Can You Keep A Secret?

Those readers of my blog who haven't happened by because of their interest in Bob Dylan will know that I have long had an interest in gardening - by which I mean the proper cultivation of fruit and vegetables.

I take my cue in all matters horticultural from the estimable Mystic Veg, and now and again from the even more estimable Crofty.

I've never had much of an inclination for lawns and flowers. Nevertheless, when I was invited to join a friend on a visit to the Secret Gardens of Oxton this morning, I thought it would be churlish to refuse.

I'm glad I went. Oxton is a delightful old village that has been all but engulfed by the suburbs of Birkenhead. It's the kind of place where John Torode, if he was ever thinking of opening a new restaurant, would find a ready audience.

It's hard not to imagine Elizabeth Hurley - fresh from her Indian wedding, perhaps - taking tea on one of the carefully-manicured lawns. Not when it comes to trying to increase the number of readers of your blog, anyway.

Not everyone will have been able (whether through indolence, over-indulgence or churchly-responsibilities) to get up bright and early to tour the secret gardens of Oxton this Sunday morning so, for those who couldn't make it, I thought I'd post a small, select sample of what you've missed.

When all is said and done, there's something peculiarly British about enjoying poking about in a stranger's garden, and thanks to the Oxton Society it can all be done legitimately in something like 30 venues for just a fiver.

I'm off for a spot of lunch just now, after this morning's pleasant stroll. It's looking as though the weather might fair up a little, with the sun set to break out when I resume my tour.

Discretion Advised

The news that Ryanair have launched a prize competition for suggestions as to how they can increase revenue from 'discretionary charges' should fill the heart of the travelling punter with dismay.

As if it's not enough that their cheapo fares (often as low as penny) are mysteriously morphed (after taxes, charges, booking fees, insurance and the rest are added) to something approaching fifty quid, the Irish airline are apparently intent on scamming yet more dosh out of us. And there's 1000 Euros up for grabs for the best idea.

I can't complain - I've had my fair share of fare bargains in my time. But I'll bet this man will be quick off the mark to shout. Unless they offer passengers the chance to pay a supplement to fly over Bergerac without stopping, that is...

The Birds

There will be some who try to tell you that Bill Blunt has far more holidays than he deserves. My advice – for what it’s worth – is not to listen to those gainsayers.

After a lifetime at the peak of provincial journalism, a man deserves to slow the pace a little. Retirement can too often feel like being turned out to grass, unless it’s leavened with a little travelling.

It’s a fine line, of course, between work and leisure. There aren’t many who would choose to spend their ‘holidays’ mowing lawns, chopping wood and learning the finer points of artisan bread-making, French-style.

That’s how I came to find myself, once more, in the delightful town of Bergerac. Yes, the doubters and the critics will put it about that I spend half my life there. I can’t worry about that, at my age. Under the watchful tutelage of Jean-Philipe, I spent a happy morning moulding and shaping bread dough into all manner of shapes and designs. So much enjoyment did I have that I realised how, if I hadn’t been seduced at an early age by the smell of printer’s ink, I could have slipped easily into a career as a local baker.

Jean-Philipe makes old-fashioned bread using quality, organic ingredients. It’s a slow, thoughtful process, dependent on a fine eye for the state of the weather and the ambient temperature during the mixing of the dough. Real bread, strong enough to last a week, not the insipid, plastic rubbish that predominates in the shops in England today. Crofty would have loved it.

On my current trip, I also had the pleasure of meeting Mr and Mrs Dixie, part of the powerhouse that err…fuels Fuel My Blog. They live in La Rochelle, of course, but reasons of economy meant this was my point of entry into France, despite the three hour journey it entailed down to Bergerac. And a very lovely couple they are, too.

La Rochelle’s a fine city, which my flying visit for a coffee with Kevin and Sylvie couldn’t do justice to. Perhaps that’s why fate – and a few stray birds on the run-way at La Rochelle that managed to mangle themselves in the engine - conspired to hand me a free afternoon in the place on my return to the UK. Either that, or it was some terrible curse cast upon me by Mystic Veg, in repayment of the delays I had forced him to endure in June.

If Easyjet had been a tad more honest about the reasons for the delayed departure of their 1.15pm flight EZY5034 to Gatwick, I might even have had much longer. At first they admitted it would take four hours to fly out an engineer to check for damage, which at least meant I could leave the airport and hop a bus into town. Having been in a few airports in my time, I can tell you that La Rochelle’s doesn’t have much to hold your attention for much more than twenty minutes, so when balanced against the prospect of a bowl of moules et frites in a pleasant bar overlooking the harbour, it was what the younger set might call a ‘no brainer’.

Returning to the airport at 5pm after my modest repas, I was delighted to discover that Kevin and Sylvie were also going there, so they were able to offer me a lift. Their flight with Ryanair had, we discovered, also been afflicted by the kamikaze birds of La Rochelle.


Once the engineer had done his stuff (about 6pm) we were informed that the plane now needed a new pilot – who was similarly being flown in and – yes - it would be another (this time unspecified) delay. I suppose it was too much to expect that whoever was working on the logistics of this problem at Easyjet could have factored this matter into the equation when working out what to do about the birds in the engine, and sorting out an engineer. But that would have been too simple. Instead, we awaited hourly announcements that finally culminated in the plane taking off at 23.15pm, a full 10 hours after schedule.

To rub salt into already very sore wounds, the less than merry band of passengers we had become as the day wore on were informed that there were no refreshments available on the plane, other than a glass of water. For a group of people who had become increasingly annoyed by the surly manner of the chap who runs the bar at La Rochelle airport (where food and smiles had run out quickly) this was the final straw. By now, of course, we might have been a cowed and whimpering lot, denied our Easyjet sandwiches and Pringles, but too worn-down to complain. Or maybe (and this is what I’d prefer to think) we were strengthened in our resolve and determination not to let this last tribulation break our spirits. Our stiff upper lips prevailed.

The fate of the Ryanair passengers was furthermost from our minds, although I heard they departed shortly after us, and landed safely at Stansted. Perhaps they fared better when it came to the sarnies.

It’s a brave man who says Bill Blunt is easily put off enjoying his holiday by a simple matter like a 10 hour delay in the return journey. I’ll be back to learn a little more about bread-making in Bergerac, and I’m more than certain there’s another bowl of moules waiting for me on a table outside a harbour bar in La Rochelle with my name stamped on it.

Did I Mention The Dementia?

As the grey hairs continue their steady advance across my head, in step with the cruel march of time, it becomes increasingly difficult to blame my forgetfulness on that old standby, alcohol.

A recent trip to Bergerac revealed this all too starkly. The first part of my holiday was in the company of a friend of mine from Chester. We go back a long way, but it was nonetheless good of her to stay calm and collected when we arrived at our place of stay to discover I had forgotten to bring the key. We drew on our collective wisdom to construct a plan, rapidly discounting breaking in or calling a lock-smith (reasoning that if two French people tried to persuade an English locksmith to break into a either of our own houses on the strength that they had forgotten their key, we'd hope they'd get pretty short shrift).

I was dimly aware that an organic baker of the name Jean Philipe held a spare key, but wasn't exactly sure where he lived. When, after some driving around, we did finally find his oven, he was nowhere to be seen. We back-tracked into Bergerac and I made what was to be the first of many trips to the Tourist Information Centre there. The girl behind the desk listened in a bemused sort of way as I told her my sorry tale. She then proceeded to do a lot of phoning around, finally locating the said Jean Philipe, who promised to deliver the key a couple of hours later at a rendezvous (which is French, apparently, for a meeting place). That left Sue and I a couple of hours to amble round the town and take in a spot of lunch, relaxing for the first time since we'd stepped off the plane a couple of hours earlier. True to his word, he turned up at 2pm, and the holiday could get back on track.

My friend was departing a couple of days later, so our time was spent in a whirlwind tour of markets, cafes, restaurants and vineyards. On her final night, I admit we may have consumed more than either of us is used to when it comes to wine and pastis. Nevertheless, I managed to deliver her to the airport safely where, once she was through check-in, I was able to position myself in a cafe outside the airport and wait for my second visitor, who was arriving off the plane she was departing on. Everything went to plan this time, with my writing-accomplice Dick Broadhean clearing the tiny arrivals hall in minutes, and his bags safely deposited at the house just ten minutes later.

We were there, ostensibly, to do some writing, and were to be joined the next day by a third scribbler. In the meantime, Dick and I had a trip out to watch Jean Philipe firing up his huge bread oven, situated in a large shed in a tiny village outside of Bergerac. Like a vast ship's engine (but not on a ship) the oven required almost constant feeding with carefully-selected pine wood. The wood had been chosen to allow the oven to reach it's optimum 'calorific weight'. Much discussion took place about this concept, I can tell you. Dick seemed to understand it more than I did. Then, it was a trip to a nearby market for a spot of food shopping.

That evening, as the sky shone with stars, Dick and me spent hours putting the world to rights. I'll admit, more wine and pastis were involved. The next day, we had one main task to accomplish - the collection from the airport of my old mucker, Mystic Veg. I'd managed to lose the paper with his arrival time on but, Bergerac airport not being exactly a hub of activity, it was fairly easy to discover that the Stansted flight wasn't due to arrive until 4.30pm, which left Dick and me with a full day to explore some of the villages around Bergerac. And very pleasant it was, too.

We were in good time to meet the flight, which arrived early. As we waited excitedly for MV's emergence from the arrivals shed, there was much 'That's him-ming' followed just as quickly by 'No - that's not him'. As the last passenger cleared customs, it was clear that MV hadn't made the flight. Unless something else could have gone wrong.

Dick and I drove back to the house, pondering what could possibly have happened. The fifteen minute journey seemed to take an hour. When we arrived, we found a note - quite a polite one, under the circumstances.

Dear Bill and Dick

After waiting two hours at the airport I decided to get a taxi here. After a further four hours sat in the garden, I decided that something must have happened to you both. I'm going to book into a hotel tonight, and will meet you outside the Tourist Information at 11am tomorrow.

MV

Mortification isn't the word. The thought that a man of such advancing years as Mystic should have had to spend the best part of a day alone and abandoned in a foreign country made me ashamed to be a Blunt.

Dick and I sped off to the Tourist Information, where I found myself instantly recognised as 'The Key Man'. It was a slim hope that we'd find MV making enquiries there, but they hadn't seen him. They gave us a list of hotels in the place, and we began our task of searching them. After we'd visited a couple, we finally had a call from Mystic, who had just booked into a hotel two minutes away from where we were standing, and where he'd found a phone in his room that didn't require a degree in french to operate. When we told the receptionist our tale, she was pleased to release him from his contract.

It's a brave man that accuses Bill Blunt of dementia. There's life enough in this old hack's frame to be able to blame the Ricard from the night before. However, there's a lesson to be learned from this whole, sorry affair.

I've learned that Lincoln is MUCH closer to East Midlands airport than Stansted is, and that only a fool would assume otherwise.

And, on the positive side, we found it easy enough, after the experience of our trip, to come up with a name for the sitcom we're working on - Losing The Plot. I like to take credit for that.

A huge Big Up is due to the staff at the Bergerac Tourist Information Office, though. They don't half get some weird enquiries.

The Gnashing's Over!

News in from the smoky small-holdings of Lincolnshire, where the smell of weeds burning in a heap of soil lends an earthy tone to my final post of the weekend.

An old drinking partner of mine from my days at Beyond The Boundary magazine has just made his debut on the blogosphere. And a very fine debut it is, if I may be so bold as to say.

The author is a man who, back in 1994, stunned publicans across Oldham with news of his engagement to a Lincolnshire lass. Once he was 'withdrawn from circulation', some observers estimated that as many as 125 jobs were lost in the pub and brewery sector of the town in the months and years to follow.

His sage advice on vegetable growing looks destined to bring a whole new dimension to blogworld - filling a palpable void that has hitherto had seasoned allotment holders gnashing their teeth (and in some cases, their dentures) in frustration. They need gnash no longer.

May I introduce, then, MysticVeg.