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Monthly Archives: August 2015

‘What Is Cosmos’

30 Sunday Aug 2015

Posted by juleslewis in Musings

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‘You take the car, I’ll walk back with the dog’. I hear myself desperately say, as I try to carve out some time to myself, after four weeks family holiday.

‘It’s ok, I’ll come with you’ says the VOR, afraid that I will call into the pub, ‘Besides I have to pick up some flowers for the village fete’.

Reluctantly accepting my fate – not fete, although it is somewhat similar – I am surprised when she agrees to my suggestion of a cheeky, lunchtime ale. After the customary ten minutes choosing, the VOR settles on ‘A half of whatever you’re having’ then complains about its quality.

‘What do you have to do?’ I ask through a mouthful of hoppy beer. ‘We’ says the VOR, scuppering my chances of a sneaky second pint, ‘have to get some Cosmos from Gerald Trainer – knight of the realm and former spy’s garden. ‘Well, to be precise, it’s not his garden anymore. Penny and Ralph live there now but they are in New Zealand and Margaret said that they wouldn’t mind.

‘What Is Cosmos’? I ask, wondering how I became involved.

‘It’s an orange flower, YOU will know it when YOU see it’. ‘Do you know the house?’ ‘ Yes’ she says, ‘It’s where Edward and I bought the boat’. ‘And do you have some secateurs?’ I say, warming to the conspiratorial task but realising I have probably asked too many questions.

‘What was that beer called?’ ‘Old Molethrottler – you normally like it’ I say, as I tie the dog to the gatepost.

Trying to find some orange flowers, I walk around to the rear of the house and bump into a man in a panama hat unloading a car. ‘Hello’ I venture, feeling like a small boy who has knocked someone’s door and been caught running away. He returns my hello without enthusiasm and an expression which says ‘Who are you and what the **** are you doing in my garden?’ Before I can say ‘Ralph, I thought you were in New Zealand’ the VOR arrives.

‘Hi’ she says, extending her hand ‘I’m Katie, Jenny and John’s daughter, from the farm at the top of the hill. Margaret said it was OK to pick some orange flowers for the village fete – What are they called Jules?’ ‘Cosmos’ I answer.

‘Who’ says the man, fixing her with what I can only imagine is a quizzical stare behind his dark glasses. ‘Margaret’ says the VOR, less sure of herself now and realising that we are not at Penny and Ralph’s.

‘Are you Gerald?’ she nervously asks.

‘I am’ the man says, ‘But What Is Cosmos?’

This is my moment, and unable to resist, am just about to say – for I too am wearing dark glasses. ‘Well Gerald, I think you know precisely what Cosmos is, and we’re here for it, so hand it over’.

Fortunately the VOR interjects, ‘I think there’s been some misunderstanding and we are all at the wrong end of some Chinese whispers – So sorry to disturb’.

Gerald’s quintessentially English reserve prevents him from informing the police and we cheerfully depart leaving a confused, and inwardly seething man, to his unpacking.

We laughingly recount our experience as we hurry down the hill and the VOR wets herself with laughter in the country lane.

Later that evening we learn that the flower in question is called Crocosmia Paniculata and it grows, like a weed, in our drive.

‘Give me a taste of that beer’ says the VOR. ‘Oh now that’s nice, much better than the one at lunchtime’. ‘What is it?’ she asks. ‘Old Molethrottler’ I answer, struggling to keep a straight face. It has not been a great day for women’s intuition.

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‘The Hills are Alive’

19 Wednesday Aug 2015

Posted by juleslewis in Wine

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Tags

France, Savoie, Travel, Wine

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‘It’s your turn’ the VOR says, disturbing my concentration, as we motor through the Alpine tunnels.
I love driving through ‘La Belle France’ its wide empty roads a refreshing change from the congestion, drizzle and perpetual greyness of my home on Kong’s Island.
Each leg of our journey is a revelation. The battlefields of the Marne and the Somme, the vineyards of Champagne, the Chickens of Bresse, the wildness of the Parc Naturel Régional de Haut Jura and the overdue promise of a Fondue Savoyarde.
The VOR dislikes video games and films and, rather like those parents who insist on wooden toys, prefers ‘I Spy’, ‘I Went to the Shop’ and ‘Who am I’ as (in-car) entertainment much to our children’s chagrin.

I settle on a mineral in ‘Animal, Mineral, Vegetable’ hoping to buy some extra daydreaming time. The kids, having held their breath in the tunnels of Paris, have decided that they might die of asphyxiation in the long Alpine versions perhaps thinking that this might be preferable to guessing my choice of Georgerobinsonite.
We arrive in a heatwave, the high temperatures sapping what little energy remains in my middle son’s teenage body forcing him to lie down (again) lest vertigo take hold.
I settle for an ‘Ice Cold in Alex’ moment with a glass of beer prior to a swim in the Lake – don’t try this at home – to rid myself of my drivers legs. The VOR meanwhile befriends our neighbours, an elderly couple from Paris, who are impressed by her treatment of their beloved language. It appears she has told them that I am a wine merchant and for the rest of our holiday the old man waves half empty bottles in my direction to indicate his tipple of the day.
I have decided to swim to the mile buoy and back twice a day. Although this slightly increases my chances of a premature death by drowning, it is the only way I can think of to burn off the Tartiflette and Gratin Dauphinoise.
There are some 17 crus worthy of the name Vin de Savoie and I intend to work my way through all of them during our stay. The best are Abymes, Apremont, Arbin, Ayze, Crepy, Seyssel, Montmelian, Saint-Jeoire-Prieuré and my own personal favourites Cruet and Chignin. These razor sharp, low alcohol, refreshingly restorative, often perlant whites are made from Jacquere, Altesse (or Rousette), Gringet, Chasselas (Roux and Vert) and Roussanne or Bergeron of Chignin. The reds (please don’t ‘mull’ them) are equally light and delicious and made from Gamay (Noir a Jus Blanc), Pinot Noir, Persan (almost non existent) and the native Mondeuse.
Our heatwave ends prematurely in a massive storm which obliterates the southern end of the Lake making it look like the entrance to the sea. I put down my Mondeuse, batten the hatches, splice the mainbrace and break out the Eau de Vie.
The inclement dawn weather inspires the VOR to venture further into the mountains. I question the wisdom of going higher but only inwardly as cowardice, or is it diplomacy, prevails.
‘I promised the boys a toboggan ride’ she ventures by way of an explanation.
We climb through the kind of narrow, winding, hairpins a cyclist full of EPO would struggle with. Past cows with bells and cute wooden chalets perched precariously on the sides of deep valleys.
‘Does the Tour de France ever come through here’ my youngest asks. 2009 and 2013, I ‘Rainmanly’ add, but my attention is taken by an extremely small man with curly hair stood next to a woodpile.
Before I have adequately thought things through I find myself on a chairlift ascending over heathered scrub and jagged rock into increasingly opaque cloud to the sound of a child weeping. Afraid of heights I know exactly how they must feel. This must look charming in the snow, I think, but again keep it to myself.
“Mont Blanc must be over there” the VOR says, gesticulating toward a thick bank of grey cloud, before the returning chairlift hits her in the calves leaving two peach size bruises which ruin her tan for the remainder of the holiday. I sit next to my cold and frightened youngest son vainly trying to keep him warm, and my camera dry, as a rivulet of rainwater runs down the back of my neck.
We change into dry clothing under the tailgate of the car before running to a charming, chalet-style restaurant for lunch and some much needed warmth. ‘This is nice’ and ‘Pull yourselves together’ says the VOR to our hypothermic offspring over the sausages and beer. Our fellow diners all appear to come from the north of England, presumably eager to find somewhere that resembles the Lake District in February, they do not seem to be cold at all.
Hours later, whilst driving back through the mountains with the heater on full blast, we pass the same man next to the woodpile and I imagine him in lederhosen made from Captain Von Trapp’s curtains.

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