When Imagination tempts Fate

I am in the course of drafting the manuscript of my current novel, Les Ruines (The Ruins), a modern day adventure linked to the activities of the Résistance in France during WWII. Earlier today, a report in a local newspaper of a most unusual tragedy grabbed my attention. It concerned the death of a man who had attempted to open an old safe with the metal cutting blade of an angle grinder to discover its contents. Because of its missing key, the safe had remained locked and unopened since the sixties in a local chateau. Disaster struck when it exploded; it had contained old ammunitions and explosives.

A snippet of the newspaper report:

Un habitant de Couzeix (Haute-Vienne) âgé de 50 ans a trouvé la mort, hier, en tentant d'ouvrir avec une disqueuse un coffre des années 60 qui contenait de la poudre et des vieilles munitions. Tout a explosé.

A few weeks ago, I decided to use the location of this very same chateau as a rendezvous and arms distribution centre for the maquis in this area during the occupation.

I attach three excerpts from my new novel, written over the past weeks. The location names are blanked, as I am sure that an investigation into the original causes leading to this tragic episode will take place.    

EXCERPT 1:

“Where are these meetings held,” Simone asked, showing keen interest in her father’s role in the maquis.

“Mostly at *********, the chateau near *******. Its location is ideal with unrestricted views across the valley towards *******. Lookouts can spot any unwelcome guests such as the milice or German patrols as they approach. It also affords several easy exits for rapid dispersal. Prior to the Normandy invasion, I often used the ruins at ******* for individual meetings. The underground passageways make ideal hideouts.”

EXCERPT 2:

He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s possible. She was a few years younger than I was. The owner of ********* might know. His father was a close friend of Simone’s father. I know that René used to spend a lot of time at the chateau.”

EXCERPT 3:

They turned off the main road onto a gravel track that led down a winding slope to the chateau. The imposing residence stood on an elevated promontory above the river. The entrance to the main courtyard was beneath a stone archway connecting a perimeter wall to a smaller building that possibly started life as a lodge. The first spots of rain descended as they stepped from the vehicles.

Gary Moore

My favourite singer, Gary Moore died yesterday aged 58. Who can forget Parisienne Walkways LIVE?
What is it with 6th February and 58?    My favourite footballers died 6th February 1958...The Busby Babes of Manchester United when their plane crashed on take-off at Munich airport.    R.I.P.

The Ipcress File

I've just watched a DVD of the sixties 'classic spy' film that allegedly launched Michael Caine to stardom as the 'cool, laconic anti-hero Harry Palmer'. What a crap film for such a great actor.

Thought for Today

Life is just an existence of indeterminable shades.
One arrives with nothing; one departs with nothing.
The gap between is not about wealth or materialism.
One experiences merely the emotional ups and downs of life's roller-coaster.
Of all these emotions, the only one of value is LOVE.

James R. Vance   2011

Woe is Wogan

I recently read an article by Terry Wogan in the Telegraph, entitled “A Frenchman’s home is his castle”. He is entitled to make derisory remarks about the French…after all it is only his opinion. I find the man extremely smug and full of his own self-importance. Consequently, his generalisations of the French are typical of his insular attitude to other mere mortals.

Having lived for almost ten years amongst the “agricoles”, as he refers to the local hard-working farmers, I have learned to accept that their history, their culture and their pride is special and unique. If “Brits” choose to visit or live amongst them, we should accept that we are guests and, as such, we should respect their way of life.

To quote Mr. Wogan: “These agricoles, the very salt of the earth of France, across whose darkened thresholds you are unlikely ever to be asked…”. What is the point of such dramatic terminology? I live in rural Limousin, a region of rivers, lakes, forests and rolling hills…an area of natural beauty. I see no “darkened thresholds”…only picturesque hamlets of stone houses with red tiled roofs, wisteria, roses and grape vines adorning their entrances. “The Gascon guards his privacy and his land fiercely,” he declares. I despair at his narrow-mindedness. Is the Wogan family retreat open to all and sundry?    

Yes, the French are very private in the presence of strangers, but once accepted, you are welcomed into their lives. I have often heard “Brits” complaining about their attitude, but for the most part, they have only themselves to blame. So many arrive here with no language skills and expect the French to make the effort. Could you imagine that in the UK?      

I suggest that Mr. Wogan (I refuse to acknowledge an undeserved title) sticks to what he does best…promoting his ego. At least there are alternative channels when he blights our television screens and his newspaper articles are useful fodder for the wood-burner.  

                                                                                   James R. Vance       janvier 2011