Of every discipline. In every style. In every French village. That, folks, is a heck of a lot o’ artists. Is it not?

So to pay tribute to Claude Monet and his friends, here are two of my most requested videos. The first takes you to Claude’s stomping grounds in Giverny, the second to two of his artistic village friends. Enjoy!

(Author’s Note : Parts One and Two could add to your reading enjoyment)

So, clearly, Jean Luc’s culinary talent, hospitality, and generosity take a back seat to no one. But what makes him, for Me, the greatest French chef – is his embodiment of all the best elements of the French character. Dynamic. Resourceful. Discreet.Positive. Always authentically “up.” Appreciating his good fortune. Never seriously bad-mouthing anyone. In a word, Jean Luc Maurice is real. No supermarket smile. No “have a nice day.”

To have Jean Luc as a friend, is to have a friend who is consistently dependable and accessible. Whenever I can’t avoid phoning him during cooking hours; He always takes the call. And always the first two questions are : “Where are you?” ”Are you alright?” Typical of Jean Luc’s “above and beyond the call “ qualities was : “The early airport caper.” I needed to get my large, boxed bike, plus all my gear to the airport, from Paris.

Impossible with affordable private/public transportation. Jean Luc, as usual, had it wired. We slept in the staff bunk beds in his office. Back o’ da bistro. At three am, a groggy, but smiling Jean Luc shook me – thrust an espresso in my face, and twenty minutes later – We’re airport bound. That’s the first miracle.

The second – not only did He finesse all my gear into his postage stamp-sized compact, but at the airport, he risked a monster parking fine, to get Me exactly to the right spot. After our goodbye hug – He intoned seriously. “You ‘ave any problem….
…you call me…….ok?……………..never mind what time…….You call me………ok?”

Often, over a glass, Jean Luc gets misty about his pre-chef days as a triathlete. And, although He’d like a return match, with forty advancing in the rear view mirror, and two kids at the need-daddy-most-now age, it would seem that a triathalon encore is not in Jean Luc’s cards. But then, when you’re the greatest chef in France – nothings impossible. Right?

THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!

What are ya thinkin’?

(authors note : Part One could give you some food for food thought.)

There is a third, rare, and unusual way to claim the GFC toque. The French call it : “autodidact.” Ok – it does sound like the name of a newly discovered dinosaur – but it means, simply : “book learning.” No tugging at Granny’s apron strings. No familial culinary passion. No famous chef Daddy. Just untold hours of recipie reading. And who knows how many flat soufflés.

And when, after countless years of solitary apprenticing, you’ve finally lifted yourself up by your saucepan – you get to raise money! So you can mortgage your soul for your dream. And thrill to the propect of losing money for a least the first five years. As you toil twenty four/seven. Constantly aware that one bad review could reduce your dream to the consistency of your first soufflé.

If I had a toque, dear reader, I would, with admiration, take it off. Saluting all the GFC’s who have done it “by the book.”

Since I began this ramble by asking : “Who is the greatest French chef?” – I will now, bien sur, give you my answer. His name is : Jean Luc Maurice. And although He derived inspiration from his retired chef Father, Jean Luc made it under his own steam. The apprenticeship way. England. Japan. France. Toiling for, and with, the GFC’s.

Constantly learning, increasing, and perfecting his talent. Until, finally, He was able to open his own restaurant.He lost his shirt. Shady business partner! No loan from Daddy. Jean Luc hit the bricks. Raised the cash. Before He was thirty , Jean Luc owned two bistros in Paris. (Hey, I told you these guys were dynamic!) Eventually, He sold two. But to the current chefs. His friends, and former associates.

However, as all the clients knew Jean Luc, He celebrated the sale with a private “regulars only” party – On the house! A six course plus meal. With every variety of alcohol imaginable. Two, four tier dessert trolleys groaning with goodies. All orchestrated by Jean Luc. Alternately behind the stove, and bouncing from table to table. A block party! And, to pile appreciation on appreciation – Jean Luc personally presented each client with a gift, relative to their specific interests.

Part Three – Next Time

THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!

What are ya thinkin’?

Who’s the greatest French chef ? Depends on your terms of reference, dunnit? Your definition of “great.” The extent of your experience with GFC’s. And, of course, ultimately, it’s all subjective. Who’s the greatest French chef –for you? The personalities of the GFC’s I’ve met, come in more flavours than Summer ice cream. They are, to a Man, (rarely a Woman) dynamic, “can do”, individuals. Basically, “Type A” personalities on speed.

Most of the GFC’s to whom the adjective “great” can be applied, base their cuisine on the cooking of their Grandmothers.(“Cuisine Grandmere”)

While not all future culinary superstars at age seven were tugging at Granny’s aprons strings demanding :“Hey, Gran……..why did you whisk the cream in at the last minute?” – Most were raised in an atmosphere of respect for the products of the land. And it’s associated history and traditions. They understood, from childhood, that the preparation of food, was an act of love. A celebration of the gift’s of the land. A serious, but joyous responsibility that required equal amounts of attention and imagination.

Before I met him, one of the GFC’s was described to Me thusly : “He used to be a very great chef. Now He is a very great businessman.” Too true! Not only the too upholstered restaurant, festooned with photos of the GFC bear–hugging movie stars, politicians and corporate criminals – but – a cote – a turn of the century bistro. For those jonesin’ for some faux Belle Epoque ambience.

A few doors down, the GFC boutique. Exclusive retailer of autographed aprons, chef’s hats, knives, sheets, pillow cases, tee-shirts, stemware, mugs, and all else GFC.

Outside the village, a massive heli-pad equipped Chateau assures the GFC will not have to turn down any convention business.

The extent to which Mr. GFC grasped the gospel of marketing, is evidenced by his firm “no” to my request to film in in his video-monitor strewn office. He smiled smugly.“Eats not part of ze dream.”

This GFC did learn his sauce-making at Granny’s knee. And, He’s the fifth generation to man the stove. Inevitably, his son will be number six. For those chef wannabes who were not dropped by the stork into the silver saucepan of culinary royalty, There’s another road to GFC-dom.

It’s the same road you follow to become a carpenter, a brick layer, or a sorcier. You apprentice! You willingly, eagerly submit to excessive hours of verbal/physical torture, usually in plus tropical heat, for minimum wage. Eyes fixed firmly on the prize. For as long as it takes. Perhaps this is the reason there are so few Women in the GFC club? As the logical inheritors of Granny’s gifts, should We not expect more female GFC’s?

There is an association of Female chefs in France. Separate and distinct from the all gender “Cuisiniers du France.” Having chowed down at more than a few restaurants with a woman behind the stove, I’ve found them, their cuisine, ambience and service, consistently exceptional.

Part Two – Next Time.

THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!

What are ya thinkin’?

This French Christmas Pot Pouri, while perhaps not sufficently memorable to print out and immortalize on your refigerator, will, I hope give you an unvarnished view(and isn’t that the best kind?) of “La Belle France” as it prepares to celebrate the death/rebirth gig of the Son of the invisible super being.

THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

Uh…that would be the “shopping spirit?” – The French certainly have that in quantities “beaucoup.” After all, it was the French who invented luxury by adding an “E” to otherwise non-lux words. Thus enabling merchants to charge double or more. Not to forget also, the World’s largest consortium (now there’s an illegal sounding word if I’ve ever heard one) of luxury products is French. I Forget their exact initals, but if you’ve ever enjoyed French champagne or have a certain pricey brand of luggage, you”ve “been there – done that.”

THE ECONOMY

While not in the toilet, it’s certainly circling the bowl. As is all of Europe, to varying degrees. The culprit is the same one that brings on indigestion. Having eyes that are bigger than your stomach.

The European Union, with one currency, the Euro, began with 12 countries. Then Spain, Then Greece . Then assorted Eastern European lands. Yes, dear reader, the EU has eyes too big for it’s stomach. It just can’t feed all those member nations. They’re eating up more euros than the EU has in the kitchen.

Thus the current economic crisis. The reason for so many long purposeful walks along the seashore by the most unlikely of couples,  French President Nicholas Sarkozy and Chancellor Angela Merkel of Germany. It is there, the leaders of the two most affulent Euro Nations, do their “perp walk” for the TV cameras.

Supposedly to assure we mere mortals that even when they “take five” from the conference table, they never cease their search for a solution. The press here have dubbed them “Merkozy.”

Are you ready for a shocker? Most French hate the Euro. Here’s why. When France floated along blissful on the currency cleverly named “the franc” – an “entry level” loaf of bread -”le baugette ordinaire” was 4 Francs.

Then one day, the French woke up to find that francs had gone the way of the 8 track cassette. And something called “Euros” were now the cats meow. One euro being equal to about 7 francs.  And “baugette ordinaire” was now a minimum of 1.10 Euro. You can understand why this got French panties in a knot, can you not?

POLITICS

Sadly, (in the view of most French, and me) there appears to be no one capable of dethroning the current Emperor in the forthcoming election. (Anyone who lives in a guarded palace with 61 cars and his own airplane, is definitely an Emperor, folks.)

Dominique Strauss Kahn, before his descent into “moral errors”, probably could have done it. but he’s waaay damaged goods now. And, in the opnion of many, there’s more “damaged” than just his political reputation.

CRIME

Sadly, France seems to be having more  horrific sex crimes . Doubly disturbing is the fact that a seemingly overwhelming majority are committed by those under 21. IN THIS CASE  by a Male teenager who raped, murdered and then burned a Female classmate.

BOTTOM LINE : Pyschotic people come in all ages and nationalities.

France has no death penalty. Yet.

COUNTRY COUSINS

In The French Countryside, as in almost every rural setting, the locals could give a rat’s ass for the “world out there.” (As long as there’s wine in the cellar and a chicken on the table!) Their involvement with National politics is usually limited to shaking their heads in disgust as the 8 o’clock news blonde recounts the latest misuse of their money.

And they celebrate festive events, in a much simpler and uniquely Human way. As I explained last Christmas  IN THIS POST.

CHRISTMAS SPIRIT 2

Another word for the “Christmas Sprit” : Hypocrisy. That’s how it hits me, folks. To designate one time of the year when we think of/try to help those less fortunate than ourselves, is, to me, not the mark of a highly evolved, truely compassionate society.

BG’s CHRISTMAS WISH

So, my Christmas wish for you this year, is that you’ll live the “Christmas Spirit” all year round.

And also, “appreciate.” Whatever you feel you “need” or “must have”, be thankful for what you have now. Remember there are those with much less. And those with nothing. Appreciate what you have. And do what you can to help those who need it.

This space will be blank until sometime in January. See ya then?

THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!

What are ya thinkin’?

French Travel Country Life Dreaming is what I do. As my regular readers are well aware. And I suspect that their French travels, or dreams about them, is what contributes to them being faithful followers of DA BG.

They will be the first to tell you that my French Cycling Gourmet gig isn’t always a bed of roses. But, fortunately, so far I’ve always been able to find a bed! And, Rain or Shine – it’s never routine or boring.

I’m No Hemingway

Everyone who writes “mo beddah” than I do in this genre (and there are many) will admit that words, however elegantly employed, can only hint at the experience they attempt to describe.

Fortunately, some wise guy invented video. Which, in most cases, can give us a more intense taste of the subject at hand. Hopefully this petite slice of French Country Life will give you a taste of the dream. Bon Appetit!

THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!

What are ya thinkin’?

(Reading Part One and/or Part Two will bring you up to speed)

Recognize This Guy?

If you remember Ichabod Crane, You’d recognize Rene. Hawk nose. Deep set piercing eyes. High cheekbones. Angular face. And a frame more “fashionably lean” than even da BG! When I tried to visualize him at school, I first thought – President of the chess club. Then, I realized, more likely, brainy loner who refused to join the chess club!

Now, hunched over his computer, heavy curtains barricading the waning Autumnal light, “computer drone” would seem to be the accurate phrase. But then, you’d be hard pressed to explain the lyrical piano music flowing from the living room in the afternoon.

Whenever he needed a break, Rene lost himself in the keys. He was, fortunately, self-taught. Free from the strait-jacket of “instruction.” Expressing maximum emotion with minimum technique. I quickly gave up asking him to show me what He’d played. Because He had no idea. But He did teach me one important thing. How to be free on the keys.

Ah – Country Life

“Papa tractor” – was what Rene’s kids called him. The height of their excitement was to perch on that shiny, red American import, with Papa at the wheel. He was their merry-go-round. And behind that wheel, Rene was at the center of his World. The French countryman. Checking fences. Moving stones. Gathering wood. Fixing what needed it. An idyllic existence. Except for one thing. Rene’s business. Although not in the toilet, it was definitely circling the bowl.

Trouble In Paradise

The problem, was Rene. A businessman of the Twentieth Century attempting business in the twentyfirst. Rene was a gentleman of the old school. Swimming in a school of Baracudas. Handshake contracts. Your word is your bond. He hand crafted his shipping boxes from furniture quality wood. With bevelled edges. Recessed brass screws. A zippered, fabric-lined plastic envelope for the shipping manifest. Artistry that drew comments even from jaded parcel truck drivers.

But Rene’s insistence that clients receive,inspect,and approve of the goods before paying, predictably resulted in a “slow pay/no pay” situation. Guaranteeing the ink in his accounts receivable ledger would be the same colour as his tractor. Rene was a nice guy. And, He was finishing last. Tho’ eating regularly. Thanks to Sacha’s gig at the hospital.

Oh, Never Mind!

Despite the black clouds, Rene put a positive spin on it all. Whenever a supplier came to lunch, above average grub, wine, and Granny’s silver, all made it to the table. The other occasion in which will triumphed over adversity, was the Sunday visit of Sacha’s parents.

This was a positive, relaxed experience for everyone except Sacha. Owing to the fact her parents thought, that after marrying Rene, (mature, positive influence) Sascha had put her days of nicotine and Bordeaux Red behind her. And She had. They were directly behind her in the liquor cabinet. And would reappear the moment Mummy and Daddy disappeared.

Marie and I enjoyed Sascha’s performance almost as much as the grub. Usually We gave her an Oscar. And I gave them all an Oscar in the category of : “Most-excessive-smoking-ever-by- three-French-people-during-aperitifs.” As you are well aware, dear reader, the aperitif ritual is numero uno on the list of all things French and sacred. To imagine the fate of any guest A.W.O.L. from this holiest of holies, is to contemplate an end more horrific than a long shower at the Bates Motel!

The Musical Solution

Fortunately, after my first night of lung-filled conviviality, I was able to finesse a solution. Positioning myself downwind, while surfing the conversation as I “noodled” on the guitar; I was able to move back further. So as to “noodle” in the correct position.

I should explain here that “noodling”, while technically “playing”,is not “playing a tune.” Nor is it, in my case,“improvising.” Suffice to say, it’s “musical”, but you can’t hum along. Fortunately, the puffing-gabbing-drinking brigade did’nt care.

Epilogue

I don’t know whether Rene revived his business. Or Marie sold hers. Or if Sascha is still working at the hospital.If changes did come, I suspect they, like the fog that cocoons the fields at dawn, crept in slowly. Without fanfare. My hope, of course, is they got more of what they needed. On their terms.

THROW ME A BONE HERE,PEOPLE!

What are ya thinkin’?

(Author’s Note: While I strive to share the bright side of French Life, there are times when you need to see the darkness. Especially when the issue concerns everyone. This, is such a time.)

All of France is in shock this week, following a especially brutal, and troubling sex crime. A 17 year old Male student, allegedly (I have to use this word to respect the presumption of innocence, but he’s the only suspect) raped, murdered, and burned or attempted to burn a 14 year old Female classmate. A horrific, unimaginable crime, to be sure. WHY? is the question that the people of this Nation are asking.

Although it is a rhetorical one. This young man is “mentally unbalanced.” Sick. Twisted. He needs help. He needs psychiatric treatment is, of course the rant of that profession. And, it’s important to know – he’s HAD psychiatric treatment before. Because he PREVIOUSLY raped a classmate – and was sentenced to – are you ready?……4 months of “detention.” After which the shrinks set him loose.

The opposing view is that he needs, and deserves, a lethal injection.

There are two major considerations in this, and other similiar cases: The right to Life. And the protection of Society.

Psychiatrists would have us believe that we can have both. That, dear reader, is squirrel dookie. Psychiatric treatment of sex offenders,as any study you care to quote will confirm, has never achieved even a 25% rate of success in rewiring those troubled brains.

That’s because – and this may be an “Ah-Ha” moment for you – Psychiatry does not study the brain! Psychiatry is based on profiles/case studies of human behaviour. And what controls human behaviour? – DUH! – you’re right – it’s….THE BRAIN!!!

Incredibly, Psychiatry is the only field of medicine that DOES NOT STUDY THE ORGAN IT PURPORTS TO TREAT.

Imagine being operated on by a neurosurgeon whose sole education was based on “profiles” of the brain? Like to be under his knife? – Didn’t think so.

So – dumping this non-medicine in the trash where it belongs – the question then becomes: “Under what circumstances do you lose your right to life?” A brutual sex crime like this one? A premeditated murder?

And where should society stand on retarded individuals who commit what we consider a crime – but to them was a game? Do we expend our time, energy and resources attempting to re-wire them? Or do they get the deadly needle too?

I’ve attempted to save us all some grief up to this point by not factoring in Religious fanaticism. And, clearly, fanaticism is THE definition of every Religion. (As the authenticity of each depends on theirs being the only one with a hot line to “GOD.”)

And you too, whatever your religious “beliefs”( a 10 dollar word for”fairy tales”) should do the same. Because the operative question here is: “HOW DO WE PROTECT SOCIETY FROM REPEAT SEXUAL OFFENDERS?” (Not how do we stroke your religious fantasies AND protect society.)

There are two solutions. Only one, sadly is do-able.The first (and my favorite) is to hold Psychiatrists accountable for the crimes of sex offenders they green-light for release. I guarantee this would result in ZERO repeat offences.

The other solution is the deadly needle. Yes, I can hear the howls of the “right to lifers” here. “All human life is sacred, etc.” Exactly. What about all the other human lives engulfed in a shockwave of grief and agony? Do they have any rights?, Do they deserve some consideration?

We – Society- are also the victims of this horrific act. We, as members of the human family, are suffering along with the murdered girls family.

Bottom Line: When someone (of any age or mental state) commits a crime this horrific, and will, if given the chance, almost certainly do it again – is their life more important than more grief and agony they will generate for the lives of  all the members of the Human Family?

And the fate of this “alleged” rapist- murderer? Sadly – the usual. Psychiatric”treatment”. Dentention. And, eventually – you guessed it – release.

Doubtless He’ll be walking the streets again – someday. Ready to make his contribution to society.

THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!

What are ya thinkin’?

(Author’s Note : reading Part One – could be instructive.)

All My Children

The cast o’ characters at Chez Rene was as unique as the building they inhabited. (Think French soap opera.) First up – Rene. A gentleman (like his Sister) “of a certain age”, with Adult children from his first marriage. Two young boys, two and six, with Sascha, wife number two, twenty years his junior; plus two girls thirteen and seventeen, from her previous marriage to the Mayor of the village. Seventeen year old Nathalie, yer basic teen age nightmare, lived with daddy, while thirteen year old Isabelle, Nathalies tempermental opposite was here.

And good thing. Because She could, and did, ride herd on her stepbrothers.Most noteably two year old Jean-Louis,who despite his tender age, already had a PHD. In ear-splitting screaming.

Happily, Brother Benoit, the six year old, was a chip off the Daddy block. Easy going with a playful sense of humor. When I walked him back from the after school bus,or to the village bar to get bread(Now you don’t have to ask how small this village was, do you?)- he was always cheery. Displaying more patience than any Adult as I stopped to suss potential photo ops, or smell the flowers.

Cooking With Wine

Rene’s wife, Sascha,head nurse at a nearby hospital, was a chain smoking alchoholic. (Just who I’d want supervisin’ my IV!) As a result, meal quality varied according to the amount of beverages consumed before and during preparation. However, her blood/alcohol content notwithstanding, Sascha was capable of whipping up above average grub, if the goods were fresh, or the occasion, special.

Thus, shopping day, and guests for dinner nights, were marked on my and Marie’s culinary calendar, with the same sense of reverence and anticipation, as kids countin down ‘til Christmas.When Sascha worked, k.p. fell on the dainty shoulders of Marie et Moi. Fortunately, She did not “‘ate ze coo-king”, and We were, in the spirit of greaseless confit, able to elevate culinary quality to at least, “Farmhouse Bleu.”

However, no worries. The scream monster’s diet never varied. Gentle Benoit ate our grub, and Rene was happy with bread, pate and wine.

The Great Escape

Although the French after lunch Siesta is a reality, it is not an obligation. So, most afternoons, with no searing heat to escape, Marie and I ambled though the countryside. Exploring ruins. Collecting walnuts. Talking to horses. Marie had been married. With no children. And tho’ She never mentioned her husband, except in the context of places visited, the bittersweet tone of her recollections confirmed that this was the love. And that it had ended abruptly and tragically.

Paree was not very gay for Marie now. The main reason She was here. Her ex-business partner had taken not only clients, but valuable materials when He left. That, and being robbed in daylight by a gang of pre-teen gypsy thieves, had convinced Marie to sell. So far – no takers. But, if She did sell – what to live on? And so, selling her apartment and re-locating to “ze country” was the rock and the hard place Marie was stuck between.

On the front gate of virtually every French country house you will find the warning : “Chein Mechant!” (dangerous dog) A typically French way of saying : “if you try to rob this house, your voice could go up several octaves.” On one of our walks, Marie and I spotted an atypically colorful country cottage. Bold primary colors. The yard bulging with bric-a-brac and whimsical sculptures. Above the multi-colored mailbox this proclamation : “Chat Joyeuse!” (joyous cat.) I would like to say this was a classic example of French humor. But the owners of the cottage – were Dutch!

Part Three (the captivating conclusion) – next time.

THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!

What are ya thinkin’?

French Country Elegance

She was beyond elegant. Immaculately coiffed. Exquisitely tailored. Equally “prêt” for shopping on the Champs Elysee, or a stroll through the Bois du Bologne. Her dancers body arcing delicate,repetitive motions with effortless grace. As I crossed the courtyard,our eyes met. She fixed me with an impersonal frown. Then, scraping her rake along the pavement to impale another leaf spat out: “I ‘ate ze country!” This is my indelible memory of “Marie from Paree.”

When She is not there, She is where We met. At her Brother’s house in the Bordeaux countryside. Marie is, as the phrase goes, “a Woman of a certain age.” Exactly what age, I did not, and was not, sufficiently interested to determine. Although her innocent revelation that She was “A few years older than my Brother”, did give me a clue.

The Mysteries Of Beauty

Suffice to say, that whether through good genes, great cosmetics, plastic surgery, yoga, or all of the above, “Marie from Paree” would have been the envy of most Women over forty. Marie was also, to use the French phrase, a “personnage.” A catch-all adjective that can mean : “Eccentric”, “A freak”, “A character”, “Larger than life”, “Marching to the beat of a different drummer”, or  all of the above.

Marie had a small atelier where She restored religious object d’art. Her speciality was gold leaf. Which came in way handy for Brother Rene, who flogged religious object d’art. Whenever He had a crucifix or two that needed a little more sheen, He knew where to send ‘em.

Although Rene was the third generation in the “buy-a-piece-of-an-ancient-church biz”, He was the first to do it on the internet. I dug his business model. Lives in the country. Buys low. Sells High. Ships Worldwide. The majority of Rene’s clients were in the excited states. Being the World’s largest overdeveloped market, it had the highest percentage of wackos who could not face the day without fondling a napkin from the last supper, or a strap from the sandal of John the Baptist.

I’d met Rene the previous Summer, (this being Autumn) when I stopped to film the converted stone mill (Moulin) where he lives. Non-cooking, stranger-friendly, and temporarily abandoned by Wifey, Rene was more than over the Moon to have the exotic stranger from the far away lands stay and rustle up some grub.

BG’s French Cuisine Improv.

This, dear reader, turned out to be rustlin’s most challenging hour. The only edible item was a jar of confit. (pro – con-fee) As you’ll no doubt recall from French food preservation 101, this is a cooked dead thing, usually a duck or goose, packed in it’s own fat in a quart sized mason jar. The usual method of preparation for this staple of the South-West French diet is simply to pour the whole enchildada into the pan, heat and serve.                     

However, being a “fat makes me hurl” kind guy, I modified the recipie, by straining off the fat, then after washing the remaining slime off Donald, dropped him into an herbal béchamel to simmer. Served with new potatoes (Charlottes, from Spain), bread and wine, it sent Rene into raptures sufficient to produce a return invivation.

As I said, it was Rene’s house that originally stopped me in my tracks. Mainly, because half of it is a complete ruin! That half, dating back untold Centuries, no roof, walls crumbling, is the Summer Bar-b-que location. Where it joins the “liveable” inside section, the garbage and re-cycling bins live. The half that does have a roof, (but no central heating), is a rectangular affair, with kitchen, dining room, living room and Rene’s office on the first floor. Upstairs, three bedrooms.

Part Two – Next Time

THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!

What are ya thinkin’?