Category: West Dorset

Fungi foray frolic in West Dorset

A fungal foray with John Wright is not mushroom hunting as I know it. Childhood memories of my mother’s picnics and my father whistling to keep hunters away are miles from a day at the Kingcombe Centre in West Dorset.

There are similarities of course. Baskets, knifes, eyes to the ground, a reassuring smell of decay when the nose gets closer to the undergrowth and that warm feeling of joy when a mushroom is found. Or a toadstool.

The point of taking part in a foray with Mr Mushroom himself is to learn. There were a few newbies like me and a few reoffenders who clearly thought it was worth re-foraging with Mr Wright. The world of fungi is a vast underground world where the initiated want to learn more and the foodies don’t want to go home empty handed.

Our foray was at the Kingcombe Centre in West Dorset, part of a Nature Reserve where the fields have never seen fertiliser, where the preservation of our local ecosystem is not a fashion. A very special place not just for the lucky visitors but also for the underworld. The 75 different types of fungi we found in about four hours should prove my point. Only one do I uncompromisingly know, a very exciting one at that, a chanterelle.

Our first lucky find in the hedge outside Kingcombe Centre was tall, thick stemmed, white with a greenish cap. It brought a big smile to John’s face as he dug it from the ground, bag at the base and all. He proudly showed the group and introduced us to the one mushroom you should avoid at all costs: The Death Cap. Need I say more. Not as pretty as its red and white cousin that fairies are keen on but more dangerous.

Of the remaining 73, I had come across a few but could sadly name none fully. English name or latin name. A beautifully fat boletus find was quite exciting. Being red though, it was totally the wrong colour for supper but perfect for a photo opportunity. John obliged by holding it up against the cloudless blue sky.

I still don’t know the difference between a toadstool and a mushroom. I might be the proud owner of a signed copy of the River Cottage Handbook No. 1 (John commented that he was honoured to sign his ‘Mushrooms’ book for a Française, cheeky charmer) but to me, they’re still all Champignons. All 4,000 species that you can find in Britain.

I learnt lots of interesting facts about fungi. For a start, they are the reproductive organ of a world that lives underground. From there, inevitable sexual innuendoes follow. How about the nipples on the magic ones that can take you to seventh heaven or leave you sorely disappointed and a carefully pronounced volva at the base of the hard stem of the Amanita phalloides. I’ll leave it at that, not my forte, I was brought up by a Catholic mother who was master picnic organiser but stayed away from such language. John on the the hand was far more masterful with his words, let alone knowledge, and had us giggling throughout the day.

A few titbits I gathered were of far greater interest. The reason mushrooms are often found at the edge of a wood or near a car park is not, as I thought, because mushrooms need a bit of sunshine to warm their caps but because the organism that lives under the ground is suddenly worried that the environment it is thriving in is running out. Time to reproduce and out come the fruits for spores -babies in the making- to be scattered, and for animals to pick, munch or nibble.

Of far more interest for my stomach is that the mushrooms my family still hunt for, once the first rains have blessed the sunny South of France and its pine and oak forests, can be found in this country. The Saffron Milkcap. For once, the clue is in the Latin name: Lactarius deliciosus. I found one years ago, somewhere in the South West and John confirmed you can find them in this country. I wasn’t dreaming after all.

Should I tell you where? If a delicious mushroom is to be found, should its location be shared? Well, here is one thing the French and the English have in common. My Dorset farmer friend and his father don’t share their secrets for Field Mushrooms hotspots with each other. My family don’t divulge their pine forest autumn picnic locations to all and sundry.

It looks like I will be spending the next few years hunting in pine and oak woods of Dorset to leave my children our own little mushroom secrets. I’ll be thanking John for renewing my love of the forest undergrowth, his little book in my basket, keeping away from beautiful white tall mushrooms with a volva.

John Wright shows off the Death Cap:

John Wright's Death Cap

Photogenic Boletus:

Beautiful boletus

Kingcombe Centre courses:

http://www.kingcombe.org/courses/intro.aspx

Basket beauties in Bridport

When tutor Andy asked what type of basket we’d like to make, I can’t say I’d given it much thought before I started the willow weaving course. A last minute booking for a workshop in Highway Farm B&B in Bridport meant I had just turned up in my cotton shirt; and clearly an empty head. Thankfully owner Pauline took pity on me and lent me a fleece.

I racked my sleepy brain for inspiration and a little light came on when I saw a beautiful platter Andy had made. A woman in period costume was picking flowers and putting them softly in a lovely flat basket. The romantic image from a period film seen years ago came flashing back. I knew what I wanted to do.

It quickly transpired that everybody else was doing a properly woven basket and I wasn’t. Virgo Vicki was making a waste paper basket (as a Virgo would), Experienced Ellie was weaving a blackberry beauty, Friendly Florence was longing for a log carrier, Mum Mel was going to fashion hearts for her daughter’s wedding and Chatty Charlie kept changing her mind.

They started weaving a round base in a circular ‘under-and-over’ then added a dozen stiff spokes at regular intervals for the sides. Friendly Florence put the contraption on her head and took a model pose. She wouldn’t have been out of place at Bridport’s Hat Festival. She may have found it a bit inconvenient to circulate around the market with 2 metres long twigs around her head but it was a good giggle around the barn.

Who would have thought basket weaving could be dangerous though? There I was concentrating on my over-under-over-under-ouch-oops, sorry! I had poked Chatty Charlie in the eye. Thankfully, she was able to finish her basket, the only one with a prison-window-with-bars type handles under the rim; rather than the large over the rim number that you rest on your arm; or the two small handles for heavy loads. Once you start looking into willow baskets, you wouldn’t believe the possible permutations.

And once we started weaving our willow baskets, there was no stopping us either. Except I was getting hungry. Pauline had told us to come and have lunch around one-ish and we were getting closer to two-ish. The soup and homemade bread went down a treat among chatter and laughs. Big house down the road being sold, content and all, Hat Festival update, Andy’s moving malarchy and Pauline’s new blog stories. Pauline, if you read this, you did promise a recipe for your pudding…

As for my fancy flower friend (I refuse to call it a trug, ugly name), I am over the moon with the result. I took home a basket like I’ve never seen before and have been looking at twigs from my hedge trimming this weekend in a new light: under-over-under-over.

What shall I make next? Well… since you ask. Pauline does a weekend workshop for hazel garden furniture. I’m on the waiting list hoping someone will change their mind.

Update: Experienced Ellie made a horse’s head the next day, have a look here.

Fun family day in the woods guaranteed?

“You are your own health and safety” says BBC Master Craftsman Guy Mallinson. Music to my ears. “Place your body sideways otherwise you’ll chop your arm off or cut yourself in half” says bodger Mace Brightwater; that got the kids listening. Despite dealing with blades that make a steak knife appear blunt our family day trying our hand at green woodworking was one of the most relaxing experiences we’ve had in a long time. Warmer than finding fossils on the beach in Normandy  (no fire to warm us up there) and far more rewarding than a day on a beach in the South of France.

We have a tangible memory of our day in the midst of Dorset in the shape of two rounders’ bats for the boys and two wooden spatulas, although they’re a bit square and I’d far rather use spoons but hey I do use them and remember. As for the bats, what can I say? Proud gushing mother says they are beautifully unique. Which they are, full stop. Whether they’re any good I have no idea -French people don’t play rounders- but the boys seem to think they’re great.

So how did we actually make these? Tricky to explain; I did not actually make one myself, my artistic side was too busy taking pictures and my motherly side was so proud to see my eldest son enjoying a pole and lathe far far more than a computer game let alone a book that I simply did not interfere. Nothing to do with the fact that when I tried to strip layers of wood I did not do as well as I thought I would. My romantic notion that ‘if I love arts and crafts then surely I’ll take to it like a duck to water’ was knocked on the head. As my eldest was a natural -Guy did say, so must be true- I thought I’d let him get on with it whilst I just got on with what I do best, look around.

Concentration on people’s faces, my 10 year old son and his father crafting together, kids chatting with their parent, tools borrowed from a neighbour, getting help, asking for advice, proud smiles, giggles when it went a bit pear shaped. I kept being distracted that day. Thing is, once I was no longer making a bat I had no particular reason to listen. So when the birds twittered, I heard them; when I got a bit chilly, I warmed my hands on the open fire and when my son was using a new tool, I studied his hands with my camera.

The setting in the middle of the woods is tranquillity personified. It is so quiet that Mace thinks a pole and lathe is loud when it gets going. He asks us to listen to the noise it makes to ascertain whether it is working OK or not, “if it isn’t, it makes a racket” he says. I was waiting for a loud background noise but you can tell that some of us live in a town whilst others are more used to woods and seaside. This townie found everything oh so quiet and peaceful. The children want to go back for more and their father was the last one to leave. “He’s in the zone” says Guy. My zone had kids trying to catch ducks eggs on a tiny island in the middle of a pond, the sound of a Scout father saying he would recommend the course to his Scout friends, the smell of woodland mixed with smoke and fire, the feel of a perfectly smooth rounders bat made out of sycamore.

It’s not perfect mind. Half way through the morning when I realised that I wasn’t going to get to do much woodworking I did feel a bit put off. I’d spent over £200 on the four of us for the day. On top of that our shaving horse was broken so we could not start straight away. I was getting a bit fidgety and began to think that frankly these things should be checked first. As Mace got a branch, fashioned a footrest and repaired the horse in minutes and as we borrowed each other’s cheap tools (weirdly the expensive ones were in sufficient numbers), I realised that actually the whole experience is not a race or a competition and the most important part of the experience is to slow down, concentrate, observe and simply enjoy each other’s company. And learn a little something on the way. At £55 per person for a day, it’s not a cheap day out but it sure beats a day on a sunny beach and that’s a lot more expensive to guarantee.

Sparkles and muddy boots

Every year, friends of mine organise a Spring walk and I always look forward to the big get together of friends, their children and their dogs. We all stroll down vales and combes around their hamlet near Bridport and climb the steep hills with a spring in our step (or panting noises for some of us).

As we drive past the road sign to our destination this year, I smile: Loscombe. What a good name. We’re in West Dorset for a start so that means no motorway, we drive off the narrow main road into a smaller road and then down a single lane where I’d rather not meet anybody; don’t like driving in reverse. Which we had to do. So a lost combe or forgotten valley it is.

Shortly after we arrive, the kids shoot off with their dogs on leads. Which of the two are more excited I couldn’t tell. We follow the path along a gurgling stream; such a calming sound although today, it is slightly overtaken by voices of friends catching up with their news. Snowdrops are in bloom, wild garlic is only just coming out hitting us with its pungent smell all the same.

The steep climbs are rewarded by these wonderful views of perfect roundness typical of West Dorset. A feeling half way between being on top of the world and being surrounded by a gentle and protective countryside. Nature at its best on a cold winter day. A farm here, a thatched cottage there, catkins like hundreds of tiny yellow bottle cleaners against the blue sky give it a feel of watercolour.

This year we are blessed with sunshine. Strictly speaking, we are still in Winter despite our friends luring us with talks of Spring. It may be the lovely lunch that entices us all, a delicious warm soup, bread and local cheeses, a few bottles of wine. We all sit on garden chairs and bales of straw in the courtyard. Ah the simple pleasures, so hard to beat when the weather is on our side.

Although my friends live in the middle of nowhere they are very much in touch with the outside world. Proof? 2010 = cupcakes. Home baked and hand decorated, two huge trays came out “Eat me, I am sugar heaven and colour guilt”. Mine even had sparkles on it. And utterly delicious it was too.

Oh yes, we do know how to have a good time down here. Sparkles and muddy boots, great combination.

Bull Hotel, relax… you’re in Bridport

As you drive into town, you can’t miss the dark blue 17th century Inn with a gold Bull overlooking the pavement. A Bridport artist gilded that Bull, old fashioned way; she works on the St Michael trading estate. I like that about the place. The meat comes from the butcher next door, the apple juice at breakfast is from a farm down the road, the amazing beds from a company whose impressive showroom is just outside Bridport.

I’ve been a few times for cheap and cheerful lunches (they have a ‘crunch lunch’ for a fiver which is great value for money) and once for a friend’s 40th which was a great laugh. I was curious to know what an overnight stay would be like and thought a night without the kids would be a great idea…

And it was. The bed was wonderfully comfortable (although ours did creak a bit but hey) egyptian linen and all, the Neal’s Yard bottles were bathroom size (no nasty plastic throwaway stuff) and we loved the mixture of old and new. Philip Starck lighting worked well with a french inspired Toile de Jouy wallpaper and plain chocolate walls with a silver tinge. Taste is very personal and if you like twee, you might want to find somewhere else. If you like bold statements and smile at quirkiness this should be down your road.

Supper? Well, we liked. Went for a sharing evening all the way with a Côte de boeuf and a cheese platter. The meat was tender in the middle yet crusty and black on the outside, sliced onto a wooden tray laden with hand cut chips, crispy yet not fatty, oversized sweet and crunchy onion rings, a large mushroom and some rocket salad. There was also a tomato each. I don’t understand tasteless tomatoes in winter (southern french pompous palate probably) so I gave mine a miss. It went back with the herbed butter which was unnecessary. The meat was succulent and did not need any addition. It did not need any more salt either, if you’re one of these add salt before tasting, beware.

The cheese platter was a good selection of local fare, from the famous Blue Vinney (which I love) to the Dorset Red (delicious if you like smokey) via a Somerset Brie and of course a farmhouse Cheddar. The husband liked the chutney which tasted too much like curry for my liking. He also loved the pudding of raspberry soufflé which was a bit too sugary for me but then I’m more of a savoury kinda girl.

There’s been a fair few reviews on Bridport’s Bull Hotel since they opened. They appeal to the growing number of people who have moved back into the area after a London stint or time elsewhere, as well as visitors who want comfort and a certain amount of luxury in a relaxed, modern atmosphere. Think affordable Babington House and you won’t be far wrong.


The Bull: hotel branché à Bridport, Dorset Occidental

Pour une soirée en amoureux, mon mari et moi avons décidé de se faire un petit plaisir et de passer la nuit à l’hôtel branché du coin et de dîner sur place. L’auberge The Bull date du 17eme siècle mais n’a rien de vieillot, au contraire. L’atmosphère y est sympa et un certain luxe simple flotte dans les chambres après un couloir un peu austère.

Avec son taureau doré sur fond d’auberge bleu foncé, on ne peut pas rater The Bull quand on arrive à Bridport.Nous connaissons bien car on y a déjà mangé plusieurs fois, petits repas ‘crédit crunch’ (anti récession) le midi à £5 ou pizza bon rapport qualité prix et cidre au Stables (étables derrière l’auberge transformée en pizzeria).

Notre chambre (la 207) était un mélange bien Anglais de meubles anciens et modernes, de papiers peints genre toile de Jouy et de murs chocolats virant au gris. Un grand lit en métal super confortable (bien qu’un petit peu grinçant!) d’un coté, un divan et une chaise en cuir de l’autre, notre chambre était assez spacieuse sans être immense. Les éclairages de Philippe Starck mariés aux meubles de bois foncé donnaient une atmosphère cool qui nous a bien plu. Les proprios ont un penchant pour les antiquités françaises, et on retrouve cette influence française dont nos amis British sont friands.

Des produits Neal’s Yard (excellents produits bio Anglais aux huiles essentielles) étaient à disposition dans la salle de bains. Pas de petites bouteilles en plastique pour la poubelle mais cette confiance que j’ai rarement trouvé en France, que les clients ne vont pas partir avec les bouteilles en verre taille salle de bains maison. Bon bain moussant bien chaud avant de descendre au resto.

On a décidé de faire un menu partage et avons choisi une côte de boeuf suivie d’un plateau de fromage pour deux. On a arrosé tout ça d’un Lalande de Pomerol et on s’est régalés! La côte de boeuf était saignante mais croustillante sur l’extérieur, les grosses frites maison n’étaient pas trop grasses mais dorées, les rondelles d’oignons panées étaient géantes mais très douces. La tomate par contre était une perte de temps. Probablement que la Varoise que je suis toujours a les papilles gâtées par le soleil et ne peut apprécier une tomate pâlichonne en plein hiver.

Pour le fromage, il ne faut pas s’attendre à un plateau genre chariot fourni ou on choisit un peu de tout. On vous donne une bonne portion de ce qu’il y a dans le coin sur votre plateau, pas de choix. Un bleu du Dorset ‘Blue Vinney’, un Brie du Somerset, un Cheddar de ferme et un Dorset Red (fumé). Et comme j’ai expliqué dans mon billet précédent (‘on le mange comment le fromage anglais’), des biscuits salés. Il y avait même une chutney (ou confiture salée) pour accompagner mais qui avait beaucoup trop le gout de curry a mon gout. Mon mari anglais a aimé. Chacun son truc.

L’un dans l’autre, notre soirée a été bien agréable, le personnel était sympa et attentif et à £150 la nuit petit déjeuner anglais compris, il est difficile de faire mieux dans le coin si on veut se faire un petit plaisir et passer une soirée un tout petit peu décadente. Ou plusieurs.

On le mange comment le fromage anglais?

Pas comme en France bien sur.

En Angleterre, pour un diner entre amis ou en famille, le fromage se mange après le dessert et avant le café. Lorsque le plateau arrive, il est accompagné de biscuits pour déguster les fromages sans se remplir de pain, trop lourd. Les biscuits basiques sont secs, à l’eau, n’ont aucun gout et sont franchement tristes. Heureusement, comme dans tous les autres domaines culinaires, les Anglais ont maintenant beaucoup plus de choix. Certains de ces biscuits salés sont tellement bons qu’on les mangerait tout seul, ils vont bien avec les jeunes fromages crémeux genre Brie, d’autres sont un peu sucrés et ils se marient bien avec les bleu ou autres fromages plus forts.

Une coutume pour les ‘diner-party’ genre traditionnels, c’est que pour plateau de fromages bien achalandé, il faut une bouteille de vin doux, probablement un Porto. Il est vrai que Porto et Stilton se marient à merveille et si un Cheddar assez Mature pique agréablement au palais, le doux d’un vin fortifié contrebalance bien.

L’hôte passe la bouteille à sa gauche, on se sert et on fait passer. La bouteille fait le tour de la table et on recommence. L’état d’ébriété dépend alors de l’invité (qui peut dire non, bien que difficile si homme Anglais) et de l’hôte (et du nombre de bouteilles qu’il voudra bien ouvrir ce soir là). Nous sommes après tout chez nous cousins qui ont inventé le mot hooligan et même si la plupart des Anglais ne se comportent pas comme les abrutis beurrés des matchs, il faut reconnaitre qu’ils ont une longue histoire d’amour avec l’alcool. Sont ils les seuls?

la guerre des fromages?

Les Français sont plutôt fiers de leurs 365 fromages. Et pourtant, tout requinqués de leurs retrouvailles avec la bonne bouffe, les British me disent qu’ils ont plus de fromages que nous. Amusant que Churchill ait trouvé la France ingouvernable avec ses 300 fromages puisque les cousins outre-Manche se vantent maintenant de 700 fromages

Contrairement à l’opinion française, il n’y a donc pas que deux fromages en Grande-Bretagne. Le Cheddar et le Stilton ont de nombreux cousins et rien que dans le Sud-Ouest anglais où je vis, les amoureux de fromage ont de quoi se régaler. Quelques exemples pour mettre l’eau à la bouche.

Un bon Cheddar de ferme (West Country Farmhouse Cheddar, pas celui des supermarchés à base de lait pasteurisé qui ressemble a du plastique et n’a pas de goût) est un peu comme notre Cantal: jeune il est tendre et doux et plus il est affiné plus les saveurs sont intenses. Extra Mature et vous y trouverez des cristaux, il laisse un après gout qui peut donner des frissons tellement il est intense, pas pour tout le monde. J’adore, en petite dose.

Un de mes préférés c’est le Dorset Blue Vinney. Comme son nom l’indique, c’est un bleu.  A base de lait de vache dont la crème a été enlevée pour le beurre, il n’est pas aussi fort que son cousin Stilton au lait pasteurisé. A mis chemin entre fondant et friable il peut être comparé au bleu d’Auvergne. Le Dorset Red est un fromage fumé à pâte dure, bien que plus moelleux qu’un Cheddar fermier. Red de nom il est plutôt orange que rouge, son goût et son arôme sont particulièrement fumés.

Juste au nord dans le Somerset, ils font des bries (British Brie bien sur) qui n’ont rien à envier à la Normandie, même si j’imagine que les cousins normands ne seront pas forcément d’accord. Il faut goûter pour se faire une idée. Des deux cotés de la Manche, il y en a des bons et des médiocres… En Cornouailles, ils font le Cornish Yarg dont la croute gris vert est formée grâce à une enveloppe d’orties posées à la main. Le coeur est assez friable mais la couche extérieure est crémeuse et la croute se mange. Son nom n’a rien de Celte mais est le verlan de la famille Gray qui l’a créé au 13eme siècle.

Et ça ce n’est que dans mon coin, sans chercher les petites fermes qui -comme chez nous- font leurs fromages en petites quantités et sans publicité dont je n’ai jamais entendu parler. Comme de nombreuses tommes ou fourmes au fin fond de l’Auvergne ou des Alpes.

Un chose qu’il faut savoir c’est que les Anglais mangent leurs fromages avec des biscuits et après le dessert. Je vous raconte tout ça dans mon prochain billet.

Pourquoi venir dans le West Dorset?

Portsmouth, Weymouth et Plymouth vous connaissez de nom, ce sont les ports de ferry pour les Français. Pour les Anglais et leurs vacances c’est le Devon, les Cournouailles et le Dorset de l’Est. Ben nous, on est au milieu. On a pas d’autoroutes et le ferry le plus proche est à Poole. Une petite heure en voiture pour arriver à Bridport. Et là c’est réellement le dépaysement.

D’abord il y a la Côte Jurassique qui est classée à l’Unesco (d’Intérêt Naturel Mondial, donc à préserver) pour sa diversité et sa beauté. Les falaises passent du gris au rouge (Charmouth ou Burton Bradstock), les plages sont de galets ou de sable fin, celle de Chesil est à perte de vue. Les petits ports de pêche approvisionnent la région en poisson frais (Lyme Regis ou West Bay).

Mais le West Dorset c’est aussi le vert des vistas du haut de ses collines. Tel un patchwork de verdure rappelant les bocages normands avec la mer en contrefont, les vues qui récompensent les marcheurs sont paisibles et sereines. Les sentiers balisés sont nombreux mais jamais bondés, juste quelques ‘hello’ de temps en temps.

Si la France est la championne des produits du terroir, le West Dorset n’a pas grand chose à lui envier. Oubliez cette image ancrée de la viande bouillie et insipide. La région a un amour de produits frais du coin qui attire les chefs et gourmets depuis longtemps grâce a un climat plus doux que le reste de l’île. Les restaurants ne sont pas classés chez Michelin et les nappes blanches sont rares. Mais les poissons sont frais et servis sans cérémonie, la viande -du chevreuil à l’agneau- est succulente et vient du boucher voisin, on privilégie les légumes de saison. Les restaurants ne comptent pas sur des touristes qui ne reviendront pas pour gagner leur croute.

Bien sur, la tradition du thé n’est pas perdue et les villages ne manquent pas d’offrir leurs petits salons où les grand-mères se tiennent au courant des affaires des voisins. Le soir, les hommes se retrouvent au pub pour la même raison et pour discuter rugby ou foot.

Et puis il y a les villes où il fait bon vivre comme Sherborne, Beaminster, Bridport ou Dorchester. Ce qui fait le charme du Dorset Occidental c’est que le département ne fait ni publicité ni relations publiques pour attirer les touristes. Mais la télé anglaise semble faire de plus en plus de programmes par ici. J’espère qu’ils vont pas nous gâcher le paysage. Faudrait pas qu’on devienne la nouvelle mode.

What do I think about Google translate?

A B&B owner asked me if Google translate did a good job. So I checked. And found some school fees, a break-up and a search warrant. On holiday websites. What do you reckon?

Now relax and imagine you’re looking to book a holiday abroad…

Come to West Dorset and learn a new ability. Cadre magnifique, take advantage of the warm Dorset hospitality and a family cuisine, combined with school fees from local experts. We have a wealth of artistic talent among us, come and let our tutors marvellous that inspire you.

(In French FYI: Venez à West Dorset et d’apprendre une nouvelle compétence! Beautiful surroundings, profiter de l’hospitalité chaleureuse du Dorset et de cuisine familiale, combinée avec les frais de scolarité d’experts locaux. Nous avons une richesse des talents artistiques au milieu de nous, venez et laissez nos tuteurs merveilleux que vous inspirer.)

And from the official West Dorset Site:

Booking your break-up with West Dorset.com couldn’t have been any easier.

(In French FYI: Réservation de votre rupture avec WestDorset.com ne pouvait pas être plus facile).

Or: As well as the highest, we have a selection of holiday parks that… have a search warrant in the accommodation listings and map of your pause today! (In French FYI: Ainsi que le plus haut, nous avons une sélection de parcs de vacances qui sont ouverts toute l’année, ont une perquisition dans les annonces de logement et plan de votre pause aujourd’hui!)

I know you get the general idea but school fees, break-ups and search warrants? Not my idea of a good holiday…