Rallying Round the Bend

Not many people know about the annual Historic Reims Monte-Carlo car rally. Even fewer know that pretty much every year it passes through our village, so only the Mayor and one of the local farmers were there when Jonathan and I pitched up on the bend by the Mairie just after 10pm last Friday.

It’s only by chance that we know about it. We were sitting in the front room one evening at the end of our first January in residence a couple of years ago when we realised there was an astonishing amount of very loud traffic going by for a late Friday evening. More than likely we were huddled up on the sofa wrapped up in blankets as that was before we had the wood-burner installed. It was a snowy night and neither of us could be bothered to leave our snug spot to go and have a look outside - one disadvantage of shutters is that they stop you sticking your nose through the curtains to see what’s going on. We just put it down to the local youths, who are usually pretty inaudible, being noisy for a change.

The next day the local paper filled us in. The town of Langres, about 50 minutes south of us, is one of the rally control points so the correspondent there could take pictures (much easier when the cars aren’t moving) and talk to some of the drivers, especially the ones from around here. It’s always been a mystery to me why the Journal of the Haute-Marne keeps so many events secret until after they’ve happened. Anyway, this belated coverage enabled us to find more details on the web and we realised that we’d missed the sight of old Porches and Ford Capris, among others, skidding in the snow on the D6 as it makes a wide curve round the Mairie.

After missing last year’s rally because of events back in England, we were determined to take a look this year and Jonathan was equally determined to take a few pictures. Just after ten pm we heard the window-rattling, throaty roar of the first cars picking up speed as they got round the bend just beyond our gates. That was our signal to don several layers of fleece, hats and gloves and head down the road. Circé very wisely decided that it wasn’t worth the effort.

It took a while for Jonathan to get the hang of photographing moving objects in the dark (the street lights in the village go off at the end of the evening) but after a few attempts he really got the hang of it and we’re both pleased with the results.

As the 127 competitors had left Reims in batches, watching an event like this is the polar opposite of the Tour de France. In that case you wait ages, being kept amused by the so-called ‘caravan’ and then, if you’re lucky, the front runners have separated from the péloton, so you get a good look at them before everyone else whizzes past in the space of 10 seconds.

Most of the cars on Friday night went past on their own or in ones and twos so Jonathan usually had plenty of time to cue up the camera, especially as they could be heard long before we could see their headlights. Seeing the camera and the little band of unexpected spectators, most drivers took their foot off the accelerator and flashed their lights. As you can see from the pictures, some even waved. They probably thought we were waving and jumping up and down because this was the most exciting thing that’s happened in Cirfontaines in a while. That might be true, but the fact is that it was well below zero and I for one had only put on one pair of socks, and I’m sure the other spectator was wearing his slippers.

While Jonathan adjusted important camera settings in between cars, there was plenty of time for me to chew the cud with our fellow-spectator (the Mayor having decided to call it a day at about 10.30). Among other things we talked about septic tanks, the wild boar population explosion, and, inevitably, how much better life is here than anywhere else. Every now and then we admired the latest fruits of Jonathan’s labours.

Just after midnight the cold finally got the better of us and as the gaps between cars was getting longer we decided to head home. It was quite a surprise to me how much I enjoyed myself. We’ll certainly try and do the same thing next year, hopefully encouraging a few more people to join in. What’s certain, though, is that I’ll be wearing at least two pairs of socks!

In the meantime, we’ve got even more sport to look forward to. Stage 12 of this year’s Tour de France is passing very close to us.

King for a Day

Last Saturday marked the first event in Cirfontaines’ 2009 social calendar – the annual serving of the traditional ‘Galette des Rois’ to the citizens of the village, with the compliments of the council. The local paper, ‘the Journal of the Haute-Marne’ is always packed full of pictures of happy people participating in whatever’s the current seasonal activity, be it catching an over-sized pike during the fishing season, kissing Père Noel at the children’s Christmas party or winning at skittles on the quatorze . The consumption of ‘galettes de rois’ is no exception and over the past week or so the journal has already been witness to the eating of many a galette in the area.

Although the ‘galette des rois’ party is the time when local Maires give their communities best wishes for the new year, traditionally it was served on twelfth night to celebrate the gifts of the three kings (hence the name).

So what is this French gastronomic delight? Well, it’s a round puff pastry pie with an almond filling, more creamy than frangipane and more almondy than confectioner’s custard. Between new year and the end of January you can find them in most supermarkets, though you’ll get a better quality galette from a patisserie. Wherever you buy your galette, it will come with a golden cardboard crown (more on that later). If you’d like to try making one there’s a recipe here .

We’re particularly lucky in Cirfontaines that one of the commune’s councillors, Hervé, trained as a patissière in the nearby town of Chaumont. He made the galettes we enjoyed on Saturday, just as he does every year, and very good they were, too. Lovely flaky pastry, not too buttery, with a shiny crisp glaze, and a moist almondy mixture inside. Incidentally, the patisserie where Hervé learnt his skills has gone the way of many others with the advent of in-supermarket bakeries (yes, it happens here too), and is now a dry-cleaner’s.

The thing that makes the galette de rois more than yet another fantastic example of French patisserie is the tradition of putting a ‘fève’, or charm, inside, a bit like the sixpence in a traditional British Christmas pudding. The word ‘fève’ also means ‘broad bean’ and I wouldn’t be surprised if in less prosperous days it was a simple bean rather than a fancy charm which went into the galette. The fèves in our galettes are usually tiny china figurines but according to the foodie froggy the poshest Parisien patisseries hide crystal or even gold charms in theirs. If you get the fève in your slice of galette, you get to wear the crown!

At our first Galette des Rois party three years ago Jonathan won not one but two fèves (giving away the fact he managed two slices!) and got another the year after, so he’s getting a bit of a reputation. As you can see from the picture I took yesterday, he was wearing the crown once again.

Adieu, Dad

His struggle and frustration with his deteriorating health is over. My Dad George, who many people knew as Stan, died in the Royal Surrey County Hospital just as the sun was rising over Guildford cathedral on 25th October. Thankfully, I was with him. He simply faded away in in his sleep, just as he wanted.

Given the pleasure he got from the internet after he had a PC for his 80th birthday eight years ago, it seems appropriate that I post these words from his brother John on these pages. I'm sure, too, Dad would have loved the idea that his friends and family in far-flung places (or closer to home) could add to this post with their own memories. John's recovering from an operation so couldn't be at the funeral so his eulogy was read by Jill, his wife.

We also read the final part of 'Hiawatha's Departure' as a reminder of Dad's love of words and the fun he and I had reading the 'Song of Hiawatha' alound when I was a child. I had to include 'Do not go gentle into that good night'; I don't think he knew this poem but it helped me understand his anger and frustration with what life had become for him.

BROTHER JOHN’S EULOGY TO GEORGE

"First let me say what a great sadness it is that I cannot be here myself to say farewell to my brother.

It is remarkable that we spent so much time apart. At age 14 he fell in love with Iris and became practically a part of the Rattray household, which I must say was jollier than ours and suited the outgoing part of George’s nature.

The war, of course, separated our family as it did thousands of others.

In 1938 the threat of fascism was in the air and at age 18 George joined the 9^th Battalion of the Middlesex regiment of the Territorial Army. He was embodied into the regular forces before the war began.

In the TA his officer qualities were noted and he was commissioned. After serving some time with Searchlight batteries of the Royal Artillery in this country, he was posted to join the Kings’ African Rifles in Kenya. He served with them through the operations in Burma and then returned to Kenya. Another part of the separation caused by the war, I joined the Royal Air Force in 1942 so we never met up during the war at all.

He was later awarded a Territorial decoration for long service in the ‘Terries’.

When hostilities ceased George was demobbed in Kenya and at the young age of 25 was given the job of running a huge estate in Kenya. He loved the job and the African people.

Having married early in the war, Iris joined George in Kenya and stayed with him until the Mau Mau atrocities so terrified her that they returned to the UK. George brought back with him his love of the African people and a facility with Ki-Swahili, with which later he entertained Sarah and me.

He then worked for the Income Tax department until the Broads called him where he and Iris joined Iris’s sister and her husband – Ollie and Vic. It was typical of George, that when his request to the Income Tax Department for a transfer to Norfolk was refused, he just went anyway and soon joined the Norfolk County Council’s local Education Administration Department where he stayed until retirement.

He, Iris and Sarah became an important part of the Catfield community and Sarah still has friends from that time. He was Parish Councillor and a very active member of the local British legion, regularly bearing the legion’s standard at local and regional events and being awarded a gold badge for his work. In 1971 he and Iris were invited to a garden party at Buckingham Palace to celebrate the Legion’s golden jubilee year. George also became a mason. He really appreciated the fellowship and good works of the masons and in time he became Master of his Lodge. He was dedicated to the practical welfare of members of both groups and other local people in need, as was Iris.

It was here that Margaret and I, and later Jill , my second wife and I, were asked to stay and invited to Masonic dinners where we saw George at his most popular and outgoing self.

After Iris died George remarried and moved to a beautiful part of Scotland – which was his new wife’s birthplace. He had always enjoyed travelling – indeed he and Iris had earlier been pioneers of motorcycle combination travel and went to Spain with two friends.

In Scotland he saw my elder son Christopher regularly and a strong relationship developed. It is Christopher’s great regret that he is unable to be here today.

After his second wife died George came to Farnham to be near Sarah and lived in a retirement home until his recent illness. It was here that he met Florence who was a very good and supportive friend throughout. Jill and I visited them both several times and enjoyed their company. George came to life at family gatherings and was very popular with the younger members.

Even with the separations through our lives there was a strong bond of brotherhood between us - in fact he was ‘bruv’ and I was ‘uverbruv’ to George.

In fact as I have got older I have realised how much like him I am – in speech and mannerisms. Jill often says – gosh that was George!

George was a very loving father to a very loving daughter. Sarah’s devotion to him during the frustrating time when he was tied to his flat at the end of an oxygen line was a tribute to their mutual love. I must here mention how supportive Jonathan, Sarah’s partner, has been throughout. It was good to know that George, after a brief showing of his old self in hospital, died peacefully with Sarah by his side.

Sadly he always seemed to underestimate his achievements which were remarkable.

Throughout, George was always George. He was straight and open; you knew where you stood with him; and you always knew that he cared for you."