A Dance to the Music of Time

Is it really two months since I scribbled my last blog? I cannot quite believe that the snow has come and gone, leaving battered pantiles and a hole in the roof, and that the daffodils and narcissi are now semi-deceased. To be fair, they have hung on to their short spring flowerings for rather longer than usual because it's still pretty nippy around here at night. Our local ski resort, Guzet Neige, has no snow so there are no excuses for not getting on with the all those horrid jobs that the winter's hibernation and closed shutters has hidden from view these past six months. Out of the cupboard have come mops, buckets, brooms, sundry tins of emulsion and oil paints, and a long handled implement 'pour oter les araignees' [grovelling apologies for not having worked out how to accent my typescript, and on a blog about France, too!]. I'm sweeping out the cobwebs in more ways than one!

I have spoken before about the rhythm of life here, which I guess is much the same in the Welsh mountains, or the Highlands of Scotland, as it is in the Jura, the Massif Central or the Pyrenees. The long dark nights of winter, with only moonlight and the stars to guide one, limited both one's desire to venture too far afield and also one's ability to do so. Provisions were laid down for the lean times that followed Christmas. In my case, much of my pantry's contents has come from Intermarche or are left over from my big Waitrose pre-Christmas, pre-family's arrival, festive shop. I did, however, make a pear and ginger chutney, a beetroot and ginger chutney [I love the fire of ginger in winter!], a Christmas chutney, jars of piccalilli, some figs in vodka [more fire in the belly!] a Christmas cake and some chilli jam [Hot! Hot! Hot!]. We are still chomping our way through this eclectic collection of leftovers and, I have to say, there is nothing quite like a small slab of Christmas cake with one's 'cafe au lait' or even a 'tranche' of post prandial Roquefort.

It's a creative leap to find uses for mixed peel and dried fruit long after the Christmas Tree Fairy has been dispatched back to her 350 odd night's annual beauty sleep. But, surprise, surprise, I finally cottoned on to a use for them, courtesy of my old friend, the master baker and Bath cookery school owner, Richard Bertinet. A fortnight before Easter there appeared in my inbox, like manna from heaven, Richard's scrumptious recipe for hot cross buns. I have never been able to find hot cross buns here in the Ariege, so first thing on Good Friday morning, and for the first time in my life, I actually made them, cross and all! I had to change the recipe a little, because I needed to use up some dried cranberries lurking behind a surplus Christmas pudding but, I have to boast, they were rather good straight out of the oven and dripping with 'beurre d'Isigny'.

Then later, like our predecessors here, long before us, we even had a big bonfire to get rid of the garden rubbish, which had lain lost under a weight of snow through most of the winter. Why is it that it always looks as though one's garden has been stolen at this time of year? Bonfires are as much a part of seasonal ritual as food choices, are they not? Historically, bonfires marked the two significant seasonal events of the calendar. In some areas, the fires were lit at Midsummer and at Christmas. In others, they roared into action during Carnival and Lent. All over the countryside, struggling horsemen could find their bearings by following the light from the fires on the hilltops. The fires were a celebration of new life, sprung into being at the solstice, which took on new meaning as the harbinger of fertility; of people and animals, and especially of the fields [I always think of poor Edward Woodward in 'The Wicker Man' at the rather more extreme end of such celebrations!].

This dance to the music of time existed in the days when the agricultural calendar consisted of twelve months and two seasons. Whilst the two distinct seasons still exist here deep in the Ariege, much of urban France, like the UK, has surrendered its primitive rituals to fears of pyromaniacal outbreaks in contravention of strict EU health and safety legislation. When you can buy mince pies in September and Easter eggs in January all sense of the rhythm of nature and the seasons disappears. When electric light, admittedly now much dimmer with longer lasting lightbulbs, and television maintain a uniformity of time over an individual's twenty four hour day, it's that much harder to 'go with the flow'. In Salisbury I'm as guilty as the next person, allowing my day to begin with the 'Today' programme and to end with 'Newsnight'.

As long dark, bitterly cold nights give way to light mornings and longer evenings, we look forward to the heat of summer as 'nous otons les araignees'. Today, Easter Day, is the great celebration of new life. Christianity, with its emphasis on the Ressurrection of Christ, may have highjacked much older pagan traditions but the sentiment remains. We all celebrate, well the non-vegetarians amongst us, with a leg of new season's lamb, new potatoes and, here in France, asparagus. As I write this, the meat is slowly roasting in the oven whilst my daughter waits for me to make our family speciality celebration cake, a chocolate almond torte, using up almonds left from Christmas ground fine in the food processor. Tomorrow, we shall have that most traditional meal of 'lundi de Paques', wild asparagus omelettes. And, as my darling husband has just found his father's old classical 'LP's' in a box, we shall listen to a 1960's recording of Scottish Opera's 'Der Rosenkavalier' on the newly installed, old turntable as we toast the new season. Sadly, Peter's father left us long ago, before the children, so as we listen we remember the past as well as look forward to the future. The music of time, though, will continue to play on in our hearts.