Vive la France!

As the ferry glided out of St Malo harbour at the end of last week I looked back at the receding coastline of France. It was the end of a lovely holiday and although I was ready to return to the reality of home – we had been away for almost three weeks – my overwhelming feeling was of regret at leaving this wonderful country and its people.  For almost three weeks we had meandered through the French landscape and its towns and villages. We had sat on beaches on each of its three coastlines – the Mediterranean, the Atlantic Coast and the English Channel. We had covered well over two thousand miles as we journeyed along empty country lanes and speeding motorways, we had walked around timeless villages, eaten wonderful meals, admired the quirkiness of French life, gazed into village shop windows or walked around swish town centres where French chic was so obvious, we had sat and enjoyed our jambon baguettes each lunchtime and bedded down at night in a series of super B&Bs – and been lucky that for the whole of our time there the sun shone.  

Our wonderful B&B at Hendaye

Every country, I am sure has its problems – and the average Frenchman, I know, would soon disabuse me of my few rose coloured views gathered in only three weeks of sun, sand and sightseeing. But my overwhelming impression was of being in a country that seemed, on the surface at least, to be largely at ease with itself. There was a sense of continuity and tradition which in turn seemed to engender a timeless atmosphere. Loud and noisy it was not – there appeared, outwardly at least, to be certain gentleness where people made time to “stand and stare” rather than the mad cap, busy, busy rush and bother atmosphere that seems to permeate so much of our British way of life. As I reflected on many occasions during the holiday one of the most obvious contrasts related to the very beginning and the very end of our holiday.

Narbonne

The day before we left England we stopped off in Sussex – only a few miles across the Channel from France – to attend a family function. It was a depressing overnight stay in one of the resorts along that stretch of coastline: dismal streets, a succession of bleak sad looking shops (which mostly appeared to be betting shops, cheap bargain establishments and cheap booze shops), glum looking down at the heel people and sea front hotels or once grand houses converted into dull windowed, shabby flats and bed sits complete with wheelie  bins, peeling  paintwork and cracked tiles looking out across the Channel. When we arrived at our hotel and pulled onto the tiny rear car park an agitated receptionist rushed out and told us “You can’t park there – we are having a delivery. You’ll have to park on the sea front.”   We asked if we could just bring our bags in to save having to carry them from some distant parking spot – this was reluctantly allowed and then I did battle with the local one way system and set off to find a car parking spot not too far from the hotel. It took one back to the oft portrayed image of the English seaside resort of a bygone era – stern landladies, shared toilets, a once a week bath in tepid water, badly cooked food and throughout it all “kiss me quick” hats and sticks of rock trying to convince everyone that they were having a good time. It was a depressing start to our holiday making one feel that much of our nation has lost all pride in itself or its environment. I don’t blame resort – I often get the same feeling here in Nottingham – but somehow I expected more of a holiday venue. But in contrast, at the end of our holiday we stayed for a few days near Dinard – just across the Channel from the English coastline. What a difference – bright and well maintained building, smiling people, shops which were a joy to wander round, a wonderful market and a sea front to rival anywhere in the world. During one afternoon we wandered past a wonderful fountain commemorating the author Jules Verne who had connections with that part of the world. We sat at the end of lovely street leading down to a secluded beach and then ate our evening meal in a sea front cafe where the waiter practised his English as we practised our French. It was a far cry from the depression of the English south coast only a few miles over the horizon where, it seemed to me (as with much of the rest of today’s England) we have, as a society,  given up on national and personal pride, where we are content that our towns and cities have become hollow boarded up shells or concrete retail parks and where cheapness, bulging wheelie bins and tat try to outdo each other as we race to the bottom. I am tempted to agree with the old adage that it is not buildings that make slums but people!

Carcassonne from the motorway

But on to brighter things.

Our ferry trip to Santander in northern Spain was pleasant – and for the Bay of Biscay tranquil! We stayed overnight in a splendid hotel right on the Santander beach – and promised to return. Next day a meander along Spain’s northern coast, a visit to the stunning Guggenheim Gallery of Modern Art in Bilbao and then on to the French border where we put down roots for a couple of days at the lovely town of Hendaye. No English resort this. Bright, cheery, spotlessly clean, a car park to lift the heart and friendly smiling faces. We enjoyed the beach, ate at an open air restaurant by the marina but best of all enjoyed the warm hospitality of one of the best B&Bs we have ever stayed in. A beautiful room with everything that anyone could possibly want (including a balcony overlooking the garden) and jolly hosts who welcomed us warmly. They spoke little or no English but between the four of us we got along famously. Madam’s breakfasts were a treat to behold and enjoy while Monsieur would race out when we returned home each evening to ensure that I was able to park the car safely on his drive. Nothing was too much trouble and as we left we promised to recommend their home to any others coming their way. We will return to Hendaye – it’s not one of the big names of the area. No St Jean-de-Luz, San Sebastian or Biarritz this – we had no great expectations of the place – but it is a real jewel; gentle, picturesque, homely and welcoming. In short it is right up there in the list of wonderful places we have visited on the planet.

Narbonne Plage

From Hendaye we travelled along the base of the Pyrenees stopping off along the way when the fancy took us. We parked in Pau and bought coffee and baguettes for lunch and then enjoyed the splendour of Pau’s Boulevard des Pyrenees – looking out over the distant mountains from the city walls and from the beautiful and beautifully maintained Chateau de Pau. After Pau we meandered through the Pyrenean landscape and finally came to rest for the night in a remote village B&B at Mancioux. Next morning we made our way towards Carcassonne. We enjoyed coffee in the lovely working market town of Auterive with its delightful market by the side of the river - and by lunch were sitting enjoying our baguettes on a motorway Aire looking down on Carcassonne.  Surely few motorway stopping points anywhere in the world can enjoy such a view as this one. A French family – several generations plus two dogs - squashed onto the picnic table at the side of ours took out their table cloths and set out a meal fit for a king – making our baguettes and orange juice seem paltry! Only the silver candlesticks seemed to be missing! The French know how to do a picnic!

Hendaye Plage

And by mid afternoon we were sitting in the sun by the side of the Canal du Midi at our destination Argens-Minervois – a small village in the heart of the Minervois area which would be our base for the next few days as we explored the region. The beautiful city of Narbonne was a joy, Narbonne Plage - beautiful but very hot, Carcossonne everything that we hoped for and more – imposing, majestic and sensitively and beautifully maintained.  The tiny villages and hamlets of the Minervois silent and serene in the late summer sun and the landscape timeless and beautiful. An ex-colleague of mine who retired to the Minervois region said to me that she has to keep reminding herself that “this isn’t a holiday and she actually lives there” – having been I can understand that feeling. We travelled along the Mediterranean coast and back into Spain stopping off at resorts like Port Vendres and each evening returned to Argens to eat outdoors on the banks of the Canal du Midi.

And then it was on the road again – to stay with friends at Villeneuve-sur-Lot for a few days.  The great river Lot runs at the bottom of their garden and we sat in soaring temperatures seeking shade under the trees. Villeneuve is a homely working market town –– but pretty and, as always, beautifully maintained. As with all the places we visited one sensed a pride in the area. The bridge over the river brightly decorated with hanging baskets gave views down the river reminding us of the Arno in Florence as the backs of ancient houses hung over the waters. The many ancient buildings witness to the age of the town. Our friends took us to visit the village of Pujols overlooking Villeneuve. This really was picture postcard stuff – almost too pretty to take in. We sat enjoying a coffee under the flowers and sun of the market square before heading back home to the shade and lunch.

After Villeneuve it was off on the road again – this time to La Rochelle, a place we had long wanted to visit. En route we stopped at a supermarket to stock up on items and buy petrol. We laughed with surprise when we saw the row of commercial washing machines at the entrance all spinning round doing the washing of French families as they shopped in the supermarket. Since by this time we had a boot full of dirty washing it passed our minds to strip off and get all our washing done as we walked naked round the store! Maybe that was one step too far – we would not have wanted to break the Anglo – French entente cordiale or cause a diplomatic incident! As we ran up towards La Rochelle we travelled for mile after mile through the great vineyards of the Bordeaux region stretching to the horizon almost as far as the eye could see.  We had so often only previously seen these as names on wine bottles in our supermarkets but now we were seeing where the contents of those bottles had originated! We stopped for lunch on the coast at Blaye and sat under the chateau walls to enjoy our lunch and then in mid-afternoon enjoyed a walk around another gem, Talmont – a village set amongst the mud flats and oyster beds which looked as if it had been there providing the French with their beloved fruits-de-mer since the  beginning of time. As we drove along the edge of the great Gironde estuary – one of the great waterways and estuaries of the world - I was reminded of the great but tragic story of the Second World War Cockleshell Heroes (see blog: http://arbeale.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/wooden-ships-and-iron-men.html) and thought about these brave men paddling their little canoes through those dark waters as they made their way at night to the port of Bordeaux to attack the German fleet. Perhaps we actually passed one of the fields where the men lay in the day time hidden from the watching eyes of German sentries. Like so many places in France it is history made real – but more of that later!

Throw on another steak!

And so we arrived – not at La Rochelle but at Fouras a little resort south of the city. We knew nothing of Fouras but thought that it sounded a pleasant spot to base ourselves for a few days and not so expensive as La Rochelle itself. Wow – what a surprise, it was wonderful! A superb B&B and the resort truly stunning. Each morning we ate breakfast at Madam’s bulging table so beautifully laid out with delicious food that it seemed a crime to spoil her hard work in setting it out for us.  A wonderful fortress looking out over the estuary, a superb beach, the town market an absolute joy, a good selection of cafes and restaurants and lovely quiet streets and beautiful houses . Would we ever want to leave? – we didn’t! Indeed we have already said what a lovely holiday it would make to spend a week or so in Hendaye and the same  in Fouras – the perfect seaside break and recipe for a  relaxing and peaceful time. We walked around nearby La Rochelle enjoying the busy atmosphere of the big town and the French chic on display in the shops. We spent a lazy afternoon when we crossed Le Pont de Re and the meandered around  the Isle de Re and we spent yet another day wandering the market of Fouras and in true tourist fashion having a ride on a little train around the town and its environs. We enjoyed walking around the fortress, watching the men play boules by the town’s bandstand and yes, sitting on the beach - as Pat said at the time – her idea of  a perfect Sunday afternoon! Unlike our last view of England there were no sea front hotels or houses here covered in peeling paintwork and cracked tiles, no cheap booze shops or betting shops on every corner, everyone walked around smiling and taking pride in themselves, their dress and their town. - No one raced out to harangue us about where we parked – indeed the huge beach side car park was completely free – and so pleasant was it that we sat and ate our baguettes and read our books on the edge of the car park looking out over the sea. And at the end of each day we ate in a busy restaurant where we were greeted as old friends after the first night and the food was outstanding.  A wonderful place is Fouras – we will return.

 La Guinguette depicted in Renoir's
painting - not toodissimilar from
where we ate each night in
Argens Minervois

It was with sadness that we left – to head north towards  Dinan in Brittany. En route we stopped off at Chateaubriand – another unspoilt and unexpected gem. We wondered almost, alone through the silent ancient building and enjoyed a wonderful display of art gathered by a past owner of the Chateau. So strong was the sense of history that as we wondered the beautifully laid out gardens I fully expected a Tartuffe or Moliere or Lully or some other character from France’s great past to leap out at me from behind a bush or pillar. And then north to Brittany - an area we know well and love. 

This plateful was just my starter at
La Guinguette

The sun continued to shine (although a  change in the weather was promised) and when we arrived at our B&B close to the great river Rance  we  we were the only two diners that night in a nearby restaurant overlooking the river. Little boats bobbed up and down in the marina and for the first time there was a slight chill in the air and the evening sky suddenly looked a little autumnal. But we woke next morning to sunshine and spent a lovely day in Dinard and its environs enjoying the sun, sand and sights. Dinard, a town that can’t but evoke thoughts of Alfred Hitchcock – indeed his statue stands resplendent on the sea front commemorating a past film festival held in the town.  But it is the great houses of Dinard that remind one so much of the man and his horror film “Psycho”. Any one of the houses could be named “Bates Motel” and as one walks along streets it can’t be put out of the mind that a Norman Bates like character might lurk behind every shutter! It is not “Psycho” that the Hitchcock statue commemorates – but his other great horror film “The Birds”. Evil looking crows sit on his shoulder and flutter around his head – wonderful. Dinard’s wonderful market ensured that our car boot became even fuller with gifts for our grandchildren and at lunch we sat in a little park high over the town and the sea eating our baguette and quiche while enjoying a spectacular view and sea gulls hovered around us looking for crumbs.

Chateaubriand - I expected Molierre
to jump out and accost me or
Louise XIV to stride down the garden!

And so to our last full day – a meander around the area revisiting places enjoyed in years before: Combourg, Dol-de-Bretagne and Dinan. All three like so many of the other places we had visited were steeped in history and preserving that history so well. In Dol we sat outside a cafe enjoying a mid afternoon coffee and noticed that the main street where we sat is named Rue Grande Rue des Stuarts - called this because the Stuart dynasty that became the Kings of England in the 17^th century came from here. It evoked the same feelings that I had had while in Carcassonne that our own English history is so closely bound up with that of France.  As nations we have allied and fought but always respected and that it seems to me is what a “special relationship” of any kind must be based upon – mutual respect based upon a shared past (for good or ill) and awareness of our differences as well as our similarities. This is not the fawning “special relationship” that our politicians seems to want with the USA which is a euphemism for simply doing America’s bidding. In Carcassone we had already been reminded of the links between our country and the Medieval knight/warrior Simon de Montfort. De Montfort was responsible for many of the religious atrocities in the area in the early 13^th century. He was the son of Robert de Beaumont, Earl of Leicester which is a city just down the road from where I live here in the UK. Two or three times a year Pat and I visit the Beaumont Leys shopping centre on the outskirts of Leicester. Simon’s son, also called Simon de Montfort, became the de facto King of England following the rebellion against Henry III in 1265. In that capacity he called two famous Parliaments – one which stripped the King of unlimited authority and one which admitted ordinary citizens as members of Parliament for the first time – both huge steps towards the democracy that we and other nations enjoy today. The local University in Leicester is the De Montfort University. Yes, our countries are linked by a common heritage.

The fortress at Fouras

Early next morning we made the short drive to St Malo for our ferry home. As I said at the top of this long blog I was ready to return home but not to leave France we had, I think, even more grown to love its people, its countryside, its towns and villages, its quirkiness, its traditions and its atmosphere.

And what are my abiding memories and feelings?

Fouras Plage

Firstly, I think, the sense of tradition and links with the past that runs through French everyday life and culture. Strange this since it was France with its great Revolution who heralded change was so instrumental in setting the parameters for our  modern world - and yet despite that the French, it seems to me, cling to their past with an admirable reverence. This manifests itself in so many ways; whilst much of the culture and art of France is progressive and about change and modernity (think the Impressionists, think the music of Ravel or Debussy, think the writings of people like Sartre, think French cinema, think generations of quirky French cars like the Citroen 2CV or the DS19...........)  their past is celebrated with a vengeance. There can surely be no French village or town that does not have a Rue de Victor Hugo or a Rue de Pasteur, their ancient buildings are maintained with pride. Where we pull down great swathes of our cities to rebuild or throw down motorways the French, it seems, largely renovate and renew. One of the most telling moments for me was in the tiny and beautiful village of Caunes Minervois near to Carcassonne. As we wondered around its silent streets at lunchtime, all the houses shuttered giving no hint of whether they were empty or full of people we felt intruders. We sat at the edge of the beautiful little car park (yes, I choose the  word “beautiful” carefully!) and ate our baguettes looking down onto the sparkling little river. All along the edge of the car park were delightful marble statues. The area is famed for its red and pink marble mined there since Roman times and these lovely works of art decorated the car park – not a sight we would see in England. The marble from the town has been used through the length and breadth of France – most notably, on the orders of the Sun King Louis XIV, at the Palace of Versailles and later at the Paris Opera. And a few minutes later we sought shelter from the burning sun under a great tree in the tiny market square – the Place de la Republique. The sign by the tree informed us that it had been planted in 1792 – when the revolution was at its height and the guillotine was doing its dreadful work! Yes, the French have an affinity with, and pride in, their past – they do history well. No child growing up in Caunes could be unaware of his country’s heritage and his village’s past.

Marble statues at
Caunes Minervois

And their heroes are many and varied. While every town and village has a Place de la Republique and a Rue de Victor Hugo their street art also reflect the richness not only of their history but culture. Unlike England there are statues of people other than the warrior monarchs or stern faced politicians or sabre rattling generals that we in England seem to want to celebrate. Every town seems to have statues celebrating some writer or artist or scientist.  As we approached Dinan we almost tired of seeing statues of the Romantic writer Francois Rene Chateaubriand. Jules Verne, Alfred Hitchcock and a thousand others also stood majestically on their plinths reminding French people of their cultural heritage and of the important things of life. While enjoying the Ile de Re we came across a memorial to one Nicolas Martiau who fled France (he was a Huguenot) and eventually settled in Virginia with his wife. Martiau was the great great grandfather of George Washington and a direct ancestor of our present Queen Elizabeth II.

This sense of tradition and cultural heritage links, too, it seems with everyday life – the daily visit to the boulangerie, the aperitif taken in the local bar, the way that at mid day towns and villages become silent as many shops close and streets become deserted a thing which is repeated throughout the land and so it goes on – it all gives a sense of continuity; this is how we do it in France, it is part of our “Frenchness”, it is what we do and what we are, it has always been thus. I often reflect that we have lost this in the UK where it increasingly seems to me retail therapy and non-stop “doing” seems to leave us little time to “stand and stare” or to enjoy and undertake traditional activities. I’m sure that a French man or woman from a hundred years or more ago if they returned would still find much to recognise and would not feel too alien in modern France. I am not too sure that the same could be said of England. Maybe I’m wrong but at an everyday level in England heritage seems to  have been sacrificed in the name of “progress”. True we have wonderful historical buildings and venues – York Minster, the Tower of London, Stonehenge and a thousand more – but these it seems to me are increasingly “theme park” tourist attractions rather than everyday living parts of the community. In short the essence of France – its history, its traditions and its culture – seem self evident and alive in every community no matter how big or small – whereas in England we have increasingly sidelined them in our lemming like quest to “do” , to live in the fast lane and to be entertained rather than be involved.

1792 - I was planted
and I'm still giving shade
and reminding all
of France's past

These things all add up to the timelessness especially of French villages. We visited the exquisite village of Lagrasse in the Carcassonne area one Saturday afternoon. As we wondered around the medieval streets of the centre historique we passed a wedding party, enjoyed a glass of orange in a wayside cafe, marvelled at the old houses and wondered what tales each could tell. We looked into shop windows and sat by the beautiful river watching youngsters enjoying an afternoon swim. And we visited the beautiful working Abbey -  a gem of  a place - where we were welcomed by a smiling, gentle and helpful monk. We enjoyed the Abbey’s still calm and beautiful architecture and wondered at the many devout monks and worshippers who had trod its paths and buildings over the centuries. As we walked along the river it occurred to me that this gem had lain hidden in the hills and the forests for a millennia and although today modern day tourists like us enjoy its delights people have been walking its streets and living its life and its serenity for hundreds of years. Starbucks, Costa Coffee, Marks & Spencer, McDonalds, John Lewis and other everyday occupants of great shopping malls suddenly seemed all seemed a very long way away!

Lagrasse - serene and magical

Angers Minervois, where we stayed for a few days, was such another such place. On the banks of the great Canal du Midi and the Aude the village rises on a small hill overlooking the surrounding countryside. As each evening we walked through its silent streets to the open air restaurant we passed a tiny bar – room only for three or four people I thought. Often no one would be in there but when we returned at 9.30 pm maybe just one or two locals were enjoying their refreshments. They would mutter “Bonsoir” or “Bon Nuit” as we passed. As I mentioned before shutters hide the residents of the houses so one is never certain if the house is empty or full so all was silent and we whispered as we walked along, afraid to break what seemed a magical spell.

And the restaurant  that we patronised – La Guinguette – even I think by French standards is “different”. We were initially confused by its name but then discovered that it means an open air (often cheap) drinking or eating place – often by water. This described it completely – we sat right on the edge of the Canal du Midi. Apparently these places had become popular in France from the late 19^th century – one is immortalised in Renoir’s famous painting “Luncheon of the Boating Party”. A great open BBQ dominated the place and a gentleman bearing a distinct resemblance to Asterix the Gaul would occasionally disappear behind the scenes and emerge with huge “lumps” of meat and half trees in equal measure – which he threw onto his bonfire! And what came out at the end the biggest and tastiest steaks imaginable. Pat selected lamb chops – she was looking for  a small meal but it was frightening to think of what size sheep it was that had sacrificed itself for her chops  – never have such lamb chops been seen! On our first night eating at La Guinguette the waiter gave us a menu in French - that was fine but the English people occupying the table next to us were given an English version. After a few minutes they asked for a French menu – they could not understand the English! On the following evening we received an English menu and hugely enjoyed reading the translations of French into English: Pat quite fancied the “Pavement of Cod” which seemed appetising but in the end opted for “Filet mignon (better part of pig) with his sauce in honeys (sic) of scrublands (sic) and in almonds”. Wonderful - who could resist such a dish! I ordered a starter - big mistake - it was so large that I swear it would have fed the whole of my family includng the grandchildren!

Port Vendres

As everywhere we went in France we enjoyed simple but good, wholesome food. I firmly believe that good quality food does not need all the “additions” so beloved of many English restaurants – no need for a “Tex Mex BBQ sauce” to liven up the taste buds or some piece of old cow  -  a simple well cooked piece of fresh top quality meat or fish has all the taste necessary. It was the same each day with our daily baguette or quiche – simple, fresh, good quality food which needed no embellishment to perk it up. And so too with a with a cup of coffee. On the odd occasions I go into somewhere like Costa Coffee or Starbucks I am given a bucket  of tasteless brown liquid – and to cover up its inadequacies a youngster sprinkles chocolate in the shape of lips on the top! In France it is a simple cup of coffee – with real taste and flavour – served by a waiter or waitress who generally sees their job as a profession and the customer as something to be valued. There are no chocolate flavoured lips decorating the tasteless brew and it is not served by a disinterested youngster sporting a shirt that tells me he or she is a “Barista” (am I supposed to be impressed by this or is it just to explain  the role of these people in case I am unsure since the liquid served rarely resembles coffee?). In England we have been taken over by the corporate image and  increasingly know no better. 

The Chateau at Pau

Throughout our journey I became increasingly aware of the great waterways of France. Every village and town, it seemed, had a river central to its being. This, of course, is true of the vast majority of settlements – certainly ancient ones - anywhere in the world. But in France it seems they are heralded and not hidden away or unnoticed. Some of the places we visited had almost dry river beds with just the merest trickle while others – as with our friend’s house at Villeneuve-sur- Lot – were great slow moving waterways. Bridges were invariably decorated with brightly coloured flowers – again, it seemed to me, a local pride being apparent that is maybe not always there in England where rivers are just part of the landscape and  little thought about until a drought or a flood. At Lagrasse where we had enjoyed the river we carefully walked across it on the narrow walkway. A few children and adults were swimming further up stream and to ensure safety a life guard was on duty – yes, it was all well thought out and intended to ensure that the river was a valued and used part of the locality. It was not unusual as we travelled to drive for mile after mile alongside a river or canal – or sometimes both – and always it seemed they looked well tended and accessible - not only waterways of importance but also places to enjoy and to respect. On the day that we arrived in Argens Minervois we sat in the sun on the banks of the Canal du Midi watching as a succession of holidaymakers took out their hired canal boats for the first time. We laughed as one group of holidaymakers emerged slowly from the boat yard in a huge boat which once they turned onto the main canal lurched from side to side crashing into one bank and then the other as the “learner driver” learnt how to steer. At the B&B we were staying at we ate breakfast with  a South African couple who were taking a boat for a week on the Canal to glide through the French countryside in a slow and stately cruise. I must say, it sounded very appealing – especially as the sun shone down day after day.

Anyone for boules in Fouras?

While we were in the Minervois region the weather was particularly warm but the heat of the day was tempered by the cooling mistral wind that affects these regions. The wind blew gently each day and thinking of it took me back to my geography A level studies of fifty years ago  and reading of the mistral when I studied the geography of this part of the world. I have now experienced it. The owner of the B&B where we were staying told us that it can be particularly cold in winter when the wind blows.

As we drove and walked around all the places we visited – small and large, rural and urban - I became slowly aware that something was very different in France. At first I could not put my finger on it but then half way through the holiday it hit me. It was the lack of CCTV cameras on show. Here in the UK we cannot miss these blights on the urban landscape. In some places they seem to be on every street corner. Our roads and motorways are littered with them watching every movement and shops and businesses, especially, feel the need for them. As we drove along the motorways in France we would very occasionally see one but this was an exception. In the villages and towns I can honestly say that I didn’t spot one – maybe they just hide them away? Whatever, as the holiday went on, it seemed to me to be a whole lot more comfortable – it made me wonder if, in fact, the widespread introduction of video surveillance to the level that we have in the UK is counter-productive. Does it become self perpetuating as with widening a motorway - when motorway traffic becomes heavy and an extra lane is constructed and the natural consequences is that more people use the motorway so yet another lane has to be built! Are CCTV cameras subject to the same natural law?

Madam's lovely breakfast
table in Fouras

It seemed to me that maybe the French have a different take on home security than ourselves – perhaps more proactive rather than reactive. Walk down any English road like mine and would be burglars are presented with lots of possible easy options and clues. They can see if anyone is home since  the frontage of the house quite open and windows often easy to see through. Often houses have driveways that give open access to the back of the property. Our response to this is to put up security cameras and security lights rather than simply make it more difficult for the burglar to get near the place or to know if it is inhabited! Walk down my street at night and virtually every house (including mine) will light up as the security light sensors pick up the movement. The French, however, seem more proactive.   At the French B&Bs we stayed at front gates and drive way were locked – at one place we needed a code to get in, at another we were given a key. When we stayed with our friends in Villeneuve-sur-Lot most houses in the road to be completely were surrounded by fences to keep prying eyes out and making a physical barrier to entry. Fences are high and keep much of the property private. Windows often remain shuttered all day so it is impossible to gauge whether there is anyone at home. In other words burglars weren’t encouraged to give it a try so less need for security lights or cameras.

Since I returned home I’ve done a little research. The French apparently are in favour of CCTV for its practical use but anxious that they do not become a surveillance society – “We want to avoid the Anglo-Saxon approach” said one French mayor. Cameras are used and are big business in the country – about 400,000 - but this is only about a tenth of the number in England. There is currently a big government initiative planned to increase this, especially in big cities but in a nation where “Liberty” is written into the constitution and inscribed on every French heart they are careful about what they call them. With typical Gallic logic they prefer to call the use of cameras "vidéoprévention" or "vidéotranquillité" (I like that) rather than video surveillance!

The great Canal du Midi at
Argens Minervois

But France is not a wonderland. Despite my disparaging remarks at the top of the blog about the Sussex sea side resort we left behind in England and all the other (probably unfair) comparisons that I have made. I know that in the big French cities they battle with very much the same  – and sometimes more complex or threatening - problems that we do in the UK and the average Frenchman, I am sure, probably moans about France in equal measure to his British counterpart’s complaints about the UK.As well as all the wonderful things that stand out about our holiday there were two events that will be long remembered for the wrong reasons. 

On a scorching hot Sunday we drove along the Mediterranean coast – one of the premier routes in France filled with high end places and properties. Late in the afternoon and homeward bound we stopped for a much needed drink and toilet break at a motorway service area. The area was newly constructed and sounded very swish but as we drove we were horrified at the dreadful mess – litter almost ankle deep filed the car park and although the car park was not by any means full vehicles seemed to be scattered everywhere and people milled about or simply lay on the floor in the sun totally oblivious to where they were and the problems they were causing by laying on paths or in parking bays. The vast majority of the people appeared to be of eastern or middle eastern origin – burkas and similar garments filled the shop and the cafe. We trod carefully through the litter and stepped over the reclining bodies, visited the toilet, grabbed a bottle of water and were on our way. There appeared to be no staff intent on clearing up the litter it was simply left. As we eased out of our parking spot plastic cups, coke bottles and sandwich wrappers crunched under my wheels – we were glad to be on the open road. As we pulled away the joys (if there be such a thing) of an M1 service area like Watford Gap or Toddington seemed a long way away and perhaps something to look forward to!

And the second event that we will remember with something less than joy?  We arrived late one afternoon at our B&B. We were staying there only one night and it was in a tiny remote village. A car was parked outside and we knocked on the front door but to no avail. As it was so remote we sat in the sun waiting. An elderly French man who was digging his garden next door assured us that there was someone in so we tried again – to no avail. Time ticked by and by 5.45 we were getting quite concerned - would we have a bed for the night?. The elderly French lady from the house opposite offered to ring the owner but just as she offered we spotted a bell on the gate post. We pressed the bell and almost immediately the shutters were thrown open at a bedroom window and a loud English voice castigated us for turning up early. The harangue went on for some minutes, cutting through the silence of the village - and we felt very contrite. “We have to get our sleep” we were told by the dressing gowned and wild haired harridan who hung out of the window, “It said on the e-mail I sent not to turn up before 6 o’clock, we have been very busy.........” And so it went on.  We were clearly in the wrong and for that we apologised profusely – we just hadn’t noticed the time requirement.  By the time that she had dressed and we were at last unwillingly admitted we felt well and truly told off. During the evening, as we ate a very pleasant meal we were reminded several times that she was so busy and that people had to understand that – it all made one feel as if we were intruding on this lady’s life. On this occasion the customer was very definitely not right!

Talmont - feeding the French
obsession for sea food

Since we have returned home I have looked at comments on Trip Advisor about this place and many, rightly, speak well of it and its meals – and, as I say, we were very happy there (but glad we were only staying one night). We would undoubtedly use the place again if in the area. But in equal measure to the very positive comments on Trip Advisor were people  (both  French and English) who had had similar experiences to ourselves and who described the owner as rude or “horrible”. Clearly the lady didn’t learn from her feedback.

The incident, however, hides a wider commentary - and something that was reinforced for us on several occasions during our time in France. We stayed throughout in B&Bs – every one was good or excellent – the ones in Hendaye and Fouras amongst the best we have stayed in anywhere in the world. We would happily return to any. But there was a hidden difference. Unbeknown to us until we actually turned up on the door step (we had pre-booked them by internet) three of them were run by English people – including the one mentioned in my tale above. In each of these we felt very much an item of business – we were simply clients whereas in the French run chambre d’hotes  we were welcome and much appreciated  guests in the house. We have experienced this many times over on previous visits to France. It is not related to cost – indeed the French owned places we stayed at were on the whole cheaper than their English counterparts. The breakfasts in the French B&Bs were universally better – freshly baked bread and croissants, wide selection of (often home-made) jams etc. - quite simply a feast to be looked forward to. In the English run establishments although the breakfasts were more than adequate they were neither a feature of the stay or memorable. Too often it was defrosted stuff from the freezer, on one occasion slightly stale bread, pre-packed butter, jars of jam from the local supermarket or packaged croissants or a bowl of cornflakes.  As I say, we would return to any one with pleasure – all gave us a great holiday – but my lasting thought is that the English run B&Bs were  out to make a profit but the French wished to welcome us into their home and make our stay memorable.

Fouras B&B

And in the end that is what we “do” in England -  we run businesses (was it Napoleon who said we are a nation of shopkeepers?) – profit drives us  and we manage our lives through the demands of the balance sheet. Increasingly it seems to me we have sacrificed our heritage, values, culture and in this case our hospitality at the altar of making a fast buck. In England our schools and universities are now driven and judged not by educational philosophy or ethical arguments about what should constitute a good education but by value for money, the needs of the economy and the economic worth to the student; our doctors and hospitals are now forced to prove the economic worth of actions and care rather than make decisions based on need and clinical requirement; when we are involved in some great event – the Olympics or the Royal Jubilee our government defines it in  economic terms and what it adds or detracts from the national balance sheet rather than it cultural or national significance.  As a nation we have no shame when it comes to taking a moral stance – we will happily sell weapons to anyone no matter what their politics history or policy and justify this by saying "If we don't sell them then someone else will",  London is  always open to welcome global corporate tax dodgers because it makes the Treasury a fast buck and our present government has no qualms about introducing legislation that actively seeks to disrupt the quality of life for millions in the local community because it saves money. 

Alfred Hitchock in Dinard

We have blindly fulfilled Margaret Thatcher’s famed maxim “There is no such thing as society”. But "society" is firmly rooted in values, traditions, culture and heritage – I do not mean  the “high culture” of the art gallery or the concert hall but the culture of the community whatever and wherever it is and we have, unlike the French, it seems to me torn that up at the accountant and politician’s behest.  At an everyday level cheapness and value for money takes precedence over quality and taste – we see it on every High Street with its array of pound shops, we see it in the growth of cheap flights (never mind the quality feel the width!), we see it in the demise of tradition, individual and community values and habits in favour of seven day a week/24 hour shopping and supermarkets or the visit to McDonalds whilst shopping instead of a family Sunday lunch. Politicians of all persuasions talk of schools being “family friendly” when what they actually mean is “ economically friendly and family and destructive” as they encourage and fund the growth of pre and after school and holiday clubs which ensure that children actually spend more and more hours away from the family than in it. This morning I read that the Labour party, as a "family friendly initiative" is promising 25 hours a week of free child care for all 3 & 4 year olds. This might be justified and desirable in economic terms, or to satisfy the personal/professional  “fulfilment” of parents. It might even be justified educationally. It might be financially friendly, professionally friendly or educationally friendly but it cannot in anyway be described as "family friendly"-  it marginalises family life and its values and practices as all the members of the family are away from each other doing their thing whilst the children are cared for by "responsible others" in some "institution". And so our society races to the bottom and never more so than in these economically blighted times where every item of government policy is not driven by what is right or desirable but what pays.

How many roads did we drive down
like this?

 “The main chance” defines our culture our psyche and our outlook and it is the reason why we don’t have time to stand and stare or to value the things that the French so often do – their traditions, their heritage, their culture. In Britain we are too ready to sacrifice all these – the things that make life worth living and are intrinsic bits of being human - for a balance sheet and for profit making mentality. We know the price of everything and the value of nothing. It again confirms my long held belief that the French know something about life, living and about being human that we can never know – and they are not sharing it.

And that is why, as I stood on the ferry watching France disappear over the horizon I was sad – not that the holiday was over but that I was leaving France. “Vive la France!”

Leaving Their Mark.

Winnie on her wedding day

My mother in law, Winnie Green, would have been a hundred years old a few days ago. Sadly she never made it – she died about six or seven years ago – but she still lives on every day in our minds and in our house. I don’t mean that we still morbidly think of her passing or weep tears – no, we laugh at her well remembered sayings and at her “obsession” with getting a bargain. No day was complete for Winnie unless she had managed to get a bargain on one of her many trips to the shops! We chuckle at all the events remembered – like the New Year’s Eve when we came home late after a night spent in London at the theatre (a family tradition for many years) and we ended up pushing her for a short distance in a supermarket trolley - to the huge embarrassment of one of her daughters and her granddaughters. Mother was not drunk – she  never touched a drop of alcohol but she simply liked a bit of fun. We remember her love of brightly coloured flowers, her love of and skill at ballroom dancing and the wonderful Sunday dinners that she cooked for us. Her steak and kidney puddings were the stuff of legend and when Pat cooks one on some dark winter’s day I am most appreciative but always say “Delicious dear.......but not as good as your mum’s!”  Mum could be frustrating and stubborn – indeed she often drove Pat and her sister to distraction in her quest for a bargain – but her enthusiasm for life and interest in everyone was a lesson to us all. Each time Pat and I returned from our annual holiday one of the joys was telling Winnie all about it – she wanted to know all the details, see all the photographs, know where we had been and what we had seen – she was simply massively interested in people and things - and that interest made others feel important and valuable.  We always had something to say to her and she to us.

Four generations - Winnie, daughter
 Pat, granddaughter Kate and
great granddaughter Sophie

What you saw was what you got. She could not abide pomposity, self righteousness or ‘putting on airs’ . She had the common touch without being common and  could spot hubris and pomposity a mile off – hence her great ‘put down’ line: ‘Oh,  he used to chew  bread for my ducks’ when someone was being pompous, self righteous or big headed. She was absolutely right!   Winnie was filled with a simple common sense and humility and at the same time was a woman of huge compassion and great wisdom.  She often said (and especially as she approached her 90th year) that no other generation could have lived through so much change as her generation. She was right – horse drawn carriages to computers, a world ever smaller as travel became easier, corner shops becoming great supermarkets. But she retained her interest in life to the end  - only a few days before she died (and we knew the end was near)  I was sorting out her lap top so that she could continue to play a game of cards on it! She had grown up in humble circumstances and like the rest of her generation had to cope with the depression of the 1930s and the second World War and so for much of her life had to watch the pennies.  But hard work and careful management meant that later in life she had a nice house and was "comfortable" – but despite that she never lost the drive to find a bargain! And although she was amazed at what youngsters spent money on and how much money people seemed to have in the modern world I never heard her once moan or begrudge them their success or good fortune – she was simply pleased for them.

Winnie's ninetieth birthday  family gathering

So, although Winnie has been dead for several years she is still very much alive for us. When we go on holiday Pat carries a small picture of her in her purse and at some point we will say “Are you enjoying this holiday mum”..........and I swear we somewhere hear a tiny voice replying “Oh yes – lovely – when are we having an ice cream!”. When we look out of the window and see a robin on the tree we both say  “Mum’s on the tree” – it was a family joke that she would leave in her will  two rather “tatty” Christmas robins to our son – and she did. Since then, to all in the family, Winnie has become the garden robin – bright and cheerful even on the darkest winter’s day. When we sit and enjoy a nice Sunday joint one of us will sooner or later remark “Where are you Winnie - you'd enjoy this”? And when I occasionally I go into one of the kitchen cupboard drawers I will say “Oh Patricia” (as Mum always called Pat) “look at the state of this drawer” – and we will both laugh remembering how when mum came to stay it wouldn’t be long before she was tidying out a drawer or furiously polishing the door knocker and saying “Oh Patricia, how could you let it get in this state”!  The worrying thing is that both Pat and I know only too well that as we get older just as I am changing into my dad, Pat is becoming her mother – I frequently now refer to her as Winnie!

Winnie gave unconditional love to everyone – not sloppy overwhelming love but sincere quiet love. She was not hugely demonstrative nor did she wear her heart on her sleeve but she was always interested in you and your views. She had the capacity to make you feel good and to feel in some way secure and valued in her presence. Even though generations divided us - and I have absolutely no doubt that she occasionally disapproved of our life or spending habits or way of bringing up children - she was always interested in us and what we were doing. Whenever we saw her it would not be long before she would say to me “What do you think about [some item of news] it, Tony”  She included everyone in her world and we loved her for it.

I was thinking about this the other day – partly because it was her birthday – but also because of a couple of other events. 

Blogger Leann posted a blog a few days ago and in it she mentioned that she had recently lost her Nana – a lady who clearly meant much to her and was much missed. See Leann’s blog (Medical Monday) at  http://crazyworld-leann.blogspot.co.uk/ . From what Leann said in her blog I recognised many of the things that we valued in our Winnie. I’m sure that Leann will allow me to quote a few lines from her blog: “Her sayings still play out in my mind everyday - when I want to throw in the towel I hear her tell me I have had my self-pity and it is time to move on; or when I didn't understand why my life had taken a turn I didn't expect she would tell me everything happens for a reason and I will understand it someday if I take the time to look back. More often than I want to admit she was right. There was always a place at her kitchen table and a cup of tea ready if you needed it. She taught me about opening my door to others even if I don't think I have enough for me. She taught me about faith and hope and strength and understanding. She was my idol and my moral compass. I will miss her more than I can even think about and not a day has gone by that I have not thought of her and the hope that wherever she is, she is happy and proud”.

I’m sure that many have experienced and known people of the type that Leann describes and the impact that they can have upon our lives. By coincidence, in the past week or two, I have been involved in another venture which has caused me to reflect upon another person whose life impacted upon mine and who is still very much alive despite having left this world forty years ago.

John Derbyshire just before
the Great War

A week or two ago I posted some old family photographs on a web site called the Preston Digital Archive. It is just that - a web site which records old photographs of people, places, events and items concerned with the town of Preston where I was born and grew up. I felt this was the right thing to do so that others might enjoy them rather than them simply sit unseen in a plastic box in my office. They caused quite a stir! I had a lot of feedback from Preston residents who could remember the people and places depicted in the photographs and it was good to have contact again with the town of my birth and which I have not visited since my father died a few years ago. I was contacted by the local newspaper who were especially interested in some World War 1 photographs and items relating to my grandfather, grandmother and my great uncle  - photographs of young men proudly standing in their uniforms or wrapped in bandages recovering from their wounds, a number of postcards that my grandmother had sent to my grandfather as he fought in the trenches of France and a letter - written by my grandfather - begging for an increase in his war pension (see my blog Touching the Past -  http://www.arbeale.blogspot.co.uk/2011/02/back-to-blogging-weve-been-away-to.html ). In short, the local newspaper was interested in doing an article about local men like my relations who were caught up in the Great War – “a bit of local interest, human side of the Great War”  the journalist wrote to me -  to coincide with the centenary in 2014 of that tragic event. So, I spent a few days scanning old pictures and writing up notes on the story of my grandfather Joseph and his younger brother John. All that will be the subject of a future blog!

My great uncle, John Derbyshire, was “my hero”. I had always liked him, even as a young child and the fact that he was by then well into his middle age was irrelevant – I suppose that you can say we “clicked”. To me, a youngster, he seemed exciting and a bit different. A lifelong bachelor he was a bit of a “man about town” and although he dressed in his working clothes whilst he tended the garden and did other jobs, when he went out in the evening for a quiet pint of beer he would look, to my young eyes, rather smart and dashing in an old fashioned sort of way – stiff collar, tightly knotted tie, highly polished brown shoes, gold watch chain on his waistcoat. But best of all was what I knew of him. He had run away to war when he was still a youngster. His older brother Joe had joined up and John six years younger and still only 16 broke all the rules and without permission had joined up. I can remember my great grandmother telling me, as a very old lady, that she had no idea where her son John had gone – except that he had gone off to war. By the time John was 18 he was lying wounded in France  and had lost the use of his eye when it was struck by shrapnel. At last word  came to his mother in Preston that he was in hospital somewhere in London and his brother Joe, who happened to be on leave  recuperating from his own injuries, set off to the capital to find his younger brother. I can still remember both my grandfather and great uncle relating the story of how Joe searched the London hospitals for his injured brother – of course the problem was that John had his face bandaged up so was not easily recognisable! Eventually, however, he was found and sometime later returned to Preston, his war service over - and, I suspect, a severe reprimand from his mother and father!

Ready to go to the trenches - John stands back row extreme left.
Click to enlarge and you will see how very young some of the "boys"
look . I find the whole thing impossible to comprehend but it seems
to me that John was not alone in going off to war at a very young age.

For me as a nine or ten year old this was the stuff of dreams and high adventure and it gave this quiet, gentle elderly man an air of mystery and excitement! It was further regularly heightened to me when, whenever we went to visit him he would take out what he called his “war souvenir” - his glass eye - and lay it on the mantelpiece! It was his party trick!

He had only had a very ordinary job – working at the local creamery but as I grew up to teenage years it increasingly seemed to me that he had more to him. He was well read and seemed to have important things to say. He seemed to me to “know things”. As I grew up I can remember increasingly having serious conversations with him about world events – he was articulate and understanding and even to my teenage ears it was clear that John was no fool about politics, literature or current events. He was an astute gentleman. Each night I remember he would listen to the nine o'clock news on the radio – an old crackly machine that looked as if it came from the Great War! - and he would always comment on the news saying things which seemed to my young ears to be very “clever” and thoughtful. I can remember talking about the Kennedy assassination with him and although  by then he was in his late sixties I was thrilled that he wanted to know what I, a mere teenager, thought. I remember him talking about previous American Presidents like Roosevelt and at the same time awakening an interest in me. When I talked to him it seemed  to me that he always listened intently and responded – not always agreeing, sometimes gently contradicting me,  but always recognising my opinions as worthy of consideration.  And as I grew he became a firm friend – in the last year or two before I went off to teacher training college I would enjoy sharing a beer with him and my dad on Saturday night – a nineteen year old and a seventy year old enjoying each other’s company. Even though  the  years separated us he could always “connect”. Despite his 60 or 70 years he seemed to me to be a modern man and still young at heart. He had the capacity to talk to you and not at you.  I remember him once asking me “Now come on Tony tell me about these Rolling Stones (this was in the early 60s!) why do you youngsters like them?”   I can also remember him talking of the first great Liverpool football team created by Bill Shankley as they succeeded in Europe and telling me “that’s the way that football is going to be played from now on – none of this kick and rush stuff that we've been used to”. To me, as a teenager, used to parents and older people putting teenagers down this was music to my young ears. And I still vividly remember, when I was about to go off to college and (much to my mother’s disapproval) I had opened a bank account complete with a cheque book (an unknown item in my family in those days) he spoke up for me when my mother expressed her concerns about me having a cheque book“Now I’ve been reading in the papers”, he said to my mother “that in a few years time we will all be paying for things with bits of plastic. Tony’s a young man now he has to be modern and move with the world”.   Paying with plastic! – I wonder if even Uncle John could have comprehended how the world would change! John seemed to me at the time – and indeed still does, to have had his finger on the pulse – he seemed to have thought things out and was his own man.

Recuperating from the loss of an eye - John marked with a cross

The boy who ran off to war remained a young man at heart up until he died in the early 70s and I have often reflected, over the years, that it was through him that I learned much about growing up. He wasn’t loud or brash or talkative – indeed, if we sat in the pub, him enjoying his half pint he often would say little, but what came out was always worth listening to.  Like my mother in law and, I suspect, like Leann’s  Nana,  he had no agenda he just quietly got on with life. I have no idea why he never married but lived with his mother until she died.  But whatever the reason for his bachelorhood he was a lovely and much loved man.  And his love was unconditional. He was what you saw and you learned not only from what he said but from what he did. He had a quiet authority and I loved and respected him not because he demanded it but because of what he did, how he did it, his interest in me - and the obvious value that he placed upon me and my young beliefs and feelings. He listened to me and such advice as he might have wanted to impart he did without expectation or insistence. I don’t know whether he saw himself as older and therefore wiser (although he clearly was)  but he never thrust that experience down my throat.  Whatever experiences and wisdom he had gleaned from his life was passed on without it being a lesson or a homily – I  learned from the man he was and not what he said.

John as I largely remember him.

When my own son was born in 1974 there was only ever going to be one name for him – John. And even today, all these years after my great uncle’s death I still think of him and those quiet conversations and those half pints we shared in the village pub. I still imagine him as a young boy running off to war and being involved in the terror of the trenches – a thing that I cannot begin to comprehend but which he just took in his stride – never boasting of his involvement or complaining about the injury that changed his life. Like others of his generation, including my mother in law – he just got on with things. Sometimes it seems a far cry from today when so many appear to wear their hearts on their sleeves and want to shout from the rooftops of their disadvantage and problems, or vent their spleen against society and its unfairness. I'm sure that both John and Winnie had many things that they could have complained about - the hardships of their lives, the impact of war upon them, their broken dreams great sadnesses and all the other things that go into being human - but I rarely, if ever, heard them do it – they simply got on with it. Maybe there's a lesson for all of us there.

I've often reflect that John could have had no inkling that he would have so much effect and importance to me - and indeed still does. I don't know how he would have reacted to that - probably just quietly smiled and nodded. But I'd like to think that deep down he would have had some quiet satisfaction that although he had no children of his own he had made such an impression on me and my life. And when I think of uncle John – and of Winnie - who would have been a hundred this week - I am reminded of the poem by Brian Patten that we put on the front of the Order of Service for Winnie’s funeral. I don’t think that we could have comprehended how true it would be in her case – that despite her death in 2006 (and despite John’s death so many years previously) they would still very much live on - not as vague distant memories but as people who are still very much part of our lives and who still in their way speak to us..

SO MANY DIFFERENT LENGTHS OF TIME

by Brian Patten

How long does a man live after all?
A thousand days or only one?
One week or a few centuries?
How long does a man spend living or dying
and what do we mean when we say gone forever?

Adrift in such preoccupations, we seek clarification.
We can go to the philosophers
but they will weary of our questions.
We can go to the priests and rabbis
but they might be busy with administrations.
So, how long does a man live after all?
And how much does he live while he lives?

We fret and ask so many questions -
then when it comes to us
the answer is so simple after all.
A man lives for as long as we carry him inside us,
for as long as we carry the harvest of his dreams,
for as long as we ourselves live,
holding memories in common, a man lives.

His lover will carry his man's scent, his touch:
his children will carry the weight of his love.
One friend will carry his arguments,
another will hum his favourite tunes,
another will still share his terrors.

And the days will pass with baffled faces,
then the weeks, then the months,
then there will be a day when no question is asked,
and the knots of grief will loosen in the stomach
and the puffed faces will calm.
And on that day he will not have ceased
but will have ceased to be separated by death.

So, how long does a man live after all?
A man lives so many different lengths of time.

Dung Beetles, Coal Mines & Sporting VIPs!

This week, as always at this time of the year,  we have our two granddaughters staying with us so each day is taken up entertaining a ten year old and an eight year old. Fortunately the weather is good so we are able to get out and about. On Monday we popped over to Leicester to enjoy a wonderful day at the National Space Centre and  on Wednesday we spent a long day at the Snibston Discovery Museum in Coalville, Leicestershire. Snibston is a super day out – science, technology and local industry come together to provide children (and adults!) with lots of things to enjoy, learn and discover. The girls did scientific experiments, made a compost maker in an old plastic bottle, looked at displays of local industry and technology  ranging from fashion to coal mining to transport and everything in between. Neither they nor we wanted to come home!

Enjoying one of the many science
tests at Snibston

One of the things that we especially enjoyed was a tour of the coal mine – the discovery museum is built on the site of a disused mine – once part of Leicestershire’s industrial base. We were taken round by a retired miner who was wonderful in the stories that he told, the information that he gave and “picture” he so skilfully painted of what life was like deep underground both when he was working there and in the distant past. It was a salutary reminder of the grim life that these men led and which we all took for granted. There were about twenty of us in the group that went round the site – visiting the various places that defined the miner’s day and by the time that we reached the end of the tour no-one – young or old (and there were many children) were in any doubt about the harsh reality of the coal miner’s life. What came over to was not only the conditions that these men worked in day in day out, not just the fact of descending deep into the dark bowels of the earth for several hours  each day, not only the sheer hard grinding physical  toil but something else. It was the discipline of the whole thing – both personal and professional. Time after time we were reminded – for example, as we sat looking and listening in the  explosives room or the surgery or the room where helmets, lights and batteries were collected and handed in each day that the miners had to adhere to a strict code for the good of everyone and themselves. Each man had to be totally reliable and disciplined both for himself and his colleagues. We looked at the banned items – things that could not be taken down the mine – innocuous, everyday things such as a bar of chocolate, a torch battery, a sweet wrapper or a personal  item. And the reason – unlikely though it might seem - these could unknowingly or accidentally bring danger a thousand feet underground in what were already dangerous and difficult working environment.

We heard and saw how the miner would use his face mask in the event of fire and how, if he was lucky, it might give him a few extra minutes before smoke and carbon monoxide overtook him – but this at a price. The wearing of the mask was painful, uncomfortable and overbearing, but the alternative was a quick death. Again – discipline and strength of character – both to submit to the rules unquestionably and apply them yourself for your own safety and that of your colleagues.

The leader of our tour commented that one of the questions that he often gets asked especially when showing children/school groups around the mine is “Where did the miners go to the toilet when they were far underground”. His answer was, they couldn’t – you made sure that you went before descending, but if you had to go then there was no alternative but to doing it in public. Of course all the children squirmed and went “Yuk” – a perfectly normal reaction - and the miner commented that the men didn’t like it either so did everything in their power to ensure that it didn’t happen.

Ready for the coal mine tour

It would not be untrue to say that even though many of us, I am sure, knew much about the life of a miner and the conditions that they worked under we were all in places a bit lost for words. To the children it must have seemed a far distant planet.

As I sat listening I thought back to a brief conversation we had had with Ellie our eight year old granddaughter that morning. As we all lay in bed together talking about what we were going to do during the day Ellie asked what time we were going out. Pat told her and Ellie very seriously told us that she couldn’t go out that early since “My dung beetle is giving birth just then”. Pat and I looked at her in amazement – what was she talking about? Ellie quickly explained she has a game on her computer tablet and she has to “look after” a virtual reality dung beetle. There you go then! As I sat listening to the tales of the coal mine I wondered – seriously – how that, the “caring for a digital dung beetle - fits into the great scheme of things. Only 150 years ago children younger than Ellie were already working and dying in the mines. To Ellie the biggest problem she had was a virtual reality dung beetle. I can’t escape the conclusion that we have gone wrong somewhere – not in banning child labour in mines but in developing a world where, it seems to me, our young are increasingly losing all sense of the realities of the real world -  all is increasingly trivial and of the moment. They are continually living in a play world, unwilling and increasingly unexpected to develop basic life skills and responsibilities of adulthood. A play world might be fine for an eight year old but it increasingly seems to me that it extends further and further into what should be adulthood with young people having, perhaps, a misguided sense of reality and increasingly inhabiting a world bereft of responsibility.

I was still pondering this depressing (but I believe true) thought as the tour ended and we made our way to the cafe for lunch. We sat enjoying our sandwiches and as we did so I checked my smartphone for any e-mails. I glanced at the BBC news and read to my disgust of the behaviour of the England Cricket star Monty Panesar. Panesar is one of the foremost cricketers of the world -  a hugely paid and celebrated sportsman. Earlier this week he was convicted of urinating on some doormen at a night club. Apparently, he was celebrating at a club in Brighton and a number of young women complained that he was harassing them. I understand that he was asked to leave, a dispute broke out and he was ejected from the club. He then urinated on the doormen who chased him and caught him cowering in a shop. Police were called and the rest, as they say is history. A poor kind of history and a sad indictment on the man and his celebrity status!

Of course, having been convicted apologised for his behaviour – except he didn’t – it was “his spokesman” who apologised on his behalf. He wasn’t even man enough to appear himself – in  my view,  what a sad and despicable man.  I read that apparently this gentleman has been of increasing concern to his club and his country by his behaviour of late – but of course, he is a sportsman so is forgiven everything that any normal person would be expected to comply with and his celebrity status guarantees that despite his actions he will still be lauded and drooled over – and, of course forgiven. Apart from the obvious totally unacceptable crime of urinating on another person (one would severely chastise a three year old for that!) one might also ask what he was doing at a night club at 3 a.m. in the middle of the high point of international cricket an Ashes test series in which he was involved. Not a lot of discipline there either personal or professional. 

The delightful Mr Panesar - a man
so shallow that he cannot even apologise
personally for his offensive behaviour

As I sat reading this I thought of the miners we had just been hearing about and their self and professional discipline. Poorly paid men who in this day and age might well have questioned some of the rules they had to obey or that they imposed upon themselves. Would they have urinated on someone?  Maybe - I don’t know – but if they had then I’m pretty sure they would not have run away and then not been man enough to stand up and admit it. They wouldn’t have had “a spokesman” to do it on their behalf.

This morning I read a letter in the Guardian from a lady in a pleasant village just down the road from me – she sadly commented upon the skills that the young men of her village are developing in this modern age. It was gratifying, she ironically commented, that young men are learning how to “multi-task” – she had just observed a young man drawing cash out of the local ATM in the village market square and at the same time urinating against the wall. Well, there you go then. No miner’s discipline there then! Maybe the young man concerned was a pal of Monty Panesar. Maybe they were both VIP members of this superclub utilising the life skills that only VIPs have!

But back to the cafe! Having read about the unacceptable antics of one of our top cricketers I looked further at my smartphone and read that the continuing, soul destroying tale of the Liverpool footballer Luis Suarez grinds on and on. The headlines said that Suarez is adamant that he will leave Liverpool for another club because he says at his age “I have to think of my career first”. Errrrr – no, age or career has nothing to do with it. What should be his priority is the contractual promises and obligations that he made to Liverpool and for which he is paid huge amounts. His contract has not expired – he simply sees greener grass elsewhere. This is the man who has received a number of bans for amongst other things biting a fellow player, making racist remarks to fellow players and cheating on the field of play. At every point Liverpool stood stoutly (and wrongly) by him but now when he sees more money on the horizon so he wants off. Of course, he will probably get what he wants in the end – Liverpool cannot have a discontented player who disrupts the team – and young fans will, therefore, see him get waht he wants and  assume this appropriate behaviour from a man who is idolised. No thought here of his responsibilities and the fact that he is paid huge amounts of money to play a game for just 90 minutes each week. No thoughts here that, just maybe, having signed a contract and been paid the sort of money in one week that a miner would have to work back breakingly hard almost for life to earn he might have some moral, let alone legal, obligation to the club and the fans who pay his wages.

Suarez - make sure that you don't enter into any
kind of contract with him - he'll walk away from it since
his needs, he confesses, are more important than
the commitments he has made to his employers and
and his team mates

It is perhaps not insignificant that this week Saurez has been made to train away from the rest of the team because of the effect he is having on his team mates. Panesar, too, is under scrutiny by his County team because of his “negative attitude” and the effect that it is having on the squad. Both of these situations I guess would have been quite unrecognisable to a miner who knew that his everyday health and well being depended upon being able to be good team member, obeying the rules for the good of all, being able to rely on your friends and they in turn being able to rely upon you

Clearly both these young men live in a parallel universe totally oblivious to the accepted codes of behaviour and moral response. The world in which they live is like that of my granddaughter’s dung beetle totally unreal – and yet, the tragic part is that millions throughout the world think that this is alright!  Sadly these fans will continue to mindlessly applaud their sporting celebrity heroes – their every transgression forgiven and “understood”  all because they are sportsmen (allegedly) and celebrities. Millions, it seems, are happy that their heroes can get away with this – things that if they behaved in a similar fashion then their own employer would almost certainly  show them the door and society would almost certainly be much less forgiving of their actions. We live in an increasingly strange world!

Keeping the ball in the air without touching it -
science again at Snibston

And this is the world that my grandchildren are growing into. Already they are living for part of the time in a virtual reality world – a place removed from reality were a digital dung beetle is seen as important. That, of course, is only a game but as I get older I  question more and more what the young will increasingly see as an acceptable world. In the face of virtual dung beetles, “VIP superclubs” and celebrity sportsmen with huge cult followings who live a life devoid of and oblivious to many of the basic human codes and responsibilities I think parents today should be very, very afraid. Sadly, I don’t think that they are because in the end it’s not seen as important any more – life is just there to be enjoyed seems to be the modern credo. Maybe Mr Panesar and Mr Suarez need a few shifts down a mine to alter their perspective on life and, sad to say, just maybe we need to expect more of our young so that they learn to discriminate the world of virtual dung beetles and celebrities from the real world – but somehow I don’t think it’s going to happen anytime soon.