Half a Cuckoo

Irises in the field next to us - the result of them being chucked over the fence a few years back.

The time has come when not only do we sleep with the windows open and just the mosquito mesh closed to keep out unwanted visitors, but the curtains are left slightly open and the wooden shutters are clipped back against the wall. Summer is just around the corner, and today I washed the sheets, rolled up the duvet, put away the quilt and hauled out the lightweight Florida blankets.

But despite standing patiently at the open window early each morning, I have failed to hear that most wonderful sound - a cuckoo in the nearby woods. I have heard pigeons trying to confuse me with half a call, but the messenger of late Spring has so far eluded me.

When we first came to France in May all those years ago, I would sit out on the terrace of our rented gite, and listen to the calls tumbling over each other. Cuckoo would vie with cuckoo to convince us that the long nights of winter were well and truly over. But so far - nothing!

However, there are other rewards, and my lonely poppy is now surrounded by a wealth of brothers and sisters, and the patiently awaited nasturtiums have burst forth in all their orange glory. The "chene vert" oak tree has deposited tons of messy yellow blossoms all over the flower beds and the driveway, but I have learned not to complain about this tough tree. It keeps all its leaves in winter which means one less thing to sweep up while the micoculiere is dumping thousands upon thousands of leaves all over the garden, and it is now providing much needed shade for the car.

We have just spotted the remaining three of our four fish. They seem to have determined that we are not going to catch them and eat them, and are enjoying life whizzing around between the water lillies and the oxygenating plants. Two fat pigeons have decided that the garden makes for a very pleasant place to hang out, and they no longer worry about our presence, and flap down from the oak tree and paddle in the shallow part of the pool, drinking and bathing at their leisure. The two magpies still try to grab the fat balls suspended from the mulberry tree and we lie in bed laughing at their acrobatics which usually result in them tumbling to the ground, shaking their feathers, and pretending that they really don't mind making fools of themselves. Just to rub in their indignity, a pair of little bluetits flit back and forth enjoying an early breakfast making it look so easy.

A group of students have just rung the gate bell, and I happily parted with 2 euros in exchange for a programme of the upcoming village fete and a delicious brioche bun. I tried to establish if there were any English speakers amongst them, but we wound up all laughing and stringing together my shaky French and their obliging help with a few English words. We may not have cuckoos, but we do have summer right around the corner and I haven't given up all hope. Meantime, I shall settle for the ventriloquist pigeons who like to tease us.

Always Read the Fine Print

The easy bit!


It starts to get interesting



Looking down onto Corconne

Well worth the effort!

Just occasionally, not being able to read French is probably an asset, and one of those times was yesterday morning. I picked up the guide book of local walks just to take a quick peep at our planned route, and apart from a very small icon of a mountain in one corner with a few figures next to it, I didn't really absorb much. I did manage the bit about the 13th Century Chapel being rebuilt in 1870 from the original stones, and something about a grand view across Corconne, but the rest was a bit fuzzy.

So once my nose was pressed against what felt like a sheer wall of rock and I paused to watch the walker in front trying to squeeze through a chimney pipe ahead of me, I wondered if I should have take more care with the fine print, and not skimmed the bit about "Difficultes particulieres".

There are two routes that take you to the chapel and the cross atop the mountain behind Corconne. You can slog straight up a stone staircase from the middle of town, or take the route up through the ravine which starts out looking like the A9 but quickly changes into a scramble up a rock filled watercourse.

One of the first things I needed to understand were the markings on the rocks. Apparently the yellow cross meant "Not this way" and the straight yellow bar meant "this way". Having leapt into the lead working on the assumption that if I did it quickly, I wouldn't realise I was doing it, I went into Lesotho mountain goat mode and began scrambling up the stone blocks, hunting for hand holds and gripping onto overhanging branches, only to realise that my companions were strolling up well marked stone pathways slightly to the right of me.

Of course there were areas where it was impossible to avoid the steep bits, but with a haul from above and a nudge from below, and the occasional fireman's lift for the dog, we all arrived at the top and were well rewarded with the view from the chapel.

My geographic bump isn't always the best and I do tend to get a bit turned around, so it was with complete surprise that as we descended from the 10km route around the mountain top, and returned to the terra firma of Corconne, I found that we were totally on the other side of town. Never mind - the walk was great, the company excellent, the feet a bit sore but the spirits high.

I know I should always read the fine print, but this time, I was quite glad that I didn't!

Nine Inches of Pleasure

The remaining arch of the Ambrusson Bridge


The side pillar of the bridge



Jean checking out the engineering

Kate with the perfect Lunel sacristan

On the Via Domitia - next stop Spain!

You may well look at the title of this piece and wonder, but imagine how I felt when we queued politely in the boulangerie last week, waiting to claim our daily baguette. We have a new proprietor in the village bakery and he is clearly keen to make his mark, so he has ordered new bread bags, on which are written the slightly cheeky message "Your Nine Inches of Pleasure". Of course the bag is just long enough and slim enough to allow a crisp baguette to slip into it, leaving only the tempting tip sticking out. Somehow it was handed to me while Jean shuffled both his feet and his loose change, and the baker looked at me and beamed. I looked around to see how the village matrons were coping with this rather flagrant advertising gimmick, but they were more interested in catching up with the local gossip.

Today we drove down to the Lunel market and it was filled to bursting with plants and gardeners. A sea of petunias in full flower, cascades of geraniums, bold hot colours and cool blues and whites all fought for attention, and amid the colour were the trays of herbs, tomato plants and assorted vegetables.

Having done battle with the snails in the garden and lost the first couple of sorties, we have discovered that snails can be airmailed to the neighbouring field, and for those who insist on staying around, a sprinkle of blue pellets seem to do the trick. This means that the garden is now safe for courgette plants, so we splashed out and purchased a further six to replace the munched ones. A tray of lettuce plants and an assortment of herbs made up our loot plus a selection of tumbling cool blue and white flowering plants, and with a welcome shower currently giving them a drink, I think they are getting a good start.

Of course, no trip to Lunel market would be complete without stopping at the bread stall. I have been diligent about ensuring that the sacristans from Lunel market really are the very best. I have tried them in Anduze and Arles, Montpellier and Mudaison and an assortment of smaller villages, and I am convinced that I have found the perfect sacristan. Jean doesn't have my sweet tooth and inevitably chooses a fougasse which is the delicious savoury criss-cross piece of puff pastry embedded with olives, herbs and occasionally anchovies. If ever anything deserved a bag which said "Here is your 12 inches of pleasure" - it would be the Lunel sacristan!

Now comes the tricky part. We have to leave the market, drive around the winding streets of Lunel until we are out of town and into the country, and only when we reach the beautiful Ambrusson bridge can we sit on a sun warmed rock, pour out the flask of coffee and embark on our confectionary. This is a test of pure willpower but we know the quick route to the bridge so the suspense isn't too great.

Today we took advantage of a spot of sunshine and hiked up the hill from the bridge to inspect the ramparts and the habitations that cover the top of the hill above the bridge. From here, the Romans could keep a close watch on the surrounding area and also ensure that the bridge stayed open in order to keep traffic on the vital Via Domitia moving. It was a sort of Truckers Stop on the Roman Route and it is good to see that the museum being constructed near the site is coming along well. It is going to be fascinating to learn more about how the landladies of Ambrusson ran their business.

http://www.csj.org.uk/arlesroute.htm

A Little Piece of Paradise

It was just a casual remark made over a cup of tea while sheltering from the rain. A group of us had gone to enjoy a lovely garden and to benefit from the wisdom of a visiting gardening expert. However, Mother Nature was still in a slightly bad mood and she threw down a pretty stiff shower just as we reached the furthest point from the house.

"Why don't you come and visit my garden sometime? It is very small but very English" said one of the visitors who live fairly close to us.

I have always been a sucker for an English garden. My mother has a lovely one which she always claims is largely due to a lot of fortunate mistakes, but the result is the sort of English garden that you see in country magazines.

On Monday, we accepted a gracious invitation from one of the local American Women's Group members for tea before going next door to see this much admired garden. To sit drinking tea and eating delectable patisserie in the grounds of their stunning home while admiring a crystal clear swimming pool backed by an ancient stone wall was joy enough, but once the cups had cooled, we went next door to see what the English garden was all about.

My first question was "How long did it take to create this paradise".

"20 years" was the answer, but it is clearly an ongoing labour of total love.

Roses tumbled about the pillars of the terrace with names that rang down the ages. Irises in colours that were new to me filled the beds, and everywhere I looked there were varieties of plants that I had only seen in the sort of books that graced coffee tables.

It wasn't a large garden, but it was a testament to one woman's determination to create a little piece of paradise, and it was a joy and a privilege to see it.

Our garden is nothing by comparison but I do understand the concept of learning how to love a garden. To be able to walk out first thing in the morning and inspect the growth of new plants, to listen to the birds singing in the trees that surround us and to watch the first rays of sunshine dappling down has to be the best start to any day. The plants in the pond are all doing well, and today we purchased four small fish from the garden centre. They must have felt as though they had been released into some swish aquarium after spending time in a boring glass box being stared at by the passing public. Now they can play hide and seek under the leaves of the water plants and splash about in the waterfall.

The heat is increasing, and I have to confess that I rather envy them, but rather than slipping into the fishpond, I am extremely grateful to good friends who have offered the use of their pool.

Carl Brainich - Chef D'Orchestre

For those of you who have asked for more information, I have downloaded the following from the website http://www.concertarboras.com
I'm afraid my French isn't up to translating, but much of it speaks for itself.


Guitariste classique de formation, concertiste encore aujourd’hui,Carl Brainich se produit en tant que chef depuis plus de 20 ans.

Il a dirigé des orchestres aux Pays-Bas, son pays d’origine, notamment àAmsterdam, Delft et Enschede, ainsi qu’à l’Étranger.

En France il a dirigé pendant quatre ans l’ensemble principal de la SainteChapelle à Paris. Il a également été à la tête d’orchestres symphoniques enArménie et en Ukraine.

Quelques extraits de la revue de presse :... un son éloquent, joué avec ferveur...... un son nuancé et généreux...... la musique coulait avec évidence...... un grand courant d’authenticité musicale…... le jeu fut grandiose et le son magnifique...... un beau son orchestral, équilibré et accompagné d’unevraie virtuosité avec toutes les nuances émotionnellesque peut offrir la musique...... l’orchestre a joué confiant, sonore, parfois contemplatifet riche de nuances…... Brainich a su épouser la magie du moment!...... une grande capacité d’osmose entre l’orchestre et son chef...

Contact :

Carl BrainichLa Maison des Comtes 2 la planète, 30610 Sauve

Tèl/fax : +33 (0)4 66 51 37 23Port. : +33 (0)6 85 02 33 64

Mail : info@letriomphedelamour.com

Site : www.letriomphedelamour.com

The Darling Buds of May

Sauve with the Vidourle River at its feet


The Jazz Band playing as the evening draws to a close


Everyone on the prowl for a bargain at the Brocante



Carl Brainich with his orchestra

Don't ask - this is Sauve!

The evening sun catches the wood carving stand

Selling or just sitting - Artist or exhausted tourist?

Mother Nature woke up in a really good mood yesterday, clearly prepared to celebrate the 1st of May. The clouts which had been cast off, put back on, laundered, ironed, packed away, unpacked and worn again are now no longer needed, and are at last in the bug-proof bags and stored away on the top shelf in the cupboard. Let's hope there is no reason to unearth them before at least the end of October.

We were in for a busy day and a long one as well. First a visit to Ledignan for lunch and a lovely walk in the vineyards from where it is still possible to see the last vestiges of snow on the higher peaks of the Cevennes mountains. The vines are bursting into leaf and already the long tendrils are twining their way upwards towards the waiting guide wires, and the next batch of excellent Languedoc wine is in the making.

After lunch we drove across to Sauve to enjoy the May Day Festival of Arts, music, fashion and fun. Before climbing up to the village centre, we wandered around the huge array of brocante (which is a mixture of trash and treasure, antiques and junk). The frustrating thing about a huge brocante is the knowledge that if you don't peruse each display, there is always the chance that the very thing that you are looking for will be on the next stand. However, after nearly an hour of gazing at everything from ancient butter churners to plastic Barbie dolls, we made our way up into the village, just in time to hear the last set of the Jazz Band. We were also informed by friends that we met that we had just missed the fashion show as well, but since fashion and I are very distant associates and barely on speaking terms, I wasn't too worried.

The village had literally flung its doors open to all comers, and strange art installations were to be found in all sorts of peculiar places. One rather fascinating venue advertised the delights inside the old archway by dint of a very dead cat nailed to the wall. The cat had clearly seen better days but to give it a bit of a lift, it had been painted with all sorts of bright colours. This is Sauve and one learns not to be too surprised at anything one sees.

To escape the hot streets and rather noisy crowds in the main market place, we nipped into the local boulangerie and purchased a sacristan (yes, you guessed it!) and a palmier, and walked up the little stone lane to the churchyard. Here, under the shade of a large oak tree, we sat on the wall and nibbled at our confectionary and enjoyed the tranquility and peace, and the fact that the residents didn't play loud music or make any noise.

By now it was time to dust off the crumbs and make our way to the village church where Carl Brainich, the Chef D'Orchestre, was about to conduct his twelve piece string orchestra in a programme of Benjaman Britten's Simple Symphony, the Shostakovich Quartet No 8 and the exquisite Adagio for Strings by Barber. The church was filled to capacity with standing room only, and as the music rose and fell under Carl's expert baton, even the young children present were stilled. His hypnotic movements gave the impression that the music was somehow physically attached to him and he wove it around the high walls of the old church like so many ribbons, while tears were surreptitiously wiped from a number of eyes as the Adagio soothed and soared.

The orchestra has only been playing together for a year and members are drawn from as far afield as Montpellier, St Jean du Gard and Avignon, but under the leadership of this extraordinarily gifted Director, they have created an orchestra worthy of really serious public performances. The standing ovation of the audience and the wild cheers of enthusiasm were justly deserved, and we would cheerfully travel to listen to them play again, wherever that might be. Carl and his artist wife Soraya organise musical and artistic soirees at their home Maison des Comtes in Sauve and for more information, do have a look at their website.

http://www.touat.eu/sauve/sauve.htm

Sated with music and beauty, we rounded out the daylight hours with a few glasses of good, and extraordinarily cheap wine in the main square, while the Jazz band entertained us, and we all shouted at each other over the noise, and sneezed copiously from the pollen drifting down from the trees. Dinner with friends, a moon floating high above the courtyard, laughter and more wine - Spring has come to Sauve and we were so glad to be a part of it.

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.