The Funky Dodo

THE FUNKY DODO backpackers hostel in HOPKINS, Belize.  On the Caribbean sea, budget accomodation with a bar and restaurant.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/the-funky-dodo-belize/

Patron Saints of France

It was St George’s Day this week, and that made me think about the patron saints of France, of which there are four.

The first, as we know, is St Joan of Arc, who I wrote about briefly a week or two ago:-

Click here for Joan of Arc

… and the others are St Martin of Tours, St Remigius and Ste Therese of Lisieux.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/patron-saints-of-france/

The Grand Canyon

The Grand Canyon (Travels with a Biro)

I didn’t even try to sketch the Grand Canyon.  This is partly because it was cold, partly because I didn’t have my sketch pad, but mostly because I felt my mediocre little sketches would only insult it.

There is already a huge amount written about the Grand Canyon, so I won’t go in to that.  We drove up from Las Vegas (Las Vegas is so awful, so dreadful, so utterly UTTERLY GHASTLY, that everybody should go if only to see how horrid it is) across the Nevada desert from Los Angeles.  Little dust tornadoes rose up around in the flat yellow landscape around us.  What on the map looked like a quick hop over the desert turned out to be an all-day drive.  We stopped for petrol (they call it gas) and bought a couple of country-and-western CDs which we played over and again, and pretended to be country-and-western singers, which would explain why most of the plant life around us was dead.

Las Vegas rose up off the horizon like a huge glittery dame.  The word vegas means meadows in English, but there is nothing meadow about the place.  It is mile upon mile of dust and desert with a noisy, bright, shining and all-American town plonked in the middle of it.

It is, however, a must-see, and we spent some five days there and then set off for the Grand Canyon.

Being a pair of twits, we didn’t have a good map.  The hotel had given us a little leaflet-thing with a map on it, showing just the one road there and back.  We drove steadily for a few hours, and the Nevada desert fell away from us as the road climbed, and woodlands appeared, and trees – wonderful, wonderful trees.  It was autumn, November, and the colours were extraordinary – yellows and golds and red, great sways of heart-wrenching colour splattered up there against the blue blue sky.

The road wound on and on, very quiet, almost nobody about.  At last a few signs – Grand Canyon straight on. Well, there was only the one road.  We were getting tired and looking forward to the hotel, booked while we were in France, with its views out over the Canyon and a good restaurant awaiting.

When we finally arrived, however, the hotel was closed.

What d’you mean closed ?!  It is closed all winter, assured a local man walking his dog.  Opens again in the spring.  Exhausted, and feeling totally fed-up, we showed the man our reservation.  Ah no, he said , the hotel you want it that one over there – and he pointed in to the distance where we could just make out what might be a building – on the other side of the canyon.  About five hours’ drive.

So, all we could do was turn around and go to a hotel we had spotted about half an hour’s drive back.  I have to say it was one of the most lovely places I have ever been.  It was very simple, just log cabins furnished with a few very basic bits, and little paths through the trees to the main building which housed a small bar and a restaurant.  Huge log fires burned at either end of the room and, as we sat down with our drinks, snow started to fall, white flecks of chill against the rapidly-darkening panes. It was so lovely.

We sat at our table and ordered food.  Three or four other tables were occupied. People complain that the Americans eat junk food, but this has never been our experience and we have always eaten well – if too copiously.  After  a while I heard vehicles pulling up outside.  Glancing out of the window behind me I saw five or six 4-wheel drives pull in, and out hopped some twelve or so big American men.

Each man was the epitome of the all-American American.  I know, because I looked.  Tall, good-looking, strong, jeans, cowboy hats, long confident strides from the vehicle to the bar.

They sat down around the bar, clearly familiar with the place, and clearly having just finished work.  Pictures of horses and cattle ranchers flit through my mind.  Images of sweaty muscle and hard jaw-lines and spurs and lassoes.  Thoughts of  long-legged swaggers, saloons, hard-hitting unshaven tough guys.  Pictures of cowboy movies and glasses of whisky being slid along the bar ….

“What’re y’all drinking?” asked the bar man.

And do you know what ?  They all drank milk.

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist. Her books are available on Amazon and Kindle or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries. More about Catherine Broughton on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Call-From-France-Catherine-Broughton/dp/1475116659/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366794747&sr=8-1&keywords=catherine+broughton

St Clothilde

Yesterday I was looking at a sketch I did for one of my children’s history classes when he was little (the school had no text books**) and that in turn made me look up Saint Clothilde.  There is a dirth of information about her, and what little there is was written by Gregoire de Tours (539-594), a great historian of France in the 6th Century.

Clothilde was cannonized basically because she converted her husband, Clovis, to Christianity and all their five children baptised as Christians.  She was a princess, the daughter of the king Gondioc of what is now the Burgundy area of France.  She had several brothers and sisters and, according to Gregoire de Tours, lots of murders and dastardly deeds were done, to include the killing of both Clothilde’s parents by one of her brothers.

Clothilde and her sister, Croma, went in to a nunnery when they were still very young, one assumes to escape the murders.  There they lived exceptionally pious lives.  It is not clear why Clothilde came out of the nunnery to marry Clovis, who was king of the a large part of northern France (or Gaul as it was then).  She was aged 28, very old for marriage at that time, and it appears that her good looks attracted the attention of an ambassador to Clovis, who in turn made the introductions.  Clovis was a brilliant military leader and defeated the Wisigoths (now Germans) who were installed in the north eastern part of Gaul, which in turn made him king of the Franks.  His capital city changed from Soissons to Paris.

Clothilde was involved in the building of several abbeys which are today historic monuments.  She died aged 80 – exceptionally old for the day – and is buried at the Abbey of the Saint Apostles in Paris.

Click here for the story  **

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist. Her books are on Amazon and Kindle, or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.  For more about Catherine Broughton, to include her entertaining sketches and blogs, go to http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

Our guest blogger today is Charles Thuo from Kenya.

A FAIR LOOK AT  KENYA – an article contributed by Charles Thuo of Kenya.

Kenya is indeed a beautiful country in the heart of Africa. It is a country rich in wildlife as well as diverse culture and heritage. Apart from Kenya being known for its amazing sceneries & tourist attractions, it is also reckoned by most countries for its prowess in sports .In athletics for example, the world is held breathless at the amazing talent and flair demonstrated by Kenyan athletes. The Kenya rugby sevens team receives an international standing ovation as they use their muscle strength, swiftness and skill to silence their contenders.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/our-guest-blogger-today-is-charles-thuo-from-kenya/

Trip reports, hotel and book reviews and so on...from the point of view of the client

The aim behind reviews is somewhat forgotten in the modern frenzy for putting things on the internet.  We now have a voice that can carry all over the world, and there is a good side to this, and a bad.

The aim, when all this started, was so that we could warn people if we had a genuinely dreadful experience.  That is how it began, starting with cheap hotels in Spain and people who came home, having paid for a holiday, disappointed and angry because the hotel was only half-built, or there was no running water or the WC was three floors down and so on.  Some of these early experiences were truly horrid, and as a direct result of it the reviewing system was born.

Owners of hotels especially had, and still have, a responsibility to provide what they say they will provide.  If it says there will be a TV in the room, then there must be a TV.  Likewise owners of restaurants, villas or whatever.  The system has spread to books, cars, washing machines … and so on.  And has, in many ways, got out of hand.

People will now post any kind of nasty thing on the internet, just because they can.  Many tradesmen have become the victims of unnecessary and unfair criticism that could ruin their business.  Writing a bad review can do real damage to a small business. And that is not fair.  And no, you do not have that right.

The tables are turning, mercifully, and tradesmen can now reply to most – if not all – reviews.  When you give the name of the business, if it is a small business, you are in effect giving the name of the owner, so you can now expect the owner to reply using your name.

Something that a lot of people say is “but I have every right to say what I think!!”

No, not always.

You should always try to write a good review if you really liked the hotel/book/villa/restaurant.  Trade makes the world go round. It creates employment, and encouraging trade can only be a good thing – for theentire world.

If you didn’t like the hotel/book/villa/restaurant it is unkind and unfair to say so on the internet just for the hell of it.  By all means do so if you genuinely feel that the public at large should be warned about this book/hotel or whatever … there was hard porn everywhere when it said it was suitable for kiddies, for example.  Or there were rats running under the dining tables.

But if it was a something personal to you that you didn’t like, e.g your napkin looked a bit grubby, the bed had not been properly made, the book was boring – no, you should not put that on the internet.  What would be your aim ?  By doing so you are saying to people “do not buy this book” or “do not eat in this place” … which is ruining trade (yes, it seriously can) and why would you want to do that?

If your napkin was grubby and you feel this is something that should be pointed out to the owner, write him a private letter.  He will probably be glad of it and rectify the matter immediately.

To post a bad review on the internet when you know the owner did everything he could to rectify whatever had gone wrong is really unforgiveable.  I quite often see that.  If you badly want the internet public to know about your personal experience and what went wrong, do not name the hotel (or whatever it was).

Last but not least, remember that trade now has a voice too.  I know a man with a small hotel in Cyprus.  In reception he has a big notice which says: IF YOU WRITE A BAD REVIEW ABOUT ME, BE SURE I WILL WRITE A BAD REVIEW ABOUT YOU!  Not very professional, and arguably childish …. but I can see where he is coming from!

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist.  Her books are on Amazon and Kindle, or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.  More about Catherine Broughton, to include her entertaining blogs and sketches from around the world, on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

Trip reports, hotel and book reviews and so on...from the point of view of the trade

Over the winter I have received a fair few e-mails from owners of hotels, restaurants and villas, authors of books, owners of small businesses, and even a composer!   The e-mails had two common factors running through them and that was about black-listing people and about people who write nasty reports.  So, I think the simplest thing for me to do here is simply answer the main questions as they pop up & in no particular order of importance:-

- yes, if somebody has written a bad report about you, feel free to say what you think about them BUT remember you are a professional person and must not stoop to their level!  Here is one that was shown to me, the owner of a small restaurant in Marbella in response to a bad review: Mrs X (name) I have read your childish review and want to tell you that I found you disgusting, eating with your mouth open, talking loudly with your drunk husband. So your opinion is of no importance to me at all.

We can all understand where he is coming from, that restauranteur. He has worked very hard for many years and almost certainly did not deserve a bad review; his response was unprofessional (but Lordy, isn’t it tempting ?!) and equally childish.  He was, however, right to respond.  Something more appropriate would be along the lines of: Mrs X (name), I have read your report and, while I appreciate feed-back from my customers, most of whom are very happy with my service, I can neither condone nor accept a review that comes from somebody such as your good self.

That is not rude, it is not petty, but it is saying to others “this woman was ghastly anyway!”

- yes, naming the person in question is fine providing you are sticking to the truth and not saying anything slanderous.  And it is only fair. They feel free to name you so they must realize you will probably respond.  Be very careful, however.  Just as you, as the tradesman, have the right to sue somebody who is trying to ruin your business, they also have the right to sue you.  I have never come across this happening (in either direction) but it could.  Here is one in response to a bad hotel review:F…. M….. (name), I feel that is really unkind of you. I did a lot for you while you were here and it is unfair to criticise me after the event. You seemed very happy, and had you told me there was something wrong I’d have done my utmost to sort it.

That is perfectly reasonable.

- no, you should not black-list somebody because they wrote a bad review unless that person often writes bad reviews in which case it is well worth warning other trades that this is a person likely to complain.  The aim of the black-list is to warn other trades that these people wrecked the house, or were difficult about paying, or stole the silver or were simply rude and unpleasant.

- no, you should not simply give in for the sake of peace.  I had a letter last year (or was it the year before?) from a woman who stayed two weeks in one of my cottages, who seemed to be having a nice holiday, but who after she had returned to the UK, wrote to complain.  It was clear to me that she wanted a refund of some sort and, upon investigation, I found that she tries this every year wherever she goes.  Most people who complain are hoping for some money back and you should not give in.

- it is our duty, as tradespeople, to provide the very best we possibly can of whatever service it is.  Once we are confident we are doing that we should not have to take unnecessary criticism, let alone out-and-out nastiness.  If it is any consolation, the people that write bad reviews are a) usually women, b) usually overweight women (yes, really!) and c) often have (men or women) some kind of inadequacy problem.  Let us console ourselves with that.  Meanwhile, just as we have to put up with the variations of public opinion, so the public must realize that we will not necessarily take it lying down!

- last but not least, most members of the public simply do not realize the damage they can do.  I doubt any of them think “right, I’m going to see if I can stop people going there! Let’s make him bankrupt!”   They just don’t think about it at all.  They have a mis-placed idea that their voice is important, and they let off steam by putting pen to paper, often to the cost of people who have done no harm.

Tomorrow – Trip reports, hotel & book reviews and so on … from the point of view of the client.

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist. Her books are on Amazon & Kindle or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.  More about Catherine Broughton on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

Trip of a Lifetime by Maurice Chapman

Here is an amusing little tale from a friend, an example of the good old British spirit!

Concord to New York, 2 nights in the infamous Waldorf Astoria and sailing back to Southampton on the QE2!  What could possibly go wrong?

We left Bristol and drove up the M4 to Heathrow and managed to park up with plenty of time on our hands…our dream holiday had begun!  When the gates opened we were first in the queue with our best friends who were travelling with us.

“Four non-smoking in a row, if possible.” I asked

“Oh, deary deary me Sir.  We are unable to seat any of you together as regular Concord travelers have priority.”

This was a bit of a shock, but it didn’t really matter, we were only going to be on the plane for a short amount of time, after all it was a Concord!

In the Concord lounge everything was free, even the telephones and you could even make international calls.  Carol, my wife, just had to make a quick call to her mother, but unfortunately she was out of course.

We settled down and ordered ourselves a bottle of Champagne and some cucumber sandwiches…as you do!

Once on the plane I sat down next to a very nice gentleman who asked, “Do you travel on Concord often?”

“No,” I declared, “this is my wedding anniversary and I can’t even sit next to my wife!”

The old gentleman was very sympathetic and offered to change seats with my wife after lunch.  We had a fantastic silver service lunch, but before we could change seats, the pilot came onto the tannoy and told us there was a problem with one of the engines and that we would be returning to Heathrow.

Back in the lounge, we had more Champagne and we were given £250 each for the inconvenience.

One hour later we were on another Concord, less the businessmen that had missed their meetings, so we had plenty of room to sit together.  We received all the Concord goodies a second time and off we went to New York at Mach 1.

The Waldorf Astoria…what a hotel!  We were in heaven, until the early hours of the morning, when Carol went to the bathroom.  The door would not open.  Someone in the room above had left the water running and the ceiling of our bathroom had caved in!  Not exactly what you would expect from a 5 star hotel.  Apart from lack of sleep it was not a serious problem, it just meant that we had an early start to discover New York.  When we returned, the receptionist gave us a key to another room, and all our belongings were moved for us.

They say things come in three’s…we left the hotel and we were chauffeured to the port where we boarded the QE2.  There was a band playing and ribbons decorated the ship.  We felt like royalty!  But, sadly, not for long.  Mid ocean the ship entered a hurricane.  Most entertainment was cancelled, no-one was permitted on deck, the use of the lifts was forbidden, and most passengers were sea-sick!

Other than that, everything was fine…we arrived back in Britain 1 day late and very weary.  Yes it was the trip of a lifetime, and if I am honest, I loved every minute of it!

With the compliments of Maurice and Carol Chapman, La Tremblade.

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist.  He books are on Amazon and Kinlde, or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.  More about Catherine Broughton on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

Victor Hugo continued

After I had finished yesterday’s item about Victor Hugo, I thought I should have included his lovely poem, written just after Leopoldine died.  The translation is my own – I daresay there is an official translation somewhere – with apologies to all concerned.  (There should be a grave accent on that e in the title - è – for scholars of French who are screeching at me, but not for love nor money can I persuade the “insert symbol” whatsit to obey me …)  Anyway, a heart-wrenching poem:-

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

Tomorrow, at dawn, at the hour when the countryside is white,

I will leave.  You see, I know that you are waiting for me.

I will go via the forest. I will go via the mountain.

I cannot live far from you for long.

I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts

Without seeing anything else, without hearing a sound,

Alone, unknown, my back bent, my hands crossed,

Sad, and for me day will be like night.

I will watch neither the gold of the falling evening,

Nor the sails in the distance going towards Harfleur*,

And when I arrive I will put on your tomb

A bunch of green holly and heather in flower.

* Normandy (France) coastal town

French Writers - Victor Hugo

I wasn’t going to write anything about Victor Hugo, judging him to be sufficiently well-known, but this morning something on the internet made me change my mind.  It was a discussion about theatre and somebody had stated:-  “les Miserables“, meaning “the miserable ones”   It does not.  Les miserables means “the poor”.  And that in turn made me think about Victor Hugo (1802-1885), quite possibly the greatest French writer of all time.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/french-writers-part-5-victor-hugo/

French Writers Part 4 - Voltaire

A few million years ago, when I was a student, I read “Candide”.  I can’t remember whether I read it in French or in English, but I do remember commenting that I thought it was a really stupid story, and getting in to considerable trouble with my Voltaire-loving lecturer.  I started leafing through some Voltaire again a few years ago, but reading it is too much like hard work these days, and the interest has gone.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/french-writers-part-4-voltaire/

French Writers Part 3 - Rousseau

We tend to think of Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1844-1910) as French, but he was Swiss.  Indeed, he signed his books “Jean Jacques Rousseau of Geneva”.  However, it was in France that he became a writer and thence became famous.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/french-writers-part-3-rousseau/

French Writers Part 2 - Moliere

I must say I don’t go over board about writers of this era, either in France or in Britain.  I’m not very keen on the heavily-flowered vocabulary or the heady innuendo of the Grand Siecle and, although I daresay the quips and double-entendres are very clever, they always leave me feeling somewhat blank.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/french-writers-part-2-moliere/

Those who shouldn't have kids

Of course, we just cannot go down that line, much as we would like to sometimes … but some people should not be allowed to have kids.

Some years ago we had a tenant in one of our flats, a young chap of 19, named Pierre-Anton.  Or it might have been Pierre-Antoine. I can’t remember. He moved in to the flat with his girl-friend, a weighty young lady of about the same age and named Corinne.  Both were under “tutelle” which is a usually very good system here in France where exceptionally unintelligent or incapable people (but not handicapped people which is a different thing altogether) are legally put under the watchful eye of somebody with a bit of sense.  It can be a neighbour or a parent, a total stranger or a friend.  Both Pierre-Anton and Corinne were extremely thick  - for want of a better word.

Many of our tenants were what the French call “les cas sociaux” (social cases) and that is where we came in. There were not enough council flats or houses, and most landlords would only take tenants who could pay two months’ deposit plus the rent up front, and also be in posession of a CDI (full time work contract).  For les cas sociaux this was out of the question.

So we filled the gap by providing inexpensive accomodation where the council paid a months’ deposit on behalf of the tenant, and the tenants rent-allowance money went straight on to our account.  This meant the tenant only had to fork out as little as 10 Euros a month from his own pocket for the rent, but most were incapable of even that – indeed, seemed to think that because I was the landlady, I somehow “owed” them something.

But I diverge.  Pierre-Anton and Corinne moved in to one of our flats with their few posessions.  In no time at all Corinne was pregnant.  It took me a while to realize she was pregant because she was such a hefty lady that it really didn’t show.  The baby was born in the local hospital and they named the poor little scrap Francois.  Corinne went home.  I suppose the health visitor and/or a social worker must have visited, I don’t know, but Corinne forgot to feed the baby (he was sleeping all the time, I wasn’t going to wake him, was I ?!! she said at the inquest) and he died when he was about four days old.

Now, I know we cannot do it.  I know we must never go down that line.  But boy oh boy, did Corinne need to be sterlized !!   And did Pierre-Anton need the snip !!!!   Within a year another baby was born, though this time both the health visitor, the social worker came round regularly – in fact, I think some poor carer actually lived in the flat with them till we could all be sure that both young parents knew how to look after a baby.

I love children. I love babies. But I have to say it – one glance at that baby and you could see he was every bit as stupid as the parents.  A year after that another baby was born, and then a third.  They all had that same look to them.  The flat got steadily more crowded and steadily more dirty and more run-down.  Both parents seemed to spend most of the time shouting either at each other or at the babies.  The stench was something else.

After considerable effort I managed to get them moved in to a little house with a garden.  I helped with all their stuff, shook hands, kissed the children (the French spend a lot of time kissing each other), wished them well.  And I drove away.

Some three years later the phone rang and it was a social worker in Saintes – a good half hour drive away from me.  Pierre-Anton and Corinne are in terrible debt, she explained, and they tell me that the only person they can think of who might help them is you.

Pardon ?  Where do I fit in to this picture ?  I haven’t seen them for three years and they are nothing to do with me.

“Their rent is covered,” continued the social worker, “but their electricity has been cut off and also their water.  The gas and telephone have both been cut off for a long time.  We provide emergency help in cases such as this, but this young couple have already dipped in to that fund many many times.  He cannot hold down a job, though he regularly has a bit of work.  He does try.  But the situation is such that we must now remove the children from them.”

“Well, that might be the best thing ….” I ventured.

The discussion went on for some time and Pierre-Anton came on the line … and to cut a long story short I agreed to drive over to Saintes and meet them, to include the social worker.

I wanted to say “these people should never have been allowed to have another baby, let alone three!” but, of course, one can’t say that.  All of them looked so poor and so depressed.  The kiddies had those large dark teary eyes of unhappy children, an dhow could any of us wish them anything other than Life, Healthy and Fulfilling Life ?  I wondered what had gone wrong in the overall plan of things in an up-beat country like France that this dirty little family had slipped through the net and found themselves begging from an ex-landlady.

So, I paid for the utilities to go back on and I helped Pierre-Anton find another job on the strict basis that a) the social system would put them under a different “tutelle” (not me!! I exclaimed) and b) that Pierre-Anton would listen with great care to any and all advice on how to keep his job.

I saw them again in a market, about five years after that. They were still together (no matter how stupid the parents, children are usually better off with their own flesh and blood) and still looked very poor.  I ducked behind a stall because I didn’t want them to see me, and watched for a while.  All three children had grown, of course, heading in to puberty and ready to go off and produce another lot just like them …

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist. Her books are on Amazon and Kindle, or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.  More about Catherine Broughton, to include her entertaining blogs, stories and sketches from around the world, on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

French Writers Part 1 - Emile Zola

I read “La Terre” when I was at University.  I remember it partly because it is a very good book, haunting and hard-hitting.  I remember it also because the lecturer one day, during a discussion near the start of the book, blurted out somewhat loudly :

” … so you see, he preferred to ejaculate his sperm in to the earth rather than impregnate his woman!!!”

For this blog in full and more please see : http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/french-writers-part-1-emile-zola/

Myths and legends from this part of France Part 3

The coastal area here, like coastal areas all over the world, was subject to raids and piracy, lootings and pillaging for many centuries.

One day some Spanish ships anchored off shore and the sailors came on land and raped and murdered the people and stole their posessions.  They then sailed away in to the night, as suddenly as they had arrived.  The devastation they left behind was total. Very few were left alive but, with the strength and determination of righteous people, they re-built their village and re-planted their crops, and soon the community was thriving again.

Then one spring night, when the water was very calm and the air soft, a lone Spanish ship slipped in to the bay, half-hidden in a gentle mist, and totally quiet.  Silently, the sailors lowered their boat and rowed ashore, their oars making the tiniest splashing sound in the water, followed by the quiet crunching of the sand as they pulled the boat on to the beach.

What they did not know, however, was that the people of the village had taken in a destitute magic woman named Artouan.  They told her that, in return for housing and feeding her, she was to cast a spell over any further Spanish sailors who tried to invade.   As the sailors made their way silently towards the sleeping village, the magic woman watched from her hiding place.  She cast a spell and changed the road so that it led in to the marshlands.  The sailors soon realized they were lost and they wandered around in the dark muddy waters, trying to find a way back to the road.

When they were all exhausted and desperate to go back  to their boat, Artouan cast another spell and changed them in to little stone huts, the remains of which can be seen dotted all over the marshes to this day, and the village that Artouan saved was re-named Artouan as a thank you.

Artouan is a small village a mile or two from Rochebonne, our house.

Catherine Broughton is a novelist. Her books are on Amazon and Kindle, or can be ordered from ost book stores and libraries.  More about Catherine Broughton on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

First Aid - Everybody should know

Apparently over two thousand people die in the UK alone each year simply because the people they were with had no idea what to do.  Everybody, but everybody, should know what to do in an emergency.  In some parts of the world first aid is a standard part of the school curriculum.  It should be a standard in all schools all over the world.

Here my friend Martha gives us a few tips.  Look up more. Attend first aid courses. Learn. Next time it could be you!  These are just a few quick outlines.  I suppose it is something I feel strongly about because I know of a woman who bled to death recently – there were other people around but nobody was sure what to do … so they stood and watched.  Often what seems to be a relatively harmless injury, ailment or mishap can turn out to be a disaster.  It is not for us to judge what is and what is not an emergency, and we should at least know the basics:-

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/first-aid-everybody-should-know/

Myths and Legends in this part of France Part 2

There is a forest nearby, called La Foret de Combot.  It was once inhabited by two sisters.  One of the sisters was called Elea, and she was very beautiful and local people called her the Fairy of Combot.  The other sister, Sylvine, was very ugly and in no time was dubbed the Witch of Combot.

Not only was Sylvine ugly, she also had a dark, black heart.  It was so dark and so black that the devil fell in love with her.

The devil dressed up as a handsome young sorcerer and in no time Sylvine was seduced by him.  Sylvine soon found that she was pregnant.  The devil dropped his disguise and Sylvine saw who he really was.

“I am leaving now, but when my son is born,” said the devil, “I will return.  Make sure you do your job properly!  My son will be king of the earth and the very spot where he is born will be his palace !”  And he then disappeared in a great flash of fire.

But the lovely Elea had witnessed the whole scene, and she decided that she would not allow another devilish creature to install itself in the area.  So when Sylvine gave birth, Elea cast a spell so that Sylvine could not move. Elea disguised herself as Sylvine and grabbed the baby.  She rushed out to the dangerous rocks in the sea and cast another spell, and a beautiful palace for the newborn appeared in the turbulent waters, with a rock bridge leading to it.

In no time at all the devil came to see his new son.  He was delighted.  He grabbed the baby and rushed out towards the palace.  But the rocks were slippery and the waves were high and the devil slipped and fell in to the depths of the dark ocean, and was never seen again. Elea, quick as a flash, cast another spell which changed the devil-baby in to a dolphin.

And to this day you can sometimes see him splashing in the water.  And all that remains of the palace is the rock bridge.  The spot is called “Le Pont du Diable”.

Catherine Broughton is a novelist. Her books are available on Amazon & Kindle, or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.  More about Catherine Broughton, to include her sketches and entertaining stories from all over the world, on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

Myths and Legends in this part of France

Once upon a time four handsome, strapping young lads were teasing a young girl.  She was small for her age and not very strong, and as she and the four boys made their way through their daily chores with the fishing nets, the girl stopped to rest frequently.  The boys found it funny, flexed their muscles, and teased incessantly.

However, the girl was really a fairy.  She had disguised herself as a human girl in order to see what it was like.  And she had soon seen it all – nothing but mockery and teasing – because she was so small and frail, underdevelopped and white.

One day, getting fed up with her experiment, the girl decided to become a fairy once more and she cast a spell over the four horrid boys.  She said to them “you see, being muscular and handsome is not always an advantage!”

“You are very vain,” she continued, “and instead of helping me with my chores and showing some kindness to a person in need, all you have done is make fun of me, often cruel fun, and you are nasty boys.  And as you seem to think that being so big and strong is a huge advantage, I condemn you now to be so big that nobody anywhere will ever be able to take you in!”

And in a second the four boys were transformed in to giant shells.

The four beaches at St Palais now known as “les conches” (the shells) are all that is left of the boys.

Catherine Broughton is a writer and an artist.  Her books (good reads for women) are available from Amazon or on Kindle, or can be ordered from most big book stores and libraries.  More about Catherine Broughton, to include her sketches and amusing anecdotes from all over the world, on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk