I have been meaning to update those of you that might be interested in my recent trip to France. I woke up really early one morning, and got out the trusty laptop and wrote a long appraisal of the lovely part of France we were in, and described many lovely days - despite the rain - of peace and quiet, and bucolic scenes at every turn. I had also awoken in a fit of bad temper - which was unsettling since I was probably in the most relaxing place on earth, a farm built in 1680, and sleeping under beams older than me! I wrote a rant about the thing that irked me so much, and boy did it feel good getting it all off my chest. The thought that had awoken me at such an unearthly hour, and I suppose it might have been the cockerel next door exercising his lungs, or whatever moves them to cock-a-doodle so early, was about the British press. I can picture you all looking heavenward now, but please indulge me.
As a publicist of many years (long before blogs, online newspapers, iPads - hell, before computers and fax machines!) I am constantly astonished by their negative idea of 'what makes a story'. I have recently finished working on Ray Cooney's film version of his phenominally successful stage play (it ran in the West End for 9 years,) 'Run For Your Wife'. It really was one of the most enjoyable experiences of my career, and I can truthfully say I couldn't wait to get on set every day. That's rare ladies and gents, trust me on that! We had a great cast, fabulous crew and a very, very competent and charming production team.
We were graced with the presence of prolific journalists who visited the set and who went away full of good memories. They were treated to warm welcomes, fascinating stories, colourful filming and a great lunch. Since their visit nothing has run anywhere....nada, zilch. I know that if they had been able to report on-set spats between Sarah Harding and Denise van Outen, or the actors turning up without having learned their lines, or the scenery falling on poor old Ray (who at 79 years old must surely be a
relic) we would have made headlines....so that is what woke me up and made me so cross....but I felt so much better having got it off my chest, even though none of you read it!!!
And that brings me to my bit about technology - I lost the whole damn thing! What I wrote was so passionate, so un-PC and so colourful (in terms of language) I couldn't wait for you all to read it...but, with the touch of a button, it was lost. I am guessing it was the computer's fault and not mine!!!
So, back to the trip - the above photo I took on my Brownie box, or the equivalent, and doesn't really convey the drama of the sky over the Bay of the Somme. This is a particularly beautiful part of France, which is still completely unspoiled and too far North for many travellers to explore. Actually, this wasn't taken at the Bay du Somme, it was taken on the windiest day ever at Berck Plage. Read what Sylvia Plath had to say about this area (
http://www.sylviaplath.de/plath/berckplage.html). According to Wiki: During
World War II the sea front was disrupted by the installation of the Nazi
Atlantic Wall and the town suffered from bombing during the allied invasion in 1944.
[6] This contributed to the diminishing of the ancient fishing industry, which numbered some 150 boats at the turn of the century and had all but disappeared by the 1960s.
[7] Today, although the hospital sector remains economically important, the town has again promoted itself as a tourist attraction. A seaside bathing station, with an immense beach of fine sand on the
Opal Coast, it continues to be a centre for
sand yachting and the new sport of
surfboarding. The former Berck Plage railway station has been converted into a casino.
I have to say that Berck Plage is one of the most unattractive places we visited, except for these lovely beach huts. It looks neglected, and dismal, but with the most amazing white sandy beaches, and these lovely huts. It did make us feel sad, and sympathetic to its plight, clearly having been rebuilt in the 50's and 60s following its wartime annihilation. And, on the day we went, it was closed! Only one sea-front Brasserie was operating, and we were grateful for its amiable hospitality, and a great plate of Moules Frites!
Oh yes, I know what I wanted to say...I HATE the word Blog! The french word for joke is 'blague' which seems more appropriate, but in the meantime I am just going to Tullettlikeitis!
Until next time....
