Gros temps à Antibes

Just had a phonecall from the lifeboat service, who invite me to come along to their training exercises. The need for a lifeboat here can be seen in this short video clip, taken this morning. The waves are incredibly steep and short troughed. Nice to watch, however, when the sun is out, and the howling wind is actually warm.

Thomas Crapper RIP

It was Brussels that finally gave me concrete proof that the fabled Thomas Crapper, he of the water closet, had not only existed but prospered. Some of his artefacts were still in use, and they were still magnificently fit for purpose. I felt privileged, even just going for a pee.

Here in Antibes, bodily functions tend to be a matter of street culture. The eye, and particularly the nose, and even, occasionally and unfortunately, the sense of touch confirm this. Nevertheless, some enlightened souls decided that le water was a must. The only way to accommodate the latest sanitary thinking to the mean streets of Antibes was to build outwards, on balconies or 'encorbellements', a small room, and connect it via very visible pipework to the none too evacuatory sewage system.

Clearly whoever owned our house had had ambitions in the closet department. Our impasse has an imposing, if jerry-built overhang containing a throne and a cistern. But time takes its toll, even on jerry-building, and our shithouse was declared dangerous.

So down it had to come. After months of paperwork, inspections, false alarms, today the jack hammers, in perfect harmony with the old canticle "The day they tore the shithouse down", tore into throne, cistern, walls, etcetera. Our cabinet d'aisance is no more.

Music on the streets

Another anniversary has passed, namely the Bataille des fleurs, a parade in which the various associations and clubs in the town decorate floats with thousands of carnations and hire bands of varying musical competence. The whole event is commented, through deafeningly powerful loudspeakers, by an inane MC with a verbal diarrhoea which would be laughable if it wasn't so condescending and vaguely racist.

All but one of the bands came from Italy. One of the recent innovations is in the percussion section. To increase the range of drums, whilst not having to increase the number of musicians, they have taken to mounting the drums on a kind of trolley, strapped to the drummer, which rolls along on fat little tyres. Clearly the bands would have a problem with steps or pavements. One band, in gorgeously naff pink synthetic uniforms.... (see clip ), ....liberally festooned with silver spangles, sported two of these trolleys. One was for a drummer, and so self propelled. The other was a much bigger affair, like a very large lawnmower. It was being pushed along by a tiny, wizened old man, who was almost horizontal with effort. On the trolley was a very large amplifier and speaker cabinet, along with a petrol driven electrical generator. Attached to the trailing wire from this contraption was a very healthy, heavily muscled man marching along with soldierly panache whilst playing a bass guitar with what might be politely called 'approximation'. Still, his efforts - for a short time at least - drowned out the commentary from the podium.

The band that garnered the greatest acclaim, though, in this town which has a southerner's expert appreciation of all that is noisy and raucous, was a group of a score or so of aged Hell's Angels on Harley Davidson motorbikes. As they passed the podium, they revved up their bikes repeatedly in eardrum rupturing, synchronised crescendos, bowing modestly to the tremendous applause that greeted their musicianship.

SNSM Antibes

Big excitement today. As the 'classic' yachts manoeuvred in the bay, waiting for the starting gun of a race, the uniformed crews struggling with outsized jibs and stays, yours truly was pottering along the quayside near the Bastion Saint Jaume. For some reason, probably connected with the Voiles d'Antibes, the Antibes lifeboat, the Notre Dame de la Garoupe, was tied up there instead of at the lifeboat station. You don't get this opportunity often, so I went and had a closer look.

As I was inspecting her from the dockside, one of the crew asked whether I would like to take a trip with them, as they were about to show their presence to the yachtsmen. I jumped at the chance, and was handed one of their very technical lifejackets (the ones for crew, not for shipwrecked mariners). Quite a fumble to get it on, and adjusted.

Then out it was into the bay, in glorious sunshine and a slight chop to the sea. Perfect. We sailed past quite a few of the gaff-rigged yachts, as various lifeboatmen (and a lifeboatwoman) took photographs. The crew were very friendly and chatty, and indicated I was doubly welcome, as a Welshman, since their twin station was the Mumbles, in Swansea, where they had been very well received a year or so ago.

Finally, and all too soon, it was time to come back (you can't make Frenchmen, even lifeboatmen, miss their lunch). Sacred lunch-time was ticking by, so the cox'n revved up all one thousand one hundred horsepower of diesel. The stern dug in, the bow rose out of the water, and with a tremendous surging sensation all seventeen metres of lifeboat careered, bucking madly, towards Antibes at twenty-five knots. Magic....

Real beauty

Whilst the owners of the 'classic' yachts vie with each other to pretend that they are the sole appreciators of fine things, yours truly, exiled from the waters of La Gravette by a swarm of jellyfish, wandered around the quieter parts of the old town. After a long wait, everything is in bloom, even the cacti, and the birds are chirping. The place has become mediterranean again.

One mystery has been cleared up, too. For a couple of weeks now, and at the same time of year last year, the TV aerials have been the favoured roost of little yellow birds who sing with quite extraordinary melodic fervour. Well, a few days ago, one of them, utterly tame, came to our terrace and inspected us from very close to. Like close enough to touch. Remarkable behaviour in a bird, except for robins. I took some photographs and sent them to AWB for identification. It appears that we are blessed with feral canaries (hence the divine trills), which now take their place besides the parrot colony.

Voiles d'Antibes

Another day, another tent city. This time it is the turn of the Voiles d'Antibes, a rich man's wankfest of 'classic' yachts, sponsored with tax-deductible largesse from business and finance. The yachts do, it has to be said, look very pretty, and the abundance of gaff-rigged boats makes the seascape look strangely like the Channel paintings of the Impressionists.

B. & B. meet V.

Today was a lie-in morning, relatively speaking, for the BH. In other words, it was a day when for once she didn't get up at the crack of dawn to head for her school. The pleasure was short-lived, however, as we suddenly remembered that we had to unlock the metal gate to the impasse to let the builders in for eight o'clock.

I heaved my way into my pantacourts, pulled on a tee-shirt, strapped on my sandals and headed down the stairs. There they were, all the builders, waiting patiently to be let in. One of them had, it has to be admitted, scaled the gate and was on the point of doing some builderly breaking and entering...

It was time for the formal good morning handshake session. I put out my hand. But instead of shaking it, Monsieur V., our mason, grabbed it and hauled me out into the street. "Venez voir, venez voir".

He dragged me round to the Archives Communales, pointed at the new , faecal-hued stucco being applied and said: "Ils me prennent pour un con, quoi, ça va barder".*

Apparently, the town authorities are having applied to their building the very stucco refused to Monsieur V.. I said how did he know it was the same product. He pointed to the pile of sacks containing the offending product. The showdown with Madame B. and Monsieur B. (different surnames), the two town officials who had refused him his first choice, was scheduled for eight thirty this morning. Will keep you informed.

* Who the f**k do they take me for, I'm going to have their guts for garters