When the Kiwi was out here working on the house in May and when we got one of our intermittant breaks on the terrace from Clive (who was the real boss, although I was occasionally deferred to as the client ) I would sprawl out in the hot sun and proclaim the virtues of living in a Mediterranean climate.
“Sun, real hot sun before mid August !”
The Kiwi’s reaction to this lavish statement was ” Stop boasting Martin! “.
Well fair enough. he came from New Zealand AND he had lived in Ireland for about five years.
I have learned from this to be a little careful about talking home about the weather.
It can look just a little vainglorious to be declaiming about the sun out here all the time.
I do a weekly live cookery slot with Billy Mc Carthy on Waterford Local Radio.
The weather has been so good out here and so lousy in Waterford that I have had to ask Billy’s producer to ask him not to ask me about the weather here any more.
I do want to keep a few friends in Waterford.
That was until last week.
Rain started, storms lit the sky and the temperatures of our Indian Autumn plummeted from rosy high teens right down to (very) early teens.
Suddenly we had to light the stove, I had to rush to Monoprix and buy some vests.
But then, just as suddenly as it had begun the winter vanished.
The summer returned today.
(All of you who might be embarrassed or aggrivated by my boasting better switch off NOW>)
We also had a guest free day so we headed for lunch in Agde with the sun beaming and the thermometer in the car hovering around 25C.
Fortunately the floating restaurants of Agde, (about a dozen of them on the very end of the Canal de Midi,) had decided not to call it a day and close for the winter but, because of a particularly clement Autumn, had decided to stretch their closing date just a little to cover the All Saints Holiday.
We ate our usual lunch of Moules Frites (with a half pichet of Rose) for the not exemplary figure of €12 each-tout compris- and then headed off to explore some more of nearby Sete (the Black Pearl of the Med)
The good news there was that in my third attempt I mamaged to get to the George Brassens Musée, and even to see, and pay homage to his grave over the sea.
Here is a piece I wrote in 2007 about not getting to see his grave.
Supplique pour être enterré sur une plage de Sète
This is the title of one of Georges Brassens most moving songs, although as with all Brassens songs it is not at all serious.
The title translates as;
Petition to be buried on a beach in Sète.
Sadly this request was not granted, however his grave does have a good view of the sea, and it is in Sète.
Inspired by this song Sile and I went to the town of Sète while we were in France at Halloween only to discover that the Espace Brassens-the museum in his honour- was closed for the day as it was All Souls Day the day the French traditionally visit their family graves.
On our way out of the town we became enmeshed in a long traffic jam, strange we thought in the month of November, until we discovered that it was of families, laden with potted plants, heading to the cemetery.
So we passed ,slowly, the graveyard where Brassens is buried, and it does at least have a good view of L’encre Bleu.
Furthermore we found in the town a restaurant which was dedicated to Brassens and played his music while you ate. This I have to persuade Sile to let us return to!
First you must watch the great man himself singing (and talking about) the song courtesy of Youtube.
Here
Here are the words in French:
La Camarde qui ne m’a jamais pardonné,
D’avoir semé des fleurs dans les trous de son nez,
Me poursuit d’un zèle imbécile.
Alors cerné de près par les enterrements,
J’ai cru bon de remettre à jour mon testament,
De me payer un codicille.
Trempe dans l’encre bleue du Golfe du Lion,
Trempe, trempe ta plume, ô mon vieux tabellion,
Et de ta plus belle écriture,
Note ce qu’il faudra qu’il advint de mon corps,
Lorsque mon âme et lui ne seront plus d’accord,
Que sur un seul point : la rupture.
Quand mon âme aura pris son vol à l’horizon,
Vers celle de Gavroche et de Mimi Pinson,
Celles des titis, des grisettes.
Que vers le sol natal mon corps soit ramené,
Dans un sleeping du Paris-Méditerranée,
Terminus en gare de Sète.
Mon caveau de famille, hélas ! n’est pas tout neuf,
Vulgairement parlant, il est plein comme un œuf,
Et d’ici que quelqu’un n’en sorte,
Il risque de se faire tard et je ne peux,
Dire à ces braves gens : poussez-vous donc un peu,
Place aux jeunes en quelque sorte.
Juste au bord de la mer à deux pas des flots bleus,
Creusez si c’est possible un petit trou moelleux,
Une bonne petite niche.
Auprès de mes amis d’enfance, les dauphins,
Le long de cette grève où le sable est si fin,
Sur la plage de la corniche.
C’est une plage où même à ses moments furieux,
Neptune ne se prend jamais trop au sérieux,
Où quand un bateau fait naufrage,
Le capitaine crie : “Je suis le maître à bord !
Sauve qui peut, le vin et le pastis d’abord,
Chacun sa bonbonne et courage”.
Et c’est là que jadis à quinze ans révolus,
A l’âge où s’amuser tout seul ne suffit plus,
Je connu la prime amourette.
Auprès d’une sirène, une femme-poisson,
Je reçu de l’amour la première leçon,
Avalai la première arête.
Déférence gardée envers Paul Valéry,
Moi l’humble troubadour sur lui je renchéris,
Le bon maître me le pardonne.
Et qu’au moins si ses vers valent mieux que les miens,
Mon cimetière soit plus marin que le sien,
Et n’en déplaise aux autochtones.
Cette tombe en sandwich entre le ciel et l’eau,
Ne donnera pas une ombre triste au tableau,
Mais un charme indéfinissable.
Les baigneuses s’en serviront de paravent,
Pour changer de tenue et les petits enfants,
Diront : chouette, un château de sable !
Est-ce trop demander : sur mon petit lopin,
Planter, je vous en prie une espèce de pin,
Pin parasol de préférence.
Qui saura prémunir contre l’insolation,
Les bons amis venus faire sur ma concession,
D’affectueuses révérences.
Tantôt venant d’Espagne et tantôt d’Italie,
Tous chargés de parfums, de musiques jolies,
Le Mistral et la Tramontane,
Sur mon dernier sommeil verseront les échos,
De villanelle, un jour, un jour de fandango,
De tarentelle, de sardane.
Et quand prenant ma butte en guise d’oreiller,
Une ondine viendra gentiment sommeiller,
Avec rien que moins de costume,
J’en demande pardon par avance à Jésus,
Si l’ombre de sa croix s’y couche un peu dessus,
Pour un petit bonheur posthume.
Pauvres rois pharaons, pauvre Napoléon,
Pauvres grands disparus gisant au Panthéon,
Pauvres cendres de conséquence,
Vous envierez un peu l’éternel estivant,
Qui fait du pédalo sur la vague en rêvant,
Qui passe sa mort en vacances.
Vous envierez un peu l’éternel estivant,
Qui fait du pédalo sur la plage en rêvant,
Qui passe sa mort en vacances,
And here is my translation (on which I have laboured all week)
I reserve the right to return and change it as I think of better translations.
And I apologise in advance for its inadequacies.
Brassens is best appreciated in French but this is to give a little taste of the man to people who can’t speak French and to give me a chance to get inside his French lyrics and also have a great time trying to make his thoughts cross over into English.
In another life I would certainly have done this for a living.
Petition to be buried on a beach at Sète
Old Man Death, is looking to foreclose
Because I once sowed flowers up his nose
He now chases me with foolish zeal
And so surrounded by these graves to fill
I have decided to rewrite my will
And grant myself a codicil
Soaked by the blue ink of the Lion Sea
And then again with ink from the Notary
Who writes with wonderfully neat script
I note where my body must be put
When from the soul it makes the final cut
And from each other they are ripped.
When my soul make his flight into the blue
With the street kids and with the girls that do
With the gavroche and the grisette
I will return to my first childhood bed
In the couchette from Paris to the Med
Which ends in the station in Sète
My family vault it is as old as sin
Without an inch to fit another in
We would need someone to leave it quick
And if the old boys won’t make haste
To give the new boys just a bit of space
It will be as full as any tick
Right on the beach close to the deep blue sea
Make my new home as pleasant as can be
A soft and cosy little niche
Down by the dolphins, my boyhood friends
By the place where the soft sand ends
On the beach of to the Corniche
But sometimes to that beach would come a storm
When Neptune shows the ships his savage form
And when sailors fear for their lives.
The Captain cries “Now, have no fear
Save first the wine and then the beer
And then the children and your wives!”
And it was there at just fifteen or so
When playing alone it would no longer do
I met a girl who moved my heart
She was a siren, a half girl half fish
Who finally fulfilled my every wish
And showed me how to love and how to part.
But please don’t put me by Valéry’s tomb
For I must give the Maestro lots of room
Where poet and troubadour hear the wave
He may be thought a better poet than me
But I will be lying closer to the sea
And won’t intrude in pictures of his grave
This tomb sandwiched between sea and sky
Will not cast shadow on the passers by
But have a certain charm where it will stand
To bathers it will not be something strange
A place to hang their towels when they change
For kids a castle made of sand
And please plant in that little patch of mine
A tidy copse composed mainly of pine
Parasol Pines I love the best
These will help send away the blues
So when friends come to pay to me their dues
I will lie happily, at rest
One afternoon for Italy, one for Spain
Charged with smells and music’s sad refrain
The Mistral and the Tramontaine
And softly in my sleep the voices swell
The Fandango and the Vilanelle
The Tarentella and the Sardagne.
And should a sea nymph,passing, sleepy eyed
Come by my graveside glistening from the tide
Wearing just the merest wisp of thread
Would the Lord forgive me do you think
Were the shadow of my cross to her to sink
To grant a little pleasure to the dead ?
Poor Kings of Egypt ! Poor Napoleon !
You dead in state in every Pantheon
Oh you ashes of other days
Green with envy now you will look at me
As in my dreams I float on the blue sea
Spending my death on holidays
Green with envy now you will look at me
As in my dreams I float on the blue sea
Spending my death on holidays
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