Gauloise

I miss smoking, I know it was killing me quickly, but I loved the silly theatre of rolling my Gauloise tobacco; the forays into Belgium to buy the cheapest supply; sitting in a corner of a French brasserie, slowly rolling my own, watching England v France at the rugby saying things in my limited French "C'est un bon equipe ca?"; what amazed me was just how friendly the French are in these circumstances (I am not talking about Paris). I have never failed to be astounded by their civility and their acceptance. I have had meals bought for me, been left bottles of vintage wine behind the bar and generally been treated like an honoured guest in a country whose food and wine culture I deeply love. And part of this was the theatre of the roll-up.

What non-smokers don't understand is that there is a visceral pleasure in smoking that is as close and tight to the addict's cortex as the love of food is to sane people and, in some cases, the two are very closely linked. This, like food, is associated with people and memory and, more profoundly, in some respects, a sense of self. To give up smoking is like saying, I am not that person. It is denying yourself and therein lies the core of probably the most insidious addiction. That visceral connection leads your subconcious mind to continually provide excuses (aka reasons) for which giving up is not convenient, sensible etc. Why is why I'm proud to say that four and a little bit years ago I burnt nearly 1 kilo of hand-rolling Gauloise. I decided to give up on find out that my lung capacity had shrunk to 22% of what it should be and that my shot arteries and veins were going to spawn ulcers at increasing rates. Sorry to be graphic, but that's just one of the effects of smoking. And I'm also celebrating my book-keeping exam pass (first class, no less)!

Seasonality

Odd really; I know the theory of when the seasons come and go, but my feelling is:

Winter = December-February (includes two of the darkest months of the year)
Spring=March-May (latter only occasionally is sunny and rarely hot)
Summer=June-August
Autumn=September-November

Once, in the 70s, I used to take my holidays in September and go at least every second year to France. For many years, the weather in September and sometimes even October, was glorious, but since the millenium that has proven in the years I've been there not to have been the case.

I feel sorry for you if you have never been to the Dordogne in the 70s and even 80s; the food was eccentric to say the least, often wonderful, sometimes abysmal...

The strangest meal was one which was served at Chez Jeannot [in Beaumont-du-Perigord], which is no longer there (in sad circumstances); a spectacular 11 course meal for 110 Francs - approximately £11 at the time, including aperitif, vins, et digestif. There were trestle tables and bench seats and you rather expected there to be small portions. Nothing of it; the four centre courses were virtually meals in themselves. One of these, which was a stunning lamb dish in a rich gravy had one piece left in it which others suggested we should eat "for the honour of the English" (there were Dutch and Danes also there), so I obliged wondering about the remaining courses... Jeannot appeared with his wife (the chef) obviously delighted that this dish had been finished. With another of the same course... an amazing place. But I couldn't eat there again!

When we left we were given a bag of sweets, a bottle of the wonderful, dry peach aperitif they had served and a huge slab of saffron cake. We then drove back down an unlit very twisty (hairpins) narrow road to where we were staying. Not ideal!