France – Page 19 – Our French Oasis

A VERY FRENCH ENTRANCE

I have blogged about (and photographed) gates, secret gardens, many houses and also châteaux, but I’ve never exclusively concentrated on front-doors. Here in France there are so many styles, colours, choices and different patinas showing wear and tear that it becomes quite a choice when it’s time to find a door – does one go for modern technology and all its advantages or do you choose a very heavy antique door that has lasted for centuries and doubtless will continue to do so for many more to come? I think my choice becomes apparent fairly quickly……

With very old doors come very old keys; huge, heavy keys, which are antiques in their own right. They don’t fit very neatly in a pocket but on the other hand they are much harder to lose and they always add a certain je ne sais quoi.

First and foremost one has to remember that the front door has normally been built as the main entrance to a house, even if many of us actually use a back door, a side door, perhaps the garage or the boot-room instead! Usually the very first thing we see when arriving at someone’s home is the front door, and it creates that all important first impression, giving us a hint as to what the rest of the house may be like.

But the front door has to play many other roles too – it must deter uninvited guests, it must keep out the cold and quite often it needs to let in some light to the entrance hall itself.

Everyone knows what our front door looks like, it’s a door that is delightful but not immediately practical for it can be a little drafty. Fortunately we have shutters, typical of French houses and so for added security and to keep out the very cold nights we can shut the shutters and keep what is outside, out!

I wonder what would be your choice, if you were able to choose? Would you stick with a very old plain door that has been a part of the house for decades?

Even better if they have a small leaded window above

Or would you paint it a bright colour?

Perhaps a little bit of cottage style?

And what about plants, do you like them around the door or would you cut them back?

So many choices, so many decisions. I think unless a door is very ugly I would do just as we have done and live with it as part of the history of the house. It sets the character of the home right from the start and defines a style quite perfectly.

October 29, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

AUTUMN IN THE GARDEN

Across France it’s now the two-week autumn school-holiday known as “Vacances de la Toussaint”. So far we have enjoyed fantastic weather with warmish sunny days; ok, not exactly swimming weather, but perfect walking weather, perfect playing-in-the-garden weather and perfect weather for exploring near and far.

The children take a huge interest in this little blog of mine; indeed frequently they are my inspiration and so as we were kicking about in the falling leaves, they asked what I was going to write about this week and that’s when it came to me. “This”, I replied, pointing to our autumnal shrubbery and falling leaves,”a tour of our garden in autumn”,

“But it looks a mess!” they chorused, adding “and it’s not exactly pretty at the moment,” but that’s when the fun started. I fetched my camera and we wandered around, stopping to take photos, and suddenly what they had taken for granted as red leaves clinging to an old stone wall, took on a new form as they turned russet orange in the afternoon sun.

The Japanese Anemones are still flowering, self-seeded in places, and with the protection of a north-facing wall they are still in abundance in many corners of the garden; and the Salvia Grahamii have been in bloom all through the summer and continue to provide colour.

Roses are once again flowering as they have their last flurry before winter takes its toll, and the Pampas Grass is looking fabulous. There are tiny hardy Cyclamen all over the place in shady spots, poking their heads up between the fallen leaves.

The vegetable garden has been dug over and the autumn kale has been planted. The roses down there are a stark contrast to the plainness of the bare earth. However, the aubergines, peppers and chillies are still going strong and producing as fast as we can eat them.

Our Persimmon tree is quite literally groaning under the weight of so much fruit, so much so that a huge branch broke off one afternoon with a quite frightening crack and a subsequent thud. This has made us look at seriously pruning it back this winter to a more manageable level. In the meantime we have yet to see if we can get the fruit to ripen enough before it gets too cold, I am told they sell for a pound each in England so we must have at least £200 of fruit! Last year winter came far too quickly for the fruits, and I fear it will be the same again this year.

We don’t have any apple trees but a friend has plenty and she is constantly providing us with box loads of fruit. Sweet and crunchy they are perfect in cakes, tarts, compotes or just eaten straight from the box.

The chickens are hard at work enjoying the cooler weather. I was digging up some of last years well rotted leaves as mulch for a new shrub I had planted and they are never far away from my feet, searching for grubs and worms. In turn they are rewarding us with more eggs than we can eat and it’s been a very long time since we saw a tick on the dogs. After a summer fraught with chicken problems we are back to a healthy flock, so our fingers are crossed that Roddy can take off his veterinarian’s coat for a while.

Fritz the bantam cock has turned very dark, quite suddenly, and Constance, our only Silkie, is quite a madam earning herself any number of nicknames from visitors this summer! Gone are the long lazy days when our flock rested in the shade of a tree for hours on end; now they are on the move from dawn until dusk, constantly scrounging tidbits from anywhere they can get their feet and beaks into. They are very opportunist feeders and we have seen some surprising items disappear into frenzied craws, including half-consumed cat leftovers….. no more details needed..

It seems as if we have been clearing leaves forever, but in truth we have barely started, many are still green and there are plenty more to come down !

So it’s just as well we bought ourselves a new leaf collector that is towed along behind the mower, it is certainly making life much easier this year, I won’t have the arm muscles of last autumn but it will be done in a quarter of the time instead and anyway I always have my little helpers!

October 22, 2015November 2, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

MY STYLISH FRENCH GIRLFRIENDS by Sharon Santoni

I don’t normally blog on a Sunday. Today however, is an exception! This past week has been chilly, autumn has most definitely arrived and with it the delicious warmth of a fire in the evenings, and what better way to enjoy cosying up by the fire than with a fantastic new book. I am of course talking about Sharon Santoni’s “My Stylish French Girlfriends”.

This is an absolute must for anyone who loves France and all things French. Sharon, who writes the enormously popular blog My French Country Home, has toured some of her friends houses from Normandy to Provence and in turn her friends have invited her inside to photograph them at work and play, it is unposed and very natural with stunning photography and offers a wonderful glimpse into the lives of some very inspirational French ladies.

When I first started writing this blog Sharon helped me with a lot of great advice. We were total strangers and yet she was incredibly kind, chatting to me on the phone and offering all sorts of words of wisdom. She is such a lovely lady and I encourage anyone who loves France to go out and buy this, if you haven’t already done so! But be warned, jobs will lay unfinished as it is just impossible to put down and you may end up wanting to redecorate your entire house, re-landscape your entire garden or move, lock stock and barrel, to France!

October 18, 2015 by ourfrenchoasis

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

WHAT’S IN YOUR SUITCASE?

When we moved back to France I said, “I’m not flying any more, never again!”, and yet last week I was once again on an aeroplane for the fourth time in a year, but I don’t really count FlyBe as proper flying; for a start from here they are small turbo-prop planes and secondly, they’re only short flights. For no sooner are you up, than you are back down and there’s something rather comforting about the familiar route; taking off from La Rochelle we always get the most stunning views of the Île de Ré, and FlyBe is really just as good as any private tour of the island from the air. From there we head north over France, sometimes hugging the Atlantic coastline, and sometimes tracking further inland. Brittany or Normandy always feature in one form or another and then it’s across the English Channel, cruising over my beloved Isle of Wight, and then swiftly down into Southampton. The airports are small and friendly and it’s all very easy.

This time around the security checks set me thinking. I wondered whether if I was the person sitting behind the screen watching the bags, whether I’d be able to play a secret game with myself and spot the tourist, or the student, the businessman, or the ex-pat returning home.

Surely we would have been very obvious as the tourist and the student; I was taking Izzi back to University and even though I will miss her like crazy I knew it was going to be such a fun trip, just the two of us. Most of her summer loot was stuffed into three big suitcases as checked baggage and our cases contained 12 bottles of local wine, a few jars of traditional French pâté, and plenty of books – all squished in with a pillow, two saucepans and a healthy dose of student files and artist supplies. Not withstanding two large pull-alongs as hand baggage, cameras and our handbags!

It’s lucky that there are no limits on wine between European countries and that it happens to be that time of year in France when every shop, supermarket and market stall is celebrating the Foire aux Vins. Shelves are bursting with bottles of red, rosé, white and sparkling and there is plenty of champagne and the local Pineau Charente.

Whether one buys wine by the bottle or by the case – and the French do the latter rather well – it’s important to think of the process in the same way as one would stock up on wood for the winter ahead; it’s a necessity that won’t go away and a chore that must be born with good grace if one is to entertain any frenchmen without a trace of embarrassment. Of course, as in this case it’s wine, it means case after case at crazily low prices, with special offers and remarkable values; for after all, a life in France means a good glass with a meal is a must, which is surely one of the great pleasures of living here!

My few days stay in England was something of a whirlwind; staying with family, visiting friends, plenty of laughter and much catching up with news and life. There was the requisite trip to Ikea in order to personalize Izzi’s student house for the forthcoming year. We found ourselves amongst hundreds of other students with their lists, dutiful parents all towing shopping-carts full of duvets, pillows, sheets, kitchen-ware and knick-knacks. Then it was back on the road, all the time reminding myself “Drive on the left, drive on the left!” even when distracted by wild ponies as we drove through the New Forest.

There was one slightly panicky moment when we crossed a toll-bridge over Southampton water, and when we stopped at the automated pay booth that only took coins, I realized with horror that I had no English coins – only Euros! Izzi came to my rescue, but her purse was neatly tucked away in her luggage in the boot of the car and so she had to jump out, frantically signal to me to turn off the engine so she could open the boot, and then rummage around in her suitcase to find her purse in order to find a single 50p coin; behind us the queue of cars grew longer and more impatient, and I was acutely aware of being in a hire car. Worse, I couldn’t even pretend that I was a foreigner! Slightly frazzled by the event, we drove away into the traffic, with me repeating the “Drive on the left” mantra! Definitely in need of a good British pub meal to recharge our batteries.

After shopping and unpacking, there was the obligatory meeting with the landlady of the accommodation, and then after organizing the replacement of a broken English mobile-phone with an amazingly helpful cell-phone shop assistant (incredibly, it was still under warranty), we finally found time to enjoy a little bit of Bournemouth – a really rather pretty seaside town in the south of England on the Dorset coast.

The seafront is lined with iconic British beach huts and these Cath Kidston ones are the best I have ever seen.

The Lower Gardens in Bournemouth provide some welcome green space in the heart of the city.

Back at the airport for my return journey I had just the one case, but I surely won the prize as the most obvious ex-pat. For my suitcase was stuffed to bursting with English cheddar cheese, Marmite (which to any English person who has grown up with it is one of life’s absolute necessities), English magazines, Club Biscuits at the request of Millie, and Jelly Tots for no other reason than that I always say to my children, “I love you lots and lots of Jelly Tots”; they never understood why I say this, and actually neither do I, but at least I was determined to show them what Jelly Tots were! The hunt for the latter took us to four different shops before Izzi spied some in a little old-fashioned sweetshop where we snapped up several packets much to the surprise of the shopkeeper who looked at us in a bemused fashion as we grabbed them like over excited children!

On board the plane I opened up Hello Magazine and settled back in my seat to catch up on a year’s worth of celebrity gossip, and an hour and ten minutes later I was feeling totally enlightened on the completely unnecessary knowledge of who is doing what, with whom and where, when we touched down in the warm sunshine of La Rochelle and a pleasant temperature of 25 degrees Celsius. Back to France, back home and back to driving on the right-hand side of the road! No more reminding myself to keep to the left; now I had to change my mantra to “drive on the right” and rummage around in my purse for some Euros for the tolls instead of English coins!

September 16, 2015September 17, 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