An unlikely title I know.
A friend has just invited me to her flat-warming party in Edinburgh in January 2011. After a divorce and a few testing years, she's just started living with her much-loved new boyfriend in a wonderful new flat they've rented overlooking the Firth of Forth.
Hmm. Leave Provence, which is cold enough in January, for Scotland - which will be freezing? I weighed the pros and cons. I'd certainly like to celebrate with them. I'd quite like to visit Scotland again as I lived there for 20 mostly very happy years. On the other hand, travelling can be a pain. Airports, security, delays...
However, the pros beat the cons so I'll look for a flight to book today.
One of the things I won't have to worry about is airport parking. I'm based near Avignon and can fly from Avignon airport, Marseille or Nimes. Even Nice airport is fairly reachable when necessary, though it's a three hour drive.
In all the years I've flown back and forth from these 4 airports I've never had to worry about leaving the car at the airport (touch wood.)
Nimes and Avignon are tiny airports with very few flights per day. You can just breeze up and find a car parking space any time, which is great. At Nimes there's an underground storey and a 'first floor'. The top parking level is open and even when the 'basement' is pretty full, there's always plenty of space on the level above.
The carpark at Avignon airport, as at Nimes, is right outside the small airport building. I like both airports because they're so easily negotiated. You walk in half a minute from your car to check-in and you walk across the tarmac to your plane in half a minute too. So much nicer than the mammoth airports like JFK, Heathrow or Schipol in Amsterdam where you can walk for miles to get to your flight.
Parking charges are reasonable too. The last time I used Avignon it was, I think, around 4 euros a day. Nimes was the same. If you're picking someone up, you get 40 minutes free parking which is civilised, as it should be. And you don't have to pre-book a space, giving your life history, in order to park when you take a flight.
Marseille is a larger airport. Marseille is France's second city - after the beautiful capital, Paris, naturally - and serves destinations in Europe, north Africa and beyond. The parking is still very reasonable and, again, the numerous large car parks are in easy walking distance of check-in or Arrivals.
Last January I went to Amsterdam from Marseille. The return flight got in after midnight and I was horrified to find my car wouldn't start. It wasn't very cold but it was very dark and I was an hour away from home in an almost deserted airport carpark. (The car was a Peugeot. To be fair, it was the only time in four years I had a problem with it.) Having not the slightest idea what to do, and not even sure if my car lease deal had breakdown cover, I wondered over to the intercom at the pay station and pressed the button hopeful I'd be able to speak to a human. Yep. Even after midnight, someone was there on duty. (I love France.) I started to explain that my car wouldn't start and I'd have to call a breakdown service and asked if I'd have to pay if the car was stuck in the carpark all night and the next day?
"No problem" he said cheerily. In French, obviously. It just sounds like a flat battery. Happens all the time. I'll come out with the leads and I'll get the car going for you." (I love men.)
Two minutes later he raced up in his van, had a chit-chat, opened the bonnet, did something technical with leads and the battery, and the car started. I was so pleased I gave him a huge hug which I think startled him. He said re-starting cars with flat batteries was "all in the service." To me it was heroic, frankly.
He drove off back to the airport terminal and I went to the caisse to pay for my few days' parking.
Like Nimes, Avignon and Nice, Marseille airport's pretty reasonably-priced but I thought it was darned good, as I paid my euros, that - however they set the prices at Marseille - they build a basic breakdown service into the cost. Even at New Year, even in the cold, even after midnight.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Maison Bru - Sublime Restaurant in Eygalières, Provence
I've just got back from a so-good-it-was-practically-narcotic lunch at Maison Bru in Eygalières. The food was sublime.
Open since 2009, Maison Bru is related to Chez Bru in the centre of the village. When Chez Bru opened years ago there were dark mutterings in Eygalières about the swanky style, high prices and fact that it was owned and run by Belgians. (Is there any nation anywhere that likes its neighbours?)
It's true that the style of Chez Bru sat oddly at first with the laid-back atmosphere of the village. While everyone else was hanging out smoking and drinking cheap rosé in the Bar du Centre and Bar du Progrès, the Chez Bru waiters carried on as if they were serving at the George V in Paris, and the prices almost matched.
These days, of course, Eygalières is stuffed with bijou little businesses and galleries and Chez Bru is not at all out of place.
Ironic then that the owners, Wout and Suzy Bru, have turned Chez Bru into a brasserie and taken the serious talent for cuisine out of the centre to Maison Bru. The more ambitious Maison Bru is in a new building sitting in splendid isolation on the Route D'Orgon. It's large - sit inside or out - and has 9 guest rooms built around a nice swimming pool.
The Wouts obviously called in some "contemporary" designers to style Maison Bru. The place shrieks 'pricey'. The clean lines, muted tones and smooth surfaces create a pretty cool atmosphere. It's fairly luxurious.
But actually none of that matters. The food was so good it wouldn't matter if it was served in a wooden shack.
Here's an idea of some of the dishes and flavours.
Among the amuse-bouches were tartare of tuna and a delicate roast beef that melted instantly.
One of the starters came with wasabe and basil ice cream. Sounds gimmicky and self-consciously fusion but it was gorgeous. Another featured foie gras with cardamom. Ditto and ditto. The flavours were just so well judged (and the temperature was exactly right.) The wasabe for example was understated in relation to the basil, which was good. But the cardamom was equally balanced with the foie gras. It was perfect.
There was a King crab dish with oysters and a truffle sauce that was out of this world. A friend had abalone with truffle that was gorgeous. Red mullet with tiny tomatoes, tiny transparent circles of pasta and a lightly-flavoured mustard sauce was gorgeous too. Pigeon was underdone just to perfection. The flavours and textures were just sublime. No other word for them.
We didn't - couldn't - eat desserts but were served a delicate strawberry soup/coulis and, later, warm madeleines and coffee with burnt almonds covered in dark chocloate. I've never got the French thing about madeleines, Proust notwithstanding. They always seem like a fuss about nothing - dry-ish, tasteless, uninteresting. These madeleines opened my eyes though. Warm, fragrant, moist in the centre - they were lovely.
It's always difficult to convey the quality of restaurant meals but if you go and eat there you'll find out for yourself how much skill and judgement there is in the kitchen at Maison Bru. It's hard to imagine anyone would be disappointed by food this good. There was nothing too rich, nothing too heavy.
The single thing across all the courses for three people that didn't work in my opinion was parmesan ice cream. Parmesan just doesn't work as an ice cream flavour however talented the chef...
There's no doubt though that this chef is highly talented.
Maison Bru is on 04.90.90.60.34 and reservation@chezbru.com
Rooms cost between 150 euros and 380 euros apparently.
And no, I don't know the Bru family and the views here are strictly my own, freely offered.
A Taste of Provence
The Most Beautiful Villages of Provence
Living in Provence (Living In . . .)
PATRICIA WELLS AT HOME IN PROVENCE: Recipes Inspired By Her Farmhouse In France
Open since 2009, Maison Bru is related to Chez Bru in the centre of the village. When Chez Bru opened years ago there were dark mutterings in Eygalières about the swanky style, high prices and fact that it was owned and run by Belgians. (Is there any nation anywhere that likes its neighbours?)
It's true that the style of Chez Bru sat oddly at first with the laid-back atmosphere of the village. While everyone else was hanging out smoking and drinking cheap rosé in the Bar du Centre and Bar du Progrès, the Chez Bru waiters carried on as if they were serving at the George V in Paris, and the prices almost matched.
These days, of course, Eygalières is stuffed with bijou little businesses and galleries and Chez Bru is not at all out of place.
Ironic then that the owners, Wout and Suzy Bru, have turned Chez Bru into a brasserie and taken the serious talent for cuisine out of the centre to Maison Bru. The more ambitious Maison Bru is in a new building sitting in splendid isolation on the Route D'Orgon. It's large - sit inside or out - and has 9 guest rooms built around a nice swimming pool.
The Wouts obviously called in some "contemporary" designers to style Maison Bru. The place shrieks 'pricey'. The clean lines, muted tones and smooth surfaces create a pretty cool atmosphere. It's fairly luxurious.
But actually none of that matters. The food was so good it wouldn't matter if it was served in a wooden shack.
Here's an idea of some of the dishes and flavours.
Among the amuse-bouches were tartare of tuna and a delicate roast beef that melted instantly.
One of the starters came with wasabe and basil ice cream. Sounds gimmicky and self-consciously fusion but it was gorgeous. Another featured foie gras with cardamom. Ditto and ditto. The flavours were just so well judged (and the temperature was exactly right.) The wasabe for example was understated in relation to the basil, which was good. But the cardamom was equally balanced with the foie gras. It was perfect.
There was a King crab dish with oysters and a truffle sauce that was out of this world. A friend had abalone with truffle that was gorgeous. Red mullet with tiny tomatoes, tiny transparent circles of pasta and a lightly-flavoured mustard sauce was gorgeous too. Pigeon was underdone just to perfection. The flavours and textures were just sublime. No other word for them.
We didn't - couldn't - eat desserts but were served a delicate strawberry soup/coulis and, later, warm madeleines and coffee with burnt almonds covered in dark chocloate. I've never got the French thing about madeleines, Proust notwithstanding. They always seem like a fuss about nothing - dry-ish, tasteless, uninteresting. These madeleines opened my eyes though. Warm, fragrant, moist in the centre - they were lovely.
It's always difficult to convey the quality of restaurant meals but if you go and eat there you'll find out for yourself how much skill and judgement there is in the kitchen at Maison Bru. It's hard to imagine anyone would be disappointed by food this good. There was nothing too rich, nothing too heavy.
The single thing across all the courses for three people that didn't work in my opinion was parmesan ice cream. Parmesan just doesn't work as an ice cream flavour however talented the chef...
There's no doubt though that this chef is highly talented.
Maison Bru is on 04.90.90.60.34 and reservation@chezbru.com
Rooms cost between 150 euros and 380 euros apparently.
And no, I don't know the Bru family and the views here are strictly my own, freely offered.
A Taste of Provence
The Most Beautiful Villages of Provence
Living in Provence (Living In . . .)
PATRICIA WELLS AT HOME IN PROVENCE: Recipes Inspired By Her Farmhouse In France
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Lost Sheep, Wild Boar and Dogs Passing Through
I woke up this morning with the cat not calling for breakfast.
Unusual because normally, unfortunately, he sits on the terrace outside my bedroom and miaows persistently from about 5.30am till I get up and feed him. He's a pretty Burmese-Siamese cross, not the straggly, pointy-faced look, but a more solid individual with lovely caramel-coloured fur and burnt-chocolate ears, face, legs and tail.
Coco arrived at the house three years ago, hungry and homeless, and took up permanent residence against my wishes. Now, of course, he's family.
Anyway, this morning I was vaguely surprised that, by 7am, he wasn't calling. He's not a cat to miss a meal.
I went into the kitchen and glanced out of the window at the terrace. There he was sitting in a pool of electric sunshine, slightly hunched, staring fixedly at something.
I craned my neck a bit and saw Gregory's sheep. Two of them, enormous animals, puffed up with huge coats of wool, both trying to get their tongues in the bowl of water left out for the red squirrels.
Their appearance explained Coco's sudden mutism. Last year I found him confronting a brebis one morning and spurred by my appearance he charged the poor animal, sending it running into the forest. I had never seen a Burmese cat, or any cat, charge a sheep before.
On that occasion my neighbour Gregory, glad to get a call that his lost sheep had turned up safe after a month AWOL, arrived quickly on his quadbike and shepherded the animal back to his land. He has geese, ducks, cats, dogs, kids, donkeys and a confused rooster which crows in the late afternoon. I wondered if the sheep had departed to get a bit of peace up in my neck of the woods.
Summer here always entails such visitors passing through. It's a pleasure to have the two pale elegant greyhounds who live near the canal suddenly whipping through the garden to dash into the house, do two laps round the séjour, zip off to the forest, hurtle back to the terrace, stop for a quick hello and then cannon off again onto the chemin de terre on their way to my neighbour Monsieur Moricone's olive grove. Before presumably rushing back home to eat and fall into a deep exhausted sleep.
My other neighbour's beautiful Alsatian, Ulyss, trots over here more often in summer too. Often he appears silently out of the dark at night, arriving at the table on the terrace as a bunch of us eat dinner. Attracted by the food and sound of our voices he bustles around saying hello to everyone, putting his huge head on our laps. Often when he appears he sends Coco thirty feet up a tree in two seconds flat. Cokes will stand up to other dogs, arch his back and growl, but ironically though Ulyss is the least likely to harm him - more likely to cuddle him to death - Ulyss is the one that puts the fear-of-dog into him.
A rust-coloured hunting dog arrives every so often too. Ears flopping all over the place he scoots up to the house looking rather dim. The hunting dogs round here all look rather dim actually. I'd be surprised if some of them could find a roast turkey on a dinner table.
And then there are the sangliers. I feel very protective towards these creatures although there's nothing I can do, of course, to shield them from the chasse. The hunters, when they arrive later this year, will greet me cheerily as they pass the house, guns casually slung over shoulders, and I'll greet them cheerily too. They're all guys from the village who generally spend hour upon hour staring into the trees and broussailles hoping to bag a hare. Their wives then make paté to go with a decent local red wine. But it's the possibility of shooting a wild boar which appeals most to the Provencal hunter, making my nerves and sensibilities shriek. How anyone could see these solid, tusked creatures, surprisingly light on their trotters, emerge from the forest onto open ground, taking a tour of leur coin, and then want to kill them is beyond me.
Which is hypocritical, I know, as I have from time to time eaten sanglier paté and sanglier saucisson. Although those animals are generally reared for the market, it doesn't make any difference really. Still, there is something wonderful about wild boar trotting about the forest and dusty paths.
I imagine Coco has come across these impressive animals at dusk or dawn, moving quietly through their terrain in the half-light. I saw how transfixed he was by Gregory's sheep and I know how he reacts to the dogs that wander over his territory. I wonder how he reacts when he sees a little troop of wild boar, trundling along the path or passing by the house. I bet they make his jaw drop like the sheep do. I bet he watches in wide-eyed silence.
Unusual because normally, unfortunately, he sits on the terrace outside my bedroom and miaows persistently from about 5.30am till I get up and feed him. He's a pretty Burmese-Siamese cross, not the straggly, pointy-faced look, but a more solid individual with lovely caramel-coloured fur and burnt-chocolate ears, face, legs and tail.
Coco arrived at the house three years ago, hungry and homeless, and took up permanent residence against my wishes. Now, of course, he's family.
Anyway, this morning I was vaguely surprised that, by 7am, he wasn't calling. He's not a cat to miss a meal.
I went into the kitchen and glanced out of the window at the terrace. There he was sitting in a pool of electric sunshine, slightly hunched, staring fixedly at something.
I craned my neck a bit and saw Gregory's sheep. Two of them, enormous animals, puffed up with huge coats of wool, both trying to get their tongues in the bowl of water left out for the red squirrels.
Their appearance explained Coco's sudden mutism. Last year I found him confronting a brebis one morning and spurred by my appearance he charged the poor animal, sending it running into the forest. I had never seen a Burmese cat, or any cat, charge a sheep before.
On that occasion my neighbour Gregory, glad to get a call that his lost sheep had turned up safe after a month AWOL, arrived quickly on his quadbike and shepherded the animal back to his land. He has geese, ducks, cats, dogs, kids, donkeys and a confused rooster which crows in the late afternoon. I wondered if the sheep had departed to get a bit of peace up in my neck of the woods.
Summer here always entails such visitors passing through. It's a pleasure to have the two pale elegant greyhounds who live near the canal suddenly whipping through the garden to dash into the house, do two laps round the séjour, zip off to the forest, hurtle back to the terrace, stop for a quick hello and then cannon off again onto the chemin de terre on their way to my neighbour Monsieur Moricone's olive grove. Before presumably rushing back home to eat and fall into a deep exhausted sleep.
My other neighbour's beautiful Alsatian, Ulyss, trots over here more often in summer too. Often he appears silently out of the dark at night, arriving at the table on the terrace as a bunch of us eat dinner. Attracted by the food and sound of our voices he bustles around saying hello to everyone, putting his huge head on our laps. Often when he appears he sends Coco thirty feet up a tree in two seconds flat. Cokes will stand up to other dogs, arch his back and growl, but ironically though Ulyss is the least likely to harm him - more likely to cuddle him to death - Ulyss is the one that puts the fear-of-dog into him.
A rust-coloured hunting dog arrives every so often too. Ears flopping all over the place he scoots up to the house looking rather dim. The hunting dogs round here all look rather dim actually. I'd be surprised if some of them could find a roast turkey on a dinner table.
And then there are the sangliers. I feel very protective towards these creatures although there's nothing I can do, of course, to shield them from the chasse. The hunters, when they arrive later this year, will greet me cheerily as they pass the house, guns casually slung over shoulders, and I'll greet them cheerily too. They're all guys from the village who generally spend hour upon hour staring into the trees and broussailles hoping to bag a hare. Their wives then make paté to go with a decent local red wine. But it's the possibility of shooting a wild boar which appeals most to the Provencal hunter, making my nerves and sensibilities shriek. How anyone could see these solid, tusked creatures, surprisingly light on their trotters, emerge from the forest onto open ground, taking a tour of leur coin, and then want to kill them is beyond me.
Which is hypocritical, I know, as I have from time to time eaten sanglier paté and sanglier saucisson. Although those animals are generally reared for the market, it doesn't make any difference really. Still, there is something wonderful about wild boar trotting about the forest and dusty paths.
I imagine Coco has come across these impressive animals at dusk or dawn, moving quietly through their terrain in the half-light. I saw how transfixed he was by Gregory's sheep and I know how he reacts to the dogs that wander over his territory. I wonder how he reacts when he sees a little troop of wild boar, trundling along the path or passing by the house. I bet they make his jaw drop like the sheep do. I bet he watches in wide-eyed silence.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Fondation Blachere at Apt and the Conservatoire des Ochres at Roussillon
I went to the Fondation Blachere this weekend while I was in Apt because a friend had told me it was an interesting place, showing African art and objets.
It's actually just outside Apt, in an unprepossessing zone industrielle, and when you get there you wonder if the most you can do there is buy taps or gravel.
But inside it's really quite interesting. Blachere is a guy who owns a French lighting business. For some reason that wasn't immediately clear to me he got interested in African art and started this small gallery-cum-shop&bookshop-cum-restaurant in Provence.
The gallery this month (May 2010) was showing lively and very colourful 'naive' works depicting the history of Africa in a darkened space. Slavery, cannibalism, mineral exploitation, independence, black beauty and black talent were all presented in an attractive exhibition. The bookshop was well stocked with books on contemporary African art, classic works of literature, folk tales and works on the troubled history and politics of the continent.
The restaurant is run by a lovely woman, whose name I have forgotten but who was charming and welcoming. The Fondation Blachere is an unexpected and interesting experience in the Luberon.
Leaving the place, I went home via Roussillon and stopped off at the Conservatoire des Ochres. Now, I confess I have never been enamoured of Roussillon because whenever I've passed the place it's been absolutely heaving with tourists to the point where you can't put a foot on the ground without stepping on someone's toes. But this time I stopped at the Conservatoire and was astonished to find it was peaceful and it was possible to wonder around the old ochre factory - still with its machinery in place - completely undisturbed.
What a wonderful place. There's a bookshop and exhibition on everything to do with colour and use of colour down the ages in Europe. But, more interesting, you can meander through the many rooms of the old factory or usine and see the work and the processes that were carried out in Roussillon for decades, using the ochres that were mined, separated from sand and turned into paints and dyes for domestic and industrial use.
The exhibition rooms are typical relaxed Provence - showcases and explanations that you can explore quietly, on your own - products you can pick up and touch, pots of colour and brushes you can work with and samples of paint you can take away with you.
The Conservatoire is dedicated to preserving the trade and skills of those who worked in the ochres and experts provide training courses in plastering, painting, decor and use of colour all year round. There are courses on materials that are ecologically sound as well as attractive and most courses seem to cost around 170 euros a day.
But even if you wouldn't take a course here in a month of blue moons, this is definitely a place worth visiting while you're on holiday - it's bursting with natural history, industrial history, art history and the history of Provence. And it's a reminder, in a hi-tech world, that we humans used to look at the natural world around us and make interesting and useful products from what we saw.
Provence Style: The Art of Home Decoration
The Magic of Provence: Pleasures of Southern France
It's actually just outside Apt, in an unprepossessing zone industrielle, and when you get there you wonder if the most you can do there is buy taps or gravel.
But inside it's really quite interesting. Blachere is a guy who owns a French lighting business. For some reason that wasn't immediately clear to me he got interested in African art and started this small gallery-cum-shop&bookshop-cum-restaurant in Provence.
The gallery this month (May 2010) was showing lively and very colourful 'naive' works depicting the history of Africa in a darkened space. Slavery, cannibalism, mineral exploitation, independence, black beauty and black talent were all presented in an attractive exhibition. The bookshop was well stocked with books on contemporary African art, classic works of literature, folk tales and works on the troubled history and politics of the continent.
The restaurant is run by a lovely woman, whose name I have forgotten but who was charming and welcoming. The Fondation Blachere is an unexpected and interesting experience in the Luberon.
Leaving the place, I went home via Roussillon and stopped off at the Conservatoire des Ochres. Now, I confess I have never been enamoured of Roussillon because whenever I've passed the place it's been absolutely heaving with tourists to the point where you can't put a foot on the ground without stepping on someone's toes. But this time I stopped at the Conservatoire and was astonished to find it was peaceful and it was possible to wonder around the old ochre factory - still with its machinery in place - completely undisturbed.
What a wonderful place. There's a bookshop and exhibition on everything to do with colour and use of colour down the ages in Europe. But, more interesting, you can meander through the many rooms of the old factory or usine and see the work and the processes that were carried out in Roussillon for decades, using the ochres that were mined, separated from sand and turned into paints and dyes for domestic and industrial use.
The exhibition rooms are typical relaxed Provence - showcases and explanations that you can explore quietly, on your own - products you can pick up and touch, pots of colour and brushes you can work with and samples of paint you can take away with you.
The Conservatoire is dedicated to preserving the trade and skills of those who worked in the ochres and experts provide training courses in plastering, painting, decor and use of colour all year round. There are courses on materials that are ecologically sound as well as attractive and most courses seem to cost around 170 euros a day.
But even if you wouldn't take a course here in a month of blue moons, this is definitely a place worth visiting while you're on holiday - it's bursting with natural history, industrial history, art history and the history of Provence. And it's a reminder, in a hi-tech world, that we humans used to look at the natural world around us and make interesting and useful products from what we saw.
Provence Style: The Art of Home Decoration
The Magic of Provence: Pleasures of Southern France
Google Analytics and Those Who Drop In To Read This Blog
I looked rather idly at Google Analytics this evening, just wondering who - if anyone - drops in to look at this blog.
The results were rather startling.
Google informs me that most people who drop in are sitting at their laptops in Barcelona and London. Then then are curious people in French towns and cities - Marseille, Aix, Lyon and Paris mostly. And then there are people in Glasgow and Reno.
Glasgow and Reno???
Internet users are a curious bunch. The people in Barcelona spend an average of 13 minutes pottering about here, looking in and out of the posts. Glaswegians spend an average of a measly 16 seconds, so presumably they get here and think almost immediately "Oops, hit the wrong key there."
Weirdest of all, people in Reno spend an average of no seconds here. Zero. How can there even be a count of people who spend zero seconds here? Doesn't that group comprise more or less the whole world outside people in Barcelona, London and some French towns and cities? (And, almost, Glasgow?)
What is slightly spooky (OK, really not very spooky) is that I used to live, for years, in Glasgow. And once visited Reno for a work conference. How come the people who least drop in here are from towns I have some kind of connection with? Why are people from Vladivostock and Montreal not dropping in as little as Glaswegians and people from Reno, if you get what I mean?
Google may be missing a trick here with Analytics. I'm sure they could easily rig it to generate a digest of geographical data on what people around the world are looking at and buying. Wouldn't it be interesting to know that the biggest group of people looking at open-air-group-sex-porn in the whole wide world was in Seattle? That people in Reykjavik buy more philosophy books online than in any other city? That people in rainy Manchester look at tropical holiday websites more often and for longer than any other population? Or that people in Reno spend more time on gambling sites than on sites about living in France?
It could be a whole new reference resource.
Anyway, I noticed that there were also people dropping in here from lots of other countries, as far away as Australia, China and Japan. I do kind of wonder how they get here and what they're looking for since it's a tiny little corner of the web, just extolling the virtues of Provence.
Nevertheless everyone is welcome because Provence is such a heavenly part of this planet and everyone should experience its unique and blissful beauty at least once in their lifetime.
The results were rather startling.
Google informs me that most people who drop in are sitting at their laptops in Barcelona and London. Then then are curious people in French towns and cities - Marseille, Aix, Lyon and Paris mostly. And then there are people in Glasgow and Reno.
Glasgow and Reno???
Internet users are a curious bunch. The people in Barcelona spend an average of 13 minutes pottering about here, looking in and out of the posts. Glaswegians spend an average of a measly 16 seconds, so presumably they get here and think almost immediately "Oops, hit the wrong key there."
Weirdest of all, people in Reno spend an average of no seconds here. Zero. How can there even be a count of people who spend zero seconds here? Doesn't that group comprise more or less the whole world outside people in Barcelona, London and some French towns and cities? (And, almost, Glasgow?)
What is slightly spooky (OK, really not very spooky) is that I used to live, for years, in Glasgow. And once visited Reno for a work conference. How come the people who least drop in here are from towns I have some kind of connection with? Why are people from Vladivostock and Montreal not dropping in as little as Glaswegians and people from Reno, if you get what I mean?
Google may be missing a trick here with Analytics. I'm sure they could easily rig it to generate a digest of geographical data on what people around the world are looking at and buying. Wouldn't it be interesting to know that the biggest group of people looking at open-air-group-sex-porn in the whole wide world was in Seattle? That people in Reykjavik buy more philosophy books online than in any other city? That people in rainy Manchester look at tropical holiday websites more often and for longer than any other population? Or that people in Reno spend more time on gambling sites than on sites about living in France?
It could be a whole new reference resource.
Anyway, I noticed that there were also people dropping in here from lots of other countries, as far away as Australia, China and Japan. I do kind of wonder how they get here and what they're looking for since it's a tiny little corner of the web, just extolling the virtues of Provence.
Nevertheless everyone is welcome because Provence is such a heavenly part of this planet and everyone should experience its unique and blissful beauty at least once in their lifetime.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Oysters, Ants, Pollen Clouds and Miniature Goats.
Along with hundreds of thousands of others, some neighbours here were stuck in Boston after the unpronounceable Icelandic volcano exploded into the skies, dusting European airspace with volcanic ash.
The day after French and other European and UK fights were grounded, I opened my door here in the forest to a haze of yellow dust. Just another natural phenomenon - the breeze blowing clouds of pollen from pine tree branches into the warm spring air. My blue car was yellow. My terrace was yellow. My Burmese/Siamese cat, Coco, was yellow. After a short walk in the garden my shoes and jeans were yellow. Last year there was a shower after the heaviest pollen clouds. Pollen lay everywhere like mustard for days.
It's also the time of year when ants get active. They come in three sizes: giant, middling and tiny. The big ones stay around dead trees in the forest. Don't know quite what the little ones get up to. It's the middle-sized ants, the carpenter ants, that are troublesome. They troop into the house, climbing the exterior wall and entering through any little opening and nest in the wooden beams. Bit by bit, they hollow out the beams, pushing wood dust out. They're eating my house. I like most creatures and generally go out of my way to avoid hurting them. But I have to make an exception with the ants. I buy that ant killer that says the ants find it irresistible and take it into the nest where they all have a good meal then die. It's utter rubbish. They make huge detours to avoid the stuff. I'm just 're-roofing' the frame over the terrace with mesh so I can plonk all the honeysuckle back over it and while I was up the ladder I saw legions of ants trundling over the frame, waving their antennae in greeting at one another, on their way to eat my beams. You can brush them off but they just start again at the bottom.
While I was up the ladder a neighbour arrived with his station wagon. "Viens voir" he said, calling me over.
In the back seat he had a miniature goat with miniature horns and a very sweet face.
"I know you like animals" he said. "So I thought I'd bring this one to show you. There were two, loose by the canal. The other one got away. I think they belong to Gregory, your neighbour."
No I said. Gregory has sheep and donkeys and geese and hens and cats and dogs and children. But no goats.
We looked at the goat in the back seat. He looked back at us. Since he wasn't the slightest bit scared I suddenly thought he must live at the pony school. The pony school along the track has a bunch of tiny ponies ridden by tiny riders, all little girls who love ponies. Every day they ride past the house on the track, led by an older girl or a big bloke on a more substantial horse. Maybe the school also kept goats. That would explain why the goat was used to humans.
My neighbour duly drove the goat to the pony school. No, not ours, they said. But we'll keep him till you find the owners.
Asking around, another neighbour, Daniel, did indeed know who owned the two goats. My neighbour called round and told the family 'I found one of your goats.'
They were delighted, a couple and a troop of young kids. (Not a pun.)
The goats were not tethered they explained. They just wander about all day and come home in the evening. This was the first time in six months that they'd wandered so far.
Everyone went to the school to collect the first goat.
The second arrived at my neighbour's house later that day, perhaps scenting that her partner had already turned himself in.
Goats and family were reunited.
Once that was all dealt with I turned my attention to the oyster shells. I'd invited friends to eat oysters at my place the previous night as the guy who sells oysters in the local market sells the world's best oysters. From Bouzigues, he's a young guy, clearly very proud of his work and the quality of his oysters. Last week I told him I'd found a small blue pearl in one of the oysters I'd bought from him and he explained that yes that can happen but it's rare. Also, because the oysters are young, the pearls are soft and not mature. That had been obvious as the outer layers crumbled easiy. Still, it was the first time I'd found a pearl in my dinner.
Anyhow, I had dozens of oyster shells. More than I'd paid for because oyster sellers work on the old 13 to a dozen principle. Looking at them, they were so beautiful I couldn't throw them away. Maybe they'd make good compost? Looking online it seemed that they do indeed make good compost. I was about to start hammering them to smithereens when my neighbour called round again. He'd done a deal with the woman at the pony school, exchanging our collective olive oil for her horse manure mixed with straw. Did I want to be included so I could have fertiliser for my olive trees? Yes please.
"However" I said proudly "I'm also making oyster shell compost".
He looked at me as if I was mad.
"It's full of calcium" I said. "Very good for the soil."
He threw his head back and laughed.
Yes it's full of calcium he replied. But not good for your soil. Look around - your soil is calcaire - it's made of calcium."
OK. I'll stick with the horse manure.
The day after French and other European and UK fights were grounded, I opened my door here in the forest to a haze of yellow dust. Just another natural phenomenon - the breeze blowing clouds of pollen from pine tree branches into the warm spring air. My blue car was yellow. My terrace was yellow. My Burmese/Siamese cat, Coco, was yellow. After a short walk in the garden my shoes and jeans were yellow. Last year there was a shower after the heaviest pollen clouds. Pollen lay everywhere like mustard for days.
It's also the time of year when ants get active. They come in three sizes: giant, middling and tiny. The big ones stay around dead trees in the forest. Don't know quite what the little ones get up to. It's the middle-sized ants, the carpenter ants, that are troublesome. They troop into the house, climbing the exterior wall and entering through any little opening and nest in the wooden beams. Bit by bit, they hollow out the beams, pushing wood dust out. They're eating my house. I like most creatures and generally go out of my way to avoid hurting them. But I have to make an exception with the ants. I buy that ant killer that says the ants find it irresistible and take it into the nest where they all have a good meal then die. It's utter rubbish. They make huge detours to avoid the stuff. I'm just 're-roofing' the frame over the terrace with mesh so I can plonk all the honeysuckle back over it and while I was up the ladder I saw legions of ants trundling over the frame, waving their antennae in greeting at one another, on their way to eat my beams. You can brush them off but they just start again at the bottom.
While I was up the ladder a neighbour arrived with his station wagon. "Viens voir" he said, calling me over.
In the back seat he had a miniature goat with miniature horns and a very sweet face.
"I know you like animals" he said. "So I thought I'd bring this one to show you. There were two, loose by the canal. The other one got away. I think they belong to Gregory, your neighbour."
No I said. Gregory has sheep and donkeys and geese and hens and cats and dogs and children. But no goats.
We looked at the goat in the back seat. He looked back at us. Since he wasn't the slightest bit scared I suddenly thought he must live at the pony school. The pony school along the track has a bunch of tiny ponies ridden by tiny riders, all little girls who love ponies. Every day they ride past the house on the track, led by an older girl or a big bloke on a more substantial horse. Maybe the school also kept goats. That would explain why the goat was used to humans.
My neighbour duly drove the goat to the pony school. No, not ours, they said. But we'll keep him till you find the owners.
Asking around, another neighbour, Daniel, did indeed know who owned the two goats. My neighbour called round and told the family 'I found one of your goats.'
They were delighted, a couple and a troop of young kids. (Not a pun.)
The goats were not tethered they explained. They just wander about all day and come home in the evening. This was the first time in six months that they'd wandered so far.
Everyone went to the school to collect the first goat.
The second arrived at my neighbour's house later that day, perhaps scenting that her partner had already turned himself in.
Goats and family were reunited.
Once that was all dealt with I turned my attention to the oyster shells. I'd invited friends to eat oysters at my place the previous night as the guy who sells oysters in the local market sells the world's best oysters. From Bouzigues, he's a young guy, clearly very proud of his work and the quality of his oysters. Last week I told him I'd found a small blue pearl in one of the oysters I'd bought from him and he explained that yes that can happen but it's rare. Also, because the oysters are young, the pearls are soft and not mature. That had been obvious as the outer layers crumbled easiy. Still, it was the first time I'd found a pearl in my dinner.
Anyhow, I had dozens of oyster shells. More than I'd paid for because oyster sellers work on the old 13 to a dozen principle. Looking at them, they were so beautiful I couldn't throw them away. Maybe they'd make good compost? Looking online it seemed that they do indeed make good compost. I was about to start hammering them to smithereens when my neighbour called round again. He'd done a deal with the woman at the pony school, exchanging our collective olive oil for her horse manure mixed with straw. Did I want to be included so I could have fertiliser for my olive trees? Yes please.
"However" I said proudly "I'm also making oyster shell compost".
He looked at me as if I was mad.
"It's full of calcium" I said. "Very good for the soil."
He threw his head back and laughed.
Yes it's full of calcium he replied. But not good for your soil. Look around - your soil is calcaire - it's made of calcium."
OK. I'll stick with the horse manure.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Wild Asparagus and Morille Mushrooms
That time of year again. I love collecting the slim, slightly bitter wild asparagus spears that grow in Provence. You soon develop an eye for them, spotting the tangle of spiky, bottle-green asparagus plant and then, off to one side, an elegant spear. Takes time to find and collect them though so no wonder they only turn up occasionally in the local market and cost quite a bit.
They're lovely with a dorade royale, lightly steamed and with an olive oil vinaigrette. Even nicer that the spears come from the foot of the olives trees from which the oil is made. Wild asparagus is lovely cooked and cut into omelette too. Or fine, young spears can be added to green salad or a salade nicoise.
Because we've had quite a bit of rain this year, everything's growing as if it's in the tropics. And that includes....morilles - morel mushrooms. A wonderful truffly mushroom that pops up in spring, morels have been few and far between in the last few years just where I live. Usually I find a dozen or so growing in the gravel round the lavender and roses. This year, out looking for asparagus, I suddenly noticed they were popping up all over the place!
Which causes great excitement. (When I spotted the first one, a woodpecker suddenly started drilling away at a tree in the garden which seemed a bit like a morel fanfare given the timing.) My instinct was to fall on the mushrooms straight away and carry them off to the kitchen. But as almost always, with almost everything in Provence, the first thing to do was to try and apply some experienced judgement. They had some more growing to do. So why not wait till tomorrow or the day after? Good thinking. Or was it? Once dusk fell, the four sangliers wild boar that live long the track would be out truffling about looking for food. The morilles would be hoovered up in a second once they were scented. So pick them now.
Or not?
I picked several and cooked them with slices of duck. Delicious. (First it was necessary to be certain they were morilles but they're quite hard to mistake. There is a variety which is highly toxic - if eaten raw - but I was cooking them anyway.)
Since then I've picked around 15 large morels which were luckily not found by the sangliers. A friend who is an expert in mycology, and so also knows his mushroom gathering, identification, cuisine and preservation, reminded me that the flavour of morilles is improved by drying them. Hang them up with their chapeaux down, he said, and use natural twine, not thread or plasticky string.
So I'm starting to collect a few more each day and hang them upside down from the ramp in the mezzanine.
I mustn't forget the less rare but equally desirable asperges sauvages though. Better go out now and find some.
Two books on Provencal homes:
Provencal Escapes: Inspirational Homes in Provence and the Cote D'azur
Provencal Inspiration: Living the French Country Spirit
They're lovely with a dorade royale, lightly steamed and with an olive oil vinaigrette. Even nicer that the spears come from the foot of the olives trees from which the oil is made. Wild asparagus is lovely cooked and cut into omelette too. Or fine, young spears can be added to green salad or a salade nicoise.
Because we've had quite a bit of rain this year, everything's growing as if it's in the tropics. And that includes....morilles - morel mushrooms. A wonderful truffly mushroom that pops up in spring, morels have been few and far between in the last few years just where I live. Usually I find a dozen or so growing in the gravel round the lavender and roses. This year, out looking for asparagus, I suddenly noticed they were popping up all over the place!
Which causes great excitement. (When I spotted the first one, a woodpecker suddenly started drilling away at a tree in the garden which seemed a bit like a morel fanfare given the timing.) My instinct was to fall on the mushrooms straight away and carry them off to the kitchen. But as almost always, with almost everything in Provence, the first thing to do was to try and apply some experienced judgement. They had some more growing to do. So why not wait till tomorrow or the day after? Good thinking. Or was it? Once dusk fell, the four sangliers wild boar that live long the track would be out truffling about looking for food. The morilles would be hoovered up in a second once they were scented. So pick them now.
Or not?
I picked several and cooked them with slices of duck. Delicious. (First it was necessary to be certain they were morilles but they're quite hard to mistake. There is a variety which is highly toxic - if eaten raw - but I was cooking them anyway.)
Since then I've picked around 15 large morels which were luckily not found by the sangliers. A friend who is an expert in mycology, and so also knows his mushroom gathering, identification, cuisine and preservation, reminded me that the flavour of morilles is improved by drying them. Hang them up with their chapeaux down, he said, and use natural twine, not thread or plasticky string.
So I'm starting to collect a few more each day and hang them upside down from the ramp in the mezzanine.
I mustn't forget the less rare but equally desirable asperges sauvages though. Better go out now and find some.
Two books on Provencal homes:
Provencal Escapes: Inspirational Homes in Provence and the Cote D'azur
Provencal Inspiration: Living the French Country Spirit
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