Richard Binns - Potted History
Twenty years ago two “howlers” changed my life. Among scores of errors in a bestselling travel guide to France, courtesy of BBC TV’s “Holiday” programmes, were two whoppers: ‘Normandy’s Muscadet wines’; and ‘Dijon’s champagne cellars’ - two catylists which gave me the confidence to mutter: “I can better that.” First let me explain the 25-year-road which led me to make, in January 1980, the fateful decision to put pen to paper and, later, publish a slim little guide, French Leave. My love affair with “The First Lady of Europe” started in the mid-50s, when I passed my driving test. Then an annual holiday was two weeks, every day of the 14 an escape from an articled clerk’s mundane grind. I saved every penny I could to explore la belle France. She remains as beguiling as ever, a country both deeply rural and highly civilised. A plus is that the tourist industry, her largest, is run by individuals for individuals. Bountiful Marianne clutches to her breasts endless delights, hidden corners where Nature’s priceless legacies and majestic man-made creations are ignored by most visitors. Rally navigation, in my 20s, gave me the kick-start to become a mapaholic. Large-scale maps are the essential keys to unlock the doors to France’s charms; they repay their cost a thousand times over (use Michelin’s spiral-bound atlas). That’s rule 1. Rule 2 is: the more you run the risk of getting lost, the more certain you are of seeing the real France. Get lost often; laugh over your wrong turns; and always remember rule 3: the best parts of any country are found, more often than not, at the end of roads which go nowhere. That dictum confirms what all my readers already know: I’m an idiosyncratic enthusiast with emotions and prejudices, fallible as they are undoubtedly are, who probably knows France better than most natives. The three golden rules sum up, to a tee, my personal free-wheeling philosophy of exploration. By 1980 I knew France well. Apart from relishing myriad scenic thrills, I had also savoured her other captivating treats: inspirational food, wines and cheeses - nurtured, cooked and served by hard-working families of fournisseurs, chefs, waiters and hoteliers. The entire French “package” was, and remains, overwhelmingly seductive. The idea for my first quide took root in 1975, in a restaurant where a supercilious mâitre d’hôtel was giving an American couple a rough time. Every poisson was dismissed as “fish”: omble chevalier, féra, rascasse, St-Pierre and bar - all got the same unhelpful snooty snort. You’ve met them. Then and there I conceived the idea of a pocket guide which would steer readers to primarily off-the-beaten-track spots, and help solve the language problems encountered in dining rooms, making life easier for readers to comprehend complex menu terms, regional specialities, local and regional cheeses and wines and much else besides. Good ideas do not necessarily always see the light of day. The two howlers were the halogen beams which lit-up a new world for me. I set to work. The first publisher I approached turned her nose up and her thumbs down. Years later her decision was derided in Peter Knight’s Positively No: The Book of Rejection, where her negative response was listed with similar setbacks experienced by Beatrice Potter, Catherine Cookson and Frederick Forsyth. A second publisher accepted my idea. The only problem was the conning contract: 1½% of the “net” proceeds. I gave them a Harvey Smith rejection of my own. Fortunately, by 1980, I had been successfully self-employed for five years. I sat down with my wife and two teenage children to have a family conference: dare we take the risk mortgaging our home to publish the guide ourselves? The threesome backed me to the hilt with an emphatic “Go to it Dad.” The financial realities were the spurs to make me succeed: well over £20,000 was on the line before I sold the first copy of French Leave in December 1980. Thus started an amazing one-man D1Y samizdat publishing venture. For two decades I have outfoxed and soundly whipped the publishing mafia. Probably not an unique phenomenon, but arguably rare. You’re not supposed to be able to sell over 500,000 copies of 19 guides, including a dozen best sellers, one of which made the number one spot. All this with no private means, inherited wealth or any other form of income. During the 80s and 90s I motored hundreds of thousands of miles in France. With each much-improved guide I became more confident and experienced. I have simple cast-iron objectives: if I begrudge spending my own hard-earned cash at any establishment I cannot then recommend readers to spend theirs; and if I raise expectations beyond what’s possible I then let down my readers and the chefs. I’m especially severe on pretentious, pricey and pompous shrines. DIY publishing is both stimulating and exhilarating. My passion has become my job. I’m responsible for the entire cycle, from conception to debt-collection: I’m the researcher (paying my own way), writer, illustrator, cartographer, publisher, accountant, packer and publicist. The booktrade used to drive me crazy: some gave super support; the vast majority was a silent brick wall. Publicity is vital: I’ve written hundreds of articles telling potential buyers of each new guide. My greatest joy has been the 20,000 plus letters I’ve received from readers. Every one has had a reply. They tell me of their explorations, hotel and restaurant visits (invaluable feedback), laughs, triumphs and disasters and sundry other matters. They know I sell my soul to no-one and the total independence of mind and time are my priceless privileges. Last week a reader summed it up like this: “You have brought a lot of pleasure and interest to others, without sadly amassing a fortune. An eccentric with encyclopaedic knowledge who has unwittingly acquired a great number of friends. An achievement in itself.” I’m very proud of that compliment. I don’t claim to be a great writer; I try to write as if I’m talking to a friend. I don’t always wear rose-tinted specs when I write about France I am often very critical of the French, some of their chefs and other aspects of touring there. Some of the natives can be arrogant, insular and bloody-minded. Most are super folk. A few are angels. Two years ago main-line publishing came to an end. Past 60, I had risked too much, too often, for too long. More recently, with prostate problems culminating in prostate cancer diagnosed a few months ago, I assemble less ambitious guides, only available from me. They’re still fun to do, stirring the pot a bit, map orientated and I hope provide a modicum of help to readers. My newly-published Binns Breaks (volume 2) has a nice twist: it comes with a supplement, Lauréat 2000. Last year I asked readers to nominate, from 1,000 entries in my last-ever French Leave Finesse, their “favourite” French hotels and restaurants. The response was fantastic. The 12-page Lauréat 2000 provides details of the top 20; not a unique event, but rare nevertheless. All are worth a visit. The twist is I asked the winners if they would offer a free aperitif to readers and their guests if they presented Binns Breaks and Lauréat 2000. Without exception all agreed. The modest cost can be repaid many times over. Now, with 11 francs to the pound, 2000 is the year to enjoy France.

I must make mention also of Dennis Pannett, the outstanding artist responsible for so many of the watercolours which I have used for my covers and in some of my books.