The following article has been updated since it was first published in October 2013. It tells the story of a week in France with seven guys on a golfing holiday. Make sure that you read to the end because I will also tell you how and why I changed my name and how that change was influenced by my friend Gary a couple of years prior to this French trip.
Gary Clements is sadly no longer with us, having suddenly passed away in 2024.
Early one morning, just a couple of days after travelling back to the UK from Portugal I was introduced to the six guys who were huddled in a driveway in the drizzle in Kent by my friend Gary. Cupping mugs of hot tea the group re-established old acquaintances with insults and jibes. They were about to set off on their annual golfing trip but this year I would be joining them. I had been kicking around at a loose end whilst waiting for my upcoming South American adventure and Gary had suggested that I might like to join the group and act as cook and cleaner for them.
I already knew four of the men and I was relieved to discover that the other three were just as nice with the same crazy sense of humour. Downing our mugs of tea we piled into three cars and we set off for Dover and the cross-channel ferry and then we drove through the foggy French countryside to the tiny hamlet of Manninghem near Montreil-sur-Mer which was about an hour’s drive from Calais. Normally the guys would choose to stay in the UK but this year was Gary’s 50th birthday and he wanted to do something a little bit different.
Gary had struck gold finding the gite that we were to rent (a gite is a French farmhouse which has been converted for tourism). Sleeping up to sixteen there was ample room for the eight of us in the rabbit warren of rooms, which included a games room with table football and a billiards table, four bathrooms, a huge kitchen and large gardens. We explored the farmhouse with much shouty-swearing as we repeatedly bashed heads and limbs on the low beams, narrow staircases and the sticking out chimney breasts.
Five of us then squashed into a car for what should have been a twenty minute jaunt to the supermarket but which turned into an epic hour and a half tour of the area because we got ourselves spectacularly lost. My sides were aching from laughing as we hurtled up French lanes only to find ourselves coming back on ourselves ten minutes later and we even ‘lost’ one of our gang who popped into a church to ask the priest for directions but disappeared for a good ten minutes ‘for a chat’! We finally found a supermarket where we bought our provisions for the week, including lots of nibbles and crates of beer and wine to keep us all going until I cooked the dinner that evening.
The next morning Tango Man produced an amazing breakfast which set the bar very high for subsequent days cooking. They then took ages loading the cars with all of the paraphernalia that goes with golf and they eventually set off to their first golf course of the week. I was disappointed to discover that there was no internet access at the farmhouse, but after tidying the farmhouse and prepping the dinner I settled down to my writing. Later in the afternoon I welcomed them back with cold beers at the ready as they hi-ho’d their way home after a long day on the greens. It only needed bluebirds and butterflies fluttering around my head to complete a scene from Snow White.
After dinner on that second evening the living room resembled a nursery school with the guys fighting and jostling for place in front of the TV because England were due to play football. If anybody dared to go and fetch another beer or pop to the loo, their seat was taken as everybody dived for better viewing positions. Eventually, fed up of being relegated to the corners, The Professor, Gary and Sneezy moved the table out of the way, picked up one of the sofas and plonked it right across the middle of the room. Now with the room bearing a loose resemblance to a cinema, they were all happy. Fast Car Driver and The Jezter cosied up in the back row and they all settled down with their beer and nibbles to jeer rowdily at the screen, breaking at half-time for snacks of cheese, crackers and more beer.
The following day I set off with them on their journey to the golf course near Le Touquet. I had visited the town a couple of years before, having rented a gite in the same area one Christmas and I wanted to take another look.
Le Touquet
To the British, who are brought up on a culture of home-ownership and with a continuous supply of DIY and gardening programmes which are drip-fed to them via a plethora of television channels, many European towns may appear bland and characterless. With properties which often front straight onto pavements and windows shuttered tightly against prying eyes and either the sun or the cold, houses can appear austere and foreboding.
I am always curious (or perhaps that should be ‘downright nosy’) to know what goes on behind the facades and a quick peep or a more resourceful strain of the neck will often reveal pretty courtyards with colourful plants and tinkling fountains, ultra-modern designer kitchens or rabbit runs of corridors and polished wood or marble. Unlike the British who often feel the need to parade their accomplishments and possessions, the Europeans are generally not too concerned with displaying their homes and instead focus inwards.
Le Touquet bucks the trend. Sitting on the coast to the south of Calais this town is jam-packed full of beautiful buildings. I defy you not to gasp as you approach the town along long tree-lined avenues. Tantalising glimpses of the most amazing homes can be caught between the trees, or for an even better look, get out of the car and walk. Away from the edge of the road, smaller secondary pavements weave and dodge between shrubs and trees and swoop past manicured lawns. From these inner paths you can gaze freely at verandas, swimming pools, statues and turrets. Just as you think that you have found THE dream home, an even grander property comes into view.
Even the smaller properties boast little wooden verandas or arched windows with multi-coloured shutters. On the promenade these quaint little buildings are being elbowed into the shadows by the inevitable rectangular apartment blocks, but if these bring holiday makers and money into the town we must forgive this minor intrusion…..Anyhow, the guys dropped me off on the side of the road to walk the three kilometres into the town. I felt more like Little Red Riding Hood than Snow White as I wound my way along a little path through the forest to the town whilst the lads drove onwards to their golf course.
Avoiding the wolves I arrived safely at Le Touquet where I reacquainted myself with its little shops and the enormous expanse of beach where land yachts were racing around in a howling gale and then I went and found myself a bar where I ordered the first of several glasses of wine. Pleased to have found free wifi I stayed there for the rest of the afternoon writing and chatting to the barman who wanted to practice his English. Unfortunately, wine on a (mostly) empty stomach got the better of me so when I got my phone call telling me that the guys were ready to come and collect me, I had totally forgotten how to get back to the path through the forest. Luckily they finally tracked me down wandering aimlessly around the streets and they bundled me into one of the cars and we headed back home. They weren’t too hopeful of me cooking a decent evening meal but luckily I managed to amaze them by holding it together until after the meal and I vaguely remember being fleeced of my euros as they took advantage of my lack of concentration during the card game Chase the Ace. At bedtime they apparently had a debate about the best place to leave me to sleep until they decided in their wisdom to attempt to get me up the ladder to my room. They obviously suceeded because I woke the next morning in my own bed, fully clothed and sporting some impressive bruises where they had hauled my dead weight upstairs!
Attempting to produce a full English breakfast for eight with a storming hang-over was not the wisest move but I made it without the vodka making a re-appearance and I quickly packed them all off out so that I could have some peace and quiet and I could go and lie down in a dark room.
This day was to be Gary’s pretend birthday (his official one was to be the following week) so I hung some balloons up and stuck some candles into some little buns on a plate. Once they had all arrived home from golf we decided to go to the local motel/pizzeria for a meal. My choice of fashion – a maxi dress and flowery baseball boots was met with complete derision by the dwarves as we set off down the road but I was pleased with my choice when we had to stumble back home along the lane in the pitch black.
The dwarfs’ final day on the green started off quite damp and drizzly. I remained home, cleaned the gite and made a warming beef stew for their dinner. The following day we set off in convoy for the ferry port and after the hour´s crossing and following a group hug we all got into our respective cars for the final leg home in the UK. I had a brilliant week with a fantastic group of blokes and I was very sorry to leave them as we said goodbye, but after just one night in Kent I would be setting off for Stanstead airport and another flight and another adventure early the following morning.
A change of name, a change of luck.
In loving memory of my friend Gary.
A couple of years previously when I was going through a really rough patch and I couldn’t face Christmas in the UK without my children in my life, I decided to head off to the French countryside. I had booked a cute little gite in the middle of nowhere but then my friend Gary asked if he could join me. I warned him that I planned to take lots of books, listen to music and eat chocolate and do little else and he said that sounded perfect. I decided that company might be fun and so a few days before Christmas we set off together. The little farmhouse that I had reserved was in a tiny hamlet with about seven houses and where the shop doubled up as a bar. During that Christmas week we did read lots of books, listened to music and ate chocolate but we also had a day out at Le Touquet and a trip over the border to Bruges in Belgium. I remember navigating us back through a snow storm and that evening, chatting to Gary about setting up a new phone account but needing a new name for my account.
The reason for the name change was because I had been on the receiving end of some bad stalking and harassment but I wanted to go back online, this time anonymously so as not to invite attention from my narcissistic ex. Sitting in comfy chairs in front of the log burner Gary and I joked around with my name but nothing really sounded good. I then matched Jane to his surname which was Clements and bingo, it just sounded right. Hmmm, Jane Clements. Can I please adopt your name, I asked. Yes, of course you can use it, replied Gary and that was when Jane Clements was born. By the time that my divorce was official and my solicitor asked if I would like to revert to my family name I opted to continue with Clements. I had married at the tender age of twenty and going backwards to my family name seemed to be going back to a time when I was naive and innocent. I had been through so much and I had grown so much stronger whilst I had been referring to myself as Jane Clements that I decided to keep it and I changed it officially by deed poll.
On that Christmas morning we woke to a fairytale picture outside the windows. During the night, soft snow had fallen and had blanketed the countryside. The church bells rang out as the snow sparkled in the morning light and we prepared to cook our Christmas dinner in the cosy warmth of our little French farmhouse.
A couple of years later when planning his annual golf trip with his friends, Gary hoped to emulate some of that time and instead of booking their usual week in the UK he persuaded his friends to join him in France to celebrate his 50th birthday. I had just resigned from my job and I knew that I would be at a loose end that week so I offered to join them and to cook and to clean whilst they went out and had fun on the golf courses. That is how I ended up in France with six men and how I ended up with my surname of Clements.
I believe that many people come into your life for a reason and/or for a lesson. I hardly knew Gary when he first rocked up at my house for a short stay at the suggestion of a mutual friend who knew that I was struggling and who thought that a visitor would help me to focus. I had just had an emotional breakdown and I had also moved into a new apartment and I was finding it tricky to move forwards. It was a perceptive suggestion and very well timed and Gary and I became firm friends over the years. I would often visit him and his beloved cats whilst I was passing through the UK and I used to tease him about his often gloomy outlook on life. It was with immense shock and sadness that I learnt of his sudden passing just earlier this year because we had been chatting about him coming out to visit in Spain this summer; as lessons go it was a hard reminder that things should never be put off because we just never know what is around the corner.
Rest in Peace Gary Clements. 2024.
