72: A flea in his ear
Various roadside signs have lined the verges as summer has shifted into a colourful autumn above the Arve Valley. The French way is to paste flyers to plywood then hit you with a series of three or four; the first grabs your attention, you get a key word or two off the second, and by number four you’ve just about got the message, which is then hammered home over a week or so until the event has passed. So recently we’ve been seduced (or not) by a Puppy Fair at Ville-Le-Grand, a Ski-Exchange at Marignier and a Fireman’s Ball at Ayze – but pride of place has had to go to Les Scouts of Cluses, with the biggest flea market in Les Deux Savoies.
Marian, our trusty local advisor, gave us the lowdown some time ago; the whole thing is organised with military precision. First collections are held on staggered weekends throughout September; we had a long-overdue clearance of the garage and a good cause feels much worthier than a trip to the recycling. Once the collections are complete, it’s all sorted and priced behind closed doors then on four Sundays in October the whole lot is sold in massive marquees on the outskirts of Cluses. (The proceeds and any unsold goods go to Romania, seems only reasonable after Sarkozy deported all the indigenous gypsies in that general direction).
The Boss went down with Marian on Opening Sunday, 9:00am sharp; parking was likely to be a problem so I dropped the girls off on my way to Geneva. Even at that early hour the roads were gridlocked, traffic tailed back a km or so in both directions. People were already leaving, burdened with all sorts of unlikely purchases. Four hours later I was home but no sign of my favourite shopper... eventually she trailed in with the morning’s pickings; a fireguard (much needed), brass porthole (less so), assorted curtains (not my sphere of influence)... the list goes on. But of course it didn’t stop there, there were still three weeks to go and apparently she hadn’t made it past tent 2.
So the following week so us both following the streaming hordes, to return an hour or so later with a large garden bench, twelve nice heavy glass sundae dishes, a mouli-legumes, a stuffed panda (for Ffin – alas stuffed no longer!) and so on. I have no idea how an ordinary retailer functions in this neck of the woods, as the Boss observed you could kit out an entire household there – I’m sure they’re doing wedding lists. And there’s still two weeks to go!
Flea-markets seem to be the in thing in this neck of the woods – last weekend we were entertaining visitors from the Island and their friends, and popped over to Lausanne for a lunchtime cruise on La Suisse, belle-époque pride of the CGN fleet on Lake Geneva. This was everyone’s first visit to Ouchy, the port of Lausanne but we found the car-park and sauntered down the quay in glorious sunshine – only to stumble over another sizable marquee, stuffed with trestle-tables onto which the enterprising Swiss had emptied their lofts and nuclear shelters – and not a cuckoo clock to be seen. Prices seemed a tad hefty though, even before the ruinous frank exchange rate, so I manfully fought back strong buying urges.
A good tale about the Swiss on one of the websites I picked up in a twitter trawl the other day; apparently their army, still largely staffed by national service conscripts is shifting its emphasis to policing the borders in readiness for the anarchy expected to follow the anticipated collapse of the euro economies. The ravening hordes of goths, visigoths & whatever from the failed European nations are to be turned back at bayonet point. It’s not so fanciful; I travel into Geneva twice a week and it’s the Italian cars that always get pulled over for the shake-down.
Ah well, whatever their national shortcomings, the Swiss maintain a very stylish fleet of paddle-steamers and a wonderful day was had by all. Lunch in the First Class saloon was a real joy; certainly French champagne and probably a French chef, I mused....
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