I’m at the chocolate fair in Béziers. There’s a queue outside the exhibition hall and it isn’t full of kids either. Or all females as you might expect. No, there’s grandfathers and bikers in their Harley jackets. There are young families with babes in push chairs. There are teenagers and young lovers with their arms wrapped around one another.
And there’s me. With himself and a house guest from England who is as much into chocolate as she is into wine which makes for a very pleasant time whenever she comes to stay.
The chocolate fête in Béziers now attracts visitors from far and wide. Each year this festival of chocolate temptation grows bigger. Visitors come in their tens of thousands to the two day event. No wonder. As soon as you step inside the magic begins.
It’s the aroma first. Unmistakeable. It hits your senses with all the power of its four thousand year hold over us. I know I’m going to be eating a lot of chocolate today. I might even swoon.
let me at them!
Oh, help! Will I survive this afternoon with so much temptation at arm’s length? I turn aside, but there’s no escape.
I’ll take all of them, please!
When the Spaniards first brought chocolate to Europe in the 1500s, did they know that today in 2013 there’d be a queue of people eager to take their seats and watch professionals molding it, shaping it, colouring it, making dainties and delights enough to make your eyes water and your mouth drool?
50 shades of chocolate?
On the upper floor of the exhibition halls another demonstration is taking place on the main stage.
artisan at work
Wonder if he’s married? What a lucky girl the wife of a chocolatier must be, huh?
I might have to go and lie down in a darkened room.
But, I survive and the three of us buy enough chocolate to keep us quiet and very happy as we join an ancient lineage: Mayans and Aztecs, the Spaniards who first mixed cocoa beans with vanilla, nutmeg, cloves, allspice and cinnamon, and brought it to Europe; the Dutch and Brazilians and Germans and Venezuelans and on and on all around the world.
Political movements come and go. In the history of humankind, chocolate is a constant. I’m delighted to take my place in its history.
I pop some in. The sensations begin . . .melting . . warming . . coating the tongue . . reaching the back of the throat. . .
Prompted by WordPress’s own Daily Prompt, I get to thinking about what the change of seasons means for me.
What I won’t be doing this autumn season
I won’t be sitting down to write a poem about it. Keats did it better than I could.
Regular readers will know it means I won’t need to tramp through the vineyards much more taking photos for the Wednesday Vine Report. The harvest is almost finished – much later this year than I can remember. Mademoiselle Merlot has gone to the cooperative along with all her cousins and we will meet again soon in a bottle of the lovely red stuff. The Wednesday slot will be taken up with visits to different Domaines and some very serious wine tasting. What a treat! I can’t wait.
good health to you!
I won’t be wearing what I’m wearing today for much longer. Here in the south of France afternoons are still pleasantly warm, but the wind changed today and there is now a definite chill at night and in the early morning. Flip flops and thin cotton shirts won’t be enough.
I won’t let myself rush into winter, though. One of the things I enjoy about living in France is they don’t hurry you straight into preparation for Christmas. They celebrate autumn here with seasonal displays in shop windows featuring mushrooms and chestnuts. In the hairdresser’s there might be a few fairies and elves, too, sitting on tree branches – maybe a gnome and toadstools. Colour charts will tempt you to come inside and have your hair turned to burnished copper or bronze to match the season.
The French make chestnut everything from soups and pâtés to delicious sweets and desserts.
chestnut seasonmuch sought after
Chanterelles grow wild in the hills. They hide in leaf litter under chestnut trees. They are highly prized and wickedly expensive. Nobody will tell you exactly where you can find them and who can blame them. Fried lightly in butter, they are sinfully delish!
What I will be doing this season
Drinking more red wine. This is a certainty. There are so many more Domaines to discover and somebody has to do it.
I will bring down my winter woollens from the loft and take up summer clothes and beachwear to hibernate till spring.
I might just pop into the coiffeuse and have those auburn streaks put in my hair.
And I will be writing, writing, writing. I still haven’t decided which novel to polish first for publishing on Amazon. One day I lean toward the family saga, the next I want to do something darker. How about I work on all three?
Well, you know I love variety in my life!
Thanks for visiting my website. PLease call again. Leave a comment and I’ll get back to you.
After a rainstorm last Saturday night we have been having an Indian summer. I’m using the term in its English form, meaning a late period of warm weather. In the USA, an Indian summer comes after a period of frost, apparently. We’ve had no frost, but warm temperatures are continuing at least for the time being.
The harvest continues. Master of Wine Juliet Bruce Jones played her cards well. You remember last week she was watching the forecasts. She decided to wait. The rain came. It was heavy, but the air stayed warm and after the rain passed, the sun came out again as warm as ever. She harvests her Domaine Lou Cayla grapes on Thursday this week.
Remember Mademoiselle Merlot?
all that’s left
Harvesting machines came through this vineyard just two days after my last report. I had to be there. When you’ve been visiting a bunch of grapes since its conception and birth and you’ve watched it grow and mature, you become a bit protective. I wanted to say goodbye. How sad is that?
Here’s a year in the life of one bunch of grapes.
[easingsliderlite]
And now she’s gone. With all her sisters. We’ll meet again in a bottle of one of my favourite wines.
our village Merlot
And when the cold weather comes, we’ll warm her up by the log fire and maybe add a few mulling spices. Oh, my. I’ll look forward to that!
Cheers!
Join me next week for more news from the Languedoc vineyards.
The Languedoc grape harvest continues. It’s hard to believe our Mademoiselle is still on the vine.
still waiting!
In the village centre, at the cooperative it’s all systems go, bringing in the reds as they become ready. Some varieties take longer than others to reach optimum.
How much longer to wait?
Master of Wine, Juliet Bruce Jones, is watching weather forecasts and is waiting. Playing her cards. It’s a gamble, but the forecasts for our region are looking good with temperatures remaining in the high 20s.
Juliet grows Carignan and Mourvèdre grape varieties and already has her Rosé bubbling away. The reds need longer, though to lose some of their acidity. She tells me she’s confident one more week’s warm sunshine will bring her harvest home. You can follow Juliet’s Domaine Lou Cayla on her website.
Weather this week has been ideal.
beautiful dawn sky
We recorded 30 degrees in the shade of our terrace and it’s still warm enough to get in our unheated pool.
Up in Bordeaux, they’re still worrying about the weather. Growers are confident, however, that all will be well. They’ve had harvests as late as this before: they know how to do it.
And so, autumn is upon us.
ideal hill-walking weather
Time to get out there and do some more walking.
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You wouldn’t want to miss any, would you? Coming soon – a tour of our cooperative.
It’s September 25th and my twenty-fifth Languedoc Vine Report. When I began this weekly account of our local vineyards I didn’t realise a person could become so attached to a bunch of grapes on a vine. I’ve been taking photos of Mademoiselle Merlot since April when she was only a naked piece of vine wood.
What’s happening in the Languedoc vineyards?
It’s all happening. Last week there was a lull. After the whites had been harvested, the land fell quiet again. We were waiting for the reds.
harvest moon
Then, in the early hours, it was like War of the Worlds out there in the hills. There are lights everywhere – harvesters, tractors and trailers. The landscape is alive with activity and noise.
Every light you see twinkling in the background is another group of wine growers working to bring in the harvest. Apologies for the quality of the filming. It was 4.30 am. At this time of the year there’s no light till around 6.30. I waited for first light.
Languedoc dawn
and made another shaky film.
This shows how the harvesters shake the fruit from the vines. In the distance the Montagnes Noir glowed pink in early sunlight.
pink dawn glow
Tractors load up and head for the cooperative. Notice how much liquid there is already!
In a previous Languedoc Vine Report you saw what happens when the fruit arrives at the cave. I’m planning another visit to the cooperative after harvesting is finished to show you what happens next.
Elsewhere in France the harvest is just as late as here in Languedoc. In Champagne, for example, they have only just begun.
This morning, mist rolled in from the Mediterranean. The air feels damp. They’ll need to finish this harvest quickly now. This may be the last photograph we will have of Mademoiselle Merlot before she gets whisked off to join her cousins.
Mademoiselle Merlot
I’m sure she’s going to taste just as good as she looks.
Autumn in the Languedoc vineyards
Elsewhere, the vineyards are looking autumnal. Leaves have changed colour. You can see where the harvesting machines have left behind some bunches at the bottom of the vines.
freebies!
I looked out for more seasonal signs on the walk home.
vines in autumnhanging around waiting
Remember when I took this photograph of pomegranate flowers?
bright orange pomegranate flowers
Look in the hedgerow today to see what’s there.
Languedoc country lanes hold a lot of surprises.
Last week, it was free figs and we made jam with them.
Today, there are enough pomegranates to make your own grenadine.
more free fruit!
Join me next week for the latest news from the Languedoc vineyards. Leave me a comment. I’d love to hear from you. You can follow on Twitter @cmicklefield and I keep a Celia Micklefield author page on Facebook. See you there,
I’ve wandered off my writing piste. The weather’s fine, but I’m lost in heavy going.
Maybe I’m on the wrong horse. No point in riding a fast sprinter when you’re in it for the long haul. Sprinters are for short stories, writer in Languedoc, but you have something else in mind now, don’t you?
which way?
I do.
But which way to go?
There’s no worn track to follow. I’m going to have to make my own way.
See, the thing is, it doesn’t matter how many times you read how other people do their thing, how they organise their time for writing, whether they pants it first and sort it afterwards. Some of them will tell you get your outline, plot your scenes, follow this rule, follow that one. Get the backbone straight before you give it legs. It’s got to have a sound skeleton (structure) before it can run (be good enough to publish).
Yes, yes. I know, I know. And I’m grateful to all the wonderful writers out there who freely give of their experience and time to help others. Well, maybe they do want you to buy their How To book, and why not? What they have to say has helped other writers find some measure of success in this fiercely competitive world we want to break into.
However, dammit, it doesn’t matter how successful all these other writers are at following their path, because when it comes right down to it –
THAT WAS THEIR PATH.
You are on YOURS.
Let me take stock of my writing journey. It’s September and through my year so far I’ve accomplished what I set out to do.
1. New Year’s Resolution – get a website. Check.
2. Blog regularly on said website. Check.
3. Learn about SEO and other wizardry. Check.
4. Tweet regularly and support other authors without always peddling your own stuff. Check.
on target so far
5. Get Mick’s collection of short stories out on Kindle. Check.
6. Prepare Arse(d) Ends for paperback version. Check.
Last week I reported the Languedoc grape harvest was under way. The vendange has continued with picking at night. By first light, most growers were taking the last load of the day to the cooperative.
On one of my early morning outings, I found a local grower with an older harvesting machine, bringing in the last of his Sauvignon Blanc. The sun was up. I guessed he had a later slot at the weighing station. The driver was well prepared for hot Languedoc sun. His borrowed parasol made me smile.
with a parasol!
Here he is getting ready to turn into the next row. Cute, huh? I mean the parasol. Then he offloads into the waiting trailer.
So, we had a few days of business in the vineyards, the noise of the harvesting machines waking me at silly o’clock and then . . . nothing. It all went very quiet.
not a harvesting machine in sight.
Silence in the Languedoc vineyards
What was happening? I spoke to people in the know.
Yes, they said, it’s back to the waiting game. The reds are still not ready.
But what about the ones I saw going into the cooperative last week?
Probably Pinot Noir. Not a lot of it grown in Languedoc, but nothing else is ready to pick.
Here’s proof. Here’s our Mademoiselle Merlot. If they don’t pick her soon, won’t she turn into an old maid?
lady in waiting
So, we wait. And the cooperative stands idle. And the vineyards are quiet again.
Meanwhile, in Montpellier, scientists headquartered at INRA have been examining cells in grapes in attempts to discover where tannins come from.
The source is the tannosome, a previously undiscovered organism that is found in most plants. Up until now, no one knew exactly where tannins are made. Scientists could view them under a microscope stored in plant cells, but couldn’t work out how they got there.
However, techniques were employed to re-examine the cells, discovering that the organelles (smaller bodies within the cells) are the source of tannins.
One of the researchers, Geneviève Conéjéro, said that tannins “give a feeling of pungency in the mouth, the feel of a cat’s tongue licking your hand.”
So, now we know. Next time you get that cat’s tongue feeling, you can impress your friends and say,
Ah, that’s the tannosome effect.
Well, all that’s very interesting, but what can you do when you’re writing a Languedoc Vine Report and there’s no harvesting to film?
You can harvest something yourself.
what’s himself got his eye on?
There’s something interesting in that hedgerow.
And we’ve got shopping bags in the back of the car.
Hmmm.
Himself investigates.
figs growing wild
Aha! says he. There’s probably enough here to make something with.
I’ve never made fig jam before, but it can’t be that difficult can it?
He set to work. It helps being over 6ft tall when it comes to tasks like this.
filling up a crate
They take some finding, these little free beauties. They hide under the leaves and it’s not until you get right in there you can see where they are.
ripe figs
The boy done good. There’s enough here to make a good few pots of jam.
how many jars of jam?
I looked online for a recipe. The figs went in the pot.
smelling good already
Add sugar and lemon juice. How easy is that?
A nice loaf of Alien Bread fresh from the machine and – breakfast is ready!
Yum!
Join me next week for more news on the late Languedoc grape harvest 2013.
And please write me if there’s something you’d like to know. I’ll do my best to get an answer for you.
Wicked Stepmother had grown tired of GB’s complaints about meals. Always a picky eater, GB had grown even pickier, it seemed. Feelings came to a head when, one night during the long summer holidays, GB complained that the basil in the pesto sauce was overwhelming.
a staple meal at our house
Now, I knew this wasn’t true. It may well have been a tad on the strong side for ordinary mortals but here, at our gaff, we go in for STRONG flavours. Even fussy GB likes STRONG curry and FIERY chilli. So, how come the relatively mild pesto had fallen foul of his lordship’s approval?
The fact of the matter was, I had used red basil, homegrown in a pot out the back, rather than all green basil with which he was more familiar.
wicked red basil
The result was very colourful – a bit like the borders on this page. A mixed pesto sauce with some green leaf and some red plus my usual lashings of olive oil (extra virgin, of course), two chunky cloves of garlic crushed into the mix, ground pine nuts (hand charmed with my trusty pestle and mortar) and finished off with finely grated parmesan cheese and more olive oil if it’s got a bit too thick.
Wonderful.
scrumptious!
Divine.
Eat it quickly and be first in the queue for seconds.
But, we got faces and a turned up nose.
What?
After I’ve spent months growing this tender little plant, taking care of its every need, watering and moving it from shade to sunshine and back into shade when it got too hot for its little feet in a clay pot?
After I’ve done all that hand-charming with the mortar and grating with the grater? Okay, so I’m laying it on with a trowel. Still.
We had a visit from our mayor. You remember him – he’s always out and about in our village attending all the festivities etc.
our mayor at the opening of our village cash machineour mayor enjoying wine tasting
We’d had cause to ask him to intervene on a dispute with a neighbour who was burning foul stuff every Sunday morning in his barbecue.
I’m not talking chickens here. The smoke spiralling from the chimney on his barbecue was thick and black and toxic. I took photos for proof and after we’d complained to the neighbour, we took the photos to the Mairie as evidence of our grievance.
The French do like to get behind a good grievance.
At seven o’clock every Sunday morning, smoke like this stuff constitutes a good grievance, so off we went to complain.
By the way, we have an ally in reception at the mayor’s office. She lives at the corner of our cul-de-sac and was able to verify that she too had experienced the choking black smoke.
The mayor sorted the problem and the toxic black smoke ceased.
Then, some days later the mayor showed up at our gate. We thought he’d come to check everything was okay. No, he had come with a complaint from a neighbour about our hedge being too high.
Aha! we thought. This is a tit-for-tat issue, suggested this was the case and led the mayor around our property to show that there really wasn’t a problem with the hedge.
It turned out, he’d made a mistake. It was a different neighbour about a different hedge, but because the address was so close to our smoke complaint the mayor had made the same ‘tit-for-tat’ assumption as we had. He came back to apologise for his error. I made coffee, we sat for a Franglais chat and that was when we learned the harvest is 15 days late.
Late harvest
The cold weather I reported throughout spring has indeed led to a much later grape harvest than is usual. It’s much worse in other areas in France. In the Bordeaux region, they’ve had hail as Cult Wines reports. Hailstones big as ping pong balls. Ouch! And similar problems in the Champagne region. So, I guess, we’re lucky to be only late rather than damaged. According to Monsieur le Maire, some reds may be as late as October.
I set off on my rounds as usual to see what I could find.
What’s happening this week
My next door neighbour is growing grapes over his car port.
grapes in the garden
Netting keeps the birds off. It looks as if he has a good crop for the table this year.
In the vineyards, even though everybody is playing a waiting game as far as the grapes are concerned, there are still jobs to do.
clearing the path for the harvesting machines
Hedges grow rapidly in Languedoc sunshine. This winegrower is busy trimming back wild Cotinus trees that flower with pink, smoke-like tendrils in spring. These ones, however, are right at the point where the harvesters need to turn round into the next row. It’s another example of good Languedoc housekeeping.
Further up the hill, another winegrower is clearing out between the rows.
getting ready
Cuttings and weeds are going into the container. He’s also smoothing ruts in the soil to prepare the way for the grape harvesting machines.
At the cooperative Vigneron, they’re running the machinery and making checks.
home of ‘Fleurs de Montblanc’ and ‘Larmes d’Alexandria’
Here is where the grapes will arrive for our lovely Fleurs de Montblanc and the new range Les Larmes d’Alexandria.
I’ll be there to film as the grapes are dropped into the chutes.
Today, they were busy checking to see everything is turning as it should.
They were running the belts.
where the skins go
Nothing is wasted. They collect unwanted grape skins for making compost.
This morning, they were also testing the lifting screws.
where the grapes go
The Archimedes type screw lifts the grapes up out of the chute. Once everything gets going, the village hums. No, literally. It hums. The wine machinery hums until you get so used to hearing it, you can’t hear it any more.
Along the lanes, it’s beginning to look like autumn.
September colours
Dried grasses and early morning mistiness add to the end-of-summer atmosphere. Snails cling to what’s left of their grazing grounds.
hundreds of tiny snails
Yet when you look closely into the vines, there’s obviously some way to go before they’re ready. In amongst all the dark reds and purples, there are green youngsters, nowhere near mature enough for harvesting.
not ready yet!
Back home along the lanes, I’ve spotted blackberries and other autumn fruits.
one furry almond case has split open
It’s a wonderful time of year for grandmas to take little ones out into the countryside to see what they can find.
I saw this charming couple and couldn’t resist snatching a photograph. Together, I think these two are an artist’s dream subject. I love the way the light catches them as they crouch to look at something on the path.
finding something interesting
That’s all for this week’s Languedoc Vine Report. See you next week.
I’ve been sitting on this baby since May. Out of the blue, as seems to be the way with most of my ideas for new stories, a set of characters presented themselves to me as I was waiting for a plane.
Conception of latest idea
baby of a story conceived here
Now, I’ve heard of the five mile high club and often thought what an uncomfortable proposition that would be on the kind of budget airlines servicing our local airports. Toilet spaces are minimal to say the least. And if a child was somehow conceived during such a short hop at 36,000 feet, would it have to be called Sky or Cloud or Cramp?
Why Montpellier?
So, writer in Languedoc, what were you doing in Montpellier airport when Béziers is closer to home?
my choice of airports
I have a good choice of airports. This map doesn’t show all of them. To the west of Béziers, I also have Carcassonne, Perpignan and, at a desperate push, Toulouse at my disposal. It all depends on where I’m going.
Last May, I was going to Leeds/Bradford airport, back to my home county for a much longed-for family visit. You can’t fly to Leeds from Béziers, not yet anyway, so Montpellier was the next best choice for my journey.
I like the Leeds/Bradford flights. They’re full of people who sound like me. It does me so much good to hear a nay, lass spoken with feeling. I love those old Yorkshire sayings such as you make a better door than a window, when somebody’s blocking your view. Tha can allus tell a Yorkshireman, but you can’t tell ‘im much and when somebody’s left the door open, were you born in a barn?
Yorkshire wit
Eee, lass, you can’t beat ’em. So, last May while I was waiting in Airport Departures, I noticed a little French girl with her Yorkshire father. Dad’s French came with very pronounced Yorkshire vowel sounds. We never lose them and, anyway, why would we want to? Mademoiselle’s French, on the other hand, was perfect. However, when she spoke in English, she spoke it like her father with his pronunciation. Mother was conspicuous by her absence.
I was fascinated. Out came my notebook.
Regular readers of my Random Thoughts blog will know I always carry my notebook and camera with me. I do a lot of people watching, and listening. You never know what you’re going to find that might be the inspiration for a new idea. This time, I didn’t need a photograph. It would have been too intrusive and you can get into a lot of trouble taking photographs of other people’s children. Fortunately for me the pair of them made such an impression on me the words flowed so fast my wrist ached.
Nobody could see what I was writing. Nobody would have been able to work out I was making detailed notes about this handsome father and his little French daughter. Before we boarded the plane, I had an outline.
But no ending.
This is unusual for me.
I always know what the ending is going to be before I begin to write in detail.
And that’s why I’d been sitting on the baby since May.
Ideas mulled in and mulled out again. I wasn’t satisfied with any of them. But, I make it a rule NOT to beat myself up about tricksy stories that won’t end themselves. I leave them alone. If it isn’t happening there’s a good reason for that. So, I wait. Something will happen. There’s always something else I can write instead.
This morning, I submitted the finished story. I hope the editor enjoys it. I hope the editor decides to pay me for it.
And if she does, and it goes into that very popular Fiction Special, I owe a plane load of thanks to the little Mademoiselle and her father on that flight to Leeds/Bradford last May.
I wonder if they would recognise themselves? I can’t tell you any more about the ending. That would be a spoiler.
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Edit: 5th September. Airport Departures sold today. Look out for it in Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special
