I woke up to a glorious autumnal morning at Bardies – the first frost of the season and a herald of the Pyrenean winter to come. Because we have had no significant rainfall, the vast spread of the Pyrenees looms, still snowless, to the south of us. I feel my energy levels rise. I love this time of year, just as I do Spring, because the air has been cleared of summer haze. It seers through my nostrils and clears my head of summer clutter, the endless meal plans and day trips mentally packed away until next year. Now, 'sans invitees', I can speak French again!
The garden is full of leaves, but not those on the stubborn lime trees in front of the house, which hover defiantly high above me. It will take more than a solitary frost to shift them. These two majestic trees, planted in 1912 and 1913 respectively, to celebrate the births of Germaine and Simone Henry, have seen much in their long existence and time is of no consequence in the rhythm of their lives.
Their crooked, wild sibling, however, who hides in their shadow, is destined for the chop in December. Pascal is already sharpening his tools. We are loathe to cut down trees but this one is cramping the style of her bigger sister and becoming seriously deformed herself in the process. Pascal brought the tree man round for a second opinion and it was a ‘no brainer’. As soon as all the leaves are off, it will be no more. There are mounds of mistletoe on it to harvest into the bargain, as well as a lot of chopping work for Pascal afterwards.
Another benefit from this summary execution, will be the climbing roses, stunted below her shady boughs by lack of sunlight. The old yellow climber on the dilapidated metal pergola has barely flowered in ten years and the recently planted St Swithun variety pink ones have sulked ever since they were dug in. Quelle sacrifice! One life for three more. Sydney Carton, eat your heart out!
We have had a labour intensive week at Bardies, jollied along by the heavenly weather. I say “we”, when really I mean Laurent, our ‘jardinier’. Actually, his name is Lawrence and he is English but I didn’t want you thinking ‘Mellors’! He is a genius and he comes to help me re-design bits of the garden twice a year. I have big plans, courtesy of a lifelong passion for Christopher Lloyd, and Lawrence interjects a note of practicality into my rantings. He listens to me patiently, with no hint of horror or disapproval on his face, then does exactly what he thinks is right, regardless.
Whilst I ferried the winter flowering pansies for the pots on the terrace and hauled bags of potting compost, Lawrence dug out masses of hypericum and re-seeded the lawn, lugged 18 barrowloads of horse shit from the stable to feed the shrub roses, pulled out the summer bedding plants from the veritable army of terracotta pots, untangled the borders and rockery, and planted 140 alliums, 200 ‘tete a tete’, 120 English, not Spanish, bluebells, as well as uncounted numbers of snowdrops, crocuses and tulips. He also scattered masses of aquilegia and poppy seeds scavenged from a friend's garden. That’s next year sorted then!
He chopped up a huge mound of smaller logs for the ‘salon’ woodburner for Christmas as well. Good man! Thank goodness we blew the budget on two of them last year, because with 12 young people in the house over Christmas, ranged in age between 13 and 21, the ‘salon’ will be a no-go zone. At least now the electricity meter won't be in freefall. Whilst the kids are welded to whatever celebrity game show final is scheduled for the festive period, the adults can be getting suitably squiffy in the ‘biblioteque’. We can meet in the middle for meals and the annual fracas that is present opening chez nous. Meantime, I must start searching the woods for a suitable Christmas tree. It will be fun!
Having cleared up the debris from the flue installation, I was suddenly inspired to wax all the oak floorboards and doors. Mad or what? We have enormous armoire doors from floor to ceiling on either side of the fireplace and they were so dry, it took a tin of ‘cire liquide’ for each one. I must have significantly reduced our fire risk! Rattling old edifices like this really need an army of servants, as I’m sure they once had, not just me and the occasional help of a ‘femme de menage. It’s a long time since I have been down on my knees for so long!
In between times, as ever, the kitchen beckoned and I had great fun being creative. Amazingly, there was still some basil growing in its large pot outside the kitchen door [a sign of global warming?] as well as tarragon, chives, parsley, marjoram and verveine. I made a plum and thyme jam to go with magret of duck, which seemed to work quite well. The basil, gently sweated with shallot, freshly chopped tomatoes and garlic, made a great coulis for a vegetable lasagne and a Chicken Basque. With Halloween around the corner, the ‘potirons’ are in season so we had a risotto one night and a pumpkin and cumin soup for lunch. I added a tin of chopped tomatoes and half a chorizo, together with a good dollop of smoked paprika, to the leftovers to make a really hearty Spanish style peasant soup, very Allegra McEvedy!
I also managed to find some lovely girolles in Cazeres, because we still don’t have any in our woods. There has been nothing, so far, to forage for this year. We desperately need some serious autumn rainfall. Apart from asparagus omelettes in Spring, mushroom omelettes in autumn are my favourite lunchtime treat. In the garden, the figs are finished [indeed, this year they never really got started] so instead I poached our windfall pears in red wine for desert. I still have some of last year’s bumper crop of figs marinating in ‘Absolut’ vodka in the fridge, which will make for some merry post-prandial activity at Christmas!
Meanwhile, my Facebook journey continues. It may seem to be a virtual world, but so far I have caught up with many old friends with whom we’ve agreed meetings in real time. There is definitely something so much more personal about Facebook, which makes you want to reply immediately. With regular e-mail, the temptation is always to leave it until after the gym, or supper or a good night’s sleep with the inevitable forgetfulness that follows. Is it the visual stimulus of a photo image, I wonder? Anyway, I’m loving it. It makes being in France like being next door, which may, or may not, be a good thing after all.
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