Dicing With Death

The white plate contains the mushrooms - now we contain them!

The Chef looking slightly unsure of her job

Jean shaving - presumably in case we had to look tidy at the A and E Department

A friend called in this morning a dropped off a bag of wild mushrooms.

"I had some for supper last night - delicious" he reported, and we both looked at him closely for any signs of food poisoning.

"The best thing is to cook that one a bit longer and cook it with other sorts and then it won't give you any problems".

"What sort of problems?" I enquired nervously, but he had moved onto other subjects, like the fact that the regular mushroom spots weren't particularly fruitful this year, nor had they been last year.

Assuming that if he hunted mushrooms and survived the harvest each year, we should be OK, so following instructions (and checking on the status of Jean's insurance policy), I proceeded to cook them in salted butter along with barbequed pork chops and some fresh tomatoes dipped in olive oil and dusted with Herb de Provence.

I have to confess that the results were delicious, and here we are an hour later, still alive to tell the tale. However, I did take a photo of each of us plus the aforementioned mushrooms, just in case anyone needed to do a post-mortem, and wanted to know what they looked like - the mushrooms, not us!

The Castries Aquaduct

The view from above Castries towards Pic St Loup


The aqueduct winds through the countryside for some considerable distance

My tour guide and translator

The Castries Aqueduct on the edge of town

In nearby Castries, we have often driven under the arches that span the road going through town which carried the old aqueduct, but we have never thought too much about where it goes to and where it comes from. With a chilly north wind blowing earlier today, we decided to make the most of a lull this afternoon and enjoy a walk in the sunshine, and something on our list of things to explore has been an exposed area of what we thought was part of the aqueduct that ended in the arches in Castries.

The first thing we did was to go and read the information board situated under one of the arches on the edge of town and discovered that the aqueduct once carried water from far away St Mathieu de Treviers. According to the board, some fellow who owned the land where the original spring of water came from, sold the rights to the water in exchange for a pair of gloves!

There were once over 100 arches, some of which were 20 metres high which carried the water to the huge Chateau in Castries which is currently undergoing refurbishment In other areas - like the one we found, the water flowed through the stone furrow at ground level, an amazing piece of engineering considering that it was built in the 1700's. For the entire length of it's journey, the water only had a slope of 3 metres overall, and the fact that it ran through such pretty countryside was a real bonus for us.

It's an Ill Wind

The vineyard after it's haircut



The leaf fall - to sweep or not to sweep, that is the question!

The temperature at night is falling and in order to conserve the heat in the house, Jean nips round each evening and closes the exterior wooden shutters. This works like a charm except that the following morning, we are still curled up fast asleep in the pitch dark, unaware that it is already 8.30am and most of the civilised world is up and doing. We were rewarded this morning when we finally did open the shutters, to find that the sky was a clear blue, and although we were paying for it with a brisk north wind, the wretched rain which has hung around for weeks seemed to have pushed off elsewhere.

“A great day to prune the grapevines” I announced, and Jean leapt straight onto the internet to ensure that we wouldn’t kill them off from lack of knowledge.

“Leave two shoots cut at the second bud and cut away everything else” said the site which tells you how to prune every tree known to man, so we pulled on our jackets and boots and headed out into the vineyard, each clutching a pair of secateurs. Once we had gained our confidence on the first vine, the other three didn’t take us much time at all, and the job was done. From this you will understand that our vineyard isn’t exactly extensive, but as we drive through the local vineyards and see the thousands upon thousands of vines which have to be pruned by hand, we are rather glad that we don’t have a similar problem.

The north wind is doing another job for us and is bringing the leaves down off the micocoulier tree at a great rate. I have looked up the alternative name for this tree but can only come up with “Lotus Tree”. Suffice it to say, it has thousands of yellow leaves that are swirling in great drifts around the courtyard, and a proposed trip to the supermarket was quickly cancelled when we went out and realised how cold the wind was. I can hear my Florida friends laughing as they lie next to the pool!

November Updates - four months in France

The last outing for the bulls and the horses - right outside our house!

Saturday afternoon I went to visit a friend who has recently bought a massive old house in one of the nearby hill villages. Having climbed up through the four floors of draughty hallways, stone staircases, freezing attics and crumbling plaster, I didn’t know whether to congratulate her or commiserate with her. I just hope that she can find that illusive creature known as a “French Builder” who will take on the project without bankrupting her completely. I have to confess that I returned home to our snug single storey easily heated house with great relief and appreciation.
While up in that neck of the woods, we took the opportunity of enjoying a musical evening where wine was included in the entrance fee, and children and dogs entertained themselves by ducking and diving in among the dancers and under the tables, while adults talked and laughed, drank and danced and generally had a good time. It was simple, it was cheap but it was excellent value and the music was really good, and driving back home through vineyards bathed in the light of a full moon, rounded out a thoroughly pleasant day. I have to confess that the day had been further improved by my clever husband who won a huge smoked ham in a lottery. It is the size of a four month old baby and will feed us up to, and including Christmas.

Our trip to the Equisud Horse Show:

From the sublime

Passing by the "Flemish Mare"

To the slightly ridiculous

In the past month, we have gone from basking in summer sun and eating al fresco three times a day, and now we seem to spend far more time inside, appreciating our electric fan heater and the fact that we can close the shutters at night and conserve valuable warmth. I daresay we are in for far colder temperatures in the next few months, but having spent five years in Florida, we are totally unused to the new system of extra layers, sheepskin slippers and another blanket on the bed.

The colder weather seems to bring on a flurry of alternative amusements and every little town that we drive through appears to have a circus passing through. Circuses hold no interest for me whatsoever, and I have never enjoyed watching animals being made to perform. I don’t care how many people dangle off high wires or risk life and limb in the Big Top; the last place I would run away to would be the circus.

What we did enjoy earlier this week was a visit to the Equisud Horse Show in Montpellier, and I fell utterly and totally in love with a palomino stallion who has to be the equine equivalent of Brad Pitt. Only in France would the main arena be surrounded by restaurants so that diners can enjoy a good meal and a fine wine while being entertained with a variety of dressage displays. From massive draught horses to miniature horses, there was something for everyone, and instead of the rather “hoity toity” feel of a British Horse Show, there were “Guardians” from the Camargue showing off their skills, children and adult equestrians from all walks of life, and an enthusiastic audience who in most part appeared to be made up of family members.

The beach at Grand Motte certainly doesn't look like this in summer!

Perfect weather at Port Camargue:

It’s been raining on and off for what seems like weeks, and apart from a quick trip down to the coast to Port Camargue where we struck the most fabulously perfect day, the weather has been decidedly contrary.

The 11th Hour of the 11th Day

The village was definitely going to be rained on this morning but it seemed to make no difference to the crowd who gathered outside the Marie just before 11am. Officials wearing red,white and blue sashes mingled with housewives, children and old soldiers. A little girl came up to me and admired my poppy and then pressed a blue sticker onto my chest which said in French, words to the effect that "Memory is transmissible but hope is given". An elderly relative told her that I was from the United Kingdom which was why I was wearing a poppy, and I felt several curious but kindly eyes on me.

If it had been England, we would have set off for the war memorial just down the road by about 10.45 in order to be in place for the two minute silence at 11am, but this is France, and by the time everyone had kissed everyone else, it was nearly 11.10am, but suddenly with a flurry of flowers and umbrellas, the crowd formed themselves into an orderly line, and we set off down the narrow village street.

The worst of the rain eased off and we stood bare headed at the War Memorial while the Mayor read out the names of soldiers from the village who had lost their lives in various wars, starting first with those lost during the 1914-18 conflict. For what must have been a tiny village in those days, the loss of over ten young men must have been catastrophic, but only one local man had lost his life during the 1939-45 war. It was a poignant moment when the Mayor read out the name of his own close relative who had lost his life in Vietnam, and as the flags dipped, the sound of the Last Post echoed around the Place in front of the ancient church.

A young boy stepped forward and spoke about how the children were still very aware of the sacrifices made, and it was the children who carried the wreath of flowers ahead of the procession. We stood shoulder to shoulder as "La Marseillaise" rang out and the Mayor thanked the British, Commonwealth and American forces who had come to their rescue, and then in true French fashion, everyone was invited back to the Marie for a pre lunch drink.

On my computer, I had watched the Service of Remembrance at the Cenotaph and seen the petals drifting down from the roof of the Albert Hall, and England and France seemed very close. My dear Dad who was in the RAF and my mother who nursed at the Royal Northern throughout the Blitz were very much in my mind, while Jean thought about his grandfather, General Fagalde who had commanded the French troops at Normandy.

Four years ago, I had stood on the after-deck of the QE2 out in the southern Atlantic Ocean and watched a similar ceremony take place, and today they are dropping one million petals onto her decks as she awaits the start of her final journey from Southampton to Dubai. A man stood next to me that day and wept for his shipmates who had all drowned in the freezing waters of the North Atlantic after their ship was torpedoed, and the silence on that great ship is one of my enduring memories.

Thank God for every last man and woman who put on a uniform to defend us from the unthinkable. We shall not forget.