ourfrenchoasis

A FOREIGNER IN FRANCE

People who have never lived abroad are often curious as to why others do. And until one actually has done so oneself, it is hard to understand the subtle nuances that can make life in a foreign country so great. The obvious differences such as language, location, and weather, are easy to understand; but often is it the minutiae of everyday life that draws people back to a place they may have only visited once on holiday, or seen film of, or read an article about. Sometimes it is not just a case of having wanderlust or a querying mind, but also a case of loving the quirkiness and embracing the challenge of living somewhere different and out of your comfort zone.

France is a great country – it has so much to offer and so much in its character that to a person living in the modern era its history and culture have much more right to importance than many may think. Whether it’s scenery, art, architecture, weather, cuisine, history or sheer grandeur, there is something for everyone in France, and that is what makes it such a great place to live, whether you’re soaking in the sleek atmosphere of a Parisian quartier, or sipping pastis next to a field of provencal lavender under an azure blue sky.

For us, here in the Charente Maritime, we revel in a pastoral countryside of rolling hills, salt marshes and some truly fascinating architecture, built when France was at the height of its maritime power. In summer, the lie of the land is yellow and green, sunflowers and grapevines, studded with forests of rich oak and chestnut. Rochefort, Royan and La Rochelle guard the coast, and Saintes crowns the inland countryside. In between are the working towns and villages, where French life continues, much as it has done for centuries, with its idiosyncrasies and small rituals of heritage.

Old-style France, the haven where most people who come to live here want to enjoy at its best, is full of matters and ideas you have to get used to. The French like to communicate, sometimes with verbosity and volume. So to start with the greeting game is something you have to learn to play quickly, and well. A “bonjour” in any situation, whether entering a shop or a household, a school crowd or the queue in the post office, is an expected passage of rite. Most French people will also say goodbye to all and sundry when leaving a situation too. Children you know will do the same, instantly breaking off what they are doing to come and dutifully greet you. Manners are important to the French, drilled into them at an early age, and they are amused at the casual tourist who does not play the game. This also extends to the ‘bisou’, the traditional peck (whether one, two, three or even four) on the cheek which is actually a very simple gesture of both affection and civility. We currently live by the ‘two bisous’ rule, one on each cheek, delivered only once a day to someone when you first see them, and with an obligation to those you know perfunctorily. Strangers get a handshake first time round – it is best for them to offer you a cheek the next time before disgracing yourself with eagerness because he is so good looking!

Part of France’s heritage are its markets, whether it’s a weekly produce affair in the village square, or a daily one in a larger town or city. French people live in rhythm with the seasons, and this is especially important when it comes to food. Vegetables and fruits are eaten at the appropriate time of year, and you should know your varieties of strawberries and make note of your beans. It is easy to step back 30 years in time at a market-stall and talk serious recipes with your fellow shoppers. Yes, there are huge super-markets in France, but the traditional way to buy food is not losing pace at all. Seafood, meat, plants and fruits, charcuterie and cheese – all can be bought at the street-market at the best possible prices. Last week I counted the cheeses on my fromagier’s stall; there were nearly a 100 of them – in a small village. Neither WholeFoods nor Harrods would come close to the selection or the knowledge of my ‘cheeseman’.

Another big difference one finds strange in France is the pharmacy – whereas in many countries it is usual to be able to stock a first aid kit at the modern supermarket, in France band-aids and antiseptic sprays are about the limit of the items available. Pain relief, cough medicine, cold remedies – they must all be bought at a pharmacy, and what’s more they are behind the counter and only available on request! However, they always carry a fabulous range of beauty products, slimming products, anti-cellulite creams and much sort after face creams – it is almost certain that the pharmacy will be able to make you presentable enough for the catwalk! (Personally I think this is why husband’s on holiday are happy to wait while their wives spend ages in the pharmacy, they love ogling the huge adverts of girls massaging their slim brown thighs with creams that promise miracles, but that’s another story and I am getting side-tracked!). In the autumn during mushroom season there is nearly always a board showing which mushroom is safe to eat and which is poisonous and if you are unsure you simply take the fungi of concern into the pharmacist who will confirm if indeed it is safe to eat. So many of life’s problems can be solved in a small French Pharmacy!

Other foibles one must get used to is the fact that at 12.00 midday, or perhaps 12.30pm, everything closes. The French do lunch. Whether you’re a factory worker, a gardener, a board director or the school mistress, everything stops for lunch. And while there are indeed MacDonalds and filled baguettes to be found, probably 80% of France sits down to a proper lunch, complete with dessert and cheese. The traditional menu de jour typically has three courses. Even children at school get indoctrinated into this, and as I write this blog a small note beside my elbow informs me that today at our small village school of just 67 children, our two youngest will be eating cucumber salad, followed by fresh grilled fish from the Charente Maritime with organic rice and tomatoes, and then end their meal with a chocolate pannacotta, all served à la table and always with French bread. The menu for the month is sent home with each child and local produce is always listed as well as what is organic. The French lifestyle of foodiness also crops up again at some stage in the afternoon, typically when the children get home from school, when goûter is served – cakes, biscuits, sandwiches or fruit – something is always put in front of children at this time. It has got to the stage where our children’s friends even congregate in the kitchen like a flock of homing pigeons at the vague time when they know something is going to be dished up, and mutterings of “goûter ?” become very audible. It is expected, even if we are the ‘foreigners’.

Coming home with the shopping raises another foible that some people find difficult to get used to – carrier bags. The French do not offer free carrier bags for the shopping – if you forget to take in your own bags or are on vacation you can buy a very sturdy large bag for 2 euros, they last for ever and are quite capable of swallowing half a cart load of goodies. Many a time I have tried to walk in a dignified fashion out of a shop, clutching pens, notebooks, magazines; or the bakery carrying baguettes and croissants trying hard not to drop anything, all because I forgot to take a bag with me.

There are many other areas of difference between France and the rest of the world, but it would take a whole book to go through them all, so I hope you’re happy with a brief taste of some of the things we enjoy most, and find so refreshing, between our native country and the one we now call home. I think the reason you are reading this is because you know this anyway, and love France almost as much as we do. Have a great week x

May 19, 2015May 19, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

A SLEEPOVER IN PONS

Last week was VE day – Victory in Europe – and it is always a public holiday in France. We were invited to dinner at a friends’ house and to stay the night. The children were excited when they knew they were going for a sleepover altogether but it seemed that the invite had caused confusion, for one afternoon the week before we left, Gigi looked at me with a very serious expression on her face and asked “Are you and Papa staying the night in Pons too?”. I told her that of course we were! The serious face turned into an incredibly big smile, “Mama and Papa are having a sleepover too, that’s so cool!”, she said. She and her siblings are always having sleepovers at friends’ houses or have friends coming to our house, but the idea of her parents doing the same at a friends’ house had not occurred to her at all!

The day of the big sleepover arrived – you would really have thought we were going away for a month, not a night. Our fabulous neighbour was left in charge of the ducks and chickens, the kittens had plenty of food and Bentley was coming with us. All the shutters throughout the house had to be closed, a job in itself which seems to take forever and then there is the actual reality of ushering five children out of the door with all their “stuff” – of course we were running late! It was the most perfect day, hot and sunny with clear blue skies. As we headed east our coastal landscape slowly gave way to the gently undulating hills of inland Charente Maritime, with rows and rows of vines as far as the eye could see.

In the late afternoon after we arrived we walked for miles, through the vineyards as is so typical in France; no cars, no noise, no-one to be seen apart from a solitary tractor working in the vines and the chatter and laughter of the children.

The most delicious dinner followed and for once no need to worry about driving home, what a treat that was. Several glasses of wine, much laughter and hours of talking. The children went to bed far too late, only to be woken along with everyone else and a very nervous Bentley at 5am by the roar of overhead thunder and much flashing of lightning.

The storm brought with it cooler air and a stiff breeze but amazingly the rain held off for the annual VE day Brocante and plant fair in Avy the next day. Beer tents were overflowing with friends enjoying their day off; dogs on leads; children running here and there amidst so many people carrying their purchases – flowers, zinc pots, copper pans, pieces of furniture – for anyone wanting to experience the “real” France, a visit to a Brocante during the spring has to be very high up on the agenda.

For once we were in no rush, time was on our side and later we took the opportunity to explore the beautiful town of Pons.

Perched on a rock, this Cité Médiévale is very much worth a visit. In the centre there is the remaining vestige of the old fortified castle and its magnificent keep. It was destroyed in 1179 by Richard the Lionheart and then rebuilt again later. We were careful to speak in undertones and remain very un-British!

All around are small streets full of history, adorned with turrets, arches, stairways and fabulous private houses.

Alleys join the lower town where pilgrims on their way to the town of Santiago de Compostela stopped at the Hôpital Neuf (New Hospital) founded in 1160 by Geoffroy III of Pons.

On the other side, a walk in the park is an occasion to see a typical French public garden with carefully manicured shrubbery and glorious avenues of huge green trees à la Française – chestnuts, oak and plane (sycamore for our American friends) trees are typically planted for this purpose.

Our little sojourn away has thoroughly recharged our batteries and is good proof of the saying, “A change is as good as a rest” !

May 12, 2015May 12, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

LOCAL ARTISANS – THE ENDURING LEGACY OF CLAY

Tucked into a small quarry under a clump of trees where a host of black kites nest each year, lies one of the Charente Maritime’s oldest industries. Quietly known throughout France by the cognoscenti, and with a rich history stained by the very earth on which it stands, the furnaces of TERRE CUITES still shimmer with heat as they have likely done for over a thousand years. Yesterday we had the pleasure of meeting the owners and our family spent a fascinating afternoon learning about this important local industry. I was so happy to meet Monsieur Pauzat and his Father and to make this number 3 in our “Local Artisans” series.

Underneath a set of wooden trusses that date back to the 14th century, Terres Cuites is a business of clay, water, fire and oxygen. It produces tiles for both roofs and floors, for walls and decorations, and it was the tiled floor in our own house that started me off in search of their origin. I had wondered where the tiles had come from, with their rich ranges of colours and their obvious individuality. They looked old, and completely in character with our building, and when I saw the same tiles in Monsieur David’s boulangerie, my question was answered with a shoulder that pointed over the hill and a knowing smile. “Les Terres Cuites,” he said, I knew instantly where he meant, I had passed the sign many times and so I set off to investigate further.

“Il y’a beaucoup de vipères,” Monsieur Pauzat warned us, as we set off to climb a clay mound for a photo of his family’s enterprise. “Faites-attention !…..” and he pointed at the kites circling overhead. “….that’s what they feed on!” and we did indeed pay attention for snakes as the clay quivered beneath our feet. I was standing in a lie of land perhaps a thousand yards long, and 300 yards wide, a lie shaped by the hand of man over many centuries as clay was manhandled from its bed and slid on sledges into the gaping maw of the mixer, there to be molded with water, cut and dried for a month, and then baked in the heart of a furnace at 1200˚C; in ancient times fuelled by the faggots of local forests and the charcoal of the seasonal charcoal burner. We had learnt all this over the course of an hour’s conversation, offered by Monsieur Pauzat without question and with a smile, and completed with an invitation to take photos. It was breathtaking to think of the antiquity of such an incongruous business, settled into the landscape without preamble or fanfare, but with a story stretching back to the 10th century, to a time when our village had no church and the tiles from the furnace went to the fortified chateau and the hostelry on the main road. The three current furnaces of the business are still old, and each consume 200 square metres of tiles at a sitting, tickling at a constant 1170˚C thanks to modern thermostats, and consuming €900 worth of gas at a time. Monsieur Pauzat had filled my head with facts, even though he and his family had only been running the business for three generations.

We learnt winter is cold, a time to stockpile, tidy, repair, and fire some tiles in warm weather. The spring is a time to fire many more, as the temperature rises and humidity stays low – this is the busiest time of the year, sliding slowly into summer as the stockpile dwindles during the house-building season and supplies are replenished when the weather is not too warm nor humid. Autumn the furnaces burn again, tiles churned forth to be stacked against the winter cold.

We were amazed at the amount of tiles in stock, but were quickly told that there were actually very few compared to normal. We learnt the simplicity of the process of making tiles, and then became confused by the hundreds of complexities that are also needed to be taken care of. Two colours of clay in the quarry, white and a red, and a combination of burnt oxygen and heat combined meant a great range of colours could be produced, from white to purple with all the shades of sunset and sunrise in-between. It bemused me that so much clay could be consumed over so many years and yet so much could still remain. We were told that hidden among the trees along the escarpment overlooking the marais were other chimneys of long forgotten furnaces, and that the tiles from the hills had been used far and wide across France, known particularly for their durability, thanks to the ferruginous qualities of the clay – it contains iron oxide which hardens when fired. The oldest tiles that are known from the quarry date to the 11th century and exist in the old Priory in the village. Tiles used in the fortified chateau go back to the 12th century. Most of the Napoleonic forts in the region and many of the important civil buildings, all have our local tiles on their floors and walls.

We were led deep into the premises, and gazed awestruck at the number of drying racks, the mounds of completed tiles, and the size of the furnaces. A carriage stood ready to be fired the next day, the furnace open to receive its cargo, its door and interior blistered and burnt by years of fiery hell. At the heart of the building, under a more modern sheet-steel roof, stood the wooden frame of an original building, quietly standing with dignity some 700 years after being erected; it was tantamount proof to the passage of worms and beetles, its scarred surface a testament to the enduring adaptability of man and his work.

With a fond adieu to Monsieur Pauzat and his 85-year old father, down for an afternoon check on his son’s work, we headed back to our own tiles, wondering at the tenacity of a skill and its determination to survive in the face of modern processes and cheap foreign imports. I had earlier asked, innocently, why people would care to buy something of lesser quality from a shop for the same price as a hand-made, valley-fired tile, and Monsieur Pauzat had shrugged. “Why ?” he had queried with a gallic shrug. “Perhaps it is because we are too busy to sell when we are so busy making,” he said, “and after all, people come here as they have done for hundreds of years, and most likely will do for hundreds more.” We looked at the kites, circling overhead with their beady eyes open for prey, and saw a continuance that could not be shrugged off by mere modern smart businessmen. We could find no argument with his reasoning. The talk of tiles, the quarry and how they are made continued through supper, they had made a lasting impression.

May 7, 2015May 9, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

TRAGEDY IN THE COOP

It’s been a rather sad week and for that reason I am keeping this brief. I don’t want to be morose and I don’t want to dwell on things, this has always been such an upbeat blog, but one of our chickens, one of the big ginger farm hens, died at the weekend. It was simply horrid. Hetty and I were down at the bottom of the garden cutting some of the lower branches off the lime tree, when something made us decide to take a look inside the chicken coop. I truly don’t know why, but we opened the door and there inside was Buack Buack, flapping her wings in a crazy fashion. I ran as fast as I could back to the house and called for Roddy and Millie to come quickly. We were no more than two or three minutes. We opened the door and she was dead, lying on the floor of the coop. It was awful.

We stood hugging our poor sobbing children. But like most children, within half an hour they were playing with a friend, poor chicken temporarily forgotten, screams of laughter once again rung around the garden and Gigi returned to her current hobby, taming Penny and Adrian so they eat out of her hand!

We phoned our vet and they told us to bring her straight in and they would carry out an autopsy for us. We really did want to know why she had died. Why, why, why? Roddy loaded the box into the car and off we trundled to our vet who is in the middle of Rochefort. Amid Louis XIV’s venerated and exquisite 17th century buildings, you would imagine a very la-de-da surgery, caring for the pampered pooches of the sophisticated residents living in such a beautiful part of the town. But no, this is very much a vet caring for farm animals too. The shelves are lined with fly-masks for horses and various boxes that indicate their contents will be helpful to sick sheep, cattle, pigs and goats! Whilst waiting we casually looked at the notice-board; did we want a 2 year-old ewe? A puppy? Some goats? Or perhaps some riding lessons? Noticeboards are such fun to read but rather dangerous – suddenly I was wondering if Roddy would mind terribly if we had a sheep, and as we had talked endlessly about getting a puppy in the summer, and as it is nearly the summer after all………

And then, we nearly came away with another kitten; nearly but not quite, as we really, really, did NOT want another kitten! But they were so adorable and I am such a pushover when it comes to any small helpless newborn creature. The veterinary nurse showed them to us; they were about three weeks old and just starting to open their eyes. They had been left on the vet’s doorstep in a cardboard box the night before. I suppose someone was desperate and didn’t know what to do with them – at least they had the decency to leave them at the vet’s.

May 5, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

HEN-ZILLA AND THE MOLLYCODDLED DUCKS

The children have just started two weeks of spring holidays, which makes me really happy. Friends coming and going, sleepovers here and there; it’s like Picadilly Circus but I love it. It also means there are a few extra pairs of hands to help in the garden; there is just so much to do at this time of year and weeds seem to grow overnight. We have been working so hard in the newly formed vegetable garden, and we spent the afternoon on Sunday planting out tomatoes, aubergines, peppers and hot chillies which are Millie’s project. We also put in some lettuce, salad greens, cucumbers, watermelons and courgettes. The children planted because that’s the fun part while I hoed up weeds and raked! Our beans we sowed a couple of weeks ago are now about 8″ high and the peas are shooting up. There are rows of tiny carrot tops peeping through the soil, along with the spinach and potatoes – it’s all so exciting. We have had to fence it to keep our dear feathered friends out, or else they would think we had planted a feast just for them, and we included the row of ten grape-vines inside the fencing because I read that chickens love grapes and we would not have a grape left if they were within their reach. Next project to hand cut all the grass under the vines!

Dear Rosie is being a very dutiful hen; she has less than a week to go now and we are all so hopeful we might get at least one chick. She leaves her nest briefly around 11am each morning: the routine is always the same as she wanders up the garden, stretches her legs and looks around. The others are really quite nasty to her as she is no longer “one of them” and they peck at her and chase her away if she comes too close; it’s actually rather sad to watch. After ten or fifteen minutes she swiftly heads back to her nest and carries on coddling her beloved eggs.

Eleanor is now also broody, sitting on two eggs and a ping-pong ball to make up the numbers! Our sweet, lovely, docile Eleanor, she of the Mad Hatters’ Tea Party fame, has turned into Hen-Zilla. Each morning when we open their door, she comes out straightaway clucking that special phrase of cluck we’re now getting used to; “Get out of my way, I’m an important broody hen with eggs to sit on; out of my way, out of my way, I need to eat, no time to waste!” and she is back inside and on her eggs within ten minutes, having made quite sure that we all know exactly how important she is!

But the real time-wasters are Penny and Adrian, the pair of ducklings we were given at the Farmers Market nine days ago. Most of the ducks sold that day no doubt were bought to be fattened and intended for the table. They would have gone into a large sandy enclosure with an old pond in the corner, where the last blade of grass would have long since ceased to exist. However, Penny and Adrian have entered a life of luxury, and are enjoying the pampered mollycoddled life of a pet duck! When they arrived, a temporary run was made for them, along with an old paddling-pool filled with clean cool water. The next day a new home arrived. A brand new dog-kennel was put together and filled with straw. Chairs were placed near the enclosure and the children would sit and watch them, chatting and laughing, the ducks getting used to people and their endless talking! The chickens came and took a look, wondering what all the fuss was about and who the new arrivals were. Penny and Adrian ate and swam and loved all the attention. Then just when they really thought life couldn’t get much better, it did – in fact it got a whole lot better. Yesterday the temporary fence was removed from around their paddling-pool and their deluxe house – they are free to wander in the garden along with the chickens. Their permanent pond is under construction, yet another project! The chickens take little notice of them and the cats have decided they are definitely too big to hunt and wander away. Bentley, being Bentley, totally ignores them. The ducks waddle around, they flap their tiny wings and run across the lawn – if this is what life is all about, it really is pretty good.

The garden is changing on a daily basis; it’s like a video on permanent fast-forward and everything is growing so fast. The first roses on a south-facing wall are blooming

I love the Arum Lilies, simple perfection

and the Tamarisk is never still, always moving in the breeze

We’ve also been walking, lots and lots of walking; it’s such a perfect climate at the moment, not too hot and not too cold and everywhere is so stunning. Hedgerows with sweet scented lilac, tall grass waving in the breeze, waiting to be cut for hay. The bright yellow of rapeseed cuts a colourful swathe across the landscape. Blowing dandelion seeds and making wishes. Childhood memories and carefree days.

Whenever we come home and walk down the driveway I am greeted by the beautiful flowering horse-chestnut. All the trees are incredible and in full leaf; one half of the garden is now a canopy of shade. Sometimes I just stand and stare. I call the children over to look at them as it’s all too easy to forget about the trees. They are just there, a part of the garden, and we do take trees for granted. But I like to draw attention to them as they are magnificent, hundreds of years old, and only then, standing looking up at the giant lime tree, do we all really see how huge it is.

April 28, 2015April 30, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

TO MARKET, TO MARKET…

“To market, to market, to buy a fat pig, home again, home again, jiggety-jig” – remember that old nursery rhyme? It sprung to mind as the children and I headed off to a nearby farmers market last Sunday. The girls were drawn like magnets to the baby chicks, the ducklings and rabbits; little did they know they were intended for the pot rather than as pets. I didn’t see any pigs for sale but I am sure, had I made enquiries, I could have bought one, but I really don’t want a pig! This was a far cry from the usual weekly market where we buy our fresh fish, fruit, vegetables and cheese – the typical French market where the locals buy so much of their food every day. No, this was, as the name suggests, a real ‘Farmers’ market, in every sense of the word. The morning was neither sunny nor particularly warm but that had not deterred most of the locals who came from miles around. A huge undercover area had been set up for lunch. Two young lads were grilling vast slabs of meat on the barbecue and the tables were quickly filling up as lunchtime approached. We started at the plant stand where I bought lots of small geraniums for the garden before quickly moving on to local honey. We were offered so many different varieties to taste – sunflower honey, wild-flower honey, honey of the forest; nothing is ever hurried, everything is considered and discussed before a decision is made and there is no pressure to buy which in a strange way makes me buy more! Local organic strawberries were our next purchase, along with spring onions and asparagus; I was definitely getting hungry! We passed on the cognac tasting (the girls are a little young!) but there were plenty of people sampling, drinking and buying; chatting and telling stories, it was all so convivial. We had arranged to meet our good friends, Penny and Adrian, here at the market and they were quite adamant that we really needed a pair of ducks to add to our menagerie at home. I couldn’t even imagine going home and telling Roddy that we had come back with two more feathered friends, but they just laughed and Adrian said he knew a good lawyer! And so before I knew quite what was happening, two ducklings, not more than a few weeks old, were chosen and put into a cardboard box as a very belated house-warming present!

Back home and the sun decided to make it’s first appearance of the day – lunch on the terrace and a bottle of bubbly, if we needed an excuse then it had to be celebrating that Roddy loved the ducklings and the divorce lawyer was not needed! Adrian and Millie set about making a temporary outdoor run for our new acquisitions, complete with an old borrowed paddling-pool from our lovely neighbour. The ducklings are still too young to roam free (which is the long term plan, of course) but for the time-being I wouldn’t trust our dear nearly fully-grown kittens, Rory and Clara, until the birds are much bigger. Surprisingly Clara, who is a real hunter, has no interest in them, but Rory is intrigued. I don’t think he wants to hurt them, he just wants to play, but to him playing is all about teeth and claws; this is a great game with Bentley, but I’m not so sure it would be so good with two young ducklings, so we’re taking no chances.

So without further ado let me introduce you to the latest members of our family who Penny and Adrian baptized after themselves – I give you Penny and Adrian!

p.s. do make sure you have your volume turned up, the sound of them drinking is adorable!

If I was to tell you that they are even worse for wasting time, would you believe me ?

April 21, 2015May 19, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

SO MUCH CAN HAPPEN IN 4 DAYS

It’s amazing how so much can happen in four days, I mean I know it is only four days since Sunday, that’s a fact, but it seems like four weeks. The French air-traffic controllers went back to work, and so Izzi flew back to University on Sunday. A hot and sunny day and the usually sleepy little airport at La Rochelle was a heaving mass of frustrated travellers and fractious children after so many cancellations. The arrivals and departures building is so sweet and so small you can’t even check in online as it doesn’t have the facilities, and I drove off leaving Izzi in a 65-minute queue for security. She texted me from the plane whilst they were sitting on the tarmac waiting to depart – 15 passengers had somehow gone missing, security had been completely swamped as three flights were leaving within ten minutes of each other, and she was next to a toddler and behind a crying baby and then someone threw a book at her head – all of this and she still hadn’t taken off! It was going to be a long 75 minute flight across the Channel!

Roddy is still hobbling with his infected foot and ‘septic shock’, and is on his second course of antibiotics. I’m therefore still flying solo so to speak, and there are far too many jobs around the garden still remaining half-finished. However, the days are drawing out and it isn’t getting dark until gone 9pm so after I have collected the children from school and everyone has been fed and watered there is still plenty of time for an evening dog walk and some playing in the garden.

More dramas on Tuesday evening when Gigi, our youngest, tripped over whilst playing in our neighbour’s garden and took the brunt of the fall on her wrist. Amidst floods of tears, I took her to our delightful local doctor who was happy to see her despite the fact it was definitely the apéritif hour! He suspected it might be a hairline fracture of her wrist and sent us to the Urgences in Royan; this was a little further than Rochefort but, in his words, much more efficient and with much less waiting time. I am really happy to say it wasn’t fractured but just sprained although she will be wearing a support bandage for the next couple of weeks. However yesterday she was back happily playing in the neighbour’s garden once again; the young bounce back so quickly at that age – it is making Roddy green with envy. When Gigi fell over, I had been in the middle of giving Bentley a much needed spring hair-cut as he was looking extremely shaggy! Poor chap – taking care of Gigi meant he got left unfinished – one side trimmed, the other still long and hairy – until the next morning. He looked like two different dogs, depending on which side you viewed him from!

The garden seems to have literally exploded into life; gone are the bare trees and in turn we have a jungle of semi-awakening buds and unfurling leaves, which literally seem to have burst open overnight. This was no gentle transformation! Of course the weather has played a major part in this, and we went from a pleasant 20C last week to a very hot 30C this week; in fact, we were actually having to water both our long-term plants in pots and also everything else we have recently planted. Whoever heard of having to water plants in April! The chickens have taken to foraging under the trees and old stone walls and avoiding the open shadeless lawn.

The plum blossom and peach blossom have long since given way to small fruits, but the cherry is still magnificent – a stunning backdrop of white amongst all the greenery surrounding it. The horse-chestnut is in full leaf and its flowers are poised to open any day. The Virginia creeper which climbs all the old stone walls has suddenly come to life, little red buds and delicate leaves appearing all over the place amidst the tangled web of the vine.

The wisteria spreading along the front of the house is stunning, and gently scenting the bedrooms above through the open windows with a sea of bluebells underneath.

Rhubarb has shot up out of nowhere in one corner of our newly formed vegetable garden. We didn’t even know it was there. The girls and I have sowed and hoed and weeded! We have cut and trimmed hazel sticks for the runner beans, and cut off the tops and made them into pea-sticks to support the peas as they start to grow. We have so far also planted potatoes, carrots and spinach.

The redcurrant and blackcurrant are all flowering, I think we have five of each; the irises are a vivid blue against a backdrop of green; and the tiny wild strawberries which grow in abundance under one of the south facing walls are in flower.

Our huge fig tree in the small courtyard to the side of the house has finally come into leaf and I am extremely relieved to see buds forming on the grapevines. Relieved as I have never pruned vines before, we have a row of old established vines which we incorporated into the vegetable garden which bear really sweet juicy red grapes and a huge old vine against the wall in the courtyard. They were all sorely lacking attention when we bought the house and after much advice from friends I tackled them just before Christmas and I was brutal! Every day I discover something new, it’s like entering a toy shop for the first time – I can’t wait to see what our garden has to offer in our first full year here.

Finally, Rosie, one of our sweet Pekim bantams has gone broody which has caused so much excitement in the household. It’s the first time we have had a broody hen. We moved her at dusk to the old small coop which we no longer use, a joint effort between Millie and I as we carefully carried her and re-located the eggs. However, nothing is that simple. Naturally, she was sitting on several of the larger eggs of the big girls (as we call our standard farm hens) and only two bantam eggs. So whilst Millie was at school the next day I waited until Rosie took a little time off her nest to switch a few more eggs. I waited and waited, and about 11 o’clock she hopped outside for a walk. Quickly I hurried down the garden with 6 bantam eggs from the past week and carefully put them in her nest, removing the large eggs from the big girls.

Mission accomplished, or so I thought. I waited a while to check she would go back into the coop and all would be well but when I checked, she wasn’t there! She’d gone back to the big coop they all share and was quietly patiently waiting outside the nesting box whilst one of the big girls laid an egg! Obviously I was going to have to pick her up and put her back on her nest, but I hate picking up hens and unfortunately a broody hen does not like being picked up – especially when she thinks she is being taken from her eggs. Bravely I donned my gardening gloves and carried her back to the old coop and her bantam eggs. Two days later and she has remembered which coop to go back to, and is being a very dutiful hen. Thank goodness she only has another 18 days or so to go! The excitement amongst the children is akin to the build up to Christmas. I hope to goodness that the eggs are actually fertilized and that Fritz has done his job. I am not asking for a lot, just one little chick would be fine, I’ll keep you posted!

April 16, 2015April 17, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

LA ROCHELLE

It’s a known fact that when the French are unhappy about something they go on strike. This week the French Air Traffic Controllers were on strike for two days and as a result Izzi’s flight back to the UK was cancelled, the positive side to this is she gets to stay with us a few more days until Sunday, so I for one am definitely not complaining! It gave us a chance to spend a wonderful morning together in La Rochelle. We lacked the sunshine of the past few days but it was still warm enough. We shopped a little and walked and walked – snapping photographs as we went, nothing posed, nothing edited, just a view of La Rochelle as it is, of people going about their business, of daily life in this beautiful city…

La Rochelle is the capital of the Charente Maritime department and is just half an hour north of us, it sits on the Atlantic coast with a year round population of approximately 77,000 people which swells quite considerably in the summer months.

The city was founded during the 10th century and became an important harbour in the 12th century.

It has beautifully maintained its past architecture, making it one of the most picturesque and historically rich cities on the Atlantic coast, indeed many people believe it to be one of the prettiest cities in France.

This apartment is for sale, anyone fancy city living?

La Rochelle’s main feature is the “Vieux Port” (“Old Harbour”), which is at the heart of the city, picturesque and lined with bars, cafes and seafood restaurants. The perfect place for a cup of coffee and to watch the world go by.

Have a wonderful weekend everybody.

April 10, 2015April 10, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

TEN DAYS

There is something about the month of March in our family – the children nearly always fall by the wayside with this bug or that, they can happily navigate their way around all the winter sickness and then March arrives and wham, they drop like flies. I truly thought we had got away with it this year, but first Millie caught a medium dose of bubonic plague at school, and then Roddy found himself unable to walk after an ankle grew to the size of a football.

He claimed to be in some pain so our fabulous neighbour very kindly took him to the local Urgences (ER) in Rochefort as it was a Sunday afternoon. Several hours later, and armed with a sack-load of antibiotics he returned with an infected foot after spending several hours in one of those silly back-to-front tunics on a wobbly gurney in the corridor while they did blood tests. Back in November when we were still renovating the house, a water tank fell on his foot and his toenail went quite black. To his credit he just carried on as though nothing had happened and we thought little more of it until he dropped a log on it last week – and although the air went temporarily blue as a vast amount of expletives could be heard, the moment passed without further incident. However, it appears that the wayward piece of oak caused a septic shock that triggered the infection. So, ten days later, he is still on crutches and unable to drive or do anything at all. Garden projects lie half-finished.

Just as I thought that not a lot else could go wrong, Izzi called me from university in the UK; “Mama, I’ve got an awful sore throat and cough, and I’m flying to Milan tomorrow and the doctor is closed! Help!”. My advice was simple – drink lots of lemon juice and honey, eat raw garlic and suck on raw ginger. There was little else I could do from a few hundred miles away in France and I crossed my fingers it would do the trick.

So March finally passed and I welcomed April, quite literally rushed off my feet. So many extra things to do with Roddy unable to move or drive. The plum blossom is already over and in it’s place delicate green leaves and the beginnings of fruit. The cherry now takes pride of place in the garden, it’s magnificent blossom overshadows everything else.

However, April brought the ants. I came into the kitchen one morning last week to find a trail of dark little specks, speeding across the floor like a tide of black dust, creeping imperceptibly under the dishwasher. But there was no time to worry about that until I had delivered the children on-time to their respective schools! With a much needed cup of coffee on my return, chickens let out and fed, kittens fed and husband fed, further investigation revealed a music-festival gathering under the dishwasher, writhing and dancing to some invisible beat. After pulling the machine half-out, I realized that most of the ants in the Charente-Maritime were actually jamming away under there. I hurried off to our local garden/agricultural centre, Gamm Vert, the place where you can buy everything – plants, clothing, chicken-feed, ham, cognac, lawn mowers, paint and even an oven, and searched for some ant repellent. But what did I find on the shelves? Not much choice of ant poison, but a huge new seasonal selection of snake-repellents! Lots of the stuff. I thought I had left Florida and snakes behind, I HATE snakes, and now, if I believed what I read on the shelves, my perfect garden was about to be invaded by all of Europe’s finest venemous varieties. Through my tears I could see shelf after shelf of products of various designs for repelling the mighty asp, the dreaded viper, and the lesser spotted cow-gobbler, or something. Quietly sobbing I remembered the ant-bait just in time, and drove home thinking dark thoughts about reptilian defenses in the garden.

Of course when I spoke to our neighbour that afternoon he told me that there were indeed snakes, but – not too many would be seen, if indeed any at all. They were small, and the cats would keep them away as well. “Just don’t put your hand in any cracks in old walls” he said!

So ants dealt with, snake fears almost allayed, it was time to learn how to use the chainsaw. Our barn is stacked full of wood but most of it is cut to metre long lengths and I had to halve them to fit our fireplace. Roddy is normally in charge of this programme, but he was still in his chair and we needed some wood. I am quite amused that despite being a farmer’s daughter and growing up on a farm I had never used a chainsaw, but after Roddy dutifully hobbled out and showed me how to mix fuel and start the noisy beast, I now know how to cut firewood. He did not have the courage to watch me cut my leg off and hobbled away once he thought I had things under control.

Easter arrived and along with it came stunning weather; clear blue skies and some much welcomed sunshine. I set off for Bordeaux airport with Millie to pick up Izzi who was flying in from Milan, thankfully feeling much better. So excited at the thought of having all five children together again. She had been staying with a university friend whose family lives in Milan as she has two weeks Spring Break. It was a stunning drive down to Bordeaux as it was Easter Day and the roads were quite empty. Millie told me all about her forthcoming school-trip the following year to China. She will be starting Lycée this September, the equivalent of the last three years of High School in the USA, and she has decided on Chinese as her third foreign language choice, alongside Spanish and English. Of course for her English is the easy foreign language she doesn’t have to even think about (an easy pass as we call it). Jack, who is 13 in a couple of weeks time, will be going to the Alps with the school next winter for a week learning how to dog-sleigh. A skill I doubt he will need in life but immense fun! The two youngest girls are off on a big school-trip on Thursday and have had not one but two parties this Easter weekend. I have decided I want to go back to being a student; I don’t remember it being half as much fun when I was at school!

I rarely go to Bordeaux as the airport is an hour and forty minutes south of us and normally everyone flies into La Rochelle. However, on such a beautiful day it was fun to see new scenery, and with so many vineyards Millie and I had great fun differentiating the organic ones from those using endless pesticides – the latter have grass around the roots which is an incongruous shade of orange. As I love driving, the time flew past and Millie even managed to take a photo of the River Dordogne as we crossed it at 70kph!

Easter Monday, I managed to spend a couple of hours in the garden in the afternoon in some easterly sunshine, attacking the weeds that seemed to have sprung up overnight with the warmer weather; the chickens helped as always when Fritz would leave them alone (note to self : spring is definitely in the air), or perhaps they hindered; either way I enjoy their company!

I hate it when the children go back to school even after just a long weekend at home; it is always so much fun but suddenly today the house was silent again. To cheer myself up I stopped on the way back from dropping them off to take some quick photos of the beautiful weeping willow outside Pont l’Abbe, it really is quite fantastic in the early morning sunshine.

The daffodils along the river beside the willow will soon be past their best; it seems like only yesterday we were so excited to see the first signs of spring and now already we are moving on to the next stage.

Everywhere the blackthorn is in flower, delicate little white petals which bely the sharp prickly thorns they hide. I have never seen so much blackthorn; every hedgerow is a sea of white, mile upon mile of surf surging up out of the ditches, its spume blowing across the roads with every gust of the breeze. There are plenty of old folklore tales about blackthorn; in autumn it bears the sloe fruit, of course, and this year we will be ready with empty bottles and some gin or vodka. If there is an abundance of fruit, which with so many flowers this spring might suggest, it is said it will be a harsh winter – what my Father used to call “a blackthorn winter”. But still I can’t start thinking about next winter yet, we have only just said goodbye to this one. Still I learnt to use a chainsaw! I wonder if it will be effective on the snakes !!!

April 7, 2015April 7, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

BEHIND THE SCENES AT OUR LOCAL BROCANTE

Choosing a second subject for my series of “local artisans” was made easy by many comments I received after introducing you to our ‘boulanger’ last month. Since so many of you take a special interest in the ‘brocantes’ of France I thought I would head to a local treasure cave and see if I could squeeze out some details of this time-honored French tradition which you might find interesting.

The ‘brocante’ is a French institution with a devoted following, both in France and overseas. Over the past few decades this world of bric-a-brac and antiques has grown significantly, especially since the advent of the internet. In a lot of countries, this has also led to a proliferation of television shows, magazines devoted to the subject and numerous websites and blogs featuring vintage homes with a French feel, many of which I love to follow. However, in France, the ‘brocante’ for many towns and villages is still what it always was, more of a working junk-shop than an antique shop, and with many items in stock being sold for re-use rather than profit. The country ‘brocantes’ we enjoy here in the Charente-Maritime have changed little over time, in ours we could as easily buy a cattle-trough for our cows, as we could a complete set of monogramed bed-linen for a newly-opened ‘chambres d’hôte’, for example.

The Brocante du Val d’Arnoult on the outskirts of Pont l’Abbé is owned by Pierre and Michéle Morardet, a drive-in yard sits alongside two long warehouses, with reams of agricultural evidence both inside and out, 200 year-old plough-shares sitting side by side with used pesticide tanks, beaten-up zinc watering cans and rusting garden chairs. It’s an incongruous melange of items that is compounded as you walk though an innocuous door into what seems, from the outside, to be an innocuous shed.

Once inside however, you realize you are in a far from innocuous place – instead, you’ve relocated to a time capsule of all things French; national products, colonial souvenirs, kitchen implements, big farmhouse furniture, glassware for mansion houses and toys for a million grown children – this crazy warehouse has it all. Indeed, if you wanted to outfit a house with a vintage vibe, you’d find everything you need here, right down to the thimbles for the sewing kit, and the 1950’s cooker for the 1950’s kitchen. Each time I come here, I feel like Alladin looking into his cave for the first time, knowing smugly that one is rich in antiques beyond one’s dreams, but still with an urge to add more.

It turns out that Pierre and Michéle have not always been in the brocante business. This is only their fifth year here, and before starting out on this part of their lives they ran a chambres d’hôte in the Gers, visiting the world of brocantes at weekends just for fun. Then, it was just a hobby. Now, it is their lives, and looking at the floor to ceiling racks of stock, I truly appreciate just how big and busy that life must be, and just what a step up it must have been for them.

My first question was an easy one – where on earth did they find all their stock? It turns out the answer is simple – from their customers. While they do occasionally visit an antiques fair or auction, Pierre and Michéle actually buy most of their stock from people they know – either people who bring items to the shop for evaluation, or via house-hold sales, sometimes after a death in the family, or sometimes when a family knows it’s time to move and start afresh. The house sales can either be an all-in affair, where everything must go and Pierre and Michéle just leave a bare, swept floor, or a selective occasion when specific items are bought and the rest of the house is offered to a disposal team. Most of their stock is acquired this way, though sometimes the better conditioned and more sought-after items are those that have been specifically brought to the shop to be sold. Surprisingly, there does not seem to a specific trend going on at any one time in their world – furniture, books, clothing, paintings, jewellery or glassware – it all comes and goes, both ancient and modern.

I asked Pierre and Michéle about their working rules and pricing, and got somewhat of a shock when they replied they had none. Instead, they fly by the seat of their pants, buying and selling stock at prices dependent on a variety of factors. One of these is profit, of course, but they have no fixed mark-up or percentage. They have a good, up-to-date knowledge of the market and what things sell and buy for at any time, so they have a guideline to refer too, but they modify their offers to buy based on what they feel an item is worth, more than what it will sell for, happy that they can then adjust the selling price to reflect any discrepancies. The buying price is their working medium, for example, not the selling price. For, as they explain, as long as they make some profit, of some sort, on an item, then they have not made a loss. They write into this set of guidelines their own foibles too, which include gut-instinct and sound business practice. Old stock does not rot in place, and a bargain is never turned down, even if not on the menu.

Pierre tells me a story of how once at a flea-market he went past a stall where an old lady was selling a pushbike. It was like any other pushbike, and Pierre is not an expert on bikes at all, but as he went past the bike called out to him. Startled, he stopped and looked at, asking the old lady how much she wanted. 15 euros was the reply. Pierre scratched his chin and offered 10 euros, entirely unsure of why he was buying this bike. But when he got home, and opened a magazine on his desk, he realized why. He had seen an identical bike before, in this magazine for sale at 600 euros. Gut instinct had won the day, with a handsome payoff.

The Charente-Maritime is a busy summer destination for many people, and the clientele at Pierre and Michéle’s brocante truly reflects that – there are a huge number of French customers, not just locals (some of whom are fellow dealers) but also Parisians who own second homes in the region. Added to the French contingent are a large number of Germans, Dutch and Spanish, with a smattering of Russians and others. I asked about British and Americans, and although they do have some British customers from further inland, there were very few American names in their database. However, a lot of their customers have one thing in common – they buy things to use, not to sell.

Pierre and Michéle explained that their customers are made up of three distinct groups – the first being those who come to buy items for their collections. These people are on the business’ email list and often have specific requirements. Typically, they are the sort of people who browse through the shop in three minutes and then leave without asking any questions. Then, there is the group who want to buy something for a purpose – to either replace something they have already or something they want to be an addition to something they already have. Lastly, there is the ‘chance encounter’ group; people who drive by, stop to browse saying they won’t buy anything, and then go home with a stuffed giraffe head or a box of 24 assorted plates that they think would look wonderful on their vintage dresser. As is typical of the modern age, we also found out that Pierre and Michéle do over 50% of their business on-line. Much of the stock in their third warehouse is just for this market.

After an hour of questions it was time to head out for lunch, I looked around, amazed to think that so much of what I saw would be bought and put back into use over a period of time. But to be truthful, it was easy to understand, as there is a great deal of stuff in there that I really wanted to come home with me in the back of the car. Some to leave as is, and some to “play with” – a bit of sandpaper, a pot of paint, a little fabric – there is so much fun to be had in the world of brocantes. Most of all I really want this chandelier!