Dark bare fig branches criss-cross the oblong windows that lie at floor level in our sitting room. I can look directly at the Tits feeding on the fat balls hanging from them, frenzied now as they sense the day closing, a day when the temperature has not risen above 0.5. They flurry round, trying to make their own weight in food as dry snow scumbles and eddies around them, and settles on the chaffinches and sparrows gleaning below. Brrr. As J has just emailed, it's a day to slouch on the sofa in front of the fire, Rugby on tv, papers scattered about, something nice in the oven, mmmm.
Just three days ago we were sitting in the sun on the patio up at Chater's sipping the first Rosé of the year, aching pleasantly after a morning's work in the vines.
It's pulling out time. All around us people are doing the same. One person, expert with the electric secateurs and pruning techniques, different for different varieties, moves from one ancient gnarled stump to the next, snipping snipping at all last year's amazing quantity of growth, leaving just one or two stems to bear next year's produce. Behind them is left a forest of dead growth, entwined on the wires with tendrils and the ties we put in last April, a dense tangle of tough growth which must all be pulled out and heaped behind in the middle of alternate rows.
I reach up. Snip, snip, freed from the top wire. Snip this bit, it's thickly knitted to another stem and I'll never get them both out. Snip this bit, it's so long it has grown through to the next vine's growth. Right, down below the wires, grab, pull, it gives a little but is caught somewhere, ah, another tendril, so tough those tendrils, snip, pull, out it comes and the lifting wire pings and bounces back into place. My neighbour yelps as it's pinged him on his nose, 'sorreee' we often carol. Reach, snip, bend, pull, drop behind, move on. The nasty wind dropped, the sun came out. Overhead a spotter plane droned, the sound of the growing season in the vineyards. They are checking the number of workers they count with the employment sheets that Jacky has to submit every week. They are probably blinded by the sun flashing from so many grey and silver heads. 'Blimey', they must say, 'aren't those old geezers past retirement? Had we better check that their pensions are taxed for these extra earnings?' Snip, snip, bend, pull, chuck behind until the welcome sight of Jacky, having finished pruning for the day, makes her way up to the house to put lunch on.
We all work together to finish the last row for the day and look back at the 25 rows we have done. Dry, twisted black stumps stick up, freed of dead twigs, with just one or two twigs sticking out. Surely they are all, also, dead? How are they going to each produce incredibly lush growth that will need cutting back at least twice in the coming months and grow several bunches of lush fat grapes, enough for a bottle per vine? An annual miracle. Last year we had all found several vines with an alarming fungus and feared Chaters were going to lose quite a few. But a Nexpert has told Jacky not to worry, it's Black Dead Arm, curable.
I say I feel that's what I have, a dead arm, is it black? and we stroll up to the house to join her. Snippers in this box, black ties to tie up any new vines in this box, white ties to signal a plant that's missed pruning or a loose wire in this box, wellies off, waistcoat off, phew, and someone is pouring the first Rosé of the year.
The tax form comes in May. Something to declare, - several days during the year spent in good company, learning about the fascinating life of the vine, then sitting, pleasantly tired on a sheltered sunny patio, with a glass of something very good indeed. Then a lovely lunch all together, and as we wander homeward, Jacky rummages in the store for a couple of bottles of this or that for us to take home.
Sunday, 24 February 2013
Thursday, 14 February 2013
Horse Feathers.
A few weeks ago, Mr G (Headmaster, Rtd) and I had a brief correspondence about butchers, and I said I might say a few words about them in my next Blog.
Well, how topical!
In reply to a woman interviewed for the BBC in Todmorden Market yesterday, who said that the French "eat horse all the time" , - Horsefeathers. I haven't come across a Boucherie Chevalline for years. And thinking about it, the only outlet I knew of, a food counter in Leclec in Marmande labelled Cheval, has not been there for at least the last 5 years. So if 'The French' are eating it all the time, they must be hunting for their supplies.
Hunt they certainly do. I'm going out for a walk in a mo' but wouldn't be if it were the weekend. Through any of the woods you encounter men in High-vis jackets, shotguns crooked over arms, warning you not to go in a particular direction. Their prey are rabbits, pigeons, boar and venison. The husband of a woman I used to walk with once brought us a deer hindquarter - we never managed to finish it - and wasted a lean, healthy and organic source of tasty protein. The Chasseur's Repas in early May will be a feast of boar paté and sausage, venison steak, all washed down with local Duras wines and the eau de vie which is a local by-product.
Neighbour Réné was out hunting with his lovely brindled dog yesterday, questing for the trail of rabbits across the bare field that was full of sunflowers 7 months ago; added to the vegetables he grows and the chickens he keeps it will reduce his food bills considerably. Although I do meet his wife Denise in the little stupormarket in Duras once in a blue moon as she dashes in between her Home-Carer visits.
I must confess that most of our meat comes from local supermarkets. I did try two excellent butchers who were helpful, and even willing to supply a joint of pork with the skin on and scored, but cuts are so different that it just became easier to examine what was packed ready in the supermarket. Each store of any size has its own butchery. You can see the hanging carcasses behind the counter, and there are notices that show where all the meat originates. Nearly always, the source is local. The aisle of ready meals has, sadly, increased over our 9 years here, but we are not tempted by the brightly coloured cardboard boxes when there is so much lovely duck, local fermier's chicken, good pork and local gamey lamb and mutton to try. (Beef, forget it, stringy cuts and poorly hung.)
But sometimes we would be grovellingly grateful for a proper butcher's banger.... < sigh >
Well, how topical!
In reply to a woman interviewed for the BBC in Todmorden Market yesterday, who said that the French "eat horse all the time" , - Horsefeathers. I haven't come across a Boucherie Chevalline for years. And thinking about it, the only outlet I knew of, a food counter in Leclec in Marmande labelled Cheval, has not been there for at least the last 5 years. So if 'The French' are eating it all the time, they must be hunting for their supplies.
Hunt they certainly do. I'm going out for a walk in a mo' but wouldn't be if it were the weekend. Through any of the woods you encounter men in High-vis jackets, shotguns crooked over arms, warning you not to go in a particular direction. Their prey are rabbits, pigeons, boar and venison. The husband of a woman I used to walk with once brought us a deer hindquarter - we never managed to finish it - and wasted a lean, healthy and organic source of tasty protein. The Chasseur's Repas in early May will be a feast of boar paté and sausage, venison steak, all washed down with local Duras wines and the eau de vie which is a local by-product.
Neighbour Réné was out hunting with his lovely brindled dog yesterday, questing for the trail of rabbits across the bare field that was full of sunflowers 7 months ago; added to the vegetables he grows and the chickens he keeps it will reduce his food bills considerably. Although I do meet his wife Denise in the little stupormarket in Duras once in a blue moon as she dashes in between her Home-Carer visits.
I must confess that most of our meat comes from local supermarkets. I did try two excellent butchers who were helpful, and even willing to supply a joint of pork with the skin on and scored, but cuts are so different that it just became easier to examine what was packed ready in the supermarket. Each store of any size has its own butchery. You can see the hanging carcasses behind the counter, and there are notices that show where all the meat originates. Nearly always, the source is local. The aisle of ready meals has, sadly, increased over our 9 years here, but we are not tempted by the brightly coloured cardboard boxes when there is so much lovely duck, local fermier's chicken, good pork and local gamey lamb and mutton to try. (Beef, forget it, stringy cuts and poorly hung.)
But sometimes we would be grovellingly grateful for a proper butcher's banger.... < sigh >
Saturday, 26 January 2013
I have just contemplated taking a picture of a neatly folded blue towel with a nicely-embossed Floris soap (Syringa) sitting on it, that has been resting in the downstairs bathroom in case the daily visiting nurse wanted to wash his/her hands. Following Vik's example from 2011, I have been trying to take a photograph for every day of the year, and during this grey rainy January, with Paul in hospital for a minor operation for a few days, and recuperating with his bandaged foot up for many days after, it has been quite a challenge. Unable to ski, walk, nor until the last week, quiz, skittle or visit, I have wondered which rain-soaked part of the garden to take each day. Once I was reduced to taking a lovely cauliflower that I had bought on Miramont market on a freezing Monday and now, nearly, to capturing a bar of soap for posterity.
The no washing thing has bothered me a bit. Each day the nurse would dash in, take from a box that we had to pick up from the Pharmacie a syringe and jab it into Paul's abdomen, say something cheery and dash off. I had to not imagine them coming from dressing post-operative wounds, from infectious children, from .. oh well you get my squeamish drift. At least I knew P was clean, so the next patient should have few worries.
The hospital wards were very clean. Patients have a single or double room with a scrubbed bathroom. All is cleaned twice a day. Nurses, orderlies, Doctors all look steam-cleaned. But downstairs the public loo leaves a lot to be desired. Soap, for a start. And although clean in the mornings it was more like the British image of a French loo by the afternoon. As I came out I eyed the suggestion box in the foyer, wondered if my French was sufficient to make clear the point that most hospital infections are brought in by visitors, and how such criticism from a Brittanique would be viewed,as infection rates in France are way below those in the UK.
And the hospital care was excellent. Staffing levels seem high and everyone was kind and helpful. Our experience of several hospitals, large ones in Bordeaux and little local ones, while P's Dad was with us and needing much care, left us with a confidence that all staff, from cleaner to Intern respected and empathised with the elderly. Not sure about the top bods - (do they empathise with anyone, or are we all just interesting cases to them?)- but then they don't do any hands-on caring so it can't be judged.
The French system, a mixture of state funding and private insurance seems to work well. And all emergency, life endangering conditions are treated and medicated 100% by state funding, so no-one unable to afford the top-up insurance need fear for their family's health. A lot of employers will fund their employees' insurance too.
So, today's photograph. Suggestions please, in the suggestion box.
The no washing thing has bothered me a bit. Each day the nurse would dash in, take from a box that we had to pick up from the Pharmacie a syringe and jab it into Paul's abdomen, say something cheery and dash off. I had to not imagine them coming from dressing post-operative wounds, from infectious children, from .. oh well you get my squeamish drift. At least I knew P was clean, so the next patient should have few worries.
The hospital wards were very clean. Patients have a single or double room with a scrubbed bathroom. All is cleaned twice a day. Nurses, orderlies, Doctors all look steam-cleaned. But downstairs the public loo leaves a lot to be desired. Soap, for a start. And although clean in the mornings it was more like the British image of a French loo by the afternoon. As I came out I eyed the suggestion box in the foyer, wondered if my French was sufficient to make clear the point that most hospital infections are brought in by visitors, and how such criticism from a Brittanique would be viewed,as infection rates in France are way below those in the UK.
And the hospital care was excellent. Staffing levels seem high and everyone was kind and helpful. Our experience of several hospitals, large ones in Bordeaux and little local ones, while P's Dad was with us and needing much care, left us with a confidence that all staff, from cleaner to Intern respected and empathised with the elderly. Not sure about the top bods - (do they empathise with anyone, or are we all just interesting cases to them?)- but then they don't do any hands-on caring so it can't be judged.
The French system, a mixture of state funding and private insurance seems to work well. And all emergency, life endangering conditions are treated and medicated 100% by state funding, so no-one unable to afford the top-up insurance need fear for their family's health. A lot of employers will fund their employees' insurance too.
So, today's photograph. Suggestions please, in the suggestion box.
Tuesday, 1 January 2013
Reveillon
On the last day of the year, Paul braves the supermarket. All we needed was milk and some mushrooms, but half of Aquitaine needed oysters, langoustines, crab, champagne or Cremant and Galette du Rois for their Reveillon celebrations. He queues for 25 minutes in the 10 or less (ha! Pet Hate, misuse of Less) line, amusing himself with the altercations between those who arrive with fewer than 10 things and those waiting with 12+ items. The latter never leave the line, but allow the former to join in front of them, so Paul finds himself further back in the queue.
The Galette du Rois is a rather yummy frangipane-filled pastry containing a 'bean' which should be a china King, shepherd, Babe etc, which should be eaten warily for fear of breaking a tooth or swallowing the thing, for which, the reward, a golden cardboard crown, is not much recompense. On Christmas Eve we made sure the 5-year-old got it. But it was a religion-free Galette and being into religion at the moment she was unimpressed by both the china bag of rice and the crown. We didn't get another one yesterday - just the milk, as our menu for Reveillon was sorted and unlike our Christmas feast did not include the traditional French food of shellfish.
Later we sat around the dying fire, silly string dangling from elbows and earrings, champagne, unwanted at
one am, fizzing ignored in half-full glasses, when Chris started.
"Alright then, what resolutions has everyone made?" - One of his innocent questions dropped into a group with the hope that someone reveals something inadvertently. His face bland, eyes innocently quizzical. But it is too late to get us stirred up. We have eaten too much drunk too much and two of us can't hear what people are saying and another two being 'strangers at the feast' are not likely to reveal all to the rest of us. The usual 'eat less drink less take more exercise' are avoided but none of us can summon up much wit. I am impressed by Pauline resolving to say 'No' more firmly but nicely. Put on the spot, I say
"Keep up with my blog better"
This is actually a good way to divert Chris from trying to make mischief, as he wants information on blogs, how to start one, who can read them and what they are for.
So here I am, resolute on January 1st 2013. The usual 'eat less drink less walk more' is zizzing in my skull, along with a headache, but there are at least 2 half-full bottles of wine to not waste, it keeps pouring with rain and Chris helped make 2 enormous bowls of delicious tiramisu and half of one of them is sitting in the fridge.
Happy New 2013, Robins, look after yourselves. xx
The Galette du Rois is a rather yummy frangipane-filled pastry containing a 'bean' which should be a china King, shepherd, Babe etc, which should be eaten warily for fear of breaking a tooth or swallowing the thing, for which, the reward, a golden cardboard crown, is not much recompense. On Christmas Eve we made sure the 5-year-old got it. But it was a religion-free Galette and being into religion at the moment she was unimpressed by both the china bag of rice and the crown. We didn't get another one yesterday - just the milk, as our menu for Reveillon was sorted and unlike our Christmas feast did not include the traditional French food of shellfish.
Later we sat around the dying fire, silly string dangling from elbows and earrings, champagne, unwanted at
one am, fizzing ignored in half-full glasses, when Chris started.
"Alright then, what resolutions has everyone made?" - One of his innocent questions dropped into a group with the hope that someone reveals something inadvertently. His face bland, eyes innocently quizzical. But it is too late to get us stirred up. We have eaten too much drunk too much and two of us can't hear what people are saying and another two being 'strangers at the feast' are not likely to reveal all to the rest of us. The usual 'eat less drink less take more exercise' are avoided but none of us can summon up much wit. I am impressed by Pauline resolving to say 'No' more firmly but nicely. Put on the spot, I say
"Keep up with my blog better"
This is actually a good way to divert Chris from trying to make mischief, as he wants information on blogs, how to start one, who can read them and what they are for.
So here I am, resolute on January 1st 2013. The usual 'eat less drink less walk more' is zizzing in my skull, along with a headache, but there are at least 2 half-full bottles of wine to not waste, it keeps pouring with rain and Chris helped make 2 enormous bowls of delicious tiramisu and half of one of them is sitting in the fridge.
Happy New 2013, Robins, look after yourselves. xx
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