Becoming French

All it takes to create a scene like this is just a poppy


And here is mine!


I know that the title above is purely wishful thinking. As much as I would love to "become French", I just don't think it's going to happen. I have really tried hard; I have French forbears, I have a French husband, I live in France and I really am trying hard to learn to speak French, but that elusive "Frenchness" just stays outside my grasp.

But this morning I went out into the garden and spotted two items that moved me just a little bit closer to my newly adopted country. There under the fig tree stood one lonely poppy, brilliantly red, delicate and bright, and an instant memory of our first holidays in Provence and our early visits to the Languedoc Roussillon. The photos of our first trip are filled with poppies, and I was forever making myself unpopular by yelling "Stop the camper - I've got to take a photo" and Jean would desperately try and bring our vehicle to a screeching halt on a narrow road so that I could capture a picture of some distant hill village framed in a froth of poppies. I didn't plant the one in the garden and I have no idea how it got there, but I quietly crouched down next to it, stroked its feather soft petals and welcomed it warmly. Here's hoping that next year there will be many many more.

The next thing that I spotted, just before I wacked them to death with the weeding hoe, was a group of garlic plants. I had seen on a recent TV gardening programme that it was possible to remove the outer ring of garlic bulbs and put them into the ground, and Hey Presto, you would have garlic. I was dubious about this until I spotted a garlic clove that had somehow got to the back of the cupboard, and all the outer bulbs had a long green shoot. Into the ground they went a couple of weeks back, and today I have some seriously healthy looking plants coming along.

Now here is something odd and presumably French. How come that snails will eat courgette plants, chomp dwarf beans and nibble the aubergines, but turn their noses firmly up at garlic. Maybe they know that having eaten the garlic, all they would need is the addition of a little butter and parsley and they would be ready for the plate!

Tomorrow we are headed for the village of Sauve. The weather is going to be gorgeous, the whole place will be "en fete" with houses open to the general public, art shows, music, fashion and food, and the day will be rounded out with supper with friends. On Sunday we are welcoming a dozen friends for a barbeque, and the long table will be set up under the trees and the wine will flow along with the conversation.

I might not be any more French than when I got here last July, but there is nowhere else that I would rather be.

A Recipe For Success

Method:

Take nine well-travelled, amusing, intelligent women and place them side by side around the kitchen table of a lovely old French house.

Supply each with an apron, a sharp knife and a chopping board.

Give each person something to slice, dice, peel or chop.

Select one woman with expert skills to combine all the ingredients.

When ingredients are ready, remove women from kitchen and place them around beautifully laid dining room table.

Add rose wine.

Serve the four courses

Share in excellent conversations, laugh loudly, listen with amazement.

Sample superb flavours and learn new methods of eating.

Raise glass to hostess and applaud loudly.

After two hours, remove guests from dining room table, bid them a fond farewell and go and put feet up for a well earned rest.

Note: Be prepared for return of certain guest who forgot her cardigan and the large bag of vegetable peelings.

Yesterday was the monthly American Women's Group "Cook and Eat" function, and fortunately I had managed to get my name onto the restricted list. The list has to be restricted, or else I imagine that almost every member of the Group would be wanting to attend, and we would have to hold the function in a large tent. I for one would like to ensure that I have a regular spot at the table and am prepared to peel, slice, dice, wash-up and do whatever else it takes to earn my place.

The menu was Thai, and Carol M not only opened her beautiful house to everyone, but shared her excellent knowledge of Thai cuisine. In the past, I had enjoyed such relatively simple dishes as Red Thai Curry which came in a bag from Sainsburys in England, or from the kitchen of my clever Son-in-law, but never had I seen such a variety of dishes. Just to get your juices flowing, let me describe how the first course worked.

Select a number of baby spinach leaves and form them into a little dish in your hand. Onto the leaves, place a selection of peanuts, garlic, roasted coconut, finely sliced shallots, fresh ginger, tiny shrimps and a small sliver of lime. Pop a spoonful of a most delectable sauce onto the heap, carefully fold the leaves around the mixture and you are ready.

"The trick is to put the whole thing into your mouth and bite immediately" said Carol, and a hush descended on the table as we put this theory to the test. It was like the most wonderfully exotic taste explosion and quite impossible to describe. All I can do is to give you the name which is Miang Kum. Now you have to either find a top rate Thai restaurant, or track down the China Vina supermarket south of Montpellier to buy all the bits and pieces. I have already found it on the Google map and we are off next week to make our purchases.

The spicy coconut and chicken soup which followed was the sort of flavour that took you straight to the Orient, and the Pad Thai fish course was unsurpassed. We rounded it out with a bowl of fruit salad and another splash of rose, before working out our share of the expenses. I won't bore you with the details, but all I can say is that what we paid for a four course lunch with wine, wouldn't have covered the cost of a Perrier water in the hot spots of Miami South Beach.

I felt privileged to be there and I enjoyed every moment. I can honestly say that since joining this amazing group, I have met more women and made more friends than I did in the entire five years that I lived in America. I get the feeling that it's because all the good ones are living here in Montpellier with the sole exception of my dear friends Sybil, Valerie and Mary, and even Mary informed me that she had joined up while in London and said it was the best thing that she could have done. I know just what you mean Mary!

The Gateway to the Cevennes Mountains

The cockerel atop the Anduze tower


Kate on the banks of the Gardon near Trabuc



The buildings of the Musee du Desert

The Gardon valley near the Grottes de Trabuc

The main street of Anduze

Friday we went to Anduze for the weekly market. This statement would have made a great deal more sense had we carefully checked out the actual date of the market. As we drove into to the main street, we were slightly surprised that we found parking without any problem, and by the time we reached the centre of the old town, the absence of either people or market stalls began to suggest that we had made a mistake.

However, the mistake was one which paid off, because without the town being hectic, we could walk around with ease, admire the views across the Gardon River and the steep rock face that loomed above, and test the produce of the little boulangerie which had obligingly opened early. The proprietor was incredibly helpful. She assured us that if we had been here the day before,
we would have been in time for the market, and if we returned on Sunday, we would also be in time for the Sunday brocante (antiques) market, and if we came back again next month, we would be in time for the town fete. Such was her knowledge that we hardly had need of the Tourism Office which opened on the stroke of ten.

Without looking at my watch, we knew it was ten, because the clock tower opposite chimed the hour. The pinnacle sported a large cockerel and two metal French flags, and I was quite surprised when the cockerel failed to cry out. Clearly there is a great deal of history connected to the tower, but I will have to read all the bumph that the nice lady in the tourism office gave us.

Anduze seems to have been one of the various local Hugenot Hideaways when the revocation of the Edict of Nantes was giving rise to terrible persecution. Having spent many years drinking excellent South African wine, we have a great affection for those harrassed Hugenots who arrived in Cape Town, founded Franschoek, and embarked on producing some truly fabulous wines.

Without the usual selection of market stalls to peruse, we drove northwards up river and discovered the gateway to the Cevennes Mountains leading us ever deeper into the valleys. Signposts to St Jean du Gard seemed to offer us the best route and the scenery became increasingly beautiful. This is the right time to be out and about. Early Spring green and endless blossoms fill the fields and gardens. There were hardly any camper vans on the road, and the tiny villages are easily accessible, both on foot and by vehicle as long as you are prepared to occasionally wait while the delivery man brings the main route through the village to a standstill while he drops off boxes of toilet rolls, soap powder and tinned goods at the little epicerie.

I for one am more than content to pause and take in the local architecture, the flower-filled hanging baskets and the gentle pace of the country villages. With map in hand, we worked our way to the fascinating Musee du Desert, and although the actual museum was closed, one is free to wander about among the ancient buildings or to sit in the sun, drink coffee and eat ice cream. We also found the Grotte du Trabuc but they had closed the caves for lunch - only in France! No problem, we didn't want to be underground when we could be outside enjoying the sunshine.

http://www.france-for-visitors.com/massif-central/cevennes-ardeche/musee-du-desert.html

We parked the car and walked along the banks of the Gardon River and peeped over the walls of lovely old properties set in large gardens and orchards. Shutters were still closed but doubtless, despite the credit crunch, the recession and the general financial misery that prevails, their owners will return like swallows with the onset of summer.

After five years of flat Florida, it was heaven to be amid the steeply rising slopes of the Cevennes mountains and to watch the crystal clear river rippling and racing over the boulders and cascading down great slabs of rock. We even splashed out and purchased three postcards. I doubt I will write them and I am sure I won't post them, but we felt like very fortunate tourists enjoying a hot sunny day in one of the most lovely regions of France, and the great thing was that we were barely two hours from home.

Welcome to "The Snail Inn"

The snowball bush at its peak of beauty

Jean perfecting his barbequing skills


Not long ago, I was chatting with an English couple who moved to France a year or so ago, and who have set up home very happily in a relatively remote village.

"The only thing I really miss is a local pub" he said, and having spent a couple of years enjoying the cameraderie of a small English pub as a teenager before leaving for Africa, I knew just what he meant.

Today I opened up a pub right here in the garden. I call it "The Snail Inn" but I am hoping that by tomorrow it will be re-named "The Fall In".

We awoke this morning to find the early morning sun filtering in through the curtains. The importance of this was the fact that we had not felt it necessary to close the wooden shutters by 8pm last night. The temperature has gone up, the rain seems to have finally abated, and there is a softness and warmth to the air.

Pulling on a tee shirt and a pair of track pants, I turned my back on the thermal vest, the thick socks and the boots, and went out into the courtyard to see if it was all in my imagination. It was real - I could cast my clouts and declare that winter really was over.

The first job of the day is always to take a tour of the garden and see how things are getting on, and it was while visiting the new vegetable section that I realised that things were getting totally out of hand. Not one snail but forty snails were ambling about, tasting a courgette leaf here, chewing on a pepper leaf there and generally rootling about looking for things to destroy.

Enough is enough and I opened up the BBC Gardening site and typed in "Kill Snails".

It is so easy, and apart from chucking them over the fence into the neighbouring field, from where they are quite likely to return, I decided to give the BBC suggestion a try.

"Place a bowl into the ground and fill it with beer. Wait for the morning and see how many customers you get".

It was 10am by the time I got my bowl and my beer into the ground, and within minutes there was a queue forming. Snails climbed over each other, pushed each other in, leaned over and sipped heartily, reeled about in ecstasy and then toppled happily into the foamy liquid.

It's better than non-organic snail and slug bait and better than storing them up in a bucket to turn into a nasty smelly mush. I know we are supposed to be setting a good example to the youth of today with regards to binge drinking, but I really do hope that the kids have a great night on the town.

If it was good enough for George Plantagenet the First Duke of Clarence who drowned in a vat of Malmsey wine, then it's good enough for my snails.

Puddle Jumping

One lot of fossils


And another lot!


A coffee break 500 metres from the start of the walk!



The hills above Claret

Whatever project, outing or entertainment that we have undertaken in the past two weeks, it feels as though it has been dogged by downpours. We can set off with blue skies above and come home in a deluge, or race out to the car wearing jerseys, jackets and carrying umbrellas and find that an hour later, we are shedding layers faster than a snake shedding its skin.

We don't begrudge a drop of rain though, because we still recall those terrifying days back in Africa when we started farming on the same day that the three year drought commenced. We'll take as much rain as the Good Lord wishes to chuck at us, but we would love a dab of sunshine now and then just to get the washing dry.

Yesterday was one of those days when we set out armed with rainwear and stout walking shoes, half expecting to have to turn back. However, our compatriots were made of sterner stuff, and with their faces turned to the drizzle, they shoved the map into their pocket, pointed up at the range of hills ahead of us, and we all put our best foot forward.

They do say that the Lord takes care of fools and lovers, and although we probably fell into the first category, he did smile on us, because by midday, we had the majority of our clothing tied around our waists, and were able to stand atop the hills above Claret and enjoy wonderful views in all directions while passing around the suntan cream.

There were two things about the walk that will always stick in my mind. One was the sight of a field of vines battling to force their way up through piles of rocks on a steeply sloping field where the wind must have battered them constantly.

"These vines will produce some of the best wine in the region" announced Georges who knows about these things, and he proceeded to fascinate us with all sorts of interesting facts and figures about the importance of keeping the vineyards flourishing, modernised and competitive. Thank heavens for Georges because he is in the business of working with the wine makers who need to be gently but firmly introduced to modern business practices in order to stay in the game. It can't be that easy to guide these dyed-in-the-wool vignerons away from the old ways that were deemed to be good enough for their fathers and grandfathers, but I truly think that Georges is the man for the job.

The other fascinating discovery, apart from the wealth of butterflies and wild flowers, were the rocks that we found high on the hillside, with the clear marks of fossilised seashells embedded in them. I had visions of Noah parking his ark on top of one of the surrounding peaks while all around him lapped the mighty flood. It seemed impossible that the valleys that lay beneath us had once been buried deep under the ocean. It was at this point that eating the picnic and drinking the flask of coffee became essential so that we could replace the weight in the backpack with a large rock that was embedded with just such a fossil. Well done to my dear old fossil who then carried it back down the hill. It was definitely a worthwhile exchange for the last of Terri's delicious Easter Eggs!

There can be few nicer ways of spending a Sunday than sharing it with good friends, sunshine, a nice dog and a picnic. There was no feeling of having to get a particular number of kilometres under our belt, and no large group to keep up with. Just five people ambling along, chatting, laughing and enjoying the beauty of the surrounding countryside.

But yes - you guessed it; by the time we drove back home, it was tipping it down with rain once more. Never mind, it will be good for the wild flowers and for those hilltop vines.

The Terrarium

When I informed a friend that we had found an aquarium that had been chucked out, she became momentarily confused and couldn't decide whether we were going to fill it with fish, lizards and snakes or harmless plants. I was glad to be able to inform her that we were not creating an aquarium or a vivarium, but were going the terrarium route and were going to create a mini garden inside the glass box.

We had been visiting the charming little medieval village of Les Matelles, and on returning to our car, we couldn't help but notice a man staggering down the road under the burden of an unwanted piece of equipment. He had clearly been told by his long-suffering wife to take the green slime filled smelly article and get rid of it, and not to return home until he had done so. Heaven knows how he had even managed to pick it up unless she had dumped it into his arms, but it took the two of us to rescue it and load it into the back of the car.

Once home, it took another hour to clean it, scour out the glued strips of rubber and silicone and remove the lid with its neon lamp and the dinky little pump. From there, it was just a case of consulting the never-failing Uncle Google to find out what to do next. Apparently it is all in the layering, and first we had to wash and replace the smelly coarse sand that had lined it, add another layer of fine gravel, coat this with a layer of aquatic charcoal, cover that with a layer of hessian cloth and top it off with the final layer of potting soil.

It was then time to introduce the various plants, the carefully chosen piece of vine root that we had nicked from a nearby vineyard and various pieces of stone and driftwood. We sealed the top with plastic and stood back to admire our handiwork. We had to look quickly because in no time, the humidity had coated the glass, and a number of large droplets had accumulated on the inside of the plastic top. At last, we had a garden that didn't need watering and that couldn't be attacked by snails and slugs.

I just hope that the wife of the man who lugged his aquarium down the mainstreet, didn't relent and tell him to go back and retrieve it. Sorry mate!

Tomatoes, Bugs and Beetles

Aquatic plants are starting to flower in the pond

The banksia rose on the front wall

“You say tomarto and I say tomayto”, but yesterday I was confronted with no less than 1000 types of tomatoes. The American Women’s Group had arranged to visit the famous “Tomatologue” Monsieur Padebas south of Montpellier, and the first thing that we had to do was to circumnavigate the entire city in order to get there. As a rule, I fear nothing with regards to driving, but when I have to look for direction boards as well as cope with traffic, it can get a bit hairy, but with two excellent navigators, we seemed to cope really well.

Sadly my French is nowhere near good enough to understand the intracies of tomato growing, but he had provided two large catalogues which contained mouth watering photos of about fifty of the various varieties. Despite my intentions to resist purchasing any, I came away with two plants that promise to result in cascades of cherry tomatoes if the bugs, worms, slugs and caterpillars don’t get them.

Every time we inspect the garden, we find that things have been nibbled, chewed or totally digested, and I am constantly having to weigh up the plan to be organic or to allow Jean to mix up various lethal potions from the large supply left behind in the garage, and declare war on the varmints. A good bit of gardening advice came my way today and I was instructed to mix ash with egg shells and dig it in around the remaining courgette plants. Needless to say, we had omelettes for supper and Jean is going to barbeque sausages tomorrow in order to provide the mix.

Having not seen Spring for five years, it is such a joy to find that each day brings a new surprise. Our extensive vineyard of four vines is sending out shoots and leaves, and the climber that will eventually cover and shade the terrace is now coming into leaf. Daffodils and hyacinths are long over, and the front fence is now a cascade of yellow banksias roses, and no longer can the passing pedestrian recoil in horror at the sight of me in my gardening skirt, socks and boots.

We are slightly nervous due to the fact that the empty field on one side of us has a large sign in the trees stating that planning permission is being sought for three houses, and on the other side of us, the empty house that is only used for a couple of weeks of summer has a “Sold” sign up. There is nothing truer than the saying that neighbors can make or break your life, and we are just keeping our fingers crossed and praying that we aren’t suddenly invaded by noisy dogs, children and loud music. In the winter months it doesn’t really matter as everyone hibernates with windows and shutters closed against the cold, but with the onset of Spring, life takes to the garden.

To celebrate the onset of warmth, sunshine and the approach of summer, we are undertaking a 12km walk on Sunday and then hoping to get lucky at a local “vide grenier” which literally means “emptying the attic into the street” where we hope to pick up some old garden furniture that won’t object to being left out in all weathers. There is so much coming up that we have had to expand the calendar and ensure that we keep a close watch on it.