The Auberge de la Camarette is a bit of a hidden treasure in Provence. In open countryside just on the edge of the pretty village Pernes les Fontaines, it's set in its own vineyard with a panoramic view of Mont Ventoux, the 'Giant of Provence'. A former 17th century magnanerie, or silk farm, it's a restaurant and chambres d'hotes full of character where you dine selon le marché - that is, you get what the chef decides to make on the day, according to the best local produce available.
The talented young chef, Hugues Marrec, also gives cooking classes on 8 Saturdays each year and this year, for the first time ever, I took a Provençal cooking class. It was on the 7th of May, my birthday, and a friend offered me the class as a birthday present. Three of us went in the end and it was just one of the best ways to spend a birthday or any Saturday morning.
The idea is that you work under Hugues' expert guidance between 9am and 1pm to create a 3-course meal and then you sit and enjoy it with a bottle of the Camarette vineyard wine. (I don't know how much it cost as it was a present, but around 75 euros I think.)
Now, I've lived in France for 11 years and have picked up some principles of French and Provençale cuisine from friends but I wouldn't claim to be any kind of chef. Nevertheless, Hugues proposed that the eight of us (there were 5 locals as well as me and my two girl friends) would produce the following menu:
Duo de petit pois et l'asperge: soupe froide de petits pois et menthe fraiche avec un flan de petits pois
La caille farcie avec une mousse d'asperge et asperges blanches frites
Un gratin de fraises de Pernes les Fontaines
The first thing we had to do in this well-organised but somehow relaxed restaurant kitchen, was debone the quails. Hugues made it look supremely simple. You plonk the deplumed quail on its stomach and remove the wings. Then you cut a fine line along its back. You hold the knife near the point and follow the bone down to the leg joint. Once you cut that, you turn the bird and do the same on the other side. A nip here and a tuck there and, with the chef's supervision, you have your quail ready to stuff. We made the farce and stuffed the birds, covered them with crépine (a delicate ivory-coloured film of sheep intestine which disappears in cooking), trussed them with string and then set them aside.
We turned our attention to the flan, the soup and the mousse. As we worked, Hugues gave us tips and explained various general principles about working with poultry, cutting vegetables, making meat and vegetable stock. I was pleased to see he worked in a very natural way - no fussy hairnets, no hygiene hysteria. We all washed our hands at every stage of cooking and Hugues washed the work surfaces down as we went along.
It was a hot sunny day, as the 7th of May often is, and a bunch of small kids were playing in the courtyard, peeking in through the kitchen window and giggling every so often.
We made so many lovely sauces and jus for the entrées, main course and dessert that my head was spinning after three hours. The last touch, the sabayon for the gratin de fraises, was simple given the wonderful effect in terms of taste. Throughout, our chef/teacher was relaxed, unhurried and supremely in control of processes and timing.
As it got near to one o'clock, I was a bit stunned to see customers coming in through the heavy old door, heading into the restaurant for lunch. The chef had spent 4 hours teaching us and timing our dishes and he had a restaurant full of customers to deal with too. We took our seats for an aperitif and were called back to the kitchen for the finition, or garnish, of each course.
Among us 'students' there was a local couple who were planning to replicate the entire meal for 6 friends that evening. Rather them than me!
There were a number of Americans lunching as ordinary customers and they asked why our table was different. They had waitress service. We kept vanishing into the kitchen and reappearing with our plates five minutes later. We explained the cooking course and Hugues, who has worked in England and America and speaks English, told them a bit about the preparation of each course.
It added so much interest to our meal, the fact that we'd prepared it ourselves (with quite a lot of guidance...) Foolish perhaps, but I think we all felt quite proud of our work. It gave a different perspective, too, to understand just how much talent, skill and hard work a chef puts into the preparation of a good 3 course meal. Somehow it made a very good lunch taste even better.
L'Auberge de la Camarette has space for just 30 diners and seems to rely on reputation and word of mouth locally for its business. The week before this cooking course I'd never heard of it. The owners do very little advertising and the vineyard is simply signed on the route out of Pernes by a tiny signpost.
It's a blissful spot though and well worth visiting whether you want to stay, dine there, take a cooking course, or all three. The website is: www.domaine-camarette.com
The nearest towns are Pernes les Fontaines, Isle sur Sorgue and Carpentras. I'd really highly recommend the place.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
The sheep who make Roquefort cheese: From Provence to the Aveyron
One of the many good things about living in Provence is that so many other places are also easily accessible. Fancy a weekend in Spain or Italy? They're in easy reach. Or a quick trip to Paris by TGV? Equally, the Cote d'Azur, Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the Dentelles, the Alps, the Drome and the Cevennes are all close to home.
One region I didn't know until recently is the Aveyron, which lies about two and a half hours away from here (Isle-sur-Sorgue, near Avignon). I took a trip at Easter to see friends who have bought an old ruin over there, under the foolish illusion that it won't turn into the Money Pit of Tom Hanks film fame.
François and Christie have a thing about restoring old ruins. They first bought a property near my home, back in the 80s. It was part of the local hamlet, an old plaster factory with homes for the workers, and François restored his property stone by stone and beam by beam.
The couple then sold to a couple of charming American Provenceophiles and bought a 12th century chapel in Avignon, the Chapel of the Miracle. I won't go into the 'miracle' here which involves sodomy, a young priest, burning at the stake and a dramatic escape but you can find it online (with apartments to rent if you're not troubled by gay young ghosts.)
Having made a fantastic job of restoring the ruined chapel, they've now bought their small ruin in the Aveyron for what the Provençaux call a poignée de figues and what English speakers call peanuts. Just 9000 peanuts to be precise.
With a chambre d'hote quickly booked online, I set off to Viala in the Aveyron. The region is quite different from Provence. There's far more in the way of empty rolling countryside, forest, and sheep dotted about on lonely hills. I was astounded to find the chambre d'hote - Le Tondut - which turned out to be a huge farmhouse on the scale of a chateau.
It sits alone in wonderful farmland and features 400 sheep who supply milk, daily, for the locally-made Roquefort cheese. When I arrived the flock was drifting peacefully across the hillside in the sun, nibbling the grass to within a centimetre of its life.
The owners, Nadine and Dédé Malaval, were instantly welcoming, relaxed and friendly. It was like arriving to see friends. We went into the old farm kitchen to chat and have coffee. My room was huge and light and airy with fantastic views of the countryside. The 400 sheep were right below the window.
That evening Nadine showed me la traite - the milking. I don't know if you've ever watched a traite but I found it pretty fascinating. We stood in a space around which an old wooden carousel turned. The sheep rattled up onto the platform, a door shut them into a little stall, they promptly stuck their heads over the door into a bucket of grain and there they stood, feeding, as the carousel turned. Nadine attached the milking apparatus to each sheep as it passed her and, 3 minutes later, the grain was finished, the milk was taken, the door nearest the exit would open and the sheep in that particular stall would rattle back down and off into the barn to eat hay.
The sheep all knew the drill and did just what they were meant to. They weren't the slightest bit bothered by the presence of the huge Le Tondut family hound, watching proceedings closely, one large ear up and one large ear down. In the huge barn on the other side of the milking room, Dédé was forking hay into troughs. Having given up their milk, the sheep were onto their next course. The milk meanwhile was filling a large tank, ready to be collected by the food company, Papillon, which makes Roquefort cheese. Roquefort is strictly controlled, has its own AOC and is aged in local caves. Personally, I find it too salty. I asked Dédé why the makers put so much salt in it. He laughed and said: "Weight." What? "Roquefort's sold by the kilo. Salt's heavier than milk. And it's cheap."
He and Nadine don't over-salt the products they make with the milk they retain though. At breakfast the next day, we had a wonderful farm-baked flan and home-made yoghurt straight from the sheep I now knew personally! It was lovely to sit watching the flock, eating breakfast made with milk they'd produced from that rich green Aveyron grass.
Le Tondut also features ducks, geese, dogs, donkeys, cows, calves, an immense glowering bull - and rabbits. I'm a sucker for rabbits (the soft eyes, the floppy ears...) and this lot included a couple of dozen day-old rabbits. They were nestling in luxurious rabbit-fur nests made by their mothers generously pulling out bits of their own fur. You could barely see their little pink heads. One litter was a few weeks old though and they were well into the hopping-around-looking-pretty stage.
I can thoroughly recommend Le Tondut. It's just outside Viala du Tarn in sublime countryside.
In the evening François and Christie arrived in what they call their camping car. It must be one of the first camping cars ever produced. Full of character is the best way to describe it. We ate at a terrific restaurant, La Vigne Gourmande, which is perched all alone on the side of a hill at Candas.
The views were stunning. The husband and wife owners were welcoming and relaxed. There was meat cooking on a huge open fire for a table of ten locals. The food was ridiculously cheap and really good.
All that remained was to see the newly-bought ruin the next morning. It's tiny, has no roof, no electricity, no water, but it has character and potential. It's in a tiny mostly-abandonded hamlet situated in beautiful countryside. The sun was shining, birds were singing and we set up a table and sat down to eat salad and drink a bottle of celebratory champagne.
This was my first visit to the Aveyron and I feel it's well worth returning to for its beautiful countryside and warm and welcoming people. Having a look at local farming was a bonus. So were the rabbits.
One region I didn't know until recently is the Aveyron, which lies about two and a half hours away from here (Isle-sur-Sorgue, near Avignon). I took a trip at Easter to see friends who have bought an old ruin over there, under the foolish illusion that it won't turn into the Money Pit of Tom Hanks film fame.
François and Christie have a thing about restoring old ruins. They first bought a property near my home, back in the 80s. It was part of the local hamlet, an old plaster factory with homes for the workers, and François restored his property stone by stone and beam by beam.
The couple then sold to a couple of charming American Provenceophiles and bought a 12th century chapel in Avignon, the Chapel of the Miracle. I won't go into the 'miracle' here which involves sodomy, a young priest, burning at the stake and a dramatic escape but you can find it online (with apartments to rent if you're not troubled by gay young ghosts.)
Having made a fantastic job of restoring the ruined chapel, they've now bought their small ruin in the Aveyron for what the Provençaux call a poignée de figues and what English speakers call peanuts. Just 9000 peanuts to be precise.
With a chambre d'hote quickly booked online, I set off to Viala in the Aveyron. The region is quite different from Provence. There's far more in the way of empty rolling countryside, forest, and sheep dotted about on lonely hills. I was astounded to find the chambre d'hote - Le Tondut - which turned out to be a huge farmhouse on the scale of a chateau.
It sits alone in wonderful farmland and features 400 sheep who supply milk, daily, for the locally-made Roquefort cheese. When I arrived the flock was drifting peacefully across the hillside in the sun, nibbling the grass to within a centimetre of its life.
The owners, Nadine and Dédé Malaval, were instantly welcoming, relaxed and friendly. It was like arriving to see friends. We went into the old farm kitchen to chat and have coffee. My room was huge and light and airy with fantastic views of the countryside. The 400 sheep were right below the window.
That evening Nadine showed me la traite - the milking. I don't know if you've ever watched a traite but I found it pretty fascinating. We stood in a space around which an old wooden carousel turned. The sheep rattled up onto the platform, a door shut them into a little stall, they promptly stuck their heads over the door into a bucket of grain and there they stood, feeding, as the carousel turned. Nadine attached the milking apparatus to each sheep as it passed her and, 3 minutes later, the grain was finished, the milk was taken, the door nearest the exit would open and the sheep in that particular stall would rattle back down and off into the barn to eat hay.
The sheep all knew the drill and did just what they were meant to. They weren't the slightest bit bothered by the presence of the huge Le Tondut family hound, watching proceedings closely, one large ear up and one large ear down. In the huge barn on the other side of the milking room, Dédé was forking hay into troughs. Having given up their milk, the sheep were onto their next course. The milk meanwhile was filling a large tank, ready to be collected by the food company, Papillon, which makes Roquefort cheese. Roquefort is strictly controlled, has its own AOC and is aged in local caves. Personally, I find it too salty. I asked Dédé why the makers put so much salt in it. He laughed and said: "Weight." What? "Roquefort's sold by the kilo. Salt's heavier than milk. And it's cheap."
He and Nadine don't over-salt the products they make with the milk they retain though. At breakfast the next day, we had a wonderful farm-baked flan and home-made yoghurt straight from the sheep I now knew personally! It was lovely to sit watching the flock, eating breakfast made with milk they'd produced from that rich green Aveyron grass.
Le Tondut also features ducks, geese, dogs, donkeys, cows, calves, an immense glowering bull - and rabbits. I'm a sucker for rabbits (the soft eyes, the floppy ears...) and this lot included a couple of dozen day-old rabbits. They were nestling in luxurious rabbit-fur nests made by their mothers generously pulling out bits of their own fur. You could barely see their little pink heads. One litter was a few weeks old though and they were well into the hopping-around-looking-pretty stage.
I can thoroughly recommend Le Tondut. It's just outside Viala du Tarn in sublime countryside.
In the evening François and Christie arrived in what they call their camping car. It must be one of the first camping cars ever produced. Full of character is the best way to describe it. We ate at a terrific restaurant, La Vigne Gourmande, which is perched all alone on the side of a hill at Candas.
The views were stunning. The husband and wife owners were welcoming and relaxed. There was meat cooking on a huge open fire for a table of ten locals. The food was ridiculously cheap and really good.
All that remained was to see the newly-bought ruin the next morning. It's tiny, has no roof, no electricity, no water, but it has character and potential. It's in a tiny mostly-abandonded hamlet situated in beautiful countryside. The sun was shining, birds were singing and we set up a table and sat down to eat salad and drink a bottle of celebratory champagne.
This was my first visit to the Aveyron and I feel it's well worth returning to for its beautiful countryside and warm and welcoming people. Having a look at local farming was a bonus. So were the rabbits.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Treating cancer in Provence
Cancer seems to be everywhere in Provence, as in the rest of the developed world. The French, though, seem to have good results in treating cancer and I keep hearing of friends and acquaintances who are cured or in remission.
Last week I was chatting to a guy of 82 who was diagnosed with throat cancer six years ago. He's a bit of a character who was a builder and an ardent socialist. These days he and his wife, who has battled breast cancer, focus on their small vineyard in Bollène, their potager - which supplies fruit, veg and the best salad leaves I've ever tasted - and their chickens and rabbits which supply eggs and meat. (The rabbits had just had their young and I was totally charmed to see half a dozen rabbit-fur nests of tiny baby rabbits lying on their backs, or jumbled in a heap, with their 4 or 5-day old tummies rising and falling gently as they slept. Their ears lay flat against their heads and they looked a picture of bliss.)
François told me about his cancer diagnosis.
"It was the dentist who discovered my cancer" he told me. He elaborated that he hadn't bothered seeing a dentist for many decades: "Moi, je m'en fou des dentistes" he said. In his view, if you eat healthy food, drink good wine and brush your teeth, you can do without seeing a dentist.
However, one day he had a toothache and it didn't go away. His wife forced him to go to town to see the dentist. The dentist told him it wasn't actually a tooth aching and referred him to a cancer specialist. Within days he had started radiotherapy and chemotherapy for cancer of the throat.
The visit to the dentist saved his life.
Breast cancer seems particularly prevalent around here. The woman I bought my house from died of breast cancer a year or two later. My neighbour's wife also died of breast cancer. Both women were young; one in her 40s, one in her 30s. Another friend, Denise, died last year after a two year fight against breast cancer. My neighbour, Sylvie, a dance teacher, has had more luck. She battled breast cancer for years and it returned in 2007 after a period of remission. The diagnosis was terrible and she wrote her will. The news that the cancer had metastased and was widespread in her bones seemed a certain death warrant. And yet the French health system continued chemo and radiotherapy and, against all the odds, she is in remission again and currently strong and healthy.
Another pal who lives in Avignon had colon cancer in her 40s and recently had the all clear after ten years without the cancer returning. Another friend told me recently that his father, 82, had prostate cancer but had drug treatment and now has no trace of cancer cells in his blood. "His results show he's healthier than I am!" his son said. Another friend with prostate cancer, in his early 50S, immediately had the offending prostate surgically removed and has had treatment to prevent the cancer spreading.
The French health system can be a maze for those, like me, who haven't grown up with it. But from what I've seen of French doctors and surgeons at work they're extremely well organised and very highly skilled. Their diagnosis and treatment of cancer is world renowned and although none of us relish the idea that one day we may need their help, I for one have greater confidence in the French health profession than in many others.
Last week I was chatting to a guy of 82 who was diagnosed with throat cancer six years ago. He's a bit of a character who was a builder and an ardent socialist. These days he and his wife, who has battled breast cancer, focus on their small vineyard in Bollène, their potager - which supplies fruit, veg and the best salad leaves I've ever tasted - and their chickens and rabbits which supply eggs and meat. (The rabbits had just had their young and I was totally charmed to see half a dozen rabbit-fur nests of tiny baby rabbits lying on their backs, or jumbled in a heap, with their 4 or 5-day old tummies rising and falling gently as they slept. Their ears lay flat against their heads and they looked a picture of bliss.)
François told me about his cancer diagnosis.
"It was the dentist who discovered my cancer" he told me. He elaborated that he hadn't bothered seeing a dentist for many decades: "Moi, je m'en fou des dentistes" he said. In his view, if you eat healthy food, drink good wine and brush your teeth, you can do without seeing a dentist.
However, one day he had a toothache and it didn't go away. His wife forced him to go to town to see the dentist. The dentist told him it wasn't actually a tooth aching and referred him to a cancer specialist. Within days he had started radiotherapy and chemotherapy for cancer of the throat.
The visit to the dentist saved his life.
Breast cancer seems particularly prevalent around here. The woman I bought my house from died of breast cancer a year or two later. My neighbour's wife also died of breast cancer. Both women were young; one in her 40s, one in her 30s. Another friend, Denise, died last year after a two year fight against breast cancer. My neighbour, Sylvie, a dance teacher, has had more luck. She battled breast cancer for years and it returned in 2007 after a period of remission. The diagnosis was terrible and she wrote her will. The news that the cancer had metastased and was widespread in her bones seemed a certain death warrant. And yet the French health system continued chemo and radiotherapy and, against all the odds, she is in remission again and currently strong and healthy.
Another pal who lives in Avignon had colon cancer in her 40s and recently had the all clear after ten years without the cancer returning. Another friend told me recently that his father, 82, had prostate cancer but had drug treatment and now has no trace of cancer cells in his blood. "His results show he's healthier than I am!" his son said. Another friend with prostate cancer, in his early 50S, immediately had the offending prostate surgically removed and has had treatment to prevent the cancer spreading.
The French health system can be a maze for those, like me, who haven't grown up with it. But from what I've seen of French doctors and surgeons at work they're extremely well organised and very highly skilled. Their diagnosis and treatment of cancer is world renowned and although none of us relish the idea that one day we may need their help, I for one have greater confidence in the French health profession than in many others.
Impregnating sheep in Provence
It's early May and sheep and lambs are still much in evidence. My neighbours in the nearby hamlet woke one morning this week to find all the sheep had trundled over the string barrier around their grazing land and, followed by their lambs, had wandered into the hamlet where they were busy devouring flowers and greenery.
"I was making coffee, early" one neighbour told me "and I was still half-asleep. I glanced out of the window and saw about 30 sheep right there, eating my plants at one end, fertilising the ground at the other."
He called the shepherd, Antoine, on his mobile, and said "The sheep escaped again. What shall I do?" Antoine said "Take a bucket, wave it at them and make a sort of clucking noise to get their attention." The neighbour did.
"I've got their attention" he said. "Now what?"
"Start walking back to the pen" Antoine said.
He did.
"Are they following you?" Antoine asked.
"Yes."
"OK. Now you're at the pen, right? So lift the string-fencing up and duck under it. They'll follow you. They think there's grain in the bucket."
My neighbour followed the instructions and the sheep duly filed back in under the string. Once it was secured, again, they settled down to bask in the early morning sunlight.
Antoine appeared the same day with a new troupeau. This lot number about 100 and around 8 are rams. The idea is - surprise surprise - that the rams impregnate the unsuspecting sheep who are just moseying about hoovering up the grass.
I stopped to look at them yesterday and this morning and noticed something quite bizarre. A ram will approach a female from behind and try to mount her. Quite often the female simply moves away. What I noticed is a peculiar little routine that precedes a successful mating. Sometimes a ram approaches a female and appears to lean forward towards her right ear. She turns her head and it looks for all the world as if he then 'says' something, she bows her head - and he mounts. Call me daft but I saw this numerous times and where the little exchange took place, the ram mounted and mated. Where it didn't, the sheep walked off.
I told neighbours about this and one of them said the ram was tricking the sheep. "He calls her from behind" he said "and she turns her head round. Then he says 'Look at that. Look at that lovely daisy down there.' The sheep bends down and, oop, he mounts. It's courtship..."
I don't know what it is, but I certainly saw it numerous times. I'll tell Antoine next time we cross on the track that he should have a successful sheep pregnancy rate. The rams are typical French males - sexy and seductive.
"I was making coffee, early" one neighbour told me "and I was still half-asleep. I glanced out of the window and saw about 30 sheep right there, eating my plants at one end, fertilising the ground at the other."
He called the shepherd, Antoine, on his mobile, and said "The sheep escaped again. What shall I do?" Antoine said "Take a bucket, wave it at them and make a sort of clucking noise to get their attention." The neighbour did.
"I've got their attention" he said. "Now what?"
"Start walking back to the pen" Antoine said.
He did.
"Are they following you?" Antoine asked.
"Yes."
"OK. Now you're at the pen, right? So lift the string-fencing up and duck under it. They'll follow you. They think there's grain in the bucket."
My neighbour followed the instructions and the sheep duly filed back in under the string. Once it was secured, again, they settled down to bask in the early morning sunlight.
Antoine appeared the same day with a new troupeau. This lot number about 100 and around 8 are rams. The idea is - surprise surprise - that the rams impregnate the unsuspecting sheep who are just moseying about hoovering up the grass.
I stopped to look at them yesterday and this morning and noticed something quite bizarre. A ram will approach a female from behind and try to mount her. Quite often the female simply moves away. What I noticed is a peculiar little routine that precedes a successful mating. Sometimes a ram approaches a female and appears to lean forward towards her right ear. She turns her head and it looks for all the world as if he then 'says' something, she bows her head - and he mounts. Call me daft but I saw this numerous times and where the little exchange took place, the ram mounted and mated. Where it didn't, the sheep walked off.
I told neighbours about this and one of them said the ram was tricking the sheep. "He calls her from behind" he said "and she turns her head round. Then he says 'Look at that. Look at that lovely daisy down there.' The sheep bends down and, oop, he mounts. It's courtship..."
I don't know what it is, but I certainly saw it numerous times. I'll tell Antoine next time we cross on the track that he should have a successful sheep pregnancy rate. The rams are typical French males - sexy and seductive.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
A Little Rural Drama in Provence
The local shepherd, Antoine, had parked his sheep down the track among the olive trees that belong to our neighbour, Sebastien, who owns the small local Presse.
A dozen or so sheep gave birth in mid-April and they and their lambs were guarded against thieves and dogs by Babar, a huge white-blonde Pyrenean mountain dog. Babar is a bit prone to wandering it seems, so he has a block of something-or-other, not too heavy, around his neck to discourage him from straying.
Last week as I was getting ready to go to Paris for a few days I drove down the road and saw that the temporary barrier round the sheep was lying flat. Two sheep and several lambs were mooching around grazing by the road.
I stopped the car, got out and tried to shepherd them back into the pen but they just wandered further away. Babar, I noticed, wasn't around.
The sheep and new lambs were in danger not just from cars that might pass on the track but also from the little canal just nearby.
As I didn't have Antoine's phone number, I drove to the village and went to the Presse. Sebastien would have the number. But Sebastien was away for the day and his assistant couldn't help. I went to the small local bar and asked a few of the guys if they knew Antoine. One guy did but had no idea how to reach him. Try the Police Municipale they all said.
I didn't much want to go to the police. For all I know, Antoine's sheep are non declarés and he might end up in trouble for not paying taxes. So I went to the fire station. In rural France, firemen are like a cross between an emergency service, a general maintenance team and social glue. A tall handsome fireman who looked like the American actor James Stewart greeted me. After listening to my worry that the sheep would be hit by cars and the lambs would fall into the canal he explained that his team of pompiers can go out to manage stray horses but not stray sheep. Still, he said, he'd phone his colleague Lionel Toutlemonde because, as his name suggests, Lionel knows everyone.
Lionel, however, didn't have a number for Antoine and I ended up running into a neighbour who did.
We called Antoine and he arrived within half an hour, speeding up the track in his beat-up van.
I hung around in the little hamlet just nearby to see what the outcome would be and he came to find me after an hour or so. Babar had pitched up when Antoine called out for him. He had a bad gash on his neck and had obviously been in a scrap with another dog. His lovely pale fur was bloodied and matted. He looked rather cowed. Presumably he'd chased his marauding rival over the fence, flattening it in the process.
All the sheep were accounted for and Antoine had returned them to the pen. But, sadly, one of the lambs had died. Had it been attacked, I asked? No, he said. It was just lying, peacefully, dead. A percentage of the new lambs will always die, he said philosophically.
I drove down the road today and stopped to have a look at the little troop. It was hot and sunny - a still, calm spring day in Provence - and the lambs were mostly snoozing in the sun beside their mothers. They looked sublimely comfortable in the long grass beneath the still olive trees. One or two were nibbling at flowers and a couple of the sheep were clipping leaves from the olive trees. It was a beautiful rural scene, completely peaceful.
I drove off and spotted Antoine's van arriving further down the road. He stopped and leant out of the window.
"I just passed them" I told him.
"Are they all right?"
"They're fine. Very peaceful. Grazing, dozing."
"Babar still with them?"
"Yes, he's there."
"Good" he said. "Not long now and they'll be off to the butcher's."
Which disrupted my sweet image somewhat. But that's Provence. The people, the animals, the land and the dinner table are strictly and closely connected.
A dozen or so sheep gave birth in mid-April and they and their lambs were guarded against thieves and dogs by Babar, a huge white-blonde Pyrenean mountain dog. Babar is a bit prone to wandering it seems, so he has a block of something-or-other, not too heavy, around his neck to discourage him from straying.
Last week as I was getting ready to go to Paris for a few days I drove down the road and saw that the temporary barrier round the sheep was lying flat. Two sheep and several lambs were mooching around grazing by the road.
I stopped the car, got out and tried to shepherd them back into the pen but they just wandered further away. Babar, I noticed, wasn't around.
The sheep and new lambs were in danger not just from cars that might pass on the track but also from the little canal just nearby.
As I didn't have Antoine's phone number, I drove to the village and went to the Presse. Sebastien would have the number. But Sebastien was away for the day and his assistant couldn't help. I went to the small local bar and asked a few of the guys if they knew Antoine. One guy did but had no idea how to reach him. Try the Police Municipale they all said.
I didn't much want to go to the police. For all I know, Antoine's sheep are non declarés and he might end up in trouble for not paying taxes. So I went to the fire station. In rural France, firemen are like a cross between an emergency service, a general maintenance team and social glue. A tall handsome fireman who looked like the American actor James Stewart greeted me. After listening to my worry that the sheep would be hit by cars and the lambs would fall into the canal he explained that his team of pompiers can go out to manage stray horses but not stray sheep. Still, he said, he'd phone his colleague Lionel Toutlemonde because, as his name suggests, Lionel knows everyone.
Lionel, however, didn't have a number for Antoine and I ended up running into a neighbour who did.
We called Antoine and he arrived within half an hour, speeding up the track in his beat-up van.
I hung around in the little hamlet just nearby to see what the outcome would be and he came to find me after an hour or so. Babar had pitched up when Antoine called out for him. He had a bad gash on his neck and had obviously been in a scrap with another dog. His lovely pale fur was bloodied and matted. He looked rather cowed. Presumably he'd chased his marauding rival over the fence, flattening it in the process.
All the sheep were accounted for and Antoine had returned them to the pen. But, sadly, one of the lambs had died. Had it been attacked, I asked? No, he said. It was just lying, peacefully, dead. A percentage of the new lambs will always die, he said philosophically.
I drove down the road today and stopped to have a look at the little troop. It was hot and sunny - a still, calm spring day in Provence - and the lambs were mostly snoozing in the sun beside their mothers. They looked sublimely comfortable in the long grass beneath the still olive trees. One or two were nibbling at flowers and a couple of the sheep were clipping leaves from the olive trees. It was a beautiful rural scene, completely peaceful.
I drove off and spotted Antoine's van arriving further down the road. He stopped and leant out of the window.
"I just passed them" I told him.
"Are they all right?"
"They're fine. Very peaceful. Grazing, dozing."
"Babar still with them?"
"Yes, he's there."
"Good" he said. "Not long now and they'll be off to the butcher's."
Which disrupted my sweet image somewhat. But that's Provence. The people, the animals, the land and the dinner table are strictly and closely connected.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The arrival of spring in Provence
One of the great things about Provence is that the seasons are clearly demarcated and tend to arrive bang on time each year. Now that it's spring, the region is opening out just as you feel it should. For one thing, it's suddenly warm and sunny and the air has that strange uplifting scent that's a mix of optimism, blossom, flowering plants and fertility. There are songbirds everywhere. Leaves have appeared on the vines. The cherry blossom opened for a week and has now gently drifted off into oblivion leaving the very beginnings of fruit behind. My forest garden is suddenly sprouting yards of tangled asparagus, poppies, white and pink thyme and garrigue-y grass. The vines by the terrace are unfolding leaves that I'll use for stuffed vine leave dishes in a few weeks. And the honeysuckle, lazy and dormant all winter, is suddenly rampant and climbing all over the place. It's been desperately in need of pruning.
Yesterday evening I stopped to look at the dozen or so sheep which the local shepherd, Antoine, has stationed next to the canal nearby. They've just given birth so there are about 16 little brown lambs, with white tails and white flashes on their foreheads, jumping around among the olive trees.
Their bodyguard, a large white dog (Pyrenean mountain, I think) was lounging in the long grass, just keeping an eye out as he dozed. I watched the lambs gambolling around for a while as their mothers lay panting with exhaustion. Antoine turned up in his van to fill a tub of water for them and check the lambs. He hopped over the flimsy, temporary fence he'd put up and greeted his dog. I asked what the dog would do if I crossed the fence. "Nothing" he said. "You're with me." "What would he do if I crossed once you've gone?" I asked.
He started laughing. "He'd tear your leg off" he replied.
Hard to imagine, since the dog looks like a great big softie but I didn't test the claim. And I suppose the sheep dogs are capable of aggression since they do need to confront sheep stealers. I have friends in Le Thor, a local village, who recently had two sheep stolen and then a lamb. In their case they have two Dobermans but both dogs were in the house that night.
I asked Antoine if he can bring the sheep up to my place to graze in a few days and he agreed. He'll lead them and their bodyguard up the white limestone track when the grass runs out by the canal. I've only cut the lawn twice in the last 4 years because I seem to have a lawnmower made for men. You need to pull a stiff cord out very quickly for some reason and I don't have the strength to do it. The sheep are a much nicer lawnmower, pleasant to watch, don't make a horrible noise, don't require petrol and fertilise the land as they mow.
Since everyone in Provence is now outside for the next six months and leaf, bud and flower are breaking out everywhere I decided to get outside too and prune the honeysuckle. Yesterday a neighbour gently reminded me that it was high time. So this morning I took the secateurs and made a start. I have a general idea that I need to remove the dead wood and select the branches that I want to retain. But mostly I tried to cut confidently and decisively, as if somehow that would help. Clearly it didn't because another neighbour, out for a stroll in the forest, trundled over to give an opinion. With a rueful smile he said: "You haven't really got green fingers have you?" (The French use the same phrase.)
Never mind. I stopped for a coffee and we watched riders go by on horses, followed by a couple of fit-looking guys on bikes. There was that spring scent again, the one that brings just about every Provencal man, woman and child outside. We'll live outside now, mostly, until around the end of September. And just as the leaves and buds and flowers appear, so do the the bare arms and legs. Summer clothes are suddenly everywhere. People are flirting outside bars and in the street. Pretty young girls drift past the village boys, casting a backward glance or striking up conversation. There's a kind of pulse beating that beats here every spring. And everyone and everything feels it, from the honeysuckle and the cherry trees to the horseriders and cyclists to the new lambs jumping blissfully around in the long grass. Finally, after the long cold winter, the beaux jours are here.
Yesterday evening I stopped to look at the dozen or so sheep which the local shepherd, Antoine, has stationed next to the canal nearby. They've just given birth so there are about 16 little brown lambs, with white tails and white flashes on their foreheads, jumping around among the olive trees.
Their bodyguard, a large white dog (Pyrenean mountain, I think) was lounging in the long grass, just keeping an eye out as he dozed. I watched the lambs gambolling around for a while as their mothers lay panting with exhaustion. Antoine turned up in his van to fill a tub of water for them and check the lambs. He hopped over the flimsy, temporary fence he'd put up and greeted his dog. I asked what the dog would do if I crossed the fence. "Nothing" he said. "You're with me." "What would he do if I crossed once you've gone?" I asked.
He started laughing. "He'd tear your leg off" he replied.
Hard to imagine, since the dog looks like a great big softie but I didn't test the claim. And I suppose the sheep dogs are capable of aggression since they do need to confront sheep stealers. I have friends in Le Thor, a local village, who recently had two sheep stolen and then a lamb. In their case they have two Dobermans but both dogs were in the house that night.
I asked Antoine if he can bring the sheep up to my place to graze in a few days and he agreed. He'll lead them and their bodyguard up the white limestone track when the grass runs out by the canal. I've only cut the lawn twice in the last 4 years because I seem to have a lawnmower made for men. You need to pull a stiff cord out very quickly for some reason and I don't have the strength to do it. The sheep are a much nicer lawnmower, pleasant to watch, don't make a horrible noise, don't require petrol and fertilise the land as they mow.
Since everyone in Provence is now outside for the next six months and leaf, bud and flower are breaking out everywhere I decided to get outside too and prune the honeysuckle. Yesterday a neighbour gently reminded me that it was high time. So this morning I took the secateurs and made a start. I have a general idea that I need to remove the dead wood and select the branches that I want to retain. But mostly I tried to cut confidently and decisively, as if somehow that would help. Clearly it didn't because another neighbour, out for a stroll in the forest, trundled over to give an opinion. With a rueful smile he said: "You haven't really got green fingers have you?" (The French use the same phrase.)
Never mind. I stopped for a coffee and we watched riders go by on horses, followed by a couple of fit-looking guys on bikes. There was that spring scent again, the one that brings just about every Provencal man, woman and child outside. We'll live outside now, mostly, until around the end of September. And just as the leaves and buds and flowers appear, so do the the bare arms and legs. Summer clothes are suddenly everywhere. People are flirting outside bars and in the street. Pretty young girls drift past the village boys, casting a backward glance or striking up conversation. There's a kind of pulse beating that beats here every spring. And everyone and everything feels it, from the honeysuckle and the cherry trees to the horseriders and cyclists to the new lambs jumping blissfully around in the long grass. Finally, after the long cold winter, the beaux jours are here.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Falling in love in Provence
Since 2004, I've lived along a white limestone track in pine forest near Isle sur Sorgue in Provence. I wanted to live in Provence since I woke up on the sleeper train in Avignon in 1975 and stepped out onto a platform suffused with fabulous sunlight. It wasn't my first visit to France but it was my first time in Provence and it was love at first sight.
Now that I do live here, I fall in love over and over again each year. Usually in spring and summer. This morning for example, I took my coffee up to the far end of the forest garden and sat among the rehabilitated olive trees, wild asparagus plants and wild Provencal orchids and soaked up the sun. There were two elegant turtle doves flirting delicately in a tall pine tree. My chocolate-tipped Burmese cat, Coco, was by turns rolling around with his paws in the air then stalking the first small lizards to appear this year. The black-white-and-blue jays were bouncing around at the edge of the forest looking for grubs. They have a wonderful prehistoric squawk that I can imagine they were making when the dinosaurs were around.
The garrigue-y terrain is full of wild flowers including the first brilliant red poppies and those gothic (rather gloomy) purple-pink orchids native to Provence. Large dark and blonde morel mushrooms have started popping up in the last week. And yesterday I gathered about a kilo of fine wild asparagus spears that spike up beside the prickly whorls of asparagus plant and make a great addition to salads and omelettes.
Just looking around at the forest, the clearing and the house and feeling the sun beating down so early in April was bliss. It was tranquil, beautiful and idyllic.
True, the turtle doves decided to mate noisily, flapping about like two umbrellas, and watching the cat reminded me I need to renew his anti-tick treatment. But that didn't matter. I still had all the feelings that you get when you fall in love - that sensation that your eyes are dazzled, the desire to fling your arms round yourself as if you were hugging the object of your affections, the silly grin that fixes itself on your face. Yep, it's love all right. And I felt it again when I went into Isle sur Sorgue this afternoon and walked along the medieval streets, stopping to chat to acquaintances here and there, gazing into the beautiful clear Sorgue river with its emerald-green weed waving in the current, trout steadying themselves against the flowing water and ducks swimming by the riverside restaurants oblivious to the menus offering magret de canard.
I'm now looking out of my window at the white track, pine and oak trees, and a perfect blue sky, planning a cheap and cheerful dinner outside with friends this evening. Prawns and salad, a bottle of red wine from Sablet, big chunks of pain pavé, goats cheese from a little troupeau nearby at Mazan, and black olives from our own oliviers here in the forest.
The spring and summer in particular make you want to grab Provence and hug it. For me, it really is falling in love, again and again. This region never lets you down.
Now that I do live here, I fall in love over and over again each year. Usually in spring and summer. This morning for example, I took my coffee up to the far end of the forest garden and sat among the rehabilitated olive trees, wild asparagus plants and wild Provencal orchids and soaked up the sun. There were two elegant turtle doves flirting delicately in a tall pine tree. My chocolate-tipped Burmese cat, Coco, was by turns rolling around with his paws in the air then stalking the first small lizards to appear this year. The black-white-and-blue jays were bouncing around at the edge of the forest looking for grubs. They have a wonderful prehistoric squawk that I can imagine they were making when the dinosaurs were around.
The garrigue-y terrain is full of wild flowers including the first brilliant red poppies and those gothic (rather gloomy) purple-pink orchids native to Provence. Large dark and blonde morel mushrooms have started popping up in the last week. And yesterday I gathered about a kilo of fine wild asparagus spears that spike up beside the prickly whorls of asparagus plant and make a great addition to salads and omelettes.
Just looking around at the forest, the clearing and the house and feeling the sun beating down so early in April was bliss. It was tranquil, beautiful and idyllic.
True, the turtle doves decided to mate noisily, flapping about like two umbrellas, and watching the cat reminded me I need to renew his anti-tick treatment. But that didn't matter. I still had all the feelings that you get when you fall in love - that sensation that your eyes are dazzled, the desire to fling your arms round yourself as if you were hugging the object of your affections, the silly grin that fixes itself on your face. Yep, it's love all right. And I felt it again when I went into Isle sur Sorgue this afternoon and walked along the medieval streets, stopping to chat to acquaintances here and there, gazing into the beautiful clear Sorgue river with its emerald-green weed waving in the current, trout steadying themselves against the flowing water and ducks swimming by the riverside restaurants oblivious to the menus offering magret de canard.
I'm now looking out of my window at the white track, pine and oak trees, and a perfect blue sky, planning a cheap and cheerful dinner outside with friends this evening. Prawns and salad, a bottle of red wine from Sablet, big chunks of pain pavé, goats cheese from a little troupeau nearby at Mazan, and black olives from our own oliviers here in the forest.
The spring and summer in particular make you want to grab Provence and hug it. For me, it really is falling in love, again and again. This region never lets you down.
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