Rene & Me , livre ebook

La Puce Publications - George East

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164 pages

English

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Description

As financial disaster looms, our heroes seek sanctuary in France at the Mill of the Flea. Will they survive, or fall prey to the wiles of Rene Ribet, the notorious Fox of Cotentin. Rene & Me is a sometimes hilarious sometimes moving and always captivating celebration of human nature and life in France.

Sujets

Travel writing

Humour

Informations

Publié par	La Puce Publications
Date de parution	07 septembre 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781908747105
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0199€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

R ené & Me tells the story of George and Donella East’s attempt to live off little more than their wits in an isolated corner of Normandy.
Arriving at Le Moulin de la Puce with no experience in country living (especially in a foreign country) the Easts struggle to survive with a selection of hare-brained schemes, while coming to terms with a vastly different culture where time is of little value, and reluctant tractors are brought to life with a tot of homebrew Calvados .
As René Ribet - the wily Fox of Cotentin - moves on to their land and in to their lives, plans for crayfish farming, natural spring water bottling plants and metal-detecting weekends to uncover the miller’s secret hoard crash about the couple’s ears, and disaster looms.
Following a series of hilarious encounters with bizarre situations and unforgettable characters, tragedy comes to the tiny community, and the newcomers finally discover where the real treasure of their new home is to be found…

M y wife and I first met René Ribet when he moved on to our land and in to our lives at Le Moulin de la Puce. During an eventful year, he taught us much about the countryside and people of the Cotentin, and in the process, much about ourselves.
For that, we will always be grateful to our friend The Fox.
Merci, mon pote .
F RENCH L ETTERS AND H OME T RUTHS
A s usual, and for those who may wish to know what I think I mean when using French words or phrases throughout René & Me , there is a glossary of sorts at the end of the book. To avoid hindering the action for those readers whose command of the language is as shaky as mine, I have also hopefully managed to make most of the words in italics self-explanatory by context, or the simple device of using an English equivalent in the direct vicinity.
On the subject of action and content, all the following events were either experienced directly by my wife and I, or related by the people named.
Finally, however this homage to the people of a small corner of a great country is ultimately perceived, I would like to make it very clear that we shall remember our year with the Fox of Cotentin and everyone else mentioned with no other emotions than sincere gratitude and affection.
NB: All the recipes in this book are as genuine as the characters described. Due to my condition when sampling and recording most of them, I may have got the proportions wrong, or left out or mistakenly included any number of ingredients. But, as all enthusiastic cooks will know, half of the fun is in the experimentation. The only items which may not be left out in any circumstances are, naturally, the home-made cider and calva. To get your hands on the genuine article, you may have to visit its source, but that, I promise you, will be a journey well worth the making.
René & Me
Published by La Puce Publications www.george-east-france.com
© George East 1997
This edition 2007
ISBN 978 0 9523635 1 8 Epub ISBN 978 1 9087471 0 5 Kindle ISBN 978 1 9087470 9 9
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Designed and typeset by Nigel at CHN
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
T he reason that all of us naturally began to live in France is because France has scientific methods, machines and electricity, but really does not believe that these things have anything to do with the real business of living.
Life is tradition and human nature.
French people really do not believe that anything is important except daily living and the ground, that gives it to them…
Gertrude Stein (from ‘Paris France’ )
W hen people learn we live in the Cotentin, their first question is invariably ‘Where’s that?’
When we tell them it’s the top bit of the Cherbourg peninsula, they often look disappointed on our behalf, and are quite likely to say ‘Oh, you’re not in real France, then.’
Contrary to popular British belief, real France does not start south of the Loire valley, and the Cotentin is as French as it is unique.
When they have spent a little time in our particular neck of the bocage , another comment visitors frequently make is: ‘It’s just like rural England must have been a hundred years ago.’
Of course, it isn’t.
The most isolated or rustic cottages may not have inside toilets or a bathroom, but there’s usually a television aerial on the original 18th-century roof, and a car parked outside, even if its primary function is as a chicken coop. What is so evocative of a long-gone time about the small and isolated rural communes of the Cotentin is the people and the way they look at life.
They are every bit as sophisticated as other modern Europeans, and (as they will waste no time in telling you) much more so than the most avant-garde Parisian.
It’s just that they have thoughtfully watched the world around them change, and much prefer to keep to the old ways when it comes to family, friends, daily life in the countryside, and other matters which, in their opinion, really matter.
And that suits people like us right down to the ground.
C ONTENTS
W INTER
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S PRING
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S UMMER
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A UTUMN
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E PILOGUE
December 21st:
F RENCH L ETTERS
W INTER
December 20th:
Midnight, and the Néhou Christmas party is in full swing. I am outside counting stars from the vantage point of the village pissoir . My wife is dancing to the Birdie Song with Christian the Goat, and Mr Maurice is telling an audience of schoolchildren about the night the Yanks invaded his wardrobe. René has not begun his whirling dervish routine, but the night is yet young. Jean-Pierre has done us proud with the catering arrangements, and is twirling his moustaches in a most lascivious manner at his understandably nervous wife. Given his track record for these occasions, it would not take a local Nostradamus to predict a welcome addition to the commune head count by next summer.

All is as it should be at this trial run for the seasonal celebrations, but I am worried about the bar bill. Our evening started at the Bar Ghislaine with a round or so of Ricard merely frightened with the water jug, followed by a brace of calvados to see us through the hundred metre walk to the hall. Since we arrived, however, our Jolly Boys Club has been drinking its way around France, and I have not bought a single bottle. So far on our journey of exploration, detailed analysis and criticism, we have visited the Loire, Bordeaux, Burgundy and Gascony.
Along the way, we’ve paid tribute to food of the relevant region, with JayPay unveiling and presenting each complementary course like a magician pulling a ready-cooked rabbit from the ether. Every time our table reaches the bottom of a bottle, another takes its place courtesy of Big Freddo, official vintner for the evening.
As he leaves to visit the open-air facilities, I follow to tackle him about the likely size of the drinks bill and, most importantly, who will be settling it. Now, we stand shoulder to shoulder beside the épicerie window and solemnly observe local custom by aiming at the epicentre of the enamelled Gauloises poster. As usual, Freddo is spot on. Across the road, the church clock chimes the witching hour and a nearby stallion snorts with derision at my feeble efforts to match my companion’s head of pressure, trajectory and pinpoint accuracy.
Eventually and as relief comes, I ask how we are to sort out the finances. I appreciate his generosity, but surely it must be my turn to buy a round?
Sighing with contentment, Big Freddo turns towards me and I see that his nickname is not entirely attributable to the size of his moustache. Shaking vigorously and casting a sympathetic glance downwards in my direction, he explains. As it is Christmas and a good time for party pieces, we will be playing the sausage game. Pressed for further details of this ancient Cotentinese ritual, he summates the basic rules. At the end of the evening, all the men at our table will line up at th