We sat in the pleasant sunshine in Chez Fred’s café bar in Avenue De La Vallee D’or, my parents enjoying a pre-lunch beer. Chez Fred’s sits next door to the ValloireMedicalCenter and the VMC was enjoying some brisk business today. The main doors were thrown furiously open as a blue flashing ambulance was pulling in along side. Paramedics swarmed around a perambulated stretcher and they whisked inside a small body wearing a military combat uniform. No more than three seconds it lasted and was over in a flash as two portions of the Chevre Chard arrived for my sister Ellen and I. We tucked in heartily and hungrily… we ate in complete silence. No one spoke as Chez Fred regaled us… his now captive audience.

“Tis my specialty… Ah… mon du eat at my pleasure. Madams Mesuirs… sil vous plas. Ah… It is my specialty.”

Two more full plates of food arrived for my parents.

“The Chevre Chard… my specialty. You see we in Valloire… have the ghosts, the ghouls, the goats… and the dark.” He said whilst looking fearfully up to the tips of the snow-covered mountains surrounding us. “ Ah oui… It is they who inhabit these abandoned, deserted slopes each night.”

The military man had made it down the mountain. But in what condition was he. And what of tomorrow… will tomorrow… will it my turn? I kept on eating as my thoughts swayed back and forth. Fred continued his lengthy tale.

“Our local legend has it, that one summer, not so long ago. Two young lovers left their homes in Le Mans. They ran away having decided to escape their parents wroth at their proposed betrothal and eloped to these mountains in the south. They set off nervously and anxiously to seek forever togetherness and as such their fortune too. Soon to be exhausted and with little money they found themselves hitching a ride in a cattle truck and heading up to a mountain in the French Alps. These mountains.” A small dribble of spit formed in the corner of Fred’s mouth.

“Somewhere, as it were, where they could be happy and together. They came to Valloire. They found much happiness here. Annette and Rene took many walks in these mountains and would take food to feed the mountain goats that, lived permanently on the treacherous barren snow capped hilltops. The goats very much liked this ritual and they soon began to enjoy being hand fed each day. However, it wasn’t until some time later they began to show that they had forgotten how to forage for their own food and ensure their own daily survival. They gathered each day and waited for their usual feed given generously from happy couple’s heart. One day however, the loving couple were on their way to meet their now friendly goats and were unexpectedly caught in the first of the winter seasons snowstorms. They became trapped on the unforgiving mountainside. Night soon closed in and slowly and surly, because they could not perhaps find a shelter, the biting cold wind sucked the heat from their vulnerable bodies. Sadly they both perished and passed away with no way of surviving the ferocious Alpine night… no doubt both of them … poor Annette and Rene, each frozen to death.

The following morning the Parish Priest, who had known and befriended them when they first arrived here, alerted the mountain rescue team and off they set at first light. But such was the ferociousness of the wind and snow they were forced back and had to wait for a suitable lull in the unforgiving storm. It was late morning when they re-started their rescue attempt just as the sun began to quickly melt the thick overnight mountain snow. The rescue teams searched for hours and then further attempts were made which stretched well into the next few days. The loving couple where nowhere to be seen… In fact the rescue teams found nothing at all to suggest the loving pair had ever been here… up here in these wonderful mountaintops of Valloire. No bodies, no clothing, no shoes, not even the jewelry that they both wore as tokens to each other of their undying love. Nothing could they find except that is, for many, many smiling, overweight, mountain goats.”

I began to think that if we didn’t make it back down the mountain tomorrow after our skiing lessons and… if I missed the last gondola back down… that I could call out the Air Ambulance Helicopter Rescue at £120 a time. Just like the military man…who was just a few minutes ago safely rescued… and is now lying sick in the Medical Center next door. He was airlifted off the cliff… Wasn’t he…?

“And so ladies and gentlemen…” Chez' Fred continued. “We are all told that in confidence and coincidence, in that very same year, the goat’s cheese was said to be the finest that has ever been harvested.”

We all four finished our meals of Chevre Chard.

“So, what do you think then of my beautiful The Chevre Chard… tis magnificent eh?

Now I was getting bored… Chez Fred’s Chevre Chard was ok I thought… but I prefer a good burger and fries… “What…” I said, suddenly sitting bolt upright facing this huge man with the tall tales and the wet dribble running down his chin. “What actually is Chevre Chard?”

“Well young man… I am so glad you asked me that question as you all obviously know very little of the French language…” said Fred laughing his raucous belly laugh… Why you don’t know… that Chevre Chard is… goats cheese?”

~

Holland’s Pies Serving Suggestions

For American Visitors In UKLancashire.

By Bill Hart.

*Don't tell him/her, what it is, that you are serving up for dinner (In UK Lancashire, dinner is lunch-time, not the evening meal).

*Have a long walk along the canal bank (you not him). Let him/her wonder where you are!

*Make sure he/she is comfortable and sitting in close proximity to the kitchen and therefore the oven.

*Put the Holland’s Pies in the oven and let the aroma circulate towards him/her.

*Arrive back from your walk saying, "Oh deary me, how did it get to be that time?"

*Wait for a rustle of his newspaper/magazine/book/comic and gauge his/her reaction/irritation.

*Go to the oven to check the contents and say, "Mmmmm yum yum. I hope you are hungry Hun? I’ll leave them another 10 minutes. D’you need another drink Hun?" (Sing a line from the song ‘American Pie’).

Lancash-Air.. tm

Airways

“Our Business Is Getting You Off”

..IS SPONSORED BY

The Holland’s Pies Jam and Pickle Company Ltd..tm

PIES IN THE SKY’S..

*Butter some Rathbone's white sliced crusty

wholemeal bread with some highly salted Lurpak butter.

*Open the jar of Holland's Mixed Pickle’s and place

the it on the table next to the sliced bread.

Ask him/her if he/she like's gurkins? Remove them

from the container if he/she doesn’t.

*Place a large plate, containing steaming hot Holland’s Pie’s

in the centre of the dining room table. Fuss him/her and

say, "OK, if y’all ready, lets eat eh."

*Let him/her pass comment at the contents of the plate

(Please try to record or memorise his exact words for research

purposes. Edit any expletives).

*Show him/her how to pick the pie up and nibble off the hard baked edges of the piecrust first.

*When finished with the outer crust, attempt towards the centre of the pie (Look-out for the hot spots). Pick-up a piece of crusty buttered bread and mix with pie inside the mouth.

*Fork a Holland’s pickle and eat that too.

*Repeat.

“For total satisfaction, finish off the meal and the crusty bread too, with a

jam butty. Not just any old jam butty, but a butty made with the one and only..

Award Winning..

Mrs Holland’s Jam..tm

A Lancastrian Gold Medal Jam Tart Winner

Adlington Carnival

1952 and 1953.

~

TAXI-DRIVERS MANUAL.

The

ESSENTIAL & COMPLETE

ECTM No 1: Sound your horn whilst parked, waiting irritably outside your customer’s premises.

ECTM: No 2: Do U-turns anywhere you feel like as long as it irritates as many other road users as possible.

ECTM: No 3: Park your taxi absolutely anywhere where it causes maximum disruption to all other road traffic.

ECTM: No 4: Never use direction indicators to show your intentions, or at least, wait to last possible split-second before doing so.

ECTM. No 5: Look for illegal places to drop-off your customer’s. a) On double yellow lines. b) On zebra crossings. c) Half-on pavements

ECTM. No 6: Crawl along the street looking for a customer’s address. Spot it and stop dead. Open taxi door without looking behind. Get out and scratch your head.

ECTM: No 7: Never ever look clean shaven.

ECTM. No 8: Always wear the same clothes you slept in last night.

ECTM. No 9: In the cab, always make sure there is the smell of:- a) Cigarette smoke. b) Stale tea c) Weird unidentifiable odours.

ECTM. No 10: Always have copy of Daily Star visible with a semi-naked Jordan on front to distract male customers from their whereabouts.

ECTM. No 11: Always have copy of Hello Mag’ visible with a semi-naked torso on front to distract female customers from their whereabouts.

ECTM No 12: Never ever refuse a tip!

ECTM. No 13: Never ever debate The ECTM with your customers.

~

LORRY-DRIVERS MANUAL..

The

ESSENTIAL & COMPLETE

No 1: Always block the central lane on a Motorway whilst overtaking similar.

No 2: Tailgate and intimidate small cars at all possible times.

No 3: Weave and stray randomly onto the Motorway hard shoulder every other mile or so.

No 4: In standing Motorway traffic leave enough space between you and the car in front to pass the thickness of the Daily Sport newspaper.

No 5: Always wind your driver’s side window down to lean over to see legs of female drivers who are overtaking that much better.

No 6: Always wind your driver’s side window down to lean over to see boobs of female drivers who are overtaking that much better

No 7: Always show-off tasteless tattoos on a heavily tanned arm to overtaking female drivers who inevitably by now are feeling sick

No 8. When whiling away the hours in a lorry park to get your Taco graph hours back on track, go around the rig and kick all tyres.

No 9: Always call your truck a 'rig'. It sounds American and macho. So too, never describe yourself as a 'Trucker'.

No 10: Shunter, Trunker or Tramper: There is a social elite pecking order in this biz. Put it this way; a Trunker will order latte coffee.

No 11: Leave Motorways a least a junction too soon, find the tinniest narrow street, pretend to be lost, park up, create max havoc.

No 12. Always double park in congested town centres.

No 13: Never travel at night always during the day. This clogs-up the Motorways and bingo - creates more unnecessary chaos and havoc for everybody else!

No 14: Never miss a chance to moan and groan to as many people as you can about the UKs tax on diesel fuel compared to EU countries.

No 15: Never divulge the contents of the fat wad you wave in the pub at the end of each month.

THE HEALTH CLUB MEMBERS MANUAL (MEN)

1: When first entering the pool area or after a heavy gym work-out never ever shower before you enter the pool to cool off.

2: Always shave in the Sauna.

3. When entering sauna for first time always pour albus oil concentrate onto sauna coals without asking the other users if it's okay to do so.

4: Pump each set of gym equipment as fast as you can inside 20 minutes. Have a manly groan, go to the bar, order two pints of Guinness.

5. Always talk at length about your pulled muscles, bad back and the many and numerous injuries you have bravely endured for years.

6: Children: Always take them to splash in the pool whilst you ignore what they're doing knowing other people will watch out for them for you.

7: Children: No need to take them out of the pool to go to the loo... you know why! No need for you to leave the pool either...

8: Leave all your valuables in an unlocked locker and place your clothes on the benches below.

9: If anything of yours goes missing from the locker (room) etc, threaten the club with proceedings to procure plentiful compensation.

10: Always 'do a bomb' into the pool when a couple of young females are close by to show-off and draw maximum attention to yourself.

11: Ask others 'how much they paid for their annual membership' then boast how much more cheaply you got yours.

12: Always boast to other members 'how long you have spent in the pool today!' like, "I've been here since 7: 30 this morning!"

13: Always complain, 'that the pool is too cold, the sauna's not hot enough and can I borrow your Albus Oil? I've just run out.”

14: When the showers don't work. Shampoo your hair in the pool saying with an innocent shrug "What else can I do?"

15 On exiting the steam room or sauna dive straight into the pool pretending not to notice the swimmers facial expressions.

16: Never ever read any temporary notices displayed by the staff for your convenience and information. Just say, "What notice - where?”

17: Always be the first to sign on for the annual Xmas bash and make sure you are the very last to pay for the tickets.

LA NUIT EST MAIS UN PETIT CHIEN

The room erupted.

French faces perplexed. Scots and English were beside themselves. A few tears rolled too. The laughing made my stomach muscles contract with a mixed cocktail of sweet and sour, it ached both simultaneously with pleasure and pain.

I took a short holiday with Sandra. We were fast becoming fond of France and today we were to find out whether we were to like the French too. We left our room in the Hotel du Rene and filed into the downstairs lobby. Antoine Racette was to collect us at six and whisk us though the gorgeous sandstone rustic small town of Saumur in the heart of the Loire Valley. “Bonsoir Monsieur Liam….Bonsoir Madame Sandra. Ca va?” Oiu, ca va. “Trebien.” It was Antoine. “Come,” he said “dinner is waiting.”

The company was convivial and mostly drunk. This was a unique gathering and the first time I had been entertained by a French host, in his own home. To add further colour, close friends Jack and Nina and Connor and Trisha, had met up with us, as all three couples had been on holiday in different parts of France at the same time. Antoine and Avril had invited their friends and a sprinkling of family. But the catalysts were Scots Jack and Nina as they were lifelong friends of Antoine and Avril. The laughter flowed.

The mixture of French, Scottish, Yorkshire and Lancastrian accents billowed as the night ebbed into the wee small hours.

“La nuit est mais un petit chien.”

“The night is but a pup.”

Connor rapped out the phrase. “If Colum and Annette (absent close friends) were here now that’s what they would say.” But, Connor had been practicing his pigeon French on the Frenchies all night with a great deal of amusing success, so he got these English words translated. So proudly, we thought we had learned something. The words sounded good to say as we howled more and more.

The trouble was that, there is no direct translation to French, as they don’t know the word ‘pup’. ‘Chien’ is a dog, the nearest word they have, and so the Frenchies interpreted it to….

“The night is but a little dog.”

There were incredible hoots from everybody. The Frenchies were mind-full of the eccentric English and laughed along side of us like drains.

Anglo-French relations are going very well.

To have dinner with the French is a total understatement. You have to prepare and be ready for a gastronomic ordeal. If the French really had their way each meal would last a fortnight or forever. Whichever is the longest! I was not well briefed in this area of French culture. Also, they eat delicacies, which would have most people recoiling in abject horror. An under-cooked bloody steak was my first experience but, as I was to eventually find out, I was just serving my time.

I’m not squeamish with food. Being the young son of a butcher, I’ve seen at first hand the slaughterhouse rituals and smelt the torrid warmth of freshly spilled animal blood. Or, the decapitated chicken still running around the back yard of Aunty Polly’s council house after its head had been removed five minutes earlier. And my dad’s work mate Stan. At the butchers shop one day I was helping to unload the van and I asked my dad what Stan was eating? For me, it looked like hot frogspawn. It dribbled down on to his badly shaven chin as he tried to put the slippery steaming stuff into his mouth with his fingers. “Sheep’s brains”, my dad said.

This French visit was the latest of many and I had travelled alone by Eurostar, via Paris, and onward by TGV to Saumur. I was here to celebrate Antoine’s 50^th birthday. It was mid June and the lush Loire Valley and the magnificent Chateau in the immediate foreground gave the view from Marriet-Annis and Enrique’s overlooking balcony an air of Walt Disney magic. Polite chatter could be heard from open patio doors somewhere behind me. Kia Royals were being served as an aperitif together with canapés as appetizers. Antoine’s birthday party was to be held tomorrow, so today, a pre-birthday midday dinner party, was to be the entertainment warm-up act for him and his main attraction. It was 1: 00pm when we sat down to the ordeal.

Marriet-Annis and Enrique spoke little English and I, even less French, but this impediment never got in our way. As Antoine’s faithful friends they provided him with the warmth and support of an immediate family and they helped to spread the burden of hospitality around and to us, Antoine’s ‘special’ guests. Enrique was a well-rounded portly man who everyone sees as the perfect uncle they never had. Marriet-Annis, on the other hand, is what I regard as the antithesis of female French sophistication and ‘chic’. She had a shed full of it. A retired school mame, who, if she had taught for a thousand years, would never have lost her control or temper. The small pert nose was lifted to that certain height above the horizontal that oozed calm authority. Any higher and she could be mistakenly interpreted as a snob. That was the last thing she was.

The meal was swimming, the red Saumur Champigny wine was flowing and I saw that time was our most plentiful commodity. It was just 2:00pm.

By 3-o-clock, the men had dispensed with their ties and open shirt collars began to gape. A variety of around ten bottles of red, white or sparkling wine had materialized, with the contents being consumed, and then dispatched later to join the fast swirling waters of the Loire river below. The main meal was carried ceremoniously in an enormous steel pot, from the kitchen to the babbling masses, and placed center stage on the table to the sounds of “ooh-la-lah. Rabbit!”

At 3:50pm the last pieces of the rabbit were being distributed, I politely refused another portion. I was stuffed. From the size of the steel cooking pot I deduced, that to feed twelve people, the rabbit must have been the size of a small donkey. Marriet-Annis was lifting the last portion from the deep pot. At first it looked like any other piece. She slowly pointed it towards me at the far end of the oval table. “Delicacies, delicacies”, she laughed. The Frenchies agreed and knowingly eyeballed us Brits. It was the rabbit’s head!

The inebriated French found this hilarious and once more they joined in with Marriet-Annis. “Delicacies, delicacies!” The rabbit had a thoroughly pissed-off expression on its face and its tiny pointed tongue projected out about an inch beyond its grimacing discoloured teeth. Marriet-Annis proffered the head and said something in French, which again included the word ‘delicacies’. The Frenchies were enjoying every minute. My stomach took a summersault. “She’s not?” I thought she was about to kiss the rabbit. “No, she’s not?” “She did!” She bit off the rabbits tongue and chewed it as the French cheeringly hit the rafters.

“Christ!” I thought, “Now that is disgusting.”

It was 5: 00pm and we were waving our “Avoir’s” to each other. Five hours with liqueurs as the finale and we were heading back down the hillside to a house by the riverside tributary which Antoine called home. I wondered who would reach the bottom of the valley first? “Me or the recycled wine?”

I looked up at the place on the hill and thought I could see the house of Enrique and Marriet-Annis. Through my drunken haze I swear I could hear faint laughter. The look I had on my face sent them into pleats when Marriet-Annis offered the same ‘delicacies’ to me. I had served my time. She had finally fished-out two more rabbit’s heads from the cold and now redundant pot.

Oh... and the French really do say... “ooh-la-lah."

NEWLiiNE

Words & Music UK

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Info@newliine.com

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