The Gallic misadventures of a Milford village idiot abroad.
Friday (Evening): Matt & Kayleigh joined my wife & I razor clam hunting on the beach tonight. I of course pretended that this was something I did all of the time. After much screaming and squirming (& and the girls weren’t much better) a catch of several razor clams was made. The technique required quick hands to grab the tubular blighters before they disappeared back into the sand, and quick reflexes to move aside for when they spat at you. Evening catch secured, it was straight back to the kitchen, in the pan with white wine, chorizo & shallots, and we soon had an unusual starter before dinner. We reckon they tasted a bit like squid, but not as chewy.
Saturday: Popped to local Brocante Market in next village, and resisted buying a stuffed ferret & doll with hole in her head. Then we were all off to Deauville’s Wine & Food Festival at the local racecourse. Wine producers were there from every corner of the country, but how you taste them all and still stand up I am not sure, but we gave it a try. The French certainly love to dress up in ornate velour costumes. If anyone produces a regional cheese, sausage, or anything really, they will have a society of some sort with colourful robes, chunky regalia and hand embroidered flags, and where better to dress up than at events such as this. Bought some foie gras pate, only £17 for two tins!, and some macaroon biscuits from a guy who had come from Marseilles at the opposite end of the country. Occasional bouts of homesickness are not unusual for people who have emigrated, but our equilibrium was restored tonight as we tucked into the emergency curry supplies that Matthew had bought with him.
Sunday: Up and off to Trouville Market for the girls to urgently buy some desperately needed boots to go with their twenty or so other pairs. Then we moved on to the Fish Market to treat ourselves to an enormous Turbot for tonight’s dinner. As my wife used her best French to ask for the monster to be trimmed and cleaned, ‘Le monger de fish’ was struggling to understand, much effort later he suddenly gestured and pulled his finger across his throat, calling out; ‘Ah, Marie Antoinette!”. Yep, he had got the message.
Having again had a car pull straight out in front of us from a side turning, Kayleigh noticed how the French drivers take a certain pride in carrying numerous battle scars on their cars. A quick game of ‘I Spy The Dents’ revealed about two in three cars in France have had the pleasure of meeting a fellow driver at close quarters. The undamaged ones were always less than a year old and it was only a matter of time before they joined in the traditional ‘let’s have a crash’ game.
Monday: Matthew discovered one of the new tyres he had bought before coming to France was flatter than the turbot from the night before. A quick inspection revealed a nail in the tyre wall. Not great news, but an expedition to find a new tyre was our next mission. Having conveniently found a ‘Monsieur Le Qwik Fit Fitter’ who spoke no English, we showed him the tyre. After much head & hand waving we established that it could not be repaired. So, our new Gallic friend set about finding us a new one. Tyre successfully sourced, he returned saying: “Mercredi ou Jeudi”. (Ah, ha…. Wednesday or Thursday. Matt & Kayleigh were going home Wednesday afternoon, so Wednesday morning would be fine.) I confidently replied: “Mercredi matin s'il vous plait”. Non,Mercredi ou Jeudi” was my new friends repost. “Oui. Mercredi matin”. Non,Mercredi ou Jeudi”. “Oui. Mercredi matin”. Non,Mercredi ou Jeudi”……..our conversation repeated around twelve times until my tripe eating friend got bored. Out came his iPhone, and using a translator app he showed me the text: ‘Wednesday or Thursday’. “Oui. Mercredi matin” I replied, … again. Back to the iPhone, ‘It will be here Wednesday or Thursday’ the text now read. Ah, it was a statement, not an option. As we said our goodbyes, my new friend tried to resist my kisses, but he was too slow. As we returned to the car, Matthew looked relieved said: “Did you see how much the tyre was?”., “Nope”. “It was 325€, more than twice of the price at home!”. A couple more attempts in vain to find a tyre and then Matthew reluctantly accepted his flash BMW would be travelling home on a silly looking spacesaver wheel.
By this point of course the ladies were bored, so we had to agree to go shopping (again!). One home accessories store and four supermarket visits later, we returned home for lunch, ladened with cases of wine, some housy stuff and assorted French food to continue the Francophile experience.
Tuesday: Yet another sunny day, and the town and beach is teaming with people, as tomorrow is a public holiday for All Saints' Day we reckon everyone has taken a long weekend to get in our way. Hard to believe the amount of people on the beach on a November day. We decided a crepe was in order, but we hadn’t accounted for the slowness of a French queue. Nearly giving up on several occasions, we showed the British stiff upper lip and demonstrated our endurance on behalf of the English people and eventually, (& with a slice of our lives’ missing), we all enjoyed hot crepe wandering along the seafront.
Made it to the casino at last tonight, after two aborted efforts. First time we had forgotten our passports, second time the casino was full of the ladies on slot machines and what looked like a school outing losing pots of daddy’s money on the gaming tables. It seems the young of Deauville use the casino as a meeting place on Sundays, rather than the more popular street corners used by kids in the UK. Ironically, on our third attempt, I wished we had forgotten our passports again, as this time we managed to get on the table and they took all my money. Kayleigh won a few quid though, so she was voted to buy the pizza for dinner!
Wednesday: We were all nearly killed this afternoon. To explain, as we wandered along the town centre pavement, two drivers heading towards each other from different directions decided their cars were insufficiently battle scarred to be truly French. There was an almighty crash, one car mounted the pavement right next to us and we only just escaped being hit by the debris, which included a large lump of alloy wheel. Why Matthew automatically took the stance of a ‘Ninja’ we are still not sure. As we stood with a mouth full of dust from the collision, we waited for the almighty shouting and arm waving session to follow. However, the drivers simply got out, admired the substantial mutual damage, shrugged and started chatting like old friends. Perhaps they were? In circumstances like this there was only one thing to do, act as a true Frenchman like myself would, .....so we went to lunch. Why the profiteroles did not come with a health warning I have no idea. It was literally the first time I have ever had a sweet that was served with a knife, fork and spoon! My wife got a migraine just looking at the chocolate and cream mountain of loveliness. (He, he..... worth every calorie). (See picture) Two hours later it was time to bid Matthew & Kayleigh a bon journeé back to the UK. It had been great having them around for a week, and we were really sad to see them go, thankfully, the skinny spacesaver wheel on the back of Matt’s car did raise an involuntary titter or two to lift my spirits.
Thursday: We were all strolling to the café for a ‘chocolat chaud’ when we past ‘La Mairie’ and I realised that I was still yet to meet the mayor. If he knew I was still in Deauville he would of course be thrilled to meet me, but as yet he did not know I was here. I knew he would be excited about my plans for Milford on Sea to twin with Deauville (and to have a big ceremony when dumping Cowes, their current ‘twin’.) if only I got the chance to explain to him. Before I could even reach to the door of La Mairie I heard a loud clash of metal as the door was firmly shut and bolted. A small voice could be heard calling: “Ferme, la grand anglais porc, ferme”. “Ahh, that’s nice” I said to my wife, “I think the mayor has asked to see me later for tea and some sausage rolls.” She just shrugged and just said something like; “Why me?”
As we once again rode the ‘Boulevard of Death’ back to our house, every turning had the opportunity for a random car to pull straight out to give us the dented bodywork of a traditional French car. Not to be disappointed, out came a white car with no warning straight in front of me. “Right, I’ve had enough, I’m going to stop him and tell him how to drive properly.” My wife just grinned as only she can, and said: “I can’t wait to see this.” “Why?”, “That is a police car” she smirked.
Friday: Early start to the day with yet another long dog walk on the beach. As each tide regresses about 150m, areas of beach are always full of thousands of empty ‘razor clam’ shells, and at low tide local fishermen can be seen catching what we think are either shrimps or mussels with their nets most evenings. Early morning and evening the racehorses train along the surfs edge, sometimes as many as a dozen or more at a time. There are also WW2 bunkers half sunken into the sands at the end of the beach, which must be at least a couple of miles long. The pill boxes are still in some of the gardens of the ornate beach front houses, and have been disguised and decorated to just become part of the landscape.
Another friend, Viv, arriving tonight. As she is a cheese fiend, we were off to the supermarket to restock, plenty of red wine and port would also be necessary. I then had a ‘baguette’ moment, firstly wondering how we ever lived without having at least one baguette every day, and then realised that ‘baguette’ was yet another words the French do not have their own word for.
www.deauville.org/en
