Mireille Darc, a Role Model for French Women

Mireille Darc was more than a French actress and a household name. I would go as far as describe her as France's sweetheart - and by the same token as the understated embodiment of the French woman inside and out. With a first name that sings the sunny South of France (my mum's name!) and a surname that is a tribute to Joan of Arc, you are off to a good start!

Mireille Darc, the quintessential French woman!

Mireille was a leading actress in her younger days, a valeur sûre: effortless, true to self, a natural. Yet her film portfolio might not be considered consequential by those cinema purists who shun popular modern-day stories and comedies of errors about ordinary life. No superheroes, special effects, Shakespearean tirades or costumed dramas in sight. What interested Mireille was to portray life as it happens, without artifice.

Mireille Darc and Alain Delon: each other's biggest love in life!

A word of caution: to confine Mireille to her movie acting days would be to rob her of her vibrant off-screen personality, philanthropy, grace and kindness, her business acumen, her second career as a successful TV documentary-maker, and her involvement in TV series and theatre roles later in life. The smouldering beauty was also a muse - not least to the love of her life, the incandescent French actor Alain Delon, and a loving second mum to her stepchildren.

On screen and off screen (pict source)

Mireille was driven: a plate-spinner, fingers in many pies lady. Starry-eyed and an award-winning dancer, she left her native Provence at the age of 21 for Paris where she intended to make it. She never looked back!

Unlike many of her contemporaries (Jeanne Moreau, Brigitte Bardot, Claudia Cardinale), Mireille remained timeless, ageless. She kept her slender figure, impeccable dress sense, elegance and positive attitude. Not to mention her fresh face, trademark sleek blonde bob, beautiful gleaming smile and a glint in her eye that made her the endearing mother, sister, best friend and confidante all along. She didn't let age get in her way: who would have guessed she was in her late 70s?! She kept her health problems under wraps, behind close doors, only for the very close few; she wouldn't have allowed it to vanquish her.

Even after splitting up in 1983, those two remained close till the very end! (pict source)

Mireille's legacy is multi-fold: she is a case in point, not only to young actresses but also to women in general. She shows us how to incorporate longevity into a career, stay grounded, focused, true to self, open to opportunities that ring true to us. Follow your heart, love with all your might, stay loyal. Stay strong and do not get mislaid by the deadly temptations of the art world, excesses and burn out. Ironically very few actresses paid their respects to Mireille on her funeral yesterday. Yet the populace was there, crammed outside the gates of the Saint-Sulpice Church in Paris: they didn't let her down! Mireille was one of us and never left us. She lives on in our hearts.

Toxic Love in a Southern Garden

There is a deathly obsession going on in gardens of southern France and elsewhere in the sunkissed regions of Spain, Italy and Greece. No matter how toxic the relationship, the likes of my mum and my unfortunate next-door neighbour will pursue the affair nonetheless, despite the warnings.

'Oleanders', oil on canvas by Vincent van Gogh (1888), via The Met Museum

The affair involves misleading lust for mediterranean flowers of the easy kind: easy come, easy grow, easy show, easy go. A native of the Mediterranean Basin and the Middle East, it was later introduced to the Far East and Central America. Give them a good watering in times of peak Summer heat, they take care of themselves the rest of the time. They even remember to flower year on year in time for Summer and would even do a little dance if they didn't look so conceited. They're a novice gardener's delight, thus can be pruned back, hacked hard and generally grossly mistreated. Still they will manage to summon enough gusto to thrive back to shape within a trimester and reward you for your carelessness with a myriad blossoms.

The Terrace at Méric (Oleanders), oil on canvas by Frédéric Bazille (1867), via WikiArt

Those come out all over in a rash, in shades of pink and white. The blossoms may look prim and proper as you drive by but get off the car and take a closer look: they are messy. They discard leaves and flowers on a whim, like a furry pet sheds hair, and the freshly-shed flowers end up sticking in clumps to the pathways and pavements and garden tables and the sole of your shoe. Maybe Charles Baudelaire spared them a thought when he penned The Flowers of Evil. You might call them pretty if you're my mum or the woman next door but that sort of beauty is lethal: avoid it at all cost!

(pict source)

They look impressive to the easily impressed, but it's all falsely affected to the tune of fakery in a flurry, like soul sisters begonias and petunias. They're a fifties garden fashion throwback that never actually went away - or went anywhere for that matter - passed on from generation to the next like a heirloom. Why? Because - remember - easy come, easy grow, easy show, easy go. Ubiquitous, so they are, especially when originality is unsummoned and garden space needs to be filled, a hedge be hastily erected at a moment's notice: Nerium oleander is the shrub of choice.

Fatal attraction

No surprise to be had: they behave as expected. The plants are easy on the dollar sign too. In their droves, they charm the charmless garden and will even endeavour to hide a multitude of sins like the ugly breeze-block wall they are backing onto or the irregularities of the terrain. They may fool you with their myriad petals and get you to absolve them of their sins. But their aroma shall fool you not with the old sweaty tee pong, yes the soaked-out worn-out garment that should have been thrown in the wash (or best, in the bin) but clocked an extra day instead. Sweaty pong is all there is to get out of that shrub, and if you stand long enough nearby, you may decide the heavy lingering aroma is posh speak for 'putrid'.

Pretty poisonous is the ugly truth!

Call it oleander all your might, it is of ill repute, plaguing life and playing with death, for it is toxic through and through. My next-door neighbour knows it, yet she amorously planted a couple of those next to her plum tree and allows for the branches to get jiggy with it under the midnight sun. And she still won't come to her senses, instead dragging her chaise longue across her patch of land so it stands exactly right under the flimsy shade of her protégés, admiring their pretentious stance from underneath as she lays down. A morbid rehearsal to God's waiting room?

Putting on a show!

My mum built hedges of those in her dreams and now her dreams are coming true. Leave it to her and leave her to it: she'll talk to them and caress their finger-like leaves with maternal care. Care for them to grow big and vigorous and take over her front lawn like a corporate mission statement: bold and boring. She'll refuse to notice the sap seeping out of the branches and scores of ants and white flies glued onto it. My mum taught me as a child about the toxicity of oleander and now she can't have enough of it in her garden's front row. Such a puzzling contradiction!

Where's Tickle gone? To the safety of the nearby bougainvillea!

I don't see birds showing an interest and rare are the butterflies that do so. I don't take an interest either: I actually dislike the plant with a passion and, as a nature lover, this is one strong statement. Tainted love for some, quiet desperation for others!

Important Dates!

Spring and Summer yield seasonal produce that truly is hard to resist even if you are moderately interested in fruit and veg. Strawberries will always find a way to your heart, while those greens and tomatoes conjured up together in a salad are so refreshing, they are almost a tabletop necessity when the heat is on and a garden party beckons!

Three's not a crowd!

However Autumn (or Fall as it is commonly known in North America) and Winter may not be met with the same excitement. Yet in those heavy-duty root vegetables, rustic pumpkins, plump cabbages, rosy-cheeked orchard apples, and nuts of every variety and calibre, our bodies find the comfort food, the sustenance and the stodge they need to keep us warm and functional, and not fall into hibernation! And if you are my mum, add persimmons and dates to the list.

I must admit that I never was a fan of the latter two but I never gave up on them, to the extent that they are now a part of my Autumnal fruit bowl too, for added enchantment. This year I have reached a new milestone with those fresh dates, as three different types of them are cohabiting in the fruit bowl right now: Barhi, Medjool and Jujube! Save the date(s), I did it! Those Barhi and Medjools I got yesterday are from Israel. The Jujubes might be from Corsica, I'm not sure.

Sticky, gooey, yummy!

I have to pinch myself sometimes at the sight of these semi-exotic delicacies, yet by the same token remind myself that I live closer to Tunisia - a major date producer and exporter of middle-eastern produce - than to Paris! It is thus only natural that our market stalls and fresh produce aisles shall reflect the geographical proximity, which is a joy!

If you are not too keen on dates, chance is you haven't tried fresh dates. Those are the daddy! They are plump, juicy, sun-kissed, gooey, tasty, nutritious, generous and ready to lend themselves to those killer baklava and other sweet and sticky moist cakes with a middle eastern inclination! Give the shoulder to the thin dates tightly corseted into puny little plastic trays. They are the equivalent of factory-farmed food: unloved, they gave up the ghost way before their time and thus are dry and bland.

Eat as is!

All dates do not come from palm trees. I mentioned the jujubes in a post a while back, in reference to mémé (my grandma), who ate all sorts of unusual fruit while growing up in Corsica: medlars, mulberries, carobs, and the oddly-named  jujubes! The jujubier trees were introduced in Corsica in the 19th century from China, and their fruit (jujube) is also known as Chinese date. This forgotten date is making a come-back locally (in Corsica), no less so than in a mainstream fashion (i.e. down the supermarket aisle, and by the crate-load).

In matters of taste, it's a bizarro bite because not all dates taste of dates! Fresh jujube faintly tastes of apple, with a consistency to match, hence its French nickname of pomme surette (tart apple): an unusual taste for an unusual name! Fresh barhi - my favourite - tastes best when just ripe, in its off-white/ pale yellow robe and slightly giving to the touch as its skin starts to crackle. It tastes divinely of melt-in-the-mouth oven-baked/ caramelised apple, and will lend itself beautifully to the most amazing tarts and pies! The overripe barhi (brown and squidgy) however tastes like fermented apple, almost cider... Medjool doesn't taste of apple: it tastes of a fleshy date - with gusto!

Whichever date it is, enjoy it unadulterated. There are however other ways of 'dating' the date... by dressing it, blitzing it, and/ or baking it! I am well tempted by those three scrumptious recipes:-

Date, Banana & Coconut Smoothie by Tuulia

Mango Tahini Date Cereal Bars by Love Me, Feed Me

Pear, Date and Coconut Cake by Hummingbird High

How to Foolproof Your Windows 10 PC in 10 Easy Steps!

My parents bought a new PC lately, an ASUS X553M Notebook. Price was the catch, but as the more savvy amongst us are aware, price does not (always) dictate quality, especially when it comes to technology. Roby, my Apple-devout better half, had warned them that they should go for Mac rather than PC but they went down the supermarket instead, and halfway between browsing the DIY aisle and the books section, had a quick nose round the IT shelves for a pretty-looking piece wearing an ice white shell and a shiny logo on top, then asked a couple of lame questions to a nearby vendor and the deal was sealed. When they got home, they called me and asked me to work my magic on it. And faced with Windows 10 - an adversity all to itself - this is what I came up with:

1. I registered their ASUS machine online, following the prompts, and had to create an ASUS account in the process but kept personal data to a minimum. 
2. Personalised the 'Welcome' message that pops up when Windows loads.
3. Set the date and time (yep, can you believe that this is not an automatic Windows feature here?)!
4. Uninstalled the preset anti-virus software and unleashed my trusted Kaspersky, as I own a Kaspersky licence for 2 PCs.
5. Installed Iolo System Mechanic, a programme (not a freebie but well worth the cost!) that does a great job of decluttering registers and system drives and all the behind-the-scenes shindig!
6. Killed off Internet Explorer and installed Firefox as the defacto internet browser. I bookmarked a handful of websites that I know my parents will be using, to make it easier for them. I tweaked the design to make it more personable to them and added the Ghostery plug-in, an advert blocker that works wonders!
7. Uninstalled the Microsoft Office free trial bundle. Who wants to shell out cash for more crawling chaos? And here whizzed in OpenOffice! While I was at it, I installed Adobe Acrobat Reader DC, and PhotoScape free photo-editing software, a pared-down cheapo imitation of Photoshop Elements that does amateur photography the trick of the tweak!
8. Installed Skype and created and configured their brand new Skype account, adding a couple of family contacts to give my parents a headstart with the application!
9. Customised their task bar with all the basic programmes and features, like Open Office, Adobe Reader, Calculator, Screen Capture Tool, Kaspersky, System Mechanic, Skype and PhotoScape. I doubt they will use WebStorage and Evernote but I added those on too. Cleaned out the Windows start menu off any unnecessary items.
10. Created a table in a word document that holds their account logins and passwords, so that they are never stuck! Of course I encouraged them to change their passwords and update the sheet accordingly whenever they do so.

Finally I downloaded the Lexmark printer files off the manufacturer's website in order to connect my parents' old printer to their new computer. Unfortunately I couldn't find drivers compatible with Windows 10;  yet another dirty little trick that Microsoft loves to play on us whenever they upgrade to a new OS, forcing folks to purchase new bits of kit... This is the Microsoft Windows diktat, and another reason why I begrudge the IT behemoth.

Now a little rant. Unsurprisingly, Windows 10 has failed to impress me, and already I can spot error messages creeping up and discrepancies brewing up just under the hood... You wonder whether Windows' clunky and notoriously dysfunctioning operating systems are not a justification for keeping IT departments and the IT sector as a whole superstaffed, because if we were dealing with efficient systems, we wouldn't need all those dedicated Windows technicians!

Would you trust this man with your computer? Me neither.

Anyhoo I tried to streamline and foolproof my parents' computer as best I could. Considering they will be mostly surfing the internet and typing up the odd letter, a PC put through my 10-step programme should suffice.

Flat-Leaf Parsley Soup

Serves 4 (as a main dish)
Preparation: 10 mins
Cooking: 40-45 mins

What do you do when your next-door neighbour brings you a generous bunch of flat-leaf parsley from his vegetable garden? You make Flat-Leaf Parsley Soup!

Hiding from behind the wild fennel bush!

Believe you me, I was well excited at the prospect of making my very first soup from scratch, and parsley was to provide me that opportunity, under my mum's incredulous eye, as she knows how fussy I am usually about soup. But eh, this one I would love! It's a little like with kids: other people's kids do your nut, but when it's your own, you just melt!

• Big bunch (200g/ 7oz) flat-leaf parsley 
• 4 tablespoons olive oil
• 3 garlic cloves
• 2 small red onions
• 2 medium potatoes
• 1l (1.7 pints) cold water
• Pinch of nutmeg
• Salt and pepper (to taste)

Prepare the parsley: cut off the stalks from the base of the leaves and discard the stalks. Place the leaves in a strainer and run water over to rinse them off. Then chop them finely in the food processor (or by hand if preferred). Peel the garlic, slice it roughly and add to the processor. Do the same with the onions. Peel the potatoes, finely chop them by hand and keep aside.

Heat the oil in a big saucepan on medium heat. Then add the parsley mix, add a pinch of nutmeg, and stir constantly with a wooden spoon for a couple of minutes, to just lightly soften the parsley and develop the flavours. Then pour the water over in one go, and add the potato slices. Bring to the boil gently, stirring occasionally, then cover with a lid and turn down to medium heat. The overall cooking process should take about 40-45 mins. Season just before serving.

You may want to 'pimp up' your soup with garlic croûtons, a pinch of paprika, a tablespoon of double cream or a serving of parmesan, and other soup essentials of your liking. Or you may just savour it as is, with a couple of crunchy slices of bread by the side.

This is a light-hearted, healthy, tasty and incredibly easy-to-make soup that reminds me in taste of watercress soup. It is perfect as a main course for warming up a little Summer evening breeze on the patio, or served in small mugs as an entrée. Enjoy!

Spring Eulogy - Illustrated by My Mum

As a visual tribute to Spring - my favourite season of the year - I had planned a photographic article that would collate together a few items from my vast photographic collection of wildflowers taken over the last five years in Corsica. But when yesterday I rediscovered my mum's illustration portfolio as the 15-year-old budding artist she was then, I knew straight away which visuals I would rather use for my post!

I scanned my mum's illustrations and selected those two as a representation of Spring renaissance and insouciance. Mum and I had despaired lately that her portfolio might have ended up scrapped inadvertently by the builders when they cleared boxes out of my grandma's house prior to tackling structural work... But delightfully the precious drawings resurfaced just as I had given up on them!

Mum used watercolour, pencil and ink for her illustrations, and de-facto Canson paper, from the eponymous renowned French artist paper institution that has been in existence since 1557! I too was a Canson convert from the moment I started mainstream education and then art school classes every Wednesday.

My mum was a bit of an artist. As a teenager, she wanted to become a 'script girl' (script supervisor) for motion films, while caressing secret dreams of movie stardom. She sat in photobooths, moody and pouty and downright funny, and under auspicious climes her photogenic features would have caught the eye of a film-maker or casting director. She once attended a casting call, oblivious to the fact that it was scheduled on April Fool's Day, need we say more... I hearsay that she had some male friends on the beatnik side of life with guitar to boot, and when that cool dude with the sweeping fringe and duffle coat walked up to my grandma asking her permission to take her teenage daughter to some party, grandma went 'Huuuh?' followed by a vociferous 'No way!'.

Shortly afterwards, my mum met my dad. Although he was no sultry Kerouac type, he played guitar and harmonica pretty well and his repertoire span Django Reinhardt to Bob Dylan, via Charlie Parker, Little Richard and 'Saint Louis Blues'. Although she never became a 'career' artist, my mum has sought to incorporate creative elements into her life, despite not being overtly lauded or encouraged. I am sure she still has those script girl dreams at night.

Cooling Down the Heat!

I have a confession to make: I have been on a meltdown. I've been indulging in all things fresh and cool and icy lately. I whipped up a wicked strawberry ice-cream from scratch, earlier in the season, which I served with a homemade warm dark chocolate sauce, the kind that makes you go 'ohhhh!' and 'ahhhh!' and not care if the world ends now!

Introducing the passion fruit gelato from my local café!

My mum made an apricot ice-cream last Sunday that was equally delish! And in between our homemade concoctions, I've had the odd cornetto, and the odd (the odd, haha!) gelato from my local café down the resort, from fig to coffee, from pistachio to passion fruit... With a terrace view to kill for - overlooking the beach cove. Who said life wasn't a beach?

P.S: I have another confession to make: homemade is best!

An Acute Case of the Wanderlust (Part 2)

Where do you start? How soon is soon? How long is a piece of string? As I am preparing myself to step out the comfort zone, I have a thousand questions and very few answers. Thankfully friends have been supportive, no matter how vague I still am about it all at this stage. Somewhere in my mind I have started a process and this is a sign of progress and progression, a massive step forward!

'Lake of the Moon, India', photo by Dhurjati Chatterjee, via National Geographic

The process had been there all along but I was caught in such a spin that I could snap none of the interconnected links that made up the chain I was tied to, or else everything would have fallen off the wayside with harsh consequences. Quit the job with no plan B and la vida loca is likely to take a turn for the worse, as you jeopardise the mortgage and everything home-related, the outgoings, the financial responsibilities, the lifestyle, the prized possessions and the peer pressure that we call The Joneses that keep you in check! It's like a castle of cards crashing down.

At the time I could see no leeway. I envied those who had the luxury to afford a sabbatical with on top of it guarantees from their employer to take them back six months down the line. Now there's a thought. I wonder whether one really wants to settle back into the old job once their travel adventure is over. You have moved on but the old job, old place, old coworkers seem to have remained 'stuck in'. Interesting...

'Coyote, Yellowtone National Park', photo by Timothy Brooks, via National Geographic

The decision to 'jack it in' was eventually made for me via redundancy and everything else is history. Now I've come a long way and I am in a different place. For starters I have the confidence, the willpower, the drive to go travel and push into those new horizons. It's basically now or never. Also I am no longer a 'slave to the wage' (to quote that Placebo song) in the same way I was back in Manchester. At least that's one good thing about island life: less needs, less spending. I have become less materialistic too. And last but not least I'm back at living at my parents like some grown-up teenager and can offload some of that financial pressure (thanks mum and dad!).

Another massive step forward for me is that I am letting go of my house in Manchester. A couple of weeks ago I decided to put it on the market. As symbolic and sensible this is, it is also part of the 'moving forward' process. Yippee, I am ready to let go! After hesitating for the best part of two years it has now become crystal clear that I have no intention of moving back to Manchester, the reason being that I have moved on. So why linger in the past when the best things are yet to come!

P.S: Get a taster of the wanderlust with Benny the Irish Polyglot's fabulously inspirational post: '29 life lessons learned in travelling the world for 8 years straight'!

The American Soundtrack to my Life

Some parties were made to be dull and forgotten, pass. Other parties were made to twist rules, break them, leave a lasting impression and make your heart skip a beat or two and go aflutter. The party I'm gonna tell you about is one of them. It happened slightly over a week ago, Saturday 18th August. It started off as an all-day open-day outdoor event organised by my work. It had been a gorgeous if scorching Summer day (remember I happen to be 'privileged' enough to live on a Southern French island!).

(Picture source)

The event carried into the balmy evening, although guest numbers started to dwindle fast after 8pm. Slightly after I found myself sat on my own at a garden table, patiently trying to work out the faulty sound system off some silly-billy mini-laptop computer, while silently grumbling about how boring the whole evening actually was. Then this dude came over: "Having trouble here? How about listening to music with this one instead?" I looked up. There was that American guy I'd spotted earlier on that day handing his shiny laptop computer over to me. "I've got over 10,000 songs on it, you can listen to whatever you want!" he said with a big smile. This guy was about to change my night, our night. He brought a vibe, a smile, a gaze, a beat, an aura that made him instantly shine from the rest of the crew. He sat next to me and we set the night on fire.

Now I'm no musical wallflower and I'm no Justin Bieber fan. I mean business as far as music is concerned, and no-one actually dares making fun of me in that department. My tastes are not associated with the more "expected", typical predictable female tastes in music. And this guy, understood it straight away. Where a French guy would have typically missed the point and bored me senseless with some intellectual bullsh*t, he was the man of the situation.

(Picture source)

It became clear that he and I were not gonna be crowd-pleasing DJs, we weren't gonna play music for the masses, or what was left of them, a handful of colleagues and friends hugging drinks and getting merry by the outdoor bar without even looking that happy... He and I made sure we got our bottle of white wine and returned to our spot.

Sat there we talked the absolute night away, in keeping with the music, dozens of songs from a variety of repertoires that personally, emotionally meant something to us. Reminiscence songs. And when I dare say the night away, do I look like I'm making this up? Uh, not really. We talked non-stop till I had to leave the next day Sunday at 10:30am to go to my mum's birthday party!

How about the playlist? Eclectic and not as heavy metal as might have been predicted. We listenened to everything from Incubus to Johnny Cash, Blink 182, The Doors and Soundgarden to Bob Dylan, Black Eyed Peas, The Killers, Sugar Ray, KiD CuDI, Neil Young, Papa Roach and Marilyn Manson. We talked about Lacuna Coil (although not a US band), A Perfect Circle, Stone Sour, The Dandy Warhols and of course Nirvana...



That night, to the sound of cool music we talked about travel, sport, religion, the quest for wisdom, the laws of relativity, fate, astronomy, Nietzsche, hobbies, goals, hopes, fears...

Time played against us, speeding past faster than sound. That's the way it always feels when you're in great company having fun: time flies. Like you're swept into a time capsule, time-travelling around your own orbit.

I never saw that guy again. Wherever in the world he is now, God knows.

Ill-Fated Journeys (Part 2)

I set off on the second leg of my journey at night fall, slightly apprehensive. Yep, some of us call it a gut feeling. It seemed that everything was too good to be true. I tried brushing off any fear or self-doubt, and just place my trust in the birthday friend who should have been wise enough to ensure his guests had the basic information they needed in order to attend his party, as in where and when. Hmm... And the basic information in my possession was as vague as the promise of a lottery win.

'Winter Morning in Corte, Corsica', by Patrick Morand

I got to Corte at 7:00pm. I had two options: either head for the old fortified town and its array of steep narrow streets or take a more conservative approach via the university quarters. I was only trying to be practical: parking areas would be more readily available in the new town than the old, also I assumed that the pulse of the town would resonate off the student area like it does - let's say - in Manchester, UK (my former stomping ground). How wrong could I be! It looked eerily quiet and by then I was becoming too worried about that party to even search further for that elusive student life and student bars I had heard about.

Last time I had been in Corte was probably two decades ago, in the Summer, on a quick two-hour tourist tour of the citadel with my parents and brother. Now it was a different kettle of fish: on my own on a Saturday night, all dressed up and with that increasing feeling that I had been taken for a ride. Or at least that's the way it felt to me. I tried ringing my birthday mate and all I got was his voicemail. I tried ringing his best mate and then again I was faced with a frustrating recorded message. I hanged up.

'See No Evil', Photographic Journal by Ben Merrington, via Tumblr

Sat alone in one's car facing some battered iron fence with a row of austere-looking student halls stretching at the back was probably the last sight one would contemplate on a Saturday night. I rang my parents to say everything was ok, I was about to join the party. I had to save face. I rang back the birthday boy, not once but three or four times, left voicemails, then launched into a frenzy of texts.  By then one hour had painfully elapsed. I was feeling the cold from the dropping temperatures. I was feeling hungry too. All of a sudden the whole party scenario seemed foolish.

Then I got annoyed. I felt like I had been stood up. I felt like I should have asked more questions rather than blindfully place trust into someone who had the reputation for being a happy-go-lucky scatter-brain. The situation was totally uncool. The party was over. (to be continued)

Hotel Review - The Village Hotel Cheadle

I had planned a trip to Manchester at relatively short notice and was looking to stay in the South of the city for convenience (within easy reach of the airport, and because most of my engagements would take place in South Manchester) and personal choice (historically South Manchester had been my homebase for the best part of 16 years).

Last time I was in the UK (back end of August 2010), I had booked a room at the City Inn Hotel Manchester (now rebranded as Mint Hotel) bang in the centre of town, halfway between Piccadilly Gardens and Piccadilly Train Station. Although it was convenient in certain ways (mainly on the retail and catering front), it proved rather tricky in relation to my South Manchester-based appointments. So this time around I was determined to give the city centre a miss.

Mum's ready for action and The Village Hotel has it!

Last time I took my brother with me and now I was taking my mum. I was hiring a car, which would give us that much-needed freedom of movement, as you end up wasting a lot of time and money juggling taxis, trains, buses and the likes... We could therefore afford to be off the main parkways and out of town centres.

The temptation for anyone looking for a hassle-free booking would have been to resort to one of those budget hotels within the immediate airport area. The Travel Inn was priced at an attractive £29.00 a night, but in terms of attraction I was looking for something else. I wanted our hotel stay to have a bit more oomph and drama. Previously I had stayed at the Village Hotel Cheadle, even had dinner there a couple of times, I even had insider knowledge of the place (my partner had worked there), so this was going to be my natural choice. I wasn't taking a risk, neither was I prepared to take one.

The 117-bedroom Village Hotel is located in the leafy suburbs of Stockport, a Cheshire town touching the South East Manchester boundaries. The hotel is a good 15 minutes drive away from the airport (on a quiet day) and within easy reach of the motorway, a half-hour drive from Manchester city centre off peak hours. It enjoys a good reputation and attracts a wide array of demographics, from business people to families, wedding parties, week-enders or friends/ couples on a city break.

That statement dark entrance! (picture source)

The hotel is set in a landscaped environment of mature trees, with ample parking space, and refers to itself as a hub, for it is not only a hotel, but also a restaurant & grill (Verve), a pub (Victory), a Starbucks café, a conference destination, a function venue, and a very popular leisure club complete with swimming pool. There is a buzz about that whole place, no doubt about it! The Cheadle hotel is part of the 25-strong Village Hotel group. The group has been under the umbrella of the prominent De Vere portfolio (Malmaison Hotel, Hotel du Vin, Liberty (dept. store), Searcys etc.) for a couple of years and each of the 25 Village hotels are being repackaged up by the De Vere guys into 'an affordable, design-led hotel with an individual vibe of its own', aiming for trendy boutique hotel status at a reasonable price. 

I booked the hotel only a few days ahead of the trip, via Booking.com and got a 50% deal straightaway: £250.00 for a twin room for 4 nights (buffet breakfast included). Not bad when you consider that rooms are typically 3 to 4 times the value of a Travel Inn room!

Last time I had stayed at The Village Hotel was in a suite, and my current expectations were a tad warped by the experience. The twin room seemed cramped, certainly not as roomy as an average De Vere twin room. It was also quite dark (some hotel reviewers have gone as far as describing their room as dark and dingy), which wasn't helped by the dark accent wall.

Lightening up the sombre mood of the room!

One of the perks of hotel guests once they step inside their room is either to raid the mini-bar or the complimentary breakfast bar. In our case, there was no mini-bar. As for the breakfast bar, the choice of beverages was limited to coffee, decaffeinated coffee, and that strong builders brew (tea) that even the milk pod and sugar sachet wouldn't soften the strength of. No biscuits, tid-bits, fancy/ herbal teas that you would otherwise expect from a boutique hotel on a par with 'The Mal'. And I have to say I was a bit bothered by this.

Same in the bathroom department. Hotel guests love those sample-size shower gels, shampoos, creams and cutesy soaps. Here you had to content with the basic Cussons dispenser in the bath, and a (faulty) liquid soap dispenser by the sink. The toilet paper was cheap and nasty. These are little things but hotel guests pick on them. I saw no hairdryer in the room, although I am sure I could have requested one from the reception desk. The door knob looked like it had been replaced but you could see the markings and holes from the previous one from a different design. There was a fine sprinkling of dust over the desk lamp and the standalone lamp (easily noticeable as soon as those lamps were on). The window glass needed a clean and so did the flat roof that we overlooked.

Besides the hotel was noisy on two levels. It is on the flight path and those of you used to the peace and quiet of the countryside or the sleepy towns might pick on this straight away. However the flight noise is bearable and no aircraft activity could be heard roughly between 12:00am and 5:00am. The second type of noise came from the function rooms which happened to be underneath our room. Noise subsided after 12:00am (possibly around 1:00am to 2:00am, I couldn't say for definite). One night we had a 1980s disco to content with. Duran Duran and FGTH didn't exactly lull us to sleep, although for the music's sake I would have preferred something edgier from back in the day although then I might have joined the party!

Rise and shine!

I don't mean to sound like a grating episode of The Hotel Inspector. Maybe I should indicate in passing that I worked a short stint in the hotel industry, which has made me more naturally attuned to some of the details I have mentioned here. Having said that, you get the clear message that the company is on a cost-cutting mission and the first casualties are the little touches, which is most unfortunate when you aim to position your brand as a boutique hotel. (After writing this review I had a look at the Village Hotel website which funnily enough mentioned 'little touches' at the hotel... At least we are on the same wavelength, except poles apart!).

At least the food didn't let us down. You could taste that it had been freshly prepared. My mum and I dined at the Verve restaurant on the evening of our arrival, and enjoyed the Salmon Fishcakes which we had ordered as a main course. We were each presented with one haggis-sized fishcake, but once we got over the odd presentation, we loved the melting combination of salmon and potato purée, served with a light vinaigrette and Tartare sauce. For dessert, we had a heavenly (and filling!) Bread and Butter Pudding served with Chocolate Sauce and Orange Marmelade. I was a bit taken aback by the waiter bringing us a pitcher of tap water when I asked for water (I meant a bottle of still water, like Evian or equivalent)...

Breakfast was a moment we looked forward to: a buffet-style eat-as-much-as-you-like feast that encompasses all tastes, from the continental breakfast (fresh fruit, juices, yogurt, milk, cereals, muesli, Danish pastries, croissants, toasts etc.) to the typical Full English Breakfast, all presented within the Nantucket design style of the Verve restaurant. The temptation to linger over breakfast was strong as it was really cosy there!

A few supplies from Sainsbury's to get us going!

The staff were friendly, although the reception manager did look a bit harassed one time, and on our very early departure on Sunday it would have been nice for the night porter/ hotel manager or whoever that middle-aged guy was, to thank us for our stay and wish us a pleasant journey, rather than blurting out in a huff from a distance: 'Have you paid everything?'. Not exactly a parting good-bye, but then again this hotel sadly lacks in places what it should be all about: the little touches!

The Village Hotel Cheadle, Cheadle Road, Cheadle, Stockport, Cheshire SK8 1HW, U.K.
Tel: (+ 44) (0)844 980 8033

The + sides: conveniently situated, young and vibrant atmosphere, comfy bed, Verve restaurant fayre fresh and tasty
The - sides: room décor a bit cheerless; noisy room; not as spotless as should be; lack of little extras and lack of attention to detail; toilettries/ hot beverages in the room to the absolute minimum; a hairdressing/ beauty salon would have been handy for those guests short on time. That night porter guy/ concierge, not a happy bunny!

Read my review published on Booking.com.

Hop & Shop in Candy Shades!

A couple of weeks ago I took my mum to Manchester (U.K.) on a four-day trip packed full with appointments and commitments, but we managed to squeeze a spot of shopping in between!

The mugs are from John Lewis

We visited two familiar retail haunts which also rate high as personal favourites: John Lewis (Cheadle) and Kendals (where my mum took advantage of the amazing sale to invest in Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein nightwear for my dad). I took my mum to Lakeland (Handforth), the British kitchen domestics equivalent to Mathon (the Mathon catalogue is virtually my mum's bedside read!). She loved it there in Lakeland, and amongst other items, purchased individual 1950s style enamel oblong pie dishes, with the promise of culinary delights to come!

We whizzed down to Sainsburys to stock up on crumpets, custard creams, golden syrup, cake decorations, tea cakes, Battenberg cake, organic white tea and we even pushed the button further by purchasing... flour! This is in fact so that I can recreate the 'perfect' Victorian Sponge back in Corsica using the most appropriate ingredients! How British was that for a shopping list, by the way!

Every cloud (made of chocolate) has a silver lining!

Our tight timetable was such that there wasn't any time left for wandering or exploring further shopping venues (apart from the obligatory trips down to the local DIY store as this is developed further down this article). Meanwhile I had been looking forward to a cake shop & tea parlour in West Didsbury called And The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon which I had found out about via Twitter, but had to cross it off our list as we were defeated by time... Instead we stumbled across a Costa Coffee down the Altrincham high street and that one had to do!

To be fair, it would have been nice to add an extra couple of days to our schedule and dedicate that extra time purely to shop and treats, but with a new job looming on the horizon of our planned return date, this would have been impossible for me to honour.

Coconut ice from John Lewis

We stayed at The Village Hotel Cheadle, which I will talk about in more detail in my next article. Cheadle is a Stockport suburb located in South Manchester, and the hotel was a handy base for our to-ing and fro-ing around the Cheshire fringes of Timperley-Altrincham-Handforth for most of my scheduled appointments. Last but not least, our Cheadle base was also within accessible radius of my little house which I am currently renting out via a property agent.

My mum and I had taken advantage of the fact that the tenancy had come to an end, in order to go down to the house for inspection, replace a couple of bathroom fixtures, and add a few touches to the property to make it even cosier. We also took up the task of tidying the garden: three bins worth of cuttings, dead leaves, overgrown branches and weeds! Although my elderly tenant looked after the house beautifully, the garden clearly wasn't her cup of tea, although I had offered her (via the agency) the services of a gardener to help her keep on top of it but she had declined...

Easy does it at John Lewis!

Anyway I'll let you swoon over a small selection of the sweet nothings in candy shades that my mum and I brought back from the UK (further evidenced by the excess luggage charge that we incurred from the EasyJet desk on the day of departure)... But in the end, it was all good and we loved every minute of it! Now I can't wait to return, if only for the shopping fix which I will never get out of my system, especially now as a 'recluse' islander in the Med, in a place that is a galaxy away from the fast-lane premium shopping experience that any major UK city hands you over on a plate!

On these pictures I am sure you'll agree that not only are the sugary colours covetable, but those amongst us with a soft spot for packaging design, typefaces and typesetting will be equally sensitive to the charms they exude. Looks so good, you don't want to spoil the fun by cracking open the boxes to raid their contents!

Ready for Fathers Day!

So French yet so British!

Our candy theme all the way down to menswear!

Heads Up - and a Moving Moment

I am so sorry guys for our regular week-end feature - A Week-End Wonderweb - being a no-show this week. Nothing to do with a lack of inspiration or some diary mishap. Simply I have been mad busy lately on a number of personal and work-related fronts, going places, meeting people, and not in the right frame of mind to just sit down and plan my blog ahead as I would normally do...

Thing is, I doubt I will be able to make it up to you this coming week as I am off to sunny Manchester! That's right - and I am excited about this trip! Not exactly a leisurely city break either although I will be taking my mum with me and I'll make sure we can squeeze in a bit of shopping and sightseeing between appointments. I'll even take my camera with me as I intend to be snapping away for the blog.

The point of no return for mother and son? (picture source)

As soon as I'm back to France, I will be embarking upon a busy Summer schedule workwise, yet this doesn't mean La Baguette is compromised, just that I might not be as wordy as I would normally, and the monthly output may get reduced a notch. On the other hand, I have exciting ideas in store for La Baguette! So just relax and stay put, my friends.

Meanwhile I thought I'd share with you a touching moment I caught recently via the IFAW* newsletter (blog) which related an incident in Assam (North East India), in late April, whereby a newborn elephant slipped down a narrow ravine and became trapped while sustaining injuries. His worried mum joined him down, and she too got injured. A rescue team quickly got organised to pull the distressed pair out to safety. The calf was rescued first and he thankfully survived his ordeal despite initial fears. After a stint in intensive care, it looks like he is slowly pulling through. Unfortunately his mummy died soon after her baby was rescued.

A rocky start to life! (picture source)

With France's Mothers Day just around the corner, this is a beautiful yet extremely touching tribute to motherly love and care. Click here to read the full report.

* IFAW = International Fund for Animal Welfare

All photography in this article by the IFAW - Wildlife Trust of India's field communications officer, Sashanka Barbaruah, in Assam (Northeast India).

La Fête du Muguet

Last Sunday, 1st May, was a busy day in the diary. Firstly it is referred to as Labour (Labor) Day as a homage to 1st May 1886 when a workers strike in Chicago (USA) pledging the 48-hour working week (6 days x 8 hours a day) ended in a bloodbath when the police force fired gunshots at them. Three years later, in 1889, the Paris International Socialist Congress decided to symbolically dedicate 1st May in support of the 8-hour working day plight. This would eventually be ratified through Parliament no less than thirty years later, on 23rd April 1919...

Ensley Furnace (Alabama c1906), via Shorpy (Juniper Gallery)

Labour Day, as it symbolically became known as, is recognised in many countries around the world. Labour Day became a paid bank holiday in France in 1947; employees working it would be granted double pay. Traditionally in France on 1st May, trade unions march down the streets peacefully across the main French towns and cities, to perpetuate the tradition, while using it as a platform to voice any griefs they might have, usually with some political connotation. Human rights groups join the march.

Meanwhile each year in Britain the first week-end of May (known as the May Day bank holiday week-end), spans a three-day week-end (i.e. including Monday). Village fêtes traditionally commemorate it one way or another (market stalls, morris dancing, medieval re-enactments, etc.). This year, our lucky neighbours will have enjoyed a four-day bank holiday extravaganza, courtesy of the Royal Wedding celebrations.

Now back to France and on a much more romantic and sweeter note than Labour Day, the French celebrate 1st May by purchasing (or picking in the wild) a few twigs, a bouquet or pot of muguet (lily of the valley). Fabulously fragrant and the darling of couture house perfumes, lily of the valley is also reported to bring good fortune to those who take it home on 1st May (not exactly the latest fad as this French tradition dates back to 1561!). French trade unionists marching down the streets on 1st May wear the flower on the buttonhole as their symbol for Labour Day.

My mum keeps her muguet for a whole year (admittedly the plant has no super powers that enable it to keep that long, especially if cut, or kept indoors in its original pot), before replacing it with a fresh one the following 1st May.

Now that's a fragrant talisman that everyone should treat themselves to, if only to take Spring home and enjoy the wonderfully fresh and infinitely feminine aroma. Meanwhile La Baguette belatedly wishes everyone: Bonne Fête du 1er Mai!