I thought I’d give you a little update on Evie versus the chickens! We think we’ve worked out an almost perfect solution, and it’s really thanks to all of you; for I did indeed listen, and I read all your comments, I took everything in and we built a fence. Something simple, yet splendidly fulfilling in its execution, for a variety of reasons. Continue reading “Evie Versus the Chickens”
Not too long ago I was standing in the middle of an indoor tennis-court close to midnight sipping a glass of champagne with a handful of other people; what’s more it seemed like a totally normal thing to be doing! Quite naturally we were the only English there, and unsurprisingly the conversation turned to food; this in turn led to ‘what the English eat’, which in turn led to ‘why we were living in our tiny village’? My companions wanted to know what had led us there, to a place that is really in the middle of nowhere with a population of just 600 or so people.
Those of you who follow me on Instagram and Facebook will know we spent last week skiing; we had a little escape to the mountains and the snow during the children’s winter holidays, which was in fact the last full week of winter if you follow the meteorological calendar rather than the astronomical calendar when the March equinox is taken to mark the first day of spring. Either way, it has little to do with my story which most definitely took place during the winter, except we did have very spring-like conditions! Continue reading “WINTER HOLIDAYS FRENCH STYLE”
Having started my series of articles about renovation with a 12th century château renovated by a truly dedicated Frenchman, I thought it would be fun to go to the other end of the spectrum for my second article and meet an ‘expat’ family who have completely transformed two barns into a pair of fabulously comfortable gîtes. These jewels are nestled in the tiny hamlet of Vergné in the north of the department of the Charente Maritime and an hour east of La Rochelle, they stand alongside a lovely farmhouse which is home to Simon and Sue Paine and their two teenage children. Continue reading “CREATING THE PERFECT PLACE TO STAY”
Sometimes life throws up the most unexpected surprises. On Tuesday a friend asked me if I would like to go with her to look around a house. This wasn’t a house to buy or a house to sell, but a house she was thinking of renting for a week in the summer for 25 friends. I love looking at houses and going somewhere new, so obviously I leapt at the chance. But a house that would sleep 25 people, all under one roof, now that really peaked my interest. Continue reading “Discovering an 18th Century French Manoir”
I had absolutely no intention of writing a blog post today! I had nothing in mind to write about (actually that’s not entirely true, I always have lots to write about) and just thought, “First weekend of the children holidays, I’m going to take a break.” At least that was the plan; that was until we went to an open-afternoon yesterday at a beef-farm nearby for which I had seen the signs on my journey to and from school all week;
PORTES OUVERTES – SAMEDI 13 FEVRIER 2016 14H-18H
Venez découvrir nos animaux, notre élevage, notre laboratoire de découpe. (come and discover our animals, our breeding, our butchery)
That was a bit like a red rag to a bull (excuse the pun); I cannot escape my roots and my upbringing and although I had absolutely no idea what to expect I thought it would be fun to go and have a look around. The younger girls were at a birthday party but Jack, Roddy and I went along after lunch; it was actually really interesting and of course I had my camera with me and so I took a few photos, and then after that I thought I simply had to tell you all about it!
Arriving at the farm the first thing we saw was the sheepdog. He was watching everyone come and go; he lay there virtually motionless the whole time, observing everything quietly; waiting for the next command, such intelligence in those eyes.
This is a farm where they only raise Limousin cattle, a French breed that originates from the Limousin region, about three hours inland from us. The farm has 85 breeding cows from which they derive the stock they raise and sell as beef; this means at any one time there are several hundred head of cattle on the farm. Their traditional breeding methods meet exceedingly high standards and the farm has an incredible reputation for the well-being of their animals, its respect for the environment, and the transparency and traceability of its stock.
The first Limousins arrived at the farm in 1984. This race was chosen for its ease of breeding and its excellent quality meat. In 2000, due to high demand from the consumers for local and quality products, the family set up the direct sale of beef from the farm, and it has become highly successful amongst a small but very knowledgeable local clientele. To answer the increasing demand a butchery was created in 2002, which meant the beef could be prepared on site; this offers customers further guarantees about the meat they are buying. This is beef at its very best, naturally raised as nature intended, with no antibiotics, no hormones and no GMO feed.
We wandered through the open barns where at this time of year the cattle are of course inside. Within another few weeks they will be out in open pasture for the next eight months of the year, and they will enjoy those amazing views and the benefits of fresh air from a maritime location right on the edge of the Marais de Brouage. The natural meadows are immensely rich in minerals from the salt marshes. On the higher land the farm grows its own crops and makes its own lucerne hay and sileage for the winter feed. Lucerne, known more commonly as alfalfa in the USA, produces the highest quality, nutrient rich hay possible. This is augmented during the winter months with a ‘cake’ which is rich in omega 3; it’s made from a mixture of maize, beetroot and the pulp from the lucerne.
As we reached the end of the long barn building we were offered hot mulled wine, and Jack was given afternoon goûter. I was pleased to see so many other people had taken the time to visit; it was an excellent way to introduce a wonderful product to those who wished to know more, a chance for the customer to see exactly where their beef comes from, how the cattle are kept, with time to ask questions, read about breeding and methods, and appreciate farming as it should be. All of the animals are guaranteed to have been born and raised naturally on the farm as the owners do not import any cattle and are only allowed sell their own meat.
The wind was absolutely howling with gusts of 100 kph and it was hard to walk in a straight line between the farmyard and the farmhouse which also houses the thoroughly modern butchery, this is where the meat is cut and then hung to age in the cold room. Inside we were shown around by the farmer’s wife, an incredibly friendly and knowledgeable lady. She was immensely proud of the business they have created and quite rightly so; everything was spotlessly clean and hygienic. Such is the popularity of their beef, one cannot find their meat anywhere else and you have to buy it in situ! Furthermore, orders have to be placed two months in advance! Collection times are firmly set; Friday evenings between 6 and 8pm and Saturday mornings.
We have placed our order, we shall make sure there is plenty of space in the freezer, and we shall be returning mid-April. The farmer’s wife suggested we collect it on the Friday evening, so we could enjoy a glass of wine at the same time she added with a wink. How very civilized, we thought.
When we got home I searched through my old photos from walks last year and found some of the cattle when they were out in the fields during the warmer months, just so you can see. This is farming at it’s best.
WISHING YOU ALL A VERY HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY X
Perhaps we have to endure the wind and the rain and all that winter can throw at us in order for us to enjoy the spring and the summer?
We have been attempting to forecast the weather since the beginning of recorded history. Long before the invention of radar and other meteorological tools, people relied upon nature to give them a clue as to what the weather would bring.
“Is it going to be sunny today?” – “Maybe”
“Is it going to rain today?” – “Probably”
“Why does it have to rain?” – “Because we need the rain”
“Can you get some strawberries when you go shopping today?” – “No, it’s winter!”
These are the same questions I get asked every week by our two smallest people at varying stages of the day; the weather-related ones usually arise as I am trying to get the two teenagers out of the door for school, put on my coat, pick up Evie to take with me, find my phone, grab an umbrella and remind the same two little ones that if it should be fine they are walking home.
I answer on auto-pilot, “It’s winter.”
But don’t get me wrong, much as I hate winter, I also love winter – not for itself as I can’t pretend to love the bare trees and dormant garden or the quiet streets where not a soul can be seen, and nor can I pretend to adore the empty markets when all that is on offer never seems to change: winter greens, potatoes and carrots. No, what I like about winter is the promise it offers of spring and summer; for surely winter is just the prelude to the months that I love so much? If we did not go through winter we would not revel in the first cherries, the first meal taken outside, and spring and summer would become normal rather than ‘special’. So I have come to an agreement with winter, I’m ok with it.
December was gorgeous, December was one long Indian Summer; but then December is always good no matter what the weather, it’s a festive month. January normally starts with a bang but fades into insignificance, which this year has been a very wet and soggy insignificance. This year February is continuing in the same vein with severe gales added into the mixture to spice things up a little. I am reminded of the ancient proverb “If in February there is no rain, ’tis neither good for hay nor grain.” I of all people, as a farmer’s daughter, should understand the importance of rain, so long as it rains at the right time of year.
The past week 105 kph winds battered our coast. The garden looked like a war-zone with scattered branches littering the lawn and I was staring out at the sodden landscape whilst cleaning up after breakfast when the rain commenced again; not a gentle drizzle but a torrential downpour that saw the terrace turn into a river before my eyes. At the bottom of the kitchen window where the two sides join in the middle is the most tiny gap and in through that gap water suddenly came streaming in as if someone had opened a tap. Water poured around the sink and was soon pooling all over the counter and down the front beside the dishwasher. Grabbing tea-towels I stuffed them as hard as I could against the tiny hole and then as quickly as it had started the rain ceased and the water stopped. Another job for Roddy to do, and another reminder about living in old houses. Why this had never happened before and why it should start now we had no idea, but there is never a sensible solution, it just happened and that’s life here in an old farmhouse!
The truth about living in an old house built in 1790 is we live with it ‘day to day’. The windows and doors can be draughty, but I’d rather live with the draughts than lose the house’s character. Nothing is truly straight, walls slant this way and that; there are no perfect right angles, the roof slopes, the beams are bowed and cracked, but the very same things that can sometimes be irritating are also part of the charm. Our property hides a wealth of old features that have become so commonplace we don’t even notice them. Our barn for instance has this ladder with which to climb to the attic above; it’s easily as old as the house, but it’s sturdy and it works and we have no idea what the numbers signify.
Frequently things need fixing. The older the house, the more opportunity for things to go wrong; but no matter the inconveniences, no matter the hardships, living in an ancient farmhouse is a privilege. Certainly the best balance is to combine charming period features with modern amenities, but we must restore sympathetically; we cannot seal up every hole and crack for the house must be able to breath. We have to treat it as a living creature, as it has stood for centuries and will no doubt still be standing long after our lifetime; in effect it is an honor to live here. The other day I passed this centuries-old farm which is for sale, complete with barns, lots of land and amazing views. I would arrange to go and have a look but I would hate to waste the time of what I am sure are elderly owners, so we will have to be content with a little day dreaming from the outside.
I wish I could move this old stone trough. It stands in the corner of the grange attached to our house which we call the ‘boot-room’. Unused and quite unnoticed by all, it even has drainage; perhaps this is where previous inhabitants used to wash in times gone by? Or is it something as mundane as a horse trough?
Living in an old house might change your life; it will certainly change your perspective.
A major preoccupation of house-owners in France is the heating. In virtually every old home you go into the fireplace will be a feature. It can be an open-fire with logs crackling in the hearth, flickering flames licking at the grate and the mellow fragrance of burning wood filling the air, or it can be a wood-burner, safer and easier to keep alight throughout the day. Either way there is nothing better nor more inviting when you’re coming back from a walk than seeing the smoke gently coming out of the chimney. I can’t imagine a property without a fire; they can be messy and dusty, and it’s hard to regulate the temperature as we know all to well, alternating between wearing thick jumpers to wandering around in a t-shirt – but nothing captures rural living better than a fire.
Come to think of it, winter hasn’t been that bad at all, I don’t mean the weather I mean winter in general, and I am sure that’s all down to the new wood-burner we installed in the kitchen last October for nothing beats a cosy country kitchen. It’s true I’m slightly bored of washing dirty dog-towels, the boot-room is constantly littered with wet coats, wet umbrellas, wellie-boots and mud. But as is always the way in the Charente Maritime, just when I can’t stand the rain any longer, the sun comes out, and even in February it’s a powerful sun, strong enough to actually create some warmth. It beckons us outside and away from the fire. Whilst doing some research I learnt that in Olde English the name for February was Solmonath, which literally means “mud month” – I think I shall be calling it this from now on!
It is indeed a truly fabulous life, but nothing is ever simple. A few days ago, right after I published the post about Evie, she killed one of our chickens; the victim was our dearest little silkie, Constance. Why Evie would suddenly kill a chicken we have no idea; she has grown up around them since she was two months old, and sure, she chases them for fun, but there has never been any intent to harm, or none that we could see; it was always just a game. I actually walked around feeling rather numb for a couple of days, and the garden and our dog walks temporarily lost their appeal. I know my ancestors would tell me I’m becoming “soft” – maybe I am. Still Mother Nature tried really hard to cheer us up. One of our plum trees is already in blossom, the daffodils are fabulous, and the aubretia and camellias are starting to work their charm. We’ll work out what to do, I know. But our immediate questions of that day already seem over-dramatic; do we sell the chickens, do we fence them in, do we re-home Evie? Most likely we’ll do nothing for now but keep a vigilant eye on her whoever she is outside, hoping it was a one-off, however unlikely that may seem. We’ll keep training her and right now put it down to one of life’s cruel moments.
But for now, the rain has stopped, it’s a perfect sunny French day, and the children’s winter holidays are looming; just one more day to go and then two weeks with them at home – I can’t wait. We have tennis tournaments for the girls in La Rochelle, and then we’re off to the snow and mountains for a few days; there is so much to be thankful for and I certainly am extremely grateful for all of it.
Oh Gosh, I’m in the dog-house again! I just can’t help chasing chickens. I know I’m not meant to, and I know I get shouted at, and I know it’s wrong, but the problem is, it’s just SO much fun. I had been good recently, too, but then life changed in the chicken world and I was tempted into sin once more.
You see, Falafel – the young rooster – decided perhaps he wasn’t so happy to share all the girls with Fritz after all, and so they fought. I know, I even heard Mum saying they never fight, but I laughed to myself; what did she really know about animals and chickens, of course I knew all along they would fight. I even mentioned it to Bentley the other night and he agreed too, silly humans.
Anyway, the point is now Fritz is all alone; he wanders sadly around the garden and he’s nowhere near as lively as he used to be. I thought I’d pop over and say hello, cheer the old chap up a bit; a little play-date with me would surely put a spring back in his step….alas, the grown ups saw me, and gosh, did they yell. I stopped of course, I’m quite good like that, but when they weren’t looking I ran over and started playing again. So now I have a double game; chasing Fritz and making sure the humans don’t see me; it’s a little bit like hide and seek.
The weather has been gorgeous and everyone’s been busy in the garden so I get to be outside a lot at the moment which gives Rory, my best friend, a bit of a break. I’ve learnt that cats tend to do things the other way round from us; they love to sleep upstairs, curled up on the bed all day long and they don’t care much for playing. But then, just as darkness falls, and just as I’m thinking it’s time for me to curl up in front of the fire when BANG, they come alive and want to play; they’re such confusing creatures, and then, to put me in even more of a quandary, Bentley likes to sleep all day AND all night. I mean where’s the fun in that? and just as I am coming to terms with all of this and thinking I’ll forego my little snooze and play, Rory falls asleep beside me! Talking about cats, the other one, Clara, who I hardly ever see, is also slightly odd. She doesn’t like coming in the house at all, but she does love playing chase, so I guess she must be okay. The only problem is she won’t play chase with me; I chase her till she climbs a tree, but she never chases me back. She’ll chase other things in the garden quite happily, especially those small grey things with very long tails and when she does that everyone says how brilliant she is. No one ever tells me I’m brilliant when I play chase, I just get shouted at. Life is just so unfair.
So I wondered if maybe I should ask Bentley if he wants to play with me, he’s always full of lots of advice and everyone makes such a fuss of him, but maybe he’s a little bored; to be honest I am not really sure I quite understand him at all. Take the other morning for example; Mum and Dad opened the kitchen door and ushered us out into the garden; this is always great for a quick sniff here, a quick sniff there, a quick dart about the bushes elsewhere and then back inside for breakfast. Bentley just sat there, by the door waiting to go back inside; doesn’t he care about the big outdoors? I know he’s the same make as me, we’ve compared notes, we’re even the same colour for goodness sake, though I do admit he’s a little fat whilst I’m a perfectly petite little French girl. He does play for a short while sometimes but then he gets bored and goes off and sunbathes again. Just bizarre behaviour.
Then there’s the question of the car and Bentley, for as soon as anyone opens a car door, I’m in, quick as a flash. Cars are good – sometimes it means we are going somewhere great, and there’s a whole new fabulous adventure to enjoy. Okay, so sometimes it’s a touch boring, and I just stay in the car until I’m home again, but even then I love watching the world go past outside the window; I’ve seen all sorts of sights – cats, dogs, sheep (well I think they are sheep, I asked Bentley about them when I got home and he said my description sounded like sheep, so that’s what I am going to call them) and all sorts of other things. However, I can’t show them to Bentley because he simply hates the car – it’s another weird thing about him; I mean, why would anyone hate the car? He has to be physically manhandled in, and then he just stands there behind the seat on the floor and shakes with fear – I like him a lot and he really has helped me but I do think he is rather odd.
The other place I love to go in the car is to school. This is only a rainy-day event, because often the girls walk home; but when it’s raining Mum or Dad pick them up in the car and I go too. I stand with my paws on the dashboard and look out of the front and lots and lots of little girls come running up to say hello. They all make such a fuss of me, rubbing my tummy and tickling my ears – it’s like I have a little fan club at the school gate, and I really am getting quite used to it.
Another thing I’m learning is all about the ‘lead’. I’m even beginning to understand that I have to walk beside Mum or Dad and not pull a few feet in front of them, with my little paws skidding on the ground. Bentley is brilliant on the lead, no surprises there, and they spend so much time saying what a good chap he is; why can’t they say I’m really good! Why is he so good at everything? Can’t they see he’s weird?
Then yesterday we saw a huge creature with enormous legs; I wanted to chase it. However, Hetty and Gigi wanted to stop and give it an apple; an apple? A whole APPLE? I just couldn’t fathom out why a really nice big red apple was being given to a stranger; anyway, that’s when I asked Bentley what it was and he told me it was a horse. I liked the look of it but it did look as though it needed some fun and I am sure I could beat it in a game of chase, it doesn’t move very much. It wasn’t so much bigger than me well just a bit maybe. I pulled and pulled on the lead but no one would let me go, Bentley even had the audacity to smirk, I asked him about that later, they have big feet he said, hard feet and they kick.
“NEVER chase a horse! And never chase a COW” he muttered. “What’s a cow?” I asked?
My favourite place to walk is when we cross the road behind the house and head out into the country, I know we’ll both be let off the lead, I can run and run, and I try and come back whenever I’m called; this is another thing I’m getting quite good at. I’ve learnt that as soon as they call “Evie!” I must come running and then they’re happy; they make such a fuss, anyone would think I’d just done something really good. Sometimes they even give me treats, yummy edible little nibbles, just because I came when they said my name – I will never ever understand these humans. Then I go off again, I must cover at least five times as much ground as Bentley, but he is quite fun, he does run a bit with me, he even stops and sniffs with me.
Anyway, let me finish by telling you about a new hobby I have. I’ve learnt to dig holes! It’s fantastic! If I work up enough speed earth flies everywhere! I dig and dig, deeper and deeper, and usually I can go unnoticed, for I have to admit I get shouted at for this as well. Though if I choose a quiet spot no one sees me and here Bentley has been quite helpful. He’s explained to me that the big humans won’t tell me off if they don’t actually catch me doing something wrong; so, as long as I have dug the hole and had my fun, by the time they find the mess it’s too late; they’ll continue to sound cross, and they’ll huff and they’ll puff and sigh and they’ll even say “what are we going to do with her” – but I don’t get shouted at.
Then yesterday, I caught something! I actually caught something from all my digging; it’s called a mole, apparently, and it makes an even bigger mess in the garden than I do. It’s the strangest of creatures, and I found out about them quite by chance one day while snoozing in the grass and I woke up to find the earth starting to sprout up into a volcano in front of my very eyes! Ever since then whenever I find one of the mounds of earth they make, I dig down as fast as I can to where they seem to live in an underground tunnel, and we all get very dirty. Golly, they dig almost as fast as I can. Anyway, I actually caught one the other day, and better still, the humans were happy! They didn’t tell me off, they didn’t shout, they didn’t mutter about what on earth they were going to do with me next, they actually said “well done”. Of course, I immediately went off and dug ten new holes and then I got shouted at again. I was so confused.
I lay next to Bentley by the fire that night and told him all about it, and he just rolled over and told me not to worry and went back to sleep, so I thought I’d do the same, maybe I’ll dream about chasing rabbits.
“Let’s go off and explore for a couple of hours!” These were my first thoughts after driving the children to school yesterday morning. At 9 o’clock our kitchen had felt strangely different, and it had taken me a second or two to work out why, then it dawned on me; there was sun streaming in through the windows! I had to move my iPad a little to the left to keep it out of the glare!
I feel as if it has been raining forever, although in reality it’s only January that has been so wet and miserable. Maybe it’s just my British heritage and a typical English fascination with the weather but when I remarked on the rain to a French friend earlier in the week, they reminded me that it’s only wet now because “nous avons eu l’été en Decembre” – we had summer in December.
Looking back, those words are very true. I’ve enjoyed this winter and I love the change in seasons, but now I’m feeling a little impatient and ready for spring; and with such a sunny day I thought it would be a good time to pretend that we’d jumped forward a month. Being a Wednesday it meant the children only had a half-day at school and that in turn always means it’s hard to get stuck into something at home for such a short time (my excuse); so I thought, let’s play hooky! Roddy took just a nano-second to agree and over a quick cup of coffee we tried to decide where to go. I love little adventures, whether on foot, on a bike, in the car. I’m not fussy and just need my camera and I’m off.
Driving out through the gates we still had no idea where we were going, I said turn left, Roddy chose right; however, I was driving, so we turned left! I don’t know who was more excited, the two humans or little Evie staring out of the window on Roddy’s lap feeling sure she was being taken somewhere for a fabulous walk.
There is always a new place to find. Somewhere we have never been, a little track we have not taken before and we are far from knowing every village in the area. Conscious of the time constraints we were under, the school bell never waiting for tardy parents, we eagerly drove south like kids going off to the candy store. As we turned away from the main road Roddy suggested we look for church towers and spires, “They always signify old buildings and history,” he remarked and so we continued, searching out these beacons on the landscape as our destinations.
There is something incredibly liberating about just driving, especially when you have no agenda and no specific place to be; admittedly we didn’t have long, but for a couple of hours we were free to roam wherever we pleased; we had a full tank of diesel and we were wearing sunglasses – nothing could stop us!
Within ten minutes we found a tiny road bordered along its entire length by a stone wall; we had no idea of what lay beyond other than farmland and trees. At the end we saw a small hamlet in the distance, and with still no clue as to what the wall constrained, we marked it down as yet another place to return to when it is a little drier underfoot; I’m sure there must at least be some ruins in the grounds on the other side!
Turning this way and that, I kept driving, and not for the first time I was grateful for quiet French roads – it meant my sudden stops to get out and take a photo did not cause any mayhem behind us, and as a bonus no one was around to witness my strange driving habits. In the middle of nowhere we came upon a forlorn entrance, evidently not in use and with seemingly little other than a barn beyond. What change in fate must have occurred for the grand estate that surely once stood at the end of, what once must have been, a long driveway?
However, a little further down the road we had a sneak flashback as to what might have been. We stopped, parked, put Evie on her lead and camera in hand, explored a little. Despite the remains of the grand gateway, now there were just a clutch of houses and barns and the only hint that they were once all linked was a common colour of red on the door and shutters.
Back on the road once again we were quickly reminded how close we are to either the salt marshes or oyster beds
the landscape is a mixture of low-lying flatlands bounded to the east by very gentle rolling hills, and the entire area has salt in the air; small hamlets dot the high points and mounds, and out in the marshes there are abandoned crofts and stables, vestiges from centuries past.
Wonderful old houses sit right next to the road, the imagination runs wild dreaming of living in any of these and it is amazing how people so closely copied the ideals of architectural principle and frontage, from village to village, all across the department. One maison de maître looks so similar to another, a particular style that is very much individual to the region it is in.
there are small towns with cobbled lanes only fit for the smallest of cars
and large impressive houses jostling for space beside tiny terraced cottages, all juxtaposed along the 12th century streets where cart and horse once splashed mud and muck on passersby and walls alike.
Nearing home we stopped for a very quick walk along a river; we weren’t going to go far or we would be late. The girls had said they wanted to walk home from school so we knew we would not have that dreadful guilty feeling that we had when we delayed the teachers, but we did have to make sure we were at the house when they arrived. We noticed how life is stirring in the hedgerows and on the road verges, and on lawns and amongst the bushes too. Our winter has been so mild nature is already easing into spring, and our next great photographic season of blossom and buds is nearly upon us.
Despite the fact we were clock watching, one could not ignore the fact that the general pace of life is slow here, so intertwined are its inhabitants to a landscape whose rhythm of life is measured in tidal phases, and where glistening mudflats are matched by aquaculture ponds frothing with life and larvae. Farm-fields are bordered by long hedges of nodding reeds, and egrets and storks eke out their own living from puddle to puddle. There is typically nothing hurried or seemingly urgent. At our slow snail’s pace though, we have glimpses of a life we know only on the surface; we photograph houses, views, open roads, but I always wonder what lies behind some of the doors, who lives here and where do they work? I am fascinated by the history of the area and I will always want to know more. Rather than becoming blasé about my surroundings, I find that the longer I live here the more aware I become, ever more inquisitive, and more intrigued.
Which came first the chicken or the egg? It’s a question that is guaranteed lengthy debate around our table at supper. All of our children have strong opinions and know their own minds and no one is shy in making their thoughts be known!
In our garden the chicken most definitely came first; it’s now just over a year ago that we bought our first four hens. Within a month we had added another three and later a couple more somehow sidled in from somewhere to join the fray. Happily though, since then there has been many times when we have asked ourselves why we’d never kept chickens before. They’re a riot! There’s been a lot to find out, with chesty coughs and sore feet to learn about amongst other things, but that’s where our French neighbours have helped so much; there’s not much they don’t know about chickens, although they do struggle to come to terms with how our chickens are part of the family while their’s are part of the larder. Certainly we have a better understanding of some subtle differences between French country animal husbandry on one side of the fence and children’s pets that lay eggs as a bonus on the other.
In addition, Roddy has become a dab hand at administering the necessary potions and drugs in the dead of night with a torch between his teeth – he’s found that the flock are better treated then when they are all half asleep. He’s remarked on more than one occasion that it’s easy to see how a fox could kill a whole hen-house without any trouble at midnight.
As those of you who have followed the blog for a while know, our chickens are often the star of the show.
However, I have to admit that for a time they fell into second place, with our Muscovy ducks claiming the centre of our feathered stage; not because the ducks were ducks or because they were enormous; no, it was because of their antics around the garden. You see it turned out that Penny and Adrian (who arrived as a couple) were in fact, not a couple. No, not for them was there the simplicity of being a male and a female; instead there emerged the complexity of having two large testosterone-laden adolescent males in our quiet rural space.
Now this in itself did not bother me, Penny was still called Penny and I simply forgot my plans for free range duck eggs; I liked them, we all liked them and they were here to stay, until that is, they started chasing each other whenever the urge took them. They hurtled around the garden whenever they felt the need, and anything in their path was sent flying; nothing would stop them, for neither wanted to be caught by the other; whoever made a false move lost and then the loser had to succumb to the other’s, er, desires (let’s just leave it at that). It became known as the ‘sex run’ and it was all quite hilarious until it became really quite dangerous for small creatures and small girls, and that’s when we decided they needed some girls of their own. Luckily we knew where there were plenty; some friends of ours who live thirty minutes away were very happy to have two drakes to replace their aging champion, and now our two boys each reside over a harem of females, extremely content.
That brings me back to our chickens and our two roosters; Fritz, our original bantam has been joined by Falafel, our young Faverolle rooster who hatched at the end of May last year. These two have never fought, the result I suspect of them being surrounded by women. There has been the odd squabble at times, but now it all seems to have evened out – Fritz has the small bantams as his consorts and Falafel has the bigger girls. This just leaves Constance the Silkie, lets just say Constance is a bit of a floozy, and she just hangs out with whoever she feels like!
Our little flock are free to roam where they please
On rainy days they seek out the wood shed
and the barn where we keep the mower.
I am told that several decades ago, when new people moved into the village, they would always be given two or three laying hens as a gift from the Mayor. No one seems to know when this started or indeed when it ceased, but what a wonderful welcome present. Just about everyone in our village keeps chickens, ducks and geese – for the pot.
Talking of pots, we are not going to kill our chickens of course; the only cooking involved is with the eggs, and of course free-range chickens mean fantastic eggs! Ours are really fabulous jewels with deep, dark, rich-orange yolks and hard thick shells. We have eggs of all sizes; tiny ones from the smallest bantams all the way up the size scale to the double yolkers delivered by Chuckles a couple of times a week; she was one of the original four we bought in 2014 and is now the reigning matriarch. We have near white eggs, pale creamy-colored eggs, and deep brown eggs; in fact we have all sorts of eggs.
Lots of eggs means lots of egg dishes and sometimes we have to be a little inventive, but it’s amazing how many different recipes and ways to use them Roddy and I come up with. Eggs are of course the perfect quick lunch or supper; easy to cook whether you fry them, boil them, poach them or bake them; we also add them to homemade pizzas
and we sometimes serve them hard-boiled with a little steamed kale from the garden, which is just about the only vegetable still going strong in the winter weather.
I also love scrambled eggs with a few herbs, a dish that most of our French friends cannot understand; they call them œufs écrasés which literally means ‘squashed’ eggs. It’s a wonderful way of cooking eggs for us, but our friends look at the results with much ridicule, and there is much muttering about the English and their strange ways of doing things!
Of course, our eggs also make the best cakes and our little chefs are slowly turning into egg snobs. I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing, but baking certainly has a different hue when the girls start talking about egg quality from our garden!
Tell me how do you prefer your eggs? and which do you think came first – the chicken or the egg? Have a wonderful Sunday x
Our French Oasis 