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 17th century clock tower and followed the stream of
humanity, avoiding children as they
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 17th and 18th
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!
