Grapeful for one's neighbours

Community spirit is very important in our part of France. This may seem strange because so many of us live in such isolated places, but perhaps that’s exactly why one’s neighbours are so precious.

Most of the folk here have known one another for years, many went to school together and practically everyone is related in some way. Jack, my husband, is convinced that most of them look similar which is not at all correct, but it does provide him with a convenient excuse for getting everyone’s names mixed up. So, with a mix such as this, one might expect the locals to behave in an insular way towards outsiders, but not a bit of it.

Within the first few weeks of arriving at our new home, invitations to soirees’ began to appear. Visitors turned up – just to say hello – and presents would mysteriously appear on our door step. At first we rarely knew who they were from because the giver was too coy to leave a message, but soon we were able to guess.

Today is no different. We continue to be treated with the same regular flow of interesting gifts, all of which have been grown or homemade. Most of these are absolutely delicious but some, such as the colourless bottles of eau de vie, take some getting used to. I'm not sure I ever will.

My synonym for this ghastly liquid is rocket-fuel.  (I suspect the American equivalent, for example, might be moonshine.) Mine is a term which I consider to be far more apt for a beverage that contains enough alcohol to burn a hole in one’s table, should a drop accidentally hit the surface. Quite how it is supposed to aid one’s health beats me. Nevertheless, it is a very popular digestif here, and we are very grateful indeed to the gift-givers for their thoughtfulness.

There are occasions, however, when we are all lucky and the visitor arrives when we are in. I say lucky, but actually it can rather depend on the person involved. Some people adopt the kiss-give-kiss-go routine whilst others prefer a lengthier meeting. I of course embrace each technique involved, but Jack is prone to becoming just a little twitchy when a visitor has become overly relaxed. Just such an occurrence happened recently.

It was mid-afternoon and I'd been out with the dogs. We'd enjoyed a nice long ramble in the forest and returned via the bird pens. I attended to my usual husbandry jobs with the pheasants and quail first, then stopped to have a gossip with the chickens. All chores done, I set off back to the house with my hands full of warm fresh eggs.

As I approached the kitchen door the dogs became excitable in a way that indicated we had company. Unfortunately I was too slow on the uptake. My following thoughts about controlling them and executing a civilised entry were quickly foiled by Max. He has recently been working on a technique to open the door single-pawed and succeeded at that moment. The pair of them bowled in ahead of me, and gave our visitors a welcome they would never forget.

Fortunately I already knew these delightful people. Jean-Luc and Elodie are country folk who have lived in a village close by for many years, and are well used to animals. Nevertheless, a muddy paw print or two on one’s Sunday best isn’t always a welcome addition.

I eventually peeled the dogs off our visitors, we performed our ritual series of kisses, and I joined them at the table. It was then that I glanced over at Jack. He looked absolutely exhausted, and judging by the number of empty coffee cups already in front of them, I could guess why.

Jean-Luc and his wife have been retired for a number of years. He is a tiny pixie of a chap and she dwarfs him in most ways, particularly with her bosom, which is tremendously ample. Both from farming stock, when he was a lad, Jean-Luc found that he had extremely green fingers and built up a successful fruit-growing business. Sales of his produce eventually extended across Europe which had enabled him to pass on the business to younger family members, and focus on his passion – citrus fruit.

I have always loved chatting to Jean-Luc because he has such a wealth of knowledge, but I’m afraid the same can’t be said of Jack. Unless there’s a machine part involved he has very little interest in the topic concerned, and particularly when it relates to plants. But there is another facet of Jean-Luc's personality that Jack has difficulty with. Jean-Luc is a terrific talker.

As a retired person he is entirely capable of captivating audiences for hours on end with his gems of knowledge. I, as one of his disciples hang on his every word, but Jack is prone to distance himself within seconds of the word agrumes (citrus) being mentioned. However, today was different. Without me there to help out, he had been well and truly trapped.

First things first, I asked if anyone would like a fresh coffee. Ignoring the vicious look and strangled protestations from Jack, I removed the debris and refreshed everyone’s cups. I also dug out some rather yummy chocolate biscuits, I knew that Elodie had a sweet tooth, she’d love these.

Once I’d settled back down to exchange local news, Jack explained the reason for their visit. Our conversation was conducted in French. “Look, darling, Jean-Luc and Elodie have been kind enough to bring us a present.”

“Oh how lovely,” I replied, beaming at our guests, who beamed back – savouring their moment of suspense. “and, erm… it’s…” I couldn’t see anything anywhere. Jean-Luc, sensing that his dramatic moment had come produced a bag full of grapefruits from his lap. “Voila!” he said plonking them on the table with a peal of pixie giggles.

“Ah how kind,” I cried, “I love grapefruit, you know I do. They look wonderful.” It was then that I made my first tactical error. “Have you had a good harvest this year?”

That was it, Jean-Luc was off. His nut-brown walnut-creased face shone with pride as he described every one of the 53 grapefruits he had reaped from his prize tree. Some had small blemishes, others were an abnormal shape but these things did not matter – the taste was exquisite for each. But this was just one tree. We all knew that he had several others. I couldn’t help myself, “well that’s excellent, Jean-Luc, I can’t wait to try these ones. What about your other trees? Have they been equally successful?”

Jean-Luc positively glowed with joy at the opportunity to discuss his leafy family and immediately launched into a detailed description of each one. For the next 45 minutes there was absolutely no need at all for anyone to say anything. All available air space had been taken up with Jean-Luc's fruit homilies. Every now and again Jack tried valiantly to interrupt with a concluding question, but eventually gave up as each was deftly batted away. Instead he rolled his eyes and sat back, temporarily defeated. Even the dogs had gone to bed. But the impact on Elodie was the most impressive.

Elodie and Jean-Luc have been married for over 50 years. She is a treasure of a lady, one of those people who has a radiant face that is filled with kindness and smiles, and experience from many years of doing good to others. She is also blessed with the patience of Job and has developed an excellent technique at dealing with her husband’s agrume stories.

Elodie was sitting next to Jean-Luc, but slightly out of his eye line. Jack and I were opposite. During a particularly captivating aside about lemon tree grafting I looked to Elodie to garner her opinion only to find that her eyes were tightly shut. This was embarrassing. I looked away quickly, but human nature being what it is, I looked again. This time she smiled beatifically, flickered an eye, and was off again. It seems that Elodie was a mistress of the power-nap.

I was extremely impressed with her serene tactics but sadly a little later she came somewhat unstuck. Sensing that Jean-Luc was far from finished, she roused herself gamely and stretched over for a chocolate biscuit. The house was warm so the coating was slightly tacky by now, but this didn’t seem to concern her one bit. I mildly wondered whether it may have been the warmth that contributed to her soporific state too. It’s hard to say.

Elodie sat back with her partially nibbled biscuit positioned delicately between her finger and thumb, and nodded off again. I watched with mounting horror as the melting Cadbury’s chocolate finger gradually began to slither through her fingers, dangling enticingly above her cleavage. It was one of those dreadful moments of etiquette where a decision has to be made. Does one alert her and in so doing make it clear to her husband that she had not been hanging on to his every word? Or does one hope that she wakes up and recaptures her biscuit in time? Sadly I was too late.

The biscuit slid between her fingers and straight down her cleavage. It was a perfect shot. I was absolutely mortified and quickly fixed my attentions on Jean-Luc. He had now moved to the pithy subject of kumquats, a particular favourite of his, so there was no telling how long he’d take. Fortunately it was just the break that Elodie needed.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw that she had been roused by the disappearance of her chocolate finger. Instead of making a girlie outburst she dealt with the situation like a pro. This had obviously happened before. She quickly produced a hankie, gently fishing it out and despatching it in one mouthful. A couple of dabs in the appropriate place later and she was off again, only to be roused a few minutes later by a tiny snore. I was terribly impressed.

Jean-Luc finally ended his discussion, which was unsurprising because he must have been talking non-stop for close on three hours by now and was becoming rather hoarse. He smiled, geniality itself, and asked if we had any more questions. Poor Jack was in a completely numb state by this stage and simply wagged his head in resignation. It’s true that I could have listened to more, he was such an interesting man, but just didn’t think Jack could cope. I shook my head too. Elodie, on the other hand, was now perfectly alert and fully refreshed. She turned to her husband with an expression of pride, always ready to hear more if he had a mind to offer.

However, in the end Jean-Luc decided that they really must be on their way. He still had to treat an ailing lemon tree and that could take time. As they were on their way out he suddenly turned and said, “Ah but I have one more present for you. Follow me please.”

We followed, intrigued by what this might be. I began to babble about not needing any more, they had already been so generous as it was, but he brushed my words aside with a grin and pointed. There it was – sitting in the middle of the drive – a perfect young grapefruit tree. “You see,” he said, “when you first came to live here you told me that you liked grapefruit trees. I listened to this and I have grown this one especially for you.”

I couldn’t believe my eyes - even Jack was impressed. But it wasn’t just the beauty of the tree that captivated my emotions it was the genuine, kind thoughtfulness of these people. Our thanks could never be enough.

Sensing our gratitude only served to make them happier still and they trundled off with promises to return once Jean-Luc's cherry crop had ripened. He was certain we’d love those too.

The significance of this story is not so much the gifts that were given, it is the attitude of the givers. It provides you with another typical example of what living with neighbours in this part of France is all about. Our experiences so far are of a small community who look after and support one another, give when they can, never expecting anything in return. We are profoundly moved by genuine kindnesses like this.

New year expectations.

As the sun set on 2015 the year ended in a blaze of bucolic glory with the usual round of traditional country festivities. The first main event was our annual soirée, a drinks and nibbles party we hold for our friends which is always a great success. One of the reasons for this is because of 'le quiz'. It is something that the folk in these parts had not encountered in quite the same way before, and has since become something of a phenomenon.

At first our guests regarded it with scepticism, but once everyone grasped the fun side of it, they quickly embraced the idea and morphed into an unruly rabble. This year was no exception. Jack, my husband, is quizmaster. He is a natural autocrat and therefore perfectly cast in this role, which he takes extremely seriously. With a stern eye on the excited assembled company he barks out general instructions which nobody listens to, and announces who is on which team. He then hands round question papers, pencils and reading specs, one for each group.

Team selection always causes an undercurrent of concern because, quite frankly, nobody wants to be stuck with Louis Saveur, or Chloe Pentade and certainly not Sebastian Foulard. We all love Louis but, as a double hearing-aid wearer, he has dreadful difficulty with personal volume control. Therefore, at regular intervals during the heat of the competition, he can be heard blasting the answer to a question across the room. This completely foils the team’s advantage and creates a spate of feverish scribbling amongst those opposing players who have been lurking close by in spy-mode.

Chloe is an enchanting person too, but Jack is convinced that she a few peas short of a casserole. She certainly loves the idea of the quiz, and if only she would read the instructions, or even listen, things might go a lot smoother. We all try to explain the process, but she’s one of those people who presses all the buttons on a gadget, breaks it, and then asks for help afterwards. So I’m afraid that despite being keen as mustard, she is never a key contributor. Sadly her enthusiastic and somewhat random chatter gets in the way of a pithy clue debate too, and frequently becomes an unwanted distraction. However, her input never lasts for long because she is easily side-tracked and usually wanders off halfway through to contemplate other things.

Then there is Sebastian. A complete stalwart, but does have the unfortunate character trait of believing that he is never wrong – about anything. Unluckily for his team mates, he has now added his perceived prowess at quizzing to this belief. This causes frequent arguments between him and his team as they quarrel their way through every question where there’s a risk that their opinion may differ from his own. Strained though it may be, a relatively democratic approach to the answering process is usually maintained unless Sebastian gains control of the pencil and answer sheet. This can have a catastrophic effect. In this event he has been known to score out previously well considered responses and replace them with his own.

Sebastian’s behaviour often has ramifications at the end of the quiz too. When the answers are revealed he habitually wags his head in disappointment at the ineptitude of the quizmaster’s lamentable research if the official answers do not match his own.

The combined effect of Louis’ shouting, the general disruption caused by Chloe’s random chitchat and the combative style of Sebastian, naturally creates a considerable increase in volume, and much animated debate. But this riotous behaviour is not a problem for someone as bossy as my husband. Jack efficiently rises to the challenge by stalking around, keeping order and returning moles to their correct teams.

When time is called, and question papers swapped, Jack’s announcing of the answers causes renewed barracking from the mob, some of whom are jubilant, others dismayed. He then has to deal with several points of order from Yves. Yves is a language pedant who believes the omission of an accent, or any other punctuation detail, to be “vraiment très grave” and declares that if Jack would pay more attention to such details it would help him respond to the questions a lot better. This happens every year and participants are now wise to his protestations. Boisterous laughter follows as Yves is congratulated for providing the wrong answers, but in perfectly punctuated French. Thus the poor chap, unable to make any headway with his precision approach to the language, returns to his paperwork, tutting at the dismal show of misplaced accents and cedillas.

Finally, the winner is declared and prizes given for the first four teams. But it’s not the meagre gifts that fill these valiant victors with joy, it is the glorious knowledge that they have won the competition. Disagreements are instantly forgotten, pledges to improve general knowledge are made, and participants quaff their thirst and feed their appetites with renewed energy. The party continues until the early hours of the morning and as the revellers leave there are several cries of ‘the quiz, it was infernal! But don’t worry, we will win next year!’ Yes, it’s become a mainstay of our annual soirée, and the perfect kick-start to the festive season for us all.

Our other seasonal events include the Christmas night market where we immerse ourselves in the magical sights and sounds offered by a very special medieval town, and then the neighbours’ Christmas bash, held outside in the public layby of our local village. Everyone brings a food or drink contribution and we all sit around a huge log fire and gossip about the local goings-on in the area. It was during this evening when we were discussing Christmas present wishes, when Jack made a curious remark. “You know,” he said chewing on a hunk of delicious pizza, “I really fancy a nice sausage.”

“Oh, right, do you?” I replied, caught slightly off guard by this novel choice of stocking filler, “Monsieur Blanchard in Moissac makes lovely sausages, shall I get some from him?”

“No I mean proper English sausages, you know, the ordinary pork variety. I’ve never liked the French ones, much too complicated. It’s difficult to work out what’s inside them.”

“What, like herbs and garlic do you mean?”

“Yes exactly.” This was a shame, I love a nice herby sausage. I broke the sorry reality to him.

“Ah, well, I’m not sure where we’re going to get any of those. As you know the French do like their herbs.”

Jack looked wistfully into the middle distance, grunted and returned to his half-eaten slab.

The wonderful thing about Christmas is that it often brings happy surprises, and this year proved to be no exception. It was only a couple of days after our sausage conversation when Jack came bounding down the stairs whooping with joy. Jack never does this sort of thing, so whatever had happened, it must have been extraordinary.

“Guess what?” he gushed.

“Go on, tell me, what?”

“The fish and chips lads are doing a UK meat run. So we’re going to be able to have proper pork sausages for new year!” he exclaimed.

I should explain that, European sausages excepted, my husband is fairly cosmopolitan in his eating tastes. But he does love his Anglo-Saxon favourites such as traditional Yorkshire puddings, fish and chips and, of course, regular pork sausages. Yorkshires I can serve up with consummate ease, but my fish and chips just aren’t up to the standard of a British fish shop. Therefore you can imagine his excitement the day we heard about the mobile chippy, manned by a team of lads from Hull, that had started touring our area.

We have since been devoted disciples and Jack has been known to drive over 40 kilometres to track down a portion of battered cod ‘n’ chips, with mushy peas on the side. I must say that they are excellent too.

It appears that the team had diversified and decided to do a meat run during the festive period. They had sensibly emailed their clients with a list of goods, and given dates and locations for deliveries. Such was Jack’s enthusiasm that I quickly stopped what I was doing and we put together a list of our favourites, including large quantities of the all-important great British, unadulterated, pork sausage.

The day of the pick-up finally arrived, Jack was on tenterhooks. Then he received another email from his meat mates which read:

“Sorry the meat drop-off time is going to be delayed at Aruge because Doug turned off and went to the wrong Lauzern. Bloody GPS. Anway we’ll be at Aruge at 7pm instead of 6pm. Sorry. All the best.”

Never mind, we thought, easily done – just a minor setback.

I was busy with housework so despatched Jack with money and a copy of our order, confident that he couldn’t muck up this simple shopping errand because it had all been pre-organised. All he needed to do was pick up the goods and pay. Unfortunately, things didn’t turn out quite as planned.

Over an hour later Jack returned looking crestfallen. “What’s up darling, are you laden with meaty treasures?”

“Well the meat selection was about as organised as his GPS. I was the first customer there, thank God, otherwise it could have been even worse. They didn’t have half the stuff we ordered.” I looked at his face – it was a mask of misery.

“Oh what a shame. But did you manage to get the pork sausages?”

“Well yes, but they’re pork and cranberry!” 

“Oh that’ll be fine don’t worry about that. The flavour will be very subtle I’m sure,” I replied brightly, genuinely thinking that the cranberries would perk up an otherwise decidedly ordinary sausage a treat.

“I hate cranberry sauce, you know I do. It’s like eating jam and meat together,” Jack replied morosely.

“Don’t be silly, they’ll be lovely, come on let’s have a look at the other things.”

The contents of his bag weren’t overly inspiring I’m afraid, and bore very little resemblance to our original list. Jack explained this by saying that the lad knew the order was incomplete and had promised to come to our house the following afternoon to sort it out.

The next day we stayed close to the house so that we didn’t miss him but, as each hour passed, I could see that Jack’s patience was wearing thin. Finally, he couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, so he called his fish and chips mates and got the mobile number for the meat man.

I, of course, could only hear one side of the telephone conversation that followed, but this is how it went.

“Hello… hello... Doug? Ja… Jack… no… JACK HASLAM here! Yes, bad line I know… You said you were coming to the house… house – can you tell me when you’re going to get here..? Why?” At this point Jack was looking confused. “Well because you gave us the wrong order… WRONG… yes wrong, we talked about this last night…” Doug finally appeared to have understood the reason for the call, so Jack continued.

“For a start it’s those pork sausages, they’ve got chicory in them… chicory… Pardon? Spell it? Oh… c h i c o r y… Yes they have Doug! Of course I’m sure… How do I know what they look like? N… no of course I can’t describe them… Pardon? Why not? Oh well it’s because they’re all minced up bits inside the sausages but it quite clearly says chicory on the packet.”  Jack had not realised his culinary misidentification so I tried to help out by hissing the correct word at him. This had no effect at all. He was so worked up that he didn’t take a blind bit of notice of me. He continued doggedly.

“What colour? Oh, erm red… yes… lots of it… Look I’m sorry Doug but you’re not making any sense…” In order to save him from himself I stuck a post-it note under his nose with the correct ingredient name on it. Jack didn’t even change gear.

“Well alright yes, it might be cranberry… yes cranberry… Do you want me to spell that too? Ah good. Right, the point is we didn’t order those and you said you were coming to our house to sort it out… Ah, you are? You what? Which wrong turning?” Jack was now looking distinctly strained. 

“What on earth is wrong with your GPS device? No, I’m afraid that’s completely the wrong direction… WRONG way Doug!

“You’re catching a flight? What? What are you doing, driving here, or flying here?” Jack had developed a minor facial twitch. “Oh, right, I see. Well look, if you’re hoping to fly back to the UK tonight you’re never going to make it here as well. No… honestly, you’re not… thank you for the thought Doug but you’re still driving in the opposite direction…y… yes…. opposite.

"Look, Doug, we were really looking forward to eating some of the stuff we ordered, but we’ll probably not die… yes DIE from malnutrition over the next few days. No, nobody’s died – sorry, my joke, obviously shouldn’t have said that… yes… JOKE! So, take the time to get things organised and let us know a firm date and time when you’ll be arriving with the rest of the meat… date.

“Hello… hello? Doug?”

Doug had gone. Poor Jack looked absolutely exhausted. He had done all he could, and to compound matters it had been a very long conversation for someone with so little patience.

Since then we’ve not heard from poor Doug, and Jack is no closer to tasting his dream of a perfectly plain English pork sausage. However, we are confident that our enthusiastic young man will appear at some point in the future and then maybe, just maybe, my husband’s Christmas wishes will be answered.

Our New Year’s Eve celebrations, albeit sausage-less, went perfectly, and now we find ourselves at the beginning of 2016. Last year rushed by in the blink of an eye so goodness knows what this one will be like. Already we have several major events listed on our calendar, not least of which is my intention to bring you the third instalment of our adventures with Fat Dogs and French Estates. All being well it will be published in the late Spring this year and I do hope you will join me in reading more tales from our rural pocket of France.

In the meantime, as the sun rises on 2016 I wish you and your family a happy, healthy and successful year. Let’s hope it’s the best one yet.

Christmas in our part of rural France

Just for a moment close your eyes and try to recall a montage of the best memories you have ever had of Christmas time. Do they fill you with a sense of happiness and wellbeing? I sincerely hope so. Now, open them up again, and join me in a recollection of Christmas in our corner of France.

It was our first winter here and we didn’t know what to expect. After all, at this time of year there isn’t much to do on the farms, so jobs are generally confined to maintenance and indoor work.

The nights had drawn in and with them the country folk. Their houses looked winter-ready too. External shutters were mostly closed to save on heating bills, and although there were festive wreaths on front doors, we expected that everyone would switch to hibernation mode. As it turns out, this couldn’t have been further from the truth - they’re a hardy lot here. Food still has to be bought, stories told and babies’ heads patted. There are many places where this is done, but our weekly market is the local hot-spot. I braved the snowy conditions and went along to have a browse.

The usual stalwarts were out in force, disregarding the Arctic conditions and doing magnificent battle with icy cobble stones and slippery pavements. The new-fangled trolley pullers had a distinct advantage here as their trolleys slid with consummate ease, sleigh-like, over the dicey patches. But none of that influenced the traditionalists. This sturdy bunch of basket-luggers rallied together, staggering between the stalls and occasionally into one another. Luckily, fresh foodstuffs were in plentiful supply, so there was always something close by to grab hold of in case someone lost their balance. Cheery braziers were burning next to some of the market stalls, camping gas fires close to others. These became the chat areas where the latest family and recipe gossip could be exchanged, along with multiple kisses.  

With Christmas Day fast approaching there was a truly festive feel. I strolled amongst the roast horse-chestnut sellers sipping my piping hot beaker of vin chaud and took time to appreciate the scenes. Santa Claus was well represented with several traders clad in full regalia, gamely extracting their long, flowing beards from the produce, and occasionally the till. Others, Christmas-kitless, were so layered up with warm clothing that it was a job to see a face at all – nevertheless their rosy cheeks and bright smiles still shone through, oozing bonhomie. Decorations were plentiful too. Strings of low-slung fairy lights swayed gently in the breeze, as did the many lanterns which, every now and again, caught an unsuspecting shopper off-guard. They’d been suspended over the groceries and caused the occasional head-butt, but nobody seemed to mind. This kind of mishap is expected at Christmas.  

Then, from around the corner, a band appeared wearing Santa hats. Each had an accordion which they fired up and proceeded to royally entertain us with carols that I’d never heard before. This caused great excitement, especially among the basket brigade, several of whom broke out into an impromptu spate of dancing. I couldn’t help feeling that this was marginally dangerous because of the icy tarmac, and the age of each participant involved, which was certainly not young. Dancers ended up skittering around precariously on the skating rink surface but luckily there were no casualties. I watched for a while longer, satisfied myself that an ambulance would not be required, then hurried back home, laden with fresh goodies for lunch.

We finished our meal and snuggled up in front of our roaring fire, reluctant to move. It was bitterly cold out there. Brutus the cat had installed himself on my knee and was purring gently in unison with the Christmas music that was coming from the TV. The dogs were relaxed but watchful, knowing that this state of bliss wouldn’t last much longer. Come what may, afternoons always mean walk time.

“Come on, let’s be having you,” said Jack, my husband, charging into the room.

“Oh can’t we sit here a bit longer,” I pleaded, “Brutus and I are so cosy.”

“Nope, sorry, we’ve got lots to do and we’ll be late for tonight if we don’t get a move on.”

He was quite right. This evening we would go to the fête de noël des voisins. I reluctantly peeled a cuddly Brutus off my lap and joined Jack, who was energetically pulling on several pullovers and looking twice his usual size. That done he sat down and hauled on extra pairs of fat socks. He was unlikely to freeze, but movement might be something of a challenge. My seasonal extras comprised a faux leopard-print fleece plus a Russian hat with ear flaps. It’s cosy as anything and I love it. We couldn’t be accused of being à la mode but then we’ve never been keen followers of fashion. Finally, we both drew on our chunky fleecy gloves that guarded against an early-onset of frostbite, and went out to collect our quad bikes.

The forest and fields were a magical winter wonderland. Snow lay heavy on the ground, fabulously enhanced by the deep blue sky and sun. Rays shone down making the crystalline flakes refract the light and twinkle like a million colourful jewels. It was absolutely exquisite. As we headed into the forest to feed the game birds I watched Aby and Max with amusement. The Artic conditions, if anything, had made them even livelier. They frolicked around like mad things, charging ahead of the quad bikes with gay abandon like a team of untethered Huskies. This caused Jack to groan in mock temper and remark that their antics lent a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘boundless energy’. I think he was right. 

When we arrived at the bird pens it was clear that our poor pheasants and partridges needed a soupçon of seasonal cheer. Once again sticky snow had attached itself to their cages leaving them safe, but eerily cocooned inside. We shook off the flakes, cracked the ice on the drinkers and gave them fresh supplies of tepid water. This was followed by lots of feed to help sustain them through the cold night and a helping of peanuts, a game bird’s special treat.

With our chores completed I prepared our contribution for the ‘neighbours’ Christmas party’. Although it was our first visit, it is an annual gathering organised by our friends, Joel and Andrée. Anyone who lives in the commune (parish) is invited, and we were told that our qualification was due to a portion of our land which lay within the designated territory. This was excellent news. Jack carefully stowed my cauldron of chilli con carne into the back of the car and we set off for the village of Saint Jean.

I had chosen the warm, sustaining recipe for good reason. We had been told that the venue for our soirée was a small communal parking area. Sure enough, as we approached the designated spot we saw several people milling around in the middle of the road, and children dancing around a huge bonfire. To one side there stood a recently-felled fir tree which had been stuck into an old wooden wine vat. This was the neighbours’ Christmas tree which the kids had obviously worked hard on. It was festooned with reels of fairy lights, metallic spray painted spent light bulbs and cardboard boxes wrapped in multi-coloured foil paper. It was a festive masterpiece.

French carols blared out from an old CD player which had been stuck on a couple of bricks on a trestle table. The remaining table space was filled with amazing looking foods and banks of candles. These, together with a ropey old assortment of coloured bulbs, ring-fenced the area. Collectively they gave us a certain soft intimacy and blended perfectly with the glowing fire. I stepped closer to absorb the culinary sights and smells.  

You can tell we live in fruit growing country. Someone had produced a dartboard-sized tarte tatin with a fabulous glaze which reflected the dancing flames. Nudged up against this was a plateful of toffee apples which were gently dripping warm, sugary goo, and a tureen of steaming apple and rum punch which gave off unsubtle hints of cinnamon and cloves. Next to these were even more gastronomic delights. We are blessed with having a baker living in the village and, once again, he had excelled himself. Banks of steaming cheesy quiche squares battled for air space with chunks of pizza and about six different varieties of bread. I sighed as I realised how my meagre efforts paled into insignificance beside these tasty triumphs – ooh it did look scrumptious!

The riot of delicious smells finally got the better of me and I succumbed to the offers of a nibble or two. With plates piled high Jack and I sat down on cracked plastic chairs that had been positioned far enough away from the spitting embers of the fire, but close enough to feel its warmth. We and our fellow revellers relaxed and exchanged village news, together with stories from afar.

We’re a small but multi-cultural lot in our neighbourhood. So, with Portuguese, Italian and us Brits present we described our special customs and habits during this festive period. As usual we ended up laughing about the various novel (mis) interpretations of French grammar, but were reassured by our French friends that it didn’t matter, we were part of them now and they would always help us towards our goal of précise français.

With barely a dint made in the foodstuffs, but most of the punch supped, it was time to sing. Joel issued carol sheets in multiple languages and called us to attention. At a time like this, with a raucous crowd bent on partying rather than forming an orderly choir, his previous career as a teacher of delinquent children comes in very handy. He was quite magnificent and had us organised in no time, poised, ready for the first note to be sung. In those precious moments one could have heard an ember spit. As he raised his arms for the opening line we broke discordantly into joyous song and yodelled our ways with gay abandon through the eight or so carols on our hymn sheets.

Finally, and much later, it was time to go. Always a sad moment – but it wasn’t goodbye, merely au revoir because in a couple of days’ time we would be reunited at the marché de Noël, our next festive extravaganza. We’d never been before but we’d been told that this was an event that simply couldn’t be missed. Feeling a little perky after our generous helpings of food and punch we bellowed ‘night-night’ to our pals and made our way back to the warmth of our cosy home.

On the eve of the Christmas market it snowed during the night. We awoke to more wintery scenes which, if anything, were more breathtakingly beautiful than before. I quickly pulled on some clothes, and then some more, grabbed a bite of breakfast and took the dogs out for a ramble. We started off on a white carpet that used to be the road, and quickly exited into the fields, which were less slippery. It had been a busy night for the wildlife that’s for sure. I felt like a forensic expert trying to match the imprints in the snow with our resident species. Clearly we’d had some deer and boar tramping across the fields, hare too. But there were one or two animal signatures which were far less easy to distinguish.

The dogs had a wonderful time following and ruining track marks, and playing about in the snow. It was one of those days where one felt so lucky to be alive.

The marché de Noël that we were due to visit takes place in the village of Auvillar. Several are organised throughout the region but this was the one that was especially recommended. The village sits on a rocky outcrop high above the banks of the Garonne River and is listed as one of the beautiful villages in France. It’s one our favourite places, a key reason being its architecture. It dates back to Roman times and is surrounded by ancient fortified walls and massive gateways that lead to the centre. Its worn flag-stoned alleyways, cobbled streets, and half-timbered houses simply ooze history from medieval times and earlier. I love it and could hardly wait so see how the atmospheric setting would look when transformed into a night Christmas market.  

We finished our jobs and drove the ten kilometres to our destination. It was a crystal-clear, starry night so we took things carefully on the roads – you never know what kind of animal might pop out of a hedgerow in these parts. In spite of arriving in good time, we could see that it was already bustling with crowds. Normally Jack isn’t overly keen on milling around in crowds, or with people at all come to think of it, but he made an exception on that evening. Hand-in-hand we passed under the 17^th century clock tower and followed the stream of humanity, avoiding children as they

morphed into human dodgems once free of their parents’ hands. They shouted excitedly to one another, faces alive with innocent anticipation as they pointed at the fairy lights and trees that decorated the graceful arches and walkways. 

 

The main activities were focused around the Place de la Halle, a cobbled area lined with three rows of arcaded houses which date from the 17^th and 18^th centuries. The centre of the square is dominated by a very unusual rotunda market hall. It had been re-built in 1825 and replaced a more conventional rectangular hall that previously stood in the same position. We could see from the rising steam and smoke that it had been reserved for those traders selling Tarn et Garonne-style take-away foods. What a terrific idea. Keen as I was to savour the local gastronomy, I steered Jack towards the stalls first. There must have been over a 100 of them. Some sold jewellery, others Christmas decorations, ceramics and wood crafts too. Then there were still more that offered local produce such as conserves, honey and smoked meats of indiscernible age – we didn’t bother with those.

Every now and again we would bump into someone we knew, and fellow merrymakers from the other evening. These encounters involved the usual confusion of kisses and embraces which Jack will never, ever, get used to – especially during the colds and flu season. After pleasantries were exchanged we returned to some focused perusing, I was loving every moment of this new experience. However, patient as he had been, Jack eventually got fed up with bartering and announced his firm intention to buy a mug of mulled wine. This was a fine idea.

We followed the spicy wine-soaked smells but got stuck en route at the mobile crêpe stand. I had to have one of those, but which one? The choices were savoury, lemon and sugar, or chocolate – lots of chocolate. Jack piqued by my indecision, temporarily abandoned me in favour of the alluring beefy aromas that were tantalising his taste buds. He tracked me down shortly after (I was still in situ at the crêpe stand) proudly brandishing the biggest Blonde Aquitaine beef burger I have ever seen. My eventual choice of the savoury pancake may have been smaller, but was equally yummy. We sat down on a bench with our wine and a couple of pals and watched, absorbing the festive sounds and scenes. Market traders haggled good naturedly with the browsers. Christmas lights flashed intermittently in tune to the carollers who strolled, madrigal-style around the square. It was such a treat to be part of this simple, happiest of events. 

A further hour or so saw the reluctant end of our visit. It was getting late now and we really needed to get back to the dogs. Jack gamely carried my purchases, which had somehow grown from one tiny bag to three carriers, and we returned to our frost-covered car. We picked our way carefully through the icy patches on the way home and reminisced about our evening. It had been incredibly memorable and from now on would become a regular feature on our festive calendar. It was not for the first time we pinched ourselves in delight, barely able to believe our luck that we had found this special place.

So there we are. These were some of my special thoughts and reminiscences about Christmastime in our part of France. Christmas Day is yet to come and I know from previous experience that it will be the most perfect of days. We’ll be covered in animals, stuffed full of goodies and able to relax and contemplate the significance of the period. Our friends will be visiting with gifts of home-made produce and persuading us to spend time with their families too. The life we now lead here may be simple and uncomplicated, but it is genuine and unpretentious. We love it.

Our heartfelt wish to you is for an equally happy Christmas and the very best for the years to come. Merry Christmas!

The French Facial

It had been a hectic few weeks and I was looking rather haggard to say the least. The bags under my eyes were now resting gently on my cheekbones, and the crows’ feet either side of my eyes were beginning to resemble flippers. With the onset of Christmas festivities and our soirée still yet to organise, I made a strategic decision. I was going to treat myself to a relaxing facial. That would perk me up and help restore some of the sheen that had been scorched out of my skin by our blissfully-long French summer.

I went along to our local institut de beauté and browsed through their menu. I’m a bit of a trainee when it comes to women’s skincare treatments, so I wasn’t entirely sure which one would be suitable for me. Rather than stabbing around in the dark and booking something entirely inappropriate, I asked advice from madame behind the counter. She gave me a sceptical once-over and told me that my therapist would know what to do. Perfect! I duly made my appointment and keenly looked forward to a long session of pampering.

A week later I turned up and was ushered into a room filled with delicious scents from the Orient, and dimly lit by the gentle glow radiating from a clump of candles. Geneviève, my therapist, looked like she ought to be at school, but that didn’t worry me in the slightest. I merely assumed that she would be hot out of beauty college, and thoroughly up-to-date with all the latest massage techniques. I’ll admit I was quite excited by the whole prospect of ending my appointment looking fresh as a daisy and ready to do battle with the party season.

Geneviève barked a few instructions about clothes removal, pressed a button on one of her machines and left the room. She did not have quite the bedside manner I was expecting, but this didn’t matter. I was now being serenaded by the gentle sounds of whale song and distant waves as they crashed and rippled up the beach. I removed my upper garments, slid under a pre-heated blanket and snuggled down expectantly.

When Geneviève returned a few minutes later I was already feeling rather sleepy. I only half-listened to what she said, so was somewhat surprised when a spotlight was turned on and positioned around 20 centimetres from my nose. I squinted in discomfort at the light, and was immediately startled by the vision of Geneviève’s enormously enlarged face staring at me. Ah, of course, a thick magnifying glass was in the centre of the lamp – what a good idea. Geneviève had begun her diagnosis.

“Alors.” (So…) she said as she pinched my cheeks vigorously, “votre peau est très déshydraté, ceci est la cause de vos rides profondes, et vous avez les pores ouverts.” She spoke extremely rapidly so it was difficult to understand what she said, but I gathered that my skin was very dry, resulting in deep wrinkles and open pores - clearly an urgent candidate for deep cleansing. Well, in my heart of hearts, I suppose I knew this. She proceeded to list a number of different treatment options that would have been lost on me in English, let alone French. I took the easy way out and asked her to do what she thought was necessary.

Geneviève was plainly encouraged by my accommodating approach to decision-making. She began by strapping my hair down with a crepe bandage, which circled my head and was then fastened with Velcro. I began to wonder whether the compression effect this had on my skull was part of the process, when I was distracted by a heap of sand which was dumped on my face. Geneviève mentioned something about gommage and used it to scrub my skin with great vigour. There was nothing at all pleasant about it. However, I decided that this must be the deep-cleaning process and that the massage would follow momentarily. Not so.

An icy cold, rather dribbly flannel was then slapped across my face several times to drag the grains off. This certainly did the job, but it also caused rivulets of sand to run down my neck and form small dunes on my collar bones. My skin now felt decidedly naked, and a tiny bit sore.

Geneviève repacked her gommage kit and barked something else at me, which I didn’t understand at all. I looked at her upside-down face quizzically and by way of an explanation she waved a metal object above my eyes. I was just trying to focus on it when she grabbed my left hand and plonked it into my palm. “Attention,” she said, “Ceci est fragile. Ne le laissez pas tomber.” This was very strange, especially since there was a curly cable attached. Whatever it was, I was being instructed to hang on to it.

Where electricity is concerned I always think it’s useful to be clear about its intended use, so I persevered and asked the question. Once again, most of the response was hopelessly lost on me save for the part which involved my wrinkles. We had now established that they were deep, very deep in fact, so perhaps this was a new-fangled remote controlled French ironing-out treatment.

Clinging on to the metal tube for grim death, I waited apprehensively for the action to begin. Geneviève was busy behind me, chattering about goodness knows what as she mixed a concoction in a bowl. She plastered the gloopy paste over my face and most of my ears with a utensil that felt like a distemper brush. So far, so good.  

I opened my eyes to comment on how pleasant it smelled when, to my horror, I saw that she was now hovering over me with a pair of tools which looked like tuning forks with balls on the end. I instinctively flinched and squashed my head into the back of my pillow, which made my crepe bandage slip. Geneviève tutted, pulled the bandage back, and continued her advance. Quaveringly, I asked what her stainless steel apparatus was and she repeated similar words to those that she had used before. Yes, it was definitely part of a wrinkle treatment so it had to be worth a go.

At first everything was perfectly acceptable. She began by tracing the deepest lines – these were the ones, she assured me, that were particularly aging. I detected a faint vibration on my skin but nothing dreadful at all. I inwardly laughed at my own silly anxieties and began to relax and enjoy this wrinkle-zapping sensation, simultaneously giving myself up to the gentle tones of the whale song. It all had such a soporific effect on me that I took very little notice of the bleeps from the machine in the background, or Geneviève who said, “Êtes-vous prêt madame?” Yes, of course I thought, bring it on, I’m ready for anything. Well I wasn’t.

I have no idea what the voltage was, but when my therapist reapplied her tongs they were charged with a very strong electricity current. I had the shock of my life. My eyes started open with fear and spied Geneviève rapt in concentration as she worked methodically over my face. She pinned down a section of skin, one lump at a time, with one set of tongs and yanked up another section towards it with the other. “Ça va?” she asked sweetly, as she plunged the tongs a little deeper into my dimple. With my face a rictus of agony and probably looking like a human form of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, of course I wasn’t alright. The problem was that the force of the electrical charge had now clamped my teeth together so the best I could do was groan at her. This she took as a positive sign, uttered, “Bon” and continued.

The very worst part of the treatment was when the electrodes were traced over my mouth. I am one of those unfortunate people whose dentist in the 1960s had a manic desire to fill teeth with as much silver amalgam as he could. At the end of each tortuous session, which usually left me a dribbling mass of bleeding gums, he would gravely present me with a small tube as a gift. This contained an amorphous blob of mercury floating in a clear liquid which my mother would sagely tell me not to drink. How kind. 

It didn’t matter a jot whether or not the patient actually had cavities that needed filling, he had all the equipment on hand to create them. This resulted in me and my sister having a head full of silver before we’d even hit our teens.

I quickly discovered that silver amalgam and electrodes are not happy partners. Every time she ran over another filled tooth I had an agonisingly painful sensation that felt like its root was about to explode. I squashed my tongue behind each victim, hoping to soften the impact, but it didn’t work. By now I was convinced that she’d hit the wrong button on her machine but my ability to explain this was stymied by my present condition of lockjaw. Instead I lay rigidly on the bed, gently cooking under my blanket.

A couple of bleeps heralded the merciful end to my electric shock treatment. My therapist reluctantly prised the metal bar out of my clenched fist, set her tongs aside and appraised her work so far. She wiped off the excess gloop and gave my skin another few pinches, which seemed to inspire her next choice of product. Now I could distinctly hear the cutting sound from scissors. This was alarming.

Suddenly her use of electricity seemed to pale into insignificance when compared to what she might be capable of with a pair of cutting instruments. I feebly enquired as to what she was doing. “Masque madame,” she replied brightly, “C'est pour la peau qui est vieillissement et gravement déshydraté. Fermer les yeux s'il vous plait.”  Ah marvellous, a product to combat not just aging, but severely dehydrated skin – how gratifying. But why the scissors?

With that she launched a surprise attack by swooping over me with a sheet of a material that felt like hessian sack. She placed it over my face and neck, adjusting it to put the newly-snipped holes in place over my nose and eyes. This would not have been an ideal treatment for someone with claustrophobia, which luckily I do not suffer from. The air holes were just large enough to allow me to breathe, but at this point I was more preoccupied with the relief I felt at avoiding facial wounds.  

More gloopy matter was pasted over my face and Geneviève asked if I was alright. A fold of material had now stuck to my mouth making communication limited, so I flapped a hand cheerily in reply. She declared that I should rest for 15 minutes whilst the concoction worked its magic, turned up the volume of the whale song and glided out of the door.

By now, my nerves were in shreds. The very last thing I wanted to do was to suffocate slowly under a cloak of smelly, herby stuff that was, for some reason, getting very warm and hard. She hadn’t mentioned this. The crashing surf became very loud before it gradually transformed into a babbling brook. This was all I needed. As someone who has quite possibly the smallest bladder in France, the suggestive nature of the sound effects played hell with my waterworks. I tried to re-focus and pass the time by drawing up mental Christmas shopping lists and reminding myself of all the people we needed to send cards to. Then, suddenly, I remembered something that my sister had told me to have as part of my beauty experience. I was sure I could hang on long enough to have it done.

When Geneviève returned, despite feeling like a broiled chicken, I felt nothing could go wrong with my final request. With my limited knowledge of French I asked “Madame pouvez-vous colorer mes sourcils noir s'il vous plait?” I wanted my eyelashes tinted black, but I wasn’t sure whether my translation was perfect so I poked around my eyelashes to make the point. Geneviève checked her watch, stared at the offending area and replied, “Tout est possible, madame.”

I closed my eyes and relaxed. I’d had this done before. No pain, just a tiny splash of tint on the lashes and then 10 minutes of peace and quiet.

She prepared her mixture and began faffing around with my forehead, generally swabbing it with something that smelled distinctly astringent. This seemed to be a rather extravagant preparation for a simple eyelash job, but I assumed that she was just being diligent. She sat back. I began to wonder why she hadn’t applied the tint to my eyelashes, or put the protective pad under my bottom lashes, when I felt a distinct tingling sensation on my eyebrows. I suddenly realised that something must have got horribly lost in translation and my eyebrows were probably being dyed instead. For a darkish blonde person this would never do. I had to check.

Summoning up my best French, I asked her if she had definitely tinted my eyelashes. My eyes were closed of course so I couldn’t see her reaction but she paused and then replied that yes, it was raining very hard outside. I opened my eyes and stared aghast at this girl. It was at this point that I realised I was in the process of developing thick black eyebrows. “Non madame, mes sourcils, est-ce que vous avez teinter mes sourcils?” I demanded, plucking feverishly at my eyelashes. She looked quizzically at me and replied, “Mais ils sont vos cils madame, pas les sourcils! J’ai déjà teinté vos sourcils.” I’d done it again, I’d got my cils mixed up with my sourcils and she had done exactly what I had asked her to do. I was doomed.

She didn’t look at all pleased when I asked her to take it off immediately and apply it to my eyelashes instead. I emphasised the need for speed which caused her to look at her watch again. Tutting to herself she proceeded to scrape off the residual dye and splash a new liquid over my eyebrows which made them sting even more. Working off the old adage of no pain no gain, this seemed like a good sign to me. She produced her astringent-smelling product and told me to close my eyes. In a fit of pique, she layered the stuff over my eyelashes and told me it would take 10 minutes for the dye to take. With that she disappeared again.

There I was, left with a heavy layer of dye that was now resting on the skin under my eyes and some of it was seeping in between the lids. I knew that because my eyes were smarting. As a contact lens wearer this did not bode well at all. I fervently hoped that she was using a natty new product that didn’t tint the skin too, if not I was going to come out looking like a panda.

The 10 minutes passed like an hour; I was close to bursting and stiff as a board with tension by the time she returned. Through my closed eyes I could see that she had switched the lights on to full beam mode and I felt her energetically mop my eyelashes with cotton wool balls. My worst fears were confirmed as she realised her mistake. After her 50^th or so ball, just at the point when my skin was about to disintegrate, she gave up. She explained that there might be the odd tache (mark) under my eyes but that it would soon go. She ended the treatment by re-smothering my face with yet more cream and with an airy, “Voila, c'est terminé,” she left the room.

I dressed hurriedly and avoided the mirror out of fear of what I might see. Geneviève had joined her colleague at the till and, as I prepared to pay, I could see the other madame eyeing me uncertainly. There was nothing for it, I was going to have to have a look. I took the two strides to the large mirror on the far side of the salon and my suspicions were confirmed. Even though my vision was reduced to that of looking through a tea bag, I could see enough. My face was covered in red blotches and looked suspiciously taut in places. I had extremely black eyebrows and it looked like I’d either been in a fight, or was suffering from severe sleep deprivation. There were dark purple rings under my eyes, some deeper in colour than others.

Geneviève joined me, told me how lovely and fresh my face now looked and asked if I would like to borrow a hair brush before I left the salon. That was it, I was off.  

As I drove home I tried to exercise the life back into my aching skin. I wondered what I would say to Jack, my husband, about my foray into the world of French luxury treatments. I then wondered what he would say about my black eyes.

I walked into the house and he came up to me with his reading glasses on and a pile of papers in one hand. “You’re back early darling, how was the face thing you had?”

“Er well…”

“I must say you look very shiny. I  hope it was nice and relaxing. Possibly a bit too much eye shadow in places but that’s typically French isn’t it, and you do look lovely. Anyway, must get on, I’m in the middle of designing a new back box for my quadbike.”

How silly of me, of course it was too much for me to expect that he would have noticed anything wrong. My husband is an engineer. He can spot orange peel on a car’s paintwork from half a mile, but his capacity for spotting details, such as his wife’s face looking like a bag of nails, is limited at best. On this occasion I could only be grateful.

As I prepared our lunch I reflected on my appointment. My intention had been to enjoy a relaxing facial and just a tiny bit of pampering. Instead I had been scraped, electrocuted, partially suffocated and tattooed. My therapist was undoubtedly excellent, the problem lay once again with my lamentable command of the French language. That said, my wrinkles were quite possibly looking a little smoother, and I had escaped a full jet-black monobrow. Perhaps I should be grateful for small mercies. But will I return to our plush French salon? Maybe, but not for a while.