News Archive
8.30 GMT: We leave for Portsmouth, and Normandy. The crossing, unmemorable except for a slight wind, offers us a last Sunday lunch; well, for a week. Cherbourg, more dour than dear town is easily forsaken for the rolling green Cotentin peninsula.
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| "Le Château de la Baudonnière " |
The château is a-buzz with younger children. Oh joy! Our accommodation is euphemistically called “la petite maison”. “Petite” certainly. Yes, I’ll allow that. “Maison”; no, I’m having difficulty with that part. There were parts of Pudding Lane fitter for habitation and less of a fire risk.
Monday dawned bright; it seemed churlish to complain, but I did. Immediately, we were offered brand new rooms, with beautiful en-suite facilities, under-floor heating, mezzanine lounge, the lot. In the afternoon, there was fencing and photography on offer; both were very successful. Sam Walker killed Lottie Watts in the final of the fencing and before tea Dave Strachan gave a virtuoso performance of why he is not in the football team; Piers Karpinski and Sam Walker found a donkey.
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| The Upper Sixth relaxing in Normandy |
The prospect of being shackled for evermore prompted some entertaining attempts by erstwhile friends to untie themselves during the evening’s ‘thinking games’: as James Styles and Sam Tombs battled, all rational thinking seemed to have been long-since abandoned. Frustration set in, then panic, fury, resignation, panic, boredom, fury and panic again. Naomi van Wyngaarden and Hannah Davies managed to get free but could not repeat it: more than enough material for a thesis, here!
Tuesday we went to the local capital, Coutances. We were in court, and in for a treat. After forcing an absent father to pay maintenance or face prison, the judge dutifully listened to a young man who explained that if he kept a knife, a violent dog, tear-gas canisters and small arms in his (stolen) car, it was to protect himself; and presumably his business interests – the police also found an amount of cannabis which even an aberrant pothead would take two years to turn to ‘personal use’.
Juge: Vous n’êtes pas une victime, quand même.
Accusé: C’est exact. Je suis un martyre!
He got two years and his assets were confiscated.
And then I lost some money. Now I don’t want to point a finger at anyone, but it seemed that there were people in court stupid enough to steal anything, anywhere. But as I did not discover the loss until we got back to the château, it seemed wrong to heap further distress and calumny on the local criminal fraternity.
We all went bowling. Lottie Watts hitched up her skirt and launched the ball as in the Dambusters. Richard Merton Jones quickly looked the part, Michael Maikowski was clearly a practised hand. I cannot remember the margin of victory but I know I won easily. Now moving on...
Dave Strachan: When will we be near the sea again, sir?
Me: Friday when we catch the ferry.
Dave: It’s now then.
Me: What’s now then?
Dave: The plunge.
And with that he ran, Reggie Perrin-like, into the sea. It was 10 pm and very cold; but he did it. Comme la marine. We were in awe, but much warmer than him, which was a great consolation.
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| taking in the sights |
Wednesday: Caen, gateway to the North. The prospect of six hours in the library was clearly too much for some, who headed straight for the shops. Some claimed that they had mistaken the sign ‘Bar Latin’ for the Languages section, in the gathering gloom – I had made them work – we headed back to the château for a restful evening, which, as ever, never happened.
Thursday’s outing to the Mairie at Granville allowed us to visit and use the Council Chamber. The questions put to the mayor were intelligent and – to my delight – in good French. Carrefour yielded up its delights on the way home. The very brave (Naomi van Wyngaarden and Hannah Davies) dodged the four lanes of traffic to get their McDonalds fix.
More pointing of swords and cameras filled up the afternoon: Justin Bashaw was sharpest, but was sore afraid refereeing Sophie ‘Slasher’ Gallie and Hannah ‘Cut their legs off’ Davies. All of which whetted our appetite for two dinners featuring snails and cheese. The last snail was washed down with a hearty ‘Cheers, Styles’.
Friday offered every boy’s dream: a visit to the fire-station, and for one lucky young fellow the chance to dress up. Sadly there was no pole to slide down. The French seem to have a fire engine for every type of incident; this small town had no fewer than twelve vehicles. When one fireman arrived late and crashed into the kerb, I realised that they needed some spare vehicles.
We left for home after lunch, happy and linguistically enriched; the words of Justin Bashaw “Ma français a imprové” still bring a tear to my eye.
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