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Castles in the Air
I was enjoying a placid holiday at Marcon, a small village in North-West France, and had explored most of the surrounding countryside, enchanting, varied, vineyard-covered. Passing the local debit de tabac one morning I caught sight of a hastily-written notice, informing all and sundry that a coach would be leaving Marcon for a visit to some of the chateaux of the Loire. I enquired of Madame whether she knew the approximate time of return to Marcon. She look at me in amazement, shrugged her shoulders as only a Frenchwoman can, as if to say, "Only an Englishman would ask such a question," and replied, "But monsieur, you are going to see Chambord floodlit."
I departed, crestfallen. Evidently my French
was not as strong as I had fondly imagined it to be.
The bus arrived, half an hour late, and we all embarked. The driver seemed to be well known to many of the passengers, and before we reached Tours, our first stop, I found out why. Like Colonel Chinstrap, he was in constant need of liquird refreshment. It was as if his stomach contained the petrol by means of which we travelled, with ihe result that after every fifty kilometres or so a complete refuelling was necessary. After the second or third stop a considerable thawing-out in the relationship between the various occupants of the bus could be observed, and I learned many new songs, devoted, without exception, to the praise of wine. Un petit coup, c'est doux" was a phrase which was constantly repeated. The chorus of another
was delightfully simple. It went "Out, oui, oui," followed, after a dramatic if somewhat alcoholic pause, by "Non, non, non!" thundered out with all the explosiveness of which the French nation is capable.
Our driver had been given a nick-name by this time, and as the journey progressed Monsieur Oauchemar (Nightmare) proved himself worthy of that title. From time to time we stopped to visit a chateau, though I had the impression that this was not the main purpose of the excursion. After sweating our way round Amboise we arrived at Blois rather later than had been anticipated (the Vouvray wine responsible for the delay was excellent, dry, sharp and beautifully cool). The result of the delay waa that we found ourselves the last party to be conducted round for the day, and perhaps for that reason we were treated to as fine a display of histrionics as it has been my good fortune to witness. Our guide was intent on two things, to fill his audience brimful of history and to establish his authority. If one of his unfortunate flock strayed an inch in the wrong direction, he was firmly herded back with an admonitory headshake. If anyone ventured to start a conversation in opposition, the guide would raise both hands above his head, and looking at us as though we were a class of delinquent children, proclaimed, "Messieurs et mesdames, un peu de silence, s'il vous plait." A respectful hush followed, and the guide continued his dramatic story of the assassination of the Due de Guise by Henri II of France. "There
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lay the due, mortally wounded, and on the verge of death. Henri entered. When he saw the body of his enemy lying there he said: 'What a monstrous size he is,' and then spurned the body with his foot." The groan of anguish from his audience at this outrage would have gladdened the heart of the most cynical of guides.
Crossing the treacherous beauty of the Loire we paused for refreshment just as daylight faded and were treated to one of those fairylike sunsets which defy description, when the sky is shot with streaks of red, gold and purple, and the sun
looks like a brass football emerging from a furnace.
Chambord, with its stereophonic sound, flood- lighting, and music which seemed to fill the surrounding air, was unforgettable. From voices warm with the languor peculiar to the North European there flowed a commentary, rich in pietry and pregnant with history, and we lived again with Francis I, hunted in the rich forest, were present at the first performance of "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme," and listened to the voice of Alfred de Vigny, disillusioned romantic.
M. Cauchemar now came into his own. For the two hours necessary for the journey home he was determined to ensure that we had our full value for money. And so he sang. In a voice soaked by gallons of vin rouge, dried and soured by millions of Gauloises Bleues cigarettes, he bawled out his repertory, a vast, unending wave of sound, of which perhaps one word in ten was audible. I recognised something from "Rose Marie," a, fragment of "Rigoletto," and the eternal, and yet somehow unavoidable "vin, vin, vin." Vive la France !
E.D.
The Kippen Vine
The village of Kippen, which is situated 10 miles west of Stirling, is the proud owner of
the largest known vine in the world.
This vine is one of four extremely large ones which are owned by Mr D. S. Buchanan.
These vines are housed in five large hot- houses. The largest vine is 100 yards long and is covered by 2,000 square feet of glass. The vine was planted in 1893, and every year it grows approximately 3 feet.
The grapes are of the black Colman variety and there is an average crop of 2,000 bunches. That is the crop left after the thinning in the Spring when two-thirds of the bunches and two-thirds of the grapes on each bunch are cut off. This process ensures that the remainder of the crop is of the best possible quality.
The grapes are ready for cutting between August and December. The bulk of the crop goes to the Glasgow fruit market for sale and the remainder are sold at the vineyards to visitors.
Grapes from this vine have, in past years, won gold medal awards at the Glasgow' and
Newcastle flower Shows.
G. WELSH (Form IV.)
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