It is with regret that I announce the death of our neighbour for more than 20 years, Monsieur François Salmon. He died early on Monday morning (17th April) in palliative care at a local hospital, riddled with cancer and aged perhaps 57 years old.
He bore a startling resemblance to Henri IV, King of Navarre and France, who had a legendary number of illegitimate children, so who knows, perhaps François had royal blood in him.
[Thanks to Getty Images for this stock portrait of the King.]
His family were allegedly quite posh, although we have little evidence of that, other than when sober and able to hear, François was quite erudite and could read English. He was also very fond of The Pogues and Bob Dylan. He was however an alcoholic and had had a hard life. While off on one of his alcoholic sprees, his wife and two children were murdered viciously, and he only found the bodies when he returned after a week on the lash. The case was quite famous, and was referred to for a while as the French Ripper, but Google that now and you won't find it, you will find a load of publicity for a book about a French murderer at the turn of the 19th century, by an American.
In François's many court cases, generally for being drunk in charge of something, this appalling tragedy was used as an excuse for his affinity for the bottle, until his father stood up in one court session and said that his son had been an alcoholic from age 12 and no excuses should be made for his behaviour. Like I say, I'm not so sure about the "poshness" of his family!
I can't speak about his wife, we knew him after the event, but over the past 20 years, he had the most appalling taste in women, and the two or three girlfriends that hooked on to him as a source of drink, soft drugs and comfort were all unspeakable. Some of his friends are pretty suspect too, although he had a very strong and mostly very good influence on them, and was a leader in that milieu. He had strict moral views on some subjects, most importantly that you never (proverbially) shit on your own front doorstep. Well unless you are so blasted that you don't know where home is, of course... We were protected by being his good neighbours from the majority of minor delinquency that goes on in a rural area. Now we will have to watch ourselves and our chickens much more closely.
He was an amazing gardener who could get anything to grow, when he concentrated on it. His attention did wander, and he spent time in prison, at which point things would wither away. His prison stints helped his body to recover from his destructive life style, but once he was out, there was little support and he normally fell back into old habits.
During the second Covid lockdown he was hospitalised for something akin to double pneumonia, and his house mate was called to say a final goodbye, so we were all astounded to see François home 10 days later!! He'd had the fear of death pushed into him and he found the will to live and to stop drinking and really reduce his smoking. He even bought a "sans permis" van and drove the other drunks around until they too got on the waggon.
He had a succession of cats that he cared for well, particularly when sober, but also remembered when under the influence. When he came into a bit of money, one of his first acts was to get his current cat spayed, rather than rely on the "pill", as he couldn't bear coping with kittens that he couldn't afford to keep and no one would take.
Farewell, François. You could be hugely irritating, but you were a character, you were harmless, you were a gentleman and a gentle man. I'm sure you had royal blood in you really!
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