So, with barely a couple of hours warning, Mr G informed me that we would be going to Paris for the week-end and invited me to pack ‘some warmer clothes’ since it might be colder up there than the 18 degrees we were shivering in down in the Dordogne. Men, eh?

By nightfall we were circling a curious building that looked more MI5 headquarters than exclusive hotel, in the centre of the town of Vierzon. We continued to circle it, in a monsoon downpour coupled with a hurricane strength wind, for what seemed an hour or more – until we discovered the correct route through the maze of a supermarket car park, a bus station, and a one way system, that allows you a sharp right hand turn into the hotel entrance – which is indeed in the centre of the Carrefore car-park! Mr G was continually reminding me just what a fluid language anglo-saxon can be under these circumstances.

The outside might give new meaning to ‘unprepossessing’, but inside was a revelation – testament to one man’s obsession with 1950s American kitsch. Museum quality pieces of Americana lined every wall, stuffed every room, hung from wires on the ceiling where they had run out of floor space. The foyer contained so many examples of neon signs blinking and glowing on the walls and hanging over your head that we literally couldn’t find the entrance to the lift. The view from our room over the canal at the setting of the sun was worthy of a Canaletto painting. However, you can take the French to water – you can’t make them drink. Mr Gs devilish plan to partake of a decent hamburger after years of the endless duck and lettuce in the Dordogne, was thwarted by a menu which was…duck, lettuce, more duck, with a side order of lettuce if you wished. You could even have the duck smoked. Or dried. Or grilled. Anyway you wanted it.

Duck it was then, with an undercurrent of muttered anglo-saxon.

The next day we passed through Paris, did the Eiffel Tower bit; remembered that we live a stones throw away from Bordeaux which happily contains the very best of Paris, the Haussmann buildings, the imaginative restaurants, the glorious pavement cafes overlooking the river, the museums, the finest shopping – without any  of the dreary Parisian suburbs, or the traffic, or the sense of having ventured into a third world sub-Saharan continent…I did wonder if this ‘treat’ for our anniversary was going to be all it had promised. Ms Smudd, my dear friend, had burbled, as she does, something on-line about packing a slinky black dress for dinner at Maxim’s, and I had duly done so, imagining that she was aware of Mr Gs plans. He was giving nothing away, and we pitched up at a pleasant enough hotel on the northern outskirts of Paris in time for dinner. Er, a delightful Brochette of Magret de Canard. That’s a bloody duck again for those of you who don’t speak French. ‘Bloody’ being a factual adjective in this case rather than a swear word.

Early the next morning, Mr G was restless and had our cases packed by 6am – we were off again. How to dress? ‘Warmly’ he said. Sightseeing perhaps? I do possess one pair of thin socks, not an item we normally resort to in the Dordogne, and put a t-shirt under my jumper. ‘Hmmn’ said Mr G, ‘is that all you brought? I did pack your Wellies, you might get wet feet’. Intriguing.

We sped off down the pitch black motorway in our camper van, and I soon fell asleep again. I woke to Mr G nudging me – ‘Passport’?

Fortunately for him, I do carry my passport with me all the time, for he had never mentioned it before. Men, eh? No wonder he had told me to dress warmly, we appeared to be in the queue for a Ferry at Calais! ‘Fear not’ said Mr G, ‘in an hour you will have the finest English breakfast, proper bacon, real sausages, and I shall have my hamburger’.

Two hours later we were wandering desolately round Folkstone, that fine old market town beloved of retired rear-admirals. The pavements had been painted with grey and white spots, that proved on closer inspection to be thousands of pieces of chewing gum. The French love chewing gum, it is sold everywhere – I have no idea what they do with it when they have finished chewing, perhaps they fix it to the underside of the toilet seats – they don’t decorate the pavements with it. Everybody we passed was huddled inside duvets fitted with arms, and muffled with scarves, hats, gloves and snow boots. A large number of them were holding conversations with themselves. I shivered and wondered where all the retired rear admirals had gone. Perhaps somewhere where all the shops hadn’t been replaced by pound shops and charity shops selling second hand duvets fitted with arms? And tattoo artists, and fit-your nose-with-a-gold-plated-bolt artists. And we-remove-your-tattoo-with-laser artists. We never did find the ‘we’ll-take-the-bolt-outta-yer-nose’ artist. Neither had most of the inhabitants by the look of all the royal blue and bright red ‘bolted’ noses. The Methodist chapel had become a ‘Witherspoons’, the Internet cafe neither had internet nor sold coffee – it was a ‘youth foyer’ now, we were told.

Eventually we found the ‘feeding station’ for the ‘care in the community’ crowd which called itself the Hillside cafe, tucked away down a gloomy alley filled with squabbling drunks. The customers deserve a blog post of their own, every mishappen muffin topped voluble variable state of mental health in existence.  Mr G eyed the double order of huge hamburgers with fries (only £2!) that the oversized female Folkstone inhabitant opposite was manfully chugging down and wisely opted for breakfast instead. Nothing quite like cold, greasy, fried bread, incinerated bacon, unidentifiable sausage and leathery egg to remind you of what you have been missing of England’s green and pleasant land.

He cheered me up somewhat by persuading the local library to ignore their myriad rules and regulations about having a permanent Folkstone address in order to use their snail’s pace Internet connection to release the less defamatory comments on this blog…even in the library it was freezing. Outside it was blowing a hooley and tipping down with rain. ‘Never mind’, he said, ‘tonight you will be seated in front of the world’s biggest fire, and you will be warm and very, very, happy’. We sped off down another motorway. 1,100 kilometers and counting Mr G.

We were not heading for Maxim’s dear reader, so much as Maxim–um girth, the catering establishment (for friends only) (and friends of an ox-like constitution, at that) run by the ultra outsized spangled leotard-wearing one-eyed Ms Smudd of this parish. Once a year she sets fire to the cardboard packaging of the ready to serve meals she wisely serves her family rather than anything home cooked, adds to it the remnants of Smudd Towers that have fallen off her hovel over the previous months and anything else combustible that is lying around, and bribes the local villagers with copious quantities of alcohol and curry cooked by Mr Smudd (Thank the good Lord!) to stand in front of the inferno and attempt to keep warm by the light of the flickering twigs. A celebration of Guy Fawkes, the only man to enter parliament with honest intentions apparently. Trust me, this is no occasion for a ‘little back dress’, nor for wimpish Dordogne issue wellie boots and thin socks. Even with a borrowed ‘feed your horses in the early frost’ gillet, I turned to a block of deep blue and bad tempered ice. Eventually someone put a match to a pile of coloured gunpowder as the signal that one might respectfully return to the centrally heated camper van that one had thankfully brought with one.  Always a pleasure to see Ms Smudd and reacquaint oneself with her legendary wit, but wit alone does not a woman warm keep. Mr G had to thaw me out for a full half hour with a blow torch before before my teeth stopped chattering long enough for him to make out the words…’I’m f-f-f-fu**ing f-f-f-freezing’.

The next morning, after a night in a corner of a muddy field forever England, we slid down a muddy slope, navigated the potholes (thank heavens for four wheel drive) and inched our way back to civilisation, and after travelling many miles down a decent motorway, we came upon a golf club that promised breakfast. Mr Gs honour was restored, the finest breakfast ever served in England. Superb. I’m not going to give you the address, in case you all go there. Comfy leather sofas, a devastating view over the lake and the verdant greens full of pot bellied men with umbrellas trying to drive a small white ball into a hole in the ground in monsoon conditions, a proper chef and all the Sunday papers. They even had wi-fi, so I released another batch of the less defamatory comments. So warm, I shed one layer of protective clothing. Not for long. The English habit of insisting that you would prefer to take your after-breakfast cigarette in a force nine gale saw to that.

We crossed East Anglia, now reverting to aquatic marshland by the rain, and arrived at The Old Swan hotel in Southwold. It was exactly as I remembered it, nothing had changed, except now the clientele of ageing queens and retired land agents were all huddled outside getting wet having their pre-dinner cigarette. What is the matter with England? Has nobody thought of putting a lid over small parts of it for the benefit of those who don’t wish to stop smoking? Fortunately, with the clientele all standing outside in the driving rain, we had the choice of any number of spacious sofas in the elegant drawing room – normally filled to capacity as I remember – and the undivided attention of the staff. Perhaps a pre-dinner Kir was in order? £6 bloody quid and they charge an extra 50p for a shot of Cassis? Good grief! We inspected the menu. Nooooo! Duck a l’Orange! To be accompanied by a bottle of our local Bordeaux red at…at…at…£41 quid! Bloody Norah, a £39 quid mark-up for crossing the channel? Mr G resolved to move to England and become a wine importer; he settled for a pint of Guinness and a slab of fish. Unfortunately, the chef went home after this triumph; I swear breakfast the next day was cooked by a Bolivian Cocoa farmer who’d worked his passage to England as cook on a tramp steamer. He’d managed to slide the all the right ingredients onto the plate, but that was as complimentary as I can be. He has a bright future in Folkstone.

The next night we moved to The Bell Hotel in Saxmundham. If you have to be in East Anglia during the tail end of Hurricane Sandy, I do recommend it. A fraction of the price of the Swan. It may not have the professional Farrow and Ball dulcet colour scheme of the Swan hotel, but it does put a lid over its ‘smoking area’, it has warm, comfortable beds, lashings of thawing hot water, welcoming and helpful staff – and wonders, a chef who can cook! We had minced, reared to the sounds of Beethoven, fed on organic apples, Gloucester Old Spot, encased in its own guts, and surrounded by a gravy that the chef took the time to explain to me, took him 12 hours to simmer to perfection. The best sausage and mash in existence. He even turned up for work in the morning, and conjured up the most perfectly turned poached egg, lightly scattered with fresh herbs, that I have ever set eyes on. The Savoy would have been proud to serve it. England was cheering right up.

We spent a couple of happy days revisiting all our old haunts; including Marks and Spencers, where Mr G incurred a massive bill fitting me out with the type of thermal gear one requires in England these days, which will probably never be worn again – and then it was time to cross England once more and return the gillet and torch with which Ms Smudd sensibly equips her guests, trip headlong over the bucket left in the middle of the path, navigate past the avalanche cupboards, (which put on a particularly ’spirited’ display this year), place ones order with the local trustworthy Chinese chef, and spend the evening with the sort of old friends that money can’t buy. It was a joy.

I am now fully restored to my normal good humour, and come Monday this blog will revert to dissecting politicians and journalists…

GildasTheMonk
November 10, 2012 at 16:49

“It’s good to have you back, Andy” – Warden Samuel Norton, The Shawshank
Redemption

Anna
Raccoon November 10, 2012 at
16:59

I appreciate the simile Gildas, it feels like breaking rocks some
days!

Beware of Geeks
Bearing GIFs November 10, 2012 at
13:26

Welcome back, and by god, what a delightfully told adventure! Many
thanks!

JuliaM November
10, 2012 at 07:17

Welcome back! A more fascinating and revealing odyssey than any Alan
Whicker or Michael Palin ever managed…

Carol42 November 10, 2012 at 00:10

Hi Anna,

I am tired just reading about your trip! glad you had such a wonderful time
and look forward to Monday.

Carol

permex November 9, 2012 at 23:53

Hi, Anna!
So your trip was a culinary expedition?
What a devil for
punishment you are…LOL

wassname November 9, 2012 at 19:56

What a brilliant post. Just brilliant. Made me laugh no end. It’s nice to
know you care enough to share our misery here in the EU district of
Englandshire. After time, a good landlady will always go through to the
lounge, have a drink with her locals and sometimes buy a round on the house. I
must’ve been in the bar!

Roy Fernley November 9, 2012 at 19:36

It’s now 12 years since I’ve been back to the UK and although distance
might lend enchantment, too much of what I read in the online papers and
commentaries persuades me that the green and pleasant land of my memory has
vanished never to be seen again.

Engineer November 9, 2012 at 20:58

Don’t believe everything you read in the papers! The bits of Britain I
inhabit are usually still reassuringly British most of the time. No, I’m not
telling you where – it would quickly become too crowded.

Roy Fernley
November 9, 2012 at 21:10

“No, I’m not telling you where – it would quickly become too
crowded.”

Bit like giving away your favourite fishing spot?

Engineer
November 9, 2012 at 22:51

Eggzackerly!

Still – here’s a hint. The XXth Legion were stationed here, and
during medieval times double-decker shopping was invented by
construction of the Rows. The BBC, on one of their rare forays out of
London, were surprised to find that the street buskers by the Cross were
a string quartet, many of the local butchers make their own sausages
(very good they are too), we have a shop selling nothing but British and
Irish farmhouse cheeses (cow, sheep, goat and buffalo) and less than an
hour’s drive away we have the Welsh marches, the foothills of Snowdonia,
the Peak district, the Pennines (and Liverpool – but you can’t have
everything).

It’s not so bad at all round ‘ere. When it’s not raining. Aye –
there’s still plenty of real Britain.

Don Cox
November 10, 2012 at 19:10

The further North you go in England, the better and less spoiled it
is.

However, it does get colder from Newcastle northward.

TheNoseyMole November 15, 2012 at 17:14

Beautiful old city, my wife and lived about 20 miles away in the
early 90′s, it is the only city where I can say I enjoyed Christmas
Shopping or maybe it was the lunch in the Grosvenor.
Moley

Engineer
November 16, 2012 at 11:17

Should you ever enjoy our humble town again, I can heartily
recommend Dutton’s on Godstall Lane (off St Werburgh St) for an
excellent light lunch. Not quite in the Grosvenor’s league, but very
acceptable.

Gloria Smudd
November 9, 2012 at 19:25

” … trip headlong over the bucket left in the middle of the path,
…”
…………………………
Aha! What you thought was just a stray bucket in the
middle of an unlit path was, in fact, a rudimentary raccoon trap: I’ve put it
out occasionally since being woken from my much-needed beauty sleep by ‘A
Raccoon’ beating her little fists on my front door at 6am! Until recently, I
was having doubts about the raccoon trap’s efficacy but now I think we can all
agree that it works, provided there is a raccoon in the vicinity!

Anna
Raccoon November 9, 2012 at 19:37

You never can tell when there will be a Raccoon in the vicinity!

Gloria Smudd
November 9, 2012 at 19:46

And indeed I didn’t until I turned the Smuddwagon into the bit of
wasteland outside my ‘hovel’ only to find a great big French-plated camper
van parked in pride of place!! Great at keeping secrets, these menfolk
…

Anna
Raccoon November 9, 2012 at
19:48

Worryingly so!

Woman on a
Raft November 9, 2012 at 18:59

Take THAT Arthur Ransome; this is how to have an Adventure and write about
it afterwards.

Did you get to see your old tearoom near Mildenhall?

Joe Public November 9, 2012 at 17:56

What a wonderful travelogue Anna, thanks for sharing it.

A couple of observations………

1. “…..inside was a revelation – testament to one man’s obsession with
1950s American kitsch. Museum quality pieces of Americana lined every wall,
stuffed every room, hung from wires on the ceiling where they had run out of
floor space. The foyer contained so many examples of neon signs blinking and
glowing on the walls and hanging over your head …….. ” Sounds just like our
local TGIF.

2. “…….Mr G eyed the double order of huge hamburgers with fries (only £2!)
that the oversized female Folkstone inhabitant opposite was manfully chugging
down ….” Sorry to be pedantic, but that was probably a normal-sized
Folkstone inhabitant.

Mewsical November 10, 2012 at 02:04

No, no Joe! You’re thinking of the Hard Rock Cafe!

Moor Larkin November 9, 2012 at 16:35

Folkstone evokes a faint memory of the “Sally Line” and “Smorgasbord”. Pass
the duck.

Mewsical November 10, 2012 at 02:03

I lived in Folkestone sometime in the 50s, albeit in the more pastoral
spot of Lyminge. I revisited Folkestone during my Duncroft days, ironically,
and it wasl pretty dreadful. Sorry to hear it continues sad and dreary, but
not surprised. Otherwise, sounds as if the rest of the trip was much more
enjoyable, and you seem to have returned refreshed and ready for the scrum!
Tally-ho!

Anna November 9, 2012 at 16:18

Ahahaha! Ah you poor thing. Glad you got some good dinners! I’d have been
in seventh heaven, my love of duck knows no bounds.

Welcome back. I’ve only been reading your blog for about two weeks having
discovered you via digital spy (where I am a lurker only) and have found your
whole blog and the comment sections to be a thought provoking, intelligent and
often hilarious read. Looking forward to more.

Anna November 9, 2012 at 16:29

Ooh just to add….I get the impression that sometimes you get a bit
irritated (probably the wrong word) by people who just read and run, rather
than participate. In my case, when I came across your blog I assumed it was
“just another blog” as opposed to the forum for discussion, which you
clearly host. I’m guessing others may make a similar assumption???

As it is, I’m full of meds due to my own health issues so am barely able
to string a coherent sentence together, as you can probably tell, so I won’t
be commenting much, but I will be reading.

Phew…that was hard work….off for a lie down

Anna
Raccoon November 9, 2012 at
16:43

Just another blog? Just another blog? Wash your mouth out girl!!!!

It’s a virtual pub, where the landlady or one of the bar staff initiate
a conversation, and you are welcome to hold any point of view, or change
the subject all together, or even ramble off into a world of your own as
some of the regulars are liable to do…..

I don’t think irritated is the right word as it happens, it’s
more a case of feeling utterly daunted by the prospect of sticking your
head above the parapet and writing something which is being read by tens
of thousands of people, of whom a mere 50 or so ever say anything – I am
always grateful to those who do comment, especially when I tackle, as I am
wont to do, a controversial subject and don’t necessarily go with the flow
of the herd…..

Anyway, pull up a seat, the first drink is always on the house – double
price for the second one…

Can I ask that you rename yourself as Anna ‘C’ or ‘D’ or even the ‘more
beautiful’, whatever suits you best, as otherwise it might become
confusing around here?

Richard
November 9, 2012 at 17:20

“I am always grateful to those who do comment”

Glad you enjoyed blighty, nice place to visit, wouldn’t want to live
there… Oh wait an minute….

Mark in
Mayenne November 10, 2012 at
07:30

You get tens of thousands? *impresed*

I’m back in the UK soon, for anniversary celebrations amongt other
things. Perhaps I should cancl to void disappointment

Anna
Raccoon November 10, 2012 at
08:09

As high as 25,000 in a single day – and trust me – it is daunting
rather than encouraging.

There is a corner of the internet which has devoted inches of space
to the fact that I said Piccadilly No 6 rather than Piccadilly No I –
obviously you cannot trust a word I say on the basis of that mistake!
If I correct the post, I am ‘wrong’ – who knows what other changes I
have made. If I acknowledge the mistake in the comments but leave the
post intact, I am ‘wrong’- I am misleading people by leaving the
original mistake there.

It is scary stuff, and I am about to dive into the fray once
more…

Bill
Sticker November 9, 2012 at 16:16

On the other side of the planet in BC, we have the best burgers.
Unfortunately a decent mixed grill is hard to find, as for some reason pigs
liver and kidneys are rarely on sale. Lamb is also comparatively expensive.
Great for Chinese and Japanese food though.

And the people with the piercings are surprisingly polite.

TheNoseyMole
November 15, 2012 at 17:07

Bill

I could not agree more that the best burgers in the world are on the
other side of the planet from Madam Racoon, but nay they are also on the
other side of the rockies from yourself. Alberta beef some of the best, if
not the best in the world…..

Brian November 9,
2012 at 16:12

Glad you and Mr G had a good time. This article from the Independent might interest you.

Backwoodsman
November 9, 2012 at 16:10

Should have come to Bulgaria. Weather glorious and the only concession to
the ludicrous EU smoking ban, is for bars to replace ashtrays on the table
with a plastic cup with half an inch of water in the bottom !
Glad you
enjoyed it though ! Good to have you back.

Engineer November 9, 2012 at 15:02

Welcome back! Glad you enjoyed some of your long weekend (the wet weather
is something we don’t even notice now – it’s been like that all year) and
renewing auld aquintance.

By the way, I was having a foodie discussion with my old mum (81 years
young and counting) a few days ago, and the subject of duck came up. “Never
eaten it” she said. Mind you, she is from Lancashire.

Maybe we should swap you some ducks for a few black puddings?

Frankie November 9, 2012 at 14:00

‘…Nothing quite like cold, greasy, fried bread, incinerated bacon,
unidentifiable sausage and leathery egg to remind you of what you have been
missing of England’s green and pleasant land’.

Welcome back!

m.barnes November 9, 2012 at 13:42

Ah, but was Ms Smudd wearing something black n slinky? I think the public
have a right to know!

I laughed out loud at the Farrow and Ball crack. Went to the cotswolds for
a weekend and walking around every house in every hamlet, village, hovel and
mansion had the same 3 Farrow and Ball colour pallet: vaguely snotty coloured,
vaguely beige coloured, and (of course) duck egg. It’s so terribly tasteful
darling and such heritage (!). We took a picture of the one door we found that
had been painted a glossy, magnificently loud – nay tarty – RED.

Caedmon’s
Cat November 9, 2012 at 13:13

Great to read what you and Mr G have been up to over this last couple of
weeks – and it’s so good to see that Raccoon humour in full flow! Welcome
back!

ivan November 9, 2012 at 13:08

It is good to hear that parts of East Anglia are still as they were. The
number of times I cycled from up past Gt Yarmouth to Southwold to visit Aunts
that lived near the lighthouse and go and see a friend of my grandfather that
looked after the Shires use by Adnams.

I just might get inspired to go back for a visit, if I could somehow take
the mountains and weather with me.

Wendi November 9, 2012 at 13:01

Well Anna – sounds as if you are most likely glad to be back home again but
likely dealing with pouring rain as we have been down south now for virtually
a whole month! The M & S gear will likely be useful in the coming months
as I suspect we’ll be having a cold winter…
Glad to see I’m not the only
one to continue being hooked on the dreaded fag and wonder how the
now-not-so-new banning smoking in restaurants and cafes law has fared in
smoke-loving France? If it’s anything like Spain, it is slowly, slowly being
ignored: you can now buy cigarettes again at the gas stations and most of the
newsagents and cafes and bars appear to have done away with the irritating
gadget the bartender of the moment has to find amongst all the garbage behind
said bar to press a button which sends authorization to the machine giving you
some 5 seconds to put your money in and purchase your cigarettes. The underage
purchaser deterrent – duh!
Anyway, glad to see you’re back and look forward
to your next post!

Wigner’s Friend
November 9, 2012 at 12:47

As Zoony the Lazoon (Fireball XL5 for those uninformed amongst you) used to
say “Welcome home”.

Bill
Sticker November 9, 2012 at 16:11

Don’t forget the wonderful ‘On our way home’ of XL5′s Robert the
Robot.

Chris Squire
November 9, 2012 at 12:29

‘ . .come Monday this blog will revert to dissecting politicians and
journalists…’

Starting with this, I suggest: http://order-order.com/2012/11/09/lord-mcalpine-breaks-cover

Frankie November 9, 2012 at 18:39

With unerring regularity, it seems that ANOTHER alleged ‘victim’ of
historical abuse has got his facts badly wrong… per the BBC.

MAN SORRY OVER SEX ABUSE ERROR

A former resident of a north Wales care home has apologised after he made
allegations of sexual abuse against a Thatcher-era senior Conservative
politician, claiming it was a case of mistaken identity.
It comes as the
solicitor for Tory peer Lord McAlpine threatened legal action against those
who linked the peer to the historical child abuse.
Steve Messham, who
appeared on Newsnight, said: “I want to offer my sincere and humble
apologies to him and his family.”
“After seeing a picture in the past
hour of the individual concerned, this not the person I identified by
photograph presented to me by the police in the early 1990s, who told me the
man in the photograph was Lord McAlpine.

Nice of Mr. Messham to lay the blame for his negligent statements at the
door of some unnamed policeman. After all, its tradition. Its ALL the fault
of the police. Everything. Unfortunately for Mr. Messham, the irate and
innocent Lord McAlpine is very much alive and is presently sharpening his
expensive legal team’s claws… “All the better to sue you with, my dear”.

Chromatistes
November 9, 2012 at 12:27

Welcome back – is the snug open?

Jeremy
Poynton November 9, 2012 at 12:26

“and come Monday this blog will revert to dissecting politicians and
journalists”

Can I bring my scalpel?