Tuesday 4 November 2014

Learning The Great Lesson in Life: “Joie de Vie”

 We are home in Maleny. The great experience of living for almost a year in an ordinary backwater of rural France has been fascinating and very rewarding for us.

The one big thing which made it so good was the accidental meeting with our now good friend Barbara, convenor of a local English/French language group who invited us to join the group. Both English and French “learners” attend and just enjoy the camaraderie and the fractured language. We now have quite a circle of good friends in the Charente and expect to entertain the odd traveller to Maleny….that’s when they overcome their reluctance to undertake such “a long voyage”.
The language group enjoying a long picnic lunch
at Sylvie's home. The black bottle is one of Jean-Yves
very own pineau. Ian is making a dash down the side.
In truth, the year could have been quite sterile if not for this happy group. It is simply a French characteristic that close personal relationships with new-comers are very slow to develop. Take our little hamlet. While our few neighbours are very polite, with a nod, a wave, even a short conversational exchange in passing there is no personal invitation to come closer. 

Jenny and Mick, another Anglais couple we grew close to, were delighted to report recently that they had just received their first invitation to visit a neighbour’s house, this after five years local residence. Barbara was quite jealous since she and Pete had been in their village for seven years but with no invitation yet. Both are active participants in village affairs, too.

Amaund, the young guy at Sylvie's lunch: "Ugg...I theenk there
esss an escargot in my salarde!" Meanwhile Jean-Yves
opens another pineau.
However the language group's easy, fun atmosphere did break down this French reticence very nicely and very quickly. We enjoyed a wonderful afternoon picnic at home with Sylvie, one of the French ladies. And Genevieve insisted that Val and I linger for drinks and a chat at her home on our return from a group excursion to London...and is that another story!!

Patience is another stand-out French characteristic, at least outside Paris. And finally, at 69, I have acquired some patience .…”and about bloody time” I hear Val saying in the background. 

I learnt this life skill in supermarché checkout queues. The supermarket might actually have a dozen checkout lanes installed but it is rare to see more than three open.  One simply must wait in line patiently. Each customer and the check out operator exchange the obligatory “bonjours” and then the items are processed through and build up on the packing counter. Then the customer will slowly put the items away in bags in the trolley. Then the monetary transaction occurs, very often requiring a search through the handbag for a chequebook. Then the cheque is passed back and forth several times and sometimes identity documents are reviewed and notes taken. And then, at last, we have the “au revoir” and “bonne journée ” (for you French learners, that’s “have a nice day”). And I have not made all that up. Next customer, please!  

Here’s a free lesson on correct shopping etiquette: On entering any shop, no matter how humble, one MUST exchange “bonjour” with the shop keeper and “au revoir” when departing, even if one is just popping in for a quick look. A small café or bar with customers rates an audible “messieurs” or if ladies are also in attendance “messieurs/dames” and “au revoir” on departure.  Apart from that supercilious waiter in La Rochelle we have never meet a rude French person.

Sometimes you just have to pull over.
Its sometimes said that the French are rouges on the road. However, we have not seen one instance of road rage in France, but then again we have not driven in Paris. Certainly the French motorist can’t stand being behind another vehicle and will pass at the first, hopefully safe, opportunity. But they also give way where required, don’t use their horns, and often show great patience and consideration. After all, what else can one do in the narrow streets of a village or when faced by a farmer on a huge tractor hauling an even huger farm machine?  Note to those afoot in France: don’t trust a French driver to stop at a pedestrian crossing just for you…no, no, no!

Was language a problem? In truth, no, but we had made ourselves relatively capable of conducting everyday transactions before setting out on our adventure. The pressure to achieve this level of survival French was of course considerable; you will appreciate the absolute need to be able to book a table for two at a romantic restaurant or two nights in a lovely B&B or just to buy the lovely French bread and cheese and wine. But protracted conversation in French is just not on for us…protracted in our case means anything over two sentences! Its also often a problem to speak French as the other party will break into English so that they can practice their language skills.   

However, we have both become fluent in the use of the thumb as the indicator for “we want just one”, not the
index finger.

Now for the Great Lesson on Life. The number one “lesson in living” we have learned is “don’t do stress”. Relax. Be patient. Let the other motorist come through the narrow street first.

After six months I had need to renew my blood pressure pills. We had already established a relationship with a local doctor who speaks great accented English and has a ready sense of humour. He checked me over thoroughly and remarked on my excellent blood pressure. I replied that our lifestyle for the past six months had been bucolic with no committees, no commitments, no pressure.  We have no stress anymore, I stressed. To which he replied with a straight gallic face: “Ah, monsieur, we do not do stress in France!”

 “Joie de Vie”.  That’s the great lesson we bring home and which we intend to apply. Don’t do stress.

Au revoir and goodbye

Bryan and Val
Don't do stress, do a crossword, but in our case
definitely not a cryptic!

Wednesday 24 September 2014

Heaven on a Sidewalk in the Sun

The Cost of Living the Good Life in France

One must maintain one’s standards when living abroad, even when one is communing with nature in the French countryside. Now our standards, I must admit, are actually fairly pedestrian. However, the big questions remain: What’s it all cost? Is it expensive? Can one afford to live a house swap dream?

To answer these profound questions one needs to look at the absolute essentials of modern living: an adequate wine supply, good wholesome food (i.e. great red meat), dining out and those little romantic trips away.   

On wine, obviously one could spend real money if one had that predilection and the income stream, neither of which we have.  A quite acceptable quaffing red by the bottle can be had for $5.00 or, say, a better full-bodied “Cahors” cab/sav for $8 to $10. A 5ltr cask of Bordeaux Superior: about $22.40 or $4.50 a litre (a Super U Supermarket brand cask can be just $17.00 or $3.40 a litre). If things have not got totally out of hand since we’ve been away, a local Aussie 4ltr cask would be $15 or $3.75 a litre. So, everyday wine is much the same as at home. For the true blue bottom feeders, the LIDL supermarket chain regularly has wine offers around $3.00 (or less!!). We have not found a bad bottle yet.
Val checking our the chook for a coq au vin dinner in our
Montmoreau Super U

Fancy the odd wee dram? Here are some supermarket prices: Grants scotch at $21.00, Jameson at $26.00 or Laphroaig 10 year old at $56.00. Not bad at all.

If one must, absolutely must, carve a succulent lamb roast for Sunday lunch or love the taste of artfully grilled lamb chop (aren’t the tails simply divine) then French living  may not be for you.  Try digesting a leg of lamb that cost $59.00 or putting on a chop when a pack of two chops has a per kilo ticket at $29.30! Val was overjoyed at finding frozen NZ legs on special at $28.00. We were just in time to grab the last two….or perhaps there were only two at the price.

Pork (a three meal pork roast, unfortunately sans crackling, $16.50) turkey (tender, juicy fillets at $10 a kilo) and sausages (a pack of 8 Toulouse snags $10.00) are the go here.  A rack of spare ribs casually thrown on the barbie, a bottle of Bordeaux, and tasty cheese does do wonders for the appetite. Venturing into the exotic, a box of 20 quail eggs is just $6.50 while a whole skinned bunny runs to $18.40 (no pun intended).

Sad to say, to us, the supermarket red meat just does not look appetizing. However Val does create very tasty slow-cooked casseroles with the chunky cut stewing steak ($12.00 a kilo).

 Oh, LIDL does have great little whole trout and packs of Atlantic salmon at prices to hook you.

Veggies and fruit supply in our part of France is highly seasonal unlike the year-round supply of most items found at home. In July Val wanted pumpkin to showcase her pumpkin and citrus cake for a language club cooking project; sourcing a pumpkin of any variety was simply impossible. (Maybe I shouldn’t   tell you that her fallback display was lamingtons.) Perhaps this seasonality helps to maintain the so evident tastiness of the products.

Veggies from Le Petit Maine garden
The home vegetable plot, “le jardin potager” , contributes greatly to the daily fare for many French tables. Tomatoes, leeks, onions, garlic, courgettes, pumpkin, lettuce all seem to grow prodigiously in the well tended gardens. Thanks to Brian, our exchangee, the jardin potager at Le Petit Maine was well prepared and ready for Val’s enthusiastic efforts. Early in the season we had a fine crop of onions, leeks and garlic. We haven’t purchased spuds or tomatoes or courgettes or cucumber or squash for several months and the butternut pumpkins are almost ready to store. So, if one does have a working veggie garden everyday eating costs can be slashed (well reduced). But, I ask you, just how many ways can one eat yet more courgettes and squash?


The regular street markets are great for atmosphere and lively activity. Wandering our local Chalais Monday market followed by a coffee or beer and people watching at café Le Flore is now something of a ritual for us. We do find that market prices (no haggling, thank you) are usually higher than supermarket prices but quality and freshness does seem a little better than the supermarkets.

Dining out in rural France can be so cheap! The “resto” in the nearby hamlet of Nonac offers restaurant quality four course “formula midi” lunches for just $20.00 each. Others offer the same price but including wine. Our anniversary dinner at Chateau Talleyrand (white linen, professional service, excellent food over four courses, champagne apero and wine) was just $137.00 for both of us. Try that at a good restaurant in Oz!

For those trips away, fuel is dearer at $2.04 for deisel and $2.40 for petrol but the compensation is excellent accommodation at very reasonable prices. Just last week, two nights in the “Donjon Room” (55sqm suite really) at the Chateau d’Avanton was $282, brekkie included. There was just one tiny drawback at Chateau d’Avanton; our suite was on the top two floors of the donjon up seven flights of concrete stairs…but the view was magnificent.
Chateau d'Avanton....our room was at the very top of the tower
(windows open). The suite entry and bathroom were on the floor below.


On this outing, we had intended to visit Futuroscope, a futuristic theme park outside Poitiers. “Zoot Alors”, we got there on Monday in early September to find that the Park was closed; it had just that day gone into it’s post-summer reduced opening period. I suppose that falls into the category of experiences: “merde happens”.

Anyway, we did visit Chateau La Rochefoucauld on the way. The chateau has been in the de la Rochefoucald family for 1000 years entirely via the direct male line until three generations ago when it passed to a cousin’s line. The family holding got through the Revolution only because Napoleon recalled the self-exiled duke (a very able administrator and sympathetic reformer) to assist his post-revolutionary government. He restored the chateau to the duke but with much reduced land holdings.

I digress yet again, back to the cost of eating out. It was lunch time when we finished the chateau tour ($36.00 for two adults….well, the current duke does have overheads I suppose and what with no peasants these days). We settled on the very ordinary looking Café de Commerce in the village, the only café open, in fact the only café.  The “plat de jour” was a plainly served yet excellent country cooked “boeuf bourguignon” so tasty and melting in the mouth. Just $24.00 for two with a glass each of a yeasty dark local beer followed by a “petit café”.  Ah, heaven on a sidewalk in the sun.
Real cheap dining out. This is a little "ptivate" picnic spot
behind the church in Bonnes on the river Droone

Bottom line: living a full life to our Aussie standards in La Charente is no more expensive than living in Maleny and we dine out much more often! And I haven’t even mentioned the pate, the cheese, the bread!!!


The last word goes to our exchangee, Brian, on mushrooms (ceps). “Sept to Nov is the mushroom season. The locals go mad in search of Ceps. On many mornings,  M and Mde M, our neighbours, will often leave the hamlet in a small white van. They are off in search of the sacred cep. No one knows where they go. It’s a secret location and rumour has it that if they think they are being followed they take evasive action to shake the tail. You will see cars parked in lay bys and gate ways often miles from woodlands. The occupants are hunting for ceps but don’t want people to know where so diversionary tactics are used! “

Friday 29 August 2014

A Snapshot of our Hamlet in the Charente and Jerome's farm

In our tiny hamlet in the Charente region of France we have five neighbours.

In the first small house live Eloise and her partner Amaund, a young working couple. They have a new puppy, not a house dog but destined to grow up as a great hunter. So he lives and whines in a dog house in a pen in the back yard. He loves company and would love to be molly coddled but this is not the French way for the serious business of raising a hunter!!

Opposite we have Vincent, a young single teacher with a lovely throaty sports car which he loves to drive with proper French élan. From time to time he has extended company, a lovely young lady, or is it a series of lovely young ladies. Ah… such proper French élan!  

Down the road a bit resides Monsieur et Madame M, who keep a beautiful house set in a beautiful garden. M et Mde keep the village looking spruce all year with trimmed green lawns and gorgeous seasonal flowers. “Mon Dieu” said Val on our arrival so many months ago…. “we simply can’t let the side down”.  So Val matches seasonal flower with seasonal flower and I drudge with the mower. Our reward: gracious nods and a few words of approval, en passant!
A view of Monsuier and Madame's garden

Where the hamlet lane peters out to a rough farm track we find Sally and Colin, absentee English landlords (for the time being). They are rebuilding a tumble down barn into a lovely farm home, mezzanine floor, gorgeous open plan living area and stunning bathrooms and kitchen with beautiful timbers, new and old.  Everything one reads about the “joys” of renovating in rural France is absolutely true, they say.

Jerome, the farmer, lives between us and Sally and Colin.

In my naïve way, I had envisaged Jerome as being the latest incarnation of a long line of farmers tilling the same village patch, century after century.  Well, his grandfather owned a small farm near the village of Pillac, just outside our commune of Juignac. Claude, his father, was also a farmer who in 1972 purchased a different patch in the Juignac area. Twelve years ago, Claude retired from active farming and Jerome bought his 60 hectares. He has since built this up to 100 hectare and would buy more if it was available.

My ignorance knows no bounds! I assumed that 100ha must be a fairly small farm. (Now, dear reader, be honest: did you too think this was small?) Amazingly, a whopping 96% of the 490,000 French farms are less than 200ha in area, with 40% less than 20ha! Jerome is up there in the top 20% of farms that are of 100ha or more.

Before you start to think the Australia has it all over the Frenchies in farm size consider these facts. There are 135,000 farms in Oz, 36% are less than 50 hectares in area and a further 36% have between 50 and 500 hectares. Not only that, but 55% have a turnover of less than $100,000.
Val, Jerome and Jerome's dog with some of his tractors

 Now anyone that has driven in rural France will allow that an awful lot of French tractors roar around on French roads. I can now reveal why this is so!

Jerome has an astonishing 32 separate land titles making up his 100 hectares, spread over six major but quite separate concentrations which are kilometres apart.  His smallest field is just 0.25ha, the biggest 13ha with an average of 3ha. Apparently, this is quite a common structure for farms. So he has to tool around the country lanes on one of his four tractors just getting to the different sections of his farm. All the other farmers are busy doing the same thing. And of course there is the traditional 2 hour French lunch break. Just think, come 1200 noon, 490,000 farmers jump on their tractors and head off home for an apero and four course lunch!  

Except for livestock paddocks, the farming fields in this area usually irregular in shape and are completely unfenced with just a rough post or bit of iron rod to mark the various corners.  Ancient walkways cut through farms and even in places proceed between a farm’s buildings 

Claude’s retirement interest is in wood. He supplies split fire wood, however, I suspect his greatest pride is his 85 year old farmyard saw mill. It’s a beauty, a two meter high bandsaw arrangement complete with baling
Claude and dog pose with his 80 year old bandsaw
wire repairs and chocked with wood blocks where necessary. With this he produces oak planks and beams to order. In fact Claude supplied the new oak beams, 8inchx8inch, for Sally and Colin’s rebirth of the old barn. Delivery would not have been difficult as the old barn is only 10 meters from the old saw mill.  

All you old farmers out there already suspect that the French farmers are handsomely subsidised.  Last year the European Community gave France 11 Billion euros as the farm subsidy payment. 490,000 farms means an average subsidy of E22,000 per farm. But, of course, averages can be highly misleading as clearly the 40% of farms with less than 20 hectares must get less cash each than, say, the 20% with more than 100 ha.
The upper wheel of the bandsaw!! 


Jerome points out that the subsidy is compensation for the low controlled price that he gets for his wheat, maize and sunflower. The price is set at the going world rate for the various commodities. He must also abide by a contract with the agricultural department enforcing such things as the maintenance of ancient walkways, riparian zones and the use of pesticides. That can’t be bad.

As France is the second biggest European economy much of that 11 billion euro package would come from France itself. So France gives the EU heaps of money, the EU then gives France heaps of money back.  Then 490,000 French farmers have multipage agreements with the French Agricultural department. All that lovely paperwork for all those lovely bureaucrats!  It’s a lovely system! It’s French!

A bientot, off to Prague tomorrow for a few days

Cheers to all

Bryan and Val

Saturday 2 August 2014

Bastille Day, Summertime, Flowers and Food

Bastille Day, Summertime, Flowers and Food

Ah, “la Fête Nationale”, 14 July, better known in Oz as Bastille Bay.

Well, I had hoped to give you a riotous account of the happenings in celebration of “la Fete Nationale” in Juignac and surrounds. Alas, I can’t. Mainly because nothing really happened here. The only French flags we saw jauntily blowing in the breeze were the two Val and I had bought for our front porch. (Doing our bit for the hamlet, don’t you know?)
Flags fly at La Petit Maine for
La Fete Nationale

Perhaps I‘m being a bit severe because there were fireworks at Montmoreau and Chalais, our two shopping towns. Well I should say our supermarket towns; “le shopping’ in the French sense requires heels, smart frocks and doing lunch, whereas “faire les course” only requires thongs, tacky trackies and a big trolley, and rushing home before the ice cream melts. But enough of my impromtu French lesson.

Our friends, Ian and Pam, invited us to watch local fireworks from the deck of their house, after a BBQ and perhaps a glass or two of a fine Bordeaux. Actually with Ian, luckily, it’s always a glass or three! The sky show was very good, the BBQ was rained out, the Bordeaux excellent, and we could hear dance music in the distance, presumably for the traditional “public dancing in the street”…though this year in the rain!

Oh, we did come across an older gentleman in Montmoreau, nattily decked out in jacket, tie and beret and sporting on a lapel a rather grand medallion, backed by the blue, the white and the red colours, the tricolour. So perhaps there was a ceremony somewhere complete with La Marcellaise….I certainly hope so.

But enough of this jingoistic Francophilia…it’s summertime and the French certainly do a good summer.

The Charente and surrounding area has the reputation as being the sunniest part of France outside the Mediterranean South. The daily temperature at Le Petit Maine, our hamlet, has quite surprised us. Often in the low thirties, but feeling much hotter. It’s a dry penetrating heat, enough to burn the skin off a basking lizard!

Even the most introspective tourist will notice that flowers are huge business in France. In Spring Val and I had observed council workers attending to and repairing street and bridge flower beds. Now it’s summertime, and the villages are beautiful with stunning flower beds and pots everywhere. Any Commune councillor silly enough to ignore the summer time flower arranging responsibility would be set upon by vengeful, pitchfork weilding villagers. Mon Dieu, it would be a hangin’ offence for a village to be downgraded by a fleur or two in the “Villes et Villages Fleuris” ratings.
Flowers decorate a bridge somewhere in France.
We have seen prettier ones but stopping in the middle of a busy town
can be a tad difficult!

Town bridges seem to be the favoured architectural structure for displaying a Commune’s floral artistic flair. Every town bridge we have seen is florally decorated. Typically on the railing on each side there will be several long pots filled with carefully chosen plants. They may simply be chosen to present a proliferation of colour or as a repeating pattern of just two colours. The more daring floral architects will have multiple pots soaring several meters high. The colours are rich and vivid, much more so than we see in Australia.

Summer is also the time for “vide greniers” and “les marchés  du producteurs”.

“Vide grenier” means “from the attic” and it’s the opportunity to get rid of all the stuff that accumulates in one’s attic. Each village holds a vide grenier and each stall seems to have the same unsaleable stuff! Val has developed a passion for the vide grenier but I think it’s that voyeuristic instinct to check out everyone else’s stuff. “Oh, I’ve got one of those at home” or “Hey, isn’t that piece just awful…it’ll never sell”
A typical small village "vide grenier"

The best “vide grenier” combines both genuine car-boot stalls and dealer stalls. We’ve been to enough now, however, to recognize many of the various dealers showing up at each event. To our dear mature children at home, rest assured that your Christmas presents are being carefully sourced from only the very best of the second
hand stalls!

The last vide grenier we visited was near the village of Les Essaudes and beautifully situated on a country laneway running alongside the river Dronne…well it would have been beautiful if a summer torrential storm had not done it’s worst. We particularly felt for one stall holder presenting a huge range of baby wear so carefully laid out. All were totally saturated.

But as grandmamma always said (God bless her) “every cloud has a silver lining”. Last of the big spenders that we are (sorry about the inheritance, kids) we had intended to treat ourselves to a take-away helping of the French national dish, frites, to which I’ve become quite addicted (just pop another cholesterol pill after eating).
The food tents in the middle of a muddy field at Les Essaudes


Two long marquees joined side by side just had to be the mess tent, so to it we trudged through the rain and the soaking grass on the quest for our hot frites. Bingo! A gay and noisy troupe of volunteers were bustling about a make-shift kitchen ready to serve the expected hordes of hungry fete visitors. A quick reconnaissance and a few rudimentary questions established the rules. A complete “plateau du repas” was the offering at the staggering price of eight euro.

“Hang the expense, let’s do lunch” Val enthusiastically decided. Each plateau (that’s tray) included a roll of bread, a melon quarter, triangle of cheese, a small éclair, a generous serve of frites and either two BBQed sausages or a heap of moules (mussels to us). Not feeling culinary adventurous I opted for snags; Val took the moules and was well satisfied. That’s another gourmet box ticked for her.
Val getting stuck into her moules, frites and melon.
Check out the field kitchen in the background! 

Naturally the plateau included a glass of vin rouge or vin rose. We have noticed that vin blanc is seldom on offer at these ‘lesser” village affairs.  

There we were in the soaked marquees, rain thudding on the roof, water dripping in from the gaps where the roofs joined, half the bench seats wet, lighting sometimes on, sometimes off, the rattle of another batch of cooked moules being tossed into the serving tureens, and the laughter and chatter of the volunteers. Marvellous.

“Oh, bother it’s still raining! Why leave such a happy place?” we ask ourselves. I brave the internal waterfalls and join the short queue for a second round of vin rouge, just 50 centimes a plastic cup full.  Vin rouge extraordinaire, it surely is.

à bientôt, love to all our friends
Bryan and Val

Wednesday 25 June 2014

Forget the Wine, Look at the View!

Just possibly, dear reader, you may have formed the impression from my most recent Postcards that our idyllic life in this rural hamlet revolves around the consumption of quite passable food and the quaffing of cheeky “vin rouge”. Now, while this is not altogether incorrect, we do occasionally venture out into the wider tourist world beyond our front laneway.

A visit from our good Maleny friends, Kaye and Noel Kuskopf, was the occasion for a short tour to a neighbouring region, the Aquitane. They flew into Paris via Incheon, having enjoyed Korean Air’s fare-inclusive overnight stay in the local Hilton, Incheon, and the comfort of those few precious extra centimetres of seat space in Korean Air’s planes. A “low-flying” TGV train got them to Angoulême, our nearest major city.
Intrepid Travellers: Kaye and Noel arriving at Angouleme

We had determined to make their visit memorable. So, being in Angoulême, we kick off with a stroll around the old city, and promptly loose our way. Light rain falling, back streets, no beer tent or cafe in sight but “pas problem”, a pissing (sorry, passing)* group of students say “joust follow usezze”.  As accomplished guides we really are off to a great start!

Now, in Bardenac, a nearby village, there is a French restaurant run by the same family for several generations. It comes highly recommended by several English acquaintances as “typically French, many courses and (said with glee), bottomless red wine, but make sure you book in”.   Come Sunday lunchtime off we four culinary explorers go. The house is packed. “J’ai un reservation” I carefully say to the only waitress as she sweeps by. “A yes,” she replies, “Zee four Anglais pairsonnsss…come”.
Cheers to all at Bardenac. That's Val, Kaye and Noel
 in the corner. There were four other rooms. 

The meal, the atmosphere is just perfect. We four at a corner table, French families and French babble all about, no menu, no choices, just wait for what comes out of the kitchen (no tripe, I fervently pray). And true to reputation, vin rouge is indeed bottomless. Don’t stress, just go with the slow pleasant afternoon.

Oh bottom! I’ve done it again, broke into a booze and tucker tale. Back to the tourist stuff.

Bryan, Val and Noel bonding on the private terrace
of our hotel in Sarlat  with a fine local drop
A few days later we are off touring. First stop for two nights is the beautiful and renowned town of Sarlat. The narrow cobbled streets of the old medieval town
are lined with intricately carved facades built almost entirely of honey-coloured stone. In the afternoon sunlight just after a summer shower it’s so gorgeously lustrous. And our hotel is suitably quaint, to meet Kaye’s explicit instructions (“I want cute French places ONLY”). Their room, the only one in the hotel to do so, opens onto a private balcony so on arrival we all repair there for the necessary social bonding session.

The region is an extravaganza of highlights: haunted chateaus, ruins, breathtaking caves, villages, walking tracks, enough to engage even the most jaded tourist.

“Les Cabanes du Breuil” is a restored village of dry-stone roundhouses each with conical stone roof and is complete with chooks and proud roster. The development of this “simple” architecture over centuries of effort is amazing to our eyes. Their origins are mysterious. It is known that Benedictines were in residence in the middle of the 15th Century and that in the 18th local craftsmen occupied the site.
Dry stone roundhouses at Les Cabanes du Breuil
in the hill country near Sarlat

On a recommendation we take our visitors to the “Grotte de Font-de-Gaume” to view renowned stone-age cave paintings. We arrive in the afternoon to be told that all tour places had been sold. “You should come back tomorrow morning, but be sure to get here by 9am.” “Well, we actually are here now, can we buy tickets for tomorrow?” “No, sorry, you have to come tomorrow.”

We duly arrive before 9am to find a rather large queue at the office door. Only fifty tickets for this Grotte are on offer each day. A quick head count of the queue indicates that we are definitely in with a chance. "Zut Alors", close to opening time a squadron of young people appear, attaching themselves to those few other young people in the line, evidently the advance holding party. A computer display counts down the number of tickets still available at each site (the office sells tickets for six caves). It’s soon clear that we are now not going to make the cut for “Font-de-Gaume”. Plan B, hastily conceived, kicks in: take afternoon tickets to the “Grotte des Combarelles”, an offer we had knocked back yesterday!

For the 4.00pm session at Combarelles we four are the only visitors so we enjoy almost a one-on-one tour with the guide. Our cameras and bags were taken at the entrance and locked in a safe – no photos, and the caves are so narrow – don’t touch the walls!  Fair enough! The carvings are 13,000 years old at least. The line carvings are enchanting, each figure in beautiful proportion and etched in deft artistic strokes.

Now this bit is so truly French. While waiting in the queue at the “Font-de-Gaume” an English woman informed us: “Oh, but you should have booked tickets on line!” So, one can book tickets on line, days ahead, but one cannot buy tickets in person at the office for the next day!!    

Onwards to Rocamadour!  Our approach to the village was via twisting back roads through an undulating stony, wind-swept and dry plateau boarding on the Central Massif. Rounding a bend, on the opposite side of a deep gorge, there is Rocamadour, cunningly built onto the side of a steep gorge. We descend to the carpark at the gorge bottom, park and proceed to climb and climb back up through a garden park and several levels of streets, streets full of…of..: come on, folks, guess! Do I hear cafes, restaurants, bottle shops, soap shops, candle shops, craft shops, kitsch shops and the occasional real art dealer. I immediately think: “It’s a vertical Montville!”
A successful visit to Aladdin's cave of fine art


Cafe creme on a terrace hanging vertiginously over the chasm, restores our lagging strength such that we actually indulge in a little shopping. Girly things like lavender soap are on the list but then Noel finds a gallery tucked into a side alley. The artist, a charming bloke, is at work and successfully so. Both Noel and I depart the gallery lighter in the pocket but happy in spirit, proud possessors of several fine pieces. But just how did that happen...that artist must have been very charming.  

Seriously, the true heart of Rocamadour is it’s amazing set of religious chapels, six of them, and the Basilica of St Sauveur and the Tomb of St Amadour, a hermit, the discovery of whose undecayed body in 1166 tapped into the fervour of the age resulting in the establishment of the town as a great pilgrimage centre on the Road to Compostela. The basilica, cut into the rock wall, contains the famous Black Virgin and Child, quite small actually but a figure of great devotion. Oh and also several large model  sailing ships float in the bascilica's quiet air!!
The Auberge de la Fontaine, our hotel in Autoire

The final night's accommodation is at the Auberge de la Fontaine, in the village of Autoire. In selecting Autoire as a place for a bed, I had been seduced, not, unfortunately, by a French waitress (oops Val, I really meant fortunately,) but by the web blurb, to whit: “Autoire is nestled in an impressive cirque formed by high limestone cliffs. Small manor houses with turrets, delightful fountain surrounded by typical houses and the river below, contribute to the charm of this beautiful site” so says the on-line tourism blurb. And, the hotel looked so properly French  on the booking site. For once the hyperbole reflects the reality. Voila...Jackpot! The village is superb!

What else can I say? The village is gorgeous, the hotel is excellently French rural, the evening meal cheap and delicious and right across the street is a late opening wine shop with tastings. Noel, Kaye, Val and I are in heaven!

When we win the Euromillions millions this is where we will buy a manor house (as long as it has excellent central heating).

A bientot folks
Bryan and Val

·         With acknowledgement to all those “Allo, Allo” episodes.

Thursday 15 May 2014

Spring time in La Charente and the "7 Hour Lunch"

Spring has arrived in The Charente. Delightful multiple nuances of green enliven the fields and the copses. Roadside grass grows high at an astonishing rate. The laneway into our hamlet, Le Petit Maine, has become a beautiful welcoming fairway to our own “stress-free” but temporary Chez Hughes. Clumps of wild yellow iris have sprung up along a small stream that crosses under the lane just outside the hamlet.

Monsieur M's boule garden
Monsieur M, from one of our four neighbouring homes, owns a large plot beside the stream and next to the lane. We have noticed, and heard, Monsieur labouring in the area just about all winter. The results are delightful. The plot contains a quite large pond (unfortunately with no fish, he reports), a rustic BBQ area, rude seating and boule pitch all shaded by the new growth.

Yesterday, as Val and I took a late afternoon promenade as far as the local mayor’s farm, we were struck by the profusion and variety of wild flowers on the roadside. By the time we got home Val had collected a delightful posy to brighten a favourite kitchen nook; on counting we found that the posy has 14 different variety of wildflower!

Spring, it seems, is also the time for villagers to renew “the merry month of May” traditions.

Passirac is a typical small Charente commune, 257 inhabitants, and home to one of our new British friends. Barbara, a live wire very active in the community, advises that village life revolves around the Salle de Fete, or community hall. The village “Committee de Salle” co-ordinates the celebratory activities of the les Chasseurs (Hunters), les Randonnees (Walkers) and la Gym. Each year each group throws a banquet for the village and guests.

Barbara and husband Peter invited us to the “Banquet des Chasseurs” presented by the “Société de Chasse”, Passirac, on Samedi, 19 Avril 2014 at 12Hrs, at the Salle de Fetes. And what a banquet!

The guests gather, the tables are set, all ready to ''manger"
in the Salle de Fete, Passirac. Val's there in the centre. 
Having met at Barbara’s house at about 12.30 we walk to the Salle passing along the way a serious group of men gathered around a large aromatic and smoky barbeque.  The mayor is busy, beaming from his office window, greeting all comers enthusiastically, advising “Pierre” here and “Charlotte” there not to eat too much, but he doesn’t mention le vin though! Inside, Pete pushes his way through the merry throng to the bar to secure aperos for his group (cognac and soft drink, pre-mixed, powerful and delicious, Euro1.50).

After much greeting of friends, cheek kissing, chatter and aperos 130-odd diners finally find their seats; its 1.30.  Green and white napkins creatively folded into lotus flowers with a gold papered Easter Egg centre set off each place at the beautifully laid trestle tables. The marathon meal begins!

A cognac based aperitif leads off, a “Potage” (chicken noodle soup) follows and now we are presented with a superb “Delice des Flots”(a thick slice of cooled pink Atlantic salmon, thick creamy herbed mayonnaise piped on top and set off with just a light touch of green salad and half a boiled egg).  That’s absolutely fine for starters. Let the banquet continue:
  • “Civet de Chevreuil” – the Chasse’s own venison, slow-cooked in garlic, herbs and wine (of course) and then shredded and heaped on bread which one first rubs with cloves of garlic.  Seriously good!
  • “Coup du Milieu” – a citrus sorbet;
  • “Sanglier braise” – slices of the Chasse’s own wild boar, barbequed to smoky, juicy perfection. I take a second chop as the plate is enthusiastically passed around a second time.
But wait, there’s more:
  • “Roti de Boeuf” – slices of roast beef, crisp on the edges but still tender and red inside, served with haricots blanc in white sauce (here you may kiss the tips of the fingers, French chef style);
  • “Salade vert et fromage” – green salad and brie but I didn’t really need to translate that, did I;
  • And at last “Dessert” – strawberries and ice cream with a (you guessed it) cognac topping.  
In between the courses, a “chook raffle” has been held. We of course buy tickets but although there are perhaps 40 prizes not one of our group wins a cigar, well, actually not cigars but potted red geraniums. Whereas, the other group at our table has collected enough geraniums to fill at least five Parisian window boxes!  

Peter: "I really think that the white is a little inferior
this year."  Val: "I'm absolutely shocked!"
Val a short time later with her new French friend
Patrick, one of our "chasseur" hosts













Did I mention the wine? No? Let’s see…carafes of vin blanc and then vin rouge and some time during the repast vin rose appears also. One in our group demonstrates rather a deft touch at garnering extra bottles as required from the passing volunteers…bravo Ian!!!  

By the way, its now about 6.30 in the evening, but no one’s looking at the clock and that’s quite, quite OK.

Delicious coffee is served, demi tasse style, accompanied, naturally, by après-dinner drinkies. Two members of the Chasse, bottles crooked in the elbows, look after our table. One has the cognac (and soft drink filler…iiiffff asked for), his partner offers bubbles. They reach the end of the table and start back down again. Bravo!  

Of course, this banquet is not at the total largesse of our new very good friends, les chasseurs. No, no: one has to contribute a whole 20 euros to the Chasse coffers. Mon Dieu!

It’s a week later and, having by now recovered from the previous feast, dear Barbara has us at the village of Rioux-Martin (she's a member of the walking group there) to participate in a traditional Charentaise “Brin d’Aillet”, a meal in celebration of garlic. The aillet is an immature garlic, 3 months old and 20 cm high. The bulb has not yet developed cloves and looks rather like a spring onion. Quite sweet to eat.

Each place in the Salle is set with two aillets and bread. The first course is pate eaten with the bread which is first smeared with the aillets. The second course is garlic and cheese omelette, as much as one can eat.  The trays of omelette just keep on coming out from the makeshift kitchen in the attached barn. A dressed green salad and cheese course follows while strawberries and ice cream finish this memorable luncheon, a mere three hours long.

Non-stop pressure in the kitchen
The garlic omelettes just keep coming!
By now in this little narrative, I’m sure I don’t have to mention the vino…the reader can safely assume a bountiful supply, and we do have Ian on hand to garner more as needed. Useful chap, is Ian!

Sometime during the lunch, Val and I visit the kitchen in the barn to watch and chat to the volunteers at work, Ian, that Very Useful Chap, doubles up as our official photographer, us having again forgotten the camera.  Everyone, cooks, dish washers, drinks attendants and us are happy and gay.  Wonderful atmosphere.  Wonderful people.


Bon Appetit to all our friends and readers
(PS to Caddy, our little doggy mate at home: sorry, couldn't keep any of the roast beef leftovers for you.)

Bryan et Val

PPS At another, earlier, Chasse lunch we had not won anything on the chook raffle. As we were about to leave the organizers presented us with two haunches of venison, a very generous gesture. One we gave to Jerome, our neighbour, ande one Val has now cooked. We had some for dinner last night; quite a good French meal and deliciously different but gamey as one would expect. The one haunch has made an enormous amount of  "stew" for us.   

Tuesday 8 April 2014

The Supercilious French Waiter et moi

Dining out in La Rochelle

Val and I recently ventured north to the small French Atlantic port of La Rochelle. The old city is a wonderfully preserved medieval merchant town located on a beautiful medieval port which is guarded by two intact seaboard towers. It is a massive tourist attraction.

La Rochelle harbour from the seaward side

The small harbour of La Flotte, Ile De Re
On the way we had checked out the famous “Ile de Re”, an acclaimed tourist sand island 30km x 5 km connected to the mainland by a 3km toll bridge. It too is a major tourist attraction but I must confess to being a little underwhelmed. There is a resident winter population of about 20,000 rising to a resident summer population of 220,000! In the season, I suppose, thousands of day trippers would also add to the gaiety. The Ile does have a couple of small very picturesque harbours, several quite good family beaches,  water sports and cycling and an excellent example of a Vauban coastal fortification, the Citadel of Saint Martin, where, incidentally, the famously innocent Captain Alfred Dreyfus was held before transportation to Devil’s Island after being convicted of treason (it was a set-up).

Being canny travellers, we thought visiting La Rochelle in late March would see us safe from the touring masses. And we were tourist safe!

On arrival, we grabbed a suddenly vacant parking space in the old city, which is a veritable wasp's nest of one way, narrow streets. (And that's another story. "Am I a slow learner?" I ask myself, or just unaccountably optimistic regarding our navigational skills in old French towns.)  Val and I then strolled hand in romantic hand from the quiet back street onto the quay…. and were gobsmacked. 

The quayside was teeming with people. The day we arrived was the very first sunny, warm Sunday of the year and every young Frenchie for miles around had the same brilliant idea: "let’s hit the quayside cafes and bars at La Rochelle."   The atmosphere was electric, thrilling and the spectacle just fantastic. Picture a wide rectangular quay, packed with cafes each filled with animated people, each table home to stacks of used beer glasses; think of a hundred sailing boats rocking in the harbour, all backed by the beautiful twin stone towers and lovely warm sunshine. Great!

Looking across the inner harbour of La Rochelle with the
twin guard towers in the background 

We eventually found a table free at a café on the shaded side of the quay and enjoyed a beer and the scene. La Rochelle is home to the largest fleet of yachts and other pleasure boats on the French Atlantic coast. Its only 4 hours by fast car from Paris if you are prepared to pay the tolls!

Having extricated ourselves and car from the one-way labyrinth of the old town and having found our waterside hotel and shoe-horned our small travel bags into our miniscule room, its back to the quay to find dinner.

Now, at other times, we have found:
·       The Harassed French waiter: in a town square in Brittany on a lovely Sunday afternoon with only one café open, packed out, the one waiter rushing everywhere and I try to order in French…”Monsieur, I speak English, just order please.”
·       The Funny French waiter: in a tourist café on the Left Bank, Paris, the waiter admires our daughter’s hat, grabs it off her head, twirls it around then plonks it on his head and goes prancing through the restaurant.
·       The Maccers check out chic: Yes, I have to admit that we have been to a Maccers joint. You too would need a pee and a coffee after picking up a hire car from Charles de Gaulle Airport and the pick up point is dead centre of the huge complex and its peak hour and there’s no hand-break...etc etc.

And now we can add the Supercilious French Waiter to our tally.

We choose a restaurant, the young lady usher (read tout) ushers us to a nice terrace table. Lovely, but I feel the call of nature. Inside I go and there, at last, I find him, the supercilious French waiter.
 “Pardon,  monsieur, ou est les toilettes?” I ask. He flicks a finger, pointing to another room “on the right” he says. “Ah non, monsieur, en francais, a droite” says I, smoothly demonstrating my intimate grasp of the French language. My admittedly impertinent remark elicits not the faintest hint of a smile, just a cold short stare and HE turns away.

Back at the table, HE arrives with the menus. “Will madam and monsieur take an aperitif?” “Thank you, champagne please”

HE returns with two icy stemmed glasses, but small, and a magnum of fine champagne. “Ah” I exclaim somewhat alarmed, “we don’t want a bottle” (particularly not such a large one, I’m thinking).  “No, monsieur” Do I detect a hint of a sneer as, with one elegant hand, HE expertly pours a thimble-full of champagne for each of us.

We accept HIS advice that the two fish dish, a single item on the menu, is just what we need:
“The two fish today are sea bass and sole”.  “We would both like the fish dish” I say. “Which fish monsieur?” I’m confused: “The two fish dish” I reply. HE raises an eyebrow: “But which fish…the bass or the sole?” (note... monsieur has been dropped, and the penny drops also).
“One of each, please.”

The fish de jour arrives accompanied with a barely audible “bon appetit” from our friend. The fish was excellent, and so was the bill now smilingly presented by our friend. The two sips of champagne came out at Euro11 each! And I’m sure he overcharged for the fish.

Oysters, we had been told, are a Rochefort speciality. So next morning we drive out to the nearby Rochefort seaside, relish the sea air, have an ice cream and watch families diligently collecting buckets of mussels and oysters from the rocks. It has been a family tradition for 100’s of years.

Each oysterman seems to have a beachside oyster “Degustation” outlet. From the string of faded and ramshackle sheds backing onto the rocks we select a likely looking establishment, chiefly because there is a vacant parking spot right in front.

It’s a mum and dad place, busy but clean. He shucks the oysters; she takes the orders, “plates up” and gets it to the patrons. The “restaurant” is at the back, open air, with a few rough hewn timber picnic style tables and benches set in the concrete work space amidst the bits and pieces of the oysterman’s trade. Dare I say, the view is quite acceptable, out over the seaside rocks to the estuary and two distant island forts dating from the time “les Anglais” were somewhat too active in the area.
Val waiting for our gourmet luncheon. The "bikies" have
just left, in case you are thinking that it does not look
crowded!
It’s busy. Half the tables are taken up by latter-day bikies: older, pony-tailed, grey haired (aren’t we all) and very cheerful. At another table is a Paris chic group, just debarked from a rather large Merc. And there’s us, the token Aussies. We shared a table with two French ladies.

A dozen large oysters, lemon slices, chunks of fresh bread, butter and a glass (sorry, a plastic cup) of France’s finest chateau cardboard vin blanc all for 9 Euro! This is close to being the ultimate dining experience.  Sure beats champagne at 11 Euro a thimble-full.







Bon Appetit

Bryan and Val



P.S. from Val.  I asked the oysterman how best to open the oyster.  He showed me; stick the knife in the back joint of the oyster shell and just work it around. He did wear a thick glove!!
















Wednesday 26 February 2014

La Charente scene: Tell and Show (with a few Irreverent Comments)

Big Julie annexed Gallia Aquitania, including La Charente, for the Roman Empire in several campaigns ranging over the years 55-50 BC, in the process subduing the Auqitanii and other Celtic tribes led by Vercingetorix, he of the large moustaches. The “casus belli” was ostensibly to protect the Roman province of Provincia (guess its current name…no prizes) and the route to Spain from those rapacious Northern tribes. The fact that Aquitania had lots of lovely iron works and lots of lovely gold and lots of lovely arable land probably did have some faint appeal to Big Julie, relatively impoverished as he personally was back home.

La Charente was rich, developed and thoroughly Romanised and Christianised by the time the Visigoths came by, followed by the Franks at the start of the 6th century. The Franks thought all things Roman were pretty good and thoroughly enjoyed themselves, lording it over the countryside and establishing themselves as the new local aristocracy.

This religious and Roman heritage is everywhere evident nowadays. Every village has a church and every church (almost) is in the Romanesque style, and good ruins abound. Aquitaine was of course once Eleanor’s fiefdom and her marriages to Philip of France and Henry 11 of England (sequentially, not bigamously) gave history Richard, Coeur de Lion, and the 100 Years War which, incidentally, provided Jeanne d’Arc with her big opportunity.
Fortified church at Montignac-le-Coq...note the holes
 in the projecting "battlement" from which
to drop nasty things onto undesirable outsiders

Chateaux, castles and villages changed hands regularly during these very turbulent times, times not made any easier with the Black Death doing its best for copulation control. 

Many of the 12th century churches were fortified during these years to provide refuge for the locals from rampaging army foragers (of both sides) and gangs of discharged or, more likely, unpaid soldiers who, literally, had nothing better to do! There are several excellent examples of fortified churches in our local area.

Today, however, the Charente region is not a rich region. Average monthly household income (2011 figures) was Euro2225 which was 28% below the French average of E3081 whereas Ile-de-France (i.e. Paris) was top at E4228.  (Australian average household income 2011 at then exchange rates was about Euro2950.)

“Oh, how very interesting” I hear you, dear reader, crying out, “but what’s the place like TODAY!”

Generally, most of the villages and the smaller towns display an unkempt appearance, almost proudly so! “I’m Gallic and I don’t care what you think”, seems to be the local ethos. Window shutters often are peeling and unpainted, buildings' walls with render patches fallen off, lots of lichen, rampant ivy and such stuff. In the countryside many old farm buildings are reverting to nature. Even within the more prosperous farmsteads, there are most often falling-down outhouses and barns. 

The rear view of a neighbour's prosperous goat farm.
However, put it all together and the overall effect for country and village is extraordinarily charming and engaging. Farmsteads dot the countryside and almost every hill of any consequence sports a small village complete with beautiful church. Copses and tree lines interlink; a network of narrow sealed roads connects villages and farms. (How the local postie finds her way around is a marvel.) Every town has its hill-top fortified chateau, some quite imposing and others more modest, but still dominating the local area. 

There is a very strong English ex-pat presence in the area, I would say almost a sub-culture, quite separate from the French ways. At the Aubeterre-sur-Dronne Christmas market Val and I were surprised that hardly a French word could be heard! Travelling around, one can easily pick when a village is an ex-pat enclave: it’s been gentrified, done up, lost that essential Gallic insouciance…to its detriment this traveller would say. But I’m just passing through!

Our local town, Montmoreau, is distinctly odd. Over several years and visits, your traveller throws in so nonchalantly, we have run the gauntlet of many, many French villages and towns.   French town plans are clearly based on the random throw of wooden blocks and have a street layout to match. Not Montmoreau however, no sir, we have a straight-down-the-middle, get-out-of-the-way main road. Most odd!

Important Note to the unwary fellow traveller: do not under any circumstances let Sally, your GPS cyber voice, guide you through a French town…if, like Ned Kelly, you are so game, make sure you have plenty of essential supplies…say, trois litres per personne de vin rouge et six baguettes et fromage. On one trip, Sally guided us into a town on market day. After much navigational disagreement, we ended up lost, in a very narrow laneway, beside a church, naturally, and in desperation about to turn into a one way lane, against the arrow.
"Non, non, non" a passing Frenchman shouted at us. Being seasoned travellers, we could tell he was French by the baggy blue trousers, the two-day stubble and the gauloise drooping from the bottom lip...or was it a gitane?...no matter. "Gendarmes, gendarmes" he shouted, gesticulating around the very corner we were about to so blithely traverse. Expertly and very kindly, he guided me in reverse into a very tight side niche, got me out again and pointed in the right direction and cheerily waved us on our way. Two litres later we exited the maze, happily on the correct road to that night's gite. But I digress, yet again.

Ah yes, Montmoreau. Apart from the Super U supermarche and the all-night cigarette machine in the main rue, our town’s main attractions are it’s lovely old church with a remarkable façade and a 12th century bridge. That’s another oddity; one could easily jump over Le Tude, our river; certainly a couple of planks would do the job, but the local aristo back then thoughtfully provided a lovely stone bridge. Well, I suppose tolls were so very useful in meeting one’s social commitments.

Before our arrival in La Charente in late November, we had simply assumed that the whole place would exhibit rather a wintry drabness, a sombre, colourless background to cold winter days. Let your traveller happily report that this is not so. There is much beauty in the harmonious earthen colours of countryside and tucked-in buildings, in the stark trees, the plough-turned clay fields, the soil profusely suffused with limestone pieces, and the occasional winter-green crops.

Every so often, one turns a corner to a stunning view of countryside and castle. We have a favourite drive to Villebois-Lavalette where we top a particular rise and there, directly in front, is a view of the village and its medieval castle, complete with crenellated walls and high keep, silhouetted against the blue sky (actually grey sky, but blue seems more romantic, doesn’t it….straight out of “King Arthur”, THE Major Motion Picture).

The castle at Villebois-Lavalette. Several of the 'clouds'
are actually con-trails
Val in the ancient covered market place Villebois-Lavalette
Right now (that’s late February) the unseasonable drizzle and the winter seems to be abating. Today has been very mild and sunny. The trees in our garden are in bud, daffodils and tulips and primrose are about to show us their spring glory and the hedges are sprouting abundant leaves. Looking out the window I can see a peach tree covered in white blossom. The winter landscape is so beautiful: bring on spring!   

Val and I love driving home from the Chalais market, or from anywhere, via the back lanes. One can get lost…”come on navigator (me to Val) where the hell are we”… but it really does not matter. Keep going.… take the next left…. (or right, who cares after all)…. and soon we come across a road sign pointing to a recognisable location. The sign that seems to be everywhere says “Aubeterre-sur-Dronne, 9km”, but that’s OK. We know our way home from Aubeterre.


Au revoir, cheers and all that stuff
votre tres contant voyageurs

Bryan et Val   (see, we are picking up francaise)