Monday was deemed time for a break from the carnage of battle. Carol particularly had long wanted to see Le Mont-St-Michel but, since we rarely stay that far north for long, we had thus far avoided it. It’s about 100 miles from where we were staying in Dives-sur-Mer and now the French had put in a decent autoroute making it a reasonable drive of a little under two hours. So, off popped the battle-wearied troops. We arrived without incident approaching midday after a somewhat murky but nonetheless pleasant drive in very light traffic. This made me wonder where all the traffic at Mont-St-Michel had come from. The extensive parking facilities were filling up with hundreds of cars, in addition to about 25 camping motor vans and half a dozen or so tour buses spilling out an almost endless stream of Japanese tourists. I kid you not, I saw no exceptions; each and every bus appeared to contain exclusively Japanese. I’d heard that this was the most visited site in France and, given the crowds on New Year’s Eve, I could well believe it. Though quite busy it was actually reasonably comfortable – plenty of people watching to do – but what on Earth must it be like in summer?

The day remained murky so it was not a terrific photo opportunity but the place was very impressive, nevertheless, especially because of its scale. It is substantially larger than its related cousin on the English side of the Channel, St Michael’s Mount. We all climbed up to the entrance to the abbey itself where I decided to remain outside and do some of that people watching while Carol went in with Keith and Marlene. Eventually they re-emerged and we sauntered back down the hill through ever-increasing crowds, pausing only to buy lunch on the run in the form of pizza slices and a less-than-scintillating tuna baguette. We left the car park to continue filling up.

Returning to the carnage of war, nearby at Huisnes-sur-Mer is another burial site for German soldiers which we decided to visit. I was expecting another graveyard but it actually turned out to be an ossuary for the remains of almost 12,000 lost in various locations, including some from each of the Channel Islands of Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney and Sark. The structure resembled an enormous circular set of bank vaults on two levels, not particularly attractive, I thought, but moving nonetheless.

Now it was time to head back to Dives-sur-Mer for our now daily visit to the unexpectedly open supermarket to inflict further casualties on the forces of the European Wine Lake. Champagne was cooling in the fridge ready for the turn of the year and everyone either stayed awake or was woken up for it – weren’t they, Keith? Hard work, all this tourism.

Sunday morning dawned beautifully clear and we decided to head back to Arromanches to resume our tour where we had left off the previous day. We wanted to cover the ground more rapidly so chose the main road out of Caen. The first obstacle to deal with was the peripherique (ring road) around the city. After a minor glitch, all went smoothly and we returned to Arromanches, this time into the town and onto the beach front itself rather than on the overlooking cliffs. Our timing was perfect and the tide was low revealing massive remnants of the piers built in 1944 to unload supplies and sustain the invasion following D-Day. It was quite a sight now but I cannot imagine what it must have looked like completed and in full swing. The scale of the operation defies imagination.

Next we were off to the American sector and Omaha beach. “Bloody Omaha” was the hardest beach to take due to the strength of the defensive German positions and their commanding field of fire directly down onto the beach. After seeing the beach itself, now looking deceptively calm and peaceful, we drove up to the higher ground and along to visit the main American cemetery. Over 9000 brilliant white crosses and Stars of David, all perfectly aligned along every axis, made a very moving sight in typically immaculate surroundings.

Further west still lies the Pointe du Hoc, scene of an assault up a sheer cliff by American rangers using special climbing gear, necessary to neutralize German guns with a commanding field of fire over both Utah and Omaha beaches. The site has not been restored and still bears many craters and structures, even what appeared to be original barbed wire, as a memorial to those involved.

Being a little beached out now, we skipped Utah beach but did want to see Sainte-Mère-Église, scene of a famous incident involving an American paratrooper getting ensnared on the church by his parachute. An effigy of the hapless paratrooper (though he did survive the incident) hangs on the church now as a tourist attraction. Though I’m glad to have seen it, were it not for the somewhat theatrical dangling mannequin, there really would not be much to see.

Returning to ward home base once more, we passed the largest German cemetery at La Cambe and made a swift detour to call in. Here lie over 11000 German dead. How different this looked from other cemeteries we’d seen. Small, simple plaques lying flat on the ground each marking two graves with relatively few dark gray crosses somewhat thinly scattered in groups of five around the field. An intensely sombre look resulted.

Saturday morning is market day in Dives-sur-Mer and the old market hall quite a reputation as an architectural attraction. No trip to France can be called complete without a raid on a local market so we planned this for our morning sortie. We left our apartment and found somewhere to park without any trouble, then started following the stream of locals carrying market bags to find our objective. En route we discovered wonderful old timbered buildings arranged in courtyards ornately carved with references to Guillaume le Conquerant (William the Conqueror) and were immediately very taken with the town. The market hall and square outside proved to be an absolute treasure trove of mouthwatering food. We saw escargots, snails ready stuffed with garlic butter, cheeses3 (of course), mounds of fresh vegetables, rabbits being skinned, punnets of various mushrooms, duck, beef, pork, veal, pheasant, quail, partridge, guinea fowl; the list seemed endless. There was so much that appealed that a mere three days catering couldn’t do it all justice. However, hard choices had to be made and we contented ourselves with a few selections that could be managed with no oven and dubious cutlery: a couple of duck breasts, some locally farm-raised sirloin steak and paupiettes de veau (veal parcels) together with some pleurottes (a kind of mushroom) to make a sauce for the veal. Outside the market hall we were forced to succumb to the aroma of a rotisserie chicken to accompany some fresh bread for lunch. That was it – love at first sight.

Returning to the apartment, we took an adventurous route and stumbled across the local fish market down by the harbour. Inside we discovered a couple of stall-holders furiously shucking mountains of Coquilles St. Jaques (scallops) for two long lines of people, all of whom seemed to be buying about 5kg (11 lbs) of the them. At 5.50 Euros a kilo, we couldn’t resist and stood patiently in line as order after order was filled. After about 45 minutes it was our turn and, delayed slightly by the proprietor vanishing briefly to drag in a further mountain of scallops, we were rewarded with 10 of our own, surprisingly almost 3kg. There were also some wonderful looking turbot; if only we needed more food. The scallops turned out to be utterly stunning. Now I was completely smitten – here was a place truly worth invading.

After failing to kill-off completely the rotisserie chicken for lunch, we went out to do some sightseeing. First stop for us, just as it was in June 1944, was the now famous Pegasus Bridge, the first objective taken on the night preceding D-Day by a glider assault. The bridge over the Caen canal has now been upgraded but the original remains close by, together with a Horsa glider, in a memorial display commemorating the events. Regrettably, the memorial was closed but we did get some views through the surrounding chain-link fence.

Then it was off to the eastern end of the invasion beaches themselves. We dropped down to the coast road by Sword beach (British) and drove along to Juno (Canadian) before making our first stop at a commemorative marker to see an original defensive German anti-tank gun, still in its concrete bunker. A little further west, we came across what is said to be the first house liberated on D-Day. It sits right on the promenade overlooking the beach and continues to display a Canadian flag in honour of the liberating forces. Cue some tearful eyes from yours truly.

Once I could see clearly again, we continued west to view something I had long wanted to witness, the remains of the mulberry harbour built at Arromanches on the central invasion beach, Gold (British). I think we were all taken aback by the sheer expanse of the harbour that had been built by prefabricated units towed across the English Channel and sunk, many of which are still visible particularly at low tide. The wind was howling on top of the cliffs overlooking the scene and it began to rain a little. As the setting sun fell beneath the offending cloud bank, a rainbow appeared the end of which appeared to be directly on the beach itself. Now I was struck by the poetry of the scene – the end of a rainbow on Gold beach! Cue more waterworks. Fortunately I had my polarizing filter with me and grabbed a few shots. Also fortunately, since once more I couldn’t see clearly, auto focus exists. Being still on old film technology, we’ll have to wait to see if I was successful in capturing the sight.

At Longues-sur-Mer, just beyond Arromanches, is a German battery with the original guns in their bunkers. We called in to see something from the point of view of the opposition. Beginning to head back to base, we paused briefly at the British cemetery at Ryes which we stumbled across en route.

That was quite enough emotional turmoil for one day, it was time to head back and raid the supermarket again. Having seriously damaged the food market in the morning, our evening objective was mainly of a vinous nature. This time the attacking forces marched about 12 soldiers of the defending European Wine Lake battalion back to base for a prolonged session of interrogation over the next few days.

Having completed an intensive wine-drinking training schedule over the past four weeks, today we carried our battle to the enemy with a direct assault on the European Wine Lake in its very heartland. We were roused at 4:45 AM for our planned 5:45 AM departure and (hopefully) two hour drive in the personnel carrier to Folkestone where we were to board Le Shuttle for the 8:50 AM crossing. We were keen for Keith to see the train technology used in the Channel Tunnel. After a slightly delayed but very smooth 35 minute trip we took the enemy by surprise, stealthily emerging from the tunnel behind their defensive lines which were still positioned to guard the beaches against an expected seaborne invasion. We scampered on to the autoroute and were swiftly off towards Normandy to establish our New Year beach head.

Carol and I have always wanted to see Honfleur, by reputation a picturesque old harbour on the south of the estuary from Le Havre (by reputation, everything but picturesque). Today provided the perfect opportunity since our route to Dives-sur-Mer in Normandy would take us right by Honfleur. After about two hours driving, we pulled off the autoroute and broke our journey there for a seafood lunch followed by a stroll around the harbour enjoying the sites and aiding the digestion. Then it was back to the transport and on down the coast road for about another hour to find our accommodation. Our directions to our quarters had been written for a different flight path so, in consequence, we made one or two wrong turns before eventually finding a pleasant billet in Dives-sur-Mer just as light was fading. We were stationed in Port Guillaume, named after William the Conqueror who set sail from there in 1066 to invade England. Though his invasion technically succeeded, I can’t help but wish that he had done a more thorough job of instilling in the Angles the same passion for all things culinary that is so central to the lives of all Frenchmen. Nice try Guillaume – some of us are disciples to the cause and appreciate your efforts.

We fought our way through several heavily guarded entrance barriers using a combination of codes and keys to find the apartment. Having retrieved a special electronic device secreted by the French underground, we were then able to open a further two barriers and gain access to the underground parking area where our car would be safe from aerial attack by any cruising enemy seagulls. We completed the unloading operations and fought our way through further staunch resistance back upstairs to the apartment. Finally, we could leave to reconnoiter the local supermarché for evening provisions and to make an initial withering assault on the wine lake.

Allied Invasion Force Four was off to a grand start.

The ubiquitous “they” say that it takes visitors to make you do things that are on your own door step. That was certainly the case when it came to the Leighton Buzzard Narrow Gauge Railway. We have been living in this town for about 24 years and, although we have seen the little trains crossing various local roads on their journeys, we had never actually visited the operation. That all changed today, galvanized by Keith’s interest in all things rail. Boxing Day is one of the LBNGR’s so-called “mince pie special” days and steam would supposedly be up so off we went to the little terminus at Pages Park. The trains used to carry sand from our local sand pits to tile manufacturers nearby. Now, it is a leisure time passenger service.

We arrived just in time to see a train disappearing round the first corner on one of its 25 minute pleasure trips so we had time to wander around the tracks and see the lines into the engine sheds before the little engine, Doll, pulled the train back in to discharge its cargo. Not too many rug rats appeared, either, which looked like being a bonus. It could be that we had lucked out and hit a lunch time lull. As the passengers disembarked, the operators began filling the engine with water, too, so we were treated to some additional interesting maintenance activity.

With very little persuasion, Keith sauntered off to the office to buy a ticket (£5) for the next trip. He duly boarded the train, even braving a carriage with one or two children in it. As the train pulled out of the station, very slightly delayed while the steam changed colour having recently been stoked, Carol and I decided to drive off and try to meet the train as it made the first road crossing. Timing was perfect; as we drove across the tracks the train was just approaching the road and the attendant flag men soon appeared to stop the traffic. Carol and I pulled the car up to the give way line and played tourists by waving and grinning as the train passed. When all was clear, we shot off, threaded our way through few more back streets, and managed to find the train at the end of the outward leg of the trip. We sat and watched as the engine was being switched to the opposite end of the carriages for the return leg. We did a little more waving and grinning before returning to the terminus to meet Keith as Doll returned. We made a quick trip to the office for a few souvenirs before returning home for a refreshing cup of tea.

K&M were then forced to endure a showing of Casablanca (which is, of course, the best movie ever made) before we all trotted off next door to join Paul, Liz and two of their three daughters, for a splendid Spanish meal, tapas and paella, and to make a further combined assault on the European wine lake.

It started early – much earlier than I would have liked. I awoke at about 4:30 AM on Christmas Day but unfortunately it was not the sound of sleigh bells that had roused me. Outside there was the sound of gentle but persistent rain. It also felt considerably milder that the temperatures of late. So, no more sleep for me it seemed. All I was going to do from that point on was fret about the goose not being cold enough and having to fire up my precious, hand-imported-by-Keith-and-Marlene, Kingsford charcoal in the rain. I turned the light on and read my book but my mind was only half on it, the remaining half being outside messing with a wet Weber grill. All I really succeeded in doing was disturbing Carol, of course.

Eventually the hands of the clock clawed their way around to time for relief in the form of tea. Carol went and put the stockings left by Santa for Keith and Marlene outside their door and we set about our own stockings. What big kids, but then, that’s what Christmas is for, mostly, isn’t it?

Following the luxury of tea and stockings in bed, we arose to get our fix of coffee with a splash of rum, an addition reserved for Christmas festivities, and to heat some of Carol’s absolutely excellent home-made sausage rolls. These would be used to nibble, along with a few glasses of Cava while we all gathered around the tree in the conservatory to hit the main presents. There were a lot of new mugs which seemed to be something of a theme this year. Both couples had also made gifts to each other of framed photographs from our trip to Virginia of November, 2006. Great minds, apparently, really do think alike.

It’s not unusual for the weather to turn from being pleasantly clear and cool to being muggy and damp for Christmas Day. It was the Victorians, not Bing Crosby, that invented the amazingly rare white Christmas. It was much more to do with Charles Dickens and snowy-scened Christmas cards. At 11:30 AM in the real world, however, the rain was continuing but it was time to bite the bullet and start preparing the bird. I managed to borrow a large sunshade, which doubled as a large umbrella, from neighbour Paul. It wasn’t me, I was concerned about but rather the charcoal. No problem though, good ol’ Kingsford fired up under the protection of its purloined parasol and goosey loosey was soon in for what I expected to be about a three hour roasting. Scoring the skin and using a Weber is a great way to cook goose (and duck, for that matter) ‘cos most of the abundant grease runs out. You need a large drip pan, though.

Meanwhile, Carol and Marlene set about the vegetables. The brussel-sprouts-on-a-stalk provided a source of fascination, K&M never before having seen them on the plant. Parsnips and roast potatoes a la graisse d’oie (goose fat) would complete the main course, while a Christmas pudding, together with brandy butter and/or cream and/or custard would fill in any carelessly left gaps. After the expected three hours of tending the BBQ by occasionally feeding in a few extra briquettes of charcoal, my jealously guarded 1993 Cabernet Sauvignon from Caymus Vineyards was a perfect (and, apparently, now expensive) accompaniment to a splendid goose with suitably rich, crispy skin. The hapless bird had not died in vain. Any room room left for a little cheese and port, anyone? Well, perhaps later.

Keith struggled gamely to get a fire going so that we might “roast chestnuts on an open fire” but, although he succeeded in getting flames going, our logs really weren’t seasoned sufficiently to create the required red embers. Carol loaded up the chestnut roaster and gave it a go but the results were not great; there just wasn’t enough heat, even though we, ourselves, seemed to feel overheated. Maybe the logs will be dry enough for next year.

All in all, a successful day despite the chestnuts. We hope everyone’s Christmas Day was as good as ours.

This was a pretty quiet day; everyone seemed to want to take life slowly after the preparations of the previous week. In the afternoon, Carol and I went visiting Carol’s sister and mother (who was down from Scotland) to exchange presents and our second day of Christmas occured. We left Keith and Marlene to enjoy some quality time with each other while we were gone for a few hours – except that they very kindly figured out how to use a Dyson and vacuumed the entire house. Some quality time!

We returned to find that the kids had made themselves at home and had raided the cellar (under stairs cupboard) for some wine and a Jack Daniels or two. Quite right, too, they deserved it. Then it was time to consider dinner. My heart was in my mouth as I tried to cook some ribeye steaks. I was a little nervous, both because Keith is very adept at cooking steaks and because American steak is, in my view, a hard act to follow. Nonetheless, it went quite well and the results appeared to be appreciated, especially when washed down with a 1986 Clos Rene Pomerol which I had been saving for just such guests on just such an occasion. I would hate to die prematurely and leave that in the cellar for someone else to polish off.

Then, a quick episode of House and it was off to bed to wait for Santa, assuming we had been good enough.

(Well, “Wild Goose Chase” would have been a little too obvious as a title, wouldn’t it?)

On the day I wandered into Waitrose intent on ordering a goose for Christmas, they were unable to take such orders due to their supplier being in a restricted area because of a bird flu outbreak at another farm. Not knowing how long the restrictions would last, we chose a more local supplier with a good reputation, Franklins at Thorncote, and phoned them. They were happy to take an order but their delivery schedule was full so we would have to collect our bird on December 23rd. Waitrose would have been the easier option but circumstances probably played in our favour since the resulting goose was likely to be a superior product. Time will tell.

Franklins is about 20 miles away from us so we set off en masse at 11:00 AM on Sunday to track down our Christmas dinner. We knew of Franklins from their visits to our local farmers markets in Leighton Buzzard and Woburn but had never actually visited the farm before. Senior astro-navigatrix Carol directed us to the farm without any trouble. It turned out to be a substantially larger business than any of us was expecting, I think, and Keith was particularly surprised at the scale of the operation. Throngs of people were collecting all manner of dead animals, or parts thereof, for the Christmas season. There was cheese also, which I have not seen on their market stalls but which looked particularly attractive to a cheese-aholic such as myself. Their Christmas order book was vast with three or four pages devoted to surnames beginning with “C” alone. (I wonder if they sell shares in the business?) Once at the head of the queue, the order book was searched, our goose was swiftly located and, weighing in at 5.6kg, was neatly boxed along with its valuable fat and giblets. “Quick draw McKeith” rapidly flashed the required £53 and we were soon back on the road with our festive booty. I really must take Keith shopping more often!

We paused relatively briefly to play Santa at Carol’s niece’s family on the way back. Then it was goose liver on toast for lunch and an afternoon making stock from the goose giblets to lessen the culinary burden of Christmas Day itself. We can’t have work getting in the way of presents, after all, can we?

Saturday morning got off to a poor start. There seemed to be a dispute brewing within BAA (British Airport Authority – it looks after the running of Heathrow and Gatwick airports, amongst others) and an intention to strike on January 7th was being mooted. The work force is apparently irritated about the closing of their pension scheme to newcomers even though those who are currently members should be unaffected. Be that as it may, guess when Keith and Marlene were scheduled to leave Gatwick; exactly, well done – January 7th. Although the strike was yet to be confirmed, it seemed prudent to try to reschedule their return and avoid disruption if at all possible, so Marlene called American Airlines and managed to get seats two days later for January 9th. Flight sorted, now Keith needed to amend the rental car booked for their return from Raleigh/Durham airport home to Richmond. Whoops – accidentally cancelled it; silly web site! Not disastrous, there were plenty of cars available to rebook, albeit at a slightly higher price. So, bottom line, we have company for a couple more days in January and Keith is not, now, a fan of National’s web site.

Time for some relaxation after the stresses of the morning. This time of year brings the Shell Wildlife Photographer of the Year photographic exhibition to Tring Natural History Museum. We were a little concerned about going on a Saturday, the rug rats having just broken up from school, but it looked like a good opportunity. So, off we went and, surprise of surprises, the tiny car park was half empty and there were very few people in the museum itself. The photos always make us feel completely inadequate with a camera but its great to see something to shoot for, isn’t it? You can see the winning entries here.

Calendars get pretty full around Christmas so family gatherings can be a little difficult to coordinate. However, Friday evening seemed to be free for both my mother and cousin so Friday had been set for our traditional exchange of presents followed by dinner. Somewhat less traditional was the dinner itself. Mother visited Italy in the summer and surprised me by declaring that she now liked spaghetti, particularly with a Bolognese sauce; and, yes, she would like it if I made that for her. So, Friday morning was taken up for me with the three hour process of Bolognese sauce preparation. To make the meal completely eclectic, Keith volunteered to struggle bravely with foreign ingredients and produce an American sugar-rush classic for desert, pecan pie, for which Carol made the pastry case. To complete the menu, Marlene and Carol also set about assembling some appetizers: cream cheese with spiced cranberry chutney together with blinis topped with sour cream, smoked salmon and caviar (fake, I hasten to add). So, that was pretty much everybody tied up in preparation for the day making it a real team effort.

All came together smoothly and we kicked off at 6:30 PM when mother and her friend, Tony arrived. Cousin Mark and his partner Linda arrived just after 7:00 PM and the serious business of presents-around-the-Christmas-tree began accompanied by some very pleasant Spanish Cava. We managed to squeeze eight around our extended dining table and everyone seemed to enjoy the food; at least, there wasn’t much left at the end. Six casualties were sustained in the continued assault on the European wine lake, which isn’t too bad for a gathering of eight (two of which weren’t drinking). Proceedings drew to a close around 11:00 PM and the weary kitchen team could retire for some well-deserved rest.

Christmas had come early this year and began on the shortest day, December 21st.