tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87124787539418674372024-03-20T04:06:05.171-07:00Blog at BardiesBlog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-26848735580671482542021-12-04T14:36:00.002-08:002021-12-04T14:39:51.650-08:00An Autumnal Visit to Château Montus and Château BouscasséFriends from Toulouse had recommended a vineyard visit and lunch chez Alain Brumont, the visionary proprietor of both Château Montus and Château Bouscassé. We began at Chateau Montus,<i>le roi de Madiran</i>, whose wines, made from Tannat grapes, have won many prestigious prizes. The distinctive Tannat grape variety now rivals Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot in Bordeaux, Pinot in Burgundy and Syrah in the Côtes du Rhône. It produces very dark wines with a subtle, powerful fruitiness and high levels of tannin, which give them an exceptional capacity to age. They are deep and well balanced, the perfect complement to the rich food of the region.
<p>
When Alain Brumont bought Château Montus in 1980, on the basis of the terroir's reputation in the eighteenth century, he recognised that he could restore the reputation of the Madiran region and create a world class wine. With its steep slopes and fully south facing, sunny slopes, it was a labour of love. He invested vast sums in both the château and the caves, as well as state of the art technology. The caves, designed by renowned architect Edmond Lay, and including the first underground cellar in the south-west, are a sight to behold. I particularly loved the beautiful mosaic of Bacchus on the floor.
<p>
From there, we drove up to the vineyard of La Tyre, the highest point of the appellation. Here the slope is at a gradient of 20%-40% and a cooling breeze blows through the vines, ventilating the grapes when, in summer, most of the leaves are removed. Its terroir consists of large pebbles, one of the last traces of the Pyrénées dating back forty million years, on yellow and red clay subsoil. The La Tyre vineyard produces the finest, and most expensive, wines from the Brumont estate. Made from 100% Tannat grapes, the 2010 vintage is priced at a hefty 150€ a bottle in their shop.
<p>
It was a bitterly cold day, so we were grateful for a respite in the tree house at the top of the slope, where Thomas, our guide, produced a 2014 Château Bouscassé white wine, called <i>Les Jardins Philosophiques</i>, made from Petit Courbu and Petit Manseng grapes, which we sampled with delicious <i>morceaux</i> of Noir de Bigorre <i>jambon</i>, the local speciality ham. It's cured from the naturally fed black pigs of the Pyrénées, whose history dates back to Benedictine monks of the XI century. The recent revival by a small group of enthusiasts over the last thirty years has made it a serious rival to the highly prized Spanish <i>Jamón</i> <i>Pata Negra</i>.
<p>
We finished at Chateau Bouscassé, the thriving hub of the Brumont enterprise, where we were led into the cosy staff dining room full of long tables bedecked with blue and white checked tablecloths. The wood burner was much appreciated. We were taken to a table at the far end, where our personalised menu awaited us, each dish prepared by their Alsatian chef, Loïc Ripamonti, who each day prepares lunch for thirty to forty people. It was the best meal we've eaten all year, all beautifully prepared from the best local produce and based around <i>Noir de Bigorre </i>and the chateau's own <i>Poule Noire,</i>washed down with a carefully chosen selection of wines from Montus and Bouscassé [list can be provided]. It was the perfect end to a wonderful visit.....and, of course, we left with four cases of wine, including the Château Montus 2016, for our Christmas guests!Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-46345377266113567682021-11-11T05:54:00.001-08:002021-11-11T05:54:29.362-08:00When You Have Time On Your HandsWe arrived at Bardies on the Ides of March. All was quiet, not a car on the road, no planes in the sky, not even the ubiquitous Airbus test flight circling overhead. The molecules in the air had changed. None of us knew how the Covid 19 virus circulated. We were afraid of what we didn't understand. The images from northern Italy distressed us all, so much closer to home than faraway China, whose 2014 SARS outbreak had barely touched Europe. Now bodies were being carried out of hospitals in towns close to familiar ski resorts, places we had been to in more carefree days. Tens of thousands of skiers returned home after holidays high in the Alps with no idea they were carrying a deadly new virus. One of them, a close friend, came down with it a week later. She was one of the lucky ones. Her symptoms were mild. 'It's very strange,' she said, 'but I can't smell or taste anything.' We didn't know then that this was a primary symptom.
<p>
We hunkered down, glad to be in the depths of <i>La France profonde </i>. 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 <i>attestation</i>. We were allowed to shop, also with said <i>attestation</i>, 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 <i>commune</i>, not so much a geographical area as a state of mind.
<p>
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 <i>salon </i>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 <i>armoires</i> 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 <i>gardyner</i>, he was in his natural habitat.
<p>
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, <i>moi</i>? 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.
<p>
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.
<p>
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.
Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-91231205478235354042021-10-29T11:45:00.000-07:002021-10-29T11:45:10.319-07:00Back at Bardies, permanentlyBlog at Bardies is back! I decided to stop writing my blog in July 2014 because I thought people were bored with the prevalence of blog posts about life in France. Then last Sunday I woke up thinking of the numerous things that have changed for us in the last nine years; how our journey may be of interest to others in a similar situation, or to those catapulted through circumsatnce into rethinking their post-Brexit lives. [There, I've said it! I've got the 'B' word out after just three sentences.] I cannot think of another event in my life that has so changed all our hopes, dreams and plans.
<p></p>
Like many people, I thought that David Cameron was playing to his own gallery when he called for a referendum on our membership of the European Union. How wrong I was. In the face of heated debates about sovereignity, immigration and the accession of Turkey, facts and figures became irrelevant. It was impossible to argue with raw emotion. And the rest, as they say, is history. Having had a house in France for over twenty years, it felt as though a limb was being amputated.
<p></p>
At first, numb with shock, we struggled with definitions: hard/ soft Brexit, Withdrawal Agreement, Article 50, customs union, single market, Northern Ireland protocol, free trade agreement, passporting, to name a few. More significantly, we needed to understand the implications of the 'Third Country Status' 90/ 180 rule. Who knew about or understood these terms? As the possessor of a red passport with 'European Union' boldly embossed on its front cover, I never questioned my status as a European. Now, in the final week of June 2016, I decided to apply for an Irish passport, not realising until then that, because I had an Irish mother born on the island of Ireland, I was already an Irish citizen by birth. Not so, my children, for whom I needed to register their foreign births in the UK with Ireland's Department of Foreign Affairs, before being able to apply for theirs. Sadly, my husband, as a Brit, did not have the luxury of either option.
<p></p>
We waited, and waited, because the Irish Embassy was inundated with millions of applications. Inevitably, I failed to accrue all the necessary certificates, which caused months of additional delay. I then spent months chasing elusive birth, marriage and death certificates. Because my father died when I was seven and my mother married again, her Irish birth certificate bore no relation to my birth name, nor to the name on her death certificate. In all, I needed my mother's birth, marriage and death certificates, my father's birth, marriage and death certificates, my stepfather's marriage and death certificates, as well as my birth and marriage certificates and my children's birth certificates. All these original and certified copies had to be sent to Ireland's Department of Foreign Affairs before I could register my children as Irish by foreign birth.
<p></p>
Meanwhile, we continued with life in the UK, glued to rolling news and Parliament Live. We scoured the newspapers, including the Daily Telegraph, always a good source of Tory Party thinking. We went on marches. We retweeted posts from people like us, to no avail. The dastardly deal was done, destined, however flawed, to be written into law. All around us people seemed increasingly agitated. Our lovely Italian waitress in the coffee shop at the bottom of our road was verbally abused on a bus. A German acquaintance, a professor at a London university, was tiraded on Twitter for being a foreigner. At a drinks party, when I mentioned the fact that I was lucky to be an Irish citizen, I was told to 'fuck off back to Ireland then' by a man, a Brexiter, who should have known better. I was deeply shocked at the hostlity to anyone who claimed a part European heritage. I didn't recognise what was happening to the country I had lived in all my life.
<p></p>
The reverse was true in France. All our French friends were incredibly supportive, sad that the UK had opted to leave the European Union. Not a single one passed a negative comment. 'Move here, permanently,' they said. 'You'll be welcomed with open arms.' At the occasional lunch party with Brits, I was surprised to meet home owners, some with businesses, who eulogised about the benefits of Brexit. For the life of me, I couldn't understand how leaving the EU could be anything but negative for them, until it gradually dawned on me that they viewed themselves as untouchable. Somewhere, etched deeply below three layers of thick skin, they saw themselves as superior, part of a select tribe of 'ex-pats' whose position anywhere in the world was unassailable. The DNA of all those doughty army officers and their memsahibs carries on, despite the collapse of Empire and the nation's lost industrial preeminence.
<p></p>
'Get Brexit Done' provided the death knoll for us pro-Europeans. We were adrift, let down by the Liberal Democrats, lost in an anti-Bremoaner culture war. The new Tory cabinet, led by a man with the moral integrity of a tomcat, was stuffed full of braying Brexiters. If you weren't one of them, you were the target of abuse and vitriole. Dominic Grieve, Ken Clarke and nineteen fellow Tories had the whip withdrawn from the party they had served all their lives for daring to oppose the potential catastrophe of a no-deal Brexit. A truncated Labour Party was cut off at the knees. There would be no attempt to reconcile, to find a way through the complexities of over forty years of integration with Europe. You were either with them, or against them. There was no middle ground. Never, since the Cavaliers and the Roundheads, had the country been so divided.
<p></p>
Still, we may not have packed a pile of stuff into our old Volvo Estate and hightailed it to Bardies if it wasn't for the pandemic. We were due to go to Austria for a week in the mountains when the email telling us the country was going into lockdown arrived. That was on Thursday 12th March 2020. By lunchtime on Saturday 14th, we were through the Channel Tunnel. That night, at our stopover hotel, the proprietor informed us that the hotel was closing at midnight and that all shops, hotels, bars, restaurants and retail outlets were to be closed forthwith. France was officially in lockdown. There was some doubt as to whether we'd get breakfast, which we fortunately did, which was just as well because everything was closed en route. Fortunately, I'd packed the remnants of our fridge to take with us so we could cook ourselves dinner on arrival. We lit the woodburner and opened a bottle of Madiran.
<p></p>
'So what do we do now?' I asked.
Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-3738731674744778332014-07-08T13:18:00.000-07:002014-07-08T13:18:45.242-07:00This Long JourneyThe celebrations for the 70th anniversary for D-Day have come and gone, as has the wonderful Chalke Valley History Festival, where I successfully submitted my pitch to the Penguin Historical Fiction Writer's Workshop. It doesn't mean much other than as an introduction and a boost to my confidence, but at least it tells me that the story is a good one and that I am on the right track. There's still a fair amount of editing to do but in the peace and tranquility that is daily life at Bardies, I'm determined to get to the end of this long journey.<br />
<br />
When I started, I envisaged a non-fiction book about the brave and largely unrecognised women of the French Resistance. It angered me that General Charles de Gaulle, a military man who loathed the irregular forces of the FFIs [the <i>Forces Francaises de l'Interieure</i> formed at the beginning of 1944 from the various armed resistance groups inside France] awarded only six <i>Croix de la Liberation</i> to women, out of a total of 1,061. He hated the communists so the brave women, and most of the men too, of 'red Toulouse' and Ariege, especially those of Spanish Republican origin, were relegated to the footnotes of history. Military hierarchy had no place for women. <br />
<br />
There are a number of reasons for this, not least the reluctance of the women themselves to talk about their wartime experiences. It was not just the war that they wished to forget. It was also the horrors of <i>l'epuration</i> in the immediate aftermath. No one knows exactly how many people were killed but estimates range upwards of 10,000, an enormous number by any measure. There was also a high degree of sexual retribution, as if the cowardly and politically impotent men of Vichy could only exonerate themselves by turning on the women that they labelled <i>les collabos horizontales</i>. A schoolteacher resister noted that 'in the shaving of heads and so on...we touched rock bottom'. It is estimated that 20,000 women were publicly brutalised.<br />
<br />
In the women's accounts, in the main, there was a desire to move on, to rebuild what had been broken. So many people were displaced, so many families were fractured and so many graves were in need of tending; France had paid a high price. There was also the urgent need for reconstruction. France received seven times the tonnage of bombs that the UK received during the Blitz. It was not just the towns of Northern France. Biarritz, Nice, Marseilles and many other cities experienced the effects of Allied bombing. Fifty-seven thousand French people lost their lives after D-Day.<br />
<br />
Seventy years on, a more nuanced history has emerged from the oral testimonies of resisters, particularly the women. These accounts give us a flavour of the time. While they do not tell the full story, they help us to comprehend that <i>resistance</i> takes many forms. So why a fictional story, I am asked? The answer is a simple one. I want to give them a voice. There are few contemporaneous oral testimonies from the women of Ariege and Haute-Garonne. I can guess at the thoughts and words of these brave women but I cannot know what they actually said. In a work of fiction, one has the freedom to generate meaningful dialogue and to attempt to recreate the landscape of the time, both physical and emotional. <br />
<br />
I am lucky to live close to the town of St Girons, from where a number of evasion lines over the Pyrenees operated, including the O'Leary line. Many accounts can be read in Ed Stourton's <i>Cruel Crossing: Escaping Hitler Across the Pyrenees</i>, which has stimulated a great deal of interest in our little piece of <i>la France profonde. </i> In his introduction, Ed writes of the <i>genius loci</i> of the place, the spirit that makes its story so special. Unsurprisingly, Ariege is called <i>la terre courage</i> on quaint roadside tourist signs. Napoleon Bonaparte designated it <i>le pays du fer et des hommes</i>. Life has always been hard here. <br />
<br />
After the fall of Barcelona in January 1939, almost 500,000 desperate men, women and children of the <i>Retirada</i> walked over the mountains in brutal conditions to seek safety in France. Many died, either on the mountains or in the terrible concentration camps that were thrown together to greet them. A large number of them joined the Resistance. Others acted as<i> passeurs</i>, taking Jews, downed Allied airmen and other evaders over the smuggler's paths into neutral Spain, helped by a small secret army of women in safe houses who provided a hot meal and a bed for the night at tremendous personal risk to themselves and their families.<br />
<br />
I hope that I can do these women justice. I dedicate my story to them. Now, as I work towards the final chapters, I have decided to use this blog to tell the stories of some of the real women of the Resistance. It seemed to me to be one way to resolve my dilemma about fact and fiction, and that difficult historical middle ground that Anthony Beevor desultorily designates as <i>faction</i>. One day, perhaps, I shall write that history but in the meantime I hope to pay tribute to their courage, their resolve and cunning, but most of all, their generosity of spirit.Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-23952624063620400862014-07-02T08:09:00.000-07:002014-07-02T08:15:54.538-07:00Freddie Knoller: Living With the EnemyLast week I drove almost a hundred miles to see someone special at the Chalke Valley History Festival. His name is Freddie Knoller and he is a spritely ninety-three year old Auschwitz survivor. He was born on 17 April 1921 in Vienna, the youngest of three sons born to Marja and David Knoller. His parents were born in Galicia, then part of Austria-Hungary but part of what became Poland after the First World War. The three brothers were musicians, the eldest brother, Otto, a pianist and the middle one, Erich, a violinist. Fredl, Freddie, was a cellist.<br />
<br />
After the <i>Anschluss</i> and <i>Kristallnacht</i>, David Knoller was determined that his three sons had to leave Nazi controlled Austria, by whatever means. Freddie left for Belgium via Cologne and Aachen at the end of November 1938, entered the country illegally and made his way first to Antwerp, then Eskaarde, near Ghent. When <i>l'exode</i> began, with the German invasion of Belgium on 10 May 1940, Freddie found himself walking to France on roads crammed with refugees. In Lille, he came upon a solid blue cordon of French police. He was taken to a police station, forced to show his penis to prove he was a Jew, and put in a cattle wagon to the internment camp of St Cyprien, near Perpignan. He remains angry with the French for their treatment of foreign Jews fleeing Hitler.<br />
<br />
Three months later he escaped under the barbed wire and made his way to Gaillac, in the Tarn, deep in Vichy France. There, he purchased false papers and returned to Brussels to rescue his cello and take the bus to Antwerp to find out what had happened to his friends. When he could find neither his cello nor his friends, he decided to head for Occupied Paris where he lived amongst the Paris <i>demi-monde</i> under the false identity of Robert Metzner, born in Metz in Alsace. In July 1943 he was picked up by the Gestapo for procuring girls for German soldiers. He blagged his way out of Gestapo HQ and hightailed it from the Gare d'Austerlitz to the village of Cardaillac, in the Lot, not far from Figeac. <br />
<br />
Freddie was arrested by the French <i>Milice</i> on a train en route from Figeac to Bergerac on 5 August 1943. He was probably denounced by his angry, jilted ex-girlfriend, Jacqueline, to whom he had confided both his Resistance activities and his false, non-Jewish identity. He was an <i>agent de liaison</i>, a courrier who ran messages from one Resistance cell to another. 'I am not a terrorist!' he shouted under interrogation. 'I am an Austrian Jew from Vienna called Alfred Knoller. I am hiding from the Germans and have nothing to do with any Resistance group.'<br />
<br />
His decision to betray his origins rather than his colleagues resulted in him being taken to Gestapo headquarters, put under armed guard and taken by train back to Paris. From there, he was taken by the French <i>Garde Mobile</i> to Drancy, in the quiet suburb of Bobigny, the assembly camp for deportation to the East. On 6 October he was put in a cattle wagon to Auschwitz. There, he was reduced to a mere number, 157103. Aided by his friend Professor Waitz who managed to get him extra food, he avoided the selections. In January 1945, as Russian artillery approached, he survived the death marches in temperatures of -20 degrees. He was liberated at Bergen-Belsen in April 1945, weighing just forty-one kilograms.<br />
<br />
'Every event in my story leads up to Auschwitz and no subsequent thought or action in my life is untouched by the memory of Auschwitz.....The person who stumbled into the cattle truck at Drancy lost once and for all his youthfulness, if not all his naivety.' The man on the stage, charming, amusing, witty and self-deprecating, was a careful observer filled with the will to live. His book, <i>Living With the Enemy: My Secret Life on the Run from the Nazis</i> details his story with no hint of self-pity, just an effusive love of life born of tremendous optimism. With each year that passes, there are fewer survivors like him to tell the story of what happens when a society loses its moral compass.<br />
<br />
Freddie's story is one of many which concern the role of the French police and SNCF, France's railway provider. As Leo Bretholz, Freddie's friend and fellow <i>raconteur</i>, says, 'Wartime France was the most important and very venal cog in the wheel of Hitler's co-conspirators.' Undoubtedly, France is coming to terms with Vichy's complicity in the deportation of its own Jews. This process has been slow and painful. Where I live in Ariege, many local people are still unaware of the existence of the Le Vernet camp, the <i>Drancy of the south</i>, as well as the many other camps. <br />
<br />
Perhaps they do not wish to remember. Many deportees were not Jewish and they struggled to be remembered too. One of them was Charlotte Delbo, in whose memory a conference which I attended was held at the Institut Francais on 18 March, the centenary of her birth. Charlotte's story, and that of the 229 other women of <i>Le Convoi des 31000</i>, is told by Caroline Moorehead in her book, <i>A Train in Winter</i>. I drove back to the Chalke Valley History Festival two days later to hear Caroline recount their tale, as well as the story of the villages around Chambon-sur-Lignon in the Auvergne which hid thousands of Jews. That story, however, is another blog.Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-38689898891136109992013-10-15T06:34:00.000-07:002013-10-15T06:34:51.966-07:00Books, Barbed Wire and One of the Most Beautiful Towns in France What has happened to the months since January? Despite trips to Chartres and Orleans, Paris and Compiegne, Biarritz and St Jean-de-Luz, and further afield, too, I have resisted the temptation to blog. I have, for once, turned off the Internet until dinnertime and put my expanding bottom firmly onto my chair at my desk, where I have written and rewritten 80,000 words of text for my book. Apart from a major hiccup with Dropbox, which left 20,000 of said, slightly different words, floating in cyberspace, I’m now on the downhill run towards my end of November deadline.<br />
<br />
Nowadays, it takes a lot to get me away from my beloved Bardies. So when an email arrived from a friend in the Quercy telling me about a fledgling literary festival in the Tarn-et-Garonne, I thought for approximately five minutes before jumping at the chance to go and listen to other writers speak of their experiences and challenges. With a change in the weather, it provided just the ticket, metaphorically speaking because all the events were free. The lovely Occitan village of Parisot is home to a thriving community of readers and writers and a committee of five, French and English, put together a festival to compete with many a more illustrious rival. I gather that it is the only one south of Paris.<br />
<br />
The festival opened on Friday evening with a musical and literary <i>soiree</i>, which, sadly, I missed. An absentee friend had kindly lent me her lovely house in Puylaroque for the weekend and I miscalculated the extent of Friday night’s traffic on the Toulouse <i>Peripherique</i> in a downpour. Saturday morning dawned even wetter, so I arrived at the <i>salle des fetes</i> in Parisot via a muddy and circuitous back route at 10.31 am, soggy, late and flustered. Straight away, my mood lifted with the warm and welcome atmosphere. Maree Gilles, an Australian survivor of the forced care system, kicked the day off with a harrowing account of her experiences as a sixteen-year old. A few years ago, Maree published a debut novel, a fictional account of the pain and trauma of her time in care. Its impact proved so devastating that it contributed to a class apology from the Australian government. We were off to a great start. Over the years, I’ve been to many literary festivals where I’ve squinted over the shoulders of someone a foot taller than me and wished I had better glasses and an electronic hearing aid. Oh, the pleasure in a small festival with no ubiquitous video screen!<br />
<br />
After a splendid lunch with the invited authors, we continued with a session from Amanda Hodgkinson about her award winning bestseller, <i>22 Britannia Road</i>. It was a privilege to hear her read in the three voices from her beautifully written book. I was minded of the great Edna O’Brien’s remonstrance that when writers have chosen their words so very carefully, the obligation is upon us, the reader, to absorb and savour them. Such it was with a true poet and wordsmith like Amanda. I am now the owner of two copies of her marvelous book, one for me, and one for my daughter who is following in the footsteps of our great Irish writers reading English at Trinity College, Dublin.<br />
<br />
Afterwards, in complete contrast, the urbane, dapper and witty Guardian journalist, Martin Walker, spoke about his marvelous fictional creation, Bruno, Chief of Police. Also, dear to my heart, Martin talked about the riven history of France, as well as his passion for all things French, especially its food and wine. We await the forthcoming Bruno cookery book with relish. As someone who tends to avoid crime fiction, I am about to become a convert to Martin’s Gallic detective and his gentle portrayals of French village life. As this is France, his talk was followed by aperitifs and dinner at the <i>l'Auberge de la Castille</i>, to which everyone was invited. With Charlie, my Jack Russell champing at the bit in the car, it was with great regret that I had to wend a wet and weary way back to Puylaroque. Next time, I shall send him to the kennels.<br />
<br />
Sunday brought a complete change of genre with a cookery demonstration by Anne Dyson of the Greedy Goose Cookery School in Ambeyrac, in the Aveyron. The delicious canapés and appetizers that Anne so effortlessly prepared were testament to her culinary talents. Her beautiful Green Goose cookery book has provided a fitting thank you present for my friend who so generously lent me her house to be here.<br />
<br />
After lunch by the lake in Parisot, ex-pat, humour-writer, Victoria Corby delighted us with her <i>de la coeur</i> account of her literary family and how she managed to gain the confidence to become a professional writer, despite the little voice over her shoulder telling her that she wouldn't be good enough. With three books published over a decade ago, Victoria has now ventured into the burgeoning ebook market by republishing them on Kindle. As she gets a significantly higher percentage of the revenue this way, I’m happy to say that all three are now downloaded to my Kindle Homepage. I look forward to them with great pleasure.<br />
<br />
My final session at the festival was with the formidable Colette Barthes, a journalist with <i>La Depeche du Midi</i> and a committed human rights activist with <i>Lutte pour la Justice</i>, which fights for the abolition of the death penalty in the United States. Colette is one of those rare women who change the air in the molecules around them, strong, vibrant, fiercely political and an inspiration to all women, young and old alike. She writes in many genres, including the novel, but she is most well known for her research into the plight of the Spanish refugees of the Retirada and the European Jews who were brutally interned in the camp of Septfonds, not far from Parisot. Her book, <i>L’exil et les Barbeles,</i> is a work of great historical importance. Hers was an inspiring session.<br />
<br />
After two stimulating days of literature, it was with some sadness that I packed my car to drive southwards back to St Girons. They always say that a change is as good as a rest, and what a glorious change it's been. I am so full of admiration for the committee of the <i>Festival Litteraire de Parisot</i>. They have achieved something very special and I know that it can only go from strength to strength. Who knows, one day Parisot may be mentioned in the same breath as Hay? Actually, maybe no. Small is beautiful and I would hate it to become just another commercial event hijacked by publishers and PR professionals. It's perfect as it is - name me another literary festival where you get tea and home made cakes thrown in, and all for nothing? Name me another festival, too, where you get to have lunch and dinner with the writers, like members of one big happy family? With so many new found friends, I feel like I've become part of this warm, welcoming literary family of Parisot and it's a real joy. My warmest thanks go to everybody involved. <i>Bravo tous!</i><br />
<br />
I knew, though, that I couldn’t leave this lovely region of France without visiting Septfonds. I wanted to pay tribute to the eighty-one Spaniards who lie in the Spanish cemetery there and also to visit the memorial at the Camp de Judes, in the nearby <i>hameau</i> of La Lande. I was moved to tears. These were young men who did not deserve to die on this side of the Pyrenees, buried in lines in numbered graves, like sardines in a tin. They had lost everything fighting Franco and now France, to its shame, took the only thing that they had left.<br />
<br />
Septfonds is not far from St Antonin, where <i>Charlotte Gray</i> was partly filmed. I have always wanted to see the ancient bridge over the Aveyron over which the tanks rolled in on 11 November 1942. There is something special about great movie moments, as if they fill the space in our heads where words once were.<br />
<br />
Reading the plaque by the bridge, I discovered that St Antonin hailed from Pamiers, in Ariege. When he tried to convert the heathens of our disorderly part of France, they chopped his head off and threw him unceremoniously into the River Ariege, from whence he was borne by angels to the Tarn, before being deposited, miraculously reassembled, here in the Aveyron. The town that takes his name has indeed been blessed. St Antonin is the most beautiful intact medieval village I have seen since visiting Verona last year. I know that it’s a cliché but it really is as though time has stood still.<br />
<br />
I scuttled around its tiny streets like a detective on the prowl. Some of them were so narrow, if I spread my arms wide, I could have touched the walls on either side. Around every corner, in tiny passages and courtyards as well as on the main streets, there were grand portals and corbels and carved coats of arms. I am sure that these fine architectural details were only added once the Catholic zealots of St Antonin had prized the vast Cathar and Protestant wealth from the heretics in their midst. The town was rewarded with the grand title of St Antonin Noble Val, which just goes to show that you only have to scratch the surface in even the most picturesque French town to find a history of bitter conflict.<br />
<br />
And with that thought in mind, I climbed back into my car and headed back to my work on the Resistance. Enough of books, barbed wire and beautiful places, I’ve spent too much time on blogging. Again! I don't know what other bloggers think but this new format drives me nuts. Sorry for the whinge but editing a blog post is now more time consuming than writing one, so it may be a while before I'm back. It’s time to get back to the grindstone at Bardies before the autumn runs away with me and my deadline disappears. How many days is it to Christmas? <i> A bientot.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8bwF9MzIFjp5bqnlBwq8kblhx8n0AZqQQiCxRc-PpFczCmjaGL1AiMYvHVfNLiNGiEHoSwrCY8F3upENbYdJky2e2oGh629XuqEYQCJAGcknm7NtnOK0tHMVOFNzZ57UkE47RRdT__wM/s1600/IMG_1036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8bwF9MzIFjp5bqnlBwq8kblhx8n0AZqQQiCxRc-PpFczCmjaGL1AiMYvHVfNLiNGiEHoSwrCY8F3upENbYdJky2e2oGh629XuqEYQCJAGcknm7NtnOK0tHMVOFNzZ57UkE47RRdT__wM/s320/IMG_1036.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qbRLe5d8RQqNGTjOttKx8VVZe6ze5wAeBX4U4oMSFngEcH1KOZeNKPHc5prC8cUnrgOo6l_vE_AY23IpL6sPb7gnXk2_640CpaQW7FAuS-7wydWkMIGDpX_jmOLQm-4c16exQ5hy0Mk/s1600/IMG_1039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qbRLe5d8RQqNGTjOttKx8VVZe6ze5wAeBX4U4oMSFngEcH1KOZeNKPHc5prC8cUnrgOo6l_vE_AY23IpL6sPb7gnXk2_640CpaQW7FAuS-7wydWkMIGDpX_jmOLQm-4c16exQ5hy0Mk/s320/IMG_1039.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUITOF8gFGJt739tIC2beL6Sfc-idVDEQnfmMfD5InDtch2IP1Fvl9r5KmxysT766nQcNLy-cZJfPagKNtjPKKfE4rcTlty0mVONGhpEn1HMTNmABUDNL44vps_9_2PUxOhU07Uks1TNM/s1600/IMG_0873.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUITOF8gFGJt739tIC2beL6Sfc-idVDEQnfmMfD5InDtch2IP1Fvl9r5KmxysT766nQcNLy-cZJfPagKNtjPKKfE4rcTlty0mVONGhpEn1HMTNmABUDNL44vps_9_2PUxOhU07Uks1TNM/s320/IMG_0873.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij1gtl3Df6lRzgvXWuOq5_ilKm4AxOMSTXJyYnL_9UZfHwor1h4aoUyxmGVqJ2j2Tu-T0cY5rCbb6z_0RR746myYEnJnQ_eCvCnqUXr35FjeCMjrnCLdP6KwsSo7xPKPNfqbq85sHGdWY/s1600/IMG_0935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij1gtl3Df6lRzgvXWuOq5_ilKm4AxOMSTXJyYnL_9UZfHwor1h4aoUyxmGVqJ2j2Tu-T0cY5rCbb6z_0RR746myYEnJnQ_eCvCnqUXr35FjeCMjrnCLdP6KwsSo7xPKPNfqbq85sHGdWY/s320/IMG_0935.JPG" /></a></div>Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-66149894749108690432013-02-28T09:54:00.001-08:002013-03-02T03:46:26.856-08:00Jean Moulin - A Hero's HeroSeventy years ago, on 14 February 1943, Jean Moulin landed from France at RAF Tangmere, near Chichester, in a Lysander from 161 'Special Duties' Squadron. This was not his first visit. He had previously impressed the aloof and distant de Gaulle when he visited him during the general's darkest days, on 25 October 1941. As a man of some stature the ex-<i>Prefet</i> of Chartres not only provided information about resistance in France, he also offered him a means to exploit and rally these diverse and relatively isolated <i>resistants</i> to his cause. At that time, a small minority of French people, anti-Nazis, Jews, Communists and anti-Petainistes amongst others, were creating their own resistance but they had no leader on the ground in France. De Gaulle, tucked away in London's Carlton Gardens, was an ethereal voice on the radio with pre-determined views about invading France with his Free French army. Moulin single-handedly convinced him that he had tens of thousands of <i>parachutistes sur place</i> ready to serve him but that if he didn't take the leadership reins, then the communists would. He was successful in his mission and when he returned to France as the official 'Delegate of the French National Committee to the Unoccupied Zone' his real work began.<br />
<br />
The second time he came to visit General de Gaulle, a great deal had changed. The Germans had invaded the southern zone, the so-called <i>zone libre,</i> on 11 November 1942 and the mountainous and wooded areas of the south, perfectly suited to guerilla warfare, were now firmly under German military control. Jean Moulin flew into RAF Tangmere with a strategy to unite the disparate elements of the newly emergent Resistance movement and rehabilitate the political parties around de Gaulle. This was no mean task after the <i>attentisme</i> that had followed the Armistice Agreement of July 1940 and the rewriting of the immediate past and the jockeying for position that was now, inevitably, taking place. De Gaulle's relationship with the Resistance was further compromised by the Allies' support for General Darlan in North Africa after the Allied landings in November 1942. With Petain in Vichy, Darlan in North Africa and a sulking de Gaulle in London, it was not at all clear who was to be crowned the sovereign leader of the French. When Darlan was assassinated, the USA and Roosevelt replaced him with General Giraud, a man untainted by even the slightest whiff of collaboration. De Gaulle's future depended on proving that Roosevelt's support for the newly appointed Giraud was misplaced and that only he, General de Gaulle, could speak for the whole of la belle France.<br />
<br />
Fired up with the powerful notion of a united Resistance under the ex patriot general's leadership directed from London, Moulin and de Gaulle hammered out the idea of a single Resistance council. On 21 February Jean Moulin drafted the proposal for the new body, a Resistance council, which would encompass both zones and incorporate representatives from the different Resistance movements and the estranged political parties. His first attempt to return to France with these precious instructions, took place on 24 February 1943. Due to fog, the Lysander, flown by Squadron Leader Hugh Verity, had to return to Tangmere, where it crash landed spectacularly. Miraculously, neither man was hurt despite the severity of the impact in a pea soup of a fog. A second attempt on 26 February also failed. It was not until 20 March that Moulin was finally set down near Roanne by 161 Squadron's Flight Lieutenant Bridger. Within weeks Moulin established the <i>Conseil National de la Resistance.</i><br />
<br />
It was a thankless task amongst the rivalries, vanities and hostilities of the different competing groups but it is a credit to Moulin that he was able to exploit all of these things to achieve his, and de Gaulle's, primary objective. The first meeting of the National Council of the Resistance [CNR] was held on 27 May 1943. His personal success was to be short lived. Less than a month later, Jean Moulin was arrested and brutally tortured by the notorious Klaus Barbie, dying shortly afterwards in a deportation car. The power struggles between the competing groups did not end with Moulin's death but de Gaulle's determination to shape France in his own image was given great credence by his sacrifice. When Andre Malraux spoke of him as being <i>le chef d'un peuple de la nuit</i> at the consecration ceremony for him at the Pantheon in December 1964, Moulin's legend, like the wily general's himself, was indelibly etched in the minds of all patriotic French men and women. On that bitterly cold winter's morning in Paris, he became a hero's hero. Vested in his bodily sacrifice was the resurrection of a nation. Despite Marcel Orphul's seminal film, '<i>Le Chagrin et la Pitie', </i>which showed the ugly underbelly of Resistance mythology, France has not looked back since and Moulin's legend lives on.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXEjwxfhzl45ikga83aisQG7ztMBjLu2DClbAXHzMsvDeWKXbzbSSOHg92ldI_wa9VTB5yIHLCLCodsXmFCBqoQFSFYhmsxiH5BhQjEDdi0yfr9xOpoWAgwat27n4LlKorkADycaGcAJo/s1600/P1010689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXEjwxfhzl45ikga83aisQG7ztMBjLu2DClbAXHzMsvDeWKXbzbSSOHg92ldI_wa9VTB5yIHLCLCodsXmFCBqoQFSFYhmsxiH5BhQjEDdi0yfr9xOpoWAgwat27n4LlKorkADycaGcAJo/s320/P1010689.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I was privileged last weekend, on the seventieth anniversary of Moulin's first attempt to return to France, to be invited to a commemoration of Jean Moulin's secret flights to and from RAF Tangmere, by the Friends of Chartres, <i>Les Amis des Jumelages de Chartres</i> and Tangmere Military Aviation Museum. A moving Service of Remembrance was led by the Rev Canon Tim Schofield in the Museum Memorial Garden, attended by many with connections to SOE, the Resistance and 161 Squadron, as well as the Deputy Mayor of Chartres and the Mayor of Chichester. It was followed by a tour of the museum and later, an RAF Operations Room Re-enactment at the Bishop Otter Campus at the University of Chichester, where the actual centre of operations for RAF Tangmere had taken place during the war.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAARHg9mTX9MocJfQe6Gvolkrs7kIpvReIj63rIFqPjjHptW8NoIddG7XGuYUsICxvvU56ER_VR_yhT_W_5cqlGv0fKrC3xEGc8dsSh2uK6dRri1t67K677wzox7d73LMEckYIuwc6WS8/s1600/P1010687.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAARHg9mTX9MocJfQe6Gvolkrs7kIpvReIj63rIFqPjjHptW8NoIddG7XGuYUsICxvvU56ER_VR_yhT_W_5cqlGv0fKrC3xEGc8dsSh2uK6dRri1t67K677wzox7d73LMEckYIuwc6WS8/s320/P1010687.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhGJ1Fu1LNT_rj8HPNYK1GEFiKpbRpZQjkxmL_3_APMQ8C887VBg6azLVyyCrSpSgv_yIu2Mml2HSP5E33uYL6p6xsr2YIT-aU5999hod_D1oG6i1S8pyKqTjTQWlc6QKaq2DHM-2moms/s1600/P1010693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhGJ1Fu1LNT_rj8HPNYK1GEFiKpbRpZQjkxmL_3_APMQ8C887VBg6azLVyyCrSpSgv_yIu2Mml2HSP5E33uYL6p6xsr2YIT-aU5999hod_D1oG6i1S8pyKqTjTQWlc6QKaq2DHM-2moms/s320/P1010693.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This was followed by an enlightening film made by Martyn Cox, who interviewed Jean Moulin's first pilot, the redoubtable Squadron Leader, Hugh Verity, in 2001, not long before his death. Martyn, who lives in France near Saint-Antonin, where Charlotte Gray was filmed, has interviewed many SOE agents, including the women who were the real 'Charlotte Grays'. Afterwards we had an extremely entertaining and enjoyable illustrated talk by Pete Pitman of the Tangmere Military Aviation Museum entitled 'A Day in the Life of a Pick-Up Pilot'. Remarkably, out of 410 Lysander sorties and 218 Hudson ones, they lost only six pilots and thirteen aircraft. Two of the pilots died trying to land in severe fog at Tangmere, which makes Hugh Verity's crash landing with Jean Moulin on the 24 February 1943 even more significant. Who knows what the history of the Resistance might have been had Verity not got his plane down eventually?</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnpNtsTQJq6N4PpabuRIA0RzQxVcfn8Uo8zqDAieU_r69ivRBQ46ANd-ZmGA5dkFtIelMKNPH8PWMKgj3xOollbLUeS1M7jSMRAaRJcdRFiGUrLIYGVz1Cc5emcg0v0yYirdxabBAbpg/s1600/P1010674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnpNtsTQJq6N4PpabuRIA0RzQxVcfn8Uo8zqDAieU_r69ivRBQ46ANd-ZmGA5dkFtIelMKNPH8PWMKgj3xOollbLUeS1M7jSMRAaRJcdRFiGUrLIYGVz1Cc5emcg0v0yYirdxabBAbpg/s320/P1010674.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The afternoon finished with a superb panel of experts discussing both Moulin and the Resistance: Julian Jackson, Professor of History at Queen Mary's College, University of London, and the author of 'France, The Dark Years'; Pete Pitman of RAF Tangmere; Harry Roderick "Rod" Kedward, Emeritus Professor of History at the University of Sussex and author of 'Resistance in France' and 'In Search of the Maquis' amongst many others, and Mathew Cobb, Professor of Zoology at the University of Manchester and the author of 'Resistance'. The day finished with a showing of that great Resistance film from 1969, directed by Jean-Pierre Melville, <i>'L'Armee des Ombres',</i> starring the phenomenal Simone Signoret as the compromised <i>resistant, M</i>athilde. The choice of film, which included a Lysander drop-off and pick-up, was a fitting tribute to a great Resistance hero and the men of the RAF who aided them. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
. </div>
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-40284959312128106302013-02-13T13:59:00.000-08:002013-03-02T03:44:41.637-08:00There Is Never Any End To Paris<br />
.......with apologies to Ernest Hemmingway. I've just realised that it is two years since I posted 'I Love Paris Anytime', and four months since I posted a blog at all [but that's another story]. While I love the Paris of the Belle Epoque, and that of Hemmingway and his literary cohort, I am, as ever, always drawn back to the Marais. The Deux Magots, the Closerie des Lilas and the Cafe Flore of St Germain-des-Pres are full of tourists with loud voices, many of them wishing simply to relive a little bit of Paris's romantic past. There is nothing wrong with that, especially since Woody Allen did such a great job on 'Midnight in Paris', but there are better and cheaper watering holes in the 4th and 11th Arrondisements.<br />
<br />
No matter how hard I try, I still find it difficult to forgive Jean-Paul Sartre for his ambivalence during the early years of the Occupation, not least because he was desperate to have his plays performed. Whoah! I hear you say. What else could he do? I know it's a difficult one but it wasn't true of Andre Malreux, Albert Camus, Lisa Triolet, Jean Bruller [Vercors], Jean Cassou, Louis Aragon and many others. He finally justified his position, writing 'La Republique du Silence' in 1944. Camus defended him by saying that Sartre was a writer who resisted, not a resister who wrote, but methinks it was too little, too late.<br />
<br />
The Left Bank is not that far from the Marais but during those dark years, it was a different world. Whilst Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir were warming their hands on the pot bellied stoves of their favourite cafes and drinking ersatz coffees, their fellow citizens a short walk across the river were in fear for their lives. Jews had flocked to the Marais since the pogroms of the 19th century, taking up residence in the narrow streets of rue des Rosiers, rue Ferdinand-Duval and rue des Ecouffes. The Pletzl, as this vibrant, noisy and cramped part of the Marais was called, was decimated on 16th July 1942 when everything changed forever in the round-ups. Only a fraction of those deported returned, leaving appartments and shops there for the taking.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhydkjHXIjZOd36x0uRWvD1HMbNnPRxd_B8BIV9elOWyq2H8EzD_590aA4KbZfhNf6R4dmqGFs_r79tKm0-qPTFc18HAxSAy7iHwtzK1vHxrYHSrDy2cDccLotgYKxT2MSJorvKdBIfSaM/s1600/IMG_0521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhydkjHXIjZOd36x0uRWvD1HMbNnPRxd_B8BIV9elOWyq2H8EzD_590aA4KbZfhNf6R4dmqGFs_r79tKm0-qPTFc18HAxSAy7iHwtzK1vHxrYHSrDy2cDccLotgYKxT2MSJorvKdBIfSaM/s320/IMG_0521.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
These days the Marais is once again a trendy part of town but the vestiges of its Jewish history remain in many of the food shops, many with a menora in the window or a star of David on the shop sign. There are patisseries, boulangeries, chocolatiers, butchers, cafes and restaurants mixed in with newer, trendy boutiques and the whole area, even on a cold, February Wednesday evening, is abuzz with local residents and adventurous tourists alike. I like to think that Paris has not forgotten this area's history.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcKq1oo3jgM6uBOXBoPZ3veXHwo7zS-Yne8_6WeC2HGmeY8SxjHjrmbHyEBiMXYC9qlsaGxTqGVthaStq2lpcarbOMXQAmdWT6sLJKMqwuvkOQD242TFjKQablaysUxVDbTUrnVdRNRTY/s1600/IMG_0557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcKq1oo3jgM6uBOXBoPZ3veXHwo7zS-Yne8_6WeC2HGmeY8SxjHjrmbHyEBiMXYC9qlsaGxTqGVthaStq2lpcarbOMXQAmdWT6sLJKMqwuvkOQD242TFjKQablaysUxVDbTUrnVdRNRTY/s320/IMG_0557.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
The area is only a short walk from the serene and stately Place des Vosges, built by Henri IV in 1605, one of the most beautiful squares in Paris. Far too cold to sit and soak up the atmosphere, I couldn't resist the temptation to pop into the warmth and opulence of Victor Hugo's sumptuous appartment tucked into a corner here. It's about as far from the Paris of the barricades as it's possible to imagine but it's always uplifting to visit the residence of a successful writer, poet, musician or artist. It gives us lesser mortals hope. An unexpected bonus is that entrance is free.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb2nMFrgZwvvEf2rm5vCOhSL3ehsBNPehqnmOLl2XE3gEJGE-DyLDkDpzgPg4Delr7azzFQAdfHswgUs2KmTMfUiFZzl79oI7qSVmXomU2wskVXTNz_38lz7DYRkBC21w1NKFP2-sH_AE/s1600/P1010510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb2nMFrgZwvvEf2rm5vCOhSL3ehsBNPehqnmOLl2XE3gEJGE-DyLDkDpzgPg4Delr7azzFQAdfHswgUs2KmTMfUiFZzl79oI7qSVmXomU2wskVXTNz_38lz7DYRkBC21w1NKFP2-sH_AE/s320/P1010510.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMHSBqh44EbnuwV1TCRJSHeAfx5ZR8k7jl8BqqrICXhoMJpJLt4HX_-_UxP4bEjZ-cli384OyJQBezxNp8t2eIF48W6Fpy5yiTQchwM2KFUihk_69wueNz33P627DLVAxhV08okNojais/s1600/P1010497.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMHSBqh44EbnuwV1TCRJSHeAfx5ZR8k7jl8BqqrICXhoMJpJLt4HX_-_UxP4bEjZ-cli384OyJQBezxNp8t2eIF48W6Fpy5yiTQchwM2KFUihk_69wueNz33P627DLVAxhV08okNojais/s320/P1010497.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Another free museum not far from here and well worth a look is the Musee Carnavalet, which houses an enormous collection dating from the Renaissance to the present day. It was opened to the public in 1880 and contains 2,600 paintings, 20,000 drawings, 300,000 engravings, 150,000 photographs, 2,000 sculptures, 800 pieces of furniture, as well as thousands of ceramics, street signs, coins and other artefacts from five hundred years of Parisian history. It was bulging so much at the seams that the Municipalite of Paris purchased the neighbouring Hotel Le Peletier de Saint Fargeau, to which it is now linked by a corridor of 20th century paintings. It is an enormous, elegant warren of a place where you never seem to know where you are. I constantly found myself gazing in awe at the unexpected, not least the complete reconstruction of the room in which Marcel Proust lay on his bed and wrote 'A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu', a stunning Mucha designed Art Nouveau boutique and everything you ever wanted to know about the demise of Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, Marat, Danton, Robespierre and St Juste. For anyone with kids studying the French Revolution, I cannot recommend it highly enough - the sheer physicality of the exhibits makes the hairs on the back of one's neck tingle. If you like French antiques, this is better than any book or catalogue.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfEcqhtK3SmGGyTeZIBxDviu5FuBps3zzsobzxGSiJbRLOQwTA1WQ75ZWlnJzG_MdXerk1YOMNVylBt6Jyunkbi_SCK_8p2dQXiMcYnGTdIXej3gkdhfzKoYOsDpItKKyHbdVKX1Zeo4/s1600/IMG_0464.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfEcqhtK3SmGGyTeZIBxDviu5FuBps3zzsobzxGSiJbRLOQwTA1WQ75ZWlnJzG_MdXerk1YOMNVylBt6Jyunkbi_SCK_8p2dQXiMcYnGTdIXej3gkdhfzKoYOsDpItKKyHbdVKX1Zeo4/s320/IMG_0464.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bB-BO6HSP1ZP43BWcjZbBXtmlRpeYAXUDRnhJFhR4fddmsc9uyaAb4b7UUDynZ8WP0veYIIb7Tr2qHxY4dHjk8DcnOyQK2Y91IYK_qtlCnHHaxXvzEpx88KfmJkC-1EQz6ENWVa-hHA/s1600/IMG_0481.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bB-BO6HSP1ZP43BWcjZbBXtmlRpeYAXUDRnhJFhR4fddmsc9uyaAb4b7UUDynZ8WP0veYIIb7Tr2qHxY4dHjk8DcnOyQK2Y91IYK_qtlCnHHaxXvzEpx88KfmJkC-1EQz6ENWVa-hHA/s320/IMG_0481.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGbHhsmS7Le3lPHMdz_NGmXxu7QNbsdlcSOQAyX-k2iH9B3K419alWd4jCp3Olo3YDG96MWCftQi1MSPs787c-AwIbH2W1m3aLCMHDbzhAbpzshZs2Orshf9CAYKlVO-diuTl5qRxgZrQ/s1600/IMG_0472.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGbHhsmS7Le3lPHMdz_NGmXxu7QNbsdlcSOQAyX-k2iH9B3K419alWd4jCp3Olo3YDG96MWCftQi1MSPs787c-AwIbH2W1m3aLCMHDbzhAbpzshZs2Orshf9CAYKlVO-diuTl5qRxgZrQ/s320/IMG_0472.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Close to the metro, the mighty Jesuit church of Saint Paul-Saint Louis, whose first mass was celebrated on 9th May 1641 by the most powerful Jesuit of them all, Cardinal Richelieu, is testament to the great power of the mighty educational order that educated both my brothers. Inevitably, their power waned with that of their benefactors and in 1762, the order was suppressed by the <i>Parlement</i>. On 2nd September 1792, five priests were hacked to death in the September massacres and on one pillar, there is a faded inscription from the 1871 Commune, <i>Republique francaise ou la mort</i>. Victor Hugo's daughter, Leopoldine, was secretly married here on 18th February 1843 and Victor Hugo donated the two lovely marble clam shell holy water fonts in commemoration. Also to be seen is Dalacroix's stunning painting, probably from 1824, of 'Christ in Agony on the Mount of Olives'. Sadly, it was the only Delacroix I got to see this trip because, the following day, the young 'jobs-worth' in charge of the Musee Delacroix [in St Germain-des-Pres] wouldn't let me in at half past four! Merde! Merde! Merde!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq73SpJeu5dUWiinjDnP-ioe76_8El4RbVhxJn9D0z6QD_nqyF0iaIghTMfhPdjRKtmYjU4Q348_EFXCuz7jVQp8xm_GNePtE2SXZB9-KIhHnmIz0LPoTtYad_4fVniOTLRDVrTLO0M-Q/s1600/IMG_0453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq73SpJeu5dUWiinjDnP-ioe76_8El4RbVhxJn9D0z6QD_nqyF0iaIghTMfhPdjRKtmYjU4Q348_EFXCuz7jVQp8xm_GNePtE2SXZB9-KIhHnmIz0LPoTtYad_4fVniOTLRDVrTLO0M-Q/s320/IMG_0453.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My hotel was close to Pere Lachaise cemetery, named after another famous Jesuit, Pere Francois de la Chaise, confessor to Louis XIV. After my trip to the Musee Carnavalet, I wanted to see the 'Mur des Federes', the Communard's Wall. There, 147 defenders of the working class district of Belleville were put up against the wall and shot on the last day of the <i>Semaine Sanglante</i>, the bitter end of a week's bloodshed that ended the 1871 Commune. I walked the length of the perimeter wall in freezing temperatures to find this monument, simply a <i>stele</i> with the date in front of a much repaired wall and not a bullet hole in sight. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
En route, though, I discovered the magnificent sculptured monuments to the victims of the various concentration camps and the graves of most of the significant communists of recent French history. It's amazing what you find when you are not looking, I always think. And, of course, I had to go and see what they'd done to Oscar and Jacob Epstein's sculptured tombstone since they banned the lipstick kisses. I was dreading the over-reaction that we've seen so often with other works of art [my pet hate is the glass case around Michaelangelo's Pieta in St Peter's Basilica in Rome, where you can no longer walk around it]. I have to say that it's not too bad - just enough to protect the lower part of the mellow stone [and the missing bits of the angel's vital parts] but not completely covering the whole monument. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxoxYx_r6Hgcp9hOhtInVhKXd0lJIIAtUuoXSMg2ZclAUGZEbSfRsFuoFhTgsXCOS-pjUTrw-EjBy9hVWzuP7QLe8jedYhW5QZ0DwJro434Njf-expAnnq_88mexwQXQnwk2HeRzX2yUU/s1600/IMG_0652.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxoxYx_r6Hgcp9hOhtInVhKXd0lJIIAtUuoXSMg2ZclAUGZEbSfRsFuoFhTgsXCOS-pjUTrw-EjBy9hVWzuP7QLe8jedYhW5QZ0DwJro434Njf-expAnnq_88mexwQXQnwk2HeRzX2yUU/s320/IMG_0652.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMSxVkElZMAan7rF0F-SKIhvnjnII8X506idrjnC8lU_X2dIIVq9y9UzYwLVdyk7QzPNuWF-Dss1BTwZ_8G2Ms-YEskk5FsEENsQyHmbUbhEt96hC4J6rGaF4PVplTjmQs66BzFgemysU/s1600/IMG_0625.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMSxVkElZMAan7rF0F-SKIhvnjnII8X506idrjnC8lU_X2dIIVq9y9UzYwLVdyk7QzPNuWF-Dss1BTwZ_8G2Ms-YEskk5FsEENsQyHmbUbhEt96hC4J6rGaF4PVplTjmQs66BzFgemysU/s320/IMG_0625.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div>
By now, I really did feel the urge to head for somewhere warm so a quick scoot on the Metro to the Left Bank, to the cafe <i>les editeurs</i>, my ideal cafe, full of comfortable seats, real tea and books galore.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtnLOLEDD-LjRKK3MdQQn4AF3X8Z_stE8UsHECU5KHg2XNPn1HcmC7Wb9V6etQRQm73MgfURZVmERHVi9giSaKWPpgT7gce_G5bRoCZZwT6q7hTqEoETCKUKmVg5tin_OunYU4WGQogg/s1600/IMG_0704.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtnLOLEDD-LjRKK3MdQQn4AF3X8Z_stE8UsHECU5KHg2XNPn1HcmC7Wb9V6etQRQm73MgfURZVmERHVi9giSaKWPpgT7gce_G5bRoCZZwT6q7hTqEoETCKUKmVg5tin_OunYU4WGQogg/s320/IMG_0704.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEOEnfgedYypcs03-N3U8xrtGOBUoJ_SbIX3BvXgHFghu_ucSF6C_Z5CTUaTgYflAomExWjP7prkLMC_Ol5gcLVlm_wA1tJ9y2dIJn5lpBRH75r6FiQG416tZ_n3ZRorC6TZ5vGVsg2lI/s1600/IMG_0699.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEOEnfgedYypcs03-N3U8xrtGOBUoJ_SbIX3BvXgHFghu_ucSF6C_Z5CTUaTgYflAomExWjP7prkLMC_Ol5gcLVlm_wA1tJ9y2dIJn5lpBRH75r6FiQG416tZ_n3ZRorC6TZ5vGVsg2lI/s320/IMG_0699.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpEK8mBPUy1KmYBo0hvj80mwRAt1eqv1GHYMiPd9YRVXQsrEuCQEPkv2NsWVTcJbEAvHgxCA6mKQPnFxU-uaPmihk2Z7JwAL_WAXXp8jd6OFQFeufM7yyNQzbCZTtmILdbC8hEYHTqg-I/s1600/IMG_0700.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpEK8mBPUy1KmYBo0hvj80mwRAt1eqv1GHYMiPd9YRVXQsrEuCQEPkv2NsWVTcJbEAvHgxCA6mKQPnFxU-uaPmihk2Z7JwAL_WAXXp8jd6OFQFeufM7yyNQzbCZTtmILdbC8hEYHTqg-I/s320/IMG_0700.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There is nothing more stimulating than reading a good book or newspaper, writing a diary, a letter or five hundred words of a possible story with a good cup of coffee or hot chocolate on the table and the buzz of other like minded people around. Why do I have to come to Paris to do this, I wonder? Ah, well, any excuse. There is never any end to Paris............</div>
<div>
</div>
Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-14963549992964839702012-10-09T13:13:00.000-07:002012-10-10T03:51:42.649-07:00A Cinderella in St Emilion<br />
<br />
<br />
An invitation to one of the wine producing areas of France is always guaranteed to test my willpower. No matter how much work I should be doing, the temptation proves too great and I am forced off my backside and onto the A62 as quickly as you can say cabernet franc. I am certainly no wine snob but supermarket plonk, no matter how passable, is no substitute for the real merlot. With the prospect of a Michelin <i>deux etoiles </i>dinner and a night of unadulterated luxury beckoning, so it was that I set off on a trip on a sunny Friday morning to one of the best hostelleries in Bordeaux region. A former monastery, the Hostellerie de Plaissance is set high above the medieval promontory which is the ochre town of St Emilion.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCVymgJlefosD-VIROTi789d9pKUiZbuZfSy_5xXgF_NhXpmw3TDhFMKPg2iVLSMUHda_ru8qtUvTzz0XIvc5KKtiio4iE5QNrxthtciCWo27UrfJzz2DoL30yiZM_lgRRXCHXUwC9hQM/s1600/P1010111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCVymgJlefosD-VIROTi789d9pKUiZbuZfSy_5xXgF_NhXpmw3TDhFMKPg2iVLSMUHda_ru8qtUvTzz0XIvc5KKtiio4iE5QNrxthtciCWo27UrfJzz2DoL30yiZM_lgRRXCHXUwC9hQM/s320/P1010111.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This beautiful medieval town is a UNESCO world heritage site that has been a centre for wine growing for two thousand years. The town is built of limestone which gives it its warm and welcoming glow. Here we were in the first week of October, parched and sleeveless, with no hint of autumn in the air. Daytime temperatures remained in the high twenties and the purple grapes were still firmly attached to their vines. Most of the tourists had gone home and the narrow streets were pleasantly empty, so it felt strange to know that the busiest time in the winemaker's year was still ahead. It almost seemed as if the population of the town had evaporated, leaving a mass of empty wine shops, boutiques and bars, like a film set after the crew has left. Of the few inhabitants remaining, no one seemed to know exactly when it would be all systems go for the <i>vendage</i>. Some said this week, others next, a few simply shrugged their shoulders and looked up at the sky.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijG9vrvXNhCCP7j7GcMkBt9NHn5-dj4eG96FxdRnLxUNclnZocxtSN3lrq1fXafhcuL5MXohdH7oux5UjHkchacQZuqNibrrJH_JHRGOz_OEg_JGVPfLr9gIdp4qnj_pMgS5VsRGp03QA/s1600/P1010123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijG9vrvXNhCCP7j7GcMkBt9NHn5-dj4eG96FxdRnLxUNclnZocxtSN3lrq1fXafhcuL5MXohdH7oux5UjHkchacQZuqNibrrJH_JHRGOz_OEg_JGVPfLr9gIdp4qnj_pMgS5VsRGp03QA/s320/P1010123.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
St Emilion has a Jurade, founded in 1199 by the same King John who signed the Magna Carta, whose members control the quality of the wine and classify it. This 'privilege' meant that English wine merchants had priority over everyone else when buying the wines of St Emilion. The French Revolution soon put a stop to that! In 1948, several of the town's winemakers resuscitated the Jurade in order to promote their wines and guarantee their authenticity and quality. Until 1985, those not in the know still remained somewhat mystified about the relative quality of different wines within their control. Now, much to many people's fury, there is a more stratified and transparent system.<br />
<br />
The very best wines are classified <i>premier grand cru classe A </i>[the stellar wines of Chateau Aussone and Chateau Cheval Blanc]<i> </i>and <i>premier cru classe B </i>[Chateau Angelus, Chateau Beau-Sejour-Becot, Chateau Beausejour-Duffau- Lagarosse, Chateau Belair, Chateau Canon, Clos Fourtet, Chateau Figeac, Chateau La Gaffeliere, Chateau Magdelaine, Chateau Pavie, Chateau Pavie-Macquin and Chateau Trottevielle]<i>.</i> The rest are designated <i>grand cru classe </i>[around sixty chateaux]<i>, grand cru </i>and <i>AOC St Emilion. </i>Furthermore, every ten years the list is now revised, with every classified property required to submit a new dossier to be re-included.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipaaymOKKZiRTeROFTm3NfjwfP5TIKznt9tebQB9OY8ZrCsp9kJ2NI5p6dYI1IYUs7c00Irs2CrryizhMQUwbWCSRQOKcutr6YRantnYebgJZzgbwcaWa_FfWwgTpK8ZHVYa6XAyKruVY/s1600/P1010160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipaaymOKKZiRTeROFTm3NfjwfP5TIKznt9tebQB9OY8ZrCsp9kJ2NI5p6dYI1IYUs7c00Irs2CrryizhMQUwbWCSRQOKcutr6YRantnYebgJZzgbwcaWa_FfWwgTpK8ZHVYa6XAyKruVY/s320/P1010160.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKyYippd40it8fBkm3JvK4eEjG-3S9w1PqEdKzG7aOLExJVOD5_wfZRi-AGHw6vs9HSKIPtkcQV2IBeyj8Umntteq8i02t_CZElXe69KpNffG3cb_SUrfBM4M-aeClAe3LXVewwSJ3Dug/s1600/P1010163.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKyYippd40it8fBkm3JvK4eEjG-3S9w1PqEdKzG7aOLExJVOD5_wfZRi-AGHw6vs9HSKIPtkcQV2IBeyj8Umntteq8i02t_CZElXe69KpNffG3cb_SUrfBM4M-aeClAe3LXVewwSJ3Dug/s320/P1010163.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
There are about a thousand producers in total, most of which are small, with between them about 5,400 hectaires under vine, constituting about 6% of the Bordeaux region's total. The key to St Emilion's wines is the merlot grape, which accounts for some seventy per cent of plantings and can constitute anything from eighty to fifty per cent of the juice. The remainder is made up of Cabernet Franc [called Bouchet here] and occasionally, a small percentage of cabernet sauvignon. Because of the merlot grape's capacity to rot, plantings of cabernet sauvignon were encouraged during the 1970's. It has since been discovered that they do not usually do well on the predominantly clay soils of St Emilion, preferring gravelly soils. Chateau Pavie, for instance, uses 60% merlot, 30% cabernet franc and 10% cabernet sauvignon. Unusually Cheval Blanc, because of its atypical terroir, uses an exceptionally high cabernet franc content [58% / 42% merlot] ] which is what makes it so distinctive.<br />
<br />
The wines of St Emilion should be rich, deep coloured, with concentrated fruit and so little tannin that even non red wine drinkers are instantly captivated. In outlying villages, similar wines are produced and these are allowed to add St Emilion to the village name [St Georges, Puisseguin, Lussac and Montagne]. Many of these village wines are of excellent quality and value. The wine maker of Chateau Petrus, in nearby Pomerol, Jean-Claude Berrouet, is now the <i>proprietaire </i>of Vieux Chateau Saint Andre in Montagne St Emilion, where he makes his wines in exactly the same way as at Petrus, with marvellous results. We were given a bottle of his 2009 for Sunday lunch by a friend who knows him, which was drinking well now but could certainly be kept for another six to ten years.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmVUTFcA0T1qSGp8kn-PHIr0D6jQvLtX9mSDG1OeYtTLm3wb0ZYNStPs4vwe2qDNJz8WyTvt62yIFdtITNB5A4UbfU25_UFO05EdXOixyXfD73NOqUoCIBYf3UkSK7fItDXIIwxxMOrDE/s1600/P1010115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmVUTFcA0T1qSGp8kn-PHIr0D6jQvLtX9mSDG1OeYtTLm3wb0ZYNStPs4vwe2qDNJz8WyTvt62yIFdtITNB5A4UbfU25_UFO05EdXOixyXfD73NOqUoCIBYf3UkSK7fItDXIIwxxMOrDE/s320/P1010115.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The Hostellerie de Plaissance was once a monastery, which is not surprising as in the 8th Century a monk named Emilion, from Vannes in Brittany, chose to withdraw from the world here and devote his life to solitude and prayer. Obviously, he failed at his primary task, for word of his miracles was widely circulated and his reputation spread far beyond the Dordogne Valley. Many disciples flocked to Ascumbas [the original name of St Emilion] to be by his side. He must have had the 8th Century X Factor because his followers were so evangelised that they named what was to become a major monastic centre after him. He died in AD767 but the town of St Emilion thrived around his hermitage and became a place of pilgrimage thereafter. The Plaissance has had a much more secular history, having been an inn, then a restaurant with music and dancing and now a luxury hotel owned by the Perse family, the owners of Chateau Pavie.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPp_HjO9oFrQNXhNL7VbmRJoUpHmX3ahys-wEkXu5YQLIkO8lQzRw-fR3kKv5FgWIPrMmWQn9HCZM9qjASA-dTdAkHDItOzzDB3rDeOKrwKmmmJBNL9Wm3VAht1mhIIXoZ7Q3fQFGT-UE/s1600/P1010114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPp_HjO9oFrQNXhNL7VbmRJoUpHmX3ahys-wEkXu5YQLIkO8lQzRw-fR3kKv5FgWIPrMmWQn9HCZM9qjASA-dTdAkHDItOzzDB3rDeOKrwKmmmJBNL9Wm3VAht1mhIIXoZ7Q3fQFGT-UE/s320/P1010114.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsqgRYJVHh6JWNKz6B-EhyMnjbPVlktJicvDZw36YJSnf1t9OvHwihWIChOdirvAqbcJABDuWV-EQZz29xLew7W8JknONXyz6jVpWOCq6_Cw2WTIh5B67NPeWnE0g2ubCVEsHcTXG2Ts/s1600/P1010129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsqgRYJVHh6JWNKz6B-EhyMnjbPVlktJicvDZw36YJSnf1t9OvHwihWIChOdirvAqbcJABDuWV-EQZz29xLew7W8JknONXyz6jVpWOCq6_Cw2WTIh5B67NPeWnE0g2ubCVEsHcTXG2Ts/s320/P1010129.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Our bedroom required three lifts to descend, giving us a real sense of the architectural history of St Emilion. Between the first two, we walked through a gorgeous garden alongside the remains of a medieval cloister where the designer, Alberto Pinto, has carefully preserved the old catacomb behind a wall of glass. Over a wall was a tiny, ancient church tucked away from the outside world, worthy of the hermit himself. Another lift took us to our room where, in the peace and quiet, an early evening nap was to prove a fait accompli. Like Cinderella, refreshed and raring to go after a luxurious soak in assorted Clarins beauty products provided for our indulgence [no pumpkin oil!], we set off back upwards to go to the evening's gourmet dinnet.<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvPdouwnbmXZt8KuCC5AIv_rfe0vk-rQRougHqeiWBJiEHENcMIxUEbjJ1aNFeI3UiAXGlVRIxYVGLyyC3c1Ak3DQ4vuHIW5oXmIBPholjpzYNMIVvSuL0mN9zIluuruAsVCZsU1fLZw/s1600/P1010134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvPdouwnbmXZt8KuCC5AIv_rfe0vk-rQRougHqeiWBJiEHENcMIxUEbjJ1aNFeI3UiAXGlVRIxYVGLyyC3c1Ak3DQ4vuHIW5oXmIBPholjpzYNMIVvSuL0mN9zIluuruAsVCZsU1fLZw/s320/P1010134.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoJMkYT67PyH1Ehpq_zXWMDG00lTbyFio_ScIhTLbqTPhX4OcyOZ9F7t6Mj44ulmzG1SfbbSvDr5_YBRxfYQsEQpZDrAwoGRzT9P3n4qiruQCVhFrPpIuHLH_Yjn29B4nU_411fLaKj10/s1600/P1010137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoJMkYT67PyH1Ehpq_zXWMDG00lTbyFio_ScIhTLbqTPhX4OcyOZ9F7t6Mj44ulmzG1SfbbSvDr5_YBRxfYQsEQpZDrAwoGRzT9P3n4qiruQCVhFrPpIuHLH_Yjn29B4nU_411fLaKj10/s320/P1010137.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Friday night's dinner was one of those rare occasions in life where the stars are in alignment and we give thanks for living in the best of all possible worlds. Fifteen of us had met up again after many intervening years, from San Francisco, Las Vegas, New York, London and Brighton. Most of our rather raucous group, suitably tucked away in our own private dining room, were on a 'Backroads' cycling tour through the region. It would not be possible to indulge otherwise, for we had ten courses excluding the delicious <i>amuses bouches</i> of snails, foie-gras and other tasty morsels to accompany the excellent <i>aperros</i>. The restaurant has two Michelin stars courtesy of its star chef and manager, Philippe Etchebest, named <i>Meilleur Ouvrier de France </i>in 2000.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiekfoVySITSjywCUAHGm0ZUfnUjmc63XEAinC1KopB4ruWeyT0taGLilvZlev5qaHM-Cq3hrfn0PgoOd4k5ihvKid2f9JPgDnRU62GG9RdiBA1xZB35E1jKIvp6WmQ1gs4SFI9GqLpGp8/s1600/P1010116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiekfoVySITSjywCUAHGm0ZUfnUjmc63XEAinC1KopB4ruWeyT0taGLilvZlev5qaHM-Cq3hrfn0PgoOd4k5ihvKid2f9JPgDnRU62GG9RdiBA1xZB35E1jKIvp6WmQ1gs4SFI9GqLpGp8/s320/P1010116.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
It would take too long to describe each course in the glowing detail that it deserves but I will try! Suffice it to say that we started with a creamy pumpkin soup with chestnuts and a hazelnut cream, then 'Sturia' Aquitaine caviar, a speciality of the chef, served with celery puree, green apple jelly, dill yoghurt, cucumber, caviar cream and tangerine oil. This was followed by the fluffiest egg dish I have ever tasted, flavoured with asparagus and tobiko wasabi, topped with a parmesan crumble, and served with a tiny tartine of bellota Guijuelo ham.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjI5Tk6fT7JxCjge1wONOIqznjK0Nofa5RNanq34gr9JgitwbkEZ36v395CNU_FGtnkeHTSYZuS16NHwKYMgR3ZrbCnhFpnGUEh_sGfFirRhb9sG1zhUPPzGhBbjcSHoTS1MAvqiajNtI/s1600/P1010139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjI5Tk6fT7JxCjge1wONOIqznjK0Nofa5RNanq34gr9JgitwbkEZ36v395CNU_FGtnkeHTSYZuS16NHwKYMgR3ZrbCnhFpnGUEh_sGfFirRhb9sG1zhUPPzGhBbjcSHoTS1MAvqiajNtI/s320/P1010139.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvzaQtxyh193iFccYyDEARKDAlHcYiQ3LLiQ2pwO457dNVrTqC3ttfRRqrJXGAA-urlFUkxNDLLoTOVT-3NFp4xy8zNlxzPf_oAOhqMdgnkxFNS-s8Rn7xrJweK2EXp7AJTa4d6k4b00/s1600/P1010141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvzaQtxyh193iFccYyDEARKDAlHcYiQ3LLiQ2pwO457dNVrTqC3ttfRRqrJXGAA-urlFUkxNDLLoTOVT-3NFp4xy8zNlxzPf_oAOhqMdgnkxFNS-s8Rn7xrJweK2EXp7AJTa4d6k4b00/s320/P1010141.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGHZQQGgp5L565D6NVq-8szSrV0S00b2EnoWO6ZX7S8IddfRzJ-pd7Yg0Dv_j8_tquu1pqMmDGMstTAXt-nZJwAYQJpAkEKs_sVxtqZ0SGNseQp8KLAnLRTqFK1nGmhvTM16mPJ3dH_g/s1600/P1010142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGHZQQGgp5L565D6NVq-8szSrV0S00b2EnoWO6ZX7S8IddfRzJ-pd7Yg0Dv_j8_tquu1pqMmDGMstTAXt-nZJwAYQJpAkEKs_sVxtqZ0SGNseQp8KLAnLRTqFK1nGmhvTM16mPJ3dH_g/s320/P1010142.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Then came a divine fillet of pan sauteed cod served with a crispy mushroom risotto, followed by oxtail in steamed spaghetti ribbons with lobster, aromatic herbs, button mushrooms and a creamy shellfish sauce.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRTITDPHWLenWWhUbHmy7NCQDV1QTpDLZM6gispl4nihDUxw8s3O0rEVfcMH-N4tzbGAE1iLO64EV5DCqbe0kgdgvdtlK4swJEc79QaYwM_AIMbqkwO_EKShMN_l9RhAzB6HVNhgGv-10/s1600/P1010145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRTITDPHWLenWWhUbHmy7NCQDV1QTpDLZM6gispl4nihDUxw8s3O0rEVfcMH-N4tzbGAE1iLO64EV5DCqbe0kgdgvdtlK4swJEc79QaYwM_AIMbqkwO_EKShMN_l9RhAzB6HVNhgGv-10/s320/P1010145.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy6CdEPr4G56MroZnT7ZvNeuyHto1Lvr90lJMOfo9Mk2K0Azkk6IiPxxiqxIyL8S5fMU26oVTqcMPE_1ucao3qc5eEGS7wN3gipw9vQ8QBHkbdbrIEnQQGIs78olL_iPcvzYCHbbPQYyU/s1600/P1010146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy6CdEPr4G56MroZnT7ZvNeuyHto1Lvr90lJMOfo9Mk2K0Azkk6IiPxxiqxIyL8S5fMU26oVTqcMPE_1ucao3qc5eEGS7wN3gipw9vQ8QBHkbdbrIEnQQGIs78olL_iPcvzYCHbbPQYyU/s320/P1010146.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6enKZuPCNblNx-rwSdpL8WJNX5R7ONVpdetL20taBLtUossDHslm3k2BSyYkJD5ur3AHyipjBrnRDpvU8-xCHca9j7b1nOobWwVS24_JyM2gSrp3f-TdNicjtuvqhUKaQ2dMKa7nA4B0/s1600/P1010153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6enKZuPCNblNx-rwSdpL8WJNX5R7ONVpdetL20taBLtUossDHslm3k2BSyYkJD5ur3AHyipjBrnRDpvU8-xCHca9j7b1nOobWwVS24_JyM2gSrp3f-TdNicjtuvqhUKaQ2dMKa7nA4B0/s320/P1010153.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
A delicate cheese course led on to the most scrumptious chocolate dessert with a passion fruit sorbet.....and a raspberry dessert in a rose champagne jelly with a rose sorbet and a grapefruit mousse. I vowed that I wouldn't eat the <i>petits fours</i>, but I did, of course, and then finished the night off with <i>cafe </i>and fifteen year old armagnac on the terrace!<br />
<br />
Philippe Etchebest popped in to say 'Bon soir' and very kindly let me be photographed alongside him. He is the epitome of the <i>gentilhomme</i> and rather like a French Heston Blumenthal.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MDC2uTXTy8TohrNSUhOpYbBv3T5HAG7j6G0519fub6lQ3c3-V7qj-BOGqcV6CbP-JNmvcn9YtlPQGO0WIJu4HtyF4Cyoc66fpicq4JhihjOYlruPmY7LrG3uTwQ4GwlhbQN9iMxV82s/s1600/P1010150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MDC2uTXTy8TohrNSUhOpYbBv3T5HAG7j6G0519fub6lQ3c3-V7qj-BOGqcV6CbP-JNmvcn9YtlPQGO0WIJu4HtyF4Cyoc66fpicq4JhihjOYlruPmY7LrG3uTwQ4GwlhbQN9iMxV82s/s320/P1010150.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The following morning, we managed a lie in, unlike everyone else who set off keenly <i>en bicyclette</i> at 9.00 am. They chalked up a good twenty- five kilometres before we met up with them at Chateau Beau-Sejour-Becot, one of the elite group of <i>premier cru classe B </i>estates. They produce 85,000 bottles and their wine is 70% merlot, 24% cabernet franc and 6% cabernet sauvignon. Surviving trenches carved into the limestone confirm that the Romans cultivated wines here. In medieval times the estate belonged to the monks of the nearby foundation of St-Martin-de-Mazerat, then to the lords of Camarsac. Due to its limestone caves, which provided the perfect hiding place, much wine was hidden from the Nazi occupiers during the second world war.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaz1aHv3rq9QgZV8CU8KhZop9l5NhkpQZm2RYsXmw3T9-JpVHEXMJE6kBNUGY8cGaLVbDf2e5VOicEieVwI7xRSwj6nlcojV4tUMuxekqQIgtdwixr7TW5AkUendNc_Pv6AwVBQ0G0jys/s1600/P1010175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaz1aHv3rq9QgZV8CU8KhZop9l5NhkpQZm2RYsXmw3T9-JpVHEXMJE6kBNUGY8cGaLVbDf2e5VOicEieVwI7xRSwj6nlcojV4tUMuxekqQIgtdwixr7TW5AkUendNc_Pv6AwVBQ0G0jys/s320/P1010175.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVc7-O94CnEDHEhmdGIL1k2RjZ0bNxhL-eu14jX74syN2ljeTAIInpt6X1UhBGxxITzZMOx3Mh9vtv4dchQ9bVYxzHL6eFLlosSh2kBNVygGLtN5LEZk0VxWyIhLT6dXFyw_byTh68zSA/s1600/P1010165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVc7-O94CnEDHEhmdGIL1k2RjZ0bNxhL-eu14jX74syN2ljeTAIInpt6X1UhBGxxITzZMOx3Mh9vtv4dchQ9bVYxzHL6eFLlosSh2kBNVygGLtN5LEZk0VxWyIhLT6dXFyw_byTh68zSA/s320/P1010165.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7dnl7Nigqpnx6ozsFqoW0sNikRJUgAAmBX5Inn1xMr2Te7GVI8psVMLSff5DHBj2Owjtg0mCPMI6F_oDoXCE3BAraOtimjL5SJQ7c4ezKm3ixGF2iwgl8oYWTq2BKKKD895QxgGX3XQ/s1600/P1010172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7dnl7Nigqpnx6ozsFqoW0sNikRJUgAAmBX5Inn1xMr2Te7GVI8psVMLSff5DHBj2Owjtg0mCPMI6F_oDoXCE3BAraOtimjL5SJQ7c4ezKm3ixGF2iwgl8oYWTq2BKKKD895QxgGX3XQ/s320/P1010172.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
After a tour around the <i>caves</i> and a tasting, it was the perfect place for a picnic to finish off our part of the trip. Our friends were off cycling for four days, finishing up in Bergerac, but we had to head back home to our little doggie and a diet. It was a magical twenty- four hours in the most marvelous part of France. <i>Adieu mes amis. Jusqu'a la prochaine fois. </i>Thank you for letting us share a little part of your trip.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-57538485974074553642012-09-04T04:53:00.005-07:002012-09-05T01:39:23.900-07:00A Posher Part of FranceLast weekend we were invited to the Gers for a long weekend away. The weather was perfect, with a slight breeze and a hint of autumn in the air, a welcome relief from the claustrophobic heat of the last few weeks. After the sweaty exertions of the Bardies kitchen, it was nice to ring the changes and hightail it northwestwards to a chateau in the Gers and the warm hospitality of good friends. It takes a lot to drag me away from my hearth, my garden and my 'potager' these days but an invitation to spend time with our dearest friends and our godchildren was very special indeed. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Our respective lives are always so busy and tomorrow is always another day. We think that life will remain much the same as it always has done and that time is an infinite commodity. Work/ life balance becomes an illusory notion. Sadly, 'Slow living' is for holidays and soon forgotten under the tyranny of the 18.45 from Victoria or the 19.05 from London Bridge. We trade and exchange our free time within the trivial and erstwhile demands of work, whether paid or unpaid. In truth, we allow ourselves to become shackled to the mundane. It is so easy to forget that true joy comes with a life shared lazily with friends and loved ones. A fortnight after a summer holiday has ended, as the last vestiges of the summer tan are washed away, we have forgotten those heartfelt resolutions made in the freedom of an August sunset and a shared bottle or two of Pays d' Oc rose. 'Let's meet up sometime soon' becomes the easy mantra that it always was.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then, out of the blue, there is a shift in the landscape of everyday life when we are tossed, to quote the late, great Christopher Hitchens, into "the land of malady". A primary cancer diagnosis is a great leveller, a secondary one a bitter realisation of the unfairness of life. What seems so important when one is fighting fit, is of no consequence when one is battling the ravages of "Tumourville". And so it was with this knowledge that we set off up to the Gers to spend precious time with a group of people who have impacted so much on each others lives. One of our number, as brave and stoical as Hitchens, has had to face the the same dumb question, "Why me?" Hitchens provides the answer for her when he writes, "the cosmos barely bothers to return the reply: Why not?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I write of this because it changed the landscape last weekend so dramatically. The sky really was a cobalt blue, full of fluffy white clouds floating like angels' wings towards the horizon: the landscape was a verdant emerald, despite the 'canicule', reminiscent of a painting by Soutine or Cezanne, the sunflowers en route to our destination worthy of a table in an immortalised Van Gough room. Everything becomes clearer, sharper, more prescient, when faced with the reality of mortality. The small towns of St Clar, Lectoure and La Romieu were more beautiful than ever in the company of my dearest friend. Chateau Dehes, where we stayed, thirty minutes from Agen near the little village of Gazaupouy, provided a little piece of medieval Paradise not far from the ancient pilgrimage route of Santiago de Compostela. The irony of walking with the saints once again was not lost on us.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The sun rises and the sun sets each day but we don't see it because we are rushing for the bus or the tube, or writing that vital report or mopping the kitchen floor. Worst of all, the seasons change and we fail to see the people most important to us from one to the next; a postcard here perhaps, a text message there, an occasional email with a photo attached if time permits; even, God forbid, a Facebook message. We may follow the status of 'Friends' but we seldom allow ourselves the time for a big hug with them. We deprive ourselves of the warmth and embrace of human contact and we are the poorer for it. When days are numbered, we remember only those times when we sat together talking through the night as though our lives depended upon it.....and they do.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wrote last week of us all sitting up until dawn playing music, like demented teenagers high on the joy of youth. I look back and think what a privilege indeed that night was, especially as J and O were not able to be there because of the ravages of illness. One needs a great deal of energy and stamina for one of our parties, it has to be said. "For me," Hitchens writes," to remember friendship is to recall those conversations that it seemed a sin to break off: the ones that made the sacrifice of the following day a trivial one." We may not have stayed up all night in the Chateau Dehes but we crammed into what time we had there more conversation than we had had in the previous three years; that is one of the great joys of sharing a chateau together. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is a most beautiful place. It dates from the 13th Century and is believed to have been built by the British during the Hundred Years War to protect their alien borders. The walls are one and a half metres thick and of local, rich and creamy limestone. The tower rises fifty four feet from ground to battlements, dominating the landscape all around, a warning to potential intruders to keep well away. Unlike Bardies, it is a masculine structure, although the present day soft, sensuous furnishings are distinctly feminine. The oak beamed first floor salon, with its extensive triple aspect views over the surrounding countryside, is the perfect place for drinking Floc de Gascogne, the local 'apperro', and after dinner Armagnacs, of which both flowed as freely as the conversation. Dinner was served by candlelight in the stone walled undercroft. The ambiance was as magical as the company. We finished the night off with hot, freshly grated chocolate laced with Armagnac brewed by my delightfully talented god daughter, a marriage made in heaven, I always think.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We needed bread so we all went to see the 14th century cloister and tower at the Collegiate Church of St. Pierre in La Romieu before dinner, a stopping point for the pilgrims en route to Santiago de Compostela and now, since 1998, a UNESCO world heritage site. It is an architectural gem set in a tiny town of just five hundred and thirty- five souls. The all- pervading power of the church of Rome dominates this agricultural landscape and our medieval forebears must have been tithed to the hilt to pay for it. Then, the following morning, we went for 'petit dejeuner' in Lectoure, a small but regal town dominated by the 15th century cathedral of St. Gervais and St. Protais, which sits high above the Gers river. It was once the base of the Comtes d'Armagnac and the capital of the Lomagne region between the Gers and the Garonne. Like La Romieu, it was also a stopping point for Compostela's hungry and thirsty pilgrims. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Such devotion certainly boosted the economy of this part of medieval France and the quality of the buildings is testament to their spending power. As a result, it is a posher part of France, now full of lawyers and financiers who have snapped up and renovated its many architectural gems. The tumbling exchange rate of the previous few years halted this second British invasion somewhat but everywhere there are signs that things may be improving once again. We heard many British voices as we meandered through Lectoure's flea market and little streets, a sure sign of a more realistic exchange rate. Whether Brits are snapping up property in the Gers once again is another matter. Running these old houses on a pension is an impossibility.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Personally, I prefer Ariege. The beauty of France is that each region has its own distinct personality and we choose accordingly. The Gers is an area of outstanding beauty and the food and wine a gourmet's delight. Its rolling hills and vineyards, maize fields, cypress trees and sunflowers shimmering in the hazy summer sunlight are a vision of order, permanence and tranquility; its colours and smells are the stuff of memories to be resurrected as the first chills of winter seep into our bones: garlic and prunes, melons and wine, Armagnac and Floc de Gascoigne. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But my memories this year will be more subdued. They will be of a house full of friends looking at the world anew, savouring each other's warmth and friendship and renewing vows of fidelity. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I wept when I remembered how of-</div>
<div>
ten you and I</div>
<div>
Had tired the sun with talking, and</div>
<div>
sent him down the sky." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-68449194667123099532012-08-28T06:42:00.000-07:002012-09-05T01:54:59.404-07:00Eating, Singing and Dancing into a New Decade<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
It's been so long since I opened my Blog at Bardies tab, I'd forgotten that I'd left a draft from the end of May lingering in the unpublished file. It's rather good, she says modestly, considering that I was stressed to the eyeballs [is that a metaphor, I wonder?] with packing cases, interminable rolls of bubble wrap, removal vans and an urgent desire to book six sessions with a Brighton chiropractor. Reading it now, it seems like ancient history. Much of our lifetime's worth of material possessions are now either squeezed into the chateau or festering in the garage awaiting a sudden burst of energy or a massive injection of cash into the family coffers to fund my new writer's den at Bardies. Everyone should have 'a room of one's own', even if they are never going to be a Virginia Wolff or a Vita Sackville West, or even a Marilynne Robinson or a Madeleine Miller. We all live in hope.<br />
<br />
Brighton is two hours and twenty five years away from Salisbury, and I say that in a caring way. Salisbury, like Ariege, is locked in a delightful time warp, both places where one walks with souls from a medieval past. Close your eyes and you can almost see wimples or Cathar tunics further along the narrow streets. Their modern day inhabitants may be internet-savvy but their values remain firmly 'a la recherche de temps perdu'. Brighton, in mind blowing contrast, is a bolt into the future, a cross between Sydney or San Francisco and a massive university campus full of boys and girls who never want to grow up. It's wild and whacky, and so full of 'joie de vivre' I sometimes wonder if perhaps I'd have been better off put out to grass on the South Downs. I jest, of course. I love it. The worst noise is from the seagulls, who screech and squawk all night long, drowning out the occasional fracas at nightclub chuck out time. As a contrast with Bardies, it is perfect for our next decade.<br />
<br />
Life at Bardies this summer has been blissful and a foretaste, perhaps, of things to come. Our children, of course, opted for Brighton night life and sundry festivals in the UK for much of it, which left us pottering around in the 'canicule' lazily reading, swimming and dining. Were it not for the sad demise of my stepfather and the necessity to return for a few days to Blighty for the funeral, I would say that it was the most perfect sojourn here that we have had. We even had Charlie, our feisty Jack Russell, with us to make up for our missing youngsters. He proved to be a source of endless amusement but not so good on the post-prandial politics and music discussions. For the first time in I don't know how long, Peter managed a whole month chez nous, largely because he was on a three line whip because of the big birthday plans. The festivities began on 15th August and finished six says later, when the last of our guests departed. We will be issuing long service medals some time.<br />
<br />
We kicked off with a fabulous lunch for fifteen under the trees in 38 degree heat, cooked by the amazing Marybeth Tamborra. I know that we live in France and adore Bayonne jambon secs and Bethmale Valley cheeses, but there is nothing quite like artisan prosciutto, pecorino and parmesan brought directly from Viareggio on the previous day's flight. Marybeth arrived laden with festive fayre from Italy, including a precious bottle of Marsala Superiore to make trays of Tiramisu for the weekend's big party. She even brought a ravioli cutter with her to complement my ancient pasta machine that hasn't seen active service in a wee while. We ate antipasti, a sublime ravioli with pear and pecorino in a sage butter sauce, fresh sardines and salad, cheese and a sharp lemon tart to die for, all washed down with Tariquet rose. After all, we couldn't ask her to lug a case of Pinot Grigio onto the flight too!<br />
<br />
As more guests arrived for the long weekend, menus became simpler but the quality remained the same. I shall never forget the sight of dozens of fresh lasagne sheets drying on a pizza pole suspended between the mantleshelf and the spice cupboard. We slow roasted cartons of tomatoes and doused them in olive oil, garlic and fresh parsley. We made pizza Caprese for family and friends from freshly risen dough resting in a huge mixing bowl awaiting the go-ahead from Easyjet online arrivals and departures, buffala mozzarella and sun kissed tomatoes from my thirsty 'potager'. On the Friday, when the musicians were rehearsing their set together for the first time, I made Ottolenghi's cauliflower fritters with lime yoghurt, which we cooked on the plancha under the trees. We cooked, cleared and laughed all day long to a backdrop of Billie Holiday, rock 'n' roll and Katy's wonderful folk music.<br />
<br />
Saturday's party food was a piece of culinary history, consisting as it did of a recipe for Persian lamb given to Marybeth by a Jewish exile from Tehran, her room mate at college, who finally escaped to Chicago after eight years under house arrest. The recipe for the Tiramisu came from an ancient Italian grandmother who taught it to Marybeth in Viareggio. The food that we put in our mouths says as much about a cultural heritage as a library of books or an archive. Even Ottolenghi's cauliflower fritters came from Sami Tamimi's Palestinian mother's recipe from the old city of Jerusalem, given to the children to take to school in a pitta for lunch. Then on Sunday we moved to Mexico with an authentic chilli con carne. Sharing such food with friends passes on these stories and continues the legacy, something which so often in our busy lives we replace with fast food and takeaways. The big food corporations have much to answer for in terms of our health but the obliteration of our culinary heritage runs a close second in the list of charges.<br />
<br />
No Bardies bash would be complete without music and this year's offerings were as diverse as they were divine. We danced the night away to rock 'n' roll with Pierre Pheline on vocals, Peter V on lead guitar, Fran Okine on bass, Bob Morgan on keyboard and sax and Phil Overhead on drums. One seventy-five year old guest said that he hadn't danced like that for twenty years, a triumph indeed. I don't think that Peter would have wanted to celebrate his big birthday any other way...... a new decade, a new dawn and I'm feeling good! And just when we thought it was nearing our bedtimes, the amazingly talented Katy Heath took up Peter's Martin guitar and serenaded us until dawn, ably assisted by Bob on clarinet and Phil on percussion, with a dazzling repertoire of old English folk songs and contemporary re-arrangements of classics. Another guest said that he hadn't sat up listening to music until the sun came up since he was twenty-five.<br />
<br />
And, just to ring the changes, Sunday started with a forty-five minute 'Magic Flute', performed by Peter's conductor brother, Richard Vardigans, with nineteen year old Georgie Malcom as the 'Queen of the Night'. Sensational! The mellow afternoon, when we were all bathed in warm, soft drizzle as well as a great deal of bonhomie and rose mistiness, was a magical moment which none of us will forget. The beautiful singing, which included a Russian folk song as well as Irish and English folk songs, and even some Abba, metamorphosed from acoustic and unplugged into an impromptu set of music wired for sound to dance to. By the end of it all, when we had eaten, sung and danced our way into Peter's new decade, we all stumbled [literally!] off to bed happy and replete. Life is worth living for moments like this so here's a toast to the good things in life but especially family and friends. Memories are made of this!<br />
<a name='more'></a>Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-5007441466484264502012-03-21T04:20:00.003-07:002012-03-21T07:38:20.741-07:00Making Shelves While the Sun ShinesWinter turned to summer almost overnight, from snow to sunshine, in as much time as it took the gallant Monsieur Lebel to isolate the hijacked radiator, check the pipework and fire up the 'chauffage' - an expensive business. Daytime temperatures of over twenty degrees have meant that we have been able to dry out the worst of the wet with windows wide open. Dare I say, but occasionally it has been too hot. I had to rummage around in the garage for the sunshade just for lunch! I don't mean to sound smug but it really has been lovely here. Salad lunches on the terrace in March are quite mad but thoroughly enjoyable.<br /><br />When I was young, back in the stone age, winter still lingered, sometimes quite viciously, in March. Wind and rain were the norm, not an aberration. Whilst river levels here are high due to snowmelt, the ground remain hard and dry, a sort of mottled green and ochre colour rather than the lush, verdant greens that we are used to at this time of year. The farmers are in despair for the season ahead. Unlike the Aude, our neighbouring 'departement', we have never had water rationing but our water may have to be diverted elsewhere yet. In the Lauragais, they are talking of changing their crops altogether because there has been no significant rainfall. <br /><br />Some of us might have thought that Al Gore was exaggerating the case for action on climate change with his exponential 'hockey stick' curve but only a blind person could question it now. The landscape of our garden is metamorphosing before our eyes. The two huge lime trees are slowly dying of thirst, dropping branches in desperation every time a storm breaks. The lush greenery that once dominated the garden is giving way to drought resistant shrubs. The new borders may not survive a savagely dry spring unless gallons of precious and expensive water are sprinkled over them. This is a new phenomenon.<br /><br />Ten, nine, eight years ago, we had some pretty miserable Easter vacations here. The family, cousins, grandma, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all, regularly huddled around the log fire wishing that the sun would come out just for one day. Back then, most Easter egg hunts took place in the rain and Easter was the least popular time to visit. Nowadays, it is better than summer, for the air is clearer, the storms are fewer and the snow capped Pyrenees are at their most dazzling.<br /><br />Last year in April we had a spell of blazing weather, with temperatures in the high twenties, followed by a huge dump of snow which killed all our bees. Over the years, they had made their hive under the pantiles in the roof so I suppose that it was ineveitable. The terracotta, tragically, simply baked them to death. They have not returned. Who knows what will happen this spring? <br /><br />Meanwhile, I spent a horrendous, hot afternoon in IKEA in Toulouse. And I thought that Southampton was bad! To avoid any risk of litigation, I will refrain from ranting about unhelpful staff, the complete closure of the loading zone and 'jobsworths' who refused to let me leave one trolley whilst I walked half a mile with the other one to the car. Ugggggh! I appreciate that IKEA is just a posh, Swedish warehouse but cabals of unhelpful young people huddled round a desk discussing their social life whilst 60 year olds calculate the cost of their next visit to the chiropractor is not a good marketing strategy.<br /><br />On the upside, where else can you get nicely designed and reasonably decent bookshelves for under 60 euros? I now have a bank of them in one of the upstairs corridors ready and waiting for the arrival of hundreds of books which do not have a UK home. I shall not need to spend money on a gym membership this side of Christmas. I love my Kindle, especially for traveling, but there is nothing like the tactile feel of a real book for identifying with the aspirations of the author. He or she put it down in print and chose a typeface and spacing to suit. We owe it to them to read in it print. I don't suppose that such altruism was part of IKEA's mission statement but they certainly help to perpetuate our obsessive need to be surrounded by books.<br /><br />I have been reading a lot recently about the 'passeurs' from hereabouts who bravely took allied servicemen and other evaders over the Pyrenees at great, and often tragic, cost to themselves and their families. I was lucky enough to be invited to a lunch with Scott Goodhall, MBE, when I was staying recently with a friend. Scott set up 'The Freedom Trail', a commemorative walk which takes place every July and has written a book about it. An inspirational man, he has done a lot to bring about the public recognition that such people deserve and remains very active in the ELMS society. He also helped Edward Stourton with his Radio 4 programme about the evasion lines.<br /><br />Then, like the proverbial icing on the cake, in the Musee de la Liberte in St Girons the other day, I was chatting to the curator, the delightful and modest Colonel Guy Serris, about who was still alive. Mid sentence, in walks 94 year old Monsieur Joseph Gualter, who escaped over the Porte de Salaud in 1941 to join the Free French, landing in Italy in 1943 as part of the first Allied thrust. Books and photographs are as nothing compared with living history. We passed a delightful afternoon drinking tea and discussing the impact of the war on France. He is the most wonderful man, with a dazzling smile and a wicked twinkle in the eye, and I thoroughly enjoyed his company. We all owe people like him a great deal for the freedoms which we take for granted. Another evader, 86 year old Monsieur Jean Pierre Denat, a pilot, joined us so I couldn't have asked for a better end to the afternoon. Better than building shelves!Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-50059983469895793382012-03-10T05:12:00.007-08:002012-03-10T10:18:01.911-08:00Burst Pipes and Shattered NervesWhat a winter it has been in Ariege. Recorded temperatures sank as low as -23 degrees near us in the foothills of the Pyrenees. We get these winters, apparently, once every twenty five years. My friend, Meredith, much higher up in the mountains in Axiat, says that we have just forgotten what real winter means. If you read Graham Robb's wonderful and unique account of the history of France,'The Discovery of France', you'll see what she means. The mountain people of Ariege used to take themselves off to bed and hibernate for the duration, quite literally. I was very tempted to do so myself but instead took off for slightly warmer climes in Salisbury. A big mistake!<br /><br />The catch on our bathroom window, inevitably north facing, had been dodgy for a while. The shutter had slowly begun to disintegrate too, leaving a residue of bits of wood and splinters on the gravel below. I stupidly ignored both, planning as I was to install double-glazed replacements in the spring. After last year's mild winter, and those before that, I had become complacent. Double-glazing could wait until I had created my summer kitchen. Then, to my horror, I discovered that the window had somehow blown open........ but only after my kindly neighbour had rung me to tell me that he had turned the water off for us because of the 'froideur'!<br /><br />In a panic, I rang the ever gallant Tim and Tina who reassured me that all was not lost. They cleaned the worst of the dirty, melted water up, hung the sodden bedding on the line and began the count of broken pipes. Then, I leapt onto an Easyjet flight from Bristol to face the inevitable; fourteen burst pipes in the inadequately insulated loft, a number of broken taps and a bathroom radiator with a six inch gash in the side. Laurent, our wonderful and ever observant neighbour, will never know how much of our French life he saved that day. His speedy action resulted in little more than some puddles, a few stains on the ceilings, some damaged bedding and the necessity to re-polish some of the old wooden floorboards. I got lucky!<br /><br />I have learnt my lesson. Mother nature always reverts to form. Instead of spending limited resources on cosmetic enhancements chez nous, every spare centime will go towards making the house better prepared for winter. Insulation comes first, then some secondary double glazing and, if the budget ever stretches that far, a solar panel or two. Oil prices have become so astronomical in France [currently, a thousand euros only buys us a quarter of a tank!], we try to use the central heating as little as possible. This is fine when we are 'in situ' because the woodburners are fired up. However, when we're away, the frost setting, which is supposed to ensure that everything doesn't freeze up when the temperature drops below two degrees, isn't geared up for temperatures diving below zero into double figures. I have only just realised this, to my great cost.<br /><br />These old stone houses get sooooooooooo cold with no heating. When the sun is out, it's nearly always warmer outside at midday than in. This is a boon in summer but a disaster waiting to happen in winter. With no water and no heat, I was dependent on the generous largesse of friends, bliss for me but possibly a minor pain for them. They were all too polite to say so and, for that, I am grateful. I always try to be a good guest, bringing food and bottles of wine in, offering to cook dinner, keeping my room tidy and not hogging the bathroom or the computer. I have a mental checklist in my head of good and bad guests, born of years of shopping, cooking and cleaning for summer visitors. For once, I was a guest and totally spoilt. It's a life I could easily get used to. I had a glorious time and truly felt like I was on holiday, so thank you, dear friends.<br /><br />I also took myself off to Toulouse for three days and two nights, courtesy of a great deal on Expedia for the quaint and lovely Albert 1er in Rue Rivals, close to the Capitole. Staying in a city is such a different experience from visiting for the day because, if you're like me, you try to walk everywhere. Suddenly, the signs from the 'peripherique' made sense and I didn't have to worry about finding a parking space. I was exceedingly lucky for the weather was gloriously sunny but cold, with a clarity in the air that only somewhere near the mountains can ever have. Even the stress of burst pipes and no heating paled in the glaring light. Whilst the grey skies of England had slowly been turning even the most optimistic of us unto winter depressives, Toulouse, even when bitterly cold, is a tonic for disheartened souls.<br /><br />I was a woman with a mission. I wanted to find where the Quakers of Toulouse had been located during the 2nd World War and where Silvio Trentin's bookshop had been. I wanted to make a pilgrimage to the printing shop of the Lion brothers, where the resistance publications that had cost them their lives were printed. All were within walking distance, with the exception of the Musee de la Resistance and Deportation, which forced me to take my exercise for the day. I have long been fascinated with the Resistance in Toulouse, led by great intellectuals like Georges Friedmann and Jean Cassou, as well as with the bravery of the ordinary men and women who refused to acquiesce to the Occupation. Toulouse, the second city of the resistance, like the whole of south-west France, was not liberated by the Allies. It was freed by the actions of its citizens, many of whom at the time were refugees from Spain and other parts of Europe.<br /><br />The German army of occupation surrendered on 22nd August 1944 in Castlenau-Durban, not far from us. Their surrender was, however, tinged with sadness. Just a few days before they had brutalised the little town of Rimont, killing eleven of its inhabitants and burning the village to the ground. Very little survived but the church and a few buildings to the west. A local resident showed me the where the new building line met the pink stone of its past. Our little part of France is steeped in history, pre-historic, medieval and contemporary and we are very privileged to always have something new to search out.<br /><br />Now that the heating and water are back on, I am able to sit down and write. Oh, bliss! There are few advantages to burst pipes, other than the incentive to high tail it off to interesting places. Next time, though, for the sake of my nerves, I shall plan my trip in advance.Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-29898993023144031822012-01-26T01:38:00.000-08:002012-01-27T11:04:52.026-08:00Speak Up, Speak outToday is Yom Ha Shoah, Holocaust Memorial Day, and this year's theme is taken from Pastor Niemoller's poem.<br /><br />First they came for the Communists<br />And I did not speak out<br />Because I was not a Communist<br /><br />Then they came for the Socialists<br />And I did not speak out<br />Because I was not a Socialist<br /><br />Then they came for the trade unionists<br />And I did not speak out<br />Because I was not a trade unionist<br /><br />Then they came for the Jews<br />And I did not speak out<br />Because I was not a Jew<br /><br />Then they came for me<br />And there was no one left<br />To speak out for me<br /><br />This week Peter and I went to see 'Sarah's Key', directed by Gilles Paquet-Brenner and starring the redoubtable Kristin Scott-Thomas. It is a wonderful film and it made me cry. I had wanted to see it for a long time and it has only now struck me how appropriate it was that we should have seen at this time of Yom Ha Shoah. <br /><br />It is the story of an American journalist, married to a Frenchman, who discovers that the family appartment in the Marais, into which she is moving with her husband and teenage daughter, once belonged to the parents of Sara Starzinsky. At 4 am on the night of 16th - 17th July, the Starzinsky's, along with over 13,000 other foreign born French Jews including their children, are brutally rounded up by the French police. Almost half of them are thrown into the Vel' d'Hiv, the covered winter cycling velodrome in the 15 eme arrondisement. There, they are left to fester in blistering heat, with no food, water or toilets, for five days, before being shunted off to the Beaune-la-Rolande internment camp. The key is the key to the wardrobe, about which I will say no more.<br /><br />At Beaune-la-Rolande, where 2,773 people are sent, the children are separated from their parents. Fifteen hundred sobbing and distraught children leave on the last convoy, No. 20, in terrible conditions via Drancy, to Auschwitz. Sara is not one of them.<br /><br />The film creates the horror of the 'Raffle' and the Vel d'Hiv. It is a shocking story because this atrocity was carried out by Frenchmen, not Nazis. Jacques Chirac apologised for this crime against humanity in 1995. The question remains, though. Where were the people who spoke up, spoke out? I am sure that there were many but their voices were drowned out by the others, the silent ones, the complicit ones, the greedy ones. <br /><br />Closer to home, in St Girons, on 26th August 1942, two families were affected by the long arm of the brutal law of the German occupiers. It stretched uncompromisingly right into the southern 'zone libre'. One was the Silbermann family, originally from Jordanow in Poland, with their two teenage boys, Maurice, who was sixteen, and Leon, who was a year younger. The other was the family of two-year old Fanny Reich, both families arrested as part of the 'grand raffle' of foreign Jews ordered by the Nazis in the southern, unoccupied zone. They were taken from their home at 48 rue Sainte-Valier, next to the church, and interned at Le Vernet. They included her grandfather, Oscar Reich, who had been born in Vienna in 1885 [57], her father, Wolf, who had been born in Przemysy in Poland in 1903 [38], her mother, Mindla, who had been born in Zdunska Wola in Poland in 1901 [41] and her brother, Joseph, who had been born in Liege in Belgium in 1932 [10]. <br /><br />The family had lived in Liege since Hitler made his intentions known in the 1930's, where they had moved from Poland. They had thought that they were safe there because, so they must have believed, the Fuhrer's intentions were directed eastwards towards the country of their birth. When the German Blitzkrieg swept through Holland and Belgium in May 1940, so shortly after Fanny's birth on 21st February, they fled south and finished up in the sleepy market town of St Girons. Looking up to the great expanse of the Pyrennees from their little home by the church, they must have believed that finally they were safe. There was not a Wehrmacht or SS uniform to be seen, for St Girons was deep into the unoccupied zone. <br /><br />So when they came for the Jews, they came quickly, and quietly, at 4 o'clock in the morning. In a closely guarded military operation, the armed policemen crept up on their unsuspecting prey in an operation called 'Spring Breeze'. Their victims did not get the chance to flee. <br /><br />Little Fanny, just a toddler, was the youngest of 32 Jewish children and adolescents arrested that day in Aulus-les-Bains, Bordes-sur-Lez, Castillon, Foix, Le Peyrat, Ludies, Pamiers and Savignac-les-Ormeaux, as well as St Girons. According to one eye witness account, the police were in the full battle dress of blue uniforms, black tunics, black boots and silver-braided black caps of the French police. They carried revolvers at their waists. We cannot imagine the terror in innocent people's hearts that they must have created. In total, almost three hundred foreign born Jews were arrested in Ariege that day by the French police. They were taken to the internment camp at Le Vernet with just the clothes that they were standing up in and one small bag each. The French Jews were given a few months reprieve until their time, too, came.<br /> <br />On 1st September 1942, Fanny and her family left the station of Le Vernet in a convoy of 293 Jews, in filthy and overcrowded cattle trucks, bound for Drancy. They arrived at Drancy the following day. On 4th September, Fanny, together with Oscar, her grandfather, Wolf, her father, Mindla, her mother and Joseph, her brother left Drancy, with 248 other Ariegeois Jews. They were on Convoy No. 28 destined for Auschwitz. We feel sick to our stomachs at their fate.<br /><br />Who in St Girons spoke up, I wonder. Did anyone speak out? It is almost seventy years ago but maybe someone knows of a brave soul who can answer my question? I should love to know. Fanny Reich is commemorated in St Girons, where there is a school named in the memory of an innocent little life snuffed out before it had ever properly begun. In death, she has become a symbol of hope; the hope that nothing like this will happen again. It must not, for we all shall speak up, speak out. For we will, won't we?Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-83863130496312422852011-12-10T07:39:00.000-08:002012-01-13T16:48:05.888-08:00A Writer's Lot!I have to apologise for my tardiness in blogging of late. I have not been skiving, honestly! As I promised myself when I hit the BIG ONE last September, I have finally got my head down and got stuck into writing my book. It's based on and around Bardies, with a huge cast of characters, some sympathetic, some not. It's based on an idea that I have had for a long time but, beyond that, I'm keeping 'schtum', largely because I don't want to tempt providence! I have really been enjoying sitting at my laptop, surrounded by mountains of books, with Billie Holiday, Serge Gainsbourg, Jacques Brel and Miles Davis keeping me company on the sound system. <br /><br />I have become addicted to research. When I think back to my days of wading through catalogued library resources as a history student in those long, dark days [and the three day week!] before the internet, I find it hard to believe just how long things like a dissertation would take. Nowadays, with JSTOR and other amazing research tools at the click of a mouse, it's possible to find the most amazing snippets of obscure information without moving three feet from the woodburner! Winter work has never been easier and I love it!<br /><br />This autumn was the perfect time for research. Trips out and about were an utter joy. The daytime weather, largely crisp, dry and sunny, was inspirational. Every morning I woke with the thought that maybe it would be a dull, drizzly day. But, no, the gods were with me. As December came and went, I garnered my scrappy bits of paper and hastily scribbled notes, and closed the shutters. I am closed for business, literally and metaphorically. I am turning into a grumpy old woman, swaddled in jumpers and warm shawls and living on a diet of soup and leftover mince pies and stollen! Right now, I do not want to surrender valuable hours to haute cuisine!<br /><br />When the days lengthen again and I emerge like a chrysalis waiting to burst open and fly away, I will be back to my old, extrovert self, have no fear! Service will be resumed in the not too distant future. As the first wild snowdrops peep up, when the sun tempts them from their winter slumbers, I am ever aware that these days are precious. The hurly burly of spring will soon be upon us all, and what a joy it will be to feel the sap rising again and our energies restored. There will be little time for philosophising and navel gazing then!<br /><br />There is something about the light at this time of year which makes me reflective and, lo and behold, amazingly productive. I am sorry if I sound smug, but I am very pleased with myself. Now that the kids are back at college and school, I begin to think of myself again. Someone once said that a family's joyful Christmas was a month of a mother's life sacrificed [was it me, I wonder?]. I wouldn't change it for the world because I know that one day they will want to spend Christmas with their own friends or new families but it is nice to reclaim my time and space, if only for a little while.<br /><br />The evenings, tucked up by the log fire, afford none of the distractions of summer and I have become addicted to the lonely life of a scribe. Apart from anything else, I haven't had to concern myself with the needs of others. Scrambled eggs suit me just fine! Oh, bliss. Oh, joy! My hair's a mess, pyjama bottoms have become my new tracksuit chic and my daughter's old black 'Uggs' have been requisitioned as cosy footwarmers. The electric blanket is in overdrive, as I sit up until two or three in the morning reading my way through the mountains of books that I have accumulated for my project over the last year.<br /><br />So, it's back to the grindstone for a little while yet. Bear with me, dear friends, for I haven't forgotten you. I haven't dropped off the planet; I'm just floating around in cyberspace and having one hell of a ride.....and I can't believe that we're almost half way through January already. Incroyable! So, a bientot, mes amis. Watch this space!Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-51405491410185409952011-11-14T01:21:00.000-08:002011-11-15T03:16:38.939-08:00France's Rocky Road to RecoveryIt is hard sometimes to concern oneself with the big picture when the little picture here in Ariege is so beautiful. As the last golden leaves of autumn flutter down from the trees and warm, dappled sunlight warms the bones on a mid November day, life seems incredibly good. The wood is cut for winter, the woodburner glows welcomingly after a bracing morning walk, a pot of pumpkin soup simmers on the stove and all appears well in the best of all possible worlds. The price of petrol and diesel, heating oil, gas and electricity, and food, especially flour and bread, is a cause for concern but otherwise life rolls on much as it has done for hundreds of years. <br /><br />The one big difference in our lives, though, is the constant stream of information channeled into our little, almost perfect worlds, minute by minute. And, at the moment, it is all bad. There is no getting away from it, unless one is brave enough to remove oneself completely by surrendering broadband, mobile phones, television and radio. Whilst I fantasise about living the life of mystic, deep in meditation and inner harmony, I am in reality too much of a news junkie to ever allow myself to miss out on what is going on. Politics has been in my blood since my sixth form in the sixties and it's too late to change my spots.<br /><br />No one can have failed to notice the current 'crise economique', not even the most apolitical Ariegois. It seeps into our everyday consciousness, impacting on the most potentially joyful of days. A collective depression palls over us all. We are all closing our shutters to the outside world and praying that we will all wake up tomorrow to find that it has been a horrible dream. Nothing much in our world appeared to have changed. We, the little people, all got up each day, went to work and paid our taxes [well, most of us here in Ariege anyway!]. For reasons beyond our control and our comprehension, we are are now, however, being told that we must pay a high price for government profligacy. Young people have little hope of gainful employment, small businesses are struggling and unemployment is rising. Everyone is complaining and 'Sarko's' name is mud. Even more worrying, there are whispers of the increasing popularity of Le Pen. Has it really come to this?<br /><br />France accounts for one fifth of the Eurozone's GDP. It is a big player as the strutting Sarkozy is determined to show. Up until recently, because it wasn't as reliant upon exports as Germany, France seemed to be weathering the storm rather better than most member states. If one overlooks youth employment, the big role of the French state in injecting a fiscal stimulus of 2.25% in 2009/10 allowed French GDP to modestly rise whilst other economies struggled. Now, however, as public debt spirals upwards, the dangers of a consumer-led economic model financed by government transfers are becoming more apparent and the markets are twitchy. In the space of a decade, France has moved from a current account surplus of 3.1% of GDP to a deficit of 2.2%. With unemployment rising, the French government has cut its economic forecast from 2.5% to 2.0%, although most forecasters think that a figure of 1.5% or less is nearer the mark.<br /><br />Sarkozy's determination to prove that France is Germany's equal in the economic stakes is beginning to look like wishful thinking. Certainly, it is true that France has thirty- nine companies in 'Fortune's' list of the top five hundred global companies, two more than Germany's tally of thirty seven. On closer inspection, however, it is apparent that most of France's top companies rely either directly or indirectly on state support and are close to Paris, unlike in Germany where the top companies are much more diverse and engaged in the production of high quality capital goods. With France's budget deficit likely to hit a staggering 8% this year, the highest of any triple A rated economy, such a huge dependance on the state has serious implications for its productivity, a fact not lost on the markets. <br /><br />Furthermore, because France has high quality state institutions, which gobble up all the top graduates each year, there is a marked lack of innovation at ground level, unlike in Germany where graduates head for expanding commercial enterprises from choice. France's rigid job market and the exorbitant social costs of employment mitigate against the growth and expansion of small and medium sized enterprises, vital for an export led economy comparable with that of Germany. Added to this, the high cost of firing workers cements inefficiency and complacency, as most of us experience every day in France. The high minimum wage deters companies from hiring inexperienced younger workers, many of whom are well educated and up to speed with new technology. They either become another youth unemployment statistic, or flee to London or Frankfurt, where they can get their feet on the first rung of the employment ladder.<br /><br />On top of all this woe at home, the crisis in Greece has massive implications for France. Data from regulators in Basle shows that French banks have far more exposure to Greek creditors than other European banks. The 'haircut' by banks of 50%, agreed last week by European leaders, will hit France's banks hard, requiring them to raise new capital to calm markets. This, on top of everything else, leaves Sarkozy looking like the emperor without his clothes. He won't be able to get away with slagging off Angela Merkel's eating habits a second time! He will need to show that he is able, and willing, to tackle the budget deficit just one year short of a general election. If not, the bond markets will have him by the short and curlies as quickly as Angela Merkel can say, ' Du fromage, s'il vous plait!'<br /><br />France remains committed to the euro, despite its fundamental flaws. There is little talk here of a return to the franc, largely because France, along with Germany, still believes that the euro will survive the ravages of the global debt market. The costs of borrowing for Ireland, Portugal, Greece and now Italy have been pushed beyond affordable levels. And because the debts are on the verge of being unserviceable, unelected bond traders are defining the destiny of elected leaders. In Greece, Papandreou has been ousted, replaced by a government of national unity. In Italy, Berlusconi has gone too, to be replaced by a bureaucrat. These are worrying times for democrats, as well as economists. It will take very strong leadership from both Merkel and Sarkozy to reassure both the markets and the disillusioned voters of member states.<br /><br />We are all caught between a rock and a very hard place. The very people who caused the crisis are now calling the shots. The streets of Athens have fired up a fierce, and sometimes violent, resistance to imposed austerity measures. None of us is immune, as the tented, becalmed protesters of St Paul's demonstrate. France's ability to organise its people on a grand scale should never, as history shows us, be underestimated. We await the next weeks and months with some trepidation. Sarkozy's saving grace is the prospect of the imminent general election. With the Socialists in disarray, I am tempted to say, 'Be very careful what you wish for.'<br /><br />The great European project, born of hope and prosperity, begins to look, to many, like a fool's paradise. However, it is important to emphasise that it is not just an economic unit. It is an ideal, born of the horrors of the last war. For many of us, its roots are deep, the product of political will as much as economic necessity. The introduction of the single currency provided the glue that was intended to bond it together forever. Since the euro came into being on 1st January 2002, it has become the currency of 15 countries and 320 million people. The possibility of its breakup cannot be an option. It was ill thought out, not least because the European Central Bank has no mandate to be a lender of last resort, but the answer lies in structural reform, not abandonment. <br /><br />As the Greek crisis has metastasised, we have to be bold. We can only go forwards and that means more, not less, integration. We are Europeans and we are all in this mess together. David Cameron can complain as much as he likes but Sarkozy is right to tell him to stop poking his eurosceptic nose into the affairs of the eurozone. You cannot be on the outside of the tent pissing in! Whatever happens, France's rocky road to recovery remains a fundamental component; for if France falls prey to the same predatory attacks by bond traders that have felled the smaller nations of Europe, then we might as well all roll over and turn off the lights. Now, is that soup ready yet? I am going to go back to my own little world of reading, writing and keeping warm.Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-68926634860071898522011-09-04T03:27:00.000-07:002011-09-05T15:11:52.132-07:00A New Decade, A Whole New WorldYesterday was my birthday, and not just any old birthday. It was a big one! Too big, really, to fully comprehend. I still find myself thinking this morning, despite [or perhaps because of?] some extremely fine vintage champagne, "How the hell did this happen?" Us baby boomers, who used to air guitar our way through 'My Generation' yelling in unison,' Hope I Die Before I Get Old!', are now having to reconsider what we so earnestly wished for. Sixty is the new forty, some say, and I was very touched when my family tried to cheer me up with a frieze saying '50 + 10 = 40'. My darling twenty year old [I can't quite believe that either!] then put reality firmly back in place by saying, "I can't believe I've got a mum who's sixty!"
<br />
<br />So, I've got some serious thinking to do. I've just finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert's much hackneyed book, 'Eat, Pray, Love', which another friend of mine has re-titled, 'Eat, Pray, Vomit'. I have to say that I rather enjoyed it and found myself cursing the fact that I didn't put pen to paper myself after trips to Lucca and Mexico, and a spell in the ashram in Pondicherri in 1986! Like Gilbert, I was 35 at the time and looking for the answers to life, the universe and everything. But, as someone once said, the art to being a writer is the ability to keep your bum on the seat and not, like my miserable efforts, to wander off for coffee and cake or a bottle of chilled white wine with friends at every available opportunity. I feel the same about Caitlin Moran's 'How To Be A Woman' and Alison Pearson's, 'I Don't Know How She Does It?' I know I can't write as well as them but, hell's bells, I could at least have bloody tried!
<br />
<br />This year is going to be different. For one thing, my son is moving into a flat in London. I shall miss him terribly but can't help thinking goodbye to all the washing and thanks for all the fish! My daughter, the more independent of the two, is pretty well self sufficient already, needing little more than the odd word of encouragement and the occasional cheque. That just leaves me, hubby and the dog. Hubby can hop on the 6.40 pm Easyjet flight from Gatwick after a hard week at the office just as easily as the 6.50 pm from Waterloo to Salisbury. They each take exactly the same amount of time. Toulouse has always been a weekend commute city, as I know from Virgin Atlantic pilots who live in Pibrac, thirty six, I was told, at the last count. And then there are the Airbus guys who hop backwards and forwards from Bristol every weekend. I know because I often sit next to one of their number. And the dog, well, he can have his own passport too! As of January 2012, the ludicrous necessity to have one's dog checked over by a vet within twenty four hours of travel will be abolished, an impossibility from Bardies unless you drive through the night and risk killing yourself and your dog from total exhaustion! On y va! We have just taken the final plunge and put our Salisbury house on the market.
<br />
<br />Spending a relaxing time with good friends this summer, who have taken the big leap across La Manche, has made me take stock of many things. Not one of them regrets such a move, despite it being much tougher than the idealised accounts that proliferate on Amazon. Winters are tough, bureaucracy is a nightmare and visitors are like fish [after three days....etc!]. The worst thing, I suspect, is the visceral pain of living away from one's children. I'm not very good without mine, although I am getting better at accepting that I need them rather more than they need me. My mother once telephoned my university, some 250 miles away, and asked them to send me home. I've never forgotten the embarrassment! No, I say to myself, I cannot be a helicopter mum. They have to fly. And so do I.
<br />
<br />Life chez nous at Bardies is so very different. For one thing, opera is only on CD. For another, the only plays I can indulge in will be on television, or Radio Four. I will no longer be able to go to Intelligence Squared debates, Fabian Society events or Party Conference. I will need to cancel my RA and Tate memberships, along with the RHS, the Royal Opera and Welsh National. Glyndebourne would, of course, be a bridge too far. I couldn't possibly not come back for the excitement and anticipation of new productions [sorry about the double negative - I'm getting into French mode already!]. I will seldom hold a hard copy of the Observer, the Guardian or the Daily Telegraph in my grubby palm again. I shan't be able to lose myself in the glorious sound that is the Salisbury Cathedral Choir at Eucharist or Evensong. And I won't be able to drop in to a Monday night jam session at the Blues Bar in Kingley Street either. Girlie lunches at trendy London restaurants will be off the menu, as will raucous bi-partisan supper parties with friends of all political persuasions shouting irreverently at each other for the duration of the evening. The gym will be out the window, but to tell you the truth, it/ I was well past its sell by date anyway. In short, my life is about to be radically overhauled.
<br />
<br />The upside will be that I shall be able to read the mountains of books that I have bought over the years because of all the time that I have spent doing all the things in the previous paragraph! I shall be able to see my bulbs in full bloom in springtime, something I always seem to miss. I will be there to ensure that my borders are properly watered in May and June so that they are at their very best in early summer and not, as is usually the case, desperately dehydrated and craving my arrival in July to revive them. I can finally have a proper 'potager', instead of my improvised wine boxes and hastily assembled 'bricolage'. I shall feast greedily on the fruits of my labours. Visits to art galleries may be few in the future, but I shall be able to paint and draw to my heart's content. I plan to visit painter and sculptor friends obsessively instead. I can/ will play the piano, albeitly to date very badly, again. And all those Beethoven and Mahler boxed sets of symphonies can finally justify their price. And Wagner, well, there's no stopping me now! No more excuses. I always said that I was saving golf and Wagner for my 60's, and the golf course is close by, at la Bastide de Serou. Peter could do with the practice too.
<br />
<br />But, best of all, I can finally write with an uncluttered head. The three books [!] that I have on the go can be revised, re-edited, even rewritten, and my screenplay from 1996 can be removed from the filing cabinet for reappraisal. Some of my work is so outdated it is beginning to look like a period piece! It is all spread across three laptops and two filing cabinets, which tells you just how much technology and the world has moved on since 1986! Dare I even confess that I have a new idea for a novel set around Bardies? I am such a dilettante. My problem, as ever, is seeing anything through. It's about time I pulled myself, and my work, together and stopped playing around with it all like a kiddie in a sweetshop. My bum must stay on my seat, at least for three hours a day, for the foreseeable future.......and not on Facebook or Twitter, either! I'll take time out when the kids come, of course, and friends too, but in between times 'je vais travailler sans relache'.
<br />
<br />So, watch this space! Alongside all this personal development stuff, I plan to run a few courses too. Food will, as ever, feature prominently. I may do posh B & B for selective guests via our Sawday's listing. Plans for the cookery book are taking shape, the text is already done and the photographer is booked for November. We just need to plough through a mountain of food after photographing it, which will, 'bien sur', be a real drag for all concerned! Cookery courses, with yoga or art/music, are a definite possibility, as is a hiking course to take in all our beautiful Romanesque churches with picnics along the way. We may even organise a trek over 'Le Chemin de la Liberte', the WW2 route for RAF aircrew and escapees, from St Girons, our local town, over the Pyrenees into neutral Spain. All things are possible in the best of all possible worlds.
<br />
<br />We are therefore looking to restore the barn for larger numbers, subject to funds, which will be a project and a half. Kevin McCloud, eat your heart out! We really hope that Blues at Bardies in August 2012 will prove viable and flyers will be sent out in November to test the water. It would be so good to have a dry indoor space where we can have concerts, small gigs and the occasional 'vernissage'. And, lastly, the garden will remain a priority. The main garden is looking beautiful, thanks to much hard work by Lawrence and Pascal, but I now want to focus on building my Italian garden and my 'potager'. Inevitably, we will have to knock the little barn down first, so the mess will have to be cleared to create the space.
<br />
<br />Perhaps writing all this down creates the focus, the resolution? It's good to plan, to visualise where you're going in life, especially as future decades are limited. Whatever people say about sixty being the new forty [tell my bones that!], it is a crossroads. We can't go back. We can only go forwards. Different people will take different paths and some people will think that I am mad for upping sticks at this stage of my life. As I have said before, the intention was to do it when the children were young and able to benefit from excellent local schooling and the French IB system, but the gods decided otherwise. Then, it was not destined to be. Now, however, I know that I have always wanted to do it, for a while at least. 'Live the dream', as they say.
<br />
<br />And, as I look around me at the economic catastrophe that is unfolding here in the UK, I am glad that France's social model is a collective one. It may be slow, and bureaucratic, and heavily taxed, but it is undoubtedly a fairer way of life. It takes account of people who are not so lucky, or privileged, or well educated, or fit, or healthy. You are unlikely to get MRSA in a French hospital and you will probably get a choice between a glass of red, white or rose with your well prepared and nourishing meal. It still cares about the important things in life. Le 'pays' is sacrosanct. Community, family, friends, health, good food and wine, remain the stuff of life here and the wealthy do not spit in the faces of those less fortunate than themselves. In short, it is a very good place to be right now. So, as my seventh decade begins, it's a whole new world for me. Je vais profiter de ma nouvelle vie! And, if things get really tough here, you are always welcome to join me!
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-56832399858581724022011-08-25T07:01:00.000-07:002011-08-26T03:07:00.132-07:00Duck Fat, Garlic, and GoutWith apologies for the crib to the wonderful cookery writer, Jeanne Strang. As ever, it's been a greedy summer chez nous. We have had a house full of delightful teenagers, such a change from the usual coterie of 'soixante huitards' in varying stages of disrepair. The only constant is the drain on my time preparing two meals a day. Teenagers require more food than fully fledged adults but their sense of wonder and appreciation for one's timely efforts more than makes up for never getting beyond Chapter 5 of any book. Like everything else during the 'holidays' [ what a great euphemism!], my writing suffers, alongside the state of my nail polish and linen shirts straight off the washing line. A blog post? No chance!
<br />
<br />This year I seem to have been particularly slow to put fingers to keyboard. I wonder if it's age? I used to be able to cook dinner, load the dishwasher [with some help] and polish off a blog or a paragraph or two of something else before the bottle was empty and my bed loomed. Nowadays, I seem to sit and chat rather more, deliberately avoiding the temptation to hit the 'Log In' page, especially where Facebook and Twitter are concerned. The mornings are different, of course, especially when daytime temperatures have frequently soared to the high 30's. I have become a complete Twitter addict, picking up news instantaneously and clicking onto links to read opinions, blogs and newspaper articles. Most days I don't need to get Radio 4 on i-player. Instead, the world is relayed very economically to me in 140 characters a pop. 'Incroyable!'
<br />
<br />But I digress. Here in Ariege the local diet consists of duck, duck and duck. There are restaurants nearby where every principal item on the menu has been extracted from the duck. It never ceases to amaze me just how well we all feel on a diet saturated in duck fat. I cook our potatoes in it, with garlic and rosemary, I strain it through muslin after cooking 'magret de canard' and I slow cook 'cuisses de canard' in it to store in ancient 'confit' pots left by the previous owner. Just why it appears not to clog up one's arteries and slow down one's metabolism is a mystery to me. By all accounts, the people of our little part of France have the highest longevity in a country that has the highest longevity in Europe. The correlation may be a false one, for it may all be related to bountiful fresh produce and a relaxed life free of the stresses of urban living. Either way, we all feel on top of our little world.
<br />
<br />The most extravagant indulgence in south west France is the 'foie gras', the best of which is produced from a sterile hybrid of Barbary duck and a native breed. The serving of it is a mark of status here and French dinner guests often bring it as a gift as a token of respect. It is as essential to this area as 'cassoulet' and the 'haricot'. Who am I to refuse? The ducks are initially fed a varied diet with normal exercise for strength before they are deprived of all exercise and force fed corn to produce the enormous fat livers that we know as 'foie gras'. Many find the the use of production line force-feeders so distasteful that they, understandably, refuse to touch the stuff. The old traditional method, usually involving a little old lady on a farm in the middle of nowhere moving from one duck to another with a funnel of food, may also be equally off-putting. I am an agnostic. I generally try not to actively seek it out but, with friends involved in the 'conserverie' business, I cannot resist a small 'tranche' of 'mi-cuit' [short for 'demi-cuit', or half cooked], sprinkled lightly with a little white or black pepper and served with a glass of chilled Sauternes or Montbazillac.
<br />
<br />Garlic is the 'yang' to duck fat's 'ying' and I seem to get through strings of the stuff. I usually buy it from old men with smoker's teeth from our weekly Saturday morning market. This August, however, I finally fulfilled a long-held dream and managed to get to the St Clar garlic festival and contest. Peter, heroically, stayed at home to look after a bevy of bikini clad girls who needed feeding and watering. The festival is held on the third Thursday in August under the picturesque 13th Century covered market stall of the fortified village of St Clar in the Gers. Luckily for me, an old, dear friend of ours conveniently lives in nearby Mauroux. The population of less than a thousand is hugely swelled by visitors from the surrounding 'departements' and summer tourists, all excited to view and sample in sundry form its famous speciality, the fragrant and strong Lomagne white garlic. For the fifth time, although not last year, presumably to avoid any question of favouritism, this year's winner accepted her treasured accolade. To be the best in one's class in any village competition in France is tantamount to being an 'A' list local celebrity [something our pathetic TV 'wannabe's' would do well to learn from]. Hard work and dedication is rewarded and the prizes hard won.
<br />
<br />We skipped the communal 'thonade' in the square in favour of a pizza in a more peaceful location [the price of going deaf!] but returned for the partying that followed. The loudest brass band imaginable, nicknamed 'les pruneaux d'Agen', rattled it's way through lots of favourite 'sing a long' songs, culminating in a fine rendering of 'YMCA' which got everybody up from the seats and onto the dance floor ready for the disco to follow. Many of the prospective dancers looked a little unsteady on their feet, which was hardly surprising as lunch and the day's jolly festivities had moved seemlessly into the evening's shindig. The whole event was so different from the all day drinking sessions which ruin many a warm evening in the UK. Three, maybe four or even five, generations were enjoying themselves, proud of their village, proud of their families and proud of their produce. Being just a little worse for wear was a badge of honour and not a single soul was rude, aggressive or out of order. As we left, people were slowly making their way home, smiling and happy, a joy to behold indeed.
<br />
<br />Back at my friend Jim's house in Maroux, just five kilometres away, we finished the night with a Ricard or two. All was well in the best of all possible worlds until.......you've guessed it from the title of this missive, the dreaded payback for such hedonistic excesses arrived with a vengeance some five days later. Like a bolt from the blue, the searing pain of gout indiscriminately fells the most active of men. It wasn't pastis, we knew, because Peter doesn't drink the stuff. Likewise, it certainly couldn't have been garlic, renowned for its medicinal properties, that finds its way somewhere into most meals chez nous. We had had some fairly indulgent lunches and dinners 'sous l' arbre dans le jardin'', where the wine flowed copiously and four courses, sometimes five, had become the norm. But neither of us had anticipated the consequence. Experience should have guided us but, no, we failed to spot the signs. When Peter tried to get out of bed the next morning, he nearly fell over. As anyone with gout knows, it is a shared experience. He screams in pain; I scream with frustration.
<br />
<br />Jim, himself a sufferer, advised a course of anti-inflammatory drugs only available on prescription from a 'medecin'. We searched the 'pages jaunes'. Eventually, we found a wonderful 'medecin' in St Girons called Dr Jean-Louis Vicq, who specialises in acapuncture, as well as regular medicine. After three sessions he can now walk again, but it was a close call. Trying to get across our 'tomettes' with the aid of a pair of steel capped hiking sticks was no joke! Going on all fours proved the easier option, especially up the stairs. I was relegated to another room, which was just as well as I think that I might have jumped out the window. There is nothing you can do except get it in the neck! I love the way that conventional and alternative medicine in France are considered natural bedfellows. There is no suspicion of quackery because most practitioners are also medically trained. Thank goodness we were able to find one so easily - a couple of days on anti inflammatory drugs will unsettle the strongest of stomachs.
<br />
<br />Anyway, at the end of it all, after Peter had trawled the internet, he tells me that it's all the fault of foie-gras [oh, and my home made liver pate!]. Apparently, there is something in liver and kidneys that activates gout. Duck fat and garlic are fine. It has nothing to do with red wine, either, of course. To which my answer is, 'If you believe that, you'll believe anything!'
<br />
<br /> Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-31832537842232626232011-06-01T10:08:00.000-07:002011-06-02T08:38:33.489-07:00Queille Festival FunFor the first time in I don't know how many years, Ellie finished her exams before the start of the half term break. In previous years, my guilt has always got the better of me and I have only allowed myself the odd day of musical indulgence at one of the best boutique classical music festivals around. I love music festivals but generally avoid anywhere that has a big screen and a live relay - if I can't see the whites of performers' eyes, I don't want to know. I may be a wimp but I just don't see the point otherwise. Why spend hours queueing for dirty and foul-smelling portaloos amongst legions of fellow festival goers? <br /><br />Friends tell me that Verona, Salzburg and Bayreuth are marvellous, and I'm sure they are. The Puccini Festival, on the lake at Torre del Lago, is supposed to be the most relaxed, if you don't count the 'craic' at Wexford. Glyndebourne is divine, but you need a small mortgage and a lot of luck to get there. For my money, one of the best value festivals is just an hour from us near Mirepoix, at the imposing Chateau de Queille, a venue which takes one's breath away. The price is all-inclusive and for less than the price of a pair of opera tickets, you get all concerts, lunches, dinners and entertainment, as well as unlimited wine, beer and soft drinks for the duration. You can even camp for free, although if you want to stay in one of the medieval tents provided, there is a supplement. <br /><br />It was started twelve years ago by Nico and Rachel Lethbridge and the seventh festival, Q7 to people in the know, has just ended. It is a huge credit to Rachel and her industrious team that they have continued to provide sublime music, amazing vittals and a huge sense of joy despite Nico's untimely death four years ago. He is sorely missed but his memory lives on with the Queille Festival. As each year passes, it gets better and better and this year's festival was definitely the best. Rachel herself has now assumed the role of Artistic Director, and it shows. It is an amazing achievement and I urge anyone with a love of classical music and a sense of fun to watch out for the next one [see: www. queillefestival.net].<br /><br />I drove to Beziers, and then alongside the bank of the beautiful Canal du Midi on one of the prettiest airport access roads imaginable, to pick Ellie up from the tiny Cap d'Agde airport. Ryanair flies there, exceedingly cheaply, from Bristol. Most other fares had been hugely inflated by the half term exodus and Ryanair, love them or hate them, pretty well always deliver what's on the tin. Cheapskate they may be, but their use of tiny, out of the way airports means that airport parking is a doddle, and with only one plane arriving every few hours, there are no immigration or luggage queues to get hot under the collar over. <br /><br />In less than two hours of glorious early summer Languedoc sunshine, we were in the Hotel du Commerce in Mirepoix to shower en route. Some things in life remain constant, no matter how many years pass by, and this little, old fashioned Logis, with its shady restaurant garden, remains one of them. Madame greeted us with her customary 'acceuil' and it was nice to be back. My old bones are just a teeny bit creaky these days to brave the joys of camping, which is a shame, because much of the fun at the Queille Festival takes place around the campfire at night, after the more formal events have ended. My daughter had no such qualms, eventually sharing a tent with her German cousins because her incompetent mother had managed to forget the pegs and tent poles for hers.<br /><br />We all assembled at 7pm, for drinks outside the ancient Romanesque chapel of Saint Sylvain et les Sept Freres Martyrs, which sits below the high wall of the equally ancient Chateau de Queille. Old friends and new exchanged pleasantries in anticipation of the weekend of heaven on earth ahead of them. There are many 'old timers' in our midst, and we share a common bond from the previous six festivals, as well as the ghosts of those now missing from our number. I am taken aback by how much they live on in their now grown up children. Where have the years gone, I wonder? <br /><br />The first concert was ambitious and set the standard for the two days to come. Two quartets, the stunning Badke and the Ristov, together with the cellist, William Amherst, the double bass and baroque bass player, Carina Cosgrave and the harpsichordist, Stephen Dagg, performed a delightful programme of 17th C and 18th C music. Mozart's Divertimenti in F major, K 138 was followed by Corelli's Christmas Concerto, the Concerto Grosso in G minor Op 6 No.8 and the seldom heard Concerto No. 5 in F minor by Count Wilhelm Van Wassenaer. It was a revelation that an reticent amateur Dutch aristocrat had composed a series of works of such exceptional quality but, modestly, refused to allow them to be attributed to him. He was the very antithesis of our modern celebrity. The concert closed, to rapturous applause, with the ever popular Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G major.<br /><br />After delicious canapes and chilled wines, we reconvened for something completely different. I have to declare an interest here, for the 'Gold Rush' was performed by my sister-in-law and my three talented nieces, who had completely re-scored Charlie Chaplin's phenomenal 1925 masterpiece. 'Lily and Co', with Julia at the piano leading her unique take on the silent Chaplin film rolling above her, was accompanied by her girls, including Lily, the youngest, with violins, flute, percussion and sundry sound effects. The film itself is a piece of social history, Chaplin's favourite, and it's almost impossible to believe that the icy Alaskan tundra, which was the backdrop of the massive rush for gold in the early years of the 20th century, was created in a studio with flour and icing sugar.<br /><br />The famous boot scene, perfected after sixty one takes, caused Chaplin to suffer an insulin overdose because the boot was made of liquorice. As Julia rendered the closing bars of 'Climb Every Mountain', we all whooped with jubilation, a fitting end to a glorious first evening. Sadly, the Chaplin Society have deemed that, from now on, only Chaplin's own score can be used to accompany 'Gold Rush', or indeed any other Chaplin film, so this was the very last performance. It is their loss and the estate of Buster Keaton's gain. Roll on 2013.<br /><br />A blazing Saturday morning saw two concerts with the Badke and Ristov Quartets and the talented young pianist, Simon Crawford-Phillips. The contrast between Mendelssohn's Octet in E Flat Op. 20 and Shostakovich's Piano Qintet in G minor Op. 57, at first sight, couldn't have been greater. According to Mendelssohn's sister, Fanny, the G minor scherzo was inspired by lines from the 'Walpurgis Night Dream' from Goethe's 'Faust':<br /><br />"Clouds and mist pass<br />It grows bright above.<br />Air in the bushes<br />And wind in the reeds<br />And all is dispersed."<br /><br />During the stunning Shostakovich, I couldn't help thinking of life in Stalin's Russia at the time of the first performance of the quintet at the Moscow Conservatory on 23rd November 1940. The witty finale, it seemed to me, could have been written with Goethe's prophetic words in mind. They were bleak times indeed, but Shostakovich manages a wry smile of hope at the end of it all.<br /><br />A champagne picnic lunch, after an appetite stimulating hike through the 'campagne', was accompanied by more music from Julia and the cousins, this time playing a heady mixture of Irish, folk, country and Klezmer music. The views were stunning and the array of local pates and cheeses, not to mention rustic breads, a would-be dieter's nightmare. Thank goodness the trees provided a respite from the brilliant sunshine for a quick forty winks before the need to soldier back to base for the second concert of the day.<br /><br />Schumann's Frauenliebe und Leben Op. 42 was sung beautifully by the South African soprano, Pumeza Matshikiza, with the acclaimed pianist, Julius Drake, accompanying. A change of musical direction followed, with haunting renditions of Fernando Obrador's 'Canciones Clasicas Espanolas' and Xavier Montsalvatge's 'Cinco Canciones Negras' before a short break before the third, and final, concert of the day. The contrast couldn't have been greater, for VOCES8 led us on a magical musical journey through their amazingly eclectic repertoire of classic and contemporary pieces scanning five centuries. From Palestrina and Bach to 'Jailhouse Rock' and songs from the great American songbook, we were treated to yet another hour of joyous music making.<br /><br />The evening finished pleasurably with a delicious BBQ feast in the Big Top and a wild night of whacky music, led by the brilliant Baghdaddies with their blistering brass, Balkan rhythms and rousing harmonies. Being a lightweight, especially after too much sunshine and champagne at lunchtime, I skipped off back to the Hotel du Commerce to sleep, perchance to dream.<br /><br />Sunday began with the obligatory Queille Festival mass [not really obligatory, of course, but 'de rigeur' for all us lovers of the sung mass], led by the inspiring Reverend Dr John Munns, with a small part of the service in French in deference to our surroundings. This year VOCES8 sang the Byrd Four Part Mass and it was truly glorious. As the sun shone against a brilliant azure sky outside the high Romanesque chapel windows, I thought to myself that just for a moment, all is well with the world. These brief interludes in life are precious indeed and to savour one like this is a privilege.<br /><br />A little later, we were treated to a virtuoso performance by Simon Crawford-Phillips of Chopin Nocturnes Op. 55 Nos. 1 and 2 and Janacek's deeply moving 'On An Overgrown Path' Bk 1. As Janacek himself wrote, "All in all, there is suffering beyond words contained here." When we had picked ourselves up, Simon was joined by the Ristov Quartet for Mozart's Piano Quintet in G minor, K 478. <br /><br />A leisurely lovely salmon and salads lunch in the meadow, washed down with refreshing glasses of Domaine Gayda rose, had us all scrambling for the shade again. The weather could not have been better and we have been blessed this year. We all remember the occasional downpours of previous years. Afterwards, replete and happy, we head back up the steps to the chapel for the final concert of the classical part of the festival.<br /><br />The charming French clarinetist, Nicolas Baldeyrou, together with the Badke Quartet, performed an exquisite rendering of Brahms' Clarinet Quintet Op. 115 in B minor and, in his second piece of the concert, was joined by Simon Crawford-Philllips at the piano for Debussy's 'Premiere Rhapsody', both of which I loved. I had not heard the latter piece before and was struck by just how 'modern' it is. Finally, the gorgeous Pumeza Matshikiza returned [in a stunning black and white Amanda Wakeley gown], accompanied by Simon and Nicolas, to sing Schubert's 'Der Hirt auf dem Felsen' D 965, 'The Shepherd on the Rock', scored for voice and piano and an obligato clarinet. They did not disappoint; it was sublime. The concert ended gracefully with Pumeza and the Badke Quartet in a performance of Schubert's Marion anthem, 'Salve Regina' in A D 676. It was a fitting 'Adieu' indeed. <br /><br />Sadly, for personal reasons, I had to miss the Grand Finale in the Big Top, an event which is legendary. This year's theme was 'One Thousand Nights and One Night', and people seemed to have been planning their outfits for weeks. I had retrieved a stunning pink silk sari from the back of my wardrobe, together with some pink sequined Indian slippers, which probably would have made me look like an overgrown pomegranate, but it was not to be. C'est la vie. Acrobats from Le Cirque la Cabriole and music from VOCES8 and The Baghdaddies set the scene and, by all accounts, it was a very late night to remember......like the festival itself. By 10am the following morning, I was pinned into my Easyjet flight, en route to a wet and windy Gatwick. Sadly, there was no magic carpet for me. Roll on 2013 when the magic will continue......Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-25912378477734973082011-05-18T06:17:00.000-07:002011-05-18T10:50:28.361-07:00Buying for the Biblioteque at BardiesFunnily enough, I am not usually one for compulsive buying. I read this week that a national survey has discovered that, on average, men spend £25 per week on such 'must have' purchases, compared with the average woman's paltry £19. My guess is that electronic 'gismos' whack up the male average, whereas us poor females indulge our lacklustre lives with lacy fripperies from the lingerie department, age defying 'maquillage' and exotically fragranced candles to raise our spirits after a particularly gruelling day. For better or worse, I've always been happy with Marks and Spencer's multi-packs and a jug of flowers from the garden!<br /><br />But that was before Amazon! I have to confess to a massive addiction to Amazon's second hand book service. The knack is to try to ascertain the condition of the book that you want and see how many you can buy for less than a euro/pound. You do then, of course, have to factor in the £2.75 postage. For hardback books, there are unlimited bargains to be had, all at a fraction of their original RRP's. Having some years ago decided to build a library of French books at Bardies [rather more about the French, than in French, I have to say], it's rather nice to have a collection of books that have been read at least once. Guests feel less intimidated about borrowing them, although I do draw the line at leaving them down by the pool or left abandoned, baking on a chair in the heat of the midday sun.<br /><br />My interest in the Cathars began some sixteen years ago, when we bought our first house near Mirepoix. It had been a Cathar castle and there was an old medieval forge in the grounds, as well as a beautiful Romanesque chapel. As a history graduate, I had always known that history is written by the victors but the story of the Cathars became, for a little while, an obsession. Books on the subject were few and far between then. Yves Roquette's seminal book, 'Cathars', Zoe Oldenburg's ' Massacre at Montsegur', [the first populist account of the Cathars in the English language, translated by classical scholar, Peter Green] and Emmanuele Roy Ladurie's story of 'Montaillou' were about it. I hoovered them up and went on pilgrimages to every single Cathar castle in the region, buying guide books along the way whenever and wherever I could. We had some fine picnics at places with enticing names, like Roquefixade, Peyrpeteuse and Queribus. <br /><br />When we moved west, to Bardies, it took a few years to turn what is now the 'biblioteque' from an earth floored woodshed [with two tree trunks holding up the bedroom floor above!] into a stunning faux Louis Quatorze room, with a run of ceiling height bookshelves covering a whole wall. Just about the time that the building work was completed, Amazon took off. It has to be the best internet shopping site ever, n'est-ce-pas! Ten years earlier, assembling a relevant library would have been a lifetime's work. Now, with 'one click', your fingers do the work and your bank manager takes a deep intake of breath.<br /><br />I started, inevitably, with history books: Carlisle's 'History of the French Revolution' was an early purchase, a Folio edition no less, and William Doyle's 1990 classic, 'The Oxford History of the French Revolution', followed by Georges Lefebvre's 'The French Revolution' [Routledge Classics] and Christopher Hibbert's marvellous 2001 book, also, unoriginally, called 'The French Revolution'. I found Simon Schama's 'Citizens' [2004] and the first of Jonathan Sumption's books on the Hundred Years War, 'Trial by Battle' [1999] in a charity shop. I paid a bit more for Ruth Scurr's 'Fatal Purity: Robespierre and the French Revolution' [2007] and Jonathan Sumption's 1999 history, 'The Albigensian Crusade'. Then I bit the bullet and bought the second and third books in the Sumption trilogy, 'Trial by Fire' [2001] and 'Divided Houses' [2009], new from Amazon. I haven't read either yet but the others I loved.<br /><br />Then, like a drug addict moving up a notch for an even bigger hit, I graduated to biographies: Christopher Hibbert's 'Napoleon: His Wives and Women', Nancy Mitford's 'The Sun King' and 'Madame de Pompadour', both found in charity shops, Antonia Frazer's wonderful 'Marie Antoinette', as well as her 'Love and Louis X1V: The Women in the Life of the Sun King', David Lawday's 'Danton, A Life' [2009], Leonie Frieda's 'Catherine de Medici' [2004], and all of Graham Robb's scholarly reads' 'Baudelaire' [1989], 'Balzac' [1995], 'Victor Hugo' [1998] and 'Rimbaud' [2001. <br /><br />Amazon has a lot to answer for, for my addiction knows no bounds. Other all time favourite reads accumulated on the biblioteque shelves are Caroline Moorehead's, 'Dancing to the Precipice', Montaigne's 'Essays', Hilary Mantel's, 'A Place of Greater Safety', Graham Robb's, 'The Discovery of France' and 'Parisians', Adam Zamoyski's '1812: Napoleon's Fatal March on Moscow', Marcel Proust's, 'A la Recherche du Temps Perdu', everything by Irene Nemirovsky but especially 'Suite Francaise' and, of course, Baroness Orzcy's 'The Scarlet Pimpernel', my favourite read as a young girl and through which I discovered my love of history. <br /><br />There are loads more. There are lots of books on people's new lives in France, some good, most tedious, the novels of Flaubert and Zola and their contemporaries, travel books, art books [long on Picasso!], garden books, books on the prehistoric caves, books on the villages of France, books on wine, cognac and, because no collection of mine could exist without them, books on food. The French cookery library is my pride and joy [and possibly the ruin of me!]. From Larousse to Elisabeth David and Gerard Depardieu, and Richard Olney and Trish Deseine to the blogger, Clothilde Dusoulier, there is, I think, something to inspire everyone to put on their apron and have a go in the kitchen.<br /><br />And, finally, there is music to listen to and movies to put your feet up to on a rainy day: Jaques Brel, Serge Gainsbourg, Piaf, Billie Holliday, Georges Brassens, Stefan Grapelli, Django, Francoise Hardy and, God forbid, even the First Lady's humble efforts. It was too easy to buy them all with one click! Then, as if these two addictions weren't enough, 'World Cinema' sales on Amazon proved even more irresistible. I now have to hover by the postbox to squirrel my purchases furtively away before I am seen with the evidence. Not wishing to incriminate myself any further, this blog has become, conveniently, too long already to name them all here. Having become an addict of the French crime thriller, 'Spiral', on BBC4 on Saturday nights, I will admit to indulging in the DVD of the first two series.<br /><br />When, oh when, will this compulsion end? With apologies to Dr Johnson, 'The man[or woman!] who tires of Amazon, tires of life.' Who needs a new frock when you can curl up in bed with a great book?Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-38666182274050285952011-04-29T07:01:00.000-07:002011-04-29T11:11:26.051-07:00Vice and Virtue in AlbiOn a glorious Spring morning in April, Caroline and I decided to meet up in the historic and monumental town of Albi, in the Tarn 'departement' just fifty miles north east of Toulouse. From Bardies it is an easy journey, less than two hours if you can avoid the early morning rush hour on the 'peripherique'. We had set our hearts on a long, leisurely, 'girly' lunch al fresco and a trip to the Musee Toulouse-Lautrec, which is housed in the stunning 14th century 'Palais de la Berbie'. This is not, as we had wrongly surmised, an old Berber Palace abandoned after the Moorish invasions but the Occitan nomenaclature for a Bishop's Palace ['Bisbia']. We were blessed. There were few tourists and parking adjacent to the Cathedrale de Sainte-Cecile was easy.<br /><br />Albi in the sunshine gives no hint of its darker days. History is full of fascinating paradoxes and the location of the bulk of the work of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec [1864-1901] here is one of them. The legacy of that acute observer of the 'demi-monde', who lived life to the full and was never afraid to show it, now rests 'in memoriam' in the midst of one of the greatest medieval edifices ever created to demonstrate the power and pomp of the prelates who lived here. If ever there was a building designed to incur the shock and awe of the cowering and unwashed masses, then this is it. You really do feel like an insignificant speck of cosmic dust when you gaze up at the skyline from the shadows of the cobbled courtyard so far below. The sheer, unadulterated, brutal power of the church surrounds and seeks to obliterate you.<br /><br />For this palace, begun in the late 13th century, like the fortress cathedral next to it, was designed to say 'never again' to those who dared to question existing doctrine and authority. The full might of the Catholic and apostolic church was to remain supreme in the wake of the testing challenges of the humble Cathars, whose beliefs in gnostic dualism directly challenged Roman dogma . Rome called on its most powerful warriors, led by the brutal Englishman, Simon de Montfort [1160- 1218], to exterminate the Albigensians, so named because Pope Innocent II believed that Albi was the centre of the heresy. After the sack of Beziers in 1209, when every man, woman and child was killed in the belief that 'God will know his own', until his death in 1218, he inculcated fear and loathing throughout the Languedoc. <br /><br />Alongside these brutal campaigns, Papal Ordinances were passed which imposed new penalties for heresy. The monk Dominic Guzman [1170-1221] aka Saint Dominic [1234], a friend of de Montfort, was instrumental in the setting up of the Inquisition. Catharism was doomed. New methods of torture and new crimes were created. In 1233 Pope Gregory IX charged the Dominican Inquisition with the final solution, the absolute eradication of the Cathar faith. The origins of the modern police state were conceived in the war against the Albigensians [aka Cathars]. Here in Albi today we see its manifestation. I can think of no other House of God which so resembles a fortress and no other Bishop's Palace which so resembles a police headquarters. There is no power but Rome.<br /><br />On a beautiful day like today though, with its pink bricked facade and Baldaquin dappled in sunshine, it's hard to think of such darkness, especially sitting in a nearby restaurant eating 'souris d'agneau' with a glass of Gaillac rose. I came to Albi with friends in 1989 but remember little, except for the cathedral and the pink brick and tiles of the Renaissance town houses in the the tiny maze of medieval streets that surround it. The merchants of Albi, I read, made their money from the cultivation of 'Isatis Tinctoria', a dark blue dye which we call 'woad'. Albi was the centre of this thriving trade. It is bigger and brighter than I remember, due I am sure, to a spate of municipal facelifts. It is undoubtedly one of the most perfect places in the Languedoc in which to spend a lazy day.<br /><br />After lunch, we head to see the Lautrecs. I am beside myself with excitement, after my recent trip to Paris. I had not thought of myself as a great fan of his work but somehow he has got to me, 'de la coeur'. I suppose that one of the reasons for my hitherto indifference was the ubiquity of his poster images. He must have kept legions of printers in profit for well over a century and such familiarity has devalued our experience. His paintings are a revelation, now hung here in his birthplace because the directors of various Paris museums disdainfully rejected his parents' generous offer of all the remaining works from his studio after his death. Paris's loss is Albi's gain. The Office de Tourisme must be rubbing its hands in glee, for the museum now houses over a thousand works and documents and has become the largest and most important public collection in the world dedicated to Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.<br /><br />Edouard Vuillard's [1868- 1940] portrait of him, brightly dressed in a crimson shirt and sunflower yellow 'pantalons', with a red and white neckscarf and jaunty hat, illustrates the pathos of his life, the cheery soul in the pain racked and crippled body. In complete contrast we see his own portrait of his tall, lean and athletic father riding a stallion with a falcon ascending on his left wrist. The contrast could not be more acute. Poor pitiful Henri, with his congenitally stunted little legs, has no choice but to cower in his studio painting an exciting world to which he can but aspire. Unable to participate in most of the activities enjoyed by his peers, the young Henri immerses himself in his art. When his mother takes him to Paris in 1882 and he settles in Montmartre, he finds the two things that he can participate in, booze and sex.<br /><br />In his paintings we see the sensitivity of the alcoholic. He paints the women of the decadent and theatrical life of 'fin de siecle' Paris with little sentimentality but a great deal of love, affection and admiration. We look at his paintings and we sense that he knows their pain, and occasional joy, as he knows his own. He observes them acutely but we know that he knows them as well as he knows himself. He is of them, and one of them, despite being of aristocratic stock and from a different world. From his exquisite depiction of the boredom and monotony of the women in the salon at Moulins Street to the classical mastery of 'The Milliner', we see works of great contrast.<br /><br />One of my favourites is 'Doctor Tapie de Celeyran', reminiscent of German Expressionists. We know his women so well, Yvette Guilbert, La Goulou, Jane Avril, La Mome Fromage, who are named, and those who remain un-named but forever etched in our consciousness. Their lives may have seemed to be mere 'demi-monde' in 'fin de siecle' Paris but, in posterity, they have real place and presence. He has served them well. Even the men he treats with respect, although it has to be said that he has created them as two dimensional beings, in complete contrast with his women. I particularly love the bland, beige Englishman at the Moulin Rouge. The one exception, of course, is Oscar Wilde, lonely, corpulent and red faced, far away in Paris in the Musee d'Orsay.<br /><br />Henri de Toulouse Lautrec died from complications due to alcoholism and syphilis on 9th September 1901, aged 36. In his own short life he documented the lives of others for posterity. They were lives of vice and virtue, not considered worthy enough in their time for the grand museums of Paris. His parents, the Comte and Comtesse de Toulouse-Lautrec, who lived lives as far removed from the 'demi-monde' as the Bishop of Albi, wished to preserve their son's work and his last wishes. With the help of Gabriel Tapie de Celeyran, their nephew and Henri's first cousin, and his friend, Maurice Joyant, the legacy was eventually secured and the exhibition galleries were created and inaugurated on 30th July 1922. Today, visitors and fans arrive every year in their thousands to see the collection. It is a good reason to visit this splendid town. But whilst you while away carefree moments amongst these paintings, drawings and prints, spare a few moments for the poor souls who believed in the simpler values of the Albigensians. Vice and virtue coexist here, but sometimes it's so very hard to decide just who were the saints and who were the sinners.Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-69979931440622671702011-04-09T12:27:00.000-07:002011-04-10T02:11:42.531-07:00Lost Souls And Lipstick Kisses In ParisA long, lazy weekend in Paris is a wonderful thing, especially in springtime. We didn't hesitate for a moment about going to see our daughter perform in a couple of Dance Band gigs last weekend. It's a funny thing when roles suddenly become reversed and the geriatrics become the groupies. In Paris though, on the left bank, the over sixties and seventies still tap their feet and jive along to the great American songbook. The soixante-huitards, who listened to jazz and blues at their parents' knees, are still full of that old Parisian 'joie de vivre' and 'je ne sais quoi'. With the sunshine dappling through the trees of the Luxembourg Gardens, they made the day. The youngsters were over the moon at such appreciation. Bien fait!<br /><br />Afterwards, not wanting to cramp darling daughter's style, I decided, on a whim, to leg it south to seek out the old Barriere d'Enfer, Hell's Gate. It's now called Place Denfert-Rochereau, after an unfortunate French colonel who was roundly trounced by the Prussians during the winter campaign of 1870-71. The similarity in sound is undoubtedly a little French pun on its previous existence as hell on earth. Smack in the middle of a traffic traffic island, in commemoration of this dastardly defeat, is the Lion of Belfort. It is cast in bronze with its head facing westwards, away from Prussia, by Frederic Bartholdi of New York's Statue of Liberty fame. It serves as yet another reminder that we commemorate in order to forget, as Alan Bennet reminds us in 'The History Boys'. The defeat is long forgotten, like the lost souls below.<br /><br />There are two stunning neoclassical buildings on the south side of the square, one next to the beautiful 'art nouveau' railings of the Metro, designed for the World Exhibition of 1900, and the other directly opposite. They once formed part of the original tollgates to the much hated Farmer's General Wall. Crippling taxes were levied on every item being taken in or out of the City of Paris and the road south was a profitable and essential thoroughfare. It was said that one passed through these tollgates in fear of one's life. So hated were they that during the steamy weekend of 12th July 1789 most of the tollgates were destroyed, presaging the bloodshed of the revolution that was to follow. These two, though, with their beautifully carved serene Greek maidens dancing around the architrave, miraculously escaped the revenge of the rampaging and angry mobs.<br /><br />The rest of the history of this Place is now below ground, thanks to 'the man who saved Paris'. Graham Robb, in his charming and illuminating book, 'Parisians, recounts how in 1774 a gaping trench along the eastern side of the Rue d'Enfer opened up and swallowed all the houses for a distance of a quarter of a mile towards Paris. The Place d'Enfer really had become the 'Mouth of Hell'. The new Inspector of Quarries, whose job it became to inspect and report on the catastrophic collapse, was called Charles-Axel Guillaumot. The day following the collapse, he descended into the trench to a depth of eighty four feet and was truly shocked by what he discovered. The streets of Paris were perched precariously on top of massive undergound 'fontis', cavities, interspersed with 'cloches' of rubble liable to collapse at any moment, left by generations of earlier miners and quarriers who knew little of excavation. Paris had devoured its own foundations.<br /><br />He made it his life's work to create spacious vaults and porticos to shore up the city above. Each 'cloche' was turned into a swirling cone of elaborate stonework and hacked out tunnels were faced with inscribed limestone walls. Amazingly, he recreated the above ground street names and a numbering system to identify the location of individual houses, to match his tunnels to the streets above and the landlords who were legally responsible for all the earth below ground level. The whole history of Paris was evident from this subterranean mirror image, from the Gauls and the Romans who had dug their building stone from quarries near the Seine, to the building stone below the Rue d'Enfer which had gone to make Notre Dame, the Palais Royal and the mansions of the Marais. Everything was there, bar the people who had made the history of Paris. All that rapidly changed.<br /><br />On 30th May 1780 a brewer in the Rue de la Lingerie descended into cellar and found hundreds of decomposed and decomposing bodies piled there. Apart from the shock, it explained why his water was fetid. Since the arrival of the first smallpox epidemic some ten years earlier, which had killed off a tenth of the population and most of the infants under a year old, public health had become an issue. The overflowing graveyards of the Cemetery of the Innocents, close to what is now Les Halles and almost eight feet above the Rue Saint-Denis, were a major cause for concern. Nine centuries worth of putrefaction would be transported to an ossuary that Guillamot proposed to install in his waiting underground city. "Arrete, c'est ici l'empire de la mort," he would later have inscribed, his life's work done.<br /><br />After months of secret debate, a royal edict of 3rd April 1786 determined that the bodies would be transferred southwards by cart and wagon, along the cobbled streets over the Pont Notre Dame to the Barriere d'Enfer to fill Guillamot's empty spaces. It was a macabre, and hugely expensive operation, which almost bankrupted the state. The repercussions were enormous, not least because of the higher taxes that were required. The gatekeepers of the Farmer's General Wall scrutinised the incoming wagons with even greater vigour. It was said that the number of skeletons that made the journey to La Tombe-Issoire was ten times greater than the living population of Paris.<br /><br />The bones were arranged in decorative banks of skulls, tibias and femurs with many carved maxims, poems and other sacred and profane epitaphs. There is equity in death here. The bones of victims of the Saint Bartholemew's Day Massacre are muddled up with those of the Catholics who killed them. Later, following the bloodshed of the Reign of Terror, they were added to by the bodies of guillotined aristocrats. Camille and Lucille Desmoulins, Danton and Robespierre later joined them. Even poor Guillamot himself finished up here, lost amongst the other souls, when his gravestone in the Cimitiere Sainte Catherine disappeared. The remaining cemeteries of Paris were excavated in 1883 and Guillamot's bones were gathered up with all the others and deposited here in this vast ossuary. He has become part of the very structure he created, in memoriam.<br /><br />Today, as you stand in front of the two very understated green 'porteils' that lead down the one hundred and thirty steps to the Catacombs of Paris, you realise that so much of the city's history lies here. There is no getting away from it, it is indeed the realm of death. There are the remains of between six and seven million Parisians laid to rest in high Romantic taste across a distance of two kilometres. The bones here are anonymous relics to a great and turbulent past. In an age when we shun death and tuck it away with pleasantries such as "passing away", a walk through the Catacombs provides a jolt to reality.<br /><br />This is not the case at the Cimetiere of Pere Lachaise, laid out in 1804, north east of here. There, in contrast, you can walk with angels in the bright sunlight until you find whoever it was that you came looking for. The legendary lovers, Abelard and Heloise, rest here in a grand tomb, closer in death than they ever were in life. Edith Piaf is here too, in a very unremarkable grave. Ingres and Modigliani, Corot and Delacroix, Seurat and Pissaro are here, as are Balzac, Beaumarchais and Proust. Bizet, Poulenc and Chopin are also here. But it is to one grave in particular that most of us are drawn [two, I suppose, if you are a fan of Jim Morrison of The Doors, whose body has long since been returned to California but whose gravestone remains a place of pilgrimage].<br /><br />The grave of Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde is the main attraction. He was laid to rest here in 1900, after his final sad days eking out an existence in Paris in a solitary room [No 16] at the Hotel d'Alsace on the Rue des Beaux Arts. We see what he became from a painting in the Musee d'Orsay, in Toulouse Lautrec's portrayal of him as an overweight, red faced voyeur at the Moulin Rouge. As large in death as he was in life, Oscar Wilde's tomb is a fitting testament to one of our greatest writers. He lived his life as art and Jacob Epsein's carved angel celebrates the elegance of the man before his fall. It is a very early piece by Epstein and it takes your breath away. Having been to the Bourdelle Museum, at his studio in Montparnasse, I was struck for the first time by his influence on Epstein.<br /><br />Bourdelle's bas reliefs must surely have provided the prototype. It matters not, for this is living art. The most remarkable thing about Epstein's tribute to Wilde, with its red angel lips, are the hundreds of lipstick kisses below. He was more loved in death than he ever was in life. 'I love you', 'Anna and Mary love you', 'Amor', 'Forever', 'Libertad Siempre' and many more messages are scribbled on the pale yellow stone in red lipstick. If I had a pound for every lipstick kiss, I would be a rich woman indeed. It is a moving, living tribute to the great man himself and it is done with love. This is not the stuff of irresponsible graffiti. 'Au contraire', it is an expression of the ultimate human manifestation of love, a kiss. Another lost soul, the writer of 'De Profundis', has finally found happiness at last under a sea of lipstick kisses. How happy I am to have seen it.Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-76279899795524760712011-02-20T06:46:00.000-08:002011-02-20T10:10:17.823-08:00Marvellous MontaubanI cannot begin to count the number of times that I have hurriedly driven past Montauban, on my way to Bardies. Every time, particularly when the 'peage' is heaving with holidaymakers en route to summer sun, I think to myself, "I must stop here one day when it's quieter". Like so many places in southern France, if you don't mind the biting cold, the winter months are perfect for days out to bastides, ancient churches and museums. Another bonus is that, with the exception of the cashier and the odd security person, you are quite likely to be the only souls in the place.<br /><br />So it was when my good friend Caroline and I decided to treat ourselves to a spot of lunch and an afternoon of culture at the Musee Ingres in Montauban. As it's only 53 kilometres from Toulouse, it was an easy drive up the motorway. The day was bitterly cold, all the better for having a serious 'menu du jour' after our pre-prandial walk around this small but perfectly formed pink bricked bastide. Some say that Montauban, founded in 1144, was the first bastide in southern France although I think that Mont de Marsan may have pipped them to this accolade.<br /><br />It is surprisingly compact and in its tightly formed centre, almost every building is a joy to behold. The softly muted pastel coloured paintwork, on window frames and balconies, contrasted beautifully with the rose pink brick work. I am not usually an avid photo addict, generally preferring memory and context to moments artificially suspended in time, but I just couldn't resist the temptation this time. It could have been a film set or a template for a lavish coffee table book. The Pont Vieux, which took thirty years to complete and was inaugurated in 1335, survives intact with only its original fortified towers missing. It is a stunning feat of medieval engineering and spectacularly beautiful.<br /><br />There is the most divine florist's shop called 'Zeste', painted in the muted French greys and greens that we usually only see on a Farrow and Ball paint chart. In sharp contrast to the dull, cold, murky grey day only the bulbs in pots, laden on metal patio tables outside, gave any hint that spring was in the air. The gorgeous patisserie opposite, with its vibrant blood orange colour interior walls, warmed the soul as well as the stomach. Even the tea shop, 'Le Gout The', proved an irresistable temptation, and all less than twenty five metres from the Musee Ingres.<br /><br />The building that houses the works of Ingres and Bourdelle, both born in Montauban, is a major historical monument in its own right. It was begun by the Black Prince in 1363, when ceded to the English by the Treaty of Bretigny in 1360, but never finished because the English lost control of the town and were expelled in 1414. 'La salle du Prince Noir', the basement of the building, today contains many artefacts from Montauban's early history, including a grotesque 'banc de question', a medieval rack. During the sixteenth century, Montauban became one of four Huguenot strongholds, sustaining in 1621 a successful eighty six day siege by Louis X111, only to have its fortifications finally destroyed by Cardinal Richelieu, who entered the city on 20th August 1629. The fate of the Huguenots was not a pleasant one and many of the luckier ones finished up as emigres in Spitalfields in east London.<br /><br />In a wave of Catholic reassertion, work began in 1664 on a new, majestic 'palais episcopal', which was completed in 1680. The Cathedrale de Notre Dame was erected shortly afterwards with the same purpose. It was confiscated in 1790 and bought by the 'municipalite de Montauban' as the 'hotel de ville'. A museum was created in 1820 and Ingres sent 54 works of art in 1851. Upon his death in 1867, Ingres bequeathed his famous violin and the building was renamed the Musee Ingres shortly afterwards. Today, there is also a contemporary art exhibition space, a large archaeological collection, a fabulous collection of old 'faiences' which includes eighteenth century pharmaceutical jars from the hospital and a permanent historical exhibition of local trades. You certainly get your money's worth here!<br /><br />I have to confess that I have never been a huge fan of Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres [1780 -1867], despite his superb technical accomplishment. His art, to me, is the epitomy of an artist's notion of perfection , a cerebral rather than a heartfelt exercise in skill. Ingres was undoubtedly a master of the highest order, hugely influenced by his time in Italy emulating the grand masters of classicism. The historical paintings, including 'Le Songe de Ossian' and 'Jesus parmi les docteurs', are phenomenal, as are his stunning portraits, including the portrait of Madame Caroline Gonse. I particularly liked his early work, the 'Torse d'homme', painted when he was just nineteen, and his drawings but, in truth, I left slightly uninspired.<br /><br />The sculptures of Emile-Antoine Bourdelle [1861 -1929] on the ground floor of the museum, however, proved to be the highlight for me, although if I could take just one piece home it would be Camille Claudel's exquisite head of a young girl. I love her work so much, racked as each piece is by emotional honesty. She is my sculptor super-hero. Bourdelle, who lived at No 34 de la rue de l'Hotel de ville just across the way, looked in his photograph as if he had just walked off the set of 'La Boheme'. "La musique, la sculpture, c'est la meme chose: le sculpteur compose avec des masses, des volumes, le musicien avec des sons,"he said. His 'buste de Beethoven' immortalises this philosophy. By his own admission, hugely influenced by Rodin, his work ranges from the grand and theatrical ['Herakles archer' and the murals for the theatre des Champs- Elysees] to the delicate and ethereal 'tete de Montaban', an exquisite piece of sculpture. I would not have missed them for the world.<br /><br />As we were leaving this petite but beautifully formed town [the population is only just short of 56,000], I found myself visualising hordes of summer visitors thronging its tiny streets in August. It was beautiful in grey, so it can only be divine in full sunlight. On balance, though, I have to say that spending an afternoon devouring the contents of the Musee Ingres with no one else was a special privilege. They might have opened it just for us - it certainly felt as though this were the case. How uplifting these winter visits are proving to be. We're off to the Musee Toulouse- Lautrec in Albi next. We can't wait!Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-26631946301115026392011-01-12T08:25:00.000-08:002011-01-12T10:35:09.719-08:00Here's To The Next Ten Years!I generally hate early January, except when there is masses of snow up in Guzet and the woodburner is burning fast and furious chez nous. I dream in vain because this year we decided, for various reasons, to have Christmas in England. It was lovely, of course, but my sense of deprivation, due in large part to the dreary, dismal, grey weather, makes me feel even more fed up. The heavy snow, which covered the whole of the UK and decimated the transport network, first stranded me in Dublin for three days with my daughter [always a joy!] and then forced me to give up all hope of getting down to Bardies in December to deliver Christmas puddings, cakes and presents. Tant pis.<br /><br />For some bizarre reason I've just discovered, I forgot to blog in November, which is just as well because it would probably have been a rant about the fees charged by French banks, the hike in our 'taxe fonciere' and 'taxe d'habitation', the price of 'fioul' to replenish stocks for the central heating for winter and, inevitably, the failure of my battered old Jeep to pass its 'certificat de controle technique'. In the event, the first two I could do nothing about, the third proved not to be too bad due to my continued absence and the last, amazingly, a minor miracle because I've been given a year to put the faults right. Thank goodness, because by now my car would have been permanently grounded at Blagnac. <br /><br />Enough of my ranting! There is something about January that pressages the spring to come. It remains, for me, a time of reflection, on the year past, future goals and lessons learned. I like to snuggle up, self-indulgently in the warm, and ponder my navel. It's less of an effort after Christmas because one's stomach sticks out more! When the weather is bleak, it's easier to stay indoors to think and write. The first hurdle for any aspiring writer, I always think, is to get one's bum on one's seat for at least two hours at a stretch. With fewer distractions, the creative juices begin to flow [helped greatly this year by Radio 3's incredible twelve days of 'The Genius of Mozart' - how I shall miss it tomorrow].<br /><br />Even walking the dog at this time of year is less of a chore because a bit of exercise becomes a luxury rather than a necessity. 'I think, therefore I am' - was it Sartre who said that? So, in this navel gazing mode, I found myself thinking about Bardies on our tenth anniversary here. We bought it on the spot exactly ten years ago, for it was love at first sight for both of us. We were mad, I know, but neither of us has ever had a moment's regret. Our children were six and eight at the time and these last ten years, seeing our children grow there with their friends and cousins, have been the greatest joy. Home is where the heart is and my heart will always be here. <br /> <br />Bardies has taken a lot of love, work and dedication, not to mention money. She is a demanding mistress, always asking for more just when she's taken your last centime. If it's not rain pouring through the chateau roof, it's the potential collapse of the barn roof. Whenever one lot of broken guttering gets fixed, another section breaks apart in sympathy. We run, with buckets, to stand still! We still haven't tackled replacing the draughty windows and doors, although, to be honest, I can't bear the thought of losing the beautifully leaded glass panes in the rickety old 18th and 19th century windows. The prospect of every house looking the same to conform to well meaning regulations fills me with horror. If the answer is to stay away in deepest winter to conserve precious power, then so be it.<br /><br />We have done so much over the last ten years and we plan to do so much more in the next ten too. With a fair wind, we should be able to finally restore the old barn. The preliminary work has been done by the indomitable Sean who, as ever, has done a stirling job. He is not called 'Mr Perfectionist' for nothing! It is so exciting to have a project, and this is one of many. Actually, it is the linchpin upon which most of the others depend, so watch this space! My sister-in-law in Germany once said to me how lucky I was because we had a dream - something to glue us all together and give our lives purpose. The blues festival, likewise, has become a family affair, something to cherish and be proud of when the guitars are finally hung up. The next one will definitely be in 2011, to celebrate a special anniversary in our household.<br /><br />So, after ten years, it seems like we are still only just beginning. We have been so privileged to be a part of such a magical place - ten years in a history that spans centuries. Indeed, if one reflects on the pre-historic caves close by, we are a teeny part of a history that spans many millenia. How amazing is that? We are also thrilled that descendants of Louis Henry, who spent summers here when they were children, will spend some time chez nous this summer. The continuum of life is a precious thing and such a special direct connection will be one of the great joys of this year. So, here's to 2011, and the next ten years. I feel sure that the best is yet to come.Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8712478753941867437.post-24111555809018585972010-10-18T04:33:00.000-07:002010-10-20T06:44:51.029-07:00Encore La Jeunesse Dans La RueOf course, I was not pleased that yet another flight from Toulouse has been cancelled. Of the five demonstrations against Nicolas Sarkozy's pension reforms, due to be put to the vote in the Senate on Wednesday, two have resulted in me having to make alternative arrangements. The call to 'bloquons l'economie' is beginning to have major consequences, with Paris's two airports, Charles de Gaulle and Orly, destined to be devoid of fuel by Tuesday and many petrol stations closed. Two friends told me that their flight home with Easyjet operated at a cruising height below the level requiring supervision by ATC. Desperate times require desperate measures, especially when the trains, too, are stopped in their tracks.<br /><br />Saturday's demonstration in Toulouse was, by all accounts, a jolly and good natured affair. Indeed, in all the major cities where upwards of a million people appear to be on the march [not as many, it has to be said, as the three million reported at previous demonstrations], this particular 'rapport de force' [over the raising of the retirement age from 60 to 62, still the lowest in Europe, seems still to be light hearted. Whilst in one major poll it transpired that 65% of French people accept the demographics and the inevitability of some rise in retirement age, in another, by Ifop, it appears that a staggering 84% of 18-24 year olds are in favour of the protests. The placard saying "Strike until you retire" is not a joke at the protesters' expense, although it certainly brings a wry smile to my face. <br /><br />As a stroppy student planning to read History and Politics, I was an enthusiastic supporter of the 'soixante-huitards'. We all believed we could change the world. Now nearing sixty myself, I can see the appeal of taking to the streets again, especially against a government as unpopular as that of Nicolas Sarkozy. To cast off walking sticks and zimmer frames and give one's new hip and knee joints a serious outing in pursuit of one's own self interest is temptation indeed. To walk off into the sunset of one's life, probably with more than a quarter of it left to tend one's roses and coo at one's grandchildren, with a comfortable pay-off from the state from 60 onwards, is a right that cannot be surrendered. Bugger who pays for it, though. No wonder the Germans, who already have a retirement age of 67, have shown little sympathy to either the Greeks or the French. <br /><br />What I have difficulty comprehending remains the enthusiasm of the very people who will have to pay for it all, especially as France's pension deficit currently stands at 32 billion euros. Would UK students walk alongside us, I wonder, as our pensions are eroded? Both mine and my husband's dates for drawing our pensions have already been revised upwards, from 60-62 and 65-66 respectively [especially, rightly, over mine as we move forwards towards pensions equality], with not a pipsqueak from the National Union of Students. I think not. In contrast, to quote Ifop political analyst, Frederc Dabi, in France "since 1968 politicians have taken to watching the mobilisation of youngsters like one watches boiling milk."<br /><br />As I have written about before, the French state, I am convinced, has a horror of it's streets, a legacy of those dark days of tumbrils and torment that have so shaped its modern democracy. It is particularly terrified, courtesy of the 68-ers, of its students and schoolchildren. For in 1968, Charles de Gaulle was almost toppled by them and forced to question the loyalty of his troops garrisoned in Baden Baden in the process. In 1986, and again in 2005, 'la jeunesse dans la rue', blockaded behind their barricades, so terrified the government once again, the power of the street prevailed and an anxious government kow-towed in the face of their fire bombs and vociferous resistance. Will we witness yet another climbdown this time?<br /><br />Sarkozy talks tough but has alienated so many people, it's hard to make a judgement. The Left in France remains weakened by its electoral defeat and has failed to produce a coherent narrative. There is a sense of something important taking shape on the streets of France but no one appears quite able to define it. One of the wittier slogans sported in Paris, and there were many, said, 'Carla, we're like you. We've been screwed by Sarko too.' I am constantly amazed with the vitriol that so many French friends, who certainly never were Socialists, display towards the man that they voted for. I am inclined to think that they got the government they deserved. I am minded of my 1979 badge which said, 'Don't blame me, I voted Labour!'<br /><br />There is a sense of betrayal, that somehow Sarkozy should have looked after their interests but has failed them. The revelations that his presidential campaign was boosted by illegal donations from L'Oreal heir, Lillian Bettencourt, who has also been accused of tax evasion, has left a nasty taste in their mouths. His failure to make any headway in reforming crippling employment taxes and archaic working practices has disillusioned many of his middle class supporters. One revelation over the last weeks has been that staff working for EDF and GDF have an average retirement age of 55.4 years, whilst those working for SNCF retire at 52.5 years. Those with battered private pensions can only but look on, goggle eyed, with envy.<br /><br />Additionally, it has to be said, the awful spectacle of France expelling its Roma migrants in such a callous and contemptible sop to the Far Right, has denigrated France's status as a civilised nation at the heart of Europe. I have yet to hear a French friend utter anything but words of outrage at Sarkozy's appalling action in their name. Sarkozy, in his ego mania, has alienated both the Left and the Right and he has no place to go. With the next presidential election due in 2012, he will be forced to listen to his critics from all sides. Perception is everything in politics, and nowhere more so than in France.<br /><br />The sense of unfairness is palpable and, with yet another demonstration planned for tomorrow, the mood may not remain as jovial as it has been up until now. It is possible that the deaths in Athens may have provided a cautionary lesson. We have not seen any barricades burning yet, and maybe we won't. But, then again, once 'la jeunesse dans la rue' decide to exercise their power, who knows where it will all lead? Sarkozy cannot afford to fail but to what lengths will he go to try to succeed? He is no Mrs Thatcher, despite his early pronouncements on economic reform, and I suspect that he knows it. As the stakes get higher each day, and with the whole of Europe watching, he knows that where France leads, others may follow.<br /><br />I sense a seed change throughout Europe that hasn't been fully articulated yet. People everywhere feel that the price they have to pay for the reckless actions of others is too high. They didn't ask for this. They certainly didn't ask to have their pensions and benefits savagely cut back, nor that their children and grandchildren would be saddled with crippling debts. It has been dumped on them from a great height by the very people who are benefitting from the crisis. The bonuses due to be paid out by the banks to high performing employees have been made on the back of government lending and fiscal stimulus. It is grossly unfair. We all think so. Perhaps I will get my trainers and jogging pants on and join them after all!Blog at Bardieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15500537148555921746noreply@blogger.com1