable distress at Loic’s unfortunate accident.

Whether it was the liberal and unexpected application of freshly ground pepper or the sound of Madame Grognonne’s shouting at close quarters or a combination of the two we shall I suspect never be sure. Whatever the cause is immaterial, for what happened next was to change all our lives.

At the very second that Madame Grognonne returned her attention to her culinary task, there came an unearthly groan from the kitchen table and Loic’s inert body convulsed in a spasm catapulting the hot potatoes in their saucepan across the room, narrowly missing her left ear, and sending lettuce flying heaven wards. Madame Grognonne screamed and in her terror searched for something with which to hit out at the body of our much mourned and dearly departed gardener apparently rising from her kitchen table ashen faced and wide eyed. The first thing that came to hand, fortunately, as it turned out, was the large cast iron skillet in which she had been heating oil for the steaks. I can assure you it takes a great deal to shock Madame Grognonne after all she has seen in her eventful life but shocked and frightened she undoubtedly was! Her screaming brought the remainder of the household running from all directions in alarm.

I was the last to arrive, searching as I had been for a suitable bookmark for my reading matter, it is so infuriating when one loses one’s place in a novel don’t you agree? and when I entered the kitchen I found it full of screaming and hysterical servants and children and an escaped piglet in the middle of which, on the kitchen table dripping with hot olive oil and his head wreathed in a mixed salad sat a Loic the undead looking rather pallid and frail but most definitely alive.

At this point I did something that I have never done before. I fainted.

The doctor whom Chief Patissier sent for to attend to Loic, Madame Grognonne and myself, assured us that poor Loic had not been dead at all but merely stunned into a deep catatonic state by the events of the night before and that he was extremely lucky indeed not to have found himself coming too in his coffin with the lid nailed down. Also lucky I feel that Madame Grognonne had grabbed her skillet not her chopping knife otherwise he may well have had a rather terminal relapse I fear.

Of course the Pompiers being strangers to the village were not familiar with Loic’s habitual reaction to loud noises ,and the drunken vet who identified him was too inebriated to explain to them that he was, despite all appearances to the contrary, probably alive. We being told that he was dead and being shown his rigid body his mangled artificial leg sticking out from under the canvas cover they had pulled over him ,did not even stop to question their authority, for after all no one really expects ones gardener to be flattened by a fallen saint and survive.

The entire village is agog with the news and some have hailed it as a miracle and talk of setting up a shrine to St Fiacre on the very spot where Loic was found. Meanwhile Loic has taken to wearing,, on the Doctors advice, a large card around his neck stating he is alive and demanding in the event of his apparent death he should not be buried without his mortality first being confirmed as dead by at least 1 Doctor or at the very least a sober vet.
................................................................................

As you may imagine, it was a trifle hard to find a suitable illustration for my entry today, however I have chosen this painting done in 1867 by Manet which is an interpretation of the funeral of his friend, the writer Charles Baudelaire. In my present state of emotional distress I am sure you can hardly expect me to find anything more appropriate as I am certain you will understand images of the resurrection including lettuce draped gardeners are few and a far between even in modern art.

Alas poor Loic!

2007-07-17T11:25:00.001+01:00

As sometimes happens, after a hectic week of social obligations, we were grateful today to occupy our time quietly chez nous, the boys fishing from the remains of the hen house on the pond, and Eldest lying on cushions under the shade of the apple tree growing her hair, whilst Chief Patissier and I sat in chairs under a parasol reading in companionable silence together, he the Marquis de Sade’s travellers guide to sodomy which I purchased for him at the Vide Grenier, ( I still have not quite located Sodomy on the globe so presume it must be a very small country indeed), and I reading Emile Zola’s Nana for the third or fourth time.

It was with some surprise then, that our tranquility was disturbed by the unexpected arrival of the itinerant Pompiers from the neighboring village, just after luncheon. They stood before us, hat less and smoke stained, their uniforms in disarray, bearing the limp and dust covered body of poor Loic on a hand cart.

What with it being Sunday and with all of the excitement of the Bastille Day celebrations the day before and the fire in the village church, his absence had gone totally unremarked by any of us, except of course for the pigs who had been making a terrible racket, a fact that we had foolishly attributed to their being frightened by the noise of the fireworks of the night before. No wonder there had been a marked absence of fresh vegetables with the repas!

We discovered that, after the fire in the church tower had been extinguished, a task that had taken them most of the night and well into the morning, the exhausted Pompiers had just seated themselves on some of the rubble in the square to refresh themselves with a jug or two of well deserved cider, when one of them impaled his nether regions on something unexpectedly sharp. Closer inspection revealed a strangely twisted and contorted metal implement protruding from under the fallen masonry. Curious as to what it might be they swiftly uncovered the fallen statue of St Fiarce, the patron saint of gardeners and haemorrhoid suffers, which had toppled during the explosion and under it the body of Loic, still wearing the dibber attachment on his now useless artificial leg.

Our local Doctor had been unexpectedly summoned away to provide emergency treatment to a prize boar, in a far flung hamlet, who had unaccountable eaten some fireworks carelessly left lying about. The Pompiers were forced therefore to call upon the assistance of the veterinary surgeon, who, having over indulged himself during the Bastille Day celebrations , had not been able to go to the porcine emergency himself and whom they found sleeping it off in a near by hayloft. Although barely sober he was able to identify Loic before collapsing backwards into the water trough.

Luckily for the injured Pompier our village seamstress was able to stitch up his injured buttocks using a generous splash of Absinthe as an anesthetic.

Despite not knowing the village well, the Pompiers had managed to requisition a handcart from the local gravedigger and brought Loic home to us.

What with the fact that his body lay rigid with one arm stretched upwards and the other sticking out at the side, and the handcart having a wonky wheel, it could not have been an easy task. It being a very hot day they had very sensibly used Loics upright arm to stack their helmets on during the journey. The poor men were very apologetic that, by doing so, they appeared to have mislaid one of Loics hands during the journey but we were able to reassure them that he had lost it some years before along with his leg.

We were all deeply saddened by the state of the poor crumpled heap of a man that lay before us like a broken doll. Madame Grognonne and Jacques were beside themselves with remorse when they realized that, far from propping Loic in a safe place for the firework display, by wedging him in an alcove directly below the statue of St Fiacre he had been totally buried by falling debris when the tower exploded. If only they had propped him in by the statue of St Winifred, patron saint of the lame, all might have been well, after all to the best of our knowledge Loic had never been afflicted with hemorrhoids so one could hardly expect St Fiacre to protect him. Naturally one can not blame them for they did what they felt was best at the time but in hindsight it might have been safer to leave him at home in the potting shed with his pigs.

Bearing in mind the heat and the over excited state of the pigs it was agreed it would be better to lay Loic out on the kitchen table at least for the time being. Madame Grognonne is quiet adamant she can work around him but I think, under the circumstances it might be unrealistic to expect any thing other than a light salad for supper.

Needless to say, we are all very shocked.

…………………………………………………………………
The illustration is from an ancient manuscript and shows St Fiacre with a spade in one hand and a book held in the other. I can see the spade reflects his gardening connections and can only assume the book is an oblique warning that if one spends to long reading books one may well, inevitably, end up with hemorrhoids.

Liberty, equality, fraternity and fireworks

2007-07-16T06:44:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, being Bastille Day , we attended, in the village, last night, the bal and repas celebrations, to mark, with suitable splendour and pomp, the of the birth of our glorious French Nation.

Being Brittany of course there are inevitably those who felt that it would have been far better for all had the whole State of France been drowned at birth and in his celebration speech, his first public appearance since the unfortunate experience with the Raki on the night of Nicolai Fartoocozy’s election as chairman of the twining committee, the Mayor was at great pains to point out that it is typical of the French to make such a fuss over the setting free of 4 counterfeit money marketeers, a couple of lunatics and a sexual deviant.

It was a stirring piece of oratory which kept his entire audience spell bound in awed silence, not least because he is still experiencing some difficulty with the left side of his face , which has not fully regained any sensations, and therefore he has a tendency to slur and dribble somewhat . Since the Raki overdose, one can not help but notice that he has developed an interesting facial tick, which causes his left eye to close and the corner of his mouth to quiver upwards in a sneer. However, he seems to have discovered that, by tugging hard at his left ear violently, he can curb the unfortunate involuntary movements of his visage and prompt his rhetoric into action. His French being rather idiosyncratic at the best of times this gives his oratory a rather surreal aspect. It was quite awe inspiring to watch, although wiser to do so at a safe distance as the spitting can be a trifle off putting.

The meal was a traditional menu and nothing to match Madame Grognonne’s exotic Arabian feast prepared for the Nicolas Fartoocozys inauguration, and the many French flags did look rather bizarre against a backdrop of Arabic mosaics and flamboyant arches left over from the same event. However, the dance itself was splendid, despite my fears that I might be prevailed upon to perform a gavotte with Jacques, which, after our soiree chez nous, is an experience I would rather avoid repeating.

The culmination of the evening at midnight was the tremendous feu de artifice display in the centre of the village with the whole square illuminated by red, white and blue fireworks accompanied by the sounds of Jean Claude on his bombard playing La Marseillaise with the help of Luc st Gilles banging his drum. Of course one could not quiet hear the musical accompaniment over the explosions and several of the older and more nationalistic Bretons refused to sing along anyway, but it was a wonderful idea to play the national anthem in tune with the light show, even if the reality fell somewhat short of expectations.

Remembering the recent demise of our hen house as a result of youngest fireworks display, we all stood at a safe distance, outside the salle de fete where we had a clear view of the church lit up in a spectacular explosion of colour and light and a tremendously loud bang which seem to shake the very soil itself with its exuberance. Poor Loic inevitably I am sure was shocked rigid by the cacophony but Madame Grognonne and Jacques had thoughtfully wedged him in a safe corner out of harms way by the church wall, before the fireworks began so that he would not come to any harm.

As the pyrotechnic display came to a close and the smoke cleared, we were surprised to discover that the loud bang all had taken to be the dramatic finale had in fact been the church tower exploding under the onslaught of a badly aimed rocket volley which kept the pompiers busy for the remainder of the night attempting to douse the flames which had spread from the tower to Monsieur le Bois’ wood store behind it .

I have my doubts, knowing the political affiliations of the Mayor and the town clerk, and the general dislike of our young curé who comes from outside Paris, as to just how accidental the destruction of the church tower was, but since the rise of Breton Nationalism here it is never wise for a woman of my high social standing to voice such opinions openly, I am after all despite being married to Chief Patissier for so long, a foreigner myself, not having been born in the commune. I do however suspect it may be some time before the state finds the funding to replace the damage ecclesiastical edifice.

.....................................................

The illustration today is a painting of Marianne our symbol of France and the personification of our liberty. It is interesting to note that no one is quite sure who she was nor why she was chosen but must suppose that our forefathers had good reason for choosing a scantily clad, bare breasted, busty young woman with a red sock on her head to symbolize their new nation. Rumour had it she was suggested as a symbol by one of those liberated from the Bastille in 1789 but as to whether it was a criminal a pervert or the lunatic who suggested it has continued to be a point of some deliberation ever since.

Youngest's birthday goes off with a bang!

2007-07-13T23:03:00.001+01:00

It is youngest fete day today and we have been celebrating in line with his wishes, the entire day being, by family tradition, “at his command”, not perhaps upon reflection, a wise prerogative to accord a boy on his seventh birthday especially one who is sometimes rather too adventurous for his years!

Morning started with “petite déjeuner au lit” which would have been a pleasant leisurely occasion had it been held in his bed in the nursery and not mine, which he deemed a much more suitably venue to hold court!!

There is nothing quite like being woken at 5 am by the thunder of small feet across the boudoir floor and the application of icy hands to ones extremities to remind one, with startling clarity, of the uncertain joys of motherhood.

His arrival was swiftly followed by that of his siblings with Madame Grognonne in tow, bearing a silver tray on which the birthday boy’s brioche and hot chocolate were born high above his sibling’s cavorting heads! Sadly her arms being occupied with youngest breakfast I had to wait for my refreshing beverage, which is not quite how I had envisaged the start to my day.

Chief Patissier had already left for the Biscuiterie so I alone bore the brunt of the anniversary exuberance, a matter I might have taken better had Eldest not, upon greeting me, peered anxiously at my face and enquired if I had slept badly and middle commented at some length on how tired I looked. Youngest did not help matters by suggesting it was merely the inevitable result on my visage of my approaching old age. Had it not been his birthday I would have had severe words with him but I swallowed my acid response, causing Madame Grognonne to enquire as to whether I was feeling bilious. I shall however save it for future use.

It is never wise, in my experience, to hand over control of ones households menu to a minor and today proved my point, thanks to Madame Grognonne’s indulgence and Youngest preferences our midday repas consisted of frogs legs fried in crispy batter, escargot in garlic butter and cold langue de boeuf served with haricot verte and purred potatoes. This was accompanied by a marked absence of wine and the noteable addition of grenadine syrop to the table in its place. I note Chief Patissier was wisely absent for the meal, returning only to enjoy dessert which being fresh framboise and ice cream was a fairly safe choice even in youngest hands.

As always he was well indulged with gifts, we having presented him with a much needed new velo since he had accidentally destroyed his previous one in an attempt to make an earlier flying machine. He is under strict instructions not to take it apart unless strictly necessary. One does like to encourage inventiveness but in his case one can easily go too far. Only last week Jacques went to start the motorcar only to find that youngest had totally remove the engine and the fuel tank in order to utilize them in the construction of his own steam engine. We were not amused.

Middle gave him a new sling shot made from what looked suspiciously like Madame Grognonne missing corsets and a clutch of eggs for ammunition. After accidentally breaking one of the eggs in his pocket we discovered them to be rotten and thus he now will be requiring a new pair of trousers, there being some aromas even Madame Grognonne’s heavy handed laundry will not dispel. From eldest he received a hand written and illustrated book of her own creation entitled” tales from a fairie glade” which was about as suitable as the gift of nails and a hammer he presented her with on her last birthday and as equally well received.

The remainder of the day was spent in his demonstrating to us his captive audience a variety of alarming scientific experiments ranging from the production of electricity to power his latest invention a machine to curl hair, for which Eldest very sensibly refused to be the model for the demonstration and a rather spectacular pyrotechnic display which set the dogs off barking and inadvertently set fire to the chicken house currently anchored on the pond as part of his now completed boat. Rather foolishly, Jacques volunteered to try out the hair curling machine which I pointed out was a great pity as his hair has only just started to recover form being inadvertently dyed green. Loic however gallantry stepped in at the last minute to take his place which, bearing the conductive powers of metal, almost proved fatal. As it was we are now been with out electrical power in one end of the chateau as a result and Loic a rather charred left foot.
Youngest declared the day was a great success and one he will remember for ever, Middle is already planning his birthday events although it is some months away, so impressed was he with his brother’s day. Sadly the dogs, apparently convinced we are under attack, are still barking at the smoldering remains of the chicken coop and I imagine they intend to do so all night. One can truthfully say it was a memorable event, particularly for Loic, from whom I suspect w shall not see much gardening for some time, well at least until his burns heal.

…………………………………………………

The rather interesting painting above is of fireworks display over a river, I must say it is rather more subdued than Youngest’s display and there would appear to be a remarkable lack of burning chicken coops, although some of the barges do in my opinion look a trifle suspect I might add and thus may for all I know very well be floating aviaries of some description.

Madame Grognonne and the Pig's Squeak

2007-07-11T11:20:00.000+01:00

Since the unfortunate incident involving Madame Grognonne’s dirty linen and the run away pig, life has been a trifle frenzied here.

Madame Grognonne has been stretching her somewhat limited culinary skills, the pig having not sadly survived being unceremoniosuly sat upon by the entire domestic staff of Chateau Loufoque.

Loic was quite distressed at the pigs demise, as he felt the fault was entirely his alone, having not only allowed it to escape from the potting shed in the first place, but also hastening its end by accidentally harpooning it with the spike attachment on his artificial leg which, ironically, he had affixed in order to better collect the unripe fruit, fallen in the orchard after all the unseasonable wind and rain, in order to feed them to the piglets.

He has therefore taken to wearing a black crepe armband and would have insisted upon a full funeral had Madame Grognonne not swiftly butchered the creature and converted it into a larder full of rillettes, salted pork, jarrette and pate for the family consumption. She did however give him the pig’s squeak in a small jar and he and the children interred it in a pleasant spot beneath the apple trees with solemn funereal rites and a wake afterwards for which Madame Grognonne kindly provided a cold buffet including several dishes of pork in various disguises, which thankfully Loic was weeping to hard to identify as his dear departed porcine companion. I am not entirely sure where the squeak in a pig is located nor what it might look like, however it provided Loic with something solid on which to focus his grief.

We nearly had a rather unpleasant scene when Loic, seeking solace in the company of others, strayed into the cobbled courtyard, where Madame Grognonne had fatefully being doing her washing prior to the children dousing her and her undergarments in cold water, and where the soon to be deceased pig was being prepared for its immersion in the vast copper usually reserved for the laundry. Thankfully youngest spotted him in time and, using the quick thinking for which he is renowned, shot him in the posterior with a well aimed arrow thus providing sufficient distraction for Madame Grognonne and Eldest to hang a sheet on the line to obscure his view of the swiftly expiring pig hanging by its trotters on a hook.

Obviously as Madame Grognonne was fully occupied in hastily preparing the Boudin noir and could not be distracted for fear of a culinary disaster, some one had to be found to remove the arrow now protruding painfully from Loic’s extremities, a job for which none of us were fully qualified or experienced nor prepared to attempt single handed. Middle however volunteered to try, providing Jacques sat upon Loics shoulders to hold him down and youngest helped him pull.

All went very well until Loic suddenly regained consciousness, quiet unexpectedly, at an extremely delicate and inopportune moment and attempted to struggle to his feet. As luck would have it, at that precise second Madame Grognonne dropped the axe, with which she was doing something unmentionable to the pig carcass, and the resulting cry of pain accompanied by the metallic clatter of the implement on the cobbles, was enough to send Loic in to a state of rigid shock again, thus providing ample opportunity for the boys to continue their business of arrow extraction undisturbed.

I think it unlikely that Loic will be able to sit comfortably for sometime, but that besides, it all went remarkably well considering.

...................................................................................................

This painting of the cut pig by Isaack van Ostrade I think gives a clear illustration of exactly why it was better for Loic to undergo the indignaty of minor surgery without anesthetic rather than risk further post traumatic stress by entering the yard and seeing his former bed fellow thus. Sometimes in life it is necessary to be cruel in order to be kind.

No smoke without fire!

2007-07-04T22:19:00.000+01:00

We had quite a scare Chez Loufoque this morning, youngest staring out of my studio window at the unexpected sunshine, noticed something a trifle alarming and alerted me, distracting me from my contemplation of my abandoned canvases to see what was amiss. There indeed was what appeared to be, gently billowing smoke wafting on the stiff breeze from the direction of the stable block.

Shouting for help in an appropriately lady like manner, me not youngest , I sent him scurrying in search of his Elder sister, and, arming them with buckets of water, I dispatched them out into the yard to investigate, whilst I rushed about the house collecting my valuables , just in case any fire spread to the main building. The stable is naturally full of hay and other combustible material, and, being all too well aware of Madame Grognonne’s conflagratory potential, I had images of her thoughtlessly mislaying her pipe amongst the straw and the whole place catching fire in some terrible inferno!!

Watching the children’s progress from the window I noted that the smoke seemed to be emanating from behind the stable block, and sent them hurtling off at speed to investigate the enclosed courtyard behind it. Youngest had thoughtfully already liberated Marron, the horse, the dogs and chickens who were all by now over agitated by the unexpected excitement and making a great hullabaloo! The yard was a flurry of fur chasing feathers in and out of the hooves of the prancing pony.

Alerted by the cacophony Jacques came running from the garage where he had been polishing his solenoids and slipped on the cobbles, which already damp and muddy from the terrible weather we have been having, were made more dangerous by addition of the spilt water from the children’s buckets, and excrement from the frightened livestock. His fall was thankfully broken by a small fat piglet which had escaped from Loic’s potting shed.

I could not see what was happening from my safe vantage point, but heard above the noise the strident and familiar tones of Madame Grognonne expostulating in anger, swiftly followed by the sight of Eldest and youngest retreating in great haste from the direction of the enclosed courtyard with an extremely wet Madame Grognonne in hot pursuit hurling abandoned buckets and gros mots at them with aggressive gusto! If it were not for the fact that Loic appeared around the corner in search of the missing piglet and she barrelled in to him, knocking them both onto the mud, I am quite sure she would have caught them.

As it was Jacques, Loic and Madame Grognonne were immediately set upon by the chickens seeking safety in the form of a high perch in order to escape from the dogs. Sadly it was not quite high enough and the dogs cavorted all over the recumbent servants in their efforts to catch the poultry. The pig meanwhile had obviously found something interesting and was happily rooting around amongst Madame Grognonne’s petticoats.

Meanwhile the smoke seemed to have miraculously disappeared which was a great relief, although as it turned out there had been no fire at all.

I later discovered Madame Grognonne had decided to take advantage of the sudden burst of sunshine and hang her damp flannel undergarments out to dry. Remembering her recent near death experience as a result of her careless pegging, and not wishing to court disaster a second time, she had decided to hang them in the warmth and shelter provided by the enclosed yard. Quite understandably the children had mistaken the steam rising from her corsetry as smoke and, thinking there was very likely to be no smoke without fire, had hurled the contents of their buckets into yard in the general direction of the washing line. This in itself would not have been a problem if it had not been for Madame Grognonne’s sudden appearance from behind the water butt where she had been rinsing out her remaining unmentionables in readiness for hanging them out to dry as well. As it was both buckets hit her full in the chest.

The whole incident was nothing more than a simple misunderstanding which I think under the circumstances she over reacted to in quite an unnecessary manner. After all no real harm had been done and at least the children and animals had had some exercise, which I am sure made a pleasant change after so many days of being cooped up indoors.

............................................................................................

Thsi rather charming rustic idyll of a farmyard conjours up so beautifully the rural tranquility so reminisicent of rural Brittany and yet, some how, quintessentially lacking chez Nous in recent months.

Madame Grognonne and a poultry matter

2007-07-02T12:36:00.001+01:00

Madame Grognonne is being exceptionally vexatious this morning and has complained, without respite, about the chickens which are, at present, sharing her sleeping quarters. I really can not see what grounds for grievance she might have, after all she is busy about the house all day and I believe that poultry are not, by nature, nocturnal.

One would have thought that she might be grateful for the added warmth they provide at night in the unseasonably damp weather. However far from that, she objects to them roosting on her bed posts and laying eggs in her chamber pot. She claims that since Loic clipped their wings and they can not fly, which, I might add, was only done at her request as she was complaining that they swooped on her from the rafters as she got in and out of bed, they have now taken to dropping down on her in the night from her bed head and walking across her bed before hopping on to the bed ends to roost there. She is convinced they have a personal vendetta against her, which is ridiculous as they really do not know her that well.

The only means of placating her would appear to be to re-house them in their old hen coop but to do this I shall have to ask Youngest to dismantle the boat he is building which seems to be a trifle unfair since he, Loic and Jacques have made such splendid progress with it, added to which, it has still not ceased raining to any noticeable extent and, although the danger has, for the moment, passed, we may yet need to call upon its services!

We did after all move them from the hen house because of the imminent flooding and in order to save her the trouble of wading through the water to collect the eggs. A fact that she, I note, conveniently has forgotten. Bearing in mind her own near death experience in the pond yesterday morning, if she had an ounce of compassion in her soul she would not begrudge their being rescued from possible drowning . After all Loic has taken the pigs into his potting shed with him, which was kind as otherwise she would have them for company as well, and I do not hear him complain, and Jacques often as not sleeps with the horse! I am quite sure that all the animals put together make less noise in their sleep than chief Patissier after a heavy dinner and yet no one hears me making an unladylike fuss about the matter!

As for the chickens themselves, they too seem to be becoming quite settled in their new sleeping quarters despite their disagreable bed fellow but I do fear that their living with Madame Grognonne for any length of time may begin to put them off their laying.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

The painting is by Gijsbert Gillisz. De Hondcoeter a Dutchman born in 1604 who ,according to all I have read ,devoted much of his life to the painting of poultry, as did hi sfather before him. Strangely enough I was utterly unable to find a painting of hens roosting on a french housekeepers bed post, a matter that implies to me that it may well be somewhat of a unique occurrence, which only reinforces how doubley fortunate Madame Grognonne is that they have chosen to be so familiar with her.

A Rather Damp Day

2007-07-01T15:48:00.001+01:00

Today for the first time in quite a while we have been blessed with almost a complete hour of sunshine, in between inclement outbursts of precipitation, and it was naturally during this brief respite from interminable rain that Madame Grognonne took it upon herself to hang out the washing to dry.

Unfortunately, unbeknown to any of us, the high winds whisked one of the linen sheets from the line and wrapped it around Loic’s head as he was passing the pond, causing him to topple forwards into the water, tangling himself up in the sheet as he fell.

All would probably have been well had it not been for the unprecedented growth of aquatic plants which has occurred, due to the warm but wet weather, and he found himself sinking amongst the foliage of water lilies and being dragged under by the weight of the bed linen.

When the rain recommenced Madame Grognonne, enlisting the children’s help , rushed into the garden to retrieve the laundry and discovered the sheet missing, it took sometime to locate it but eventually Youngest, who had given up the hunt and was instead searching for frogs, noticed it peaking out between the Lilly pads in the pond and raised the alarm.

No one was more surprised than Madame Grognonne upon attempting to haul in her washing to find a half drowned gardener entwined in it, and showing great courage and quickness of thought she dived in to retrieve him. Of course ,wooden Sabots and heavy skirts are not the ideal garments to swim in and , if had not been for Jacques, alerted to the great splash and shriek she made as she hit the water, she may well have been in serious difficulty herself.

Thankfully Jacques had the sense to fetch a stout rope from the stable and, leaning a ladder across the corner of the pond, clamboured out over it to throw an end to the water logged Madame Grognonne and the semi conscious Loic, so that he might pull them to safety .
Alas, sadly, he slipped, as the ladder was wet from the now very heavy rain, and he too fell into the water, becoming as he did so entrapped by Madame Grognonne’s skirts, the fork attachment on Loic’s leg and the sheet.

I am certain that, had Youngest not run to fetch me, we may well have been without any domestic staff at all by the end of the morning and lunch would certainly have been ruined. As it was, I was able to launch him into the pond, using a discarded cider barrel as a boat, where he was able to pass the rope to Jacques who valiantly lashed himself to the other servants, after which Middle, whom I had sent poste haste to collect the horse, tied the rope to his harness and whacked poor Marron firmly on his rump so that he shot forward at a gallop, pulling them all out of the water with rather an unpleasant slurping noise and dragged them across the grass at great speed.

Had it not been for the unexpected arrival home of Chief Patissier in the automobile, causing Marron to falter in his step, we may never have been able to catch up with him and they would have been dragged along the full length of the lane, totally ruining my poor linen sheet. As luck would have it Chief Patissier was able to lung at the horses harness and stop him.

By this time the children and I were all soaked to the skin, the rain having turned into a heavy downpour, and we all retreated to the kitchen for hot chocolate and biscuits. It was some time before we noticed that Youngest was not with us and remembered he had last been seen bobbing in the pond on a barrel. I immediately sent Madame Grognonne to search for him, Loic being unable to walk as his leg had ceased up with pondweed and mud, Jacques being occupied with rubbing down the horse and I being far to cold to go myself, I reasoned she was wet already and a further dose of rain would not harm her. Youngest was of course safe and sound quite happily catching frogs from the safety of his barrel and could not be persuaded to ocme indoors, much to Madme Grognonnes annoyance.

In the space of only a very short time my best bed linen has been reduced to dishcloths, my prize collection of aquatic plants destroyed, my ploughed up ,the horse frightened and the entire household soaked to the skin and all because Madame Grognonne was careless in the pegging out of the laundry. I really do despair of the woman sometimes!
.....................................................................................................................
The painting is a charming image of a woman and child engaged in the laundry. Sadly I have mislaid the details of the artist but believe him to be an American. You will note an entire line full of clean white bed linen which, despite the strong winds blowing them, is so well pegged as to remain in their proper place. I am at a loss to understand how anyone can peg sheets wrongly; it is after all from, all appearances, surely a simple enough task to perform for anyone with half a brain. Not however, apparently for Madame Grognonne!

Seeking inspiration...

2007-06-29T20:53:00.001+01:00

What am I to do with my time now that I have relinquished Art? This is the pressing question that has tormented me all morning. How is a cultured woman, such as myself, to occupy herself here, in the cultural wastelands of Brittany, bereft ,as it is, of salons and galleries, of expositions and opera and where sadly, the closest thing one is likely to find to the ballet is an impromptu drunken performance, by Madame Grognonne and my one legged gardener Loic, of a traditional Breton Gavotte, complete with wooden sabots, in the salle late a night, after an evening of ill-advised over consumption of champagne and eau de vie!

The normal diversions, of women of my class elude me. I am ill equipped to deal with the sick and elderly of the commune, not, sadly, having been blessed with a stomach for illness or the company of persons of a hygienically challenged nature. There are, I know from bitter experience, no suitable openings on committees, and now that the war is over I can not even usefully employ my talents, knitting socks and mittens for the troops! Not, of course, that I would wish the continuation of fighting in order to fulfill my urge to knit, I could after all knit Madame Grognonne a new balaclava if I felt the need!

Art was my savior from ennui but even that has failed me. I wondered if I might perhaps take to literature but frankly feel life here offers nothing of import about which to write, and yet, I must do something otherwise I shall, I fear, go mad.

Madame Grognonne, who like a true Breton Peasant, has suggested that I should consult a soothsayer for inspiration and is determined to discover for me the whereabouts of a local diviner to read my destiny.

Apparently Claude consulted one when his cow was suffering from ulcerated udders and ,taking his advice and hanging a bunch of mistletoe over the barn door for a week, the cow was miraculously cured. I did attempt to persuade Madame Grognonne that, it is quite likely that the cow would have got better without walking under mistletoe, but she was so horrified, at what she considered to be my blasphemy, that she has now placed small bowls of salt at the threshold of the house in order to ward off any bad luck I may have wrought upon us all. I have tried to point out to her that I did not require veterinary assistance, but she assured me soothsayers and diviners cover all sorts of problems from butter refusing to turn to the future of the nation. I can not help but feel that if this were so, then it might have been wise for our government to have consulted one before now over the small matter of the war with the Germans, then perhaps I might not have been reduced to running our household with a drastically reduced domestic staff consisting of a one armed one legged gardener with shell shock, a groom with an identity crisis and a drink problem and a housekeeper of dubious skill and unpredictable temper!

Ah me! If only my own problems could be resolved with the mere touch of magic under a bunch of mistletoe!

……………………………………………………………………………………….
This is a recent photograph of Claude’s cow in its pen after its miraculous cure by mistletoe. If you look closely to the right of the picture you will see Claude’s wife gesturing with a stick to indicate exactly where the mistletoe was hung as directed by the soothsayer. She is the one in the lace cap and checked shawl, the one next to the miraculously saved cow is the family goat, although at first glance it is not obvious which is which and even at close quarters it is sometimes easy, I admit, to confuse the two.

An awkward day for un Peu...

2007-06-28T13:54:00.000+01:00

It has, I fear, been a trifle awkward for me Chez Nous today after the unusual events of the previous evening and the hopefully temporary bridging of the social divide betwixt masters and servants.

Loic is understandably somewhat embarrassed regarding the syllabub episode, and his inadvertently familiarizing himself with my décolletage, but we are both labouring under the conceit that nothing has changed. All was going well remarkably until I ventured to ask him to inspect my melons in the hot house to see if they were approaching ripeness, which ,for some reason I am unable to fathom ,reduced him to a blushing school girl. I do hope he recovers his composure soon otherwise I shall have to return to sending him instructions via Madame Grognonne which is so tiresome as she has a habit of forgetting to pass on messages when it suits her.

Madame Grognonne is a little out of sort herself having consumed considerably more champagne ,wine and eau de vie than might be considered prudent at her time of life, and is therefore in a even more than usual ill temper with everyone.

Chief Patissier has the bilious look of someone who is about to succumb to a rather unpleasant intestinal infection, I suspect for the same reason, Madame Grognonne having generously filled his glass each time she replenished her own. I have no sympathy for either of them. This is a slight consoaltion for the fact that he insisted I sit with Loic and Jacques either side of me at dinner.

Unfortuantly far from being embarrassed by his over familiarity last night, Jacques however is full of himself and I have had to endeavour to remain out of his way, at least until he recovers some sense of decorum and remembers his place. On the two occasions our paths crossed this morning he made rather personal and ribald comments regarding our dancing together last evening, comments which I feel are better ignored therefore I shall not repeat them here.

Thankfully the flood water has receded and the seemingly endless rain has all but ceased at last, therefore, the children have gone to school and Chief Patissier has been driven ,by Jacques, to the biscuiterie in the governess cart to check for damage after the inundations of the past week. So I am free at last to return to my studio in peace and pursue my art.

Oddly, having gone to such pains to procure time on my own to paint , I find that, after last nights soiree I am quite put off the idea of using any of the domestic servants as artists models. I think perhaps I shall give my painting a rest for a time as I quite lost my enthusiasm. The thought of prospect of being closeted in my studio with either Jacques or Loic at close quarters for any length of time is just too much for me to stomach at the moment.

...............................................................................................................................................

The photograph above is of the staff of domestic servants in some unknown, but evidently well placed ,English household. Oh how I wish sometimes that I were blessed with a retinue such as these , instead of a lascivious groom with an identity problem, a one legged one armed shell shocked gardener and a a disagreeable housekeeper. I do not think a pleasant quiet lady's maid or even an under gardener complete with all his limbs would be to much to ope for, I do not ask for much in life after all!

The morning after the night before

2007-06-27T18:23:00.001+01:00

When one considers the company and the fact that Chief Patissier insisted I preside at the head of the table with Loic on my left and Jacques on my right I think yesterday’s soiree went as well as one could possibly expect under the circumstances.

There were a few minor problems with etiquette which is only to be expected when facing ones servants with an unfamiliar array of silverware and dining avec ones housekeeper and gardener, however in a flash of egalitarianism I suggested we all follow Loic’s example and settle for abandoning the assorted pieces of cutlery in favour of a fork alone. Although this did make cutting the beef a trifle awkward, it was less nerve wracking and dangerous than having to duck every time Loic’s knife slipped from his artificial hand and shot across the table in varying directions.

On the final occasion prior to him admitting defeat and resorting to his fork, it narrowly missed Chief Patissier’s left cheek but thankfully lost altitude just in time and embedded itself in Madame Grognonne’s elbow as she was stretching across to help herself to more asparagus spears. Luckily she is quite well padded and hardly flinched, although I suspect she may regret stanching the flow of blood with the damask napkins since it is she who will have to launder it. Perhaps if will teach her not to be quite so greedy in future, although one hopes this event is one that no one will feel the need to repeat.

Chief Patissier gallantly allowed Jacques to open the champagne, a sad mistake as, along with many of the lower classes, he appeared to believe that idea was to allow the cork to explode from the bottle with a loud retort, thus he gleefully shook it vigorously before doing so. As you may well imagine this caused poor Loic to freeze suddenly and as a result of his being at the time occupied serving me with dessert, I ended up with a lap full of syllabub and a rigid gardener face down in my décolletage. Not an experience I wish to repeat.

I think it is nothing short of a miracle that the Limoges and crystal survived the meal intact and that the only casualties apart from my dress and Madame Grognonne’s elbow were a pair of rather vulgar glass candle sticks painted all over in gold with roses and cherubs, given to us as a gift to mark the occasion of our marriage by Chief Patissier’s maiden aunt now long deceased, which were shattered by the same cork that stupefied Loic.

In order to keep with the spirit of the evening the children cleared the table whist Loic and Jacques joined Chief Patissier in the library for a cognac. Thankfully they were soon joined by Madame Grognonne, who always likes her pipe after dinner apparently. What Chief Patissier found to talk to them about is beyond me but I was immeasurably grateful that it afforded me the opportunity change out of my syllabub soaked attire in to something a trifle less sticky.
When I returned downstairs to hear the strains of music , and was not pleased to discover that Eldest had been taken with the notion that it might be jolly should all of us retire to the salle to finish our evening with dancing.. Youngest and Middle were put in charge of winding the gramophone and I was granted the dubious honour of leading the dancing with Jacques. As he is a good head and shoulders shorter than myself , I am glad that I had taken the sensible precaution of putting on a high necked dress, should Loic unfortunately free fall into my cleavage a second time.

The evening ended on a high note when Madame Grognonne and Loic became entangled in the curtains whilst attempting to demonstrate the finer points of a gavotte, and her sabot becoming trapped in his grip of his artificial hand which I fear had seized up as a result of the inundation of champagne and syllabub it had succumbed to during the evening.

Sensing that after this anything else could only be seen as an anti climax I made my adieus and left them to hop off to the kitchen in search of goose fat.

…………………………………………………………………………………………
I leave you with image above of a rather fine ball,was painted I believe in 1906, although sadly I can not identify the artist. Needless to say our small ball shares no similarities at all excepting possibly the fact that the gentleman on the right hand side of the painting seems as intent as Jacques was at becoming over familiar with his dance partners cleavage, he of course had the advantage of height that Jacques did not, and his partner had not had the foresight to wear something a little less revealing.

A trifling conundrum

2007-06-27T09:03:00.000+01:00

I was quite at a loss as to how to extricate myself from the rather awkward position I had created. Even allowing for the fact that we were more or less cut off my rising water, I could think of none with whom I might wish to spend an entire evening, especially as with the present climatic conditions it may turn out that their stay may well be forcibly prolonged for a much longer period!

Here I was with an entire household, at my own instigation prepared and anticipating the arrival of six guests and I had no idea where I was to find even one at such short notice! I toyed briefly with the idea of somehow contacting the entire committee for the public health for the commune (with special responsibilities for fosse septiques) including Nicholas Fartoocozy himself, but stopped myself mid thought, there are limits over which it would be pure madness to venture and this was one of them.

What then was I to do! If I were to admit to my husband that the entire day had been engineered by myself, as a rouse to allow me some peace and quiet in which to practise my artist endeavours he would be furious, I fear that would be the final straw in our relationship. Coming so soon after the incident of Eldest’s hair cutting, and the recent spate of accidents and illnesses amongst the servants of the household as it did. I was horribly aware that, due to a small technicality that arose after my visit to the King of Spain, I had been placed under license into the care and protection of my husband. I could foresee a glum future stretching before me, no more jaunts in the governess cart, no trips to market or anywhere else for that matter, I should be confined to the house, or worst still, the lunatic asylum itself !

Whilst I might enjoy the peace and quiet, I have a refined palate and am sure that the coarse though adequate; menu of which inmates were expected to partake would not, by any standards, meet with my approval. Added to which dear Philippe, King of Spain etc and so on has long since moved back to his family home having recovered his sense of self, so I would be bereft of suitable company.
I stood a desolate figure of dejection before my glass seeking inspiration when suddenly; I was overwhelmed by a flash of inspiration! Calling out to my husband, but receiving no reply, I wrapped my peignoir around myself and pinning up my hair went to confront Chief Patissier in my boudoir, where I had last seen him fingering my evening dresses.

Fired with the conviction of a woman who knows should she say the wrong thing she may end up spending the remainder of her days making baskets amongst the mentally challenged, I held my head high and, with a firm voice, admitted that the dinner party was nought but a sham devised by me for my own ends. Sadly before I could continue with my explanation, Chief Patissier’s not inconsiderable temper got the upper hand and I found myself cowering before him, head downcast as he enumerated my many faults and failings. Whilst gazing downward in dejection, I couldn’t help but notice that an earring, which I thought I had lost some months ago, was lodged behind the leg of my dressing table, just a few inches from my husbands right foot.

Letting out a stifled cry, at relief at finding the lost earring, I fell to the floor at his feet, taking the opportunity to scoop it up and secure it tightly in my handkerchief. I perhaps should point out that I am not usually so emotionally attached to my jewellery but this is one of the few family pieces I had from my mother and I am particularly fond of it.

I suspect that Chief Patissier may have mistaken my emotion as being caused by my realising the truth in his accusations , and, noting a sudden silence in the ranting above my head I realised he had halted his diatribe on the role of a good wife, and thought now might be a good time to speak before he continued on the well warn theme of my poor housekeeping skills and mothering.
I therefore looked up at his figure towering darkly above me, not the prettiest angel to view him from as from that position I could see his nose hairs needed a good trim, sobbing quite beautifully even if I do say so myself, I told my husband how right he was as always and that I should indeed been punished. I declared between weak sniffs that I was indeed selfish for I had made so much work for all of them, yet in truth, all I had wanted was in some small way to say thank you to our wonderful household for all they had done, and he to, I thought it wise to add that for extra, in supporting me through what had been a difficult time for me starting out, as I was, with my fledgling skills as a painter. I could think of no fitter manner in which to thank them all than by inviting them to dine en Famille chez nous by way of thank you

For want of anything further to say I threw myself upon the carpet at his feet, making a mental note as I did so to instruct Madame Grognonne to give them a good beating as the smell of dust was quite unpleasant at such quarters and very probably unhealthy to boot.

He was completely taken aback and thus in a small space of a few minutes and within the comfort of my own bedroom I have been transformed from a conniving selfish woman who cares only for herself to a caring mistress who thinks only of her servants, not to mention having found my earring!
Whether I shall feel such a sense of Bonhomie after having to sit through dinner with Jacques, Loic and Madame Grognonne remains to be seen but as long as I manage to judicially place the children either side of me at table I shall at least be spared the need to make conversation with any of them.
..................................................................................................The painting Oberon and Titania is by a talented English artist who was totally mad and spent a great deal of his life in a mental asylum in London. His name was Richard Dadd. I do wonder whether it might be worth my inquiring whether French asylums allow inmate to study and practise oil painting, after all one never knows when one might need a bolt hole!

Un Peu finds herself a trifle out of her depth!

2007-06-25T20:12:00.000+01:00

I was mightily pleased with myself having managed a good three hours painting yesterday before I was disturbed by the arrival of Madame Grognonne wishing me to approve the menu for the evenings soiree, grumbling as she habitually does under her breath.

Considering she had such short notice and that the larder was uncharacteristically bare after our being confined to the house due to the unseasonal weather, I must say that she had put together the makings of a rather impressive repas .

Loic and Eldest had managed to procure a quantity of offal from Yannick as well as a side of Beef and plenty of cream and butter. En route, Loic had clumsily caught his leg in a pot hole and fallen into the fosse by the side of the road. Eldest in her attempt to rescue him, tumbled in on top, so that by the time they arrived at the farm, both were almost entirely sodden with mud and therefore there was , thankfully, no fear of her being recognized by Yannick .

Youngest had discovered quite a fine cache of eggs which the hens had laid in Madame Grognonne’s best boots, and middle had salvaged several pounds of raspberries and the odd strawberry as well, despite stiff competition form the slugs.

The menu thus boasted an entrée of pate a la champagne, followed by roti de bouef with new potatoes asparagus and artichoke hearts as la plate de resistance and a selection of desserts including syllabub, meringues filed with whipped cream and fresh fruit puree and sweet biscuits.

Having informed her the menu would do, I sent Madame Grognonne off to find Chief Patissier to allow him to check his chosen wines against the approved menu and managed a further two undisturbed hours before having to stop again, alerted to a impending disaster by the strong smell of smoke drifting up the stairs.

Jacques had performed his task splendidly had dutifully lit blazing fires in the downstairs hearths, which were warming up the place wonderfully. Unfortunately we had all forgotten about the Hirondelles nest which had it appeared to successfully have blocked the chimney and the house was filling rapidly with smoke.
Thinking quickly Chief Patissier , affixing Loic’s dibber attachment to his leg and the leg to the kitchen broom handle, and, giving it to youngest to hold, pushed child, artificial limb and broom handle up the chimney where, with a few well judicious thrusts the nest fell down in a shower of sparks! As you may imagine I was quite anxious as chimney fires can be notoriously disastrous and I really not relish the task of redecorating the salle. Chief Patissier was much relieved as he said that he really could not have a soiree with our guests choking on smoke!

Busy as I had been all day with my art, I had totally forgotten that my little dinner party had been nothing but a clever ruse to rouse the household from their turpitude and, with a rising sense of panic, it dawned upon me that, in less than a few hours Chief Patissier, along with everyone else would be expecting guests to arrive. Since I had none invited I could clearly see a fatal flaw in my plan and a creeping feeling that once they discovered my duplicity, I would, yet again, be persona non grata chez nous! I was sorely tempted to make a dash for it in youngest’s boat!
..................................................................................................

The photograph is by the Scottish photographer John Thomson and is, not wishing to state the obvious, of a chimney sweep and his boy. I am happy to say that neither Chief Patissier nor youngest were quite so dirty after the chimney fire incident, which just goes to show that had chimney sweeps the sense to employ a combination of small boys, artificial limbs and broom handles their job would be far less messy. I wonder if I might ask Chief Patissier about designing a chimney sweeps brush attachment for Loic’s leg?

Enough is enough or un peu takes charge!

2007-06-25T06:20:00.000+01:00

Enough is enough, raining or not, I will not put up with the households sullen sluggishness a moment longer. I am determined to lift their spirits and get them all out of doors if only so that I may continue to paint in peace. To that end I have informed them that I had arranged a small soirée chez nous for this evening, a fact that had quite slipped my mind until I checked my agenda this morning, and that regardless of the precipitation we shall keep to my plans. Despite considerable complaints each has been allotted a task and has been sent out to accomplish them in preparation for tonight.

Jacques has been sent to the barn to collect dry wood for the fire. He is well wrapped in an oil cloth, with his head covered by Madame Grognonne’s German helmet which she has thoughtfully lent him and his chest liberally rubbed with goose fat to ensure he does not catch cold again.

Loic has been dispatched to visit Yannick and see if he will provide us with some fresh meat, butter and cheese. Eldest has gone with him to help extricate him should he get his leg stuck in the mud. I am certain no one will recognize her wrapped in old army overcoat, her head well covered with sacking, but just in case I have instructed them that should anyone comment Loic is to inform them that Eldest is his cousins half wit son up from the Ardeche for a change of air and Eldest is to act as if she were simpleminded, say nothing and keep her head bowed, all of which I am sure she will have now trouble managing.

I did ask Madame Grognonne to go instead of Loic but she flatly refused as she says she is not welcome at Yannick’s Farm, he suspecting her, as he does, of having something to do with the disappearance of his prize calf. This reminds me, I must ask Madame Grognonne if she has any salted veal left in the larder that we may add to the menu.

Since she will not go to Yannick’s Madame Grognonne has been sent out to the pottager in search of whatever vegetables have survived the torrential rain. Middle, meanwhile, is picking what ever raspberries have not gone mouldy in the fruit cage and youngest is gathering eggs from the hayloft. Madame Grognonne has told him to check in the chamber pot under her bed as, apparently, the poultry have taken to nesting there.

I myself shall be busy laying the table with the best Limoges and damask cloth and generally making the salle a manger look splendid. Chief Patissier is quite convinced that no one will come in such foul weather but I have assured him he is wrong and have laid the table for eight in anticipation.

I have left Chief Patissier sulking still at the Studio window but have discreetly let the fire go out in the stove there so, no doubt, he will soon stir himself when he begins to feel the cold. When he arrives down stairs I shall send him off to the cellar to bring up something special for the table, and then go back upstairs myself to paint. I am sure with the judicious application of an oil soaked rag and a bit of kindling I shall soon have the fire roaring.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………….
This rather splendid painting is called Kant and Friends at Table, and was Painting by Emil Doerstling. I do think it looks quite jolly, although obviously a trifle dated. I do wonder though if I might get Jacques to wait at table dressed in this style. I know he is a tad short to carry off the look but the wig would cover his hair quite well. Initially I thought of Loic but his artificial leg might detract from the elegance of the costume and obviously Madame Grognonne would look ridiculous in breaches, her derriere being far too big!

The Rain continues

2007-06-24T09:13:00.000+01:00

It is still raining, Chief Patissier remains sitting brooding in my studio, whilst Eldest remains brooding in her room, both as damp and dismal as the weather.

Madame le Couteau tried her best with Eldest’s hair but, since her experience is limited to cropping the hair of the noviciates at the convent, she rather lacks knowledge of the latest styles. Where once she had long wavy tresses Eldest now sports rather a short coife of tight curls, her locks having reacted to the wet weather by curling themselves up tightly against her scalp, giving her the look of a rather startled poodle. Eldest claims she is never ever going to leave her bedroom again.

Middle is sulking as he very sweetly took Eldest’s shorn hair to plait into a bracelet for her, which upon receiving she screamed hysterically and threw back at him in a rage. He now says he is going to use it to make a voodoo doll of his sister to stick pins in. Madame Grognonne has already given him candle stubs to melt done and he has borrowed all my best hat pins. Personally I am not sure this was wise as we may well need all the candle stubs we can muster should the power fail.

The only one who is showing any sign of jollity is youngest who is progressing rapidly with his boat building project. His vessel now has an anchor, constructed from a granite cross which, when questioned regarding its origins, he claimed to have found lying around in the grenier but which looks suspiciously similar to the one that has gone missing from village Calvary. He has also added a cabin in the form of the old chicken house, the chickens having been moved to the hayloft to save Madame Grognonne having to splash her way out to the far end of the vegetable garden to collect the eggs.

Jacques is disgruntled as I have refused to let him use the governess cart for the hull of youngest’s boat, Loic is disgruntled as youngest has used the spade attachment to his leg as a rudder without asking him first and Madame Grognonne is disgruntled as she claims the chickens are keeping her awake at night roosting on her bed frame.

I swear, should they continue like this, I shall be forced to steal youngest boat one night, whether it is finished or not, and sail away leaving them all here to drown in the sea of their own bad tempers.

..................................................................................

The painting is by French artist Henri Rousseau (1844-1910) and is called Tiger in a Tropical Storm(surprised!), well of course the tiger is surprised no self respecting cat regardless of its size would choose to plod about in the pouring rain voluntarily! I have included it as it reminds me of the feral cats hiding from the rain in our barns. He painted it in 1891, claiming that it was based on his extensive travels in Mexico. Of course, the nearest Henri Rousseau ever got to a tiger or a jungle was the zoological gardens in Paris, but one must not let the fact that the man was a liar detract from ones appreciation of his work.

The Rain it raineth every day

2007-06-23T07:22:00.000+01:00

I am seriously of the opinion that if it continues to rain with such insistence, we may well have to move to the upper storeys of the house and live on the family emergency supply of biscuits! The roses are rotting on their bushes and the wonderful crop of raspberries we had are all mildewed, and yet still it rains! I am quite aghast at the weather it is so unseasonal, I am certain even the chickens are developing webbed feet, but since it rained on the fete to St Barnaby what can one expect ?

Meanwhile Youngest has decided, bearing in mind the intemperate conditions, that he will build a boat, in case it is necessary to send Madame Grognonne out to the village in a rowing boat to retrieve provisions, and has abandoned his aeroplane altogether . Happily this new project does not appear, as yet, to require the use of any more of my art materials; however, I suspect it may be wise to lock away the best table linen should he think of incorporating it in his craft. I imagine, had the French Nuns who lovingly embroidered all our sheets and tablecloths known they were to used as sails one day, they may have incorporated nautical themes.

He has already cannibalized some old cider barrels from the barns and with the help of Loic and Jacques, both of whom have now almost completely recovered from their illnesses, (although to be fair Loic is still having trouble with rust in his knee joints) has attached them to some long abandoned oxen yokes and a disused table from the potting shed to form quite a respectable raft.

The plan is that, should the worst come to the worst, they shall install Loic’s gardening tent on top for protection and paddle down the lane to the village for help, using a broom handle to punt with. Not wishing to stifle youngest ingenuity, I have not enquired how they intend to make the return journey as it is, for at least part of the way, uphill.

Chief Patissier is quite put out by it all and has taken to sitting in my studio staring silently out of the windows, wearing a glum expression and nursing a glass of Cognac to keep his spirits up. His brooding presence is doing nothing for my creativity, although perhaps, should it continue to rain, I may immortalize him as Noah watching for his lost dove.

...................................................................................

The painting today is entitled Paris Street: Rainy Day, by the French artist Gustavo Caillebotte. Dare I say that, although I see evidence of many umbrellas, I see no evidence of rain as such, where I to paint my own scene of rain chez nous today it would be nothing but a dull sheet of grey striations over the lurid green of the vegetation down upon which it is lashing with brutal persistence.

Bobbing along unhappily

2007-06-21T21:39:00.000+01:00

Eldest is in disgrace as a result at her attempts at home couffer. Fortuitously she has finished with education for the summer hence can be kept secluded at home away from public gaze. The weather is so bad here should she need to venture outside she can cover her head with a water proof hat of some kind and avoid notice.

Meanwhile we must do something to repair her coiffe . I realise of course that it is impossible to re attach her long curls but we can at least take steps to improve upon the effect she has achieved with the kitchen scissors. What we can not repair we may perhaps hide under a bandeaux .

Apparently the bobbed look is quite the rage amongst the fashionable young things both In France and in America. That may well be so but here in Brittany we have our standards. If this is the look at which she was aiming, clearly she missed her target by quite a distance. I was somewhat horrified to discover that the style originated her in France in Paris no less. The fact that it was the creation of one Antoni Cierplikowski who was as one might guess by his name a Pole,explains everything !

Eldest, who seems alarmingly up to date regarding this rage, claims it was started by an actress called Irene Castle,who had her hair cut for the war effort, How cutting ones hair could help Frane win the war one can only imagine!

Eldest tells me it was to prevent women's long hair getting caught up in factory machinery. I did try to point out that had Charlotte at her Fathers Biscuiterie had bobbed hair she still would have fallen in to the vats and had her apron strings caught but this held no water. I do hope the discusions Chief Pattiser and I have had concerning safety in the biscuiterie have not brought back memories of her Uncles unfortunate accident.

I fear her juvenile Psyche has been scarred by fear of being accidentally consumed by a dough mixer. Motherhood is so fraught at times!I can quite see why the English have Nannies.

I shall have to investigate this whole hair bobbing matter further.Meanwhile Madame Grognonne and I have smuggled Madame le Couteau, who is the nearest thing the village boasts to a hairdresser, into the house to see what she can do to recity Eldest's handiwork.

...............................................................................

The photograph is of Irene Castle, not an icon of feminine beauty, but then sine the entire style was according to its Polish inventor based onte hJoan of Arc look one can hardly be surprised. Next thing it will be chain mail vests and metal rivets in undergarments, God only kows what the Breton rain would do to that! There is not enough goosefat in the country to keep women rust free should metal corsety become the vogue!

Un Peu is bereft!

2007-06-21T06:18:00.000+01:00

I should, of course, have known that such peace would not last Chez Nous!
Here I am, vexed to extinction only hours after I wrote of my haven of tranquility which surrounded me! I tempted the Gods and they have risen to my challenge and destroyed all I held dear.

I can blame no other; I have truly brought this thing upon myself preoccupied with my own pleasures as I have been. I am an undeniably selfish and an unforgivably distracted mother and henceforth, am destined each day to have the evidence paraded before me as proof of my perfidiousness!

Yesterday whilst I sat in my studio admiring my own art Eldest was in her room with the door firmly closed , not as I thought safely engaged in doing whatever girls her age do in solitude but performing such an unprecedented act of folly that I shudder even now at my discovery of it!

She has carried out an act of deliberate self mutilation and it is I who am to blame! Oh how I weep for myself that I did not think to tap at her door and beg her to sit with me in the studio whist I painted. Why , oh self regarding personage that I am, did I not call her to pose for me by the clear light of the window so that I might capture the innocence of her smile, the light playing on her dappled cheeks, her unbound curls rippling splendid about her pale shoulders! Ah but now it is too late and I am bereft as only a mother can be!

Eldest has done the unspeakable, the unforgivable, She has , with the aid of the kitchen scissors she has cut off her lustrous hair! Chief Patissier is understandably furious with his dear daughter for inflicting this upon herself. Even Madame Grognonne is horrified! The boys however find it a lively joke for, when all is said and done she looks like a boy!

Comfort me not with the thought that I must be thankful that she did not follow Jacques lead and dye her hair red, or heaven forbid green, that would be but a trifling thing compared to the horrors she has already accomplished.

I am so overcome I have taken to my room with nothing but the decanter of Cognac and a chilled bottle of Champagne for consolation, and here I intend to stay until her hair has grown.
..................................................................................................
The painting above is titled Jeune fille peignant ses cheveux by the artist Pierre-Auguste Renior, who as a Frenchman fully appreciated the importance a girls hair plays in her overall beauty. I am considering purchasing a copy of the painting to in Eldest’s dressing room to act as a constant reminder of all that she has discarded. I, of course, need no reminder as I have the dubious pleasure of seeing the result each day at mealtimes.

A tranquille day at last !

2007-06-20T08:54:00.001+01:00

It has been perfectly calm and peaceful here today, which is quite a relief after all the recent excitement. Youngest has been occupied with the construction of his flying apparatus, middle has been busy reciting poetry to Jacques, he has an examination at ecole tomorrow and is wisely taking advantage of his captive audience, and Eldest is n her room with the door firmly closed doing whatever girls her age do in splendid solitude. Meanwhile Madame Grognonne is engaged in diving for freshwater langoustine in the pond and Loic is pottering in the potager.

At last after interminable delays the donut machine has been set up successfully and we have, to prove it, much to the delight of the all, several large boxes of gallettes chez nous.

Despite Chief Patissier’s fears that there might be an accident, dwelling as he does on the horrific demise of his elder brother, the inauguration of the machine passed without incidence. Although there was a brief moment of unease when Charlotte, one of the girls at the biscuiterie, lent too far into the bowels of the machine and caught her apron in the paddles, However Eugene ,who was passing carrying a bucket of butter, threw himself in after her and retrieved her before any harm was done.

Luckily Chief Patissier was able to adjust the recipe to allow for the extra butter and Charlotte’s chignon now looks exceptionally glossy, which has made such a difference to her appearance and quite takes ones attention away from her squint. So much so that Eugene, who is under normal circumstances quite brusque, has softened noticeably towards her to such an extent that he has spent the afternoon counting palettes with her in the packing room.

Safe in the knowledge that all is well with our world, I have spent the day in my studio, putting the finishing touches to my painting of war heroes. I felt it safer to complete my work from memory rather than risk further Doctors bills and domestic upset.

It is on days such as these, sitting here looking out over the countryside and our gardens, when there is nothing but the sound of the birds,the clatter of Loics metallic foot on the cobbles and the splashing of Madame Grognonne in the pond, that I sit and reflect on how full and happy my life is and how incredibly lucky I have been to have been thus blessed.

…………………………………………………………………………………………
The painting of the young Breton woman is by the French artist Paul Serusier and looks not unlike poor little Charlotte, in fact if one looks closely I think one may even be able to detect a slight squint in the left eye!

A day like any other..

2007-06-18T13:25:00.000+01:00

I am pleased to be able to report that Jacques appears to be making a remarkable recovery, especially when one considers that such a fuss has been made of his illness. His fever has broken and I was heartened to hear that it is, as I expected, not entirely my fault that he was taken unwell. Madame Grognonne was given short shrift by the Doctor for using red lead polish as a hair colourant and was chastised liberally by him, which quite buoyed me up after her gruff treatment of me yesterday. As a result normal routines were resumed and I was brought my cup of tea au lit comme habitude by Madame Grognonne, which I took to be a sign of remorse on her part, and no doubt the nearest I shall get to an apology from that quarter!

However she rather ruined the effect by commenting that she had only done so as she felt far safer making my tea than having me set fire to the house again. I do admit I had a slight conflagration in the kitchen yesterday but it was not entirely of my doing. I had placed the pot on the range for heating, and was suddenly distracted by the sight of an object hurtling ground wards at speed past the window. This was followed by a thump, a clank and a muffled cry.

I was naturally quite taken aback, frightened that one of the children may have hurt themselves, but need not have feared as it was merely youngest attempting to launch himself sky wards in a home made flying machine, he having been quite taken with chief Patissier’s tales of Elmer Buckets airborne exploits in defense of France. It was constructed, I was not amused to discover, from some of my canvases, one of which bore the nearly completed image of a camel. Luckily he and his aeorplane landed on Loic who was bent over weeding, and this broke his fall nicely. I dread to think what might have happened if he had hit someone else on his descent.

Happily the accident seems to have loosened the rust on Loic’s artificial leg and as a result he was able to unscrew the spade attachment and replace it with the hoe for weeding which I am sure made his job easier. I am certain he will be able to straighten the leg with a little bit of effort on his part and meanwhile that fact that he now walks with a limp is hardly noticeable, bearing in mind his other afflictions.

Assured that Jacques is now out of danger Chief Patissier has returned with a light heart to his task of adapting Captain Buckets Donut machine to biscuit making and installing it in the biscuiterie. Of course if my husband had not been so churlish and allowed me to use his spare German Machine Gun for the my painting in the first place I would not have had to pose Loic and Jacques in the rain at the village Calvary and there is every chance that Jacques might have been taken quite so ill, and he would, no doubt, be already producing his gallettes with alacrity. However I thought it sensible not to mention this to him.

...................................................................................................................................................................

The illustration above is of a French aeroplane from La Guerre a model of which Elmer bucket has kindly sent to youngest and which undoubtedly formed the model for his own flying apparatus. Of course Youngest’s version was slightly more colourful, having half a camel on one wing and an Arab in full headdress on the other all on a background of a midnight blue sky with myriad stars. It was also, I hope it goes without saying, somewhat smaller as otherwise , of course, Youngest would have been unable to launch it from the parapet single handed.

Un peu Loufoque.persona non grata!

2007-06-17T07:52:00.000+01:00

I awoke this morning to discover to my utter surprise that I am not a popular woman Chez Nous, and through no fault of mine own I must add, despite stern accusations to the contrary from Chief Patissier and black looks from Madame Grognonne. It would seem that Jacques has been taken rather poorly in the night with a serious fever and the blame for this has been placed squarely at my door. Though why I have no idea!

I knew something was amiss when I did not receive my early morning restorative cup of tea in bed, a routine which has gone unbroken since the departure of our unfortunate Polish émigré Alexi Vlodaflodavodavitch in a flurry of red riding boots and shrunken trousers.

When I enquired of Madame Grognonne the reason for this she tartly retorted that she had far too much to do attending to Jacques' needs and that even I, she was sure, might manage to make my own beverage for once. I thought that was quite uncalled for especially as not long ago I did in fact do that very thing. Admittedly it had been a tad disastrous and had necessitated the purchase of a new coffee pot afterwards but I did try, which is after all the important thing surely.

I am well aware that she is the old Loufoque family retainer and has been here far longer than I, but really I think she might grant me a little more respect, I am, after all ,Chief Patissier’s wife and, as such, in theory at least, her mistress . I felt quite hurt, after all she is the housekeeper and I was not brought up to do such things!

Chief Patissier and Madame Grognonne have quite joined ranks against me. She, having alerted him to Jacques deteriorating condition last night upon his return from Antoine’s at a very a late hour, he immediately went out again to fetch the Doctor and bring him back Chez Nous. This is doubly hard to bear since when Middle child was taken ill with vomiting in the night only last week It was I who had to deal with it alone, with only a decanter of cognac and Eldest to support me, since Chief Patissier was quite unarousable!

The Doctor was most concerned about his condition and ordered hot mustard baths and plenty of fluids or some such so Chief Patissier sat by him all night administrating large doses of eau de vie and elderberry cordial which I am given to believe is good for bringing down temperatures. I think someone might have mentioned that to me when poor middle child was so feverish! Perhaps it only works on the labouring classes?

Apparently long hours standing in mud and driving rain whilst posing for my painting had made his slight head cold, which he failed to alert me to I may add, develop into pneumonia and here I am apparently to blame. The fact that it was probably exacerbated by a constitution brought low by blood poisoning from inferior hair dye and red lead polish has not I notice been mentioned at all! Since I myself was out in the same weather conditions but still managed to remain in perfect health is neither here nor there of course!

The Doctor will be back tomorrow evening to check on his patient so until then no doubt I shall remain persona non grata Chez Nous!

...................................................................................................................................................................

The painting is by Van Gough and shows Doctor Gachet, looking rather glum. Personally I am of the opinion that this particualr physician may well have been taking a dose of his own medicine, or in this case several doses,as he looks rather the worse for wear, which just shows that Doctors are not infallable and that one can have too much of a good thing!He does look rather like our own village physician however I do not think it would do my case any good to reveal this insight to Chief Patissier as he is still extremely angry with me on Jacques part!

Un Peu Loufoque Strikes a Pose!

2007-06-16T07:36:00.001+01:00

I was rather vexed with Chief Patissier this morning as he refused absolutely to allow me to utilize his spare German machine gun in my painting. He claims, totally unreasonably, that having two unwashed and wounded servants dressed as soldiers, one of whom has a weeping head wound the other 3rd degree burns on his knees, which I may add are only very slightly infected, contravenes his idea of what is appropriate in a biscuiterie and further more may well distract the staff from their gallette making. I can not help but feel that my husband is being less than supportive of my art!

However I shall not give up and therefore took Loic and Jacques to the village Calvary in the dog cart, along with all my painting paraphernalia and commenced work there. Alas it had rained rather heavily all night and has continued to do so on and off all morning so that the road was somewhat muddy, and at one stage the governess cart became bogged down in a rut. Fortunately Loic managed to dig us out with his spade attachment whilst Jacques held the horse’s head. The fresh splattering of mud on their costumes added quite an authentic touch, which cheered me up no end!

All went exceptionally well, despite the inconvenience of my having to re-arrange the tableau several times after Loic began to list uncontrollably sideways when his leg sunk into the mud and Jacques complained of feeling faint. I finally settled on a pose with the two of them positioned at the foot of the large stone crucifix, and had just started my preliminary outlines on the canvas when the heavens opened and a tremendous thunderstorm announced itself with a deafening crash!

Luckily I had had the foresight to direct Jaques to rig up a large tarpaulin over the governess cart so that I and my canvas were admirably protected from the deluge. However Jaques made himself quite a nuisance, complaining repeatedly about being cold and wet. Loic of course posed perfectly, the unexpected thunderclap having reduced him, comme habitude, to a catatonic state.
Despite my determination to continue I had to sadly admit defeat as the failing light was making it impossible to continue and the rain so heavy that I was unable to see my subjects clearly, so reluctantly I packed my things away and returned Chez Nous to a rather pleasant lunch of warming soup, roti de porc, followed by ile flotant.
Loic and Jaqcues being covered in mud and soaking wet I could not of course permit them to travel back with me in the governess cart and risk staining the upholstery so I left them to follow on foot, Jacques carrying Loic over his shoulder. This seemed to take them an inordinate length of time so I was forced to direct Madame Grognonne to go and see to Marron, the horse, and give him a good rub down for fear of his catching cold, which would never do at all!

...................................................................................
I believe this painting to be by the artist Gauguin and is a rather bizarre depiction of local Breton Women in their Sunday best sitting by the village cross. Why Christ is yellow is a mystery, possibly the artist had been staring to long into the sun patiently attempting to control his mounting temper whilst waiting for his models to sit still and decease from chattering so that he might continue his work. One can only sympathize, as a fellow artist; I know from today’s tedious experiences that ones models may be unbelievably vexatious should the mood take them!

Un Peu Loufoque and the battle torn warriors!

2007-06-15T08:20:00.000+01:00

Finally, after what seems an age of anticipation, I have received my order of Titanium white oil paint this morning by post and am eager to proceed with my grand designs for the epic painting of Loic and Jacques immortalized as soldiers wounded in battle which I have so clearly envisioned!

I was most anxious in case Jacques scalp recovered some semblance of normality before I was able to commence, but luckily the red lead paste that Madame Grognonne used to try and tone down his green hair seems to have dyed his skin a very convincing dried blood colour and as the bandages she covered his head with are already quite grubby, as a result of his helping youngest to rebuild the automobile carburetor yesterday after school, thus he still looks quite the part of a soldier returned wounded from the war! Happily he has also developed a rather virulent allergy to either the hair dye or the lead paste and has several dramatically oozing sores on his face which add to the effect wonderfully! Madame Grognonne is quite concerned about the rash and suggested he might visit the Doctor for treatment but I have said I will allow no such thing until my painting is completed. After all one must suffer for one’s Art, even if one is only the artist’s model!

Loic however has posed a little more of a dilemma for my composition, as we have had excessively heavy rain and, despite being reminded on several occasions, he forgot to lubricate his new limb with the jar of goose fat Madame Grognonne gave him. As a result the leg has quite seized up. However nothing is insurmountable to an artist such as myself, and I may yet be able to position him behind some thing suitable to masque the fact that he has a spade attached where one would normally expect to find a foot. At the moment I am torn between posing Jacques and Loic next to the ancient stone crucifix on the outskirts of the village, which I feel will add some intriguing religious symbolism, or asking Chief Patissier if I might have them drape themselves over the German Machine gun, which Elmer Bucket sent for use as spare parts for the new dough mixing machine.

This painting, by Henri Gervex, dated 1915, depicts wounded French soldiers being treated at the train station in Poitiers after the battle of the Marne. I was considering including a nurse in my own masterpiece as I feel the clean starched whiteness of the uniform would serve as an interesting foil to the grime of the soldiers. However, Madame Grognonne, my only available model, is busy with domestic duties and I fear Chief Patissier would not fully appreciate my utilizing all of our domestic staff in my work.

On Green Hair, Camels and Shepherdesses

2007-06-14T06:38:00.000+01:00

I fear the pharmacist at Guemene-Sur-Scorff may have played a cruel jape on poor Jacques yesterday as, having used his new dye last evening, he arrived to drive Chief Patissier to work this morning with his hair a rather startling shade of green. It is most unbecoming but at least on a positive side it goes rather better with his livery than the red, which I always thought clashed rather.

Madame Grognonne attempted to rectify the problem by toning the colour down a tad, with the red lead paste she uses to polish the kitchen grate, but it was a rather unsatisfactory solution, as it runs down his forehead at the slightest provocation so that he looks as if he has some sort of festering head wound. I fear there is nothing for it but to have his hair shaved off completely.

Meanwhile Madame Grognonne has bound his head in bandages and He is masquerading under the falsity that he has injured his cranium in an unfortunate accident Chez Nous involving youngest, Madame Grognonne’s rifle, and a cider barrel suspended from a rope.

I think if one is planning to tell an untruth then it is always better to keep it simple. In my experience most people will believe anything, providing one says it with sufficient conviction and it is not too convoluted. I remember when I was a small child boarding at the convent in Bordeaux one of the girls claimed to have seen a vision of three wise men complete with camels travelling through the convent grounds one of whom had stopped to talk to her to seek directions. Of course if she had only kept her story simple and chosen to see the Virgin Mary instead she might well have achieved sainthood by now. As it was we were confined to our dormitories for a week as punishment and she was required to write, “I must not tell lies” five hundred times in four different languages. Interestingly enough, we discovered some weeks later that she had indeed seen the camels who were from a travelling circus and had got separated from their companions having taken a wrong turn at Grenoble. Her family had her removed from the school soon after.

I do hope my paint arrives soon as, what with Loic and his bandaged knees and Jaques and his head wound, I feel I have the makings of a heroic painting entitled “our brave young soldiers returning from in la guerre”. I would have, of course, to get Loic to remove the spade attachment on his leg first.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

The painting today is of Joan of Arc who, as a young girl, claimed she saw visions of the Virgin Mary and held long conversations with various catholic saints, as a result of which, and possibly as well because of her penchant for wearing armour and men’s clothing, she was burnt at the stake as a heretic. Bearing this in mind my school friend was perhaps wise to stick with camels as I am certain that the catholic church does not view visions of dromedaries transversing convent lawns as quite so heretical, however, with the current Pope one can never be to sure of course.

A trip to GUEMENE-SUR-SCORFF and other interesting things

2007-06-13T07:46:00.000+01:00

Oh what Joy! Our long awaited parcel from Elmer Bucket has at last arrived and Chief Patissier now has all the sprokets, flanges and wiggets be might ever need plus many more besides! It would appear that the delay was caused by the French railway parcel service being unable to fully decipher the rather abysmal handwriting of Captain Bucket and, judging by the station masters stamps on the rather large parcel it was sent initially in error to Pont Aven via Paris from whence it was forwarded to Avingon, then all along the coast of France via Bordeaux as far as Nantes, at which point the station master redirected it inland to Guingamp.

Elmer Bucket had enclosed a very large gift of donuts with the spare parts but owing to the parcel having travelled the entire length and breadth of the country and endured sometime on a hot platform in Carcasonne, it had begun to fester rather alarmingly and the station master at GUEMENE-SUR-SCORFF sensibly had the box destroyed as it was attracting rats.

Sadly no sign yet of my Titanium white from Paris which is quite vexing as I am eager to commence several new paintings including a portrait of Loic with his new leg, with which he is understandably very happy. I will of course need the white for the bandages on his knees but perhaps if I wait long enough I may get away with using ochre and ox blood red as they are beginning to stain rather a lot now that he has recommenced gardening duties.

Now that Chief Patissier is fully engrossed with the installation of the dough mixer I can not possible ask him to divert his intention to building a wheel barrow attachment for Loics leg so have arranged for Jacques to drive me down to GUEMENE-SUR-SCORFF to purchase a conventional one. I am sure we may quiet easily be able to purchase one closer to home but the village carpenter is still busy making coffins in the wake of the eau de vie disaster and it will provide an opportunity for me to deliver in person a thank gift of some of our own biscuiteries gallettes to the station master there for his quick thinking.
It will also allow Jacques to make a discreet purchase of red hair dye as he is now rather dark at the roots and beginning to look more like the old Henri everyday. He could of course purchase it from our own pharmacist but I know he prefers to shop where he is unlikely to be recognised. That poor man is so excruciatingly shy! It is painful to see him. He wears his livery hat pulled right down over his eyes and his collar high up to his ears whenever anyone approaches which I am sure makes it rather dangerous to drive! I fear for him in the hot weather, as I am sure he may well faint form the heat, so much so that I may have to consider taking Madame Grognonne with us on longer journeys to be on hand to resuscitate him in an emergency! A terrible waste of her time and upsetting for everyone since it is bound to have repercussions on the serving of repas and Chief Patissier can we all know be rather irked when his routine is disturbed!

………………………………………………………………………………….

The photograph is of Jean Le Gare, the stationmaster from GUEMENE-SUR-SCORFF. His is holding his official tampon or stamp, which he uses to mark all parcels and tickets that travel through his station. Despite his rather unwashed appearance he is perfectly harmless as long as one remembers to stand down wind and keep an eye on his hands at all times. He has a strange fetish for mother of pearl buttons which he snips of the clothes of unsuspecting travellers to sew onto his waistcoat. Many an unwary voyager having passed through his station has spent the rest of his journey holding very tightly to his trousers Jean Le Gare having had his wicked way with his buttons snippers!

un Peu Loufoque and the return of life's natural balance.

2007-06-12T06:14:00.000+01:00

At last middle child is well enough to return to school with his brother. The fresh air yesterday did him a power of good and of course all that rain whilst he was weeding the vegetable patch certainly brought his temperature down a great deal. I am so relieved; children can be incredibly irksome when they are unwell.

Loics leg fitting went splendidly, although there was a tricky moment when the blacksmith, anxious to get back to his repas before his crepes cooled, welded his foot on backwards. However luckily Antoine noticed and, once they got Loic back on the anvil and fiddled about with the hammer, tongs and a red-hot poker, they soon put that right. Loic seems very satisfied with the result and as long as he remembers to carry a pot of goose fat with him to oil the joints in wet weather I am sure it will work splendidly. He assures me that the burns on his knee will heal in no time and anyway I feel sure you will agree, third degree burns are a small price to pay for a new leg complete with its own dibber and fork.

Sadly, to avoid the risk of Loics woodworm infecting our wheelbarrow it has had, as a precaution, to be burnt along with the remains of the wooden leg. I wonder if it might be possible to make a wheelbarrow attachment for Loics Leg? I must ask Chief Patissier.

On a happier note, Madame Grognonne tells me that Nicholas Fartoocy has had rather an unpleasant mishap .It appears he turned up unannounced at Fatimas family home, demanding he be allowed to inspect their plumbing very early on Saturday morning and inexplicably slipped into the Fosse septique, having tripped over someone’s outstretched foot. Sadly it being a Holy day, the family was not able to pull him out themselves but Fatima’s kindly grandmother offered to go to the village to fetch help. Of course grandmere being rather elderly, she was obliged to stop several times en route to catch her breath so by the time she could find someone willing to come and help Nicholas had been there for some time and as a result has developed quite a serious case of gastroenteritis and an unpleasant skin infection so the Doctor has hospitalised him until both clears up.

……………………………………………………………………………………………….
This paintng is anopther by the artist John Singer Sargent and shows an arab woman scenting her body and clothes with sweet perfumes from a charcoal incnese burner at her feet. I imagine it is something that Fatima and her family may well have had to do several times after Nicohlas was dragged from the fosse septique to rid them selves of the stench in their nostrils.Fosse septiques do give off rather a powerful aroma if distrurbed by someone swimming in them I understand.

A new leg for Loic!

2007-06-11T07:19:00.000+01:00

I received vexing news regarding Loic this morning. It appears alas that his wooden leg is riddled with worm and we would therefore be left without a gardener until the village carpenter had time to turn him a new one! Normally this would not take long however, there has been an outbreak of sudden deaths in the village after the clog maker tried adding wood shavings to the last batch of eau e vie to give it an oaky flavour. The experiment might have worked had he used any other wood rather than yew and not included the berries, hence the carpenter is tie up with a rush job on coffins and will not be free until Friday. This is intolerable, as unless something is done soon I shall be forced to pick the soft fruit myself!

Chief Patissier is still awaiting deliveries of sprogets and flanges from Brest but meanwhile he and Antoine have come to my rescue with a cunning plan to save the day Using only some spare parts from the old dough maker, a discarded bicycle and an old horse harness, they have designed a splendid artificial limb for Loic and are at this very moment transporting him by wheelbarrow to the village blacksmith to have it made and fitted. They would have of course have taken him in the governess cart but it being Dimanche Jacques has the day off and it would look foolish to transport ones gardener by motorcar.

If all goes well Loic should be back in action by Tuesday. His new leg has the added benefits of interchangeable attachments made from garden tools, which I am sure, will be a great bonus when it comes to double digging.

Meanwhile I have put the children on weeding duty. I am sure the fresh air will do middle child some good and at least if he vomits in the garden I shall not have to fetch Madame Grognonne to clear it up.

…………………………………………………………………………………

Today’s painting is a rather fetching seen of children playing with lighted matches in the garden by Sargent. I know it is not terribly relevant but thought you might find it preferable to an image of the either the village clog maker in his death throws or the carpenter employed in making coffins. I do hope you will forgive me if I am wrong.

An unfortunate accident chez Loufoque

2007-06-10T07:15:00.000+01:00

There has been a rather unfortunate incident Chez Nous. In an effort to liven up poor middle child’s spirits, he still feeling a little unwell, Madame Grognonne and Jacques arranged a small entertainment in the form of a target shooting competition. Youngest being the marksman and Jacques the moving target. It was all terribly well thought out. Jacques was to leap up from behind strategically placed objects dans le jardin wearing a flowerpot strapped to his head. The idea being that youngest would then try and shoot the rabbit whose head and shoulders were protruding gaily from the pot.

Middle was propped up in bed by the nursery window surveying all like some diminutive Pasha and all was going splendidly well until youngest accidentally miss fired and the shot ricocheted off the water butt and hit Loic, who was of course standing inside his tent, rendered immobile by the sound of the shots. Unfortuantly as a result he fell foward into the asparagus bed causing untold damamge to the vegetable plot.

It took some time to disentangle Loic from the canvas but when they eventually extracted him it was to find his leg had been blown clean off. Luckily it was his wooden leg and he does have a spare, manufactured from an old garden hoe, which he can use until a replacement is made.

It did however at least cheer middle child up a trifle and put a bit of colour in his cheeks.

Still no sign of either wiggets, flanges, sprokets or my titanium white paint but no sign of donuts either, so one must thankful for small blessings.

………………………………………………………………………………..

The painting today is The Sick Child by J. Bond Francisco. Yet again despite my valiant efforts to find a suitable illustration Art history has failed me abysmally. I would not think it too much surely for a woman to expect at least one renowned artist to have accomplished even a small pencil sketch of a groom sporting a terracotta flowerpot on his head in which a rabbit is hiding. Obviously far too everyday an image for great painters to waste their valuable time on, of course if I had wanted something like the rape of the cyrenian womenthey would have been ten a penny.

2007-06-08T17:37:00.000+01:00

Chief Patissier's exciting project to mechanize the family bisuiterie is, it appears, fraught with problems of a highly technical nature! It is all terribly frustrating. Despite he and Antoine's noblest efforts and much groping inside Elmer Buckets marvelously impressive tool, they have been unsuccessful in locating the wiggets on the Dough making machine's sprangles although we all know perfectly well that the flanges had been more than adequately well greased and braced with grommets before their transportation, there is a real fear they may have fallen off en route somewhere between here and Brest. It would have been far safer perhaps to transport the machine in one piece rather than attempt the mammoth task of dismantling and reconstructing it, however to do so would have meant our taking the tent in which it was housed which just impossible.

It is all very well to accept the gift of one small American army tent, which I am sure will be very much appreciated by Loic once he gets used to it, but to accept two might be considered imprudent. Some one would be bound to notice and it would be almost bound to give rise to all sorts of petty jealousies which are best avoided whenever possible when one lives in a small community. I am not one to speak ill of another, however, now that Nicolas Fartoocozy is not only chairman of the twinning committee but also the chairman of the public health committee for the commune (with special responsibilities for fosse septique )one must be doubly cautious about offending the awful man for, given the slightest excuse, he will be barging his way into Chateau Loufoque and with out even a by your leave we shall find our plumbing inspected whether we like it or not!

Since Middle was unwell I was not in a position to be of any help to Chief Patissier regarding the missing wiggests so he was forced to seek out our Mayor to act as translator and telephone Captain Bucket in Brest. Happily the Mayor has recently recovered his power of speech almost completely. You may remember he made himself rather over familiar with the Turkish Raki the night of Nicholas Fartoocozy's election party and has taken some time to recuperate. We are very hopeful that by next Christmas he will be quite his old self again.

After several false leads they were finally able to locate Captain Bucket in a Bar in the Brest Dockyards where he informed Chief Patiiser he was being well cared for by two sisters, who had been very kindly helping him apply his ointment.Well they think that is waht he said. Bearing in mind Chief patissiers rather rudimentary grasp of Englsih Grammar and the Mayors temporary speech impediment I think they did extremly well. They are pretty certain that they managed to explain the problem to Captain Bucket and that he has promised to send not only a complete set of new wiggets, several flanges and a box os sprokets but half a German Machine Gun and two dozen nearly new bayonets plus a large box of donuts. Thankfully the Mayor managed to persuade him that we were already well supplied with agricultural machinery as he was rather keen to send us a plough as well.

I have no idea what I am going to do with the donuts if they arrive .I wonder if one dried them sufficiently whether they might not be useful as firelighters ?
...................................................................................

The painting is of a nun from the order of the sisters of mercy at teh bed side of an injured soldier. I suspect she is probably reading to him from something suitable on the perils of the administration of self medication. The Sisters of mercy are I would imagine the order of sisters to whom Captain Elmer Bucket eluded as they do a great deal of charitable work amongst soldiers and sailors in need of succour and Elmer Bucket did say he met them in the dockland area of Brest. I presume them to have been visiintg nuns who had entered the Bar to seek direciton to the local convent, and whilst there kindly offered to rub in Elmers linament for him.

Un peu loufoque and a mothers lot is not a happy one...

2007-06-08T07:41:00.000+01:00

We have had a very worrying 24 hours Chez Nous since last I had the chance to sit here and write my diary and reflect upon events for alas for us all, Middle child is unwell.

Our day started happily enough and soon our time was spent in the routine tasks of daily life. Chief patissier’s day being almost in entirety spent in the tedious business of the collection, transportation, and commencement of installing the famous American dough mixing machine in all its glory at the family Biscuiterie. My day filled with the equally taxing pursuit of deciding the menu for the coming week and organizing the purchase of household provisions accordingly. This took considerable fortitude on my part since Madame Grognonne is still persisting in serving veal in some for or other at every meal. I must say that some of her recipes have been quite ingenious, breaded veal cutlets in Kumquat sauce was great improvement on the calf liver surprise for instance, however I am beginning to yearn for something a little less bovine.

Due largely to her resistance to my suggested changes to the menu our trip to the local market was not the a particularly pleasant experience. Fruit and vegetables were not a problem and we did manage to purchase some fish and mussels , which Madame Grognonne has agreed to turn into a seafood soup but were unable to get what we required in the way of dairy produce as the dairymaids insisted Madame Grognonne move away from the churns for fear of curdling the milk with her scowl. On the way home we were accosted by Yannick who is still it seems searching for his lost calf but sadly we were unable to help him with any information as to its whereabouts, As I pointed out to him I am sure I would have noticed if we had suddenly acquired a young calf chez Nous, after all they are quite boisterous creatures! I did however promise to ask the children if they had noticed a calf loitering around the grounds somewhere.

After dinner, Blanquette de veau with asparagus tips ,Chief Patissier and I retired to bed early, each of us still not quite recovered from our recent and somewhat taxing trip away. I was awoken in the early hours by a large bang and a shout which I presumed to be Madame Grognonne accidentally discharging her firearms in the hayloft but swiftly realised it was no such thing for it was followed by a pitiful wail which any mother’s heart would recognise immediately, even though it was slightly muffled and had travelled over the long distance between our wing and that of the children’s nursery. It was the sound of our poor middle child calling in distress for his mother!

I did what any Mother in her right mind would do when summoned by her anguished male child in the cold dark chill of the night, and swiftly alerted Chief Patissier to the situation by means of a sharp kick to the shins. I do think after all the relationship between fathers and sons is a vitally important one. Sadly despite my valiant efforts I was totally unable to arouse Chief Patissier from his slumber so was forced to rise to the occasion myself. Slipping on my pearl studded pantaloufes and wrapping myself in my lilac peignoir with the ostrich feather trim I staunchly set out in the direction of the cries in the fervent hope of all mothers in that situation, the hope that by the time I had arrived all would be well and I could return to bed once more to sleep.

It took me some time to reach Middle child’s bedside as I had inadvertently got lost on the second floor, easily done in a house this size, and found myself in the East wing so had to retrace my steps. In fact there is a rather poignant family legend of a young bride who rising on of her wedding night in search of a glass of cognac to steady her nerves after her nuptials , inadvertently took a wrong turning and opening a door to what she presumed to be the drawing room found herself stepping into the tower room and in the darkness plunged down from the parapet to the cobbled courtyard below. Needless to say her branch of the family tree stopped there . Her phantom is said to walk the chateau at night moaning for her foolishness and still desperately searching for a large cognac.

Amway I digress , by the time I finally reached Middle’s bedside Eldest had thoughtfully dealt with his cauchemar and put him back in his bed , from which he had evidently fallen, hence the bang, and he now lay slumbering peacefully as only a child who has managed to rouse his mother from her bed can. I thus returned to my boudoir, stopping en route to partake of a large cognac in memory of the poor lost bride, and was just climbing into bed when the commotion started again.

With grim determination to be a good mother I again donned my pearl studded pantaloufes and lilac peignoir and I retraced my steps to the nursery via the library where I refilled my cognac glass just in case of emergencies and to keep out the chill night air, I repeated the entire procedure at least four times until I really did not have the energy to go on any further each time reaching Middle child’s bedside to find him sleeping albeit feverishly but sleeping none the less which was significantly more than I was able to do under the circumstances. I therefore decided for his sake if not for mine he would be better transported to our chamber where at least if he woke I would be close at hand to deal with his call.

As you can I am sure appreciate it is not easy task to carry a feverish and by now slightly delirious nine year old boy down four flights of stairs along several inter connecting corridors through an unlit kitchen and back up another three flights to his parents bedchamber in the dark of night whilst one is wearing only a thin nightshirt and dressing gown . However I am proud that Eldest managed it very well only dropping him twice , the second not being her fault at all as was totally unaware that I had planned to stop in the library to refill my glass taking as I did so the candle with me, and thus can be excused for tripping over one of the cats in the dark.

This morning as Middle was still in rather a fitful state and complaining of headaches I sent Jacques, previously known as Henri to fetch the Doctor who on his arrival immediately diagnosed some sort of over heating of the constitution possibly fuelled by a imbalance in his diet. His has prescribed syrup of figs, rhubarb cordial and calfs foot jelly ! with a few days quiet bed rest in a darkened room . I have therefore arranged for a small bed to be made up next to mine and Chief patissier has volunteered to sleep in the study on the day bed until Middle is fully recovered. I have taken the precaution of placing a decanter of Cognac by the bed for emergencies just in case. I always maintain one can not be too careful when one is dealing with a child’s health.

……………………………………………………………………………..
This painting, from about the year 1600 is by the Dutch artist Metsu and poignantly portrays a woman holding a sick child on her knee. I ,as many mothers before me , recognised instantly the expression on the poor infants face. It is one of feverishness and resignation which comes, in my experience, only moments before the child vomits violently and unexpectedly and in vast quantities usually all over some item that is not easily cleanable or replaceable. Please note the strategically placed receptacle to the woman’s left. It is a sing of a good mother to be able to grab such a receptacle and position it accurately and at speed at just the crucial moment. It takes years of training and practise. I have high hopes that one day those maternal skills will eb recognised and it may be included as an Olympic sport/

Un peu Loufoque and the fishmongers daughter

2007-06-07T09:44:00.001+01:00

What a glorious day and how reassuring to be woken by such homely and familiar sounds . There is sharp retort of Madame Grognonne’s rifle as she shoots Rabbits from the Kitchen window, followed swiftly by the clatter of Loics axe as he drops it , freezing with shock at the sudden noise, and over in the courtyard I can clearly hear the deep melodious voice of Jacques, formally known as Henri, mucking out the stables. and singing a jolly Breton Folk song about a fishmongers daughter who one dark night having consumed rather too much eau de vie ,with her lover the elderly by amorous one eyed clog maker, foolishly mistakes her aged grandmere for a lobster and, having accidentally cracked her head open with a mallet, is forced to flee her natal village never to return ending her days disguised as a deaf mute strawberry picker in Plougestal .

With such a merry start to my morning, I am determined not to dwell upon our unfortunate experiences in Brest and therefore have put all thoughts of bed bugs and Elmer Bucket’s unfortunate afflictions behind me, having first taken the extra precaution of instructing Madame Grognonne to scrub the bathroom and the interior of the automobile out one final time with a mixture of lime and carbolic acid which should kill any lingering germs nicely.

Chief Patissier, has recovered admirably from the burns to his leg and one hardly notices the nasty rash he has mysteriously developed , thanks to a timely application of an ointment of sheep fat and sulphur as prescribed by our local pharmacists , whom you may remember my mentioning before, in connection with Monsieur Fartoocozy the president of our twining committee , who broke the heart of the said pharmacists daughter by reneging on his engagement with her and running off with a Russian girl here on a cultural exchange trip. The sheep fat liniment does have a somewhat pungent aroma but if Chief Patissier remembers to stay down wind of everyone and not to stand too near a warm fire I am sure that no one will notice.

Madame Grognonne has managed to remove the coffee stains form his trousers and repair the torn lapels on his overcoat. She is beyond doubt, at times ,a veritable treasure although I personally think it was sheer pigheadedness on her part to attempt an invisible repair with white thread on black astrakhan, but she was determined to prove that it could be done. He has this morning gone with Antoine to the shunting yards to oversee the arrival of the dough mixer and to check that Elmer Bucket’s chest of medicinal mercury and Iodine have been safely dispatched to him by return. I have suggested he also send Captain Bucket a consignment of Sheep fat and Sulphur ointment as a token of friendship.

Despite my protestations that enough was enough after fried veal liver for petite déjeuner and escalope de veau for lunch we are apparently having Veal again for dinner this evening, cooked in a sweet Anjou wine with crème fraiche on a bed of rice. Madame Grognonne professes that it is either that or donuts, the recipe for which Elmer Bucket has telegrammed to us in case Chief Patissier changes his mind regarding including it in the biscuiterie repertoire.

I am certain I would rather eat French veal for a month than American donuts dunked in sweet milky coffee and covered in cinnamon icing. Why they are not all the size of houses is beyond my comprehension when they seem to survive entirely on a diet of fat and sugar deep fried in inferior cooking oil!

I think it might be wise tomorrow if Madame Grognonne and I take the governess cart into the next town and pay a call on their boucherie to purchase some household provisions and a trifle more variety to our diet. It being a Friday we may even go as far as the fishmonger , although having listened to the fate of the fishmongers daughter in Jacques ( formally known as Henri) heart rending folk song this morning I think Lobster and is out of the question. However strawberries I may just be able to stomach.

As an after thought I neglected to mention that Elmer Bucket has very kindly offered to send us by train a small canvas tent which he assures us is easily demountable and light enough to be carried by one person in its erected state. This is can then be put up at a mere moments notice and I am sure will prove extremely useful for placing over Loic during the summers thunderstorms or during heavy rain . In exceptionally bad weather I am considering advising Loic to work within the tent and carry with him as he moves around the flowerbeds like a carapace, thus will save Jacques formerly known as Henri the not inconsiderable inconvenience of searching for Loic and then having once located him lifting Loic in his rigid state and placing him in the stables for safe keeping.

……………………………………………………………………………….
The painting above is a rather fetching still life containing largely strawberries and was executed by and Artist called Adriane Coote. When I say executed I mean of course that he painted it, not that he killed the strawberries, as far as I am aware no strawberries were harmed in the making of this painting. I did search in vain for a portrait of a deaf mute strawberry picker from the Plougestal but sadly to no purpose it would appear that no one has been inspired to paint this rather charming subject. Perhaps I might consider it as a suitable theme for my next painting .

Un Peu Loufoque and the dunking donuts.. amongst other observations.

2007-06-06T08:01:00.000+01:00

Finally this morning I have awoken with hardly an itch at all and the bites seem to be healing well. I think the topical administration of a mixture of iodine and absinthe recommended by Jacques, formerly known as Henri seems to have worked! Now, I must tell you about our encounter with Captain Elmer Bucket and his amazing dough beater, after which I promise to never mention again our trip to Brest or if I must to do so only briefly and then with sufficient warning, for I am beginning to feel terribly as if this tale is far longer in the telling than it was in the actual doing.

During breakfast taken in our tent, a place not ideally suited to entertaining visitors as it was somewhat lacking in furniture, I sitting on my bed and Chief Patissier and Elmer on the other each of us cautiously clutching tin mugs, which had obviously seen quite a deal of war service, I ventured an attempt at pleasant conversation and enquired of our host, or rather since he was in our tent our guest, why it was that he still remained in Brest ? Still languishing on French soil whilst most of his compatriots have left for home?

Why indeed? He is here, he told us, for his health, or rather due to his lack of it and until he recovers that health, here , apparently, he will remain, for, sadly he is unable to be cradled within the bosom of his mother country due to a rather persistent and virulent disease of a rather personal nature, which he inadvertently acquired whilst becoming a tad over familiar with the local girls of ill repute and low moral standing. What with his telling me the above and giving a rather over detailed description of the de lousing operation performed on all the American servicemen before they were allowed to leave la Belle France I was beginning to wish I had not offered him breakfast, and was immeasurably grateful that he sat upon Chief Patissier’s bed and not upon my own! . If it were not for the fact that I am a woman of the world and as such quite unshakeable I might even go so far as to suggest that I was shocked.

Whilst one can do nothing but admire the urge to offer succour to the troops who have travelled so far around the globe to protect and defend “la Belle France” from the onslaught of the German hordes one must also consider that it might have been more sensible all round had the girls in question offered succour to the troops by sewing on their missing tunic buttons or serving them good decent strong French coffee as and when needed rather than in the more intimate way they chose. Of course had they done so we may never have had the fortune, good or otherwise to make the acquaintance of Captain Elmer Bucket of the US Aviation corp, but at this moment that would seem from my position a small price to pay.

Enough of this let us turn to our inspection of Elmer Buckets splendid toll, for Elmer Buckets machine for the mixing of Dough was indeed impressive he had devised it originally for the preparation of an American patisserie called strangely a “doughnut” a strange greasy deep fried sugar coated confection which the Americans dip in their coffee. On those grounds alone one might condemn them as an uncultured and uncouth nation , but since over two million of them fought for our liberation I feel in no position to cast doubt on their moral character nor their cuisine. However tempting it may be.

Anyway, suffice to say, Chief Patissier examined Elmer’s implement with obvious excitement and they discussed how it might best be adapted for the making of galletes. Plans were drawn, an agreement made and the dough making machine is even now en route to the biscuiterie ,Chief patissier having brought the patent outright in exchange for a six month supply of iodine and mercury, which hopefully might help alleviate Elmer Bucket’s little problem.

Business finished with we made our farewells as hastily and politely as possible and boarded the train for home. A journey which was as unpleasant as the previous one but made less so by the knowledge that clean sheets, hot soapy water and the administrations of Madame Grognonne awaited us.

Despite Chief Patissier telegramming Chez Nous with news of our expected arrival Jacques otherwise known as Henri was late arriving at the station at Guingamp. This was most inconvenient as we were moved along by the Gendarmes twice who were of the mistaken impression, due to our travel soiled state, that we were some sort of itinerant beggars. I was not amused. When the car did arrive it was lacking in a drivers seat and Jacques, was thus obliged to sit on an overturned cider barrel. Nonetheless it was pleasant to return home.

All seems in proper order Chez Nous although there a strange odour about my salle de bain which I cannot for the life of me identify and I note some strange red stains on the marble floor therein which I am certain are new. Madame Grognonne, for some inexplicable reason, appears to have developed quite a fetish for veal and has served it up in some disguise or another at every meal since our return. Perhaps she feels we need restorative nutrition after our foray into Finistere, however I can not for the life of me imagine where she is buying it all from since I understand our local butcher is currently in hospital as a result of an unpleasant incident between him and Yannick concerning the inexplicable disappearance of one of his prize calves. The Butcher, poor fool, has only himself to blame for he should know better than to rile Yannick, whom everyone knows, has exceptionally large clogs.

…………………………………………………………………………

The photograph is of Captain Elmer Bucket and a team of volunteers greasing the wiggets on the Dough making machines sprangles after the flange slipped inadvertently. Captain Buckets has assured us that the machine is now perfectly safe as the flange has been braced with a grommit. However as a precaution Chief patissier has issued an edict stating that under no circumstances is anyone to operate the machine whilst wearing braces.

Elmer Bucket I presume!

2007-06-05T07:16:00.000+01:00

I am much refreshed this morning after a relatively restful night, barring the odd fit of scratching, and having partaken of a light breakfast and copious cups of restorative tea together with a small Brandy, am sitting at my desk comme d’habitude ready to continue with fortitude avec “mon carnet de voyage “.

We had been expecting to be met upon our arrival by Captain Bucket or at the least one of his associates however we were several hours late and he had quite plainly not had the courtesy to wait. We were quite at a loss as to what to do next when out of a large building to our right appeared a jaunty young man of about 23 years wearing riding breaches and carrying a large box of sweet pastries .

The young man welcomed us heartily, pumping my hand in a rather over frenetic fashion and slapping my husband jovially on the shoulder. Wishing to avoid further displays of gratuitous bonhomie , I introduced myself and Chief Patissier in my excellent English and enquired of him his identity. After our somewhat taxing day I felt it better to confirm who we all were at the offset as one never knows what strange foreign bodies may be found lurking in semi derelict army camps!

We need have had no fear for he was indeed the ingenious inventor we had travelled so far to meet. We should have known him any where by his doughnuts. I explained to him that we would like to freshen ourselves up before dinner and asked him if he would kindly direct us to the Hotel , a suite of rooms at which he had kindly agreed to reserve for us for use during our stay. It would appear however that our request that he find us suitable accommodation had sunk with out trace somewhere in the great cultural divide and he had taken it upon himself to accommodate us within the camp itself, close to his own quarters, and grasping our valises he marched onwards through the gates along a path constructed of wooden pallets towards of a row of rather uninviting looking canvas constructions.

Our tent he assured us was suitably equipped with everything we might need and bade us “spruce ourselves up” and meet him in the large building opposite where he would” rustle up” dinner for us. I translated this information as best as I could and entered into our acomodation with confidence remembering fondly my own recent camping expedition with the children in the woods and the pleasant ambiance of Fatima’s Bedouin tent.

However I soon realised this facility was slightly less commodiously equipped. There were two single truckle beds of dubious cleanliness and stability upon which lay rough blankets of an unappetising green shade, bearing ominous dark stains in places which it was evident repeated boiling had failed to remove The floor was made of slatted boards which, though effective in raising the beds above the mud, were not awfully functional for a lady wearing even marginally fashionable boots. Washing facilities were in the form of a somewhat battered tin ewer and basin and polished metal disc above them hanging on a thin wire. Under one of the cots was a rather chipped pot presumably thoughtfully provided for my use.

Surveying the interior of our temporary abode, Elmer Buckets reassurance that it contained all we might need echoing in my ears, I could only assume an American ladies needs may be somewhat different than those of a Frenchwoman of some social standing such as myself.

Tired though we undoubtedly were we were also ravenous and did not wish to affront our host by appearing late for dinner so we therefore swiftly changed out of our travelling clothes, I into my blue brocade with the peacock feather trim at the neck and Chief patissier into his evening dress, and made our way across the duck boarding to what Captain Bucket had indicated to be the dinning room, lifting my hem delicately to avoid the mud as much as possible.

It is never a wise thing to toy with a Frenchman's digestion and Chief Patissier was, as was I, anticipating of course, an aperitif before gong to dine. As we entered the echoing dining room we swiftly realised that this was unlikely to be the case. What I had hoped may turn out to be a splendid officers mess was a vast almost empty vault of a place equipped with sufficient batteries de cuisine to feed more than a few thousand men at a time. On one of the large stoves in the otherwise abandoned building Captain Bucket was griddling some type of unidentified viande in a large skillet. Indicating over his shoulder ,with some implement of the kitchen I was not qualified to identity, he jovially invited us to “pull up a pew and park our selves and to grab a drink”. I do find the American vernacular a trifle irksome.

Unable to find any pews we resorted instead to perching uneasily on two wooden benches and failing to locate any aperitifs Chief patissier helped himself to a small bottled beer, which as he was unable to find a suitable receptacle he was forced to drink fromm its bottle with an expression of rigid politeness on his face. For myself he poured a glass of what turned out to be an infinitely inferior red wine the like of which we French would consider fit for nothing other than cooking.

Dinner for I must presume that is what it was, consisted of slightly charred meat of dubious origin a rather gritty baguette and a salad which being raw was at least free from the risk of being ruined by over cooking. Through out the meal our host plied Chief Patissier with beer and I with wine and talked expansively of the gay time he had experienced here in France. All of his ramblings I was obliged to translate for Chief Patissier who by this time had given up any pretence of understanding Elmer Buckets drawling tones.

Having eaten as little as was polite we regretfully excused ourselves from the table, and made our way to our tent , where we secretly partook of the emergency rations of pate de fois grasse small gateaux and some excellent camembert that Madame Grognonne had mercifully packed. Thank goodness she had also included a small bottle of cognac .As we left the dinning room Elmer Bucket had wished us a cheery goodnight and hoped” the bed bugs did not bite”, something I mistakenly took to be some sort of American pleasantry until the early hours of the morning when we discovered much to our horror we were indeed sharing our rough blankets with an assortment of crawling nibbling creatures the like of which we had never encountered before! .

Less than twelve long hours since we left the comfort of Chez Nous and we had been eaten by goodness what insects, fed some indescribable food forced to travel in what could only be assumed to be converted cattle trucks and still not had sight of the famous mechanized dough maker!

And to think Chief Patissier would not take me to Paris on the grounds it as no place for a lady of my sensibilities! I shall never complain about Chateau Loufoque again!

…………………………………………………………………………

Today’s illustration is a photograph of the very army tent in which Chief Patissier and I stayed for our thankfully brief sojourn chez Bucket at Brest. I discovered it lodged in the duck boarding whist trying to rescue my left earring which had become inexplicable tangled in Chief Patissier’s lapel whilst trying to disrobe in a confined space. Our tent is the one on the left, if you look carefully you may be able to see the top of the dough making machine protruding from the roof of the second tent which belonged to Captain Elmer Bucket. One can only presume that the men outside the tent appear to be equipped with what seem to be life preservers due to the threat of inclement weather. It rains a great deal in Brest, what with that and the terrible offshore winds one would only have to bend over inadvisable and one could be airborne and half way to America before anyone was able to even consider a rescue attempt..

Un peu Loufoque home at last .

2007-06-04T10:09:00.000+01:00

Oh ma Chere Amis! How glad I am to be once again Chez Nous, for I own that there have been times over the last days when I harboured serious doubts as to whether I would ever return here to civilisation unscathed ! However, now that Madame Grognonne has unpacked disinfected and scoured our luggage and I have afforded myself the luxury of several cleansing baths during which I thoroughly scrubbed my entire body vigorously with carbolic soap and a loufah, I am beginning a little to recover myself although I admit to being a trifle tense and weary as a result of our expedition.

To describe our trip to Brest as being a tad different to that which I had anticipated would be possibly as gross an underplaying of the truth as Noah tentatively hazarding the comment, as he ushered the animals in deux pas deux, that he thought it might possibly rain a trifle in the not too distant future

However let me write un peu of our experiences so that you may be the judge.

We left Chez Nous early in the morning, Jacque, formerly known as Henri, driving us to the Station in the Governess cart, full of expectations for a pleasant journey by train through the Breton countryside. For the first part of the journey we were not disappointed. The sky was clear, the day warm and in the fields we passed women already hard at work pulling ploughs and tending to crops. It is on first glance a rather incongruous sight, seeing woman and children dragging a plough behind them in the fields but then one remembers sadly that so many Breton men were killed in la guerre that they have in choice in the matter, it is either that or starve. Try as we might, this poignant reminder of our nations sacrifice was bound to make us a trifle less jovial. However, to cheer ourselves up Chief patissier promised he would step out at the very next station and he would retrieve hot coffee to accompany the still warm croissants Madame Grognonne had packed for us in a small but thankfully well stocked hamper.

Good as his word as ever he leapt from the train at the very next station and had just successfully purchased some coffee from the buvette when, without warning, the train began to pull away from the platform and my dear husband was forced to run after it in great haste, spilling the beverages en route and only managing to reclaim his place in the carriage by dint of my hauling him up by the lapels on his overcoat , sadly tearing the astrakhan trim in the process.

Despite the small mishap with the coffee, as a result of which my husband unfortunately scalded his thigh rather unpleasantly , and the damage to his outer garments, most vexing as I feel it reflects unfavourably on myself to be seen in the company of a gentleman who does not look at his best, I maintained my humour and I was determined to enjoy our little adventure.

Chief patissier however was quite unnecessarily disagreeable as a result of these minor irritations and his temper was further aggravated by the need to change train five times en route for various unexplained reasons. He complained vociferously at the inconvenience of having to carry not only his but my own portmanteau as there appeared to be no porters on any of the dismal stations at which we were forced to alight! It will come as no surpise to you I am sure then that Chief Patissier was decidedly not a happy man when finally we approached our destination. Matters were not helped by the lack of refreshment carriage on any of the trains nor the fact that with each successive change we were reduced to even lower levels of comfort than the previous one we had endured. The final train, a far cry from the luxury of the first class carriages of the Paris to Nice Train that I had so hopefully imagined, was little more than a cattle cart with the addition of crude wooden benches.

Quite unexpectedly ,the locomotive came to a sudden halt against and ceased its locomotion with a great hiss of steam. We sat puzzling on the reasons for this until a rather disagreeable guard stuck his head through the grubby window of what passed as a carriage and informed us this was the end of the line and we must dismount poste haste or be taken back whence we had come. The prospect of an immediate return journey under such inhospitable conditions sent us both scurrying to our feet and the grabbing our luggage we were climbed down and found ourselves deposited us at the entry of the once noble and now sadly dilapidated Napoleonic fortress in the middle of what at first appearance seemed to be an abandoned shanty shunting yard in a field of mud . This then evidently was at Pontanezen and not one haberdashery nor hat shop in sight!

The train drew off back into the failing light, it had been an inordinately long day and we were left in the dissipating steam and soot like a pair of impoverished refugees on an empty station, our clothes soiled by our journey and our bodies filled with fatigue . There was sign of neither hotel nor restaurant anywhere. At that moment we were both horribly aware that the thankfully still half filled hamper prepared by Madame Grognonne which we had in our possession was very probably the sole thing between us and the very real prospect of starvation!

I hope my chere Amis that you will forgive my closing here , I am somewhat fatigued and have a rather unpleasant itching sensation in my scalp and think therefore a further session au salle de bain might be expedient just for safety’s sake, after which a lie down in fresh laundered linen sheets scented with Lavender and a large brandy are the very least I deserve after my ordeal.

A la Prochaine!

……………………………………………………………………………

The illustration above is a poster for the Riviera blue train. Such a jolly and bright little affair it image conjures up all the joy and anticipation of my somewhat short lived childhood train travel which I had hoped to recapture on our recent journey. It is however nothing at all like the harsh reality of the experience, a photographic or even artistic depiction of which I refrain from offering you here for risk of offending your delicate sensibilities. Concentrate my chere bout de choux on the jolly image for to dwell too long on the reality is bound to send you cauchemar dans le nuit!

Tis me again Madame Grognonne chez Loufoque

2007-06-03T17:00:00.000+01:00

Bonne Apris Midi tout le monde, Tis I, Madame Grognone ici, encore. We have just received telegraphical communications that Sir and Madame are en route from Brest having decided , for reasons undisclosed to the likes of us, to return earlier than expected to Le Chateau Loufoque. It is a bit inconvenient for us really as we was counting on a bit of time to clear up stuff what has happened.

Henri, otherwise known as Jacque, you know him with the unusual red hair, reckons though there is just enough time if we is lucky to find the starter motor for the automobile that seems to have somehow got itself lost after Youngest took the engine apart to make himself some sort of pulley to lift Loic out of the pond with this afternoon after he unaccountably fell in by accident when Middle let of a firecracker behind him when he was weeding the water lilies. So hopefully we should get the whole motorcar working again and Henri Jacque, oh you know him like I said what has the red hair, should be able to drive it to the station to collect them from the train. He says even if he don’t have time to get the seats back in at least it will be better than the Governess cart being as its raining and all.

I have made them a nice dinner of Roti de Veau as we luckily came into a nice bit of veau when youngest shot one of Yannick’s young calves when he was practicing his archery, It wasn’t his fault mind if Master hadn’t insisted we move the Butts after the incident with eth over mantle it would never have happened its just he got distracted by the sound of Loic falling in the pond and shot without looking.

Lunch was a bit of a disaster what with me having to leave the children to eat whilst I resuscitated Loic. However I hopes to be able to manage to get all the stains off the Kitchen ceiling. Eldest can be wicked something rotten sometimes when she gets a mind she knows better to make youngest laugh when he has is mouth full of soup!

Anyway thought I best tell you She is back today so no doubt she will be writing all about their trip tomorrow if you is interested.

Ooh lummy! I better go and get the rest of the calf out of madams Salle de bain she is most particular who uses her bathing facilities.

……………………………………………………………………………

Oh zut alors! I almost forgot the picture and I know how you lot like a bit of art, this here is Yannick’s calf, or rather it was but for goodness sake if Yannick asks you if you seen it say no otherwise he will be well miffed and you don’t want to miff Yannick ‘cos he don’t ‘alf have big clogs!

A Brief Note from madame grognonne

2007-06-01T20:15:00.000+01:00

Master Loufoque and Mistress Un peu have left for a brief visit to Brest, Henri, no Jacques, oh well you know who I mean, him with the red hair having got up at crack of dawn to get them to the railway Station on time... which he did. almost.

I have packed them an 'amper of comestibles for the journey because you can't tell what they eat in Finistrere it being such a backward sort of place and its always wise to err on the side of caution I say, rather than spening a weekend eating nothing but turnips.

We shall be expecting them back on Sunday night allowing for weather and other inconveniences of railways travel and meanwhile it has been "tres Tranquille" ici as Maddame would say... well apart from the incident with youngest and the rifle and not being able to find Loic when we 'ad the thunder storm this apres midi.But that was alright in the end because henro or jacque or who ever he is now, him who has the red hair, ran into him in the dark on the way back from the bar tabac in the governess cart so we did at least save him from spending the entire night out there frozen to the spot which Mistress was very particular about him not doing.

I know that her likes to stick some pretty picture on her writngs so here is one of some turnips and some other stuff becasue we were talking about em just now.

An Adventure Begins!

2007-05-31T05:58:00.000+01:00

We are travelling down to Brest by train as Chief Patissier feels it might be too onerous to drive such a distance. Far easier to go by train than trying to navigate ourselves through the desolate uncharted wilds of Finistere and risk getting horribly lost in some God forsaken hamlet where only an obscure Gallo dialect is spoken. Finistere has always been a somewhat backward disreputable and barbaric area of Brittany.

I am inordinately pleased at the prospect of travelling by train although I have little previous experience of that mode of transport having to the best of my knowledge only ever utilized it twice before, both times as a very small child. Once, having stowed away in a laundry hamper to Calais and the second on the return journey to Bordeaux in the luggage wagon accompanied by a somewhat elderly gendarme. I seem to remember the return journey being far less comfortable. However I sincerely doubt whether Chief Patissier and I will be travelling as luggage. I understand they have rather fine first class carriages which travel between Paris and Nice but whether we will be able to avail ourselves of this level of service on the Rennes to Brest route is, I am certain, an entirely different matter.

I am in a vexing position of great indecisiveness regarding what I might require for the sojourn. I will of course need to equip my self with suitable travelling clothes but as we are to be away for two nights I am at a loss as to whether I might require two sets of full evening dress , we shall naturally dress for dinner. Or whether one will suffice.

Finistere is, by reputation ,incredibly generously endowed in terms of annual precipitation, so much so it makes the Cotes D’Armor seem positively arid by comparison! Added to which Brest is notoriously windswept and therefore warmer clothing may be sensible even for this time of year. I have no intention of packing my galoshes, however as I am sure Brest has perfectly respectable pavements and I have no intention of cavorting about in the mud.

We are leaving the chateau and children under Madame Grognonne’s direction and, providing that youngest does not yet again attempt to dismantle the engine of the motorcar unsupervised, I am sure all will be well. Madame Grognonne has promised to ensure all firearms are kept out of the children’s grasp and Chief Patissier has ordered very specific instructions regarding their archery practise in our absence to avoid any possibility of accidental damage to his portrait. Sensible precautions on his part I am sure however, I find It is incredible how resourceful small children can be and who can say what we shall discover when we return. He did not after all forbid the use of firecrackers in the salle and accidents will happen even in the best regulated households I fear.

It is for such a reason I have been very clear with both Madame Grognonne and Jacques previously known as Henri, that if the weather proves to be inclement whilst we are away that they are, at the first sign of a storm to seek out Loic and ensure he is safely stowed indoors. With his reaction to loud bangs it is quite possible without such precautions ,should it become thunderous I may return to discover him rigid and sopping wet having been caught unawares and rooted to the spot , unnoticed in some neglected corner of the garden for the entire duration of our absence. The poor man having given an arm and a leg to his country I think it is the least we can do , added to which having had Madame |Grognonne struck by lightening twice I think to allow a second member of my household to suffer the same fate might well be considered to improvident.

Having recently reviewed the household finances Chief patissier has also taken the precaution to speak with our local bar tabac and wine merchants and left strict instructions that under no circumstances is Jacques, previously known as Henri, to purchase either Absinthe or Cognac on our household account whilst we are away. He had every intention of taking the cellar key with him for safe keeping but I pointed out that should there be some sort of emergency, access might be needed to the cognac for medicinal purposes and he therefore relented reluctantly. I must say I find his attitude a trifle excessive on this point after al lit isn’t as if Jacque, formally known as Henri , is likely to use the alcohol for any thing other than horse liniment is it?

We intend to commence our journey demain matin at an early hour so I fear that I may well be unable to write my journal tomorrow or even, Quelle horreur, for the entire length of my absence form Chez Nous. After all I always transcribe my thoughts at my dear Louis XVI writing desk that Chief patissier presented me with on the occasion of our marriage and I can hardly be expected to carry that with me on a such a short expedition!

……………………………………………………………………………..
The photograph above is an image of one of the grande rues in Brest and shows it as a thriving and busy thoroughfare well equipped with mercantile establishments, as I can see at a glance that there are at least 2 milliners and a purveyor of ladies vetements I have high hopes of adding some much needed refinements to my wardrobe which has become of late rather rural in aspect for want of the opportunity to augment it without anything resembling haute couture . I realise bien sûr that the purpose of the visit is the advancement of the patissiers industry but it would be an unforgivable sin not to take advantage of decent shopping emporiums whilst we are there.
.

Un Peu and the great step forward!

2007-05-30T06:21:00.000+01:00

This is indeed a momentous day for the exciting world of French patisseries for my husband has decided the family biscuiterie is to lead the march forward into modern times. Since the unfortunate incident in 1914, when Chief Patissier’s Elder brother was horrifically killed having got his braces caught in the ancient dough mixture whilst supervising the preparation of gallettes for our brave French troops , all the dough has been mixed by hand as a mark of respect. However he has declared that grief must not hold us back any longer, for he has learnt of an innovative new mechanism which is suitably equipped to pound the butter sugar, milk and eggs necessary to make an acceptable dough without risk to life and limb.

I suspect he heard it discussed whilst at the Moulin Rouge by other biscuit manufacturers there buying flour, I am certain a great many things are discussed amongst the men meeting at such places which are far beyond the understanding , and dare I say interest, of ladies such as myself!. Apparently a young American Aviator stationed at the village of Pontanezen near Brest has made important technical developments and produced a vastly superior dough mixer using only the remnants of a captured German maxim machine gun, an abandoned plough, six bayonets and a large metal container traditionally used for cooking alimentation for pigs, It is the vanguard of industrial development and Chief Patissier, having apparently seen the young mans photograph, is intent on meeting him. I have not seen him so exhilarated since Antoine came back from the battle of Verdun miraculously unscathed!

Chief patissier wrote to the young man, whose name I believe is Elmer bucket or something equally bizarre, only last week and has already received a reply and thus is eager to travel to Brest at the earliest opportunity to see his splendid tool.

Much to my surprise and elation my husband has suggested I accompany him to Brest, although he is understandably dubious that a foreign troop encampment of battle scarred young soldiers awaiting repatriation to their home country after the unspeakable rigours of warfare may not perhaps be the ideal place for a woman of my refinement, he can not deny that my English is far superior to his own and hence, if he is to make progress with the young inventor he needs must have me at his side! My only fear is that his American accent may be so strong as to render his English indecipherable, however by talking loudly and annunciating clearly I am sure I shall be perfectly able to make myself plain.

I need hardly say I am thrilled at the prospect, it certainly is not Paris but it is undoubtedly an adventure ! Who knows what inspiration I may glean for future works of art ? Quelle Chance pour moi!

…………………………………………………………………………

The illustration is entitled « PATISSIER, TOUR A PÂTE, BASSINES, MORTIER &c” by Robert Benard. It is a copper plate engraving showing a kitchen scene, and drawings of various utensils, which together form the accoutrements of the Patissier’s craft. Although this may be dated 1760 I hope you will appreciate that little has changed in the world of biscuiterie, hence a dough making machine, even if it is constructed from a machine gun, an abandoned plough, six bayonets and a large metal container traditionally used for cooking pigs swill, may only be viewed as an advancement in technology!

Un Peu Loufoque and Henri's return

2007-05-29T07:19:00.000+01:00

Henri has returned this morning, appearing in the kitchen unannounced and surprising Madame Grognonne from behind whilst she was in the middle of preparing the breakfast tray for Chief patissier and myself. As a result Chief patissier’s café was cold and his pan au chocolat a trifle on the hard side but thankfully my tea did not suffer. He has for some bizarre reason cropped his hair exceedingly short and dyed it an arresting shade of red, which is a trifle startling at first sight but I am sure one will grow accustomed to it, eventually.

After a long discussion in the study with Chief Patissier, to which I was not privy, they have or so it would appear, come to an agreement. Henri is to have an official place in our household and a livery of sorts, to which he has conceded , providing the coat has a high collar and the hat a large brim. Poor man he is obviously so painfully shy that he does not wish to be recognised. Although quite frankly I doubt whether even his dear mother would recognise him with his present coiffure.

We shall accord him board and lodging and a small remuneration annually and in return he will have sole care of the horse, stables and upkeep of the governess cart and help with any odd jobs that might occur around the estate. For some reason I can not quite fathom, he now wishes to answer to the name of Jacques, I do hope nothing in the hair dye has addled his brain, one must be so careful with those chemicals. Chief Patissier also informs me he has discussed the husbandry of horses with Henri, who is now Jacques, and together they have agreed it is highly possible he may be administering too much horse liniment and that in future I shall not be required to purchase quite so much Absinthe, which is a relief as I am not sure how much our local bar owner has remaining secreted in his private hoard in the cellar!

Madame Grognonne tells me that, although the missing horse has not been found, rumours are rife that he was last seen travelling towards the Belgium border with a band of Romanian gypsies disguised as itinerant clock makers and that the two Gendarmes who called chez nous yesterday are in hot pursuit. It appears also that Henri’s sister has fortuitously received a letter from Henri which releases him from any suspicion regarding his part in the missing horse vanished.

The letter is postmarked Paris, and dated by coincidence on exactly the same day as the disappearance of the horse. According to Madame Grognonne the letter advises Henri’s sister that he has left the stables at St Juste and is making a new life for himself as a juggler in a travelling circus. This is all very odd as I know perfectly well he is at this very moment mucking out my stables. I informed Chief patissier of this new information which he appeared to find highly amusing.

There is however no news of my missing oils but I have chief Patissier’s word that he will send for extra supplies from Paris and I shall be able to resume my painting as soon as it arrives. Meanwhile , since I cannot continue without Titanium white , I shall have to bide my time. It really is frightfully frustrating, I have nought to do but sit and stare at my completed canvases as they dry in the studio, and there is nothing quite as dull as watching paint dry. I suppose if I get too tiresomely bored I may always entertain myself by moving my contemplation down to the salle to regard Chief Patissier’s portrait for a change of scenery. I am at present trying to avoid the salle as I have an unaccountably strong urge to get my brushes and turpentine out and smudge his nose a trifle. If it was not for the fact that I am sure he would notice I am certain I would not be able to curb myself. I understand it may take as long as twelve whole months for a canvas to dry completely, which, I think you will agree, is an unthinkably long time to expect a person, no matter how well bred, to restrain her urges.

Our anniversaire of our nuptials did not go quite as expected yesterday what with the being shot at before breakfast and then manhandled onto the bed by my husband when I least expected it. However Chief Patissier was obviously touched by my wedding Anniversaire gift to him and it seems to have quite softened his heart, not only did he kiss me fleetingly on the forehead at breakfast but he has promised to take me to the Opera in Rennes as soon as something suitable appears on the programme. I am rather hoping to see Bizets Opera Carmen, The story of a fickle Spanish factory girl of loose morals who ends up stabbed to death by her lover having rejected him for a bullfighter which I think might be positively tranquille after life chez nous over recent weeks.
…………………………………………………………………………….
The illustration today is “Offering the Panal to the Bullfighter” and was painted by Mary Stevenson Cassatt in 1873.You probably don’t know this but a panal is a sweet honey biscuit which when dipped in water makes quite a refreshing drink. Why they can not merely make a drink from honey and water in the first place and serve the biscuit separately is a mystery but then the Spaniards are strange people. It rather reminded me of the story of Carmen, although she was of course interested in him dipping something quite different in her honey pot little strumpet that she was!