Remarkable Taste or Chestnut Tourism.

Back in 1995, the combined French ministries of Environment, Culture, Tourism, and Agriculture, had the genius idea of establishing a list of 100 Sites Remarquables du Goût. 

These sites are nominated in order for them to promote their products and to encourage tourism, and I'm pleased to see that my neck-o-the-woods has now been honoured as part of the scheme, and has joined the ranks (above) in order to celebrate the humble Chestnut.

Chestnuts are big business hereabouts; I look out onto several new and old Chestnut plantations (one of which I used to own).

I'm not quite sure about the clumsy term 'Remarkable site of taste', but if it does some good for the local economy then who am I to criticise. 

So, if you're looking for a remarkably tasty Chestnut holiday site (whatever that is) for an upcoming break, then you know where to come.

LOST!

I've mentioned previously that lost dogs turn up here as regularly as clockwork. This one (above) is the latest; luckily she had her phone number on her collar, so I called.

Cro: I've found your dog.

Owner: What dog?

Cro: Don't you own a small white and black dog?

Owner: No.

Cro: Well she has your name and phone number on her collar.

Owner: What does she look like?

Cro: She's very thin with long black ears.

Owner: Oh yes, she's mine. I'll come over and fetch her.

He arrived about an hour later, and turned out to be a very pleasant man. I just couldn't understand why he'd denied that the poor dog was his!

Anyway, the tale had a happy ending (and yes, we did give her something to eat).

Rose, Chuck, Alan, and a bunch of nuns....

This has to be a favourite snap.

One of my favourite painters, Rose Wylie, chatting to the future King of England, with my old school chum (now somewhat disgraced) Alan Yentob.

In the days when I managed a London West End Art Gallery, I used to attend several Vernissages every week. Even though the gallery with which I was associated didn't sell modern work (other than cartoons), I was still on the lists of most major galleries as one who should come sip wine and pronounce pompous comments about the rubbish they had on view.

In the late 60's, 'Private Views' were mega celeb-fests; there were always famous faces around. But those who always attracted my attention was a group of four nuns who would regularly turn-up at the most unexpected shows. I always wanted to ask them who, what, where, and why, but I stupidly respected their privacy and left them to their wine. We were on nodding terms, but that was all.

I didn't buy modern paintings in those days (I still don't), but when I look back to some of the painters whose early shows I attended, and had I bought some of their stuff, I would now be worth almost as much as bloody Trump.

Hear nothing, see no-one, speak not.

                                      

This is a sight that most of us witness on a daily basis.

People wandering about, oblivious to the world around them; communicating by machine, and often blocking out all the 'natural' sounds of their environment.

                                                   

They are to be found in cafés, in supermarkets, on trains, in restaurants, up mountains, and even peddling bicycles. They are like a plague of disinterested introverts who are engrossed in themselves, and their little electronic cocoons.

Children do not come into the world with stickers saying 'Batteries not included'. They are given eyes, ears, and a mouth. They thrive on human contact and communication, then (at some dreadful age) they decide to abandon what nature had given them, and surrender to the use of technology.

Horse riders occasionally use the public footpath behind our house. Not only have I seen some of them actually smoking as they ride (very odd), but lots of them, like the gentleman above, are also plugged into music and texting (tragic). I'm proud to admit that I do neither; even on foot.

Call me a Luddite if you will, but I find this trend quite appalling; and extremely sad!

It's been said many times before, but prior to mobile phones, one never saw queues of desperate people outside public phone boxes. One has to wonder why!

Obesity; the obvious solution. A Sunday special.

                             

Rachel Johnson (sister of Boris) has been in the soup for noting that West Country based chanteuse Kate Bush, hadn't 'skimped on the pasties' since she last warbled. The word 'fat' is a minefield in the UK; mention it (or even allude to it) at your peril.

Anyway, I now hear that England's wonderful National Health Service is planning to offer expensive (£13,000?) Gastric bypass operations to all obese people (and boy, there plenty of those). The idea being that they would save money later on Diabetes treatment.

I would like to offer a much cheaper alternative; pukka FAT PRISONS.

Prisoners would be made to wear traditional 'cupcake patterned' suits, be kept in chains, and have to work on 'nationally beneficial projects' such as building extra FAT PRISONS (to earn points that could then be exchanged for healthy meal vouchers). No points; no food. No cakes, pies, or buns; just porridge, fruit, and veg.

Only when prisoners had lost enough weight would they be released (on parole). If they subsequently put on one more ounce, they'd be back in prison pronto.

Above 20 stone (127 kg, 280 lbs) and you go to FAT PRISON.

Weigh-bridges could be installed on every High Street, and outside every Scottish Restaurant. Sounds OK to me; waddaya think?

I've just heard someone on the radio saying that if you look at old pre-1970's photos, you don't see fat people. What on earth happened to the world!

Chanctonbury; Sussex.

                                   

It is little known, by those who are unfortunate enough not to have been born in either Sussex or Surrey, that the magical place known as Chanctonbury Ring was 'allegedly' chosen by god to be the very centre of The Garden of Eden.

Since the days when Adam and Eve were in residence, its fortunes have changed many times. It was used as an Iron Age Hill Fort, two Roman temples were constructed there, and today it is still used to ensure the fertility of local girls, who (I'm assured) spend the night under its circle of trees. Why our beautiful Sussex girls should need to improve their fertility; I have no idea.

The trees themselves are Beeches, and were planted in 1760; many unfortunately having being torn down in the great storm of 1987. The missing trees have all now been replaced, but the look (above) will take many years to return.

I am fortunate to own a watercolour, of the very view above, by the noted artist Charles W Taylor. Unfortunately it is elsewhere, so the illustration above will have to suffice.

All Sussex folk, on seeing this view, become filled with pride and renewed vigour. It is the centre of our world, as it was to Adam and Eve all those years ago.

BBQ Sauce.

It's almost BBQ season; mine has been cleaned, and is ready for action.

I'm looking for a fail-proof, delicious, simple, four-ingredient (or less), BBQ Sauce recipe.

My usual one is a bit hit-n-miss; it usually contains a ramshackle melange of Soy, Ketchup, Honey, Worcestershire Sauce, and vinegar. But I never seem to get it quite RIGHT.

These Pork Ribs (that we ate last night) were OK; they looked good, but were not great. No Ooomph.

So, any simple fail-proof BBQ Sauce recipe (and method) would be welcomed. Maybe my whole process is wrong; I tend to paint the sauce onto the Ribs during the final phase of cooking. Is that right?

Readers from across the pond may like to offer assistance; they seem to do this so much better than us Europeans.