Il était une fois
26th - 29th May 2000
A sojourn in Normandy
For Greg's 30th Birthday
Ah. OK. My turn to write the travelogue.
Hmm. Wonsaponatime. Nah.
Oh, anyway.
Friday dawned bright and early for me in Nottingham and as I staggered down the corridor to ablute, stampeding flatmates mowed me down in the Battle of the Bathroom and got there first. Apparently they had an exam, which gave them prior right to the shower, or something. Unwashed, then, I struggled down to the railway station, clutching the passport that had been rediscovered in the hovel that is my study bedroom only hours previously, and the ticket that was nowhere near the price National Rail Enquiries had quoted, and leaped onto the 8.36 with only minutes to spare. For some reason never to be determined, there was a 12-voice choir in full evening dress singing "Tonight, tonight" from Westside Story (rather optimistic for before 9am, I felt) in the lobby of the station.
Matthew, virtuous man unfazed by early morning starts that he is, was already waiting in the very vague vicinity of our rendezvous point when I arrived at Waterloo station some two hours later. Indeed he'd got up so early that he'd had time to inspect local facilities, and buy books by the ton. And, there being no end to his accomplishments, he'd also managed to wrap them beautifully on the very small coffee shop table. Between us, we finished his breakfast, and got on what by all appearances was the first train to Portsmouth. It arrived, eventually, at the wrong platform, and contrived to get itself behind another train going somewhere else entirely. It eventually got going and conveyed us to Portsmouth without much event, aside from the perpetration of a photograph and the sly inveiglement into our conversation of some random twink.
The day that had dawned fair and bright in Nottingham decided in Portsmouth that it would actually prefer to be miserable and rainy. We struggled through the torrents along Commercial Road to the centrally located gay pub Martha's, where safely ensconced opposite the last of the clones was Kapitano, charged to meet us for a 'v. brief drink'. A little battle ensued which eventually resulted in all of us seated around a table with a drink. Conversation between Matthew and Kapitano throughout the half hour we had free in Portsmouth ranged from Egyptians to Phillip Glass with a few interesting detours; as these were matters of which I know nothing, I stayed stumm.
The weather remained unbroachable, so the time allotted for the tête-à-tête expired, we made our way back to the railway station together, Kapitano to travel onwards - who knows where? - and Matthew and I to take a taxi to the ferry port. Thankfully, the trials endured when booking the tickets ("And who will sir's companion be? Mrs, Ms ... ?" / "*MR* Foster" / *fluster* "Just let me check with the supervisor") were not repeated at check-in, and with nary a further ado we were aboard the Pride of Le Havre. A few moments to check out how well appointed the club class cabin was, and we took ourselves down to the Brasserie for a spot of light lunch. Thereafter, Matthew read and slept; and I inspected the ship, and took advantage of the free unctions in the cabin by getting the shower I'd been unable to have that morning.
Some hours later we arrived in Le Havre to be met by Greg, his sister Emanuelle and Laurence, his Swiss cousin. Bises all round, a quick catch-up on gossip, and then we adjourned to a restaurant nearby. Matthew, as ever after the deprivations of English cuisine, ordered his customary steak-frites; Laurence and Greg opted for the house speciality: fish in camembert, which, they repeatedly assured us, was a great deal more toothsome than it sounds. Emanuelle, having eaten earlier in the evening, left us before we were served; the rest of us, after a convivial and lengthy meal, piled into Greg's car to inspect (and to photograph) Le Havre from the heights. A few minutes' appreciation of the excellent weather (windy and cold, just how I like it) then back into the car to head back into town to the bar run by Hervé and Bertrand (of party fame). Matthew, having noted Hervé's appreciation of Stilton had brought with him a pound block which he delivered; Hervé appreciated it so much that he was quite unable to serve any drinks for spending all his time hacking small lumps off it. Eventually, though, Greg got his piña colada ;) A most pleasant evening was spent in the bar, and several hours later, we staggered home to Greg's parents' house, where we were to spend the night, with strict instructions to be up and doing at a reasonable hour, as potential buyers of the house had an appointment to view it later in the morning.
A combination of not being used to mornings, and not having set my alarm clock to French time meant that I wasn't quite as able to comply with the instruction as I had intended to, but I did manage to get out of bed and present myself downstairs long before the hour of the appointment. M. Kretz (senior) showed me the kitchen, the bread and the knife, and let me get on with breakfast whilst he quizzed Laurence on the other side of the family, returning only to catch me red-handed with bread knife all ready to go back for yet another round of Quetsche jam and fab Normandy salty butter. Apparently a while earlier, he'd also caught Matthew in flagrante with the coffee pot. Canny. Anyway, by the time I'd finished feasting on tartines (easily pleased, my sweet tooth), it was time to leave to make way for the prospective purchasers. Matthew having headed Fnac-wards some time earlier, Greg to work before that, the only option left was to head seawards for a brief solitary walk. Just as soon as I got far enough away from the house, the heavens opened; happily before I got back, the sun shone enough to dry me up again.
Back at the house, I buzzed to be let in, ("Merci"), and greeted Mme Kretz ("Bonjour"), and got the remark "Ooh, what a good French accent you have in those two words". Oooh, thank you, Mme Kretz, now watch me blush and totally fail to string together a sentence for the rest of the day... A few moments later, including a sneaky peak at Larousse to find out what Quetsches were, and we got in cars to the Kretz' country house (imagine hammed up RP accent), a gorgeous Normandy farmhouse in the village of Vieux-Port with period furniture and private orchard. Matthew and I were asked to help get the champagne into the fridge, then politely dispatched until lunchtime. ("Perhaps you'd like to inspect the storm damage in the woods. Just follow the path there and turn left at the tennis court...")
Our walk took us down some unbelievably pretty lanes, down to the banks of the Seine, past the building of new houses (using traditional methods, starting from wooden frames), the church, whose clock had the same quirk as the grandfather clocks chez Kretz Vieux-Port and Le Havre: they all chimed the hour twice, once a minute before and again a minute afterwards. A gentle stroll later lasted a little longer than apparently planned, and we returned to lunch to be asked whether we'd adjusted our watches to French time ;0) Lunch was a quite delicious cheese-roasted pork joint, preceded by a bread/rilletes/crevettes course. Had to have the peeling of crevettes explained to me, and manfully resisted the plethora of possible jokes when M Kretz Senior told me that "on commence par la queue". Then to follow, the best straws I've tasted this season, and a ripe Camembert.
The pleasure of the meal over, the work perforce began, and we had to decorate the farmhouse for the party. For me, this was inflating the 50-odd virginal white balloons, and discovering that I can knot them after all; aside from the balloons, we also bedecked every available surface in white loo-roll. This was a themed party where the theme was "White". A fact that had not been communicated to us before our departure :) In addition to the balloons and the loo paper, we also laid out hundreds of candles (I like candles :) and prepared the glasses and trays that later were to carry cheese by the ton, picking bracken from the garden to go underneath them. As the afternoon went on the other invités began to arrive, each bearing with them more cheese, and other goodies for the party. Olivier arrived with his costumes, and his scripts, and began rehearsing the participants; at some point in the afternoon, the pièce-montée arrived and, since it was far too extravagant to fit into the kitchen, was stored in the cave. Le beau canadien arrived, and after rendering Olivier speechless for almost a second, helped us place the out-door candles and torches around the grounds. Olivier proved totally inept at using a pile driver to make holes in the ground, but in such a bubbly camp fashion none could begrudge him it. The preparations continued little by little, and day gave way to evening. Finally, Greg finished work and came over, and the guests began arriving in earnest.
The French are much more polite when it comes to greeting people: each set of new arrivals meant that we all had to spring to our feet to do the kissy-kissy thing and murmur our names into each others' ears. Quite why, I don't know, as plainly too, too many people where there for all of us to remember all of our names! Still, this we continued to do for quite some time, until all the guests were present, including, entr'outre: siblings and cousins, and aunts and uncles of Greg, le beau canadien/québécois (did I mention him already?) (real name Dominic) (currently resident in Paris, but entirely non-committal when hearing that large parties of rosbifs would be descending onto that fair city in a month's time), the Gay Le Havre Cabal, some old faces, some new; some remembered me, some thought I was Laurence ;) y inclus: Olivier et Mathieu , Olivier-qui-ne-parle-pas, Bruno, Vincent, BertrandéHervé some work colleagues, one of whom, Didier, was charged to be dating Nathalie by the end of the evening, Nathalie herself, Brigitte, and of course, Noo les Zanglais.
By this point, the first glasses of red wine were circulating, and it was soon time to pop the corks of the champagne, and toast the birthday boy who won't actually have that birthday until (hopefully!) after this is posted. Soon, suitably merry, it was time for the festivities proper to begin, and Grégoire, gracious host, welcomed us from our respective corners of the globe, and explained the present he would give us before we left: he had a drum of CDRs which contained his Desert Island Discs for his first thirty years.
Then Greg conceded the floor to The Entertainment (Phase I). It seems that Olivier, with his flair for showmanship, had been invited to put a little something together to celebrate the occasion. The little something (Phase I) was a list of commandments on how Greg is to live his live from henceforth, and a song, to the tune of something from Victor/Victoria. Appropriately camp! ;) Then it was straight into the cheese. About ooh, was it as few as 60 varieties of cheese all laid out on boards - the easiest thing to do was just to hover near the boards and try them one by one. The list has been begun in another thread, so you'll have a vague idea already... To go with the cheese, there was copious red wine from pitchers, bread in almost as many varieties as cheese, sushi (!), and strawberries.
The food interlude kept us all entertained until the next phase of the entertainment could go ahead, which, as you can see in Matthew's piccies, was spectacular. BertrandéHervé dragged up to sing I will Survive (mostly) in French, complete with erotic- and lap-dancing. (I think that by this stage, Greg's parents had discreetly left.) The drag was quite excellent, too, although the accoutrements vanished faster than you'd believe, and the boys returned sans lashes, makeup and nails seconds after the end of the track. A little later still, the final set piece was played: a single person, in That Dress and a tinsel wig appeared in the doorway, and we all thought it was another queen in drag, but when she turned round she revealed herself to be Emanuelle. The dress was actually Emerald Green (a far camper colour than the Turquoise Blue that it appears as in the photos ;) Another number followed with Emanuelle leading the dance: the photos show who else was involved.
Directly after the dance piece, it was time to herald the arrival of the pièce montée, a huge cake, from a local patisserie, made from what I at first called choux doughnuts, to have it pointed out to me that of course choux doughnuts are profiteroles... anyway, a mountain of profiteroles, filled with crème anglaise (which is like confectioners' custard, only not) drizzled with caramel and decorated with (in the picture) sparkler things. It made quite an entrance, borne by an enchanted Greg, and followed by the photographers, some of whom got their shot; others of whom, who were trying to get the sparklers to look like Greg's horns, didn't quite make it! Serving the cake took some time: Greg was doing battle with the caramel, which was every bit his equal; le beau canadien and I handed out plates, and eventually got to eat. It was delicious, but I couldn't face any more than my three balls! I was most disappointed that mountain was hollow, but since all present weren't quite able to eat the thing as it was, perhaps it was just as well!
Evening gave way to night, and, despite the rain outside, at times tempestuous, we went out to light the torches and the outdoor candles. And to my surprise, they really did light, and they really did burn! Not all that brightly, it has to be said, of course, but burn they did.
Olivier, who had taken charge of the music centre on his arrival, returned to providing the musical entertainment. And entertaining it was. The furniture being around the sides of the room, there was plenty of room to dance. And dance they did! They jived to Rock around the Clock, they did square dancing to square dancy sort of music, but mostly they just danced night-club style to anything and everything. Vincent strutted his stuff, which was considerable, and danced with Nathalie, who was supposed to be ensnaring Didier. Poor Didier just couldn't compare, but towards the end of the evening, he did strike up the courage to ask N to dance, who willingly complied, then hovered near him as he proved himself not the equal to Vincent's gyrating skills. He sat down again sharpish. Poor thing. Eventually, at the end, just before he left, N asked if she could give him her phone number. He grudgingly acquiesced. He didn't seem to have much of a clue. (And I hope he can't read English ;) Fate did not seem to be working for him, since Nathalie was unable to find a pen either. Argh! The perils of romance. It's clear that she'll have to do all the running if this relationship is to get beyond a half-hearted shuffle on the tiles.
At one point, I needed to take Time Out(TM), so popped outside for a bit to admire the raindrops and the burning things for a quarter hour or so, and returned to my bed in the eaves of the building, which was only accessible from an external staircase. Although it was raining, the house had an overhanging roof, so it was possible to walk right around without getting too wet - indeed M. Kretz Père had spent some time in the afternoon whilst we were getting camp with balloons and loo paper doing precisely that - and the weather wasn't cold in the slightest. If you needed a breather, it was ideal. And there was that fresh earthy smell you only get with rain. Anyway, coming back out of the upstairs bedroom again afterwards, I chanced across a sinister figure sitting upon the lower steps of the outside staircase. Not sure who he was, I brandished my best karate stance and called out that he should identify himself. He said something - I can't remember what - but it was an Anglicism of the highest order, so it could only be Greg himself. We stayed outside under the eaves for a minute or two, sharing the silence, and indulging in a little light conversation, and then rejoined the others to Party On.
Towards the end of the evening, I went mad with a candle: I'd been bursting to burst one of the balloons other than by overblowing them up, so towards the end of the evening, I took a candle to a balloon. I wasn't anticipating that the rubber from the balloon would send the wax from the candle everywhere, including all over the floor and only just not all over Matthew, who Got Cross (briefly). But it did. And it made a bit of a mess too. <sigh> The wax dried before it was possible to remove it, so I resolved to clear it up in the morning, but in the event, the beau canadien beat me to the sharpened trowel scrapy thing in the morning :(
Anyway, we all eventually struggled into beds and things, and in my particular case, didn't wake up until Matthew came up and pointed out that no-one was still sleeping <blush> God didn't make me for mornings, ok?
We breakfasted, then joined in the game of making the farmhouse habitable once more, scraping at floors (I did get some wax up, in the end), genteely allowing the air out of balloons, collecting and compacting loo paper and paper tablecloths and so on. Eventually, all rubbish had to be removed from the property to the communal bins a quarter of a mile away outside the church, so we took a bag apiece and wandered down the road. On the way back, a lens fell out of my glasses. Someone retrieved it for me, and I felt my way back along the road home. Le beau canadien happened to have a small screwdriver in his penknife expressly for the purpose of repairing the glasses of stranded queens. <swoon> Pah, in my novel, it will have a different ending!
So, rubbish in bins, house presentable, time to catch the ferry (I'm eliding a little here, but I've got to get this finished before I go off camping with bellringers tomorrow). Drove back with Matthew squashed up against the beau canadien in the back seat whilst I was stuck in the front (grrr)
At the ferry port, we were delayed by a group of six people who didn't have passports, who, it eventually transpired, had been shipwrecked the night before attempting to cross the channel in a yacht. Oops.
Marginal delays, boat set off. It was a gloriously sunny day, letting Matthew take the seascapes that now form my desktop wallpaper :) but it was damn windy, about force 6 according to me Beaufort scale and the white horses, which meant we had a choppy crossing ahead of us. I was OK when seated, but leaving the restaurant had rather traumatic effects on me insides.
Eventually got back to London, far too late for connection to Nottingham, so Matthew fed me coffee and lent me his futon for the night.
I went tarting (v. successfully) on the way home.
Anyway, from this end, *hyuuuge* thanks to both Matthew (who ensured I got there safely and in glorious comfort!) and to Greg (who was a perfect host, and who throws truly *fabulous* parties!)
--
| Niles, Nottingham
"Argh! Lionel - | ICQ UIN 12724766
Your mother ate my dog!" |
| www.niles.org.uk
