James R. Vance's Blog

For a teenager in the nineteen-fifties, an opportunity to spend ten days in France on a school trip generated an intensity of excitement inconceivable to this current mobile generation. Fortunately for me, my parents showed no hesitation in funding the visit, basing their seal of approval on my desire and aptitude for foreign languages. This first foray abroad would propel me to Blois in the Loire valley, an adventure without parents, where my anticipation far outweighed any trepidation I could have felt from leaving behind the security of family life.There was something exotic, almost magical about the visit: the different food, the aromas, the ever-present wafts of freshly baked bread, strong coffee and pungent cigarettes. All these alien sensations lodged in my memory. Though enthused by excursions to exotic chateaux, I also derived pleasure from time spent by the river Loire, watching geckos frolicking on hot stones in the warm sunshine whilst blue-green dragon flies zipped back and forth across the water. The opportunity to practice my basic knowledge of the language: ‘Bonjour, je veux acheter un croissant, s'il vous plaît.’ added to the enjoyment of the experience. However, the lasting memory, which lingered all the way back to Dover and beyond, was the smooth, moreish chocolate and nougat flavour of Toblerone. As I looked back from below the white cliffs of Dover, I was in love for the first time; la France had cast its spell.My irrepressible enthusiasm for our Gallic neighbours awakened my parents’ latent post-war adventurous spirit; we returned to France during the summer of that same year. With me tucked up amongst camping equipment in the rear of our new Ford Prefect, we set off accompanied by aunt Ethel, uncle Arthur, cousin Alan and his girlfriend, Beryl, all making the trip in the ‘luxury’ of a Ford Consul. Apart from Beryl, the adults neither spoke nor understood a word of French; she and I became the unofficial tour guides.The Automobile Association provided a detailed route map directing us from Calais towards Lyons, the Rhone valley, Avignon and the eventual destination of the French Riviera with a return journey across the Alps via Gap and Digne to Grenoble and onwards to the Channel port again. The ‘master plan’ did not quite work out that way! There were no motorways nor service areas, no Formula 1 hotels, no McDonalds and no tourist offices; a dearth of signs and poor street lighting made driving a lottery. These drawbacks, compounded by a limit of only £50 per head allowed for travel in a foreign country at that time, contributed towards an eventful and highly challenging journey to the sun-drenched beaches of Nice, Antibes and St Raphael.In the early evening of day one, we reached Beauvais, where tiredness forced us to book into a hotel for the night. After searching in the town centre for a suitable hostelry, eventually we settled on accommodation in a recently renovated private hotel. Situated in a dimly lit side street, its gigantic neon sign drew us like moths to a candle. After extensive attempts to explain our requirements in a mixture of limited French, English and our improvised sign language, the receptionist offered the only two rooms available with an additional room in a nearby annexe. My father and cousin opted for the latter. A shady looking character arrived to chauffeur them in a vehicle that looked like a battered survivor from the recent war.Whilst my fastidious aunt checked her bedding for bedbugs, they returned, expressing concern that the annexe, though purporting to be additional accommodation, was actually a brothel, resulting in an instant withdrawal of the tentative entente cordiale. With suitcases and bags repacked, we vacated the premises to continue our journey into the night. Though determined to enjoy every minute of this farce, I dozed a little until the bright lights and noise of a city that never sleeps flashed past the windows of the car, dispelling any further thoughts of slumber. Not part of the original itinerary, Paris at one o’clock in the morning captured my imagination; the geckos and chateaux faded into a distant memory. To a youngster accustomed to the tranquillity of the mid-Cheshire countryside, the swirl of vehicles pouring from Avenue des Champs-Elysées to encircle the Arc de Triomphe was overwhelming. Despite joining this revolving circus, both vehicles eventually escaped onto the same boulevard after extricating themselves from the mêlée of  l’Etoile. When far enough away from the maelstrom, the drivers pulled over to the side of the road where they consulted an array of maps to plan a route out of the city. In the distance, I spotted the Eiffel tower rising into the night sky above the shimmering lights of the vibrant café bars and boulevards. Though brief, the unscheduled visit to Paris would live in my memory forever.Later in the early hours, tired eyes forced my father to pull over into the gateway of a field some miles south of the capital. Everyone agreed unanimously to snatch some respite in the vehicles for the remainder of the night. The roar of aircraft engines replaced the anticipated dawn chorus as early morning flights in and out of the adjacent Orly airport announced the start of a new day. After sharing a hastily brewed pot of tea, the group decided to drive to an AA recommended camp-site at Briare where, following our arrival, we pitched three tents to compensate for the night’s traumatic adventure by sleeping through the remainder of the morning.Sometime around mid-day, high-pitched screams interrupted our repose; the wailing emanated from the tent of a rather distressed aunt. Lying on her camp-bed, something had disturbed her; on opening her eyes, she had peered into the muzzles of a double-barrel shotgun poking through the tent flap. A moustached, weathered face followed, emitting a flood of incomprehensible words in French. After much animated gesticulations, we gathered that the farmer had called for his rent! We soon learned that recollections of the ongoing enquiries about the Drummond murders were the underlying reasons for my aunt’s hysteria. Fortunately, she was unaware that during the holiday we would be passing quite close to Digne-les-Bains and la Grande Terre farm at Lurs where Sir Jack Drummond and his wife had been shot and their daughter, Elizabeth, clubbed to death while camping close to the river Durance. It would be later that year, in November, when Gaston Dominique would be finally convicted of these atrocities. The patriarch of the farming family was condemned to death by guillotine, but General de Gaulle commuted his sentence to life imprisonment because of his age.We paid our dues and packed away the equipment before setting off on the next stage of a journey that led to the outskirts of Lyon, where we pitched the tents alongside a small sports arena. Equipped with running tracks, a football pitch and shower blocks, the opportunity to refresh our weary bodies was well overdue for everyone in the group. Later during the evening, a lively debate took place around a Primus stove that heated a pan brimming with an indescribable stew-like concoction. Bolstered by fresh chunks of baguette purchased from a nearby boulangerie, it tasted surprisingly good.A decision to drive to Grenoble early the next morning was one outcome of the discussion over supper. It would involve crossing the mountains via Gap and Grasse before descending to the resorts along the Mediterranean coastline, as opposed to following the more direct route along the RN7 through Valence and Avignon. Everyone agreed that choosing this picturesque but more demanding route would allow us time if problems arose when crossing the mountains. The easier drive back through the Rhone valley would be more suitable to a speedier and less demanding return at the end of the holiday. However, the question still bothering my father as we all bedded down for the night concerned the Prefect; would it cope with the tortuous drive across the mountains? Thanks to Ford engineering, both vehicles rose to the challenge, and we eventually reached the final ridge to absorb the exotic outline of the Cote d’Azur shimmering below like a spellbinding mirage in the haze of the late afternoon sunshine. The remainder of the holiday passed without too many hitches. Despite the financial restrictions, there were sufficient funds left over for a detour to take in Switzerland on the way back. We stayed at the Hôtel des Anglais overlooking Lac Léman in Lausanne and enjoyed a stopover at the Hôtel Bristol in Le Touquet before returning to Calais and embarking on the cross-channel ferry to Dover. On reflection, that expedition to the south of France, at that time and under so many restrictive circumstances was one outstanding achievement for the two families. Before the war, the Riviera was the playground of the rich; we were like post-war pioneers of tourism for the masses. My parents must have been either completely mad or superbly visionary to attempt such an epic undertaking.

Fifty seven years ago today, Duncan Edwards died, losing his fight for life following the Munich Air Disaster on 6th February 1958. Despite the tragedy, I have fond football memories of those days, as outlined in a previous blog:


Passion for Football 



During each February, it seems appropriate for me to reflect back to the fifties. It was a time when one could stroll mid-week towards Old Trafford and bump into players walking or cycling to the stadium. Often, one could stop and say ‘hello’ to the likes of Duncan Edwards, Mark Jones, Tommy Taylor, or the diminutive Eddie Colman.I lived in Knutsford at the time and commuted to school at Altrincham by Cheshire Lines trains—pulled by black, steam engines in those days. Each Saturday during the season, I played soccer for my school. After the match, a dash to catch the ’leckytrain to Warwick Road took precedent over any jubilation or despondency over the result of our school team; my real team was always Manchester United. Inhaling chemical fumes from the factories in Trafford Park, and coughing up smoke that crept over O.T. from the trains alongside the South Stand, I stood mesmerised on the windswept and often rain-soaked Stretford End terracing during a period of dramatic change for the club.Players like Jack Crompton, Allenby Chilton, John Aston, Henry Cockburn, Jack Rowley and Stan Pearson were being replaced gradually by the emergent Busby Babes—not dissimilar to what is currently taking place now at O.T.—heralding a new ‘philosophy’! The main difference between then and now is passion. Apart from a few exceptions like Johnny Berry from Birmingham City and Tommy Taylor from Barnsley, most of those youngsters came through the youth system; they were totally committed to the club and the vision of Sir Matt.I have amazing memories of some remarkable games—none more so than the electrifying 3-0 win against Bilbao at Maine Road (no floodlights in those days at O.T.). Never would one have imagined that, exactly one year to the day, that great team would cease to exist following the tragedy of the Munich air disaster. In August last year, I drove to Germany to fulfil a long-held ambition to visit the memorial on Manchester platz before watching the ‘Legends’ at the Allianz Arena. For an old ‘codger’ like me, it was a moving experience to pay my respects to those lads, many of whom I had met and spoken to as a teenager. At the time, I cried when Duncan Edwards died after his unsuccessful fight for survival but I still cherish the memory of watching him win a cup match as Duncan only could: in 1957, United played Everton at O.T. in the fifth round. In goal for the visitors was Albert Dunlop; he stopped every United attempt to score. Eventually, Edwards picked up the ball in his own half, stormed through every tackle and unleashed an unstoppable shot from outside the box. It sailed into the back of the Everton net like a rocket; even Dunlop, the goalkeeper stood and applauded. The crowd roared and Duncan spread his arms as if to say: ‘that’s the way to do it’! United won 1-0 and went on to reach the final, only to be beaten by Villa’s Peter McParland and his outrageous assault on Ray Wood.

Those young ‘flowers of 1958’ were not only gifted but also played with PASSION and I believe that is what is missing in this current squad. I hope that LVG will get it right but until then, at least I have the memories.                                                                                        Remember: 6th February 1958




 

At last, the Fresque Historique at Bridiers has finished. Though the experience was exciting, the four nights were quite demanding. The feedback from everyone who attended the event has been remarkable & so positive. Sadly, as a performer, it was impossible to see the whole spectacle. If not performing, one was changing costumes or preparing (in the dark) for the next scene. I shall have to await the production of the DVD in November.
Nevertheless, I and my son have some amazing memories supported by numerous behind-the-scenes photos, some of which I wish to share:Our coulisse (group) was involved in the scene depicting the assassination of Jean Jaurès by Raoul Villain.
Jean Jaurès



                                           Claude as Jean Jaurès Simon as Raoul Villain
Villain pulls the trigger & shoots Jaurès in the Croissant  café
 









  


Vehicles used as taxis to the 'front' Vehicles used in the spectacle     

  







Relaxing before the opening tableau  Play-acting waiting for nightfall             








                                                                                                                                                                                             

     The British arrive                    The waiting game at Coulisse 5 Coulisse4

With just a few days remaining, the final rehearsals are scheduled before the first night opens on Friday
1st August.
Tonight is the first dress rehearsal and Thursday sees a full live production with sound and light plus the explosions of the battlefields. I imagine each night's performance will be quite exhausting; we must be on set from 8.00pm until midnight and are not expected to leave until at least 2.00am!
















The audience seating area as it looked before the set
builders moved in.
 



 The wardrobe department with helmets at the ready!










My son who plays Raoul Villain, the assassin of Jean Jaurès, left wing French politician, a pacifist totally opposed to the imminent war- here on the right.
Villain shot him in a Paris café a few days before the outbreak of WWI. 
The hill and ruined chateau where the battle scenes will take place before packed audiences during next weekend... a fitting tribute to the millions who gave their lives during The Great War.

 Saturday 22nd May
Watched United stuff the Geordies at Wembley, said goodbye to the lads from Wales…see you in Barcelona! Jumped into the car after match, drove to Dover, caught the midnight ferry to Calais…slept in car in northern France.
Sunday 23rd May Crossed France, stayed overnight at Etap hotel in Narbonne.
Monday 24 May Arrived Barcelona. Checked in hotel off Catalunya square. Night on Ramblas with United supporters.
Tuesday 25 May Spent whole day & night on & around Ramblas with thousands of United supporters. NO ROOM for the Germans! Daughter joined us after flying in from UK.
Wednesday 26 May More eating, drinking & sightseeing. Late afternoon, took Metro to the stadium. By chance, met the guys from Wales again (our mates in the Stretford end). Watched the most amazing match ever. German supporters left stadium in tears! Spent ALL NIGHT drinking our way back to city centre.‘Who put the ball in the German’s net? Ole Gunnar Solskjaer!’ WE WON THE TREBLE!!!!
Thursday  27 May
 







Breakfast outside Dunkin’ Donuts and slept in hotel until lunchtime. Took daughter to airport before driving to south of France for a further weeks holiday, camping in the Camargue.

First meeting yesterday of Coulisse 4 in the
shadow of Bridier's XIVc chateau. An interesting
afternoon spent inspecting the site where over 400
volunteers will be performing and assisting in the
Fresque Historique during the first weekend of
August to commemorate 100 years since The Great War.
There was the opportunity to meet fellow players for the first time and to hear of roles that had been  assigned to various individuals. I discovered that I would be a French soldier in many scenes and, for the scene depicting the assassination of Jean Jaurès, a member of the press interviewing him at that fateful moment. My son is also a French soldier (we must grow our moustaches to conform to the visual images of the poilus, the infantrymen involved in the war). He is also doubling as the assassin.

There will be several rehearsals, culminating in a full dress rehearsal on 31st July. It promises to be an impressive spectacular, requiring great energy and choreography to ensure a successful production. Accompanied by music, light shows and special effects, the Fresque will run over four nights, 1,2,3 and 4 August, commencing each evening at 10.00pm. Below are some images of yesterday's on-site meeting:

Bridiers: the ruins of XIVc chateau The first meeting of Coulisse 4 A briefing 'centre stage' to the 'German soldiers'








 
 
Spectator seating area       

After recovering from last week's ordeal of a radio interview on Radio Pays de Guéret, this week is dedicated to book signing events.

My latest novel, 'Something Old, Something New is finally spreading its wings!

I spent this morning at Vera Laine Cadeaux in Le Dorat, Haute Vienne talking more about the time I spend on research as opposed to the novel itself. It never ceases to amaze me when I chat to readers that they show so much interest in the time I devote to unearthing the anecdotes and real stories, which add authenticity to my historical fiction novels.
I believe I am fortunate to live in a region rich in memorials and sites where the disruptive activities of the French Résistance and the courageous support of the many agents sent over during WWII by the Special Operations Executive are still evident. Sadly, some of the repercussions from that era still exist amongst families whose ancestors suffered during France's dark years. 'Something Old, Something New' sets out to explore the ongoing effects of such traumatic experiences.   

My personal challenge.

I have a craving to do something different. Having written seven novels to formats based on the regurgitated advice of all those who purport to provide the 'ten best' or the 'greatest' publishing tips and resources to become a successful writer, I have finally 'flipped'.

This time, I have the title and the book cover...but, as yet, no plot and no characters. I have merely planted a seed in the incubator of my imagination. Watch this space to see what develops as winter gives way to spring...with the promise of new shoots.

For this latest HF novel, I spent 8 months on research( including traveling 300 kilometers across France to visit a town where I stayed in a hotel featured in the novel in order to ascertain how it appeared during WWII ). I also relied heavily on the wealth of information I gleaned from authoritative history books about the period, combined with visits to museums and numerous sites of historical value. I spent the next 4 months writing the first draft of the manuscript.I must admit that the fact-finding missions were far more inspiring than sitting at a keyboard tapping out my prose, but gained great satisfaction from knowing that the facts were accurate.Now the hard work really starts...attending book-signing events amidst an on-going  publicity campaign.
http://jamesvanceauthor.wix.com/aweso...