Ski season again

After a month of blue skies and sunny days, the snow has finally arrived. I was still having my lunch on the terrace, in a T-shirt on the 1st of December! We were beginning to worry that the snow wouldn't come this year. But last week the skies clouded over, the peaks were hidden from view, and it rained in the valley. So we knew the snow had come, and this was confirmed over the weekend as the curtain of clouds parted to show the mountain tops dusted white. It's not much but it's a start. Saturday and Sunday enthusiasts headed for the hills to 'chauffe les skis', literally warm up there skis. A friend invited me to accompany him on a night ski randonnée as there was a full moon. Ski randonnée is a physical sport, a synthetic skin is attached to your skis, so that you can slide uphill and then, once at the top these are removed and you can ski down. Most often, this activity is done away from ski stations and can be dangerous. Avalanches are a common problem for participants in Ski randonne. I tend to stick to easy, safe routes. On Sunday, as it was the first outing, we followed the piste at our local ski station. Normally, this cannot be done as they prepare the piste at night, and it would be dangerous with all the machines. However, as it was early in the season and the station was not fully open, there was no preparation underway. With the full moon the light was magical, and the silence profound. In my imagination I saw dark shapes flitting between the trees, and expected to hear the howl of one of the wolves said to live in the mountains around hear. But we were the only living things foolish enough to venture out. I found myself quite out of breath as we progressed up the slopes. Soon sweating from physical exertion I removed jacket, hat and gloves. It didn't feel cold despite being -2°C. Unfortunately as we progressed the clouds came over and made it very dark and difficult to ski. Nevertheless it was a very pleasant first outing. I arrived home at midnight and fell quickly into a deep satisfied sleep. Now we have to cross our fingers and hope that the old people are right and that there will be more snow over Christmas. Even if this means putting up with grey skies and rain lower down the mountain, the price to pay for a good ski season.

Sixty million Frenchmen

This is a book I would recommend to anyone who wants to try and get a grip on the French mentality.  Obviously there are some generalisations, just as there would be that tried to understand 60 million British.  However there are some insights and if you've been hear awhile you'll know some of it is true.

Protest

I'm going to break a rule about not using my blog for political comment, but something strange is happening in France.  France has a reputation for protesting, 'the French like to râler', I've been told many times.  They are even proud of their ability to take to the streets at the drop of a hat.  It was in France that I had my first ever whiff of tear gas, as students protested outside the Chamber of Commerce.  I was inside teaching English to business men, and the building was guarded by riot police.  Exciting times, and I have lived in Nigeria.
But now that the Euro is under threat; our governments use our money to save the banks, and unelected technocrats replace our politicans, it's left to the Americans to occupy Wall Street and the British to occupy the City.  The French are surprisingly quiet.  I can't explain why, and I don't understand.  My students mock the British for being so meek and standing in line.
Meanwhile, I've created two petitions in response to the British governments e-petition initiative.  Who knows if they will do any good, but at least I don't feel like I'm doing nothing.  I urge you to sign them if your a Brit.

The first is against the scandal of Vulture Funds: http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/23302

The second is against Child Labour in the Malawian tobacco fields: http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/23304

Thanks in advance, maybe through the pen we can make this world a better place.

Rodents

The problem with old houses in the countryside, particularly old houses left empty for any length of time, is that squatters move in. Our house was no exception. First, and most visibly, it was the spiders. We spent days cleaning away the webs and spraying. I know, spiders are our friends but my wife and mother-in-law are terrified of them. I tried to explain they were a sign of a healthy house and keep the flies down. But I think the electric heater bursting into flames helped to convince me they were probably right. It was full of old webs and dried spider carcases. Anyway I was right about the flies, we are now plagued by them.

Next it was lizards. These had made their home around the window frames and in the ventilation holes. They over-wintered here and then basked in the sunshine on our south facing walls. Luckily for them, my wife likes lizards so they didn’t risk annihilation. Unluckily for them, in their groggy, post winter state they did risk being trapped in rapidly shut windows. After finding squashed tail ends or entire corpses we learnt to close the windows slowly, allowing potential victims to escape. One evening, while reading the paper, I heard a frantic scratching, which I traced to a large lizard hanging by its tail from the patio doors. He was released and scuttled under the skirting board. The lizards occasionally find themselves in the house but usually find their way out, preferring the sun-baked garden.

No, our real enemy for the first year was the mice. The first indication of their presence was the droppings, discovered behind the built in cooker. I assumed the droppings were old and the mice had left, that was until the nightly scratching in the attic began. I must admit to being less than courageous at two am in a cold attic, wearing only my boxer shorts. For some reason, despite women’s liberation, it is always me who is sent to investigate strange noises in the night. Despite my forays it was my wife who saw the first visual evidence of a mouse.

Our house had a slightly quirky feature when we moved in. The toilet was a closet in the kitchen. As we ate in the kitchen, this made dinner parties rather awkward. Either you crossed your legs, or everyone made loud, polite conversation while you visited the loo. One night I was woken from my slumber by a shriek from the toilet. I went to investigate and found my wife cowering against the wall, a mouse had run between her feet as she sat. As I laughed, I realised that the mice would have to go.

Now, I am a pacifist and dislike harming god’s creatures. Which is why I deliver snails from my garden to my neighbour’s rather than stamping on them. The burnt hedgehog was a mistake and, despite my wife’s amusement, I was mortified. But that’s another story. Anyway because of these principals it had to be humane traps. Little cages, whose doors slam shut behind the mouse, then you can liberate your furry friend into the wild, where it belongs.

To begin with things went well, I caught a few mice. Each morning, I would go up to the loft, collect the trap, with its terrified mouse, and pop it in the boot of my car. I am not stupid, if I released a mouse near my house it would be back like a shot. My drive to work takes about forty- five minutes, and each time I caught a mouse I would stop about half way, near a suitable field, and release my prisoner. What could be more humane, a mouse released alive into nature. That was until a slow mouse was chopped in half by the rapidly closing door on my so-called humane trap. Not so human after all and pretty gory. I had discovered some frozen corpses during the winter months when I forgot to check my traps.

Despite having released three or four mice we were still woken by nightly scratching. I had lifted the floorboards in the loft and discovered the insulation riddled with passages and nests. There were mouse droppings everywhere and some even dropped through gaps in our wooden ceiling onto the bed. It was time for firmer action. I remembered my Grandma’s mousetraps which neatly beheaded the mice, swift and painless. The traps worked a treat until the fatal night we heard an ominous tapping in the roof. I climbed out of bed and went up to the loft. There, like something out of a grotesque horror film, was a mouse lurching around the loft with a trap firmly clamped to its head. Obviously this one had been quicker than is unfortunate cousin, but not quick enough and the trap had slammed down on part of his head. He was not quite dead, but I doubted he could survive this injury. I grabbed a broom and put the mouse out of its misery. As I descended the stairs I wondered if it had been such a good idea to buy the house.

I finally bowed to the inevitable and followed the advice of my neighbours, poison it was. Since putting down the sweet smelling packets we have not been disturbed, no doubt tonight I will be woken by the scrabbling of my furry friends. I won the first battle but not the war.

After school clubs

The strange after school ballet is well sychronised now.  Outside the local gymnasium or music school there is a constant coming and going of cars, as parents shuttle their children from judo to trumpet classes and other such activities.  In France music and art are not part of the primary school curriculum.  I remember having pottery and music classes at school.  Here parents are forced to register their children in after -school classes if they want them to partake in these activities.  It is this that gives rise to the late afternoon circus of cars rushing back and forth.  Part of the fault for this lies with the four -day week, there is no time to include art subjects in four days.  Wednesday is perhaps the busiest day of the week for parents.  Many mothers don't work Wednesdays as they have to ferry their kids about.  There is talk of school on Wednesdays but so far the teaching unions are  holding out.  So if your planning to bring up children in France steel yourself to become a taxi driver for your children and their friends.

Lost in France

This site is interested in your expat experience.  No payment involved unfortunately.

http://www.lost-in-france.com/real-france/interviews/1513-living-in-the-french-alps

My four young ladies, providing us with four eggs a day.  A couple of year ago, I bought two black hens at the local agricultural show.  One died myseriously so I replaced it.  Then the second was attacked by a fox in broad daylight.  One day a neighbour arrived at my back door with a terrified chicken in her arms.  She had arrived in time to see the fox chasing the chickens around their run, unfortunately one had died of fright.  My one remaining chicken was then taken by the fox one windy October Sunday while we were out for a walk.
I had to wait until the spring agricultural fair to buy these four.  No sign of Mr Fox but as the nights draw in and it grows colder I have no doubt he will be back for his take away.  Hopefully my defensive measures will keep him out this time.
This site is American but I've found it a great help.  Only problem is translating disease names into French and finding certain treatments here in France.

C'est La Folie

I'm not a great fan of books written by expats living in France.  Too often they seem to be collections of anecdotes about how funny and frustrating the French are.  I once counted about fifteen of these books on the bookstand of a cross channel ferry.  So it was with a little scepticism that I opened Micheal Wright's book about his attempt to find adventure in France.  My father had recommend and sent it to me so I felt slightly obliged to give it ago.  At first I sneered at his references to his plane, another rich expat I thought.  But I persevered and have to admit I am actually enjoying it.  The book is actually quite amusing and not as disparaging of the French as these books usually are.  I haven't finished yet but so far so good.
Crying with laughter last night as I read about him transporting sexed up ship in his espace.

A night in a mountain refuge

Last weekend I spent a night in a mountain refuge to celebrate a friend's 40th birthday.  Aside from the daunting fact that me and all my friends are all turning 40, it was only my second time staying in a refuge.  I don't feel that the first experience really counts as the refuge had a guardian.  Our meal was cooked for us, they had electricity and running water, and the rooms were cleaned.  The refuge that we stayed last weekend in was a different story.  Unguarded refuges have no electricity or running water.  In general there is a large room with fireplace, table and benches.  Above this, is a second floor with  matresses for sleeping.  Unguarded refuges are more or less well equipped depending on how popular they are.  They cannot be reserved and operate on a 'first come-first served' basis.  The door is never locked.
We left in mid- afternoon to try and be sure we would arrive before anyone else.  We were carrying all our food and drink.  We chose a refuge not too far from where we left our cars.  After a steep two hour walk, we arrived at our chosen chalet only to discover we had been beaten to it.  Luckily there were five refuges within a one kilometre radius.  However, the people who had bagged our chosen refuge told us that they had already had to move on from another which was full.  So with foreboding we headed off to the next refuge.
As we drew within sight, there was no sign of occupants, the chimney wasn't smoking.  We were in luck it was empty and surprisingly well equipped.  There were pots and pans, two axes and plenty of firewood.  There was a firepit in front of the building, a water source and nearby a toilet (although we only discovered the state of this the next morning).  We had a magnificent view of the mountains, with their first sprinkling of snow on the very summits, to our left, looking right the valley stretched down to the plain.
We settled in and got down to the blind wine tasting we had planned for the evening.  Each person had brought a different wine. These were decanted into bottles marked with letters of the alphabet.  We then tested and tried to guess which wine was which.  I am happy to say my score was two out of six, a hundred percent improvement on my first attempt a few years ago.
Then as darkness fell we heard voices and saw lights bobbing down the mountain.  Other people were on the way to our refuge.  We prepared ourselves to turn them away.  It was a group of young foreign students walking in the mountains, they had been turned away from another refuge higher up.  We began by telling them we were full, but their pleading and the gathering darkness weakened our hearts.  We warned them that our party would go on until late, they could have the sleeping platform but we would use the matresses to sleep down stairs.  After some discussion they agreed and moved in.
It was now totally dark and the lights were twinkling in the valley below.  Then we heard the roar of engines and lights appeared on the track.  Two camouflaged figures appeared on quad bikes.  Their arrival was the only black mark of the evening, as it became they were already drunk and were up to no good.  Luckily our superiority in numbers caused them to back down and move on.  The rest of the evening passed in much merry making, until a rain shower forced us inside and to bed.
I slept surprisingly well and the refuge was quite warm, despite my apprehensions my thermal underwear stayed in my bag.  The next morning, the first to wake, I watched the light gradually reveal the mountain as the cattle lowed.  I felt privileged to witness the mountain like this and made vow to repeat the experience.  Although next time I would choose a refuge inaccesible to quads!

Paragliding over the Alps

Paragliding, or 'Parapente' as its known here in France, is a very popular sport in around Grenoble.  The most popular site is St Hilaire de Touvet.  Almost every weekend paragliders can be seen circling over the valley, after having them hurled themselves off the cliff.  In late september a festival of flight (Coupe Icare) is held here, with all types of flying machines present.  The highlight, however, is the fancy dress days when paragliders dressed in fancy dress costume can be seen in the skies.
Another popular spot for this sport is the Collet d'Allevard, just ten minutes from my house.  I have often watched the paragliders as they drift over the mountains and imagined what it must feel like.  A couple of years ago, I paid for my wife to take a flight with an instructor and she loved it.  She then offered to pay for me to do a flight, but I always found a reason not to.
Then finally last weekend I decided to take the plunge.  The sky was clear blue, but it was a little windy.  While my family waited at the landing site, I jumped into a van and we roared off up the mountain.  My fellow passengers were all paragliding students who were beginning their solo flights.  I would have to wait while they all launched, before the instructor would strap himself to me and we could fly.  The first thing I noticed was that despite the sun everyone had a fleece jacket and I did not.
The van pulled up next to a field that contained a small windsock.  The paragliders jumped out and shouldered their paragliding bags.  They looked like turtles as they filed into the field.  The sails were laid out in arcs in the field and the process of separating the lines attaching the sails to the backpacks began.  I soon understood that waiting around was a big part of paragliding.  After equipment checks, the paragliders had to wait their turn to jump, and when their turn came they had to wait for the right moment when there was just enough wind, but not too much.  You have to be patient.
Unfortunately, after a 30 minute wait, the last two students were unable to fly as the wind had become too strong.  So I was a little surprised when the instructor told me to get ready, apparently despite the strong wind we would still be flying.  I was a little nervous but he told me as we would be heavier it shouldn't be a problem.  Once the sail was ready I stood in front of him and he attached me.  After a couple of instructions, we stepped forward the sail inflated then he shouted 'run'.  I took a couple of steps before we were airborne, we rose over the trees and I was able to sit back and admire the view.
I was surprised to discover my nerves had disappeared faced with the spectacle before me.
The instructor didn't say much, he just let me enjoy the fabulous view of my alpine home.  It was quite breathtaking and we were even able to see Mont Blanc.  I must have seemed too relaxed as my instructor decided to perfome some acrobatics, just to show me what was possible.  Never a fan of rollercosters I was glad when he stopped and we came in to land.
All in all it was a great expereince and interesting to see my home from another angle but I don't think I'll be taking up the sport.

Forum des associations

As I mentionned in my last post, it's 'La rentrée' and one feature of this period is the 'Forum des associations'.  Each village or commune organises a sort of salon where the different associations or clubs present their activity to potential participants.  There are clubs for every activity; football, tennis, climbing, painting, music, yoga, in fact almost any activity you can think of is represented.  There is so much choice that some people have to set themselves a limit, one sport and one artisitic club for example, if not the cost and time would be crippling.  Many clubs take place on Wednesdays as there is no school.   A lot of mothers don't work on Wednesday and spend the day ferrying their offspring to and from different clubs.  Others take place in the evenings or on Saturday mornings.  Most French people join at least one association and their kids often two or three.
In France the 'vie associative' is taken very seriously, so seriously in fact that in 1901 a law was passed governing the organisation of these clubs, you may well hear people talking about 'la loi mille neuf cent un'.  This law sets strict rules about the committee who runs the club and any paid employees.  In addition the role of the 'bénévole' (volunteer) in the association is very important, again most French people do some form of volunteering with associations.  They act as treasurer, secretary or just offer their time to help the association.  Associations are a part of life like school and work and help fill the time between the famous holidays.

La rentrée

It's 'rentrée' time again. After the long summer break, schoolchildren are getting ready to go back to school. However the 'rentrée' is not just for the kids, it's an integral part of French culture. After the 14th of July, the National holiday, it seems that the whole country shuts down until September. Forget trying to contact any part of the French administration, there is of course a skeleton staff, but you can guarantee the person you need is on holiday.  All political activity comes to a halt, as the politicians jet off to the sun.   Restaurants and shops all over Grenoble post signs informing you that they are closed for the annual holidays. Some companies even close down for the month of August. The motorways are clogged with parting and returning holidaymakers, and the most important news items are the traffic and weather reports. Then just as suddenly it's all over and the first week of September finds everyone back at work and the country grinds back to work.
Les vacannces (holidays) and la rentrée are the two most important moments in the French calendar.  This morning on the radio they were already telling us how many days there are until the next holiday! 

French police drinking on the job.

I recently heard a news story, while driving my car, about police trade unions being up in arms that the government was trying to ban policemen from drinking on the job.  I snorted and shook my head, once again challenged by the surprising nature of French society  Then, I forgot all about it until I saw that the British press had picked up the story. French Police drinking ban.
The French have a very special relationship with alcohol.  Society is very laid back in its approach.  Wine is a part of every meal, and farmers in the Alps take a glass of white wine at the local bar in the morning.  Motorway service stations serve alcohol but only if you are having a meal.  Once, I was eating at a counter when a truck driver entered and asked for a beer.  The waitress refused and told him he had to have a meal to be served alcohol.  He looked at me, saw I was not drinking anything, and asked for my beer! 
Despite this attitude, I can't remember seeing the excesses of drunken violence that are witnessed most Friday and Saturday nights in the UK.  That is not to say there is no binge drinking, it is on the rise, but it tends to be at the fringes of festivals.  When I was at University in Brighton, I experienced the difference between the British and French in terms of alcohol.  The young English students were elated to discover cheap subsidised alcohol,  and I could, shamefacedly, recount some of my own exploits.  The French exchange students, however, were much calmer and rarely got very drunk.  They did have a vice though, Mariuana, some of the most notoroious dealers on campus were French.  I think these two juxtasposed attitudes were due to the repressive attitude to alcohol in the UK and the repressive attitude to Mariuana in France.  Getting caught with some grass is considered far more serious in France than in the UK.
My point is that while it seems to be shocking to hear of French policemen swigging beer, in reality the arguement is really over a glass or two with their meal breaks.  My experience has been that French people have a more sensible attitude to alcohol than the English.  The unrepressive laws concerning alcohol have not made it the forbidden fruit it is in the UK, and therefore the French do not drink to excess.  That being said the idea of the famous CRS riot police have a few drinks before kitting up to confront demonstraters does seem little odd, but that's France.

The UN does have teeth

Well, doesn't that prove me wrong the United Nations has shown its teeth in Ivory Coast.  Just when I was beginning to wonder whether the UN was any use they step up to the base and actually take action.  True, the French played an important part; no doubt in view of the economic interests; and true, Russia says they are going to look into the legality of the action, but at least they acted.  As I've said before, they've stood by so many times that I was beginning to wonder what it would take to make them act.  There are those who will say this action endangers UN employees who will now be seen as legitimate targets, but surely the recent attacks in Afghanistan show that they are already.  The diference now is that before they were seen as a soft target, today would be attackers might think twice as the UN could bite back.  Anyone who doubts the futility of the UN's neutral position should read the excellent Shake Hands with the Devil : The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda- Romeo Dallaire's book about his UN mission in Rwanda.  He, with all his military experience, felt that a stronger force with the permission to fight back could have prevented the genocide.
Let us hope that the UN action in Ivory Coast is the beginning of a new era where the UN is not viewed as a weak and indecisive organisation that can be ignored.

April Fool's

Here in France April Fool's day is known as 'Poisson d'avril', literally 'April's fish'.  The origins of linking the 1st of April to a fish seem obscure.  Perhaps it is to do with the christian symbol of the fish.  One thing that is for sure is that one practical joke played on this day is to stick a picture of a fish on the back of your victim, without them knowing of course.  A bit more gentle than the 'kick me' sign we used to stick on our friends backs at school.
During the day the various media run fake stories mixed in with the regular news, just like in the UK.  Here is one example concerning our upcoming  Royal wedding 
I wonder what others they will come up with? 

A free and ecological fertiliser

This time last year, I wrote about the 'Saints de Glace', the period of cold weather in May that catches out many a novice gardener.  This year, I'm well equipped with two small polytunnels, a cold frame, and my self built lean-to Greenhouse.  I am immensly proud of this latter because it consists mainly of recuperated materials and the only cost was the twenty euros of plastic to cover it.  Even if it only lasts this year, as my neighbour and father-in-law have predicted, it will have done it's job and for a fraction of the price of a shop bought greenhouse.
So far the spring has been mild, the warmest since 2005 I read somewhere.  Taking advantage of the different protections I have this year, I've got my seeds in early.  Now my thoughts are turning to how I can improve the quality of the soil and encourage the growth of my vegetables.  Every winter I cover the soil with a layer of straw to protect it from freezing.  Then in the spring, I break open my compost bin and dig it in.  A few years ago, I came across a magic formula for a free and ecological fertiliser made from one of the least popular of weeds, the nettle.  In France it is known as 'Purin d'ortie'.  'Purin' translates as slurry a reference to the odur given off by this mixture.  Despite it's smell the liquid is a powerful  fertiliser.
The procedure for manufacturing the fertiliser is simple.  A kilo of chopped nettles is immersed in 10 litres of water.  I have found that it is best to put the nettles in a cloth sack.  The mixture is left to ferment for one or two weeks, stirred once a day.  Once the mixture stops bubbling it is ready.  The mixture is rich in nitrogen and diluted can be used as a plant food.
So with the warm weather the nettles have begun to raise their vicious little heads, I have been out with my shears getting my revenge.  My first batch of nettle fertiliser is on the way to helping me have a bumper harvest.

French and British alliance over Libya

For once the British and French find themselves singing from the same song sheet.  David Cameron, despite all his other faults, stuck his neck out and called for a no fly zone.  The Americans our historical allies, tried to rein him in, afraid to commit themselves.  At the same time, President Sarkozy was breaking with France's European ally, Germany, to call for the same thing.  Whatever the rights and wrongs of this Libyan adventure, and whatever the motivations, it is surely a historical moment for British French relations.
What disappoints me is no similar consensus or agreement has been reached or even discussed for Ivory Coast, where more than 100 people were killed or injured in a recent attack on a market.  But the I shouldn't be surprised nothing has been done for Darfur, and nothing was done during the Rwandan Genocide.  It seems to me that when oil is involved, innocent civilians are easier to protect.  President Obama said, after the UN resolution, that America couldn't stand by as innocent civilians were killed, he seems to have forgotten his catch phrase, 'Yes, we can'.
The real winners of this campaign will be the oil, arms and construction industries.