Category: Family Life

Summer 2025. Part I: Beer, Bad Decisions, and the Road to Lourdes

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Beer, beer, and a dubious decision

A Little Context, Dear Reader

Hello Dear Reader. The last articles you read were a chronicle of the 14th of July celebrations and various disasters with the seafood god — more about family life than pure photography, not that I’m a participant in any risqué photography, as I assume you already know.

Now, this might surprise you — given my reputation as a total abstainer — but even I enjoy a little “drinkie pooh” now and again. That lovely boy of mine asked if I could help him move out of his flat and come home. How could I ignore his pleas for assistance? I couldn’t. So I drove to the boy’s flat and helped him get the last of his “stuff” into the car. We tied his bed to the roof, and he suggested we go for a beer to celebrate his homecoming. What a gentleman, and an all-round good egg!

A Good Egg of a Son

That wonderful son of mine even paid for round one: two pints and one saucisson, which hit the spot. Round two was my turn, and we had the same. The outing was turning into a good night. Round three was even better. We stopped at round four — had to get the car home and all that.

When Good Sense Abandoned Us

It was round four when good sense abandoned us, and the silly ideas began. We were talking about the trip to Lourdes back in June. Wasn’t it lovely, and wouldn’t it be nice to do it again sometime?

“Yes, of course it would,” I said.
Big mistake.
He pulled out his phone.
Tapped.
Smiled.
“Sorted. I’ve booked an Airbnb for Friday night.”
That’s when I realised: we’d fucked up.
His enthusiasm is infectious. But this isn’t the kind of trip you plan at the end of a little outing. Still, he was tickled pink.
I had to explain it to his mother…

Delicate Ground, Ian… Delicate Ground

It was with a contrite heart and much pleading on my part that we managed to get permission from she who must be obeyed. Yes, I was a fool and an utter eejit, and why did I let him be so bloody stupid? Delicate ground, Ian, delicate ground… A father–son trip is fun, but it’s an easier sell when you volunteer to take child number two as well. Killian was fine with this, and it was agreed: I would take the children — Killian and Kate — to Lourdes, without wrecking the car (or even scratching it), and return with all of us in one piece.

The Photographer’s Twist

I wanted this summer to be about film photography — so the ME Super and the Nikon FE were coming with me. No instant feedback. No safety net. Just light, time, and a few rolls of HP5.

Eejit number 1 on the right and his sister who would be putting up with us for the weekend… Nikon FE 50mm Ilford HP+ at box speed.

Mon beau-père, ce héros

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My father in law, this hero.

This is the final chapter from our trip to Brittany. Now, where were we? Ah yes—the party in my pants. Not the fun kind. Not the sexy kind. The kind caused by just one “not so good” mussel.   I had paid my tribute to the seafood god.  And of course, as any self-respecting Frenchman would, we started thinking about lunch.  How very continental!

Marina has a flat just opposite where Gisèle, my mother in law, lives, and had made the very kind offer of feeding us that lunchtime.  Virginie, my wife, was asked if she wanted oysters for lunch.  No she didn’t, Maman. Did I want oysters?  Thinking back to my uncomfortable tribute to the seafood god, not for me, Gisèle. Oh I must have eaten a mussel that wasn’t bon…  Possibly Gisèle…

Gisèle still opened all the oysters she had and laid them out on a platter.  We would take said oysters with the leftovers from yesterday’s mammoth family lunch.  Yes of course I could take this, and that, and t’other….

The plan of the day: eat with Marina, Vincent, Raymond and Sylvie, and then go and see my father in law in hospital before heading home.

We ate with Marina and the others, and it was a lovely meal and we were made to feel so welcome.  Champagne to celebrate the 14th of July.  Ah well, I took one for the team and had a glass.  I wouldn’t be driving anyway.  My wife would be driving since I don’t know how to drive, and when I do, I drive like an old man.  My mother seems to like me driving like an old man, so there, Virginie!

The meal and company were both delicious, but like all good things had to come to an end.  We were going to the hospital to visit my father in law.

The poor chap hasn’t been well for some time, and has battled through cancer, botched operations, and old age.  This was the man I had met 32 years ago.  He was the Pasha.  The main man.  The man.  He was the archetype of a French male.  A man that I had grown to love and respect over the three decades.  Not always easy but what is?

We wandered through the hospital, and we eventually found Monsieur Jacob in his bed watching Arte, and films starring Jean-Paul Belmondo.  He was in pain but so happy to see us.  He looked nostalgic when watching the film, similar to the way I do when listening to the music of my youth.  However, he was no longer the man I had once known.  He had lost his right leg, and actually started to look old.  He looked like a shell of the man I had first met all those years ago.  His hands, once so strong they could crush a walnut, now trembled slightly under the thin hospital sheet.  Virginie held her father’s hand with such love and his eyes were telling her how much he loved her.  She told him about the trip to the UK to see my parents this summer, and about the children.  How Killian was back home, how Kate was changing schools, and how everything was good at home in Vendée.

We didn’t want to tire him more than necessary, and he had a date with Belmondo.  He hugged his daughter, then took my arm and kissed it.  Time moves on whether we like it or not.  He might no longer be the Pasha, but he’s still the man!

Fireworks, and the Party in My Pants

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The calm had descended on the family and the Great Shutter Disaster of 2025 had been long forgotten and etched into the annals of family history. Tonight would be about fireworks, food (surprise, surprise), and the party in my pants.  Not that kind of party — this was France, not Netflix. But I did end up with a surprise performance later that night…

Bal des Pompiers: Fireworks, Firemen, and Fashion Crimes

We were all relatively refreshed after lunch and snoozes.  The plan was to head to Saint Cado to watch the traditional fireworks display, and who doesn’t enjoy looking at lights in the sky? Think Guy Fawkes meets French revolution, except we don’t burn anybody, and we celebrate with explosions, merriment, dancing, and firemen.

Tonight would be the “bal des pompiers” which I must remind you has nothing to do with firemen’s balls… Well, maybe towards the end of the dance, but that is none of my business. You could see a cross section of French society: the young teens trying to outdress each other, parents with children trying to keep an eye on aforementioned children, parents of a similar age to me looking at the young teens trying to think how anybody could let them out dressed like that, other older parents looking for food, and quite a lot of us looking for booze.

Organisation Française: A Joyful Mess

The organisation was very French, un joyeux bordel, and yet there were signs of some very organised organisers taking orders, firemen cooking various dishes, and others serving and selling the booze.

We drove down and Marina et al followed in their car. We saw the high-vis jackets telling people where to go to park. We were told to go to Car Park 3, because of la dame in the front seat of my car. La Dame was none other than my mother-in-law who was already in a good mood, flattered to be referred to with such deep respect.

A French Family Comedy in Real Time

We saw Louka, Jessica’s other boy, in a queue for something, and as the evening wore on there would be sightings of more offspring like in a French family comedy film.  Gisèle noticed a friend and her son, and this was the perfect opportunity to sit down, as my darling wife’s bad back was playing up.  All of a sudden we saw the Marina party, and they joined us.  

The Soundtrack to a Slightly Tipsy Night

The music from the French DJ was blaring out across the square, which is usually such a quiet place.  Not Bob Sinclair or David Guetta, but Bob Sincliair C5, and David Guet-Apens.  French hits from Claude François, whose songs are guaranteed to get French into a frenzy and doing specific dances.  Even after 30 years of living here there are still songs about the Phare d’Alexandrie, and barracudas that still traumatise me.  “They” seemed to be loving it and really getting into the “mood!”  There is a law against the shooting of crappy DJ’s.  A pity, really.

Moules Frites and Other Mistakes

Raymond and Vincent were sent away to get food.  There were so many lines of people to follow but I eventually caught up to the boys.  We were in the line for Moules Frites, which is a pretty good line to be in.  Little did I know…  but more about that later. I bought Moules Frites — fortunately nothing to do with the bathing costume of a similar name that modesty forbids me from mentioning.  But those who know will find it funny.  With the Moules Frites you had a piece of bread and either an apple tart, which had nothing to do with young teenagers dressed inappropriately, or Far Breton, which unlike the one from Alexandrie, had prûnes…  But more about that later.

Brownie Points and Last Frites

I turned up with my trays of Moules Frites, for my wife, her mother, and myself.  I was later told by my mother in law that she wasn’t really hungry and that I really shouldn’t have, as she was eating the last moule and the last frite, and that yes, she would have the apple tart.  Classic lose-lose situation.  

I had won brownie points galore when I got back with some cold beers for my wife and I.  Well, one does aime to please. 

Fireworks and Finding the Car

At just after 11.10pm the fireworks started.  We all oohed and ahhed at the appropriate times, and when it was all over played at find that car.  I’m not usually very good at that game but tonight I was on fire (more about that later), and we eventually made it home.  Bliss.

The Party in My Pants

It was up to bed for me for a good night’s sleep.  But, yes, little did I know, I was to be awoken in the middle of the night with a stomach ache.  The party in my pants was under way.  I let out a botty burp, which wasn’t the best idea of the night, and dashed to the loo.  I sat down and had my own personal fireworks display down below.  Explosions and oohing and ahhing..  I managed to clean myself up and discarded my underwear, which bore the brunt of the opening salvo…  An hour later, I had a repeat performance.  This was fast becoming a night to forget — or at least to flush from memory.  

The Seafood God Has Spoken

The seafood god had sought vengeance, and it was my turn to pay.  The French have a healthy respect for the seafood god, as his attacks are notorious, and the scars are worn as badges of honour.  Lesson learnt.  More respect and an extra pair of undies.  A true rite of passage.  I just wasn’t very fond of him having that right to my passage…

The Great Shutter Disaster of 2025

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Ah, family lunches in France. As a rule what can go wrong, will go wrong, and what would go right, generally doesn’t. But why let that get in the way of a family reunion. Fortunately we all love eachother and woe the person that tries to say someting from outisde!

A Calm Before the Storm

Marina and Vincent (sister-in-law and her husband) had arrived that night. Virginie was already downstairs having her shower, and I sat outside waiting my turn, talking to Marina. Lunch preparations were already underway. Marina was cleaning the tables, and I was hoping that Virginie would soon vacate the bathroom and let me get on with my ablutions. Marina is a lovely girl; we get on well, and it’s a joy to talk to her.

Dapper Daywear

Saved by the Virginie. Time to get clean and get dressed in my killer outfit. Well, maybe not a killer — but certainly looking almost smart and dressed for the warm weather. I had gone for beige linen trousers, a darker beige Cuban collar shirt, brown desert boots, and had my Panama to protect me from the sun. I was looking quite dapper, if I say so myself.

When I came back from my shower, the tables were laid out and people were being very well behaved. It was almost civilized. I can hardly believe it myself.

Tables Set, Guests Arrive

People started arriving: Marina, Vincent, Sylvie and Raymond, Marien, my wife’s brother, his wife Nathalie, Marie Lou their daughter, and Raphaël, Marie Lou’s little boy; Jessica and Xavier with two of their little people, Enora and Gabriel, who are slightly less little now. I don’t think I’ve missed anyone. Bugger. I forgot Bali, Raymond’s labrador, who was almost as sweet as Molly. But no dog is as sweet as my Molly, of course!

Drinks, Dishes, and a Dog House

I was sat next to Xavier, keeping the two black sheep together in the proverbial dog house. Marina was next to me, so a lovely lunch in prospect. My mother-in-law had made her tabouleh, which she always gets spot on. Marien started the apéro with whiskey, which — as any Caledonian will remind you — is always drunk at the end of a meal. But since Marien lives in New Caledonia, they must have changed everything. The other choices were kir, a family favourite, or martini and tonic water, a beverage that didn’t have a huge amount of water despite the name. I settled on Coke Zero. Meaning I could drive away and “do some photography” if ever the proverbial were to hit the fan.

The Shutter Strikes

I knew things were going far too well. The inevitable happened. Virginie had wound up the shutter too high, and the bloody thing had disappeared. Gisèle was setting off, blaming the whole thing on her bloody ex, who was nothing more than a leecher and was now some other poor woman’s problem. Virginie was going mad at the idea of the great shutter disaster being her fault.

Shutter Savior

I actually work in a factory that makes these kinds of shutters, and therefore, for once in my life, I was able to shine. This was going to be my finest hour, my time to shine. I was going to be like Lin-Manuel Miranda in Hamilton , and not miss my shot. I was starting to feel all warm inside, as I actually knew what the hell I was talking about.

I looked at the offending shutter, secretly celebrating on the inside that it wasn’t my fault, and tried to guide Virginie through how to fix the problem — which, for clarification, was not my fault. We eventually got the bloody thing back into place and blocked it. Problem solved. And I had earned points from my wife.

Seating Charts and Sun Hats

During this débacle, Gisèle was now seated next to Vincent, and Virginie was now seated next to Marien. I did warn you about the names of everyone. You really must keep up! Xavier and I were relishing not being in the dog house for once, and I loaned him the Chapeau de Bonheur — the happy hat; you wear it and you’re happy — to protect him from the sun. I was allowed my two sausages, some tabouleh, which Marien had decreed was dégeulasse , though I thought it was quite tasty.

A Siesta and a Fireworks Forecast

This was turning out to be a very enjoyable lunch, for once. I removed myself from the gathering and headed up to bed for my sieste. I would be seeing everyone later anyway for the firework display…

Drama Avoided

I have chosen to forget the inevitable shouty shouty between Virginie, Marina, and Gisèle, because, firstly, it wasn’t my place to intervene. I may be the black sheep, but I’m not suicidal. Things seemed to calm down, and Marina declared that the three women couldn’t rule the family. And how wise it was of me to keep out of the way of this formidable feminine force. As Ronnie Corbett so famously said, I know my place…

Back to Hell’s Belz

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Welcome back, dear reader, to my world.

Today we will talk about families, food, being a hero, and more family, and kir. I know you can’t wait, so let’s begin.

Arrival in Bretagne

It was early evening and we eventually arrived in Bretagne, feeling very warm, surprisingly peaceful, and ready for whatever the weekend had in store for us. Or so I thought, but more about that later.

We arrived and my mother-in-law was talking to some people with Southern accents. Strange… But I recognised something in the gentleman’s voice. It was Raymond and Sylvie who are friends with Marina, my sister-in-law, and Vincent, her husband. You’re going to meet quite a few members of the family, so try and keep up. Vincent is deaf and has a hearing loss of 94%. Raymond was completely deaf, but had had a cochlear implant and could now hear! Isn’t science amazing. Sylvie is his wife.

L’Apéro – The Social Ritual That Just Happens

As will happen in summer, especially in France, we settled down to have the apéro. What an amazing invention. I have talked about this before, but they just seem to happen and people just know what to do and fit naturally into their respective roles. We talked about our hearing aids, and the difference they made in our lives. And started cracking jokes and basically having a good time. I was on the fizzy mineral water—you never know when you might need a driver.

Crisis Calls – Jessica and Xavier Need Rescue

We were in coastal Bretagne and it was nice to be back seeing Gisèle, my mother-in-law. The conversation was flowing and it was turning out to be a lovely evening. The phone rang. For once, Gisèle heard the phone and answered it. She has hearing problems too. Jessica, my wife’s other sister, and her husband Xavier, had been in La Rochelle and had taken a coach to get back home. That coach was late, and the boat back had stopped running. Ian to the rescue.

Xavier and I are the black sheep of the family, and get the most criticism. Xavier, because he is Xavier, and me because I’m not French. After 30 years we have become accustomed to our rôles and are secretly proud of it.

To the Rescue – Loca Loca Restaurant, Here We Come

I reminded my mother-in-law how shitty it can be when a plan, well, doesn’t go to plan—even more so when it’s not your fault. I said, right, let’s get in the car and go and get them. My mother-in-law would be the navigator. She asked if my car was a new car. I wasn’t, but it would be nice if it were. And wasn’t it far to drive? No, it wasn’t. She would have told them to stay the night with their son. True, but isn’t it nice, at the end of a long day of plans going wrong, to have something that goes right? It’s good to be good, etc.

Embrassades and Bises – Reunited at Last

We arrived at the station and couldn’t find each other. Gisèle was starting to get worked up, and I just calmed the situation down. Jess, you where? OK. I don’t know how to get there but I saw the Loca Loca restaurant. Can you both go there? They could. I drove round the block and I’m not sure whether where I parked was legal, but no flying farts were given, and that would be where I would be parking to pick them up. Embrassades and the famous “bise” and let’s get that case into the boot. Try and find a place on the back seat. They found a place on the back seat. And back to Belz to get them home. Yes, it’s good being good.

Kir, Shrimps, and a Forgotten CPAP Machine

Gisèle and I got back to her house, and the Kir was flowing and now it was my turn to have a few. Very nice it was too. We talked, talked, and talked some more, and Raymond went back to Sylvie and Gisèle, my wife and I decided to eat. Shrimps, homemade mayonnaise, and boiled potatoes. Simple, and wonderful!

We were to sleep in the bureau. My wife was upset at me because I had forgotten my CPAP machine. I would just go to sleep and enjoy the night… Tomorrow would be another day, full of adventure. Well, everything is relative I suppose. I will see you, Dear Reader, tomorrow…

Bastille Day 2025

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An audio “deep dive” into the article…

Bastille Day, or should I say la fête nationale, is linked to the French Revolution but technically has nothing to do with the Bastille, which was a fortress prison in Paris that was stormed on the 14th of July 1789. It only housed seven prisoners, and yet it became a symbol of anti-royalism. It still cost the guv’nor his head! Oops-a-daisy.

No, no, no. La fête nationale, technically speaking, started as the Fête de la Fédération in 1790, and was only officially established in 1880. After the fall of Napoleon III and the creation of the Third Republic in 1870, there was a need to unify the country and create a shared national identity. They always need so much time, these Frenchies, to get some things done and agreed upon…

To the modern Frenchman, it is synonymous with a weekend off, the military parade, the chance to hear the President’s speech, to make a biting critique of said President, and to declare him a despicable little man. It’s always their fault anyway. It is also synonymous with firework displays and dances organised by the fire brigade—bal des pompiers—which, contrary to popular belief, does not literally translate to “firemen’s balls.”

It also marks the official start of the Grandes Vacances, when the country begins to shut down for summer until the rentrée in September.

But for me, it meant getting the children to a restaurant for lunch on the Saturday to eat with my brother-in-law, his wife, his daughter, and his grandson. Killian was a “little tired” after a long week at work and some drinkie-poos with friends at the bottom of the castle walls in Montaigu. No, of course he wasn’t hungover, heaven forbid. Of course he hadn’t lost his phone, and of course he hadn’t hurt his wrist wrestling—or cuddling with—his mates. He had tried to get out of it, but was told, “Not bloody likely,” by his mother, and I said I’d take Kate to go and get the boy. A friend had found his phone, so we passed by her flat to get it back. The Anglais arrived fashionably late at 12h15. Sat down and had a couple of beers. We almost looked presentable!

We ate and caught up, had a very pleasant lunch, and I finally met my new nephew Raphaël—a lovely two-and-a-half-year-old. Motherhood suits my niece to a tee, and it felt wonderful not to have to be on full alert because it was no longer my job. After eating, we men went to pay for the meal, and Killian was more than happy to contribute, bless him.

We dropped off Killian, who declared his intention to have a “little snooze,” and dropped Kate off at home so she could welcome Emeline, who would be spending the weekend with her. Virginie had cleaned the kitchen, and Kate had been briefed to keep said kitchen just as spotless for our return from Brittany to visit my in-laws… The last visit had gone surprisingly well, and it was with actual pleasure that we set off. It was still a tad warm, and since there was a risk of fires, all fireworks had been cancelled by the préfet. In Montaigu there would be no fireworks, no bal des pompiers, but in Brittany it would be fine! Yippee!!

The trip up was very much the usual trip to Brittany on a busy weekend on the roads. We were not driving at a rapid rate of knots, and Virginie’s infamous and rather colourful language punctuated the drive. The Frenchman, whilst driving in 36°C heat, can get a little irate. His ultimate goal is to get there—wherever there might be—before the car in front of him.

The hierarchy of traffic, as far as he’s concerned, goes like this:
– Anyone from the same department is a mate.
– Anyone from our region is a mate—unless they’re from Maine-et-Loire, who apparently don’t know how to drive, or Loire-Atlantique, who think they know how to drive but clearly don’t.
– We’re from the Vendée—and we do know how to drive… we’re just usually too drunk to do it properly.
– Anybody else from France is fine, I suppose.
– UK drivers are also mates—especially if, like us, your car proudly displays both an F and a UK sticker.
– Drivers from 75 (Paris)? Absolutely clueless.
– Those from 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 77, and 78—the rest of Île-de-France—are also deeply suspect.

Ah, Bastille Day. The revolution may be over, but the road rage? That’s just getting started.

Drop in next week for another adventure where we actually get to Hell’s Belz, in one piece. That first evening is already full of adventures as I rise to save the day, Jessica and Xavier, and not get told off by Gisèle. I do get told off by my wife for being a complete idiot and forgetting my CPAP machine for my sleep apnea…