( Talented writer and illustrator , Peter Burleigh , and wife, Judi , below , are back in France aboard their cruiser, The Butterfly, travelling the canals and sampling the grouse food and wines . Pete's first dispatch contains his usual brilliant observations , philosophical reflections . Everybody in France -even insects -have distinctive style and flair , as Pete's opening postcard shows. It is to be hoped he does not wipe out the entire cast of that wonderful French TV series, Minuscule . Owing to a gremlin in Little Darwin's computer we have been unable to post the last part of Burleigh's inimitable outback Bulldust Diary, but it will hit the road as soon as we overcome the problem . Readers can expect more filthy French postcards and cultural dissertations .)
FLIES FIGHT BACK
French flies
are a protected species. French insecticide politely asks them to move on
rather than leave them dead on the floor, so they retreat, regroup and attack,
or hide behind the curtains, breed and fill the room for your return. Our new
Chinese-made flyspray gives flies (and everything else) cancer, brain tumours
and Ebola disease in a millisecond, so those flies better watch out.
The GFC has
reduced employment in France. Hotels are hurting. At the Dijon TGV station, the
man said his hotel is the most under-rated in France. It is an historical
treasure – Napoleon once asked for directions at Reception. It is six-star or
he was a monkey. Its food is Michelin standard or he was a donkey. In fact, he said desperately, he would kill himself
in front of us if we didn’t like it.
THE FLASHER
Space Mountain is
the most terrifying ride at EuroDisney in Paris. They say prior to death, my
life would flash before my eyes, but nothing happened. My life so far must be
so grey and boring that it hasn’t registered. So I took two repeat rides on
Space Mountain and resolved to go bungy jumping. I’m optimistic these things
will be enough to cause a life flash (should it become necessary).
SMILEY FACE
On the French
canals you watch enormous storm fronts roll over the horizon towards you. The
rain roars on the boat’s canvasses, dripping through pinholes into your wine.
The sun sets behind the purple thunderheads while lightning flickers. The orage recedes leaving your smiling face
reflected in the saloon window. Funny how happiness can ambush you when you
thought you were miserable.
JUST HIS LUCK
When the
girls were young, they believed they were in control. This was a challenge he
welcomed. He was victorious over what his acquaintances thought was a long time,
and he was happy to have a reputation. Inevitably his lucky streak ran out –
too soon, he protested - and he was left with the humiliating task of
maintaining his own legend amongst a generation to which he did not belong.
THE GLORY OF FRANZ
When I first
met him in Vanuatu, Franz owned a beat-up Cessna and flew fishermen to remote
islands. He called his business Air Franz. This year he started a new
business in France called The Tour de Franz. His customers would follow the
real Tour de France on side roads. I said this would only appeal to the
masochist market. He went ahead with it and had a heart attack on the first
day.
TOY BOYS
At the
B&B in Pouilly-sur-Soane, the dining table is crowded with stuffed animals.
The plates have animals on them and the napkin rings are porcelain
bunnies. It’s hard to take the food
seriously, because the menu illustrates the dishes with cartoon characters: the lapin
by Bugs Bunny, the canard by Donald
Duck, the poulet by Foghorn Leghorn. The venison with Bambi is off tonight.
God must
have pointed his finger of destiny at us, because we found the rare windscreen
wipers for the boat at an attic sale in a tiny French village near Dole. Now we go to attic sales whenever we can. So
far we’ve bought such essentials as a horse collar, a Russian samovar, a fake
Van Gogh and a miniature Eiffel Tower made of matchsticks. Thanks, God.
In 17th-century
France-Compte, local nobles were buried under the floor of the Basilica in Gray, foiling the graverobbers who dug up and sold
cadavers to a nearby University. When another family member died they were interred
in the same grave, which meant opening the original, often on several
occasions. The congregation would suffer the overwhelming smell, and came up
with the expression “the stinking rich”.
