Ann and I have just returned from an eight day trip to La belle France where we helped to celebrate the marriage of Camille and Simon at La Chappelle aux Saints, in the Loire valley.  You may remember Camille, as she worked at The Inn for two summers, 2001 and 2002 I think, and during her time here her English improved dramatically. She even came out to play golf with Tony, Bill, John and Terry at one of their Sunday morning earlies at Pine Ridge and learnt the art and science or early doors banter which has she tells me proved invaluable in later years. One of the reasons Camille came to England to stay with us is that I knew her aunt Annick many years ago and so I feel part of an extended family which is certainly how we were treated. Out of eighty guests staying youth hostel style at an old priory, just six were English speaking so it was up to us to brush off the grammar and vocabulary of many years ago and parlez francais. For both Ann and I this was challenging, frustrating, enjoyable and very tiring. At the wedding dinner I even gave a French rendition of Hibou et Minnette (The Owl and the Pussycat) which I had altered for the affair and fortunately it was very well received.

While the wedding was really enjoyable, seeing old friends and making new ones, the trip had much more to it, as we took the ferry and drove through France slowly as we used to do rather too long ago. The first thing that was apparent was that the exchange rate and other changes has now made France an expensive place to visit. 1.15 was the best actual rate that we received which meant that mentally it was 1:1 as opposed to before when it was 2:3 or better. I know that the rate has been significantly lower but it brought into sharp focus why all those wines coming in from France seem to have gone up immensely.

The rate of exchange hadn’t prevented some twenty thousand Englishmen and their old roadsters from making the trip to Le Mans for the Classic car weekend, which was very jolly. Biggles, it seemed, still found things a bit steep, what?, and Michael Caine seemed still amazed at the doors being blown off. I found myself wanting to pay in francs and remembered fondly the trip when we came to Normandy on the pretext of challenging Les Francais to Boules, when in fact we were looking for Bobby Snell’s temporary landing strip for his Mosquito in 1944. Edith Piaf still sang, sadly, and onion sellers still cycled to England. The timing of our trip was such that we shared much of it with classic cars and their eccentric owners, not just English, and it very much added to our enjoyment.

Something that hadn’t changed was the countryside of Normandy and the Loire which was as beautiful as ever. We took the slow road whenever we could and it was a pleasure to amble along minor roads through warm, colourful farmland and enjoy the warm air. We picnicked several times and made the most of temperatures up in the mid 30’s which even Ann admitted was getting a bit high and she seeks out and thrives in a hot climate.

We stayed on Thursday night in a hotel in Vouvray and were given a room in a troglodytic cave. For those of you that don’t know, the central Loire, as opposed to the central vineyards, is carved through Tufa, a calcareous rock, and the northern banks especially are a profusion of caves which remain a steady cool temperature throughout the year. These are a great asset for any vigneron as he can keep his wine stocks in perfect conditions without expensive technology. The caves have also been home to significant number of people in the past, known as troglodytes, and Les Hautes Roches in Vouvray had one such cave for us. It meant that we slept perfectly in the cool when any ordinary room without air conditioning would have stifled our repose and encouraged any meandering, quietly buzzing mosquitoes to help themselves to our tender English skin.

Although this area is known as the Garden of France with implications of glorious ripe fruit and earthy vegetables it is just as much the vineyard of France. Maybe not as prestigious as Bordeaux or Champagne and possibly not as fine as Chablis or Burgundy it is nevertheless a great producer of very enjoyable, perhaps slightly plus petites wines; the Chenin blancs of Vouvray, the Cabernet Francs of Bourgueil, Chinon and St Nicolas de Bourgueil and the Sauvignons and Gamays of Touraine, are grown and made to supply the very thirsty inhabitants of Paris. In Bourgueil we used to know a vigneron, Jaques Morin, whose children Cecile and Vincent visited us when we had The Brickmakers Arms to work for the Summer and improve their English. With time to spare and almost passing their door on the way to the wedding venue, we decided to call in and see how they were faring. We weren’t prepared for what we found – a derelict winery, a time worn Madam Morin and a sad story of intrigue and bankruptcy some ten years previous. An estate that had been in the family for seven or eight generations had collapsed under the weight of ambition, bank inflexibility and quite possibly bad management. The estate with many valuable wine growing hectares, caves and development land had been put into administration with the only positive that Vincent, now a successful young man in Lyon, had been able to buy the family home back at a good price so that Ann-Marie, Madam Morin, can nurse her broken spirit in familiar surroundings. Jacques has exiled himself in Africa where he works for an import/export company and makes a living as best a crushed man can. He cannot bear to stare what he regards as his failure in the face or endure the opprobrium of his voisins.

Madam Morin was truly delighted to see us, her first visitors for some years we discovered, but it was very difficult, especially for me. Ghosts of the past haunted the empty winery which used to be so bustling and full of life, not to mention full of wine. It was like a slap in the face, a look at the reality that exists on a daily basis for small winemakers all over France where competition and tough business conditions have pruned the vines of tradition, often to death.

Our return trip to Ouistreham and the boat home was as leisurely and enjoyable as on the way down. On Sunday night, after joli ‘au bientots’ and ‘a la prochaines’ , accompanied by much multiple kissing, we drove an hout and a half to La Fleche to discover it was en fete. Street theatre re-enactment of the French revolution reminded us that we were just three days away from the Quatorze Juillet and the bands in the square that the French love to party! The Logis de France was perfect for a nights stay and the little restaurant opposite delightful if rather stretched; I don’t think they had realised tha Le Mans would affect them as much as it did. We returned to the Hotel to watch the World Cup Final but Ann went to our room in disgust after the kung foo tackle wasn’t penalised with a red card. I sat with Germans, Dutch and Italians to the bitter end by which time all of us were rooting for Spain.

On Monday we headed for Caen with the intention of finding somewhere for the final two nights of our trip to catch up with sleep and each other before leaping on the fast moving treadmill that is life in West End. We found a privately owned Chateau that had four rooms for Chambre d’hotes, Bed and Breakfast, and room for us. Many of the places I had called were ‘complet’ and very ‘desolée’, or so they claimed. Chateau Riffets had originally been built as one of many buildings to be used in the build up to the Norman invasion of 1066. It had fallen into disrepair and been rebuilt on those solid foundations in about 1855, around the time of the great Medoc wine classification still much used today. It had come down the generations and was now run by Ann-Marie and her husband nad had been for nearly thirty years. It was difficult to guess their age but we thought over sixty, not yet eighty was the range. They had about 30 hectares of grounds, a lovely swimming pool, well appointed rooms and wanted ‘liquide’, cash, as they didn’t take cards. I didn’t understand this as it made life much more difficult for everyone, but what do I know? We had a very relaxing couple of days, swimming, walking and resting and we spent a fair bit of time learning their story. The nub of it is that Monsieur was diagnosed with cancer eight years ago but wont have it treated and Madame is very worried that she will be left with a huge problem – the Chateau and all its grounds.

I don’t know how to drive a tractor and I don’t want to learn’ she said.

Fair comment.

The boat ‘Mont St Michel’ is relatively empty and well provisioned. The Telegraph reassures me of the mess that we are in financially and that England really is fou!; where the police finance their activities with motoring fines and the public chastise them for allowing a murderer to shoot himself; where poor immigrants are housed in £950 per week houses in Notting Hill, financed by yours and my taxes; where duty and vat on a pint of bitter or glass of wine helps finance the below cost sales of alcohol in supermarkets. Never mind all that, we have seen Hobby’s on the wing in France, revisited old haunts, made new friends, swum and talked french. We have read The Peregrine by J A Baker, Predictably irrational by dan ariely and My Natural History by Simon Barnes and we are rested. We are back!

Back in England at 9.30on Wednesday night and I switch back to the left side of the road quite easily. We have enjoyed our French sojourn immensely and it is now once more unto the breach. Look forward to seeing you at The Inn very soon.