Charente Maritime – Page 7 – Our French Oasis

AMERICANS IN FRANCE

Some very good friends came to visit us recently from Florida with their ten year-old son, and as for two of them it was a first time visit to Europe, I wanted the trip to be perfect. Excitement built on both sides of the pond and I planned all the things we should do and all the places we should take them. I checked the long-range forecast on Meteo France more often than I checked Facebook the preceding weeks and everything looked perfect, even the weather. We met them in some brilliant early evening sunshine at the architecturally stunning train station in La Rochelle, almost 24 hours after they’d started traveling, but the next morning it all changed. The perfect round sun over the Charente Maritime slowly turned to grey and a slight sprinkling of rain began to fall – and then, horror of horrors, it started to pour, with some thunder and a few bolts of lightning thrown in for good measure. So what did we do? Well, with true British stiff upper lip, or in this case American and British stiff upper lips, we donned raincoats, grabbed umbrellas and did pretty much everything just as we had planned, and it didn’t deter our spirits one little bit!

One small hitch arose on day one when we decided kayaking in the rain was a little too much to bear, even for our cavalier spirits. Instead we all bundled into a fabulous small crêperie, typically French (perfect for their first day) and ate far too much! We returned home, lit the fire for the first time since last winter, made a big chocolate cake and ate some more! it was a good excuse to hunker down and catch up on a year’s news.

Day Two was a Monday, and it dawned with leaden grey skies and steady rain, again. We headed out to the Château de la Roche Courbon and unsurprisingly we were the only people there; thus proving that rain does have some plus points because it felt as if we really were the owners of this magnificent property and we had the place to ourselves. We explored the acres of grounds which included rivers and waterfalls, an apple and pear orchard and gardens that were utter perfection, even in the drizzle. I am surprised I didn’t suffer from neck-ache after the number of times I looked to the sky to watch the clouds as they scurried past. Then, just before lunch I spied the first break in the weather, a glimpse of blue which grew and grew into a beautiful autumn sky, and as we left the Château and drove into Rochefort for lunch, it developed into a miraculously warmer day and we were able to eat outside at our favourite restaurant in the Place Colbert.

A visit to the stone sculptures just outside Crazannes (which I wrote about recently) then followed before we hurried home to put a blanket on the bed in the downstairs guest room as another friend was spending the night with us on her way south – we really were a full house that night!

We woke on Tuesday to more autumnal skies and a steady downpour as we made breakfast. We sat around the kitchen-table, our American friends loving the choice of croissants and pain au chocolat from our bakery in the village. They had bravely confronted the rain to pick up our fresh supplies for breakfast, and our friend heading south was in no hurry to leave in such weather. Huddled under umbrellas we picked some of our last figs to enjoy with the patisserie; hardly sun-warmed but fresh and sweet none the less, and we drank coffee, told tall tales, laughed a lot and put the world to rights from all three of our perspectives. However, our happy mind-fest was rudely interrupted mid-morning by a text from Millie which pinged onto my phone during her break at school; “Is it true WW3 has been declared ?”. I unintentionally read it out loud and within a nanosecond a small army of iPads and iphones feverishly sprang to life as five adults checked their various favourite news sources; BBC for the British and CNN for the American contingent. Two minutes later our international collective drew a sigh of relief and I am very happy to report that it seemed there was something of a misunderstanding at school.

The rain let up temporarily just before lunch and we were able to take the dogs out for a walk and blow away the cobwebs for an hour before we sat down to another meal that Roddy conjured up out of a fridge full of leftovers, he is an absolute master at this and as normal we ate, if not likes kings, then certainly like princes. A huge frittata seemed to fit the bill for most. In the afternoon we visited the Hermione on her dock in Rochfort, and then the fascinating citadelle de Brouage, a Catholic town that was fortified between 1630 and 1640 to counter the protestant stronghold of La Rochelle. A break in the ominous big black clouds gave the light a surreal dramatism at one stage, and as flights of dark crows circled the battlements, they contrasted vividly with the flecks of white that the egrets showed off as they settled down into the reeds for the night.

Wednesday morning and it was still raining. Somewhat downhearted I resumed my staring at the sky in despair or clicking onto Meteofrance, just in case something had changed in the last ten minutes, or that someone had made a mistake and everything would be suddenly sunny. We really wanted to head to the Île de Ré and spend the afternoon cycling around the Island. Much muttering ensued and a decision was made – an Anglo-Amercian collective decision, I hasten to add. As I collected the children from school (half-day school on Wednesdays) the wipers were still going firmly back and forth and so they all looked somewhat surprised when I told them we were still going to the Island. “The meteo says it is going to be a lovely afternoon.” I told them, “and we simply have to believe them.”.

Rather dubiously we bundled up the two families into two cars, complete with Roddy’s beloved Brompton, and we firmly headed north. As we crossed the bridge from La Rochelle, the first hint of blue appeared, and by the time we had driven further onto the Island, parked and then rented bikes, the sun was actually shining. Of course now I am totally beholden to MeteoFrance; they have become my new weather gods – they were 100% accurate, how could we ever have had any doubt!!!

We cycled for four hours, travelling about 20kms, and our friends fell totally in love with the beautiful Île de Ré. Almost all the summer visitors had long since gone home and the pace of life had returned to that slower, more gentle speed that island-life is so well known for. Of course we got lost a few times; we always get lost cycling on the Island, but in turn it meant we found some new tiny narrow cobbled streets winding their way in between white-washed houses, all with the obligatory green shutters. As always, I fell into my favourite daydream of owning the cutest of them, living island life with ease, surrounded by sunshine and tables of freshly grilled fish and platters of ripe melons. In the Island capital of St Martin en Ré we stopped for a break, and leaving our bikes by the quay, headed to my favourite bakery where we bought gôuter; we ate our goodies sitting outside on benches overlooking the boats, the warmth of the sun reminiscent of summer. Rows of boats still lined the pontoons and there was just enough traffic and people to keep us amused. It’s one of my favourite places in the region.

Time slipped by and we lingered a little too long enjoying the views which meant we faced a furious 40 minute mad cycle back to the bike-shop to return the bikes before we incurred wrath and financial retribution. Legs burnt as the tiny road signs told us we still had another four kilometers to go, and we pedalled on, harder and faster. We arrived breathless and redfaced 15 minutes late, but as is the way with so many people in this area the owner of the shop was not at all perturbed, and waved off our gushing apologies. He told us he had visited Florida before and had many English clients in the summer months; he wanted to talk for hours and couldn’t have been friendlier.

Once we had de-biked and got back in the cars, we headed back into St Martin en Ré for some much needed supper and as darkness drew a veil over the westerly sunset we stumbled surreptitiously over the harbour’s cobbled quayside onto some of the best pizzas we have ever eaten. By the time we had finished and left, night had turned stoney black and the harbour no longer bustled with activity; instead it lay gently dozing in a subtle seascape of soft lights and salty shadows where crabs scurried and scraped. We headed home across the bridge in our respective mechanised chariots, small people’s small-talk slowly slipping away into silence as our headlights burnt a route home.

As is always the way the weather finally turned the morning our friends left for a few days in Paris before they headed back over the Pond. The beautiful train-station at La Rochelle was once again bathed in sunshine as we said our very sad goodbyes, but no one can say we had not made the most of everything despite the rain. We are already planning all the things to do on their return visit next summer!

October 9, 2015October 19, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

FINE COGNAC AT DOMAINE DE BIRIUS

Living here in the Charente Maritime, we are but a couple of vineyards away from the world-famous Cognac region of France. Bottles of the golden nectar sit on most shops’ shelves in the region, and it seemed unbelievable to us recently that we had not yet been to a domaine and seen a little of the cognac world for ourselves as it does seem to be a popular topic of inquiry for many of our friends and relatives. Thinking this would make a wonderful addition to my series of interviews with local artisans, Roddy and I finally set off last week for an ancient vineyard close to us where we had an invitation to visit from a Charentaise family that has been producing France’s favourite spirit for over 11 generations; we were eager to learn as much as we could about a drink that everybody knows about, but perhaps has no real idea of.

Cognac is only made in one part of France; this is in an area inland of us, centred around the town of Cognac, from which the drink takes its name. The region is divided into several smaller areas or “crus”, each of which is defined by the cognac it is authorised to produce, with each cru differing according to climate, terrain and terroir, all of which affect what grape is grown, and what it will end up producing. The domaine we were going to visit is in the western part of the region, in the Petite Champagne zone, an area of approximately 15,250 hectares where longer ageing eaux-de-vie (the base liquid for cognac) is produced. Much of this product is sold to the ‘grand’ houses for blending into the most well known brands. Our target for the day was the Domaine de Birius, which while traditionally a source of blending eaux-de-vies, has recently started to sell to the public some of the cognac they have always produced. This type of cognac is called a single-vineyard cognac, and is often made by blending a variety of different age eaux-de-vies; the taste of the final product can thus vary from year to year, according to harvest and the senses of the master-taster, or maître-de-chai.

With this in mind we set off on an impossibly beautiful morning after dropping the children off at school, and 40 minutes later bumbled down a lane between serried ranks of gnarled vines, our destination a collection of buildings deep in a sun-dappled corner amongst the fields. Tall machines scurried to and fro on the slopes, and distant figures stooped and pointed. It seemed a little busy for a domaine that was not harvesting, but we were not duly concerned as we turned the corner amongst some low buildings and pulled to a stop by the accueil, or ‘welcome’ sign. Down the side of a huge chai, we could see a very pretty tall young lady awaiting us, and we knew we had met our hostess for the visit, Elodie, the daughter of the house. We closed the car doors and went down to say hello, only to discover to our consternation that things had changed due to weather and the day had been designated a harvest day after all, and we were in the midst of one of the busiest days of the year! We felt successively worse as the visit progressed and we came to realise that Elodie was an integral cog in the operation, not just a pretty face for visitors. How she managed to make time for us is still a wonder, but in between tapping a myriad of computer screens, shutting some valves, opening others, and overseeing the arrival of several tons of grapes for pressing, she still managed to give us a 5-star personal tour!

We started in the end of the chai, the distillery room. This small sparse room was dominated by the traditional alambic, a traditionally shaped copper ‘still’, unique to the Charentais area and the cognac tradition. It was here that we learnt the basics of a millennia’s worth of distilling process. It goes something like this: as the grapes arrive, they are crushed and the juice is then left to ferment in huge storage containers for two to three weeks. As the liquid ferments, natural yeasts convert the sugar into alcohol and the juice reaches a typical alcohol content of about 10˚. At this point the juice is then distilled, twice, and the resulting liquid is put into casks made from Limousin oak where it ages for several years, initially with a high alcoholic content of about 70˚. The eaux-de-vie at this stage is relatively colourless, and it must be aged for at least 2 years before it can be sold as cognac. As the cognac ages, it loses about 3% of its mass by evaporation, a deliberate interaction with the wood and air. The alcohol evaporates faster than the water obviously. Two notable bits of information Elodie let slip were that no sulphur is added to the product at any stage, and the distilling process has to be achieved over an open flame or else it is illegal!

The final blending after several years of the various different ages of the eaux-de-vies into a finished cognac is undertaken by the master-blender, a process of which a portion is undertaken by Elodie, as she has been to Scotland and learnt blending skills there to go hand in hand with what she has learnt from her father in-house. It was at this point that Roddy and I started to look at Elodie in a very different light, as we realised we were talking to someone who would, in the fullness of time, be the 12th generation of family to distill and produce the cognac which quite obviously runs in her family’s veins.

The domaine has 32 hectares of grapes, and when we left the chai and stepped outside to the storage containers for the pressed grape-juice, we realised that the amount of grapes those hectares produce means there is a LOT of liquid to be dealt with! We were both quite shocked to be faced with what seemed to be a small refinery, and as we climbed the aluminium ladder to the catwalk above the huge stainless vats, we began to grasp the enormity of the industry before us. Below our feet, tractors rolled in with grapes to crush, and Elodie surreptitiously pushed buttons on panels, appraised thermometers and tapped sight-tubes as we talked. She mentioned how many litres of liquid each container contained, but I confess I ran out of zeros to add as we talked numbers. Almost all of the grapes grown at Domaine Birius are Ugni Blanc, one of a few varieties legally allowed to be used for cognac production. The juice from these fruits is thin, acidic and dry, and although the Domaine does produce Pineau des Charentes, some wine and some sparkling grape juice, their main product is solely eaux-de-vies and the final product – cognac. The tall vats wobbled in fermentation and lids lay open for escaping gas, and Elodie remarked casually that this is a very trying time for the producers, as too many things can go wrong, the worst of which is an unseen virus that causes an unusual rot, undetectable by anything but a laboratory test. As it takes between 8 to 9 litres of pure grape juice to make a litre of cognac, even I could see that substantial quantities of wine are needed for cognac production.

Descending the catwalk, Elodie ducked into a shed, and we watched as several trailer-loads of grapes were shuttled into position to be unloaded into the macerating process, each trailer unleashing a dirty sludge of fruity effluent that seemed very much at odds with the amber liquids we knew it produced. As we talked, Elodie was still busy tapping panels on walls, changing red lights into green, and green into red, all the while divulging information to us as she changed temperatures in vats containing thousands of litres of livelihood. It seemed so strange that someone so young and fresh should be so directly involved in the production of what is commonly thought of as a true adult’s drink. Of course in France, cognac is just another product of the countryside, to be enjoyed by all.

From the pressing process, Elodie took us deep into the heart of the chai, where the effects of sun and frost cannot be felt, and led us into one of the cellars. Dominated by a succession of huge oak barrels, the smell of the ‘angels’ share’ was overpowering, heady and musty, but intoxicatingly exciting. The ‘angels’ share’ is the name given to the amount lost by evaporation during ageing, and as we gazed down the room at rank after rank of old and new oak barrels, we knew the angels must have a good time of it, for sure. Tucked away into a corner was some 1906 cognac, the Domaine’s legitimate oldest liquid, though Elodie did mutter there were other, unmarked consignments tucked away that could have been even older. It is from these cellars and their barrels that Elodie and her father blend their final products; some of it fine cognac, and some of it going into the pinneau that the domaine is also very well known for. We walked down amongst the barrels, gaping at dates and other information, and I had to physically drag Roddy out the room, very aware that Elodie was very likely needed elsewhere in the domaine where we could hear machines clanking as others worked.

Our last port of call was the distillery room again, where Elodie explained the blending process – a mystical time when years of experience and knowledge combine with the senses of taste and smell, a process that Elodie shares with her father as they seek to produce something very special from their distilled and aged eaux-des-vies.

Finally, Elodie showed us the table where samples of the eaux-de-vies from different ages and barrels stood in serried ranks, and where she gracefully let us sample them as a part of understanding the great tradition of cognac. It was at this stage that we also finally fully understood how things worked – seeing the eaux-de-vies in this format, with different colours, and smelling the different bouquets, all combined to demonstrate how the finished product could be achieved. Elodie than gave us a small glass of several different cognacs to taste and we savoured the liquids to a notably higher degree than we would ever have done if we had not seen the small, personal touches that a family of true artisans could deliver to a small humble fruit and its juice. I had never felt more appreciative of a spirit perhaps than I did then.

As we left Elodie to go back to her harvest of Ugni Blanc, we set off for home, clutching a bottle of VSOP we had bought. There had been no let-up in the work-rate outside; machines still scurried to and fro in the vines, but somehow as we now understood so much more it seemed so much more artisinal, more countryside than science-lab.

So once again, in meeting and writing about local artisans, we had learnt a huge amount ourselves. Indeed, we marveled at the very ‘frenchness’ of the whole process, our cognac glowing in sunlight as it streamed through the windscreen of the car, while a faint waft of ‘angels share’ accompanied us all the way home.

If you would like to find out more about Domaine de Birius, Elodie and her family, visit their website which is in both French and English. www.cognac-birius.com

October 8, 2015October 12, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

ONE OF FRANCE’S MOST BEAUTIFUL VILLAGES

Take a beautiful warm sunny day, an extremely pretty French village, and a pottery market; mix it all together and you get a great recipe for a perfect Sunday morning in late September; this is just how we spent last Sunday in the village of Mornac-sur-Seudre.

We have passed the signs to the village numerous times on our way to Royan; I had even at some stage over the summer looked it up and discovered that it is listed as one of France’s most beautiful villages in the guide Les plus beaux villages de France. Yet, as is so often the way, we had never taken the detour and never visited. However throughout September I had seen big signs locally advertising a Marché de Potiers (pottery market) in Mornac over the weekend of September 26th and 27th. Now, all markets, whether they be food-orientated, crafts, wine or antiques, are like a red rag to a bull for me, and I made a mental note that we had to visit! Fortunately Roddy and the children all share my enthusiasm for adventure and so last Sunday after our usual struggle to get everyone plus two dogs out of the door in a timely fashion we drove our well-travelled route in the direction of Royan and for the first time ever we took a strange right-hand turn half way there and headed to the little village of Mornac-sur-Seudre.

The village is an old fishing and commercial port which today focuses more on oyster farming and the salt produced by its marshes and it made the most perfect setting for the Marché de Potiers. Many stalls had all been set up along the river with potters from throughout the south-west of France.

The atmosphere was almost like a giant party; a long table had been set up in the middle of the market for people to sit and eat their picnics of local produce, all washed down with many bottles of local wine. To be truthful, this is something the French excel at, and there is little quite as convivial as a French gathering en-masse at lunchtime in the open air. Elsewhere restaurants were starting to fill up as the lunchtime hours got under way, and it was hard to choose exactly where to eat and what to eat; local savory crêpes seemed like a good light lunch but then it’s hard to turn down the local tradition of Moules Frites !

Away from the market we wandered through the narrow streets which were a classic example of a Charente Maritime coastal village; hidden away here and there amongst the white painted houses with their green or blue shutters were several little artisan shops. There was a jeweler or two, a leather-smith, painters, a glass-blower, a fine porcelain artist and a wonderful house of curiosities that we lost Roddy to for half an hour. We had no idea where he had gone but when he re-emerged into the sunshine he was gabbling about shrunken heads, golden cowries and stuffed hippos. I think we will have to go back to check on that one !

I love the atmosphere in all the villages here; there is nothing threatening, everywhere feels very safe, and time passes at an unhurried and leisurely pace.

It was very low tide but we promised ourselves we would return when the water was higher; it’s possible to rent kayaks and explore the local marais so we have tentatively put aside one weekend and will return before winter sets in. We left with a brace of new china pieces, and a bevy of very contented smiles. It was a very self-satisfied drive home….

October 1, 2015October 1, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

TOURIST FOR A DAY IN ROCHEFORT SUR MER

Last week we had friends staying who had never visited this area of France before and they quite literally toured the Charente Maritime from north to south, and from east to west. They marveled at our incredible beaches which stretch for miles along the Atlantic coast, backed by sand dunes and pine forests; they loved the Île d’Oléron perhaps even more than the Île de Ré; they had great fun in Cognac, Royan and La Rochelle; they even found time to visit local châteaux and some street markets. But every evening I would ask them, “Have you been to Rochefort yet?”, and the answer was always an apologetic “No”.

Every day they meant to, and on their last day it really was their plan to go and have lunch there and idle away a few hours. Alas for Rochefort, the sky was the clearest blue we had seen for a week and a last day at the beach won hands down. It was unfortunate that they left without having set foot in our lovely old town, just a mere ten minutes away. So yesterday, without them knowing but on their behalf, we decided to become tourists for a few hours and see Rochefort afresh through the eyes of a visitor. As it was a Wednesday the children had no school in the afternoon and so we headed to our favourite restaurant for lunch armed with my camera and discussed where to go.

Yvonne and Neil, this photo tour of Rochefort is for you and hopefully next time you will see it for real!

To start with, we parked opposite the grand imposing Baroque post-office,

and wandered down the Rue Audry-de-Puyravault past the Eglise St Louis. The church was originally built in the Neo-classical style in 1662 on the site of the old Capuchin Chapel but was rebuilt as it stands today in 1835.

From here we walked across into the Place Colbert

and stopped for some lunch at our favourite haunt, La Terrasse Colbert

The Place Colbert features a beautiful fountain built in 1750

and there are numerous places to sit and watch the world go by, to drink a tea or coffee or sip an apéritif

Rochefort is a 17th Century town chosen by Jean-Baptiste Colbert as a place of “refuge, defense and supply” for the French Navy. It was Louis XIV who was especially keen to get a shipyard built in Rochefort – he was worried about the power of the English navy and instructed Colbert to “Make it big, make it beautiful – and make it fast.”

The result of all this military planning is that Rochefort today has a rather grand feel with its wide boulevards and straight streets. The town is often overshadowed by its seaside neighbours of La Rochelle to the north and Royan to the south, and as a result is often neglected by visitors to the area which is a great shame as it is both stylish and enchanting.

The town Hall, known as an Hotel de Ville in France and not to be confused with a real Hotel, is an imposing building on the western side of the Place Colbert.

After a delicious lunch we took a stroll past some of the many shops lining the square

and then headed down the Rue de la République

past the beautifully restored Théâtre de la Coupe d’Or

and the imposing Centre des Finances Publiques

past offices and private houses

and down to the Corderie Royal, which as it’s name suggests used to be where ropes were made for the navy. At the time the building (which was started in 1666 and completed in 1669) was the longest building in Europe at 473 metres in length. The navy needed to be supplied with ropes of 200 metres long, hence the great length of the building. Today it is a naval heritage museum.

We passed tourists taking a more leisurely view of the town

and continued to the formal French gardens

overlooking the River Charente and the surrounding farmland, which borders the town in many places

Then we walked down to the Musée National de la Marine which is one of the main naval museums in France

where the girls pretended to be Napoléon and Joséphine

Finally we stopped by the Hermione, a replica of the ship which became famous when she ferried the French military officer the Marquis de Lafayette to the United States in 1780 for support to the rebels in the American Revolutionary War. She was grounded and wrecked in 1793. In 1997 her replica was started in Rochefort. She was completed last year and in April 2015 she began her return voyage to the USA arriving safely on the American coast in June. In August she returned to Rochefort amongst many celebrations.

There are plenty of places we didn’t have time to visit as the girls had to get to their tennis lessons, but it was great fun being tourists for an afternoon and we will do it again, somewhere else next month. If there is anywhere in particular someone wants to see let me know, it’s always a fabulous excuse to see somewhere new, or in this case re-explore somewhere we already knew rather well!

September 24, 2015September 24, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

A MYSTERIOUS MAGICAL GROTTO

As promised I am continuing my series of local Artisans and I have to admit these are as interesting for me to write about as they are for you to read and for that I have to thank you, for without you all reading and being so encouraging I would not have written the first article or continued with so many and I would have missed out on so much local knowledge, for I have learnt so much in the process. This week I bring you a group of Artisans, extremely talented sculptors…

Last week, late one afternoon, Millie and I decided to have a walk through the woods at Port d’Envaux and see if we could find any of the legendary statues and carvings of the Lapidiales sculpture group, who hang out deep in the greenery each summer. We’d heard rumours that this was a real adventure, and it turned out to be not only that, but also a very interesting experience.

We parked the car in a deserted lay-by where we saw a quarry a little way down a track, and hopped out for a quick look. Two other people were wandering around in what was obviously a deserted attraction, and it seemed our luck was out for the year. Port d’Enveaux lies by the River Charente, and is a popular destination for canoeists and kayakers, but the stone carvings seem strangely lost in the general tourist blurb

We slowly ambled down to the tin-roofed area and ducked into what was once a sandstone quarry, now cloistered with a tin roof and wooden columns for events during the summer season.

Deeper into the hillside we went, slowly losing the light, and then on a wall we came across some remarkable paintings, obviously by the hand of someone very in tune with our ancient ancestors. It should have given us a clue to the talent that awaited us….this was no ordinary graffiti…..

Dispirited, we left, vowing to return next year, but as we moved down the road and around a corner in the car, we realised we’d stopped at the wrong place to start with, and there was very much life deep in the forest, and in a clearing next to the road a busy group of people were hard at work turning stone into art !

Amongst the artists were several monumental works and scaffolding ran around one huge piece which was busily being photographed by a man in a straw hat. Beyond him, we saw a path leading downwards into a gully, with a signpost indicating a route to follow. Millie and I decided we’d do that first and come back to the clearing later.

As we descended the path, we became aware that we were in a veritable cathedral of stone-worship, and any thoughts of mere touristic curiosities swiftly left my head as I looked on the first carvings, the start of a series of steps into a story of stone, each sculpture or grouping by a different artist, all following the natural theme of the life of mankind.

The green dim light coming through the canopy above us gave the whole scene a surreal grotto-like atmosphere, and with barely a whisper of birdsong to disturb the silence we both grew silent in contemplation of each artist’s individual act of worship to both the stone and the story-line they followed. The scale of the carvings was immense in places.

The rise of humanity by an Indian lady was a combination of so many different ideas, and as we passed from birth to life,

we took to the earth again, following the hollow into and under the hill. Here it became dark once more, and various groups, images and figures gazed and watched us from every corner.

To my western eye, Dali and Hieronymus Bosch seemed to lurk in every dark shadow, as contorted figures and morbid representations of life, suffering, temptation and sorrow sighed with the evening light as we went deeper into the darkness.

As we came out the other side into another part of the quarry, the emphasis by the artists seemed to have shifted towards that part of life that begins to wonder what lies at the end of our earthly sojourn. Each artist seemed to bring to life their own national cultural thoughts, and we saw works from Senegal, Russia, England, Kenya and Argentina amongst many others.

One brave soul had created an imaginary temple opening into the hillside, and Millie and I were both glad the door did not truly open.Amidst the temptations, a life-size woman escaped into an Escheresque opening,

and a monumental, detailed and freshly finished work by a New Zealand artist, Paora Toi Te Rangiuaia, towered up a complete cliff-face, and swept me back to the Bay of Islands and all the imagery I once looked at there. The gleam of paua shell in the figure’s eyes seemed oddly at ease in the dark subterranean light.

Finally we turned out of the dark and started back up the hillside to the clearing on the other side of the quarry, and it became apparent that the sculptors here were now creating their own visions of hell, eternity and the life thereafter.

A mythical city in the sky, presided over by a huge head of stone, quickly led to an expected vision – hell, and the damnation which occurs in it.

Exhausted somewhat by our journey through life and its tribulations, Millie and I crested the low hill and came in to the workshop and its attendees. We dawdled, and watched fantastical shapes being craved, with eyes carved and hair straightened on heads, and sinuous curves being sanded by loving hands. There was the steady chink, chink, chink of tools and mallets, and the scene looked as if it could have come from a place far long past, in an age when woodcutters and masons joined forces to shape sandstone for new churches a 1000 years ago.

A gentle sculptor showed Millie the ear she was perfecting,

carving with a tool unchanged for 500 years. After it became obvious that Millie was fascinated, the lady broke off a piece of sandstone, offered Millie an awl, and taught her how to carve her own name.

Finally, as the sun fell, people started packing up, and I fell into conversation with a sculptor from the UK who briefly told me the history of the Lapidiales group, and what it represented. Artists from all over the world have been meeting here for over 20 years, and what has emerged in terms of work is simply a mutual understanding of talent, and a growth of sculptures all related to the inherent motive – to understand, teach and reflect on the destiny of man. Whether it is the works of stone, or the traditional music and plays, or even the rapport that the group establishes each season and each night with their audience, it seems there is something for everyone, and the site has enough energy and is respected enough, that during the 8 months of the year that it lies unattended, no one comes to desecrate or vandalise. I’m keen to come in winter and see how it all feels then, away from the green light of summer.

As we left, we had time to admire some finished statues and carvings in the workshop clearing, and some of the work that had taken all summer to complete was simply astounding in design, complexity, detail and a skill. Alongside a stunning Celtic warrior in the fullness of life,

was another, caught in the embrace of death and legend

Our New Zealand artist had also contributed to the circle of carvings, and his offering once again told volumes about patience and the depth of his truly unique talent.

It seemed a long way from the land of Maori, here, deep in a small wood in the Charente Maritime, but I thought it must have been a journey of thought bravely followed. I felt a sense of great achievement attained from a mutual gathering of spirit, a kinship that gathered each year to worship stone and produce art designed to last for centuries.

There is a giant end-of-summer party this weekend as tools are packed and the grotto and clearing are then left to nature for the winter – there’s a child’s workshop one afternoon and I know all of mine will want to go.

September 10, 2015September 10, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

IT’S TIME TO GET SERIOUS

It’s that terribly sad time of year when the children have returned to school and suddenly summer seems to be nearly over. There was no gentle slide towards the impending autumn; rather it happened overnight in the blink of an eye. One day everyone was swimming, with long leisurely lunches outside, and everywhere one turned holiday-makers swarmed like wasps over hot pavements. Then the next moment the children were back at school, slipping back into their routines as if the long summer-break had never happened. Suddenly the traffic is a little lighter, and the tourists have halved in number; and quite co-incidentally the weather has dropped by several degrees. To be honest though, I don’t actually think it’s the slightly cooler days that have made it all feel somehow different, it’s the fact that in France La Rentrée doesn’t just apply to schools; it actually applies to almost everything – restaurants re-open for business lunches, businesses re-open, government offices that have run on a mere skeleton staff return to full capacity, and in short France goes back to work and gets serious again. It’s a system quite unlike anything you may be used to, but it seems to work.

The two youngest girls and Roddy walk to school on these lovely sunny mornings, gallantly trailing their pull-along bags; nearly every French child at primary school uses a pull-along and it certainly makes a great deal more sense than carrying backpacks groaning with books which are almost the same size and weight as the child carrying them. As a result each morning and afternoon the old narrow streets of the village reverberate to the unmistakable sound of school-bag wheels rolling along the pavements.

I drive the older two children to their school some 8kms away. Once again we’re back to our school routine and once again admiring all the area has to offer. I relish how lucky I am to have such a beautiful early morning drive each day following the church steeples from village to village. On the way home yesterday I stopped and took some photos, trying to capture the very essence of what makes the school run so special and why I never tire of it.

This morning it was such a beautiful day I took the time to dawdle again and take a few more photos. It was one of those early mornings when you just want to be outside; the air had a definite coolness to it, and the sultry humid air of mid-summer is slowly waning; it’s being replaced by something just a little fresher.

I noticed this new sign in a nearby village, Roule ma Poule, it’s a new Salon de Thé due to open this coming Saturday; Roule ma poule does not mean ‘roll my chicken’, which is the literal translation, but is rather more an expression similar to ‘Let’s go!’. It should’t be confused with ça roule ma poule which in total contrast means more “are you okay, little one ?” in a casual way, with perhaps a wink! Roddy – who is pretty fluent in French – read an amusing expression last year which he had understood was just a local term for ‘bad weather’; he happily went around repeating it to all and sundry last winter, thinking he had a grasp of the local patois. Unfortunately, little did he realize that in fact what he was saying, was indeed very local, but also extremely rude (but that’s another story!). In short beware of odd phrases, they don’t always mean what they say at all!

Still, summer may be fading, the sun may be just a little weaker and the nights a little cooler, but the days are still beautiful; with solar-heating the pool is still around 30˚C and I am hoping there will be much splashing after school and at weekends for at least another month, if not two! To confirm that the holiday season is not totally forgotten some of our favourite friends are coming over to visit from America at the beginning of October; yesterday they phoned to confirm they had booked their flights and we couldn’t be more excited – I cannot wait to share our little corner of France with them.

Our vegetable garden is still producing wonderful food. We still have lots of carrots, plenty of melons, loads of peppers, an abundance of courgettes and aubergines, and a few lettuce. The grapes are ripe and soon it will be the turn of the persimmons and olives. The tomatoes were hit by an end of season late blight which took hold in a matter of hours after one particularly strong storm accompanied by an overnight downpour. But I can’t complain as the freezer is stocked with homemade tomato sauce and ratatouille, it is Roddy who has labored over the tomatoes with some dedication at the stove and the freezer is looking very healthy. The hedgerows are overflowing with blackberries and sloes and our fig tree is heaving with fruit – right now we’re getting a trug-ful a day !

The rest of the garden is still looking relatively good despite a tough summer for plants with searing temperatures and very little or no water. The Japanese Anenome have come into their own and are flowering in all sorts of corners that otherwise lie forgotten.

Last night for the very first time I made confiture de figues. In Italy it is a firm favourite and I have eaten it several times before, but never made my own. It is delicious with cheese and I am going to try it out on several friends who are coming for a bbq on Sunday. My many little sous-chefs here confirmed that it tasted fab while warm, so it’s looking good !

In other news, it’s been a difficult summer for the chickens that has seen us back and forth to the vet several times; I can almost hear the vet clap his hands together as he sees les fous Anglais (crazy English) arrive at the door for yet further medicine for their chickens; these are drugs that costs 20€ a go for a chicken that cost 11 euros! However, suffice it to say that not all has been a success and there is sadly now more than one cross at the end of the garden. But we have treated a respiratory virus that seemed to plague several of them with (fingers crossed) complete success.

Out of the eggs that Rosie sat on so patiently and hatched we kept one faverolle chick who we really hoped would be a female; it was lighter than the rest of them which we had given away but alas, the remaining ‘she’ is very much a ‘he’, who we have named – and I have no idea quite how this came about – Falafel! He is now thirteen weeks old and very cute; he has taken to following me around the garden cheeping wherever he goes and for some bizarre reason he thinks the two ducks are his parents. For the time being there is no fighting between him and Fritz and so for now his home is assured with us. He does sleep separately from the others and much to his dismay, Evie still thinks he is there just to be chased, no matter what we do to stop the fun and games….

Talking of ducks, Penny and Adrian are thriving, but – and it seems there is always a but – Penny is not a lady, alas, but a male! We have two male ducks and not the couple that we thought we were given! We didn’t have the heart to rename him so he is now a male duck called Penny! The two of them went through their teenage stage of being a little standoffish and aggressive, but they’ve now settled into a happy domestic partnership who once again eat out of our hands – tame and as gentle as can be. I guess as there is no dominant male any longer life is easy!

September 3, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

WHAT MAKES THE PERFECT FRENCH HOLIDAY

For so many summer is drawing to a close. Whether we want to admit it or not the garden is showing a tiny hint of autumn. The biggest indicator of change though is in the supermarket; gone are the huge displays of sun-shades, parasols, beach-toys and flip flops that once greeted us as we walked in. Instead they have now been replaced by back-to-school special offers, of which there will be more on that next week – but I can’t think about ‘La Rentrée’ for a few more days. In fact, that’s why I am keeping this post short and sweet as I want to spend as much time as possible enjoying the last few days of the holidays with the children. I am one of those few people who really hate it when they go back to school, the children laugh and play at the school gates while I stand there sadly with tears in my eyes!

All of this has set me thinking about holidays, or more importantly – how people really like to spend their time when they come to France. According to the latest statistics, France is still the world’s number one tourist destination with some 85 million visitors a year. I wonder what is it you love most of all, or what are you dreaming of if you ever get over here?

I am assuming you want everything to be quintessentially French…

Maybe you’ll be touring beautiful towns and villages, enjoying the local architecture

Stopping at a local restaurant, where even the French sparkling-water, Badoit, comes in it’s own special bottle with matching glass

or whiling away a few hours on a terrace, shaded from the sun, watching the world go by

Maybe it includes a little retail therapy, always in a stunning location of course

and I am assuming somewhere near the top of everyone’s list is at least a taste of locally-baked croissants and pain au chocolat ?

Perhaps a little more indulgence with mouth watering ‘macarons’; you are on holiday after all!

A few nights at a delightfully understated but incredibly comfortable little boutique hotel, perhaps? I fell in love with this little hotel on the île de Ré with nothing more than a tiny brass plaque for it’s name and a discreet doorbell for entry

Even the luxurious Clarins Spa has an unpretentious façade. A day or weekend here would certainly revitalize both the mind and body

Perhaps your idea of perfection is exploring historic ruins and ancient buildings like the Abbaye de Trizay built in the 11th Century

Or perhaps your thoughts are more coastal themed; the lure of the water and golden sand; or if you just can’t stand the crowds, away from it all on a boat, viewing France from the sea

Or is it all about the local markets for they certainly are an integral part of the French way of life? Fresh baguettes and seasonal fruit and vegetables which at the moment means figs and grapes!

Or maybe it’s a mixture of everything; perhaps a month touring the coast and then moving inland with nothing but a suitcase, a car and a few euros for meals. Stopping wherever appeals. I think I could happily spend a little time in a place with such a charming name as this

I should just add that this lovely photo of the sign was spotted and taken by Gigi, our nine year old, she has good taste!

August 27, 2015August 27, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

FÊTE DES BATTAGES – “THRESHING FESTIVAL”

After another scorching week of crop-scorching weather the heavens opened last night with a most breathtaking thunderstorm. At one stage our terrace turned into a river with water running in a torrent down it, Roddy was wondering whether to spey-cast across the stream for newts and frogs.

By 4am the thunder had ceased and poor Bentley finally stopped shivering with fear – at dawn the odd down-pour still persisted but the garden had hungrily soaked up every drop of water and sat there contentedly in the weak sunshine, glistening like a frog with a fat stomach. Everything looked that little bit greener finally after such a dry summer, and after a week of sand and sea, boating and swimming, it was time to spend some time locally again.

We searched for unused raincoats amongst the cobwebs in the boot-room, and headed off to the Fête des Battages in Trizay, not entirely knowing what to expect except that it was a threshing festival and a real old fashioned farmers market! By the time we arrived we didn’t need them anyway as the heavy black clouds had completely retreated and once again blue sky was visible. We hoped the ‘agriculteurs’ would be in good voice, despite the dreadful forecast for the maize harvest which apparently is going to be one of the worst on record here after the lack of water.

On display at the fête was an old threshing-machine from the 1950’s and not long after we arrived they fired it up and demonstrated how it worked, much to our delight. An ancient granny of a tractor served as a power source, and a drive-belt snaked some 30 feet to the threshing machine, driving in turn a spiders-web of belts, pulleys and baffles – Heath Robinson would have been proud. How much incredible hard work the harvest used to be, and how much more dangerous. After the corn had been cut it was tied into bundles and then passed by hand into the threshing machine which sorted the grain from the stalks. The grain was gathered at one end in bags, the chaff gathered underneath, and the straw came out the other end were it would end up passing through an attached baling-machine. Hetty and Gigi were engrossed for a good half hour, and it seems the rest of the crowd were too. We had to drag the children away eventually.

Modern day combine-harvesters (or simply ‘combines’) operate on the same principles and use the same components as the original threshing-machines built in the 19th and early 20th centuries, but they also perform the reaping operation at the same time. The name ‘combine’ is simply derived from the fact that the three steps are combined in a single machine, something many people simply gloss over.

Growing up on a farm, I remember harvest-time as one of the best parts of the summer. Our bales would come out in rows of three with another three on top. If the weather looked fine, my father would always leave them out for a couple of extra days for us, and we used to canter around the fields on our ponies jumping them; there was only one rule – if we knocked one over, we had to get off and pick it up. We take modern farming methods for granted, but in the 1900’s everyone saw so much change. My father grew up on his in family farm in Sussex, he was born in between the two world wars and he saw all of this great change, which included horses being replaced by tractors, and then the step up to modern-day farm equipment. I remember him upgrading our bright red Massey Ferguson ‘combine’ for one with an enclosed cab; aside from cutting out the dust the cab was also silenced and this in turn meant he could listen to the cricket whilst combining – a vital part of an English summer!

In fact, today somewhat resembled an English summer day; the temperature stayed in the low 20’s (mid 70’sF) and white clouds scattered like Sussex hens across an otherwise blue sky due to the cooling breeze. A British friend who stayed with us last month remarked that she never remembers bad weather in England as a child in the summer holidays; of course it rained, but I similarly don’t recall the rainy days either – just endless sun, picnics, riding ponies, harvest-time, playing tennis and of course cricket; there was surely never any rain?

Anyway, on that note I wish you all a very happy week ahead with plenty of sunshine hopefully for the last week of August.

August 23, 2015August 23, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

ESCAPE THE CROWDS – HEAD INLAND

This week our lives turned upside down – we have a new puppy! We drove inland and chose her from a litter of six in the neighboring department of the Deux Sevres at the weekend and she was delivered to us on Tuesday afternoon amidst much excitement. A gorgeous little short legged, broken-coated Jack Russell whom we have named Evie. She is 9 weeks old and a playmate for Bentley; or at least, that is the plan. So far he has tolerated her! As have the chickens, the ducks and the cats, up to a point. Evie thinks everyone and everything is a playmate and is rather surprised when she is given short change by most of the other residents of the property, with the exception of the humans, who she has quickly come to realize dote on her hand and foot! I am sure you will get pretty bored with photos of her over the coming weeks and months, but at the moment Evie is incredibly difficult to photograph. She doesn’t understand the command ‘sit’, and she doesn’t stay still long enough for me to take a decent photo. One minute she is playing and the next she has collapsed in an exhausted heap, instantly sound asleep, as puppies are prone to do. As you may be able to tell I am quite smitten with our latest addition, and I just adore the fact she has black eyelashes on her left eye and white eyelashes on the right one!

Evie has arrived in August, of course; the busiest holiday month of the year. As a result, the roads are crowded and the resorts are bursting with people. Where we live, a mere fifteen minutes from the sea, is very different to the coastline where everyone is drawn to the vast flat Charente Maritime beaches like bees to a honeypot; the long glittering washes of sand are magnetic strips for jaded Parisians and others. There is much action on the water; be it surfing, or bodyboarding, or boating, or fishing, or swimming, and then one can also hire jet-skis, boats and windsurfers; the action is there for all to see and do. However the beaches are packed and as our son pointed out, they are just a sea of colour at this time of year, pimpled with colourful umbrellas and spots of extravagant bikinis; this is after all a major holiday destination which boasts the second highest levels of sunshine in France after the Mediterranean and it appears that this summer it is certainly living up to its reputation.

There are still beaches and tiny secret coves to be found where the crowds don’t go and the locals keep a closely guarded secret, even if some of them do involve a slight trek through vast sandunes and past ruined WWII bunkers subsiding softly into the coastline they were once built to protect.

But if you really don’t feel up to battling the traffic and the masses, it’s a great time to turn the other way and head inland! France is quite a big country and parts of it are very sparsely populated; something that is a part of it’s immense charm and a feature we simply adore. Turning away from the coast and driving in the opposite direction along a good selection of different routes soon brings you to beautiful countryside, where fields of maize ripen under the same sultry sun that wilts sunflowers in the heat. It’s amazing, even during France’s busiest holiday month there are really very few cars on the inland narrow country roads; one sees the odd local, the occasional tourist and some foreign cars, usually with either Dutch or British license plates. We pass houses that look neglected with their shutters firmly closed but they’re just going about that age old tradition, shutting out the sun and keeping the interior cool.

Locals sit in the shade, nothing is hurried, in such heat it cannot be; a game of boules under the coolness of trees, a quiet afternoon fishing by the river. In the country time passes slowly for locals who know how precious their summer is. Far from the maddening crowds the water flows slowly….

There are still plenty of watersports available on the River Charente, albeit with a slightly more relaxed atmosphere. Kayaking is very popular in France and it’s easy to find a spot to hire some for the day.

Without so many people it is possible to really enjoy the beauty of France. This is inland Charente Maritime, still only 30 to 40 minutes from the coast, but a world apart. Here restaurants still enjoy their summer visitors, but they’re not groaning with hordes of tourists; as a result, everyone is charming and everywhere looks so perfect – so perfectly French!

While enjoying a little bit of casual culture it’s also a good time to visit one of the many châteaux of the region. Château de Crazannes is well worth a visit, nestled amongst the trees just outside the village of the same name. Built in the XIVth and XVth centuries and classified as a listed historic monument in 1913, it was one of the first private castles to receive this classification in France. Both Edward lll’s son, the “Black Prince” and the King of France, Francois 1st, stayed here. It is here that the tale Puss in Boots is also based – this goes back to the XVIIth century when the Marquis of Carabas owned the Château and he is indeed the master in Charles Perrault’s tale.

In the grounds, the Roman chapel, the keep, the moat and the dovecote are the remains of an ancient medieval fortress, which used to be a place for the pilgrims to stay for the night on their way to St Jaques de Compostelle in Spain.

The best bit of all for us, of course, is that wonderful stretch of countryside between land and sea right on our doorstep – the Marais de Brouage; where cattle and horses roam and where there is wildlife in abundance. For us it seems untouched by tourism and ignored by most people as they speed past it on the way to their coastal resort.

On the one hand I am glad it is largely ignored, but on the other I am sad that so few people take the time to appreciate it; it’s somewhere where one can walk and cycle for hours on end and not see a soul. It’s a land where one can reflect, a place so near to everything and yet so far from it all; a place full of discovery and a place I will never forget. It’s a good place to call home.

http://www.loumessugo.com/en/blog/entry/all-about-france-7

August 5, 2015August 6, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

SUMMER DAYS IN FRANCE

The summer season is fully upon us; the children are all on holiday and the roads are suddenly busy with lots of cars with foreign number plates; this summer the Dutch seem to be the most prolific. As a result, suddenly everything takes twice as long to do. There are lines of cars at lights, the beaches are bursting with bronzing bodies, the amusement-parks are full, and the restaurants over-flowing. But after a fairly dismal and wet May, the locals are finally breathing a sigh of relief as the weather is incredible with one long hot sunny day rolling into another – this is the season when the Charente Maritime earns its yearly tourist bonanza and the visitors are here, cash registers clinking away in a thousand seaside shops. The best part after all the hype of the coast and the buzz of cities we drive a mere fifteen minutes to our tranquil little haven!

In lieu of going away on holiday we have decided to take lots of day-trips this summer, to explore our area and perhaps a little more of France in general. It’s a plan that seems to be working rather well; while we have the comfort of having our own things around us, we have so much to explore, so much to do and so many places we have never been; then when we are at home the pool is in constant use, the kids leaping in and out with the refreshing sound of splashing water. Last night the number of children in the house swelled to 8 as friends came for sleepovers. As I am sitting at the kitchen table tapping away on my laptop writing this, there are children wandering up the garden accompanied by chickens and ducks hopeful of some morning scraps. Rory has found a sleeping-bag and as is his wont has quietly curled up in it, semi-hidden, for a day of snoozing. Clara has found a quiet chair in the garden and curled up on someone’s pool-towel, and Bentley is keeping an attentive vigil under the kitchen table; with so many extra mouths then surely there are a few more crumbs on the floor for him! Gigi has retrieved the butterfly net, a notepad and a pen, and is happily writing down all the creatures she catches and then releases; she wants to see how many different species we have in our garden over the summer. The most recent entrant in her tally is a common swallowtail, a white and black beauty studded with blue highlights and a pair of rubies. This is one of those rare moments when one can sigh contentedly and think, yes we are doing the right thing, this is surely what we want for our children growing up – the sort of ‘Swallows and Amazons’ lifestyle so many of us dream of.

Of course it’s 2015 and so our children have their fair share of electronics and computers just like everyone else, but when we have those moments with no electronics in sight and everyone taking pleasure from simple things, I could almost cry with happiness. In much the same way I get a warm happy fuzzy feeling when, trug in hand, the children help me pick tomatoes, cucumbers and plums for lunch, and aubergines and courgettes for supper on the bbq; all highlighted when the 8 years of wisdom that is Gigi looks at me and says “I love living in France, I love eating our own food, nothing could ever be better than this !”. It’s one of those moments when I allow myself to think that we’re doing an OK job of raising our children!

Last week we took to the water 20 minutes inland and rented a wonderful electric boat for an hour’s foray on the mighty Charente. Reclined under a canvas bimini-top, we went peacefully upstream in the glorious sunshine with the children waiting until we were out of sight of the dock so that they could then drive. Roddy and I relaxed as our midget crew took us up and down the river, with swans, cattle, and herons watching us pass by. The odd angler sat contentedly in the shade under the willows, nodding hello at us as we burbled past on silent battery-power. We saw one blue flash from a kingfisher and a small boat zipped by towing a diminutive water-skier who waved at us as she passed, her pigtail flying in the breeze. It was an emerald idyll, disturbed occasionally by squeals caused by minor navigational errors, and we were amazed at how little traffic there was. Roddy remarked that a longer trip could feasibly include a large wicker hamper, a cooler full of ice, and a feast of some sort. I had to agree. I need to find a bottle of Pimms, I think.

This was followed a couple of days later by a trip to the races for an afternoon of trotting. OK, so admitedly half the thrill was betting on which horse would win, but with just 2 euros on a horse, there was nothing serious here and admittedly this was somewhat of a lesson more about betting than it might have been about the passion of the crowd; perhaps not quite the perfect wholesome natural lifestyle I described earlier, but still one of life’s important lessons. “Betting is a mugs’ game” I told the children – and although Jack said, “Mama you could make a lot of money doing this!”, I had to reply, “Yes, you could, but you could also, like the vast majority of people, lose a great deal of money!”, and we proceeded to prove it as we emptied our pockets of coins and the odd 5 Euro note with no reward to show for it – the closest we got was a second place which proved useless as Roddy had put all the bets on ‘to win’. We watched from the stands where the thrill and noise of the crowd as the horses passed the finishing line is almost quite overwhelming and then we watched the last two races from the rails where you can literally hear the thud of hooves and feel the vibration of the ground as they thundered past within a few feet from us. The children’s eyes glowed with excitement, and they squeaked with delight as each trotter flew past feet away.

Today is going to be a simple beach day, however, as the children have had so many very late nights that they need to recharge their batteries somewhat. For us adults that means the beach, but the children are not of an age to sit and sunbathe, so for them the beach means boogy-boards, skim-boards, swimming, and lots and lots of other activities. Lungs will be filled with healthy salt air, Roddy will do his donkey impression as he goes down to the sand, heavily laden with beachware, toys and coolers, and all this will be followed by an early night. It’s a recipe that seems to work well. I am off to make lavender shortbread to take with us for the all important 4pm gôuter, along with some fresh picked plums from the garden. I love cooking with fresh lavender flowers when they are in season, it gives such a gentle flavor and is a little bit out of the ordinary which always works for me! Plus the kitchen and all of downstairs takes on a real Provençal smell which lingers for hours. It’s a real reminder of this wonderful time of year.

July 22, 2015July 23, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis