Jeannine et Odette.

When we first took up residence in France in 1972, our only non-local, non-farming, neighbours were a couple of Parisian lesbians called Jeannine and Odette.

They were charming, very quiet, and intelligent people, who liked their world to be orderly and 'correct'. There was never a discarded sweet paper, never any noise, and their lawns and flower beds were always perfectly groomed. In many ways they liked their world to be much as I do mine.

J and O were Zen Buddhists, and their daily work consisted of translating obscure Asian religious books/tracts into both French and English. Such things were still fashionable in the early 70's, so I imagine it kept wolves from their door. We quickly became very good friends.

In about 1980 they decided to move to a smaller, more manageable, property, and built themselves a nearby wooden 'eco' house; which, after a very short while, lost its original appeal. They then surprised us by announcing that they had bought a home in a mountainous area of The Cevennes.

They asked a friend and myself if we would help with their move, which we were only too happy to do. A couple of weeks later we set off towards the mountains with a fully loaded rental van. 

Eventually we arrived at a seriously ruined roadside house and barn, overlooking bare and bleak mountains. We were amazed to find that this was their new home. It was miles from anywhere, and had no services installed. We were very reluctant to offload their beautiful antique furniture into this tumbledown wreck, and asked if we couldn't find some safe storage somewhere else. They insisted all was OK, and we did as asked. We were very concerned about leaving them there, in the middle of nowhere, on the side of a mountain, with no visible sign of amenities or comfort. We imagined them sitting cross-legged on a rocky outcrop, slowly starving whist chanting some Zen mantra.

I believe it wasn't long afterwards that they 'divorced', with Odette returning to Paris, and Jeannine heading for the south coast. They are now sadly both deceased.

If only they had stayed as neighbours. They were such charming and intelligent people; it was a real pleasure to have them here. It's never been the same since.

The above picture from 1997, shows Cro being admonished by Odette for prioritising mushroom hunting over painting (which I didn't). The church (top right) is that of our village.

Great Expectations.

June is my favourite month at Haddock's. Expectation is in the air, and everything is full of promise. 

We are already eating Courgettes, Onions, and Calabrese, and the ripening of all other crops is just around the corner.

These are the Portuguese Tomatoes which, of all the varieties I planted this year, seem to be doing the best.

My old faithful 'Contender' beans are ready (see below).

And the Peppers (several types) are not far off.

I love this Perpetual Spinach. It will continue to feed us until about March 2019. I'll probably put in a second row.

This is the first crop from a Black Hamburg grape vine that I planted three years ago. I counted about 10 bunches. I can hardly wait to taste them.

And lastly the flowers on my Butternut Squash plants. 

All is good. The Aubergines are in flower, and we have Cabbages and Caulis. Once again some of my Tomato plants don't look too happy, but I'm getting used to that. You can't have everything!

Beans for supper.

Hancock.

                             

It's 50 years since Tony Hancock died, and the BBC's 'Radio 4 Extra' recently paid homage to the great man. It reminded me of the following.

Hancock came to live on the edge of my Surrey village in the late 1950's (?). The first visual manifestation of his presence was an abandoned white Mercedes 300 SL Roadster by the village war memorial and pond, that his girlfriend (later wife) Freddie had crashed whilst drunk. The crumpled car stayed there for about two weeks; goodness knows why!

Hancock had bought (or more likely rented) a pleasant house next-door to a friend of my fathers', on the outskirts of Lingfield, towards Blindley Heath. My father's friend was quite excited at having such a famous new neighbour, but did his best to hide his enthusiasm. He simply presumed that at some time they'd meet, and wisely decided not to rush round with his autograph book.

One day, he saw Hancock striding up his drive. He immediately presumed that he had come to introduce himself; in fact he's come to complain that he could see their washing line from his sitting room window, and demanded that it be re-positioned.

That was their one and only encounter, and my father's friend was extremely happy when Hancock eventually moved on.

It's well known that Hancock was a difficult man. He was seriously alcoholic, and had 'demons'. Regardless, I always loved his shows, and listening again recently to several episodes of Hancock's Half Hour was a real pleasure.

Vicious visitors.

As you probably know; I am a great dog lover.

We have one of our own (the vicious Bok above), and regularly welcome several of his friends who come to visit. They are a very nice bunch who are all extremely well behaved.

On Sunday a strange dog turned-up as I was working at Haddock's; it was a dog I'd not seen before. She looked hungry and thirsty,  so I gave her some water and a couple of biscuits. She was an odd looking creature who obviously had some German Shepherd in her parentage, but with the other half having rather short legs. However, she was friendly.

She and Bok seemed OK together; he's always pleasant to females. Then suddenly, totally out of the blue, she turned on him, and a really vicious fight broke out. Lady M bravely tried to separate them, whilst I gave the beast a bloody good whack with a stick; and she ran off. Luckily Bok was fine; if a little understandably shocked.

Then early yesterday morning, whilst cleaning the pool, a small black French Bulldog (from the same home as Marley) started barking at me in a really unpleasant way. It was baring its teeth and coming forwards, showing no signs of fear. A really nasty, almost cartoon-like, creature. Again I grabbed a stick and showed him that I meant business; he reluctantly backed-off. In my 'dog book' it says that French Bulldogs are gentle and peace-loving, they are also described as good-natured, affectionate, and courageous.

Well, courageous maybe, but as for the rest I'm not sure. His house-mate Marley could hardly be more different.

Little episodes such as these are unpleasant, and luckily very rare. It won't change my attitude towards Boks visiting friends, but if I see either of the above two again (especially if the children are around) they'll be shown the door (and a big stick) pretty darned quick.

I don't suffer human fools gladly, nor do I tolerate canine ones.

Today: Bok and his girlfriend Izzy. Now she really is the perfect visitor.

Tayberry mania.

I've made the Jam, I've frozen probably more than we'll eat, now is the time to make our Vinegar.

There is nothing better on a simple summer salad than freshly made Raspberry (or Tayberry) Vinegar, and good quality Olive Oil. It is sweet, fruity, and refreshing.

To about 500 gms of Raspberries I add about a pint of colourless vinegar, and half a cup of sugar; all quantities are to taste. Two days later it is strained through muslin and boiled for a short while to kill off any yeasts, and remove impurities. It is then bottled and is ready for use.

Your summer salads will never be the same again.

Changing times.

                                

When I first came to live in my village, the chateau (above) was lived in by a woman and her three children, who soon became very good friends.

The children grew-up and left home, and L remained rattling around in her big house so the family eventually decided to sell.

Unfortunately she sold to a dubious Italian wide-boy who stripped the house of its old oak panelling, and anything else of value that was removable, and installed a host of cheap chavvy fittings that would have looked better in a Footballers' 'executive home'.

He also somehow forgot to pay L, and was eventually taken to court.

The next owner, C, did his best to restore the house to its former state, and spent between 15 and 20 years (?) doing so. He also (for some bizarre French reason), had almost every exterior square centimetre of the house sandblasted; to be rid of any vestige of its great age.

C has decided to move on, and a new man is now at the helm. We haven't yet met, but I hear that he has an important collection of old cars. Whether or not the cars will be kept here at the chateau, I don't know; but I do hope so. He sounds like fun.

p.s. This more recent photo (below) shows the small Rose Garden I designed for the Chateau (lower right quarter). Nothing particularly original, but I'm glad to see it's still there.

ALAIN DELON - COMME AU CINEMA

Nice song, and a heart-throb singer (not for me, you understand), what more could you wish for on a beautiful Sunday morning.

Niceness!

Whilst most of us in Europe are enjoying a period of beautiful sunshine, soft fruits, and BBQ's, there are still one or two out there (no more) who can only see blackness. If I'd posted a picture of cute puppies the trolls would always find something nasty, and insulting, to write.

I cannot understand the desire to be hated by everybody. I'm sure the world of Psychiatry has a word for it, and possibly even the relevant pills to take, but how much nicer, and easier, just to be pleasant to one's fellow man.

Insults roll off my back like water from a Duck, but others do take things seriously. I know exactly who I am, what my achievements have been, and why I choose to live the way I do, so no attempt at puerile criticism can upset my daily life. I also understand that under-achievers can hold jealous grudges against those they see as higher up life's ladder, but insults won't help them on their quest to achieve the same; if indeed that is what they seek.

My advice to these people is to try to spend a whole week being pleasant. Remember never to speak unless it is with some praise, and see how people's attitudes changes towards you. You might even begin to enjoy life.

If that doesn't work; I see no hope.

Today's mystery.

How does a small tyre, complete with inner tube, come to be lying on the grass outside the garden gate at Haddock's.

No doubt there is a logical answer, but for the moment I fail to see it.

I'm now waiting for someone to knock on the door to ask if I've found it. 

It looks agricultural to me; but then there's not much around here that isn't!

Back to the old routine.

The Chestnuts are in flower. Hay is being cut. We're swimming again. Wasps are making a nuisance of themselves (so are the bees that were brought in to harvest the Chestnut pollen). The excess fruit from our Bramley tree is falling like hailstones. The Oxalis continues to annoy me. Haddock's is blooming. My mower (Rory) has now been repaired. Everything will soon need watering. The outdoor wooden chairs have all been oiled. Still a surfeit of Tayberries. Pure blue skies. BBQ in full swing. Life is good. Freddie has overcome his fear of dogs. Grapes are swelling on the vines. There's a strong smell of newly cut grass in the air. Boo Boo can now recite the alphabet; not necessarily in the right order. It's hot.

That's about it.

Rogues Gallery.

Here they are folks; the three most dangerous people to hold positions of power in recent times. One from the US of A, one from the UK, and one from Germany.

The true extent of their collective folly is not yet at its peak; it'll be in the decades to come when everything goes thoroughly wrong. Believe me; at the moment we're simply experiencing the relative calm before the storm.

The world has already celebrated the fact that two of them no longer weald power; and it looks as if more Champagne will soon be opened, as Matron Markel is possibly on the way out too. 

Now all we need are people with enough clout to limit the bloody mess they've left in their wake, and, frankly, it will take a bleedin' miracle.

Hold on to your hats!

Jam Jars, and Lids.

Following-on from yesterday's posting, I found this a bit odd.

Like many, we tend to use old Bonne Maman jam jars for our own jams and jellies. The only problem is that the lids have built-in obsolescence; two years re-use is probably their maximum. I have plenty of glass jars, but a fastly reducing supply of usable lids.

Mr Amazon suggested these 12 lids (above) for $17.08 (€14.74 or £12.91). $1,40 each seems a lot of money just for a few simple lids; that's about the price of a jar of jam!

So, whilst shopping yesterday morning I bought a pack of 6 brand new Le Parfait jars, complete with lids, for €4.99 ($5.50 or £4.10).

Something, somewhere, don't seem right!

Also whilst chez Leclerc, I plumped for the Aberlour Single Malt Whisky for my winter tipple. I decided against the Jim Beam. I think I made a wise decision.

Jam Days.

I enjoy the growing, and I enjoy the preservation.

At the moment it's jam making. We've already had our Strawberry glut, and now the Tayberries/Raspberries are going crazy. They need to be preserved for the lean months; and that means mostly 'Jam'.

I'm a relative newcomer to Jam making, but I really enjoy it; it's a very satisfying process. 1 Kilo of fruit, 600 gms of special Jam sugar, a splash of Lemon juice, 5 mins stirring; and viola!

We have loads of Red Currants, and loads of Black Currants too, but I'll leave the making of jelly to Lady Magnon. She's already made her first lot of Apricot jam; the store cupboard is starting to fill.

The Walnuts are now pickling, and there are Girolles in the freezer.

We're getting there!

Jim Beam.

In about 1966 I was managing The Fine Art Gallery in London's Devonshire Street. The gallery was situated next door to Peter Langan's infamous Odin's restaurant.

One of the gallery's regular clients was a young officer from the US naval base in Grosvenor Square. He exclusively bought beautiful Piranesi prints; a very discerning collector.

Through some jiggery-pokery he had managed to acquire himself two books of discount tickets for his PX store, and supplied me with bottles of Jim Beam bourbon at a few shillings a time. He offered all sorts of goodies, but I stuck to the bourbon.

I have just noticed that my Supermarket has a special offer of litre bottles of Jim Beam (above), so I've decided to make this my this coming winter's bottle of 'whiskey', instead of Scotch. It's been nearly 50 years since I last tasted it, so I hope it lives up to my memory.

p.s. The last time I saw the above mentioned officer, he was heading back to Grosvenor Square to smash-up equipment. It seemed that the Embassy's naval base had an annual budget, and that if it was not fully used, they had to break-up equipment to such an extent that the budget would be increased the following year. Everything that they smashed had to be classified as 'Lost at Sea' (in the middle of London!).

Lunacy exists the world over; I hope my bourbon purchase doesn't also prove to be lunacy.

Thieving.

I am absolutely amazed by seemingly ordinary folk who think nothing of stealing. From what I see, almost anyone these days sees theft as acceptable everyday behaviour.

Personally I have never stolen. OK, maybe a pencil from school or a paint brush from college, but I have never knowingly, on purpose, taken things that do not belong to me.

It is accepted that every new invention or service will have the criminal world racking its brains how to abuse it, and I suppose that the Amazon delivery service must have been aware of this.

Many Amazon delivery vans now have an accompanying queue of followers, ready to pounce on whatever package is left on a doorstep (see above). What a dreadful bloody world we live in.

Harvesting.

It is often said (by gardeners who know what they're talking about) that one should begin harvesting your veg' as soon as it becomes edible.

I tend to ignore this advice, as I like to see things grow to a reasonable size before tucking-in. 

My last year's Red Onion crop is a good example. I hardly touched a single Onion before they were fully grown and harvested, then at the end of this last Winter I threw away several kilos that had gone bad.

This year I plan to take the advice, and have already started to harvest Onions, Courgettes, and Spinach, all of which would normally be regarded as far too young to eat. 

In about a week's time I will also have Caulis, Cabbages, and Broccoli, all of which will look as if they've come direct from the 'Mini Veg' department at Waitrose; but without the air-miles. Trendy, or what!

Bulls, Bears, and Coffee beans.

                                

I have been an investor in Equities since the age of about 15, I was a much later punter than the infamous Rees-Mogg; although, like Rees-Mogg, I bought my first shares whilst still at school (any similarity ends there!).

On leaving school I worked on the London Stock Exchange as a 'Blue Button'; a sort of trainee, dogsbody, stockbroker. Share trading was an everyday part of my early working life.

Much later on, back in the early 1980's, I became interested in the London Commodity Exchanges, and joined a small Wheat/Barley trading syndicate. Eventually my interest became concentrated on the trading of Coffee futures (above is the London Metal Exchange; I couldn't find a picture of the 'soft' Exchanges).

I visited a well known Commodity brokerage; established an account, and continued with my 'theoretical trading' at home for another year or so, before making my initial trade. I studied charts, and followed prices on the very basic Ceefax TV service. I learned as much as I possibly could, being away from London.

Commodity futures trading is much like Equity trading in that prices go up as well as down; but opposed to Equity trading, one only places a 10% margin on any Commodity trade, making one's profits or losses multiplied by 10.

This type of trading is not to be recommended for people of a nervous disposition or a weak heart. It is extremely stressful, and full of serious financial pitfalls. Many a bankrupt has lost everything through his/her Commodity trading.

As it happened all went well, and as a result I instantly decided to quit whilst ahead. I walked away a happy man, and have never returned. It was simply far too risky for someone with my limited amount of available assets. My aim had been fulfilled, and that was that.

Trading both Equities and Commodities can be great fun, and occasionally profitable; but take my advice..... stick to the Equities.

Testing times.

                                       

I've been feeling a bit low recently; I expect it's been brought-on by a combination of the weather and so much depressing news.

The ageing process, far too much rain, and a few unimportant niggles, have all added up to my feeling a little depressed; much as I usually do through Winter. News about the crime-wave from 'back home' hasn't helped either.

England's Cricket XI were recently beaten by Scotland (heaven effing help us!), The Football World Cup will no doubt see England being sent home for an early bath, and I probably won't see any grandsons for another 6 months or so.

I believe that 'ecstasy' tabs (or was it LSD?) were first invented to make USA pensioners feel happy; well maybe I need some too. When one feels down, it's very difficult to shake it off, even by simply stroking the cat.

This morning I read an every-day tale of life in today's Britain, which made me want to bloody scream. This type of story is not uncommon, and fuels my despair.

Last month a Lancashire brewery was invaded over a Bank Holiday weekend, by over 100 'travellers' who completely trashed the place, doing over £100,000 worth of damage. They also contaminated all the beer that was in process of brewing, which then had to be thrown away. The police eventually escorted them all to a nearby motorway, and sent them on their way. No-one was prosecuted, or even fined. These people are immune from the law. The brewery may not now re-open.

If that had been ME breaking into the brewery, and doing all that damage, I would now be behind bars. In the UK, this type of PC (don't be cruel to travellers, immigrants, criminals, etc) behaviour is making a mockery of the legal system. It's not surprising that so many school leavers see a life of crime as a good option.

It's OK, Lady Magnon has now returned from London, and I'll soon feel a bit better; even if my fury over Snowflake coppers and judges makes my effing blood boil.

The Rules of Cricket

We are well into the Cricket season, so this might come in handy for those who don't understand the game.

Haddock's in soggy June.

With all the rain we've been having, I haven't been able to get onto the soil to do any weeding at Haddock's, and it's beginning to look a right bloody mess.

The wretched Oxalis is growing like crazy, and I'm becoming extremely frustrated. What started so well is slowly becoming a nightmare.

Everything that is already established is doing well, but my sowings of winter 'greens' have been a disaster. Birds have being playing havoc with my young seedlings, and where I've re-sown I now have Molehills.

I need Chard, Broccoli, Cavolo Nero, and Kale to get us through winter, and at the moment it's not looking good. I may even have to see if I can buy plants.

I need two or three days of serious sunshine in order to tidy-up. I also need the Magpies, Blackbirds, and Moles, to go away for a few days; in fact, forever.

p.s. Since I wrote the above, we've had even more rain. The soil is once again waterlogged, and the bloody Oxalis spreading like crazy.

For services to chaos!

Congratulations to all those mentioned in The Queen's birthday Honours List.

Special mention should go to Mark Carne who receives a CBE. His tireless work to make the UK's train service smooth running and efficient, was reflected in his meagre £820,000 salary (5 times that of the Prime Minister).

Under Mr Carne's management, Britain's railways are now more chaotic, inefficient, and overpriced, than one could ever have imagined possible. Delays and cancellations are now the norm.

If Her Majesty is handing out gongs for failure, then put me down for a knighthood! I've worked bloody hard to earn one; even without the obscene salary.

I wonder what ever happened to....

Our wedding was a somewhat haphazard affair. We wanted to get married in Paris, but were told that we would need to be resident for two weeks; we couldn't afford the time, so we decided on Gibraltar instead.

At the time, the Spaniards were playing silly buggers, and had closed the border between Spain and Gib'. One either had to fly in direct, or take the ferry to Morocco then take another back to Gib'.

This meant that we ended-up having our 'honeymoon' in Tangiers before the actual marriage ceremony itself.

On the ferry between Algeciras and Tangiers we met three Americans; two female secretaries and one male dentist, all from New York. We decided to find an hotel together, and ended up sharing one large room with four beds. The communal shower room was a huge wet-room with six shower heads, there was no room for shyness when taking a shower. The whole Moroccan ambiance was great fun.

The dentist, GG (let's call him Gary), was a very nice guy. He instantly threw himself into local traditions, and quickly returned to the hotel with a big slab of government stamped Hashish, which we sampled at once.

We didn't stay in Tangiers too long, but spent some great times together.

Before we left for Gib', the American trio very kindly presented us with a wedding gift; a very attractive black and white woven blanket that we loved. We used it for many years before it finally fell apart.

I don't remember the names of the two secretaries, but Gary's name has always stuck in my mind, and I recently decided to consult Google to see if he was still around.

Dr Gary's name was all over the net. It seems as if he's one of New York's most important practitioners in Prosthodontics, with loads of honours, professorships, and several books, to his name.

I was almost tempted to write him a 'Remember me?' letter, but thought better of it.

Nothing to lose.

The current spate of UK knifings, shootings, acid throwings, muggings, moped crime, and general criminality, is put down to the fact that these ne'er-do-well scumbags feel they have 'nothing to lose'.

London (and elsewhere) is awash with hoodie and balaclava wearing, drugged-up, gangs, who commit daringly blatant crimes in the knowledge that there are no police on the streets, and therefore little chance of getting caught. If the office-bound police can be at all bothered to follow-up a serious crime, it would only be by watching CCTV coverage. Most active cops are out catching speeding motorists instead.

Here in France, I haven't seen a gendarme for years.

It is no secret that the 'one parent family' is fuelling gang culture. With no father figure at home, the gang becomes 'male family'. Drug dealing brings easy money, and stolen high-end cars make life bearable. Why stack shelves at Tesco for a paltry minimum wage, when you can make thousands by selling coke or grass; and hang around with your mates.

Even when caught, the young criminals are given a small fine, and told not to do it again. Some bloody hope.

So, what's the solution? They could always build more jails, re-introduce 'National Service', or even start rubbish-clearing chain gangs.

Whatever they do, they'll have to do it pretty damn quick, because it's getting seriously out of hand.

What a difference a day makes...

Just to show you how quickly the Walnuts begin to turn black. The one's on the left were prepared on Wednesday (as in yesterday's post), and the one's on the right were prepared (from a different tree) this afternoon (Thursday). 

I've done enough now, I should have supplies for two or three years at least! I still have some from last year.

All is well in Walnut pickle land.

The pickling of young Walnuts.

Unlike last year, this year there is no shortage of Walnuts for pickling. For this process they need to be immature, with no wood having formed inside. A simple test with a pointed knife will reveal if this is so.

The green nuts must be 'topped and tailed', and pierced with a stainless knife blade a couple of times. Any slight imperfections should also be removed.

They are then put into brine for 10 days, with the brine being changed at least twice. Then they are washed and dried, and put out into the sun for a couple of days until they turn black.

At this stage they are packed into large jars and a sweetened vinegar added. You now have to wait at least until Christmas; preferably Christmas 2019 or 2020.  

                                        

Pickled Walnuts are not to everyone's taste, but I have yet to find a more delicious accompaniment to really good strong English Cheddar cheese.

Heroes of the Aussie beaches.

Anyone who watched the recent Commonwealth Games will recognise this spot.

Lots of sporting interviews took place on this beach, looking back towards the eerie city-scape that is Gold Coast.

Australia is so vast that coastal towns are separated by miles of deserted sandy beaches. Perfect for long walks, 4X guzzling, and Prawn BBQ-ing.

Our intrepid heroes of the beach are (L to R) Fearless Finn, Ollie the Gark, Gorgeous George, and Heroic Harv'. A more dashing set of beach bums, I have never seen.

BBQ Days.

At this time of year I like to cook outside as much as possible. A lump of meat on the barbie, plus a simple salad is all I require.

Knowing that we were in for a long period of 'Light Rain', I lit up on Sunday evening expecting that it would be the last time for over a week.

One of my favourite meats is Breast of Lamb; a cheap cut that is filled with flavour. I almost prefer it to expensive Lamb chops, or a big entrecote steak.

The first few tiny Courgettes and some Broad Beans assisted with my 'five-a-day'.

p.s. Top photo courtesy of Kimbo Magnon. 

Flaming June.

Monday: Light rain

Tuesday: Light rain

Wednesday: Light rain

Thursday: Light rain

Friday: Light rain

Saturday: Light rain

Sunday: Light rain

Monday: Light rain

Tuesday: Light rain

One can but wonder what is in store for Wednesday 13th June, and beyond..... Don't tell me; more light rain!

Up in the clouds.

There was I, enjoying an early evening glass of plonk, with a few anchovy-stuffed olives, when from behind the Privet bush came George 111.

There he is. It is him; isn't it!

Little things.

June 1st, and all is (was) well.

The new month is treating me pretty well so far. I found some lovely mushrooms, I found my lost penknife, and I found the Mélange épices poulet that I've been unable to buy for several months.

I lost my gardening Opinel some months ago, and have been searching for it ever since. Frankly I'd given up all hope of finding it. Yesterday morning I was putting something in the back of the Compact Royce; and there is was, under the driver's seat. Lady M had moved the seat forward and it was looking up at me; very pleased to be reunited.

My favourite supermarket (Leclerc) has been in turmoil for the past couple of months. They have been re-organising everything, and it's been a mess. Shelves haven't been stacked correctly, one had to step over builders who have been installing new cooler cabinets (why don't they do that at night?), and the whole place left a lot to be desired. However, just as I was planning a trip to Bergerac (to the 'Festifruits' spice factory) I found the spices that I've been missing. A simple mix of herbs and spices that make even the blandest of Pork chops taste delicious are back on the shelves; I bought two packs which should last me a good while.

All that, along with remembering to say "White Rabbit, White Rabbit" just after midnight, means that I am very happy chappie. We were even swimming again yesterday. At the moment things couldn't be better.

Inclement weather; the good side!

Rain means mushrooms, and mushrooms mean pleasure. Every cloud etc.

Girolles are Kimbo's favourite, so I was especially pleased to find enough to accompany our Confit last night. Actually the above was just the start, I went out again after lunch and gathered a whole lot more.

The Cepes we ate as an omelet for lunch. One of life's little freebie treats.