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 15^th Century and that in the 18^th 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.

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.   

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!!

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 6^th 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 12^th 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 12^th 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) 

Cooking and Shopping and Food....Glorious Food!

Oh, the trials of an Australian cook in France (byline: Val)

Of Self Raising Flour and Measuring Cups!!

The need arose before Christmas for me (Val) to cook (1) Christmas cake and (2) Christmas Pud.  Of course one needs self raising flour.  And measuring cups.  No measuring cups either in the house or the supermarket, or SR flour either for that matter. I looked in every likely shop we came across, including some very big hypermarches, but no measuring cups or SRF to be seen. Solution: email Kerry (our Exchangee) as she must have cups somewhere in the house, after all, every cook uses measuring cups, don’t they! The answer came back: “Oh, that’s an Americanism, they never caught on in England or France!” Google supplied the conversion of cups to grams.

Now, in the supermarches there seems to be a different flour for every conceivable cooking activity, stacks of the stuff….except self raising flour.         OK Google, what’s with SR flour in France?  The oracle advised that it’s called “farine de Ble pour Gateaux”, as every good Australian cook surely should know. Back to the local SuperU, check the shelves, and there at the very bottom….Flour for Gateaux!!

I spend a lot of time musing over labels, pictures, descriptions, the various cuts of meat (so different from "back home", especially the beef, but that's too expensive anyway) etc. And absolutely love it.

 So Christmas was looking good – ALMOST. 

For mains, I fancied “chapon”, the Charentaise traditional bird for Le Noel…(chapon: a castrated rooster. Just how do they do that? I ask myself…dear reader, your appropriate answers to this little conundrum in the comments would be most welcome).  Anyway, the smallest chapon was far too big for the two of us.  So it was back to boring old chook and seafood – (oysters are sold by the crateload outside the supermarkets– live and unopened) – we bought a dozen (shells not cases), plus fresh prawns and crab claws. We balked at the other little shellfish things, cockles and mussels and other odd sea beasties.  There’s also tons of foi gras pates available –very smooth and quite delicious on fresh French bread. 

Le Fromage and other good stuff

Of course, the French just LOVE their cheese!  Every imaginable cheese, too numerous to list.
(I’m drooling as I write this). Imagine the Maleny IGA Dairy cabinet – the whole length of it - all cheese, plus a couple of other fridges full (pictured). There is no way we can sample them all before we have to go home, after all we only have 11 months! Then there is the hugely long yoghurt/dairy fridge, not a lot of fresh milk nor cream, but there is plenty of UHT stuff. Plaintive cry: but I can't find any normal cream. Really, I’d kill for a bottle of fresh Maleny Dairies cream!

Apart from the dairy fridges, we have the charcute (cold meat) fridge.  Loads of different hams and smoke cured meats, sliced and prepacked, salamis, knacks (Knacks: an Alsace French delicacy which Bryan adores, similar to, but much tastier than, hot dogs and which go ‘knack’ when bitten). Not a slice of English style bacon to be seen, oh well, bacon and eggs aren't that good for one anyway!

Our Christmas menu: Entree of baguette and foie gras pate (avec champagne, Saumer brut):  loads of prawns, oysters and crab claws (avec a lovely Cadet Rousselle 2012 savignon): roasted chook with vegies (avec…by now can’t remember, probably local red):  said Christmas pud (errr…avec Charentaise pineau).  Fortunately the scales in our “chateau” read 4 kilo light!

Shopping with  Jeremy….

Shopping (les courses) is all a great adventure for both of us.  Bryan is over the “c’mon, hurry up” habits of old.  He pushes the trolley, checks the specials and pays the bill.  Quite the reverse of our Australian habits.

Jeremy runs the local Super U Deli (same as IGA plus cheese) in our local town of Montmoreau. Fortunately for us, he speaks English and already we are on very good terms with him (Me, cheek to cheek peck, Bryan, handshake). He comes out from behind his counter especially. 

We are working our way through his pates, firstly the gorgeous Terrine a Eschalote (pictured below centre with the colourful adornment). To-day we bought Grillon Charentais, only available in the Charent. Next week, it will be the Terrine De Forestiere (mushrooms). All sliced fresh from the whole dish.  Jeremy is also very helpful if we need a food translation (should have used him for the flour search).
  

We buy our fuel and gas at Super U, also have the car washed when necessary in their Euro 4 auto car wash.  Maybe I’ll buy some seed spuds and other veg when in season from the Bricomarche, next door to SuperU.  The two seem to go hand-in-hand.  Our veg garden is underway with garlic and onions already planted and up.  When in France……

One great delight on Monday mornings is to go around the local street market at Chalais, another nearby town. The market occupies three of the main streets of the town. As the streets are narrow, the old buildings three stories high and the sun low, it’s quite cold.  We look at everything, buy a few veg (I’m delighted with myself; this last Monday I actually bought my market vegies using only French) then go down to the local Intermarche, another big supermarket, to buy the rest of the days goodies. We have just found a LIDL supermarche in Chalais also, which has the same business concept as ALDI. Prices are high at the market compared to the supermarche so the pocket rules over romance!

Rue de Angouleme, Chalais, Monday market day

We usually stop for a coffee at one of the bar/cafes for fortification (non-alcoholic, we don’t drink ALL the time!)  We have learnt to order “deux café crème grande, sil vous plais” with some panache.  Usually get what we want. Bryan hasn’t made any more gaffs....yet!

Cheers to all our good friends....here's a lovely recipe for you...bon appetit!

Val and Bryan

Yummy Versatile Blackberry Sauce

Y

               Put the blackberries in a pan, add about half as much water and a sprinkling of suger. Bring to the boil.

Add two or three tablespoons of good matured Balsamic vinegar (the original recipe calls for vinaigre de Banyuls…a French Pyrenees vinegar, perhaps a bit hard to find in Maleny)  and a little red wine or fortified wine, maybe muscat (now that’s a little for the pot, a glass for the cook, naturellement). Add two or three cloves, or maybe cinnamon, and simmer till the berries are cooked and there is not too much liquid left. Grind loads of black pepper over. Serve with blanc de canard (don’t be lazy, look it up), grilled over open BBQ coals.  Delicieux!

The cold sauce goes very well with haricot de vanille crème glacée.  Sans the pepper and vinegar of course!

Acknowledgement: Rosemary Bailey, "Life in a Postcard", Bantam Books 2002
Highly recommended read: subtitled "Escape to the French Pyrenees" 

Closing Ze Blooody Dooor at the "Salle des Fetes"

We are at the local “salle des fete”  (community hall) in Juignac, France, 16190, December  9^th 2013 as guests at a French village fete, this one thrown to celebrate the very end of the harvest season.

At the appointed hour, 7.00pm, we had been at home waiting for our farming neighbour, Jerome, to pick us up for the evening, which he did: at 7.30, naturally!  Well, we had read that one does not get a drink at French functions until everyone has arrived. Obvious solution: get fortified before one leaves home. So we do.

Good idea!! Because it’s true. We arrive, people are all standing about chatting in small groups, organizers are moving tables about (why is it that organizers anywhere feel a compulsion to move tables about?...but I digress (yet again)). Not a drink to be seen anywhere….how very un-Australian!

Val at the Salle des Fetes, Juignac, some days later.

But let me give you initial impressions: First, there is absolutely no pretension. Forget the “Paris chic” culture (we are, after all, five hundred km from Paris), forget the idea that the Frenchies don’t want to know you, forget the idea that you are in a foreign country (although that’s rather hard when all these people speak, very fast, in foreign tongues). Everyone is just enjoying being part of the village culture. Perfectly normal.

Dress code: Country warm. Men: mainly jeans or a type of corduroy matched with warm woollen jumpers,  topped by overcoat and long scarf when outside. Ladies, very similar, some with dresses and all with slightly heeled boots.

Jerome introduces us to the committee chairman, Christian (little English), and then to the local mayor, Alan (no English).  Handshakes and smiles everywhere. Alan had in fact provided us, some months earlier, with a mayoral letter to present to the French long-stay visa authorities attesting to our hosts’ good standing and the fact that we were genuine tourists and had a place to live in France, rent free. All part of the French authorities’ love affair with paperwork and rules (many of which, I believe, are ignored in real life.)

Activity starts, nibbles (peanuts and chips and pate) are passed around and (hallelujah) drinkies are being poured and passed. Everyone gets the same…. fruit juice.

Ahhhh!!!!….fruit juice.....but wait…. Jerome assures me that the juice has been liberally laced with pineau, the local Charentaise  apero.  All is well after all!

Just like any community evening in any local hall in Australia, Christian, the chairman, takes the microphone:  although we don’t understand the detail he is obviously making the usual welcome speech one hears at these events. So, Christian is talking away, Val and I are nodding away, when I realise that he is referring to a postcard from Kerry and Brian, our exchangees now in our home in Maleny. Clearly, they are very popular members of this community, even though they are Anglos. Naturally at this point Val and I are brought to the fore and introduced as guests at the fete, living in Kerry’s home. We smile and nod even more vigorously.  Give me another fruit juice.

But wait, what’s Christian doing with the mike. No, noooooo.

He’s thrusting it into my very unwilling hand and standing back with a big smile. I’ve got the mike, I’m looking at 50-odd Frenchies, standing in a semicircle around the hall, all smiles and with an expectant air.

I’m thinking “bloooddy hell”. OK, can’t let the side down. It’s gotta happen, let’s try the old faithful Australian opening line:

“Good’ay mates”. Nothing, absolutely no response.

 Obviously they mustn’t have heard: try louder “GOOD’AY MATES”.

Absolutely no response.

Plan B: Forget that idea and fall back on my limited tourist French, assiduously studied for 18 months with our U3A teacher, Patricia. I have no recollection of what I said, I do remember stumbling on words and using English a bit and I do remember getting some responses, a laugh or two (probably at my French) and good clap at the end. I’m delighted (Patricia, if you are reading this, thank you). Give me another fruit juice! On second thoughts, the clapping was probably in appreciation of the cessation of linguistic murder.

View of a lane from the Salle des Fetes area of Juignac, (just
 to add pictorial interest to my lovely narrative) 

Food’s coming out now; Christian takes Val and places her at his right hand at a table, me next to her and a young French couple opposite and another beside us. We are made most welcome. Christian ensures that we get full plates of the first charcute course, and now the RED arrives, and continues to arrive at a great rate (unlabelled local house wine). Charcute consists of thin slices of cold savoury sausage, and lots of salads.  Quite yummy.

"Le plat principal” (main course) is slices of cool boiled pork, complemented by potato chips (as in “crisps”) and masses of warm green beans, served from a huge tray of beans. Gourmet no, delicious yes.  The cheese course follows.... with beer. And dessert was a rather delicious ice cream...with  beer. But potato chips as a main course component?  Well, why not? Val and I enjoy the whole experience...with beer.

It’s a curious thing but it looks as if almost every adult is popping outside the hall at any break to grab a smoke. It really can’t be everyone, surely, as the official figure is that “only” 30% of French people smoke. However, adults are coming and going through the double door airlock entry. And kids are running back and forth through the door.  Our table is near the door, regularly collecting blasts of cold air. Katya, one of the young mums sitting at our table, is forever shouting to the kids to close the door: “fermee la porte!!!”

“Katya, what you need to shout is “close the bloody door”….it always works at home.”

Katya is puzzled, holds up her wrist and makes a slashing action….”blood” she asks?

 “Oui, bloody est le mot (the word)”.

“Ahhh,” says Katya, and proceeds to shout enthusiastically at every door incursion
 “closse ze bloooddy dooor”.  OK, I do exaggerate the accent a trifle.

The evening is closing down. Kids are clinging to parents, some falling asleep on the floor, those that  aren’t testing the door hinges, that is. Various people (either gender) come up and give us a two peck air-kiss, one each cheek, and say “Bon Soir”. Actually that’s for Val, I get a handshake. Maybe, given time, we will be elevated to the three-peck social level.

It's nearly midnight.

Bon soir from Val and Bryan

OOPS........I've dropped the crab!!!

PS  This picture has nothing to do with the story, but it is just too funny to be in a side bar!