Wednesday, August 03, 2016

Pictures at an Exhibition

The summer holidays are a bit difficult for me as, without the routine of a working week, I am just a Blob on the Sofa.

So I have to make a huge effort to ‘do’ things. I’m too poor to go on exotic holidays – or even unexotic ones – and too lazy at the moment to go walking.

So today, I ambled along to the Musée de l’Ancien Evêché to a most wonderful exhibition featuring the work of the little-known amateur photographer, Joseph Apprin.

Joseph Apprin was born in Saint-Geoires-en-Valdaine, in Isère, in 1859. He worked as a clerk in Grenoble and like many of his middle-class contemporaries, took up a fashionable new-fangled hobby: photography.

But, unlike his fellow photographers, he did not content himself with taking pretty, soft-focus pictures of bucolic scenes (this was the era of Impressionism, of course); rather, he preferred to photograph everyday scenes and ordinary people.

The result is fascinating. Apprin took pictures of men playing boules, women washing clothes (apparently, they only washed bed linen once or twice a year, which makes me, with my dodgy housekeeping skills, feel a lot better) and children swimming in the river. He photographed labourers – a strange and novel subject for the time – and took pictures of his own children playing. He even made a few delightful ‘selfies’, grinning and making faces.

He died aged 49, in 1908, and would probably only have been remembered for his administration skills had his glass-plate negatives not been discovered almost by accident a century later.

So, if you’re broke and too lazy to go walking, why not pop along here and see this exhibition? It’s called Le spectacle des rues et des chemins and it’s free!


Friday, January 01, 2016

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Oh Happy Day!

There are so many things to celebrate today that I’ve copped out and decided to spend this sunny afternoon lolling on the sofa. There’s only so much merry-making I can stomach before I get a panic attack.

First off is La Fête des Pères. We’ve spent the past week at school making Father’s Day cards from cunningly-folded sheets of paper. I was designated to instruct the children on the proper way to do this. The last time I was designated to do crafts with the children, I pyrographed my own arm so I wasn’t hopeful.

Every single child managed to produce a delightful shirt-shape, with a collar and sleeves and everything. I produced a wrinkly sea monster with one leg and an atrophied head. Well, I didn’t put origami on my CV so what do they expect?

Here’s my own lovely dad whom I miss every day. I bet he couldn’t do origami either…

Of course, it's also La Fête de la Musique. I’ve already participated in this: our church gave a Gospel concert on Friday evening in front of the Centre Loisirs et Culture during a mini-hurricane. I was OK with that as I could blame my eerie howling on the wind.

Anyway, I’ve consulted the programme for Grenoble today and nothing takes my fancy so I’m posting a few musical family clips instead.

Here’s Abi rehearsing with her new group:

Here’s Hannah singing at the Celebration of Life for her uncle Ian:

And here’s my dear brother himself, playing one of his own compositions. We all miss you very much, you know…

Finally, it’s Le Solstice d'été - Midsummer’s Day. How does one celebrate that? Well, if pagans are to be believed, I should bathe skyclad beneath the sun, pick a few herbs, drink mead and bathe skyclad (again) beneath the honey moon. If I tried doing that on my balcony, they’d set fire to my car (although I could dance pagan-like around it, I suppose).

Nah. I’ll just enjoy the longest day of the year from my sofa, nightie-clad and drinking tea.

Have a Happy Happy Day!

Friday, March 20, 2015


Well, the sun was certainly eclipsed today here in Grenoble.

Even if I had managed to drag myself away from my fascinating lesson on the Present Perfect Continuous and nipped outside, I would have seen nothing but mist (oh, ok, smog) obscuring the light.

Far more interesting were the reactions at the Primary school where I also work. The headmistress was inundated with calls from worried parents who wanted reassurance that their children would be kept inside the classrooms with the blinds down during the fateful event. One mother phoned to say her child was so traumatized, she wouldn’t be coming to school at all.

What on earth would they have made of the total eclipse of 1999?

I’ll never forget that warm August day when we all went up to Beachy Head on the South Downs, clutching our silly glasses and a picnic hamper. Half the population of Eastbourne had had the same idea, it seemed.

We found a spot to sit on the grass, donned our glasses and gazed at the sky, waiting.

I remember how the air suddenly chilled as the sun turned black and twilight fell; the eerie silence as the birds stopped singing. The awe...

And that, I think you'll agree, was an eclipse to put today's feeble effort firmly in the shade...


Monday, July 21, 2014

In perspective

Stereotypes may or may not be true: the stiff upper-lip of the British, the discipline of the Germans, the excitability of the Italians and…the grumpiness of the French.

To be honest, I only know a handful of proper raleurs – complainers. Most of the French people I meet are delightfully easy-going. Nevertheless, this stereotype has come in very handy as an excuse for my own grumpy-miserable-feeling-sorry-for-myself state of mind. It’s all rubbed off on me, see?

Ah perspective was all wrong.

This post is for my little brother (he'll always be my ‘little’ brother) and he’s seriously ill. If there are any readers living in the Brighton area, please support this touching venture organised by Ian's musician friends.

It’s all about hope.

Saturday, March 08, 2014

Feminine Articles

It’s International Women’s Day so I thought I’d write a piece about my struggle, here in France, with all things feminine.

Well, not all things feminine. Nouns mostly. After twenty-seven years in this country, you’d think I’d have got the hang of this le/la, un/une business but pas du tout. I provide endless amusement for my French friends and colleagues because I still get it wrong.

I mean, some words just sound feminine to my worryingly gender-stereotyped (I’ve just realized) mind. Like nuage…soft and fluffy, it’s actually masculine. Or pétale, which is also masculine. And then there is victime and personne, which are feminine. So when the newsreader refers to a male murder victim as ‘elle’, I get terribly confused.

As for délice, amour and orgue, these masculine nouns become feminine in the plural. In fact, orgue can be either masculine or feminine in the plural depending on…oh, never mind…something to do with stops and bellows, no doubt.

Fortunately, my life has been made easier in recent years as the government attempts to feminise job titles whilst provoking apoplexy in that bastion of the French language, the Académie Française. For example, it is now acceptable to refer to la ministre, if the MP in question is a woman. I can also speak of une ingénieure, une auteure or une professeure and nobody laughs at me. But if I’m feeling particularly mischievous, I might mention a primary school teacher I know (une maîtresse) whose name is… Madame Lemaître. That keeps ‘em guessing.

Madame, of course, is the title given to a married woman. There is no equivalent of 'Ms' in French: you are either Madame or Mademoiselle. But this is about to change. In February, a ministerial circular declared that Mademoiselle should be removed from all administrative documents, along with the terms nom de jeune fille (maiden name) and nom d’époux (husband’s name).

While this is a good move, it didn’t stop me from being inordinately pleased the other day when the woman in the supermarket called me to her checkout.

“Mademoiselle…” she began.

I raised my head from the magazines I’d been looking at and smiled graciously. The anti-wrinkle cream must be paying off.

She clapped her hand to her mouth.

“Ooh, I’m terribly sorry,” she squealed for all to hear. “You’re so small, I thought you were a child.”

So much for sisterhood.

To be fair, I also struggle with all things masculine in France. But that’s quite another story and I still have such a lot to learn…

Joyeuse Journée Internationale de la Femme!






Sunday, October 20, 2013

The Vercors


My little blue car chugs valiantly upwards on the winding road to the Vercors mountains.  Even with the accelerator pressed to the floor, she will not go any faster than 60km an hour. The line of impatient motorists behind me is getting longer and I have to pull into a lay-by twice to let them pass.

I have not ventured into the Vercors for years. The first time was when we arrived in Grenoble in 2001. I was excited at the prospect of tasting the local AOC cheese: Bleu de Vercors-Sassenage and we eventually found a dairy farm that sold it. Unfortunately, the farmer was in the middle of mending his tractor when we got there and hastily wrapped us a piece of cheese with his grubby hands covered in engine oil. We haven’t eaten it since.


As I pass through that village now, I am amused to see that it’s called Engins - and the association of blue cheese and tractor oil is fixed forever in my mind.

The second visit was to the Grotte de Choranche, a hauntingly beautiful cave, a fairytale palace of emerald pools and fragile glittering stalactites fit for a Snow Queen…


Close to Choranche is the medieval village of Pont-en-Royans, famous for its maisons suspendues that overlook the river Bourne. The houses, with their pastel façades, date from the 15th century. Oh, it is as pretty as a picture!



The third time I went, I recklessly braved the steep and winding Col de Menée in search of lavender fields in the south. When I finally reached Die, I was in dire need of a glass of its famous clairette – a sweet, sparkling wine made from muscat and clairette grapes.  I was driving, so resisted the temptation, even though the trauma of navigating those sheer and monstrous cliffs had reduced me to a quivering blob.


The Vercors is also famous for the maquis, the group of French freedom fighters who resisted the German occupation of France during World War 2. Parts of the Vercors are hostile, isolated and difficult to access and therefore made an ideal refuge for these brave, determined people.


But on this sunny afternoon, I am driving to Méaudre, which is neither hostile nor isolated and is easy to access, even for me. I want to wander through a dappled forest, breathe pure mountain air and savour the colours of early autumn.

The Vercors is home to animals such as the ibex, the mouflon (wild sheep) and the chamois. There were even bears here once but they disappeared in 1940 and were never reintroduced.  I merely get a glimpse of a handful of clucking hens, deer dashing across fields and a few disgruntled cows.


There are so many mushrooms and toadstools, so many shapes and colours. One day, I would like to learn how to identify them but for now, I simply stoop to admire their beauty.


On the way back, I pass several farmhouses with intriguing roof details. I discover that the limestone tiles are arranged in what are called sauts de moineaux or ‘sparrow hops’…like a staircase. This was to protect the houses – which once had thatched roofs – from catching fire during lightning storms. The stone at the top is known as la couve and is a fertility symbol, vestige of the Celtic tribe, the Vertacomocorii, which gave its name to the region.


Driving home is less embarrassing because it’s all downhill and my little car can manage that quite well, thank you very much.

This is probably my last walk before autumn turns into winter. Winter is for shivering on the sofa slurping soup and grumbling about the snow.

Roll on spring…