Beautiful insignificancies

if that last word is a word, and if it isn't, it should be.

Most of my dog-walks around this part of France incorporate vine fields (vignoble) as we are surrounded by them, and quite often the tiny 'houselets' or cabanon, (or casots, if its a walk in the coastal wine-growing areas). They were built as places to hide away from the sun in the grape-picking season, or places to shelter from wind, rain and frost at the vine-clipping times.
Sadly, most of these characterful little buildings have been abandoned over the years, even the ones that had obviously been more than just shelters, the remnants of gardens, benches and climbing roses often still visible.
One of my regular walks features a particularly intriguing cabanon on the top of a hill, usually inaccessible, a rusted wire fence, gate and padlock keeping inquisitive people like me, out. Today the gate was open, so it was my duty as an amateur investigator, 'flaneur' and story-concoctor to look a little closer.
The overgrown garden had obviously once been loved, the clumps of lavender and rosemary still stragglingly visible. A slatted bench still faces the mountain view, although now partially obscured by rampaging poplar and fig.



Inside the cabanon was the usual collection of junk: bottles, broken chairs, collapsed shelves and the blackened trace of a fireplace, but the walls, unusually, held more interesting history - drawings and memos from the 1940s, particularly this quietly arresting pencil sketch that I felt could have been done by Chagall if he had happened to be in the locality and doing a spot of grape-picking.

                       

Belvedere de Rayon Verte

Following on from last post - not really fair to show just the loo of this magnificent building . . .

We were in Cerbère this weekend for the art film festival and took a few minutes before the first film (an excellent study on the 'Flaneur') to wander about (flan, in effect) and admire the faded beauty of the rooms created for wealthy travellers of La Belle Epoque.



                                              Tables laid for the film festival lunch

The Belvedere de Rayon Verte was built during the early twenties as a stopover point when people had to wait, sometimes several days, before crossing into Spain from France.
Aimed at a moneyed clientele, the hotel had a large dining room with sea views, a cinema and tennis courts on the roof. During and after the war the building fell into neglect for many years but now, slowly, the hotel is being reinstated by the owner - the great grandson of the original propriétaire, to become a venue for concerts and theatre as well as a fascinating place to stay.


                           

                                                            detail of the dining room                  
   

                           

                                                    photograph by David Samblanet  


http://www.rencontrescerbere.org  - link to the excellent film festival in October.

Tea - a constant in life

For me anyway, and I suspect for thousands (millions?) of other English bods.

This morning, I was beyond dismayed to discover there was NO tea left. I knew this point had been approaching but was unaware of quite how soon . . .
You can buy tea in France; it mainly comes in yellow boxes, marked, not surprisingly 'Yellow Label' and you can order it cafés where it is generally served thus: tea bag placed next to a cup of almost hot water, with, if you have asked for milk, a small jug of boiling milk. Occasionally you may have the luck to be presented with the bag IN a teapot containing very hot water, in which case you're heading vaguely in the right direction of 'a nice cup of tea.'
A Nice Cup Of Tea.
Oh, those words . . . how many times have I heard them spoken in so many different situations.
A stressful day - kettle on, 'let's have a N. C. O. T'. Just about any police drama where someone is being conveyed bad news - 'would you like a cup of tea, dear?' Visiting friends, visiting strangers, someone's come to fix your sink, - would you like a . . .  standing on a windswept, damp train platform, trapped in an endless meeting or weeping into a sandwich at a funeral wake; if tea is available everything somehow seems bearable.
Tea is an addiction; one that started for me at around the age of twelve. I can recall the sound of the kettle being put on the ancient green enamel stove we had in the flat; the weedy whistle and the occasional swearing if my mother had forgotten and had come back to a white hot, boiled dry vessel.
Tea has accompanied me through life in its various forms, from builder's creosote in London Cafés through to occasional indulgences in Fortnum and Mason's and other hallowed tea emporiums.
The apex cup must have been in a National Trust Tearoom in Corfe Castle, Dorset: white cup, accompanying scones, clotted cream, strawberry jam, log fire and slanting rain outside.
So, back to our dog and onion-smelling kitchen; no tea, other than Lapsang - I like this but it doesn't fill the N.C.O.T desire. I might have to go and buy a box of yellow label . . .

                            Our tea canister (sadly empty) and Butlin's caddy spoon, circa 1948

                             A link to a great site all about a nice cup of tea and a sit down

NON, c'est pas possible . . .

But it is. I always thought of here, (France) being quite sensible about the Christmas onslaught.
Usually, the consumerism madness commences within the sacred month of December . . . well, perhaps a few hints from the larger companies, especially the global types such as Amazon - Bonjour, madame. We notice you have been looking at Star Wars figurines, (uh? I have?) therefore, why not get your Christmas purchases out of the way?
This year, sadly, there have been increasing signs of early festive enthusiasm. The streets are already hung with (unlit) strands of coloured lights and annoying LED figurines of happy elves, etc; and I've noticed that a lot of villages leave their 'Bonnes fetes' signs up all year now: grey plastic ghosts of Christmas that seem incongruous to say the least on a rampantly hot August day. I suppose it saves money, the town caretaker not having to get his ladder out twice a year - but it does somewhat quash any real festive spirit that might be lurking in HUMBUG people like me.
Anyway . . . the real reason I felt instantly depressed at the thought of all the twinkly, nightmare stuff still to come appeared on a trip into our local hardware 'shed'. I only went in to buy a light bulb, but was transfixed with disbelief as I stared at a Santa's Grotto type shed, surrounded by hideous, useless items such as statues of fairies, polar bears, Ho-Ho-Ho water bottle covers, etc, etc, and presided over by a gyrating cuddly reindeer singing 'Santa Claus is coming To Town'.
'The fuck he is,' I muttered, and hurried to the lighting section fearing I would never again be able to smugly say - 'Oh, we don't really start all that rubbish until at least December the first, here'.

That song contest

Feeling tired, wet and cold after playing for the 'fete de la rose' in a nearby village we opted for a spot of snuggling and watching the Eurovision S.C.
Was it extra hyped this year? some European measure against austerity? Hey, I know let's spend 17 squillion euros on making a vast stage in Sweden so that everyone in Europe can listen to some terrible songs and feel so much better.
I have fond memories of sitting in my Godmother's flat in Wandsworth, eating Marmite on toast and watching the same program on her small 'Bush' set. It might have been the year that Brotherhood of Man won with that song that went Bongy bongy beep beep boop, or was it  pooty oopy ringy dingy om pom pam? or, perhaps that was another band . . . the whole show seemed to be full of plastic blonde hair, grinning maniacs and terrible commentary. Oh, nothing's changed then, it's just a whole lot more extravagant.

I really likeded Greece: I liked the older gent with the moustache and a tiny guitar thing, the black and white kilts and the crazed energy which was so lacking from nearly everything else. Britain was desperate: Bonnie Tyler – bless her. Surely, in the whole of the British Isles there must be thousands of young, musical, gorgeous people who could sing an original song? Maybe not, or perhaps I'm missing something. Is the whole point of it that it must be utterly dull, naff, and so middle of the road that you would have to check it with a millimeter rule?
The French entry was, I think, rather good. She won Nouvelle Star and can belt out a song with an impressive gravely voice. Italy's singer had fantastic hair, Belgium had the most pathetic song . . . There was another country that had some person trapped in a box, another who's singer was dressed in an alarming 'growing' dress thing, that meant she was eventually about twenty feet tall and covered with projected flames. Oh yes, there was another similar thing featuring a man with an incredible counter-tenor voice, surrounded by writhing, scantily-clad men, ( I quite liked that bit) in fact, his voice was worthy of a further listen, but preferably not in vampire-pop style.
The most stupid act was without doubt from Finland: a Lady Gaga would-be dressed in flouncy wedding dress and horrible pink accessories. She also had gyrating, tuxedo-wearing male dancers and backing singers in red rubber pinnies combined with librarian hairdos. A memorable line was something like: I'll skip dinner so I can be a bit thinner, then a chorus of, ho ho ho ho a ding dong . . . Mmm, back to classic E.S.C form then.
The song ended with a naughty, girl kiss with one of the red rubber aproned females: OOh, missus. Since this has been carried out by various people including Madonna, I don't suppose anyone was really shocked, and who cares anyway.
By this time bed and a hot water bottle, preferably a red rubber one, was an exciting prospect. We turned off the glittery racket, kicked the dogs out for a wee and staggered upstairs wondering why we hadn't just watched an old film instead.

Building No 17

Do you have anything to declare?
Yes. The intention to buy this place, do it up and make it into a fabulous bar/restaurant called Border Point or something.
This building or rather collection of buildings is of constant fascination to Mark and I - the old customs control between France and Spain, high up above our beloved small seaside town, Cerbere.
I don't know how long it's been abandoned; whenever they stopped checking passports, obviously, anyway, a long time.
The rounded 50s structure in the middle of the road still holds a coat rack, a couple of desks and the ghosts of deceased or at least, retired, rubber stamp-wielding customs officers. Even a couple of brooms and dustpans -  there, all done. Well, I'll lock up and er . . . well, see you then . . . 

I stayed in a B and B in Cerbere a few months back and the owners, who seemed to know all manner of news about the town, said that apparently the buildings are owned by a man who refuses to sell them and hangs onto the license for the bar by opening it once a year, thus preventing anyone else doing anything with it. Bastard. It would be such an awe-inspiring place to sit and have a beer . . .