| 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. |
