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”
“Variety is the Spice of Life” – so they say, and in my case it certainly would appear to be true!
The summer holidays are here, the children have finished school and with the long hot sunny days the grass has turned brown from the lack of rain. The kitchen floor tiles are permanently marked with wet foot-prints as children wander in and out from the pool. Wherever I go I seem to stop to pick up a bikini-bottom, a swimming-towel, or a pair of goggles – all dropped here or left there; but I don’t mind too much, these are the signs of summer and the children are winding down from early starts in the cold wet rain of winter and spring. People drop in for supper, always casual at this time of year, with plenty of fresh produce from the garden, and either friends of the children are always here or our children are away at other people’s houses. There are tents on the lawn, and screams from the pool; it’s all part and parcel of having five children and I love it!
Early morning is the peaceful time; the soft golden hour between 7.00 and 8.00am is a favourite time of the day to wander down the garden to watch the ducks lumbering across the lawn as they wake up, wings flapping as they learn to fly. It’s akin to watching giant amphibious aircraft struggling to leave the ground. Much noise, much effort, and little to show for it still. The cluck of contented chickens foraging in the flower beds for breakfast competes with Fritz as he improves his teenage morning crow; being a small bantam rooster, it’s a quiet crow, almost tuneful but not too overpowering. Our potager is now hugely productive thanks to our well and the ancient, but incredibly effective pump, without which I would feel supremely guilty about endlessly watering, a necessity considering we have had no rain for weeks. When we first arrived here I looked at the huge old tank, the rusty pipes and archaic system with doubt and dread, now in the height of summer I have come to love the old pump, it groans into life with the press of a switch and I have learnt what an incredibly valuable commodity it is.
The aubergines are growing fast, their vibrant deep purple fruits fattening each day and the watermelons are now the size of small footballs. Admittedly, some of the garden is now somewhat overgrown, but it’s a dense sea of green with beautiful colours – a strong piece of kitchen garden with an organic life of its own. One or two of the lettuces have taken to adulthood (there are only so many you can eat) – Roddy has suggested one variety should be called ‘New York Skyscraper’, so vertiginous are its heights. Each morning I expect to find it toppled, a small tiny axe lying beside it. Potatoes lie in wait under a dark brown loam, and some of the larger courgettes have turned into marrows, lying hidden like anacondas under the jungle of leaves and flowers. Everything, of course, tastes just tinglingly delicious.
We are feasting daily on tomatoes still warm from the sun, peppers, lettuce, cucumber, those courgettes, those freshly dug new potatoes and sweet carrots; all accompanied by our terrace-beds of herbs and the freshest of eggs from the chickens; it seems like such a pure simple life which in turn fills us with energy. Until around midnight, at which point someone turns off the energy and I wilt into bed, satisfied but worn out.
Bentley loves the French summer sun – he spends most of his day lying in the warmth on the doormat! The kittens are now 10 months old and although they hunt together at night, during the day they are completely independent. Rory loves nothing better than to curl up somewhere in the house, usually in one of the childrens’ bedrooms, where he buries himself deep on a chair under cushions or surrounds himself with a duvet so he can hardly be seen; there he sleeps, content and undisturbed for most of the day.
Clara, by contrast, likes to follow me around, and whenever I go near the vegetable garden at the very far end of our garden she magically appears at my feet from the bushes and her lizard-hunting. Rubbing around my legs, she purrs continuously as I stop to pick tomatoes or a cucumber. She often stops and lies at my feet when I pause for thought – I think I have never known a cat like her.
The calm of this semi self-sufficient summer lifestyle is in complete contrast to the vibrant life of the coast a mere fifteen minutes away where the summer season has started in earnest. Already the roads have double the amount of cars and our village is buzzing with life and traffic; holiday-homes have opened their shutters and our little bakery is no longer a 30 second wait for one’s baguette; sometimes you have to wait a scandalous minute or more to be served! The beaches are busy and the hotels are filling up, and the camper-van season has started on the country lanes. All of this is good though, as the financial life-blood of provincial France sorely needs this artery-opening season – without a good, successful summer, households go cold and hungry in winter. Roddy and I suspect this is why the local attitude to the tourist and visitor here is respectful and courteous – it is a refreshing attitude compared to those places which have a 12-month tourist season. From what we have seen, the local population do really seem to happily put up with any inconvenience that might occur, content in the knowledge that by being busy now, they can enjoy the rest of the year sleeping on their wads of Euros, tucked away under hard mattresses.
Earlier in the week friends took us to the Luna Park at La Palmyre. As it’s name suggests, this park is only open at night, from 8pm until 2.30am. There’s little point in getting there until it is dark as that’s half the fun; the neon lights and electric atmosphere pulsate against the night sky, and considering sunset is not until around 10pm at this time of year, it means a late night! We arrived somewhere around 10.30pm and left in the early hours, several dozen Euros lighter but laden with soft cuddly toys and other winnings from various stalls! It was all a complete opposite to our life in the village, with its quiet country lanes and fields of yellow sunflowers. In the dark of the night as children weaved and bobbed amongst the throbbing lights and excited rides, I had a glimpse of a totally different way of life, where one can imagine shady deals taking place behind the bumper-cars and illicit kisses being stolen behind the cardboard cut-outs, where danger may lurk in the shadows; a delicious blend of excitement and surprise. Of course, nothing happened, and the children had a great time; and so did Izzi and I, as we chaperoned the small people from one stomach-wrenching ride to another, and from coconut shy to the splash of the duck-catching stall.
As we drove home, small people asleep within minutes in the back of the car under a great sprawl of stars above a sleeping landscape, it was astounding to think that the pulsations of the fun fair are a mere fifteen minutes away, this is the home of ClubMed here, a zoo, hotels, waterparks and campsites. It’s not somewhere I would want to go every night, or even every week, but very occasionally it is the greatest of fun! As we hurried home our headlights picked out the nightlife in the marsh, where eyes glowed behind rushes and where dark forms scurried from shadows across the road – I knew in the morning I would be back at work with the hoe and the pitchfork – a complete Freudian contrast to the evening.
People who have never lived abroad are often curious as to why others do. And until one actually has done so oneself, it is hard to understand the subtle nuances that can make life in a foreign country so great. The obvious differences such as language, location, and weather, are easy to understand; but often is it the minutiae of everyday life that draws people back to a place they may have only visited once on holiday, or seen film of, or read an article about. Sometimes it is not just a case of having wanderlust or a querying mind, but also a case of loving the quirkiness and embracing the challenge of living somewhere different and out of your comfort zone.
France is a great country – it has so much to offer and so much in its character that to a person living in the modern era its history and culture have much more right to importance than many may think. Whether it’s scenery, art, architecture, weather, cuisine, history or sheer grandeur, there is something for everyone in France, and that is what makes it such a great place to live, whether you’re soaking in the sleek atmosphere of a Parisian quartier, or sipping pastis next to a field of provencal lavender under an azure blue sky.
For us, here in the Charente Maritime, we revel in a pastoral countryside of rolling hills, salt marshes and some truly fascinating architecture, built when France was at the height of its maritime power. In summer, the lie of the land is yellow and green, sunflowers and grapevines, studded with forests of rich oak and chestnut. Rochefort, Royan and La Rochelle guard the coast, and Saintes crowns the inland countryside. In between are the working towns and villages, where French life continues, much as it has done for centuries, with its idiosyncrasies and small rituals of heritage.
Old-style France, the haven where most people who come to live here want to enjoy at its best, is full of matters and ideas you have to get used to. The French like to communicate, sometimes with verbosity and volume. So to start with the greeting game is something you have to learn to play quickly, and well. A “bonjour” in any situation, whether entering a shop or a household, a school crowd or the queue in the post office, is an expected passage of rite. Most French people will also say goodbye to all and sundry when leaving a situation too. Children you know will do the same, instantly breaking off what they are doing to come and dutifully greet you. Manners are important to the French, drilled into them at an early age, and they are amused at the casual tourist who does not play the game. This also extends to the ‘bisou’, the traditional peck (whether one, two, three or even four) on the cheek which is actually a very simple gesture of both affection and civility. We currently live by the ‘two bisous’ rule, one on each cheek, delivered only once a day to someone when you first see them, and with an obligation to those you know perfunctorily. Strangers get a handshake first time round – it is best for them to offer you a cheek the next time before disgracing yourself with eagerness because he is so good looking!
Part of France’s heritage are its markets, whether it’s a weekly produce affair in the village square, or a daily one in a larger town or city. French people live in rhythm with the seasons, and this is especially important when it comes to food. Vegetables and fruits are eaten at the appropriate time of year, and you should know your varieties of strawberries and make note of your beans. It is easy to step back 30 years in time at a market-stall and talk serious recipes with your fellow shoppers. Yes, there are huge super-markets in France, but the traditional way to buy food is not losing pace at all. Seafood, meat, plants and fruits, charcuterie and cheese – all can be bought at the street-market at the best possible prices. Last week I counted the cheeses on my fromagier’s stall; there were nearly a 100 of them – in a small village. Neither WholeFoods nor Harrods would come close to the selection or the knowledge of my ‘cheeseman’.
Another big difference one finds strange in France is the pharmacy – whereas in many countries it is usual to be able to stock a first aid kit at the modern supermarket, in France band-aids and antiseptic sprays are about the limit of the items available. Pain relief, cough medicine, cold remedies – they must all be bought at a pharmacy, and what’s more they are behind the counter and only available on request! However, they always carry a fabulous range of beauty products, slimming products, anti-cellulite creams and much sort after face creams – it is almost certain that the pharmacy will be able to make you presentable enough for the catwalk! (Personally I think this is why husband’s on holiday are happy to wait while their wives spend ages in the pharmacy, they love ogling the huge adverts of girls massaging their slim brown thighs with creams that promise miracles, but that’s another story and I am getting side-tracked!). In the autumn during mushroom season there is nearly always a board showing which mushroom is safe to eat and which is poisonous and if you are unsure you simply take the fungi of concern into the pharmacist who will confirm if indeed it is safe to eat. So many of life’s problems can be solved in a small French Pharmacy!
Other foibles one must get used to is the fact that at 12.00 midday, or perhaps 12.30pm, everything closes. The French do lunch. Whether you’re a factory worker, a gardener, a board director or the school mistress, everything stops for lunch. And while there are indeed MacDonalds and filled baguettes to be found, probably 80% of France sits down to a proper lunch, complete with dessert and cheese. The traditional menu de jour typically has three courses. Even children at school get indoctrinated into this, and as I write this blog a small note beside my elbow informs me that today at our small village school of just 67 children, our two youngest will be eating cucumber salad, followed by fresh grilled fish from the Charente Maritime with organic rice and tomatoes, and then end their meal with a chocolate pannacotta, all served à la table and always with French bread. The menu for the month is sent home with each child and local produce is always listed as well as what is organic. The French lifestyle of foodiness also crops up again at some stage in the afternoon, typically when the children get home from school, when goûter is served – cakes, biscuits, sandwiches or fruit – something is always put in front of children at this time. It has got to the stage where our children’s friends even congregate in the kitchen like a flock of homing pigeons at the vague time when they know something is going to be dished up, and mutterings of “goûter ?” become very audible. It is expected, even if we are the ‘foreigners’.
Coming home with the shopping raises another foible that some people find difficult to get used to – carrier bags. The French do not offer free carrier bags for the shopping – if you forget to take in your own bags or are on vacation you can buy a very sturdy large bag for 2 euros, they last for ever and are quite capable of swallowing half a cart load of goodies. Many a time I have tried to walk in a dignified fashion out of a shop, clutching pens, notebooks, magazines; or the bakery carrying baguettes and croissants trying hard not to drop anything, all because I forgot to take a bag with me.
There are many other areas of difference between France and the rest of the world, but it would take a whole book to go through them all, so I hope you’re happy with a brief taste of some of the things we enjoy most, and find so refreshing, between our native country and the one we now call home. I think the reason you are reading this is because you know this anyway, and love France almost as much as we do. Have a great week x
Our French Oasis 