As a motorist, the thing you have to remember about French road signs is that they are there to confuse rather than inform. This may not seem a logical approach, but then who ever accused the French of being logical - except
February 9th:
I found it wryly amusing to tune in to home news from abroad on the BBC and be told that the UK is the laughing stock of Europe because the nation has come to a full stop as a result of a bit
I am writing this as lunchtime looms in a typical bar in a typical Breton market town at the end of the week before Christmas. A lot of people would think it not a bad place and time to be in my shoes and seat. Especially with lunchtime as well as Christmas
Two of our hens have gone off lay, and the response from Breton friends and neighbours has been predictably true-to-type.
When he arrived on his daily visit to check out what townie/Brit madness we have been up to, old Alain said this was a signal
Surveys repeatedly confirm that the main reason Britons like the idea of living in France is the quality and pace of life.
But here’s the curious thing: The French take more anti-depressant pills than the inhabitants
One of the biggest and truest differences betwixt us and our Gallic neighbours is our attitude to food, cooking and eating.
I realise that that statement may appear to be a bulletin from the Department of the Absolutely and Completely
November 11th:
Reason 986 for living in rural France (Reason 985 was not being in the UK for Guy Fawkes night-and the month either side of that yearly orgy of sending money literally up in smoke).
Late Sunday morning, and we
November 9th:
It is a truth universally acknowledged by all owners of log - burning stoves that there is no such thing as free wood.
Like lunches and love affairs, there is almost always a hidden cost to pay.
In theory, all
29th October:
A very, erm, French day.
Our elderly Renault’s windscreen wipers refused to budge yesterday just as the heavens opened. We were far from home, and in what could be fairly called the middle of the middle
Thursday 22rd October:
A thick coating of ice on the windscreen of Reggie the Renault this morning ( I know, I know, but my wife insists on naming all our cars. I too give them names, but only when they will not start on a frosty morning),
Sunday 12th October:
Summer arrived in Finistere this morning. In a very French way, it was rather more than politely late, but so much more the welcome. Autumn will doubtless return tomorrow, so it was important to make
Saturday 4 th October:
A long, long, long lunch yesterday, and with it came further evidence of at least one truism I have proved conclusively as a result of messing around in France for more than twenty years: A foreign language is not absorbed
We are fresh back from our own Tour de France. Or rather, a good bit of that country. We cheated a bit by using the car and not our LeClerc special bumper bargain Road Eater pushbikes, but I reckon a tad over 3000 kilometres in just five