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 >
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