Category Archives: France

Wednesday Vine Report #6

I don’t want to miss out anything important from my Vine Reports. Sometimes, there are things happening in the vines that I’d miss if I waited for Wednesday. That’s why on Sunday morning when I heard engines and activity at first light I was up out of bed and rushing out the door camera in hand. This is what was going on:

water pump by the cemetery wall
old-fashioned water pump at the top of the hill

Wine growers spray the crops with a copper sulphate mixture to prevent powdery mildew, a fungus that can affect grapes and decimate harvests. At the brow of the hill, there’s an old-fashioned water pump. Due to our location close to mountains and river gorges, our aquifers can be quite high after heavy spring rain. Water races toward the villages in the foothills. Drainage ditches fill with fresh water, rich in minerals.

The wine growers add water to their tanks of copper sulphate to make the right mixture. It’s like what we common or garden growers would call Bordeaux mixture. Professor of botany Pierre Millardet of the university of Bordeaux discovered in the late 1800s that a mixture of copper sulphate and lime had fungicidal properties.

Chardonnay treatment
early on a wind-free Sunday morning
spraying the grapes
turning for the next row

 

grape spraying
cute little tractor

 

 

 

 

I like these cute little tractors. They remind me of some of the picture books I used to read with my children. Working machines all had sweet little faces and going out to work physically hard looked such jolly good fun children wanted to do it when they grew up.

 

tommytractor
a favourite book

 

 

 

I can still remember some of the words of favourite Ladybird books. Weren’t they wonderful illustrations too? Oh, shouldn’t all children have those to look at when they’re little? And aren’t the originals just the best, or am I just feeling my age?

Who could ever forget . . .Little Tommy, Ginger’s neighbour called for Ginger every day. Took him out in wind and sunshine, out across the fields to play . . .

Ginger's adventures
a favourite Ladybird book

I’d better stop. I’m filling up!

Back to the vineyards. The tractors might be cutesy looking things but they work hard, out in the wind and sunshine, out across the fields to . . . work the vines, clear the rows, protect the grapes from powdery mildew.

Here’s how the Merlot vineyard looked on Sunday morning. I was waiting for this morning for the up to date close-up.

Merlot vines
Mesdames Merlot 7am Sunday 5th May

The sun was in exactly the wrong place for this early morning photograph of our vineyard of Merlot grapes. Our Mademoiselle is in there, front row, doing very nicely.

Spraying takes place every 6 to 10 days, depending on the temperature and humidity etc., but according to one wine grower, you can cease spraying once the grapes are set. I suppose they all have their preferred methods based on what their fathers and grandfathers did before. They probably still argue over which method is best.

Wine growers are always first to gather at the Bar in the village centre. You can see them having their early morning coffee and pastis before they return to work. Their faces are lined by the sun; their hands gnarled by the wind. They look like their own vines.

Merlot vine
Wednesday 8th May

So here she is, our Mademoiselle Merlot. She’s looking perky this morning, wouldn’t you say? The sun is already casting shadows and I’m out here in the vineyards by myself. Soon there’ll be dog walkers and a few serious runners. As summer progresses, they’ll be out earlier before it gets too hot.

And now, Mr de Mille, I’m ready for my close-up.

Merlot flower spikes
I’m ready for my close-up!

Aww! Baby grapes! Oh-la-la, Mademoiselle. You are soooo beautiful. Hold it right there. Don’t flutter a leaf. Let me drink you in.

Not yet, Celia. Don’t get carried away. This is the Vine Report not a cheesy chapter in second rate erotica. Pull yourself together. What’s happening in the Chardonnay vineyard?

Chardonnay vines
Chardonnay week six
Merlot vines
looking toward the coast

A fine sight. I can almost hear corks popping.

Waiting for Gary. Who is he?

My sister called him Gary. We go in for a bit of alliteration where we’re from. He could be a Georgina for all we know, but Gary presented as a good Cinsault-fuelled suggestion one evening last summer and the name stuck as fast as Gary’s suckered feet. (Clue #1)

geckofeet
what Gary’s foot looks like magnified

The way Gary and his ilk are able to hang on to vertical surfaces, not to mention feel comfortable hanging on completely upside down has interested scientists for years. Only recently have they invented a new glue that mimics the properties of our Gary’s feet. Apparently this new glue is so strong you’ll be able to stick a 42 inch screen television straight onto your living room wall.

Last year, Gary became part of our late night entertainment. We’d watch, in awe, as he lassoed his supper. We’d wonder how in hell he could move that fast and jump out from a perpendicular position without falling off the wall. (Clue #2)

If you followed the previous link, you’ll know who Gary is now if you hadn’t worked it out already. You didn’t really need those clues, did you? He’s the type of his species that like hanging around (Ha, Ha) people and houses. Gary made his summer home behind one of our French window shutters. We don’t know where he goes in winter. We had a very strong feeling he would survive those snows we had in January. He’d got big. Very big. He must be reaching his full size. Maybe this summer could be his last.

So, there I was after dinner last night wondering when he’d show up again this year.

The night was warm. Ten pm and still 25 degrees. The signs were good. I saw bats zipping about beyond our garden gate; a Scops owl was hooping in the distance. I call them submarine birds: their call reminds me of WW2 movies set in a sub with that tooting noise going on in the background. Here, have a listen. You’ll see what I mean.

It was time. I got out the special equipment.

coffee and brandy
special equipment for waiting for Gary

I put it in the waiting for Gary area, directly below his favourite roof space where the outdoor lights attract fat moths for his main course and a selection of juicy six-legged appetizers for hors d’oeuvres.

My camera was charged and ready.

I sipped at my special equipment. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. I looked up at the lights. What was that dark shape?

moth-catching light
Gary’s fave hunting spot

There was movement  all right. From both ends of the terrace. Two small ones, but when I moved they disappeared behind the roof beams. I waited. Gary is not going to like bandits on his patch, I thought. I ran out of special equipment. Took the offered refill from himself who was watching television.

Gary’s not coming, said himself. Not tonight. Why don’t you come indoors and watch the news?

I went indoors to watch the news. I sat. Himself was staring out the window at the light on the wall opposite the one in the photograph.

WTF? Is THAT Gary? Can’t be. It’s GODZILLA!

Too late. My camera isn’t out of its case before he’s disappeared. Probably sorting out the two invaders. Next time I’ll wait longer and double up on the special equipment.

 

 

Market singers

oranges and singers
singers at the French market

Our local French market offers good prices on staple foods. One euro per kilo of juicy oranges. Don’t mention the suck word, though. We’ll start thinking about sexy food again.

So, we turn up to buy our fresh greens and crusty bread as usual and there’s music on the air. What could be nicer on a sunny April morning? Standing outside the town hall there’s a man with an old-fashioned, hand operated barrel organ. His tunes are jolly, toe-tapping melodies. Locals are joining in. Somebody has handed out plastic folders with the words and everybody seems to know the songs. Here’s a snatch.

http://youtu.be/wNwz9ZGdy7s

wood pigeon
wood pigeon – was he listening or waiting for it to stop?

The bird on the wire was not mightily impressed. Maybe he’d been stood up. Maybe his lady love had wandered off to inspect what some other guy was offering. Or maybe he was just waiting for the music to stop so he could begin his calling again.

We listened to the singers for a while, then took our purchases home and had another coffee. We bought some small spring onions. Would you like to see?

Such a shame we couldn’t find any big ones.

French market spring onions
we couldn’t find any large ones?

As I said already – the joys of living in France!

 

Easter motorway in France. Where is everybody?

France motorway
where is everybody?

This is Easter Monday. This is a motorway. This is a Bank Holiday. In France. Where is everybody?

Not on this road, that’s for sure. Himself was driving on the way home from his brother’s place in Poitou Charente and loving every minute of it. It’s a great feeling having the road to yourself, he says. By the time we’d travelled further south, back towards home, there was more traffic, but mostly heading north.

We played the what’s the percentage of foreign cars in France? game. Himself counts French makes as we overtake or are overtaken and I count everything else. It always goes something like this: Peugeot, Peugeot, Renault, VW, Peugeot, Renault, Citroen, VW, BMW, Peugeot, Peugeot, Mercedes, Citroen, Renault, Peugeot, Nissan. Anyway, it works out at well over 75% of cars on French roads are French made. Not a rigorous survey in a scientific way, I know, but what can’t speak can’t lie, as mother used to say.

Travelling is a joy on roads like these. France is a big country compared with the UK, so you always feel as if you have more space and this photo speaks for itself. I can’t imagine any major road back in dear old Blighty looking like this on Easter Monday.

Our route home

We like to come the slightly longer way back just to take in the scenery – and to have another chance to see the Millau viaduct. We love it.

Millau viaduct France
lovin’ this road home!

When we cross, we know we’re nearly home.

Easter in the Languedoc and in my garden

Easter is called Paques here in France. There are similar traditions to do with eggs and Easter bunnies and cute fluffy chicks as the ones I’m used to from the UK. In village centres, traders make a special point of decorating their windows, and, of course, the chocolatiers go all out to catch your eye and entice you indoors.

Eggtree
hanging decorated eggs

Some villages have their carnivals at Easter. The poulain is the totem animal of the town and he will be dusted off to do a tour of the streets while children follow and throw flour at each other.

carnival1
the totem animal of Pezenas

The mayor of our village asked for restraint this year. It’s not a good idea to mix flour-throwing with real eggs. You might be able to wash the sticky result from your hair and clothes easily, but cleaning the streets is another matter.

After recent heavy rain which saw the end of the Hanumi blossom, my garden is blooming with fresh delights.

grape hyacinths
grape hyacinths and miniature tulips

I like to see a mixture of spring bulbs in planters. Grape hyacinths and miniature tulips make a good contrast in this pot. I’m not a fan of scarlet red flowers; I think they can be too loud and take over the garden if you let them, but a little is okay with me. Blue flowers, on the other hand, are a must. Somehow, they knit everything together.

On the wall by the garage, the jasmine is beginning to open. Its perfume is intoxicating.

Jasmine
Jasmine flowers ready to burst open

Doesn’t this picture just make your nose itch for the smell of it?

In another pot, pink Ixia has already started. I’d never grown this plant before, but I wouldn’t be without it now. It flowers all the way through summer and thoroughly deserves its place in the garden.

Ixia flowers
Ixia flowers are like small gladioli

I wish you all a very Happy Easter. Himself and I and Gollum Boy are having a few days away. Back soon!

Clearing out the old stuff – Little Red Hen style

There comes a time when only a thorough clearing out will hit the spot. Himself has a pile of Money Weekly type magazines that go back to before the banking apocalypse when you could still put your cash in a savings account and earn some interest on it. This dusty tower of old paper is spilling out from underneath a coffee table in our living room and there may well be spiders living in it.

I have books and papers, too, stuffed in old shoe boxes, cluttering drawers. There’s a box full of old musical films on Video Tape, for goodness’ sake. How did they escape the last thorough clearing out session?

Gollum Boy, remember him? Here’s a reminder: gollumTeenage Gollum

He’s still upstairs, growing greyer. He is surrounded, in his bachelor pad at the top of the house where he has more space for his belongings than his father and I in our own bedroom, by games and toys from his pre-online gaming era. Those days when he still looked like a boy. Remember them? Those days when he spoke a language you could understand?

He doesn’t have the inclination to offer any help toward this clearing out of old stuff. Not even his own old stuff. He doesn’t see it as his responsibility to sort and clear out his own old stuff. He thinks it should all be dumped in a bin bag and thrown away. Hang on a minute, we said. Some of this stuff is worth a bit of money.

I should point out at this juncture that himself and I manage on a limited budget. Very limited. That’s why we are very careful on Red Days.

It’s why we trawl the supermarkets for special offers on joints of meat and why we don’t eat out very often. So, chucking out hundreds of pounds’ worth of Lego and other young kids’ stuff was way beyond what we could allow to happen.

legopile1

 

Himself and I began to sort through the black bin bags Gollum Boy had deposited at the bottom of the stairs. All these Lego bricks, never put away properly, the empty boxes stuffed into other bin bags. Everything all mixed up.  legopile2

Aaaaargh! I think that’s what I cried out. It might have been something stronger than that.

This pile is supposed to be a Lego City Airport with planes and terminal buildings. There should be a sea port too with ferry boats and . .

But Gollum Boy is too grown up for all this stuff now. He hasn’t got time to put it all back into its boxes so we could flog it at a car boot sale. And he has made a HUGE mistake in not offering to help.

Father and I will do it for him – Little Red Hen style. Do you know that story? Little Red Hen needs help to plant the seeds, to grow the corn, to go to the mill, to bake the bread. Nobody wants to help, but when the loaf is baked they all want to eat some. No, says Little Red Hen, I shall eat it myself. And she did!

LittleRedHen
a favourite children’s story

 

 

Gollum Boy is not invited to the car boot sale day. Father and I will put in all the effort.

lego airportlego airplane

We’ll sort out the airport pieces and tape up the box.

legoferryWe’ll find the ferry. We’ll book our pitch at the car boot sale and eat a picnic under the trees with French bread and cheese, possibly a beer from the catering van.

And we will keep ALL the proceeds.

Expat Living Is it what you thought?

expat passport
passport to a different life for expats?

Himself is helping out the British expat network today. It’s expected. It’s what happens when you go to live in other people’s countries.  Whether you thought you wanted it or not.

I’ve heard some expats say that when they were looking for a home away from the UK, they wanted to immerse themselves in their chosen foreign way of life. They didn’t want to be part of some clique, some dreadful enclave of British, gin-swigging expats, meeting for golf or bridge every Tuesday afternoon and boring the pants off each other at endless summer barbecues. Besides, they would tell you, we speak the language. We don’t need to be surrounded by Brits all the time. Why move to France, Spain, wherever, if you don’t want to live the French, Spanish, whatever way of life?

And then they need a tap fixing. Or the computer’s gone down. So they get on the telephone and they make the appointment with appropriate technician and he tells them he can come a week on Thursday. Not before. He’s the only plumber, computer fixer on the island, Senora, the only one in the village, Madame. There’s another one lives near the city but he wouldn’t be able to come until Christmas.

That’s where the expat network comes in. It makes sense to skill-share and help each other out of a hole.

expat airport
the ‘sunny’ expats’ airport

Himself is on the airport run this morning. Beziers Cap d’Agde. They call it the sunny airport. Mr O’Leary brings tens of thousands of passengers from Luton, Bristol and Manchester and Stuttgart, Paris, Oslo. Flybe comes in from Southampton.

expat airline
One of many of Mr O’Leary’s flights

 

 

 

 

And, of course, all the people who have family in those catchment areas go back to visit and for weddings and christenings etc. Including me and himself. Why pay 50 euro for a taxi when the expat network can step in? You can’t have the same kind of reciprocal arrangement with your native neighbours. They and their families aren’t flying in and out all the time. We see a lot of cars with British plates in the airport car park. We know they haven’t lived here long enough yet to re-register the vehicle for French plates. Their numbers continue growing and the airport car park took over another field. They had to extend the runway, too and build a new terminal to accommodate all the extra passengers. When they sort out the access road, it will be better.

aerialviewbez
Beziers – a beautiful city

Beziers is a beautiful city in this, the fastest growing region in the whole of France. Even the French want to live here, it seems. The climate is, well, Mediterranean. It’s like Provence but not as expensive. Beziers is close to the coast. Here’s one of the nearest beaches.

 

LaMolebeach
Safe bathing on one of our many beaches

 

 

It’s good to know you’re going to get a proper summer each year. You can plan ahead. You know you’ll be warm enough on a summer evening. But a Mediterranean climate doesn’t mean it’s hot all year round. Winters are short but can be very sharp. We burn a lot of wood from December to March.

The log delivery man tips your winter heating into the road outside your gate. That’s when the expat community comes into its own again. Many helping hands barrow away the logs and build the stock pile for a few beers and a bacon sandwich. There’s a much bigger expat community offering help and advice at http://languedoc.angloinfo.com/

 

 

What, no writing? Monday singing rehearsals.

Capestangchurch
The Bishop of Narbonne was jealous.

I don’t get much serious writing done on Mondays. I don’t get much writing done at all. I might find a few minutes to write a short post on here, then it’s warming up the old vocal chords (and I do really mean old ) before it’s off toward the hills and rehearsals in Capestang.

The wind blows fit to knock you off your feet as you turn the corner around the church to walk to rehearsals. To the right of this picture, you can see where the building stops. Like the church was suddenly chopped. In fact, that’s exactly what happened in the 13th century. Some contributing factors may have been to do with the Plague and/or the change in the course of the river, but there’s also the story that says the Bishop in Narbonne sent out his spies to see what was happening in Capestang and when he discovered the completed church would have been bigger than his own seat, he used the money for something else.

musicnotes
the language of music

I love these old stories. Even the smallest villages here have stories to tell. I love to hear about them, read about them. Sometimes, I might be inspired to write a new story based on what I’ve discovered. But I can’t get into that today because it’s Monday. Monday is singing. There’s no serious writing today. Serious singing instead. We’re rehearsing Carmina Burana for performances in May. O, Fortuna, velut Luna statu variabilis . . .

Singing is so vital. I can’t imagine a life without music. When I take Mondays off, away from writing, I know I’m gonna come back Tuesdays all fired up and ready to go again.

no writing
Choir of Capestang

24 hours without internet. The joys of living in France

24hours
A whole day!

 

Twenty four hours without the internet. 24 whole hours!

The Gollum Boy (see earlier post ) began pacing as soon as he got home from school. What? No internet? How could anybody DO THIS TO HIM? Didn’t they know he had an appointment with Syndicate on YouTube?

He had to resort to the X-Box WITHOUT KiNECT. Saints preserve us! Saint Louise, actually on the fifteenth of March. Saint Louise of the Daughters of Charity, the ones who used to wear those huge starched cornettes on their heads that made them look like seagulls. Her saint’s day is the fifteenth of March. It says so on my calendar.

Not the Ides of March! Oh, Blimey, I’ve just realized. We lost our phone and internet connection on the Ides of March. It must have been an omen. Well, we live along the Via Domitia, don’cha know. Julius Caesar passed this way on his way to Spain. You can hear the ghostly legions tramping by in their skirts and sandals. No, that’s Gollum Boy, tramping by on his way to raid the fridge. He has a face like a wet weekend and his eyes are like slits. (He’s still very grey, by the way, but he has had a wash.)

So, what can one do when all the connections are down? One could go for a walk. One could read a few chapters. One could learn a new recipe. One could watch a movie on TV. One could go for a walk. One could read a few chapters. One could . . .

bitingnails
Oh, No!

I‘VE LOST MY INTERNET CONNECTION! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?

The truth is, we’ve all got so used to having these connections at our fingertips, we take them for granted. And, I believe, we allow them too much say in our lives.

One of the joys of living in a small French village is that, from time to time, we are thrust into a past when such household commodities didn’t exist. In any case, what use would winegrowers and their fieldworkers have had for such things? Their days were already full of working to earn a living. Now, the winegrowers’ grandchildren have laptops and X boxes and Playstations and tablets and smartphones and none of them want to follow grandpa into viticulture. No. They want to be the next Syndicate. The next #1 Solo Gamer.

But they can’t all be number 1, can they? At some point, they’ll have to start paying their way. Give unto Caesar etc. We’ve let this internet stuff take over our lives. Its marching through our homes and families like the legions of the Roman Empire.

Well, we all know what happened to that, don’t we?

The trouble is, how will I keep up with Twitter and Facebook and Linkedin and my website when the Internet Empire collapses?

Hanami comes to Languedoc with many trees in blossom

They do it properly in Japan. People welcome tree blossom. They pack picnics and take the whole family out to sit beneath burgeoning cherries and plum trees. They really make a point of going out especially to see the blossom.

Here, in Languedoc, we have beautiful flowering trees. First, you get the almonds. They can flower any time from late January onwards. They’re about past their best now, but for several weeks they’ve powdered the lanes through the vineyards with their baby pink set against cobalt winter skies.

Then comes Mimosa. You can smell it as soon as you step outside. A photo of my neighbour’s old tree is one of the random headings I use on my website pages. (All the headers are adapted from my own photographs.)

Mimosa
February mimosa in full bloom

 

 

Just outside my gate, there’s a small square full of flowering cherry. You simply HAVE to take notice of them. If you don’t, you’ll miss the display. The Tramontane will get up, blowing over the Pyrenees, bringing with it sharp blasts of icy air from still snow-covered peaks.

 

canigou
The highest peak of the Pyrenees visible from where I live

By the time the Tramontane has rushed over the top of these peaks, it stabs you like ice-cold daggers. It blows in threes, the locals tell you. If the wind goes into a fourth day, you can guarantee there’ll be six.

 

vineflood
inundations can flood the vines

Or the Marin will blow you a hooley from the Mediterranean and there will be mist and more rain than you thought the sky could hold.  At the end of it, there’ll be no blossom left to admire.

Flowering cherry
Baby pink blossom

Beautiful things are often fleeting, so I’m glad I made the small effort of standing outside my garden gate to take this picture while the blossom is at its best.