Schools are soon to be back and my memory of September is mainly of bright sunny days. Here’s a rough drawing done ages ago of a schoolboy in the rain. With links to other rain pictures. Stay dry!
Just been there and before I go on about them let me say that there’s something I like a lot about the French. In fact, there are many things that I like about the French. They tend never to apologize, we are always saying sorry. They tend to think that the response to something going wrong is, of course, your fault. It may well be, but in France, it is always the case. Even when it’s not.
Another thing I like about the French is the food and their attitude to it, but here something is going terribly wrong. The French are able to cook like almost no other nationality, and they have exported their skills. We’ve learned a lot of them, and put them into practice. We’ve learned from a lot of other people, as we had no one to learn from over here. Apart from Saint Delia and that geezer wot is saving our kid’s school dinners. Elisabeth David brought us olive oil, and a load of recipes from the Med, when the prevailing wisdom here was that olive oil should inserted in the ear for an earache. Now we actually use it on salad in place of salad cream which was not cream and was not pleasant. Our salads were n’t up to much either.
One could get a decent meal almost anywhere in France, and motorway service areas served food that was passable and coffee that was so strong it would enable the sleepiest of drivers to stay awake and alert for at least 400 miles per cup. And it was served in a white china cup. Not anymore. Service areas are awash with coffee machines and if you do go and get a ‘cup’ from the counter, it will more than likely be a paper one. Whereas over here our Service Stations are better than they have ever been. The one in Gloucester, where there is no branding of any kind is a beacon of good taste and a magnet for local people searching for good food items.Take a look or call in Gloucester Services and these days one does not have to go far to search for good food in the UK. It’s everywhere. Whereas in France they have taken backward steps.
It’s time for them to learn a few of their own lessons from us. To import what they exported to us: the love of food and coffee. I am naturally hoping that their new President will be reading this and will be taking steps to improve matters quickly before it’s too late.
I’m not expecting him to apologise. They never do. That’s one thing that will never change.
Another feature of my trip was a meeting with a French woman who was an English teacher. She spoke superb English without the slightest Fench accent. Yet we have Frenchmen over here who’ve lived here for years, like that chef Raymond Buerre Blanc or whatever he’s called, sounds like e as joost left le bateau een Porsmoof. Now there’s a word in English that the French can never pronounce: Portsmouth. It’s torture for them. They get their own back by naming a French south western seaside town : Royan.This is a word beyond the ability of an English person to pronounce properly. So we’re even.
Au revoir. Vive La France!
This is me in typical French holiday fashion gear, it was chucking it down.
As we say: We brought the English weather with us. Yes, I’d packed it with the
shorts I’m wearing now I’m back in England.
I go walking with a good old friend of mine, and one of our favourite meeting places is in the Mendips near to the Cheddar Gorge, and yesterday we were confident of a fine day and some good walking. A reprise of a previous walk down the Cheddar gorge and unfortunately up the other side. Blubells much in evidence for the first part of the walk from Chaterhouse on the top of the hills. It seemed to us strange that these creatures of the woods were still there at this time of year and in the open rather than in a congregation under trees. No matter they were a lovely sight.
We arrived after a while and a walk through old lead mining area, at the top of the Gorge. We were well kitted with what we call stout walking boots and weatherproofs. The previous day we’d had almost biblical rain and we thought the ground would have been pretty muddy and sodden. It was not. We’ve had so much premanent dry weather our theory was that the land had acted like blotting paper and had soaked up all the moisture.
It was nevertheless a surprise to see two young men and their partners coming the other way with a puchchair and small child. The ground is quite steep and rocky and they were carrying a child in a pushchair, by carrying the pushchair. Female partners were dressed in thin shoes and clothes as if they’d thought it might be a good idea after a spell on the beach at nearby Weston super Mare, or as my satnav called in Weston s Mare. So the satnav does not think it’s that super then?
They would have had to climb out of the Gorge up dozens of steps to get there. One can admire their sense of adventure but not their sense.
Here’s Richard contemplating Weston in the distance. Super view.
It’s not changed that much since our last trip there:
In the event we had a bit of snow, but this is what the evning sky looked like just the other day. Typical Cheltenham house of the smart variety, not mine!
I like to get out for a walk, whatever the weather and the other day, it was whatever the weather. Rain coming down like stair rods and this called for full kit walking gear. Well “dubbined” boots, that is greased up to keep the wet out of my socks, weather proof coat with inner warm lining zipped up to the chin with hat to steer any drips away from the face area, and rain proof over trousers, which I generally refer to as ‘nipple trousers’ as the waist band reaches this area. I can go out in almost any amount of rain in this kit and the inner me stays as dry as a biscuit.
As I was tramping the streets on my way back to base camp in front of me was “damp skoolboy”. Dressed in his usual thin shirt, skool blazer and cheap grey blotting paper trousers he trudged ahead of me on his way home. He seemed completely impervious to the rain and did’nt even have a hat. Following on behind him I felt like Nanook of the North. I imagine that once he got home, his mother would have squeezed the moisture out of him like a sponge before parking him in front of the fire to fill the room with evaporating steam. He would then have probably shrunk to even smaller proportions.
My son, who did philosophy at University, came out with this question when he was about 3 or so. When he’d only just learnt to talk and walk really, so the signs were there very early that he was going to be doing a lot of thinking. He certainly did not do much sleeping and I recall with a shudder the long nights of questioning. Including the one where he admonished me for going ‘off piste’ when reading Postman Pat, telling me that Mrs Goggins could not possibly be a bank robber, “it just did n’t add up”.
I recall this as I’ve been busy trying to draw rain. I’m in the middle of a series of drawing about the British and it has to feature rain in quite a few of them. It’s one of those dilemmas where you do the drawing. Get it to a certain acceptable stage, and then look at it and ask yourself. “How do I put the rain on here?” Not just a light shower, a continuous downpour. Just like we had here yesterday. Should I just scribble over the entire drawing in a moist sort of way, or add it with white flecks of paint and hope for the best, knowing of course that any mistake or unsuccessful attempt will render the drawing almost useless and will have to be done again.I’m working on it by just thinking about it.
Joe answered his own question with his own answer at the time, but looked at me for confirmation as I was looking so bemused “Perhaps it’s Boris Becker Dad”
Perhaps it was.
This is one of the drawings in question and it’s part of the series of drawing based on the British, this one is titled:
“The Optimism of the Camper”
I’ll be enhancing or ruining this drawing in the next few weeks, if it goes well I’ll publish the final.
It’s based on fact, that’s me hammering in the tent pegs on a windy and rain beaten slope somewhere in Devon, wondering why on earth anyone thought this might be a good idea. I’ve refused to go camping ever since.
There’s more to this story but best not to tell that here.
This blog covers a multitude of recent popular subjects. Baking being one of them. The drawing (it’s not a sketch for crying out loud ) is a first idea put down on paper very quickly and I just hope that I can get the same feeling onto the final as happened in this. It’s part of a series on the British which was somewhat interrupted by the Brexit shenanigans, and has caused me to think a little more about the project. We are not quite what I thought we were before the vote. Anyhow, politics aside, and that’s where they are best left for the time being, this is a drawing of a typical Summer fete day somewhere in the British Isles.
The word fete is almost guaranteed a day of dark clouds and some teeming rain.Ladies of a certain age will have spent some time baking the obligatory Victoria Sponges for the teas which of course is the highlight of a local fete. The sweet peas will have been through the judging at the plant and produce table, and at least one of the gardeners entering the competition will grumble about the size of someone else’s onions.
Some of the ladies there will be wearing what we used to call pacamacs, which were basically plastic bags pretending to be coats, and will also have smaller plastic bags on their heads to prevent dampness getting to the ‘blue rinse’.
Dogs will be in evidence as will be the odd harrumphing retired colonel who, no doubt will be chewing on a pipe.Inevitably fetes happen only in villages, it’s rare to find them in towns ( they are then referred to as “street parties” and only happen when HRH reaches a significant milestone ). These days villages are mainly populated by incomers and people who can afford the massive prices for peasant cottages that are the norm these days.
So there you have it, Summer’s gone now and the village will be gathering large amounts of wood to burn an effigy on November the 5th to celebrate someone who tried to burn down the Houses of Parliament. Oh crikey! Back to politics.
There’s a hint in the tone. Slightly incredulous, and it’s result is confidence sapping. I’m not one for high fashion, in fact I’d be better described as a follower of low fashion if there is such a thing. Ill fitting jeans, I’ve lost a bit of weight and they were cheap, are de rigeur for me. In contrast to my daughter and son in law, I have only enough shoes to be useful. I find that shoes get more comfortable with age so are worth hanging on to for as long as possible. They have more shoes than I think I’ve ever had in my life.
That aside the comment was about my plan to wear my rather natty hat. I bought it in Canada but it was made in China, so it has some mileage in it. The planned trip was to see “the boys”, that is my brand new hardly worn twin grandchildren up in London, involved taking the hat with me and wearing it. If you want to know more about being a mother of twins then take a look at Two boys one mum where my baby girl writes about her baby boys, with a certain amount of good humour.
In the end I took it and my hat never came out of my rucksack. So it got a few more miles under it’s belt but was of no use whatsoever.
I came back home and wore it yesterday at the plot: the allotment, to keep the bright sunny September sun out of my eyes. I sent a picture of myself to my other half and daughter.The reply was telling: “Hat best for the allotment”. So London and the boys will never have the pleasure of seeing it in real life.
I’ve had a busy day on the blog today, and lots of visits after posting about food! Seems to be a much favoured subject. Well there’s food here too.
“What do you put on your rhubarb, horse manure?”
” Actually I prefer custard”
My daughter would no doubt describe that as a “Dad joke”.
So here we are eighteen days later and ‘Rough Seas Rough’ got a little more finished, but not completely. Sometimes there’s a temptation to over finish, and when does a cartoon become an illustration. For me they are always cartoons these days. I’ll work on this drawing and it will be interesting to see if it gets better or worse.
This drawing reveals my fear of small boats out at sea. I used to go on holiday to North Wales and could never understand the attraction that people had to set out to sea in what seemed to me to be extremely small boats. At least these two have their lifebelts on, but one suspects the motor has failed and he’s not making much headway with the rowing. Let’s be positive, someone in the lighthouse will have called the coastguard and ruddy-faced lifeboatmen will soon be on hand to rescue them, so that they can do the same thing tomorrow. Heave to!