Séjour in dear old Angleterre

Prince Arsenal with a large and a small vegetarian on Primrose Hill
(Pics of wild boar on Google but all the good ones are copyrighted)
This entry is a little delayed as I’ve just been to London to visit the vegetarian branch of the family (that’s Crouch End, not Westminster, by the way) and to pay my respects to the smallest and (currently) roundest member. Crouch End these days is full of famous people, you trip over them as you fight your way to the organic quinoa counter at Waitrose. It’s all so much more glam than when I lived there. One thing I really noticed (and it's a huge plus) is that you can now buy an iced cupcake just about anywhere. They come in pink, white and yellow and orange and are unbelievably yummy. How long, I ask myself, before the iced cupcake arrives in Charbonville? Is this a business idea waiting to be pounced upon? Would the French fall in love with the traditional English iced cupcake?

As I was back in dear old Angleterre it seemed like a good idea to invite Prince Arsenal down from his stronghold in the paradise-that-is-Lufbra. Having missed a plane, a train and several buses recently, I was pleasantly surprised when he turned up at St Pancras only an hour late. But having bribed him with the promise of a rare sirloin steak I was quietly optimistic – apparently they don’t feed you at weekends in the paradise-that-is-Lufbra.
Crouch End isn’t the only place that is significantly more upmarket than it was twenty-five years ago, Camden Lock market remains equally cool but is considerably less grungy. We had lunch at Marine Ices in Chalk Farm where I can personally guarantee that the decor hasn’t changed in more than two decades. More famous people were spotted at the table behind us – even actors have children to entertain, apparently.
It was altogether a delightful weekend and I can report that life chez les vegetariens is conducted against a backdrop of Classic FM, celebrated personages, Costa lattes and iced cupcakes. It’s just a pity the air in North London is a little heavy on the lungs.

I returned to Chateau Coldspot to discover that during my weekend away the Wild Boar had held a massive party in our grounds. While le Comte and les Princesses were sleeping the Pigs (sanglier en français) had invited all their friends round and ploughed up the front lawn. I don’t blame le Comte, of course, it’s difficult to stop a herd of hairy, tusked, 100kg pigs, but I did feel action was called for. Seriously, anyone who suggests that reintroducing these animals into dear old Angleterre is off their heads. They no longer have any natural predators – do readers know what used to attack wild boar apart from Henry VIII? – and having been crossed with the domestic pig, they have twice as many babies as they once had.
‘It 'as bin très cold in ze mountains this year,’ the spiky haired woman in the farm shop explained when I asked for sanglier repellent. (Actually I’d noticed this as we’ve almost used up our stock of magic boiler beans). ‘Les sangliers are 'ungry. Zey come down to ze warm grounds in search of ze food.’
She advised that an electric fence was the only deterrent, placed close to the earth to shock their snouts as they root. I bought stakes and 400m of blue nylon string threaded with wire and have spent the remainder of the day winding this round the Coldspot boundary like Cat’s Cradle. To find out whether it works, watch this space.

Another nasty surprise on my return from dear old Angleterre was the arrival of a speeding ticket in the post. I am one of the slowest drivers in le Midi, so how could this be?
‘Easy, you were doing 120km/h instead of 110km/h,’ said Princess 1 matter-of-factly, reading the letter.
Hmmph, well, I could see that. ‘But there was nobody else on the road,’ I muttered. 'It was perfectly safe.'
‘That doesn’t matter,’ countered Princess 1, sounding exactly like my father (or indeed, me), ‘the law states that the speed limit is 110km/h.’
Grrr, since when did Miss Third Gear know anything about driving?

To end on a high note, I hunted around in the gooses’ nest this morning (they prefer to share) and found a dozen eggs which I hurriedly appropriated before the gander returned. The geese were showing no signs of wishing to sit on them, anyway. They're much too busy cavorting in the pond to bother with children. Recipe ideas on a postcard, please.