Le Code Bar

Friends To Bank On

On another scorching day Elizabeth drove me to Southampton airport where I boarded a plane to Bergerac to be met by Lydie, waving her arms and striding across the tarmac to embrace me. She is, incidentally, about a foot shorter than me with the grip of a bear. I had to drop my bag. Before paying I asked her to deliver me to the Credit Agricole cash machine in the market square. Still dopy from the plane, I entered the wrong pin number. I had to search in my trouser pocket for the correct one, hidden in an electronic device. So well hidden, that by the time I had retrieved it I had run out of time. Lydie patiently waiting in the taxi. Me scrabbling in my trousers, concerned that I was keeping her waiting. An Englishman just off the plane. I had to start again. The machine gobbled my card.

I had given Lydie a list of trips for my friend Don, joining me next week, and me up to 14th. August, the first being in three days time. ‘No problem’, she said, ‘Saturday will do.’ Unfortunately this bank is only open two mornings a week , and tomorrow isn’t one of them. Any visit there also has to wait until Saturday. Now, my French account is with Barclays. I originally opened this in Bergerac. Sometime last year I discovered that that branch no longer does everyday banking. Without my knowledge my account had been transferred to Paris I could walk to Bergerac, but no way am I walking to Paris. There was, therefore, nothing for it today but to telephone my personal banking manager in Paris. Despite what it says on his card he wasn’t there. There followed conversations with two different, very helpful, women interspersed with holding, biligual, messages. Thank goodness, with their English and my French, we got by. My card has been cancelled and I will be sent a new one which will cost 16 euros. So far, so good. But. They can only send it to England, not to my house in France. If I could get to Bordeaux, two and a half hours drive away, I would be able to collect my replacement card there. Patiently, oh, so patiently, I explained that Bordeaux was a very long way away, I had no car, and NO MONEY. Ah. I can, however, use my chequebook, I am assured, without the card, although some people will not accept cheques for small sums like 2 euros. Throughout this I naturally remained my usual calm, unflappable, self.

I then drew 90 euros on my NatWest account. This, of course, will cost me a transfer fee. And I’ve just transferred almost everything in my current account in England to my French one in order to pay for replacement shutters and windows, the work to start in two days time. I may even go into overdraft, incurring another fee, despite having more than enough in a special interest bearing account which earns peanuts. Now I know why NatWest have changed their Gold Account to a Black one. Somewhat stymied.

It was definitely time to visit my friend David in Le Code Bar. David readily allowed me to run up a tab for the duration of my stay and let me have cash if I needed it. Given that this is a very recent friendship I would call that a generous display of trust.

Never mind. The house is as I left it in early June. The agapanthus is blooming for the first time; the lizards are basking in 38 degrees; and I am growing my own tomatoes on a plant which has forced its way through the boards of my compost bin. There are potatoes coming up in a bed I composted last year.

I’ve just missed the annual wine festival, the bunting for which will stay in the village for the rest of the summer. UK, of course, has been similarly festooned since the football world cup and the Queen’s jubilee, and now awaits the London Olympics, for which I will also be absent. I have exchanged Union flags for floral flourishes.

Once I’d settled in, I paid a visit to my friends Garry and Brigitte who live next door. Unfortunately for me their magnificent house is up for sale; sadly for them the market is depleted. We had what, for me, is essential, a pleasant conversation with people who speak the correct French I learned at school with a Parisian accent, delivered at a pace I can understand. It is good for my ears which cannot pick up the local accent. Rather like a French speaker trying to understand a Geordie.

In Carrefour I had a cheque accepted without a card.

This evening I dined alfresco at Le Bar. I sat under a lime tree sadly devoid of caterpillars (see yesterday). There were, however, a number of flies seemingly interested in my steak and chips; and the occasional wasp attracted by my Adnams Innovation. Take note of the latter, Don. Creme brulee was to follow. I was well satisfied.

Jeux De Mots

12.6.12

The overnight rain having somewhat abated, I set off to do yesterday’s walk in reverse. Apart from offering variety, this provides a downhill return to the house. As the sun was making an effort the saturated stone pavement sparkled and the friendly roadsweeper was doing has best with the windblown debris. Sigoules was emerging from the storm so there were more people on the street. The rain had not quite given up, therefore raindrops glistened on the greenery and kept ‘falling on my head’, especially when the trees received a gust of wind. My M & S linen suit just about survived the trip but by the time I got back the sun had conceded defeat.

After my blog came lunch at Le Bar. I asked David who had dreamed up the title? He said he had. It had been a toss up between the one chosen and ‘The Parralel Bars’ as in gymnastics. We found we shared the pleasure of play on words. It gets better and better. I was tempted to finish this sentence with ‘innit?’ but thought better of it. Forswearing it completely was beyond me. (Couldn’t help myself, Jackie.)

Vegetable soup; then melon with delicious garlic sausage and a slice of salami which could cure my dislike of that meat where the fat is visible; a succulent melt-in-the-mouth pork casserole containing mushrooms and olives producing a delightful piquancy to follow. In serving me this Frederick said he knew I liked chips every day, but today it was rice. Would I like chips? I said I was happy with rice. What about ‘a piece of two’? I said rice was fine. I got ‘a piece of two’ delivered with a smile. One small glass of red wine sufficed. Yesterday, as I was paying the bill, David asked me if I were satisfied. To me it had sounded like ‘that summer’ and I produced my ‘English, don’t quite understand’ expression. We cleared that up today. I’d also introduced him to our cockney phrase ‘what’s the damage?’. He countered with the French version: ‘what’s the pain?’.

It being rather too damp to sit in the garden, I remained inside this afternoon. A lizard came in to visit me, realised its mistake, and scarpered. By early evening the weather seemed to have cleared up a bit so I decided to take Le Carre down to the fishing lake and sit for a while. As I closed the door the heavens opened and stair rods descended. After ten minutes this ceased and the sun enlivened the streams filling the gutters. Weighing up the odds I decided to stay put. By sunset there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

I finished ‘The Honourable Schoolboy’ this evening. This long novel was hailed in the 70s as Le Carre’s finest and the best spy story of his age. It is indeed an excellent book provided you can get through the first half. Despite our being, through the medium of cinema, familiar with the work of George Smiley I found section 1, effectively an introduction to the machinations of espionage, a little difficult to follow. After the action begins in the second part I could not put it down. Le Carre’s prose is flowing, elegant, and detailed and he has a flawless grasp of his chosen milieu.

The Dordogne Chippy

9.6.12.

This morning I was collected by my long-term friends Maggie and Michael. For coffee we visited their friends Cath and Charles, ex-pats from the West Country, all of us continuing for a drive through changing countryside to the Agenais region.

Vines gave way to hazel and plum plantations.

Arriving at our destination, the imposing castle of Bonaguil, near Fumel, Maggie and Mike laid out a folding table and chairs brought by each of the couples and we sat by a stream consuming a splendid picnic. My friends always enjoy bringing their customary thoroughness to such events. We therefore lacked for nothing. We were able to contemplate the scary climb up the hill to the imposing fortress.

The gentle hills around Sigoules were nothing to the steep incline leading up to the towering edifice which had been 500 years in the making. My now tightening calves suffered a bit. Just before the French revolution the then chatelaine, Marguerite de Fumel, had died, thus possibly saving herself from the guillotine. After this turning point in history the place had been sacked and left to its ruin. According to the assistant in the mediaeval bookshop in the village, by the middle of the nineteenth century this splendid relic was concealed by trees and undergrowth and consequently forgotten until rediscovered by Philippe Lauzin, the author of one of the books I bought there.

Set in a cleft in the hillside and partially hewn through the rock; built of huge blocks of stone; with deep steps; and of gigantic proportions; I wondered how on earth men of lesser size than my 6’3″ frame managed to dash up and down wielding their weapons in defense of this impregnable fortress. And how could any invaders have scaled the cliff and protective walls? They must have been as nimble as the goats in Sigoules. Surely even Errol Flynn or Gerard Depardieu (in his younger days) would have struggled. William the Conqueror, who castellated England, must have modelled his plan on such a stronghold. We marvelled at the superb, straight as a die, round tower piercing the skies. And how did they get the stone up there? The walls of one of the rooms, now used as a conference centre, contains historic graffiti.

Returning to the present, we dropped Cath and Charles off at their home and repaired to Le Code Bar. Here, as on every Saturday night, The Dordogne Chippy had set up stall. The chippy is a travelling English fish and chip shop which featured in last year’s T.V. series ‘Little England’. Helen and Dave Mansfield have brought this slice of their culture to Aquitaine. The poisson-frites and mushy peas were excellent. The television programme had focussed on what I believe the French, perhaps not entirely in jest, call ‘The Invasion’. On our return journey we had stopped off at Monflanquin, one of the Bastide towns which are a feature of the area. Established in the 12th. and 13th. centuries, these ‘new’ towns, centred on an arcaded square, were built alternately by the French and the English, depending on who happened to be in charge. I’m not sure who built Eymet, but it has surely been ‘invaded’ by the English now. David and Frederick have certainly welcomed Helen and Dave, as they, and the rest of the village, have welcomed me.

In Monflanquin we had waited an age for lukewarm coffee, passable Earl Grey tea, and execrable ‘hot’ chocolate on which Michael had had to perform his favourite occupation, D-I-Y, from a packet of powder. We were invited to ask for more milk if necessary. When Maggie drained the little white jug revealing brown stains in rings round the bottom she wasn’t sure she wanted any. These beverages had been produced by a woman who, some time after we had placed our order, had hurried out of the house next door. I quipped that she had been summoned by telephone by the shopkeeper saying he had caught some customers. Maggie said the loos were no better. A far cry from Le Code Bar.

8.6.12.

Featuring similar countryside to that described in the last two posts, today’s walk took me to Sainte Innocence and back. To be able to climb these hills and look down on the fields and hamlets below is a blessing indeed. Especially with an artifical hip thanks to Mr. Marston, an excellent, personable surgeon at St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington.

At the edge of Sigoules, close by the shops, there is now a block of retirement homes on a site which two years ago bore one farmhouse and a field of cattle. These residences are not labelled, as in England, with various versions of ‘homes for the elderly’. They bear the legend: ‘The future begins with us’. What the occupants make of the dogs in the garden next door which bark frenetically whenever anyone passes, I can only imagine.

As you enter Ste. Innocence there is a roadside shrine to Our Lady fronted by magnificent Arum lilies planted in a ditch fed by a measured trickle of water from a cistern. Their 12th. century church is locked. I had hoped to find a cafe, but although this small village runs to the said church and a town hall, there are no other public establishments. I was a bit parched when I got back.

This evening I used the Wi-Fi at Le Code Bar to send the last two days’ posts. It is, of course, mentioned in those missives. Now is the time for a fuller description. It is only a month since David and Frederick took over, renamed, and changed the face of what was La Renaissance. That establishment had been run by Joel and Nicole, an equally friendly, but more retiring couple. I believe they struggled because they are unable to keep the hours maintained by the current partnership, who are open all day and every evening seven days a week. They were perhaps less naturally gregarious than this new team. David spends much time chatting in a pleasantly unobtrusive way with the clientele. There is a lively, friendly, atmosphere and David and Frederick speak pretty good English. In Franglais we do rather well.

The name, incidentally, is a wordplay on ‘barcode’. A pool table upstairs attracts the younger element. The piped music is usually of French artistes performing English songs. Currently I am listening to a very good version of a Beatles collection. Perhaps the future begins with Le Bar Code.

The lunchtime menu offered by Joel and Nicole was excellent and took some matching. I believe it has been matched. This evening I began with classic French onion soup saved for me from midday, followed by a very good ham and egg salad. This was only the prelude to an enormous platter of chicken and chips which not even The Martin Cafe could have rivalled. Double-fried frites. Marvellous. In England the heart and liver are not included when you buy a bird to roast at home; I have often shredded and eaten the meat from the neck after boiling it up for stock; never have I had all three served up on a plate with a leg and part of the torso. Delicious. The chicken was not stuffed, but I was. I shouldn’t have finished the second basket of bread.