We hunkered down, glad to be in the depths of La France profonde . The house soon warmed up with the woodburner on the go. The winter is long in Ariège. With no television, we avoided the worst of the TV images, though Radio 4 reports of care home deaths were deeply distressing. We didn't exactly feel safe, because we didn't know much about the transmission of Covid 19, but we didn't feel as exposed as we'd have been in Brighton. French confinement rules limited us to exercise no more than half a kilometre from our house, and we had to carry a written attestation. We were allowed to shop, also with said attestation, but our kind neighbours volunteered to do it for us, which they did for the eight consecutive weeks before quarantine was lifted. Between times, they brought us fresh bread and milk, and eggs from their relations. Never had we appreciated so much the French notion of commune, not so much a geographical area as a state of mind.
We were strangely content. The weather was glorious; time took on a whole new meaning. When you have time on your hands, your head clears and you live in the present. It was a new experience for both of us. The first thing we did was to turn the salon into an office for Peter. If he was to be working from home, he needed his own space, something it was impossible to have in our spatially challenged Brighton flat, where we all fought for space on the kitchen table. I emptied all the ancient china from the built in armoires on either side of the fireplace and Peter arranged our CD and vinyl collection into genres, in alphabetical order. Stuck indoors, we needed music to lift our spirits. His guitars could finally be stored in one room, where there was also an electric piano. He would work all morning, then spend his afternoons, if he wasn't still working, playing the piano or guitar, or gardening. As the descendant of a Flemish gardyner, he was in his natural habitat.
We evolved a routine that worked for us, a rhythm of life that suited both of us. I would do an hour's yoga first thing to keep my aging muscles from deteriorating further, then do some research or write. Between times I set myself the task of learning to play the Bach C Major partita, the first and easiest piece from 'The Well Tempered Clavier'. Pretentious, moi? My aplologies for sounding smug when many were numb. For me, it was therapeutic. I loved the progressions, which were like practising scales, only more tuneful. I loved the rhythm of the piece. I loved having a project that totally focussed my cluttered brain. It was a time of gifts, to quote the title of Patrick Leigh Fermor's book, especially as I hadn't played the piano since my son was tiny. When I found my old practice pieces under the lid of the piano stool, I took to playing nursery rhymes as a respite from concentrating. It was fun and brought back memories of being a new mother. He's thirty now, so I don't suppose I'll be playing them for him again.
I made soup for lunch every day, something I wouldn't have done in Brighton. 'For better, for worse, but not for lunch' had been my mantra throughout our married life. Now, I had all the time in the world. A weekly shop makes for a very inventive cook, especially towards the end of the week. No running to the Co-op for missing ingredients. I'd make new dishes, and dishes I hadn't made for years, scouring cookery books for inspiration. When you live somewhere with proximity to good, seasonal produce, what you eat is part of the rhythm of life. I discovered that the essence of being a good cook is time. So often we rush. We skip essential stages or take shortcuts, or, worst of all, misread the recipe because we're hurried. When time isn't your enemy, cooking is a joy, something to be savoured as much as the end result.
We ate asparagus until it came out of our proverbial ears; steamed asparagus with homemade Hollandaise sauce, creamy, eggy tarts topped with Parmesan, the perfect spring lunch fayre for a lazy Saturday afternoon, as well as omelettes, risottos, soups and salads. Before I moved here, I never understood why the French preferred the white variety over the more earthy green asparagus. I've become a convert. I love the subtle flavour of white asparagus. Now I enjoy nothing more than it simply steamed, with a glug of good olive oil, salt and freshly ground black pepper. Bliss. Then, as quickly as it came, the season ended and asparagus was no more. It's a salutory lesson for a pandemic. Nothing lasts forever.
