Artichokes

Still Life with Artichokes,
Osias Beert (1580-1623)

In the very early visits to Kersaliou the children were given the opportunity to see how artichokes were 'auctioned.' This was a voluntary activity. We left the chateau at 06.00 and travelled to a large building on the outskirts of St Pol de Leon. Waiting outside were many tractors with large trailers full of artichokes.

Inside, were banks of seats on two sides of a large barn-like structure. At a given signal in came a tractor and trailer. It stopped in the middle of the barn. The auctioneer then started proceedings by offering a high price for the artichokes. This was then lowered until some buyer was willing to accept the auctioneer's price. The first bidder got the goods!

Within a minute the deal was done and the tractor and trailer left. Then, in would come the next farmer with his artichokes and the same process would begin again. The speed at which this happened was quite astonishing. This type of auction, known as a Dutch auction, was convenient when it was important to sell goods like fruit and vegetables quickly. Also, a sale never required more than one bid.

Artichokes were always given to the staff to eat at one of the meals, usually on a Sunday. Most English children obstinately refused to try them and Nicole eventually gave up serving them to the youngsters.

A few days before leaving the children were always asked if they wanted to buy one to take home. Quite a few did. Nicole would then order them from a neighbouring farmer and then they were delivered as near to departure as possible.

One year there was a student teacher who travelled with our group. He was given the task of collecting the money from the children for the artichokes. Nicole could then be paid. From year to year the price would vary of course but if, for example, the price was eighty cents I would round it up to a euro. If the price was seventy cents I would round it down to fifty cents and pay the extra myself. This made collecting money from the children much easier. Naturally, I always made a list of those children who wanted an artichoke and I usually collected the money just after the children were given their pocket money in the classroom.

The student teacher in question was told that the artichoke's price that year was seventy seven cents and this exact amount had to be collected from each of the fifteen children who had ordered the vegetable. Also, could he be quite quick about collecting the money because the farmer would be arriving shortly with the artichokes. These were despicable lies! A gigantic wind up! Could he also liaise with Nicole to make sure he gave her the right amount to pay the farmer. The student teacher spoke no French. Nicole spoke only French.

Well, this wouldn't have been too bad if the children were altogether in the classroom with all their money. But they weren't. They were having free time. Some would be playing football, others mini golf, a few sitting chatting on the various benches dotted around the grounds etc. Would many have the money on them? If it was in their dormitory they would not be allowed to get it unless they had the express permission of a teacher. He wasn't given the list with the names of the children who had ordered the artichokes either. He would have to find out by asking each child individually and children are notoriously bad at remembering these trivial details.                                                  

Have you ordered an artichoke?

 I don't remember. I might have done.                                                                                                    

Or, No I haven't but can I order one now?                                                                                              

If they answered that they had ordered.                                                                                              

Can I have seventy seven cents for the artichoke?                                                                                         

               I haven't any money left.                                                                                                                        

Or I've a five euro note.                                                                                                                        

Or, Jack owes me two euros, he'll have to pay you.

The student teacher was last seen running away on the road to Roscoff.


For more of my writing see the 'Postscript.' 

The Beach at Kersaliou

The Coast of Brittany, (aka Alone with the Tide)
James McNeil Whistler (1834-1903) 

If you left the chateau by the main gate and turned left you would be on the small road leading to a beach seven hundred metres away. You would pass small but richly fertile, vibrant green fields full of artichokes. If you were very lucky you might see a sturdy looking horse ploughing in some of those same fields. Ignoring the narrow road on the right hand side, which led, after a mile or so to the small town of St Pol de Leon, you would then come across small Breton houses on either side of the road with large gardens full of luscious looking vegetables.

Just after a car park on the right, the road finished and the beach appeared. If you were expecting a vast expanse of golden sand and the deep blue water of an Aegean type sea you would have been disappointed. This was, what I would call, a working beach.

There were rocks and rock pools and a huge variety of seaweed. The beach itself, though sandy, was not really conducive to sunbathing or to the feeling of soft granules of sand passing through the fingertips. No. It was a dog walking beach, a rounders or cricket playing beach. It was a place to be explored and its live and inert treasures examined and perhaps taken back to the chateau. There, they could be studied and researched in a classroom and then returned.

Such beaches could be dangerous for children if strict boundaries were not enforced. Clambering over rocks and rock pools without adults being closely in attendance was pushing the barometer of luck and chance into a downward spiral. Events happen!

As a teacher, at this particular beach, all you hoped for was to lessen the odds of accidents without lessening the sense of wonder, excitement and pleasures of discovering seaside treasures.

There was, also, a small café/bar at Kersaliou beach and it was important for three good reasons. Firstly, it enabled small groups of children to practise their French in a practical way. What kind of ice cream did they want? Was it strawberry, chocolate or vanilla? Was it a bottle or a glass of lemonade? How much was the orangina? What were the prices and how much change should they get back. Teachers were there but not to ask for them. Usually the teacher remained outside the bar and let the children get on with it.

Secondly, there was a narrow, concrete boule playing area and children could watch this popular French game whilst enjoying their drink or ice cream.

Thirdly, some of the old men who played here had been 'Johnny Onions.' They were delighted to talk with the children, in their heavily accented English, about their former work. Who were these men?

Onion Johnnies were Breton farmers or farm workers, based around Roscoff, who used to sell distinctive pink onions door to door in the UK. They dressed in striped shirts and berets and rode bicycles hung with onions. In Wales they often used Breton to converse with those who spoke Welsh.
In July, they would bring their onions across the English Channel, store them in rented barns, sell them and then return home in December or January. By the year 2000 there were only around twenty still making the trip.

These men were, reputedly, the inspiration for the founding of 'Brittany Ferries.' In 1972, Alex Gourvennec, a local Breton farmer, together with a few other farmers founded the ferries so that cauliflowers and artichokes could easily be transported to Britain. Apparently, when Prince Charles visited Finistere in 1998 and met Gourvennec, the local media headlined the visit:

'The Prince of Wales at the home of The Prince of Brittany.'

In Roscoff there is a small onion museum and a festival of onions in August.

So, Breton sea life, culture and history all at the small beach of Kersaliou.

Postscript ...

Letter received at school:
Y6 Educational Visit: St Pol de Leon, Brittany 23/06/2005

Dear Mr ...,

I have been prompted to write to you after seeing your pupils and staff whilst they were taking part in an educational visit to Brittany.

What a great credit and advertisement for your school! The care of the staff was exemplary and the attitudes and behaviour of the pupils was of the highest order. I have recently retired as a primary head teacher in the South Devon area, and it was a real joy to see pupils enjoying themselves so much.

My wife and I became aware of the children when visiting the local market in St. Pol and thought then what nice attitudes they had as they made their purchases amongst the local stalls.

That evening, whilst returning from a short break to do some shopping, we found ourselves in the same area of the ship for the overnight crossing. The children were amazing. No doubt they were tired and excited, but they didn’t disturb anyone and in the morning when I started to talk to some of them, they were bursting to tell me all about the marvellous experiences that they had had. What a shame there wasn’t enough time as more and more joined in with different tales!

I am sure the visit will be imprinted in their minds forever. I know how tiring it is and the responsibilities involved in taking pupils on residential visits, but the staff of the school should be commended for their care and efforts; it is clear that they have given the pupils so much to remember from their visit to France.

There were other passengers on the ship who also commented on the excellent behaviour of the children but, of course, most didn’t mention it to the staff or children.

I have written a short note to the children to say thank you to them as well.

Perhaps you could convey our best wishes to them and praise them for being such excellent ambassadors to the school, and to themselves. You can be very proud of all of them.

I am sure you and your staff are looking forward to a well earned rest at the end of a very busy term.

Enjoy the rest.

With best wishes,

Yours sincerely

Mike Bailey
(published with permission)

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Steve Long and Becky Davis for use of their photographs.
Andy and Elaine for processing images, and editing and building the blog pages for me.
And especially to all staff and pupils, past and present, of Robertswood School.

Two more blog pages came to me after the fifteen went out so I have added them now. 

---

Kindle edition

We have compiled a Kindle edition of Brittany in June which you can keep and read offline. Not free, I'm afraid, but inexpensive.

More of my writing:

July 2019

 thecriticalcommentator.blogspot.co.uk

The critical commentator examines stories from the media. It questions some current beliefs and explanations of events and shows a healthy scepticism of received wisdom. 

Sept 2018

See BBC News Website 20.9.2018

The article was : My Holiday with the Afghan Mujahideen based on the book titled:

Going Inside: Memoir of an Afghan Holiday with Rahmatullah Safi 1988

Rahmatullah Safi was a general in a mujahideen group fighting the Russians. I was deputy head at Robertswood, the primary school in this blog, and a neighbour of his in the UK. In 1988 Safi invited me to visit him in Pakistan and to go ‘inside’ Afghanistan. Going Inside is the diary of that journey: from Peshawar to Gardez and back again. You can preview part of the book by clicking on the cover here ...

The book is available in Kindle ebook edition at £5.55.

• Buy the Kindle edition from Amazon 

December 2016. 'The Englands from Ireland.' The story begins in 18th Century Cork, Ireland with Thomas England - formerly an escaped prisoner and his wife Honora Lordan. They had eleven children.
irishenglands.blogspot.co.uk

Thanks

John England

Au revoir Kersaliou

Before leaving the château there were certain traditions to be upheld: a disco the night before in the dining room, a presentation made to Nicole and Claudine, the collection of any artichokes purchased from a local farmer and a group photograph on the steps of the château.

Cases were brought down and put onto the coach well before leaving time. If there was time to be killed, then a pleasant walk down to the local beach, sufficed.

Teachers inspected the dormitories and found all sorts of weird and wonderful items left behind. Some children refused to accept these items saying,

“It’s not mine.”

“Then how come your name tag is on it?”

Classroom materials and sports equipment had to be packed and put on the coach.

I always made sure to pack the bell away carefully and take one last look at the view to the sea from the terrace.

It wasn’t always so smooth, of course.

When Harold Macmillan, the ex British Prime Minister was asked what he most feared, his reply was, reputedly, “Events, dear boy, events.”

“Events” on a residential visit, or in a school, happen quite frequently.

One year, it was 18.30, all the cases were on the coach, supper was at seven, all the children were excited about leaving and Nicole handed me her mobile phone. It was the secretary from school who had been on the first trip the week before as the chief medical officer. She was one of the nuns from the “new order.”

“How are you? Yes I’m fine. All the cases are on the coach.”

“There’s no ferry.”

“This is a wind up?”

“No.”

“Yes it is.”

It wasn’t. I thought, though, that she was returning the wind up from the previous week.

It had been very windy during the day. Indeed Le Dossen beach at Santec was like a desert – sand blowing about furiously.

The afternoon ferry had not sailed from Plymouth and all ferries crossing the channel really had been cancelled.

Nicole then phoned Brittany ferries with our booking reference number and reserved reclining chair seats on the 16.30 ferry the next day.

“Events, dear boy, events.”

Once the ferry journey was done we usually had a last motorway stop at Exeter. The children telephoned home, their first direct contact with their parents for a week. (Before the visit, the school and parents had been told that no news from the château meant good news. In later years, a new head teacher insisted that there must be daily contact with the school.)

For me this was the most important stop. After eating and getting back on the coach a count was done as usual.

“Yes, everyone’s here,” the counting teacher said.

“Do it again.”

“What?”

“Do it again.”

It was done again with the same result and I now knew that unless there was a motor accident, all the children I started out with would be going back safely.

At school, the parents would be waiting in the playground, bags would be taken off the coach, some grateful parents would offer thanks and I would, after taking off classroom materials, my bag, beer and wine, thank all the staff and go home. I always made sure that no children or staff came in the next day. I needed a long sleep and everything could be left in the car overnight when I got home.

“Events, dear boy, events.”

One year I was woken early the next day by a phone call from the school secretary.

“Have you unpacked your bag yet?”

“No, it’s still in the car.”

“You took Emily’s bag and she took yours.”

“How do you know?”

“Emily’s mum started to take out the contents of the bag to wash and.....”

“Oh my God!”