Last week, for my sins, I was at the Labour Party Conference, a rather funereal experience this year to say the least. Gone are the joys of drinks parties and fringe events, packed full of tipsy people desperate to hang onto the coat tails of aspiring, or as often as not, actual members of the government and their many acolytes. After May 1997, the skies really did seem bluer and the sun more benevolent to us lifelong Labour groupies. A new dawn had broken, or so we thought, but that was before 9/11, the Iraq war, 7/7, financial meltdown and Gordon Brown's dystopian grimaces. Now we are nearing the end of the road, I fear.
As I wandered aimlessly about, despondently looking for friends who have apparently jumped ship, I thought, not for the first time, 'Bring back Tony!' Now I know that not many people will agree with me, for obvious reasons, but I still think that he was the greatest asset we ever had [unlike poor Gordon who, with his rictus grin and vacuous promises, remains an electoral liability!]. The sun still shone in Brighton, but somehow it seemed a pale apology. The only good thing that remained was the seafront fish and chips.
There I was thinking, with a heavy heart, that there was so little to divide Big Gord from the Boy Dave, I might consider voting Green instead. Never in my life have I not voted Labour in a General Election, so this was betrayal indeed on my part. But, in Harold Macmillan's immortal phrase, a week is a long time in politics or, in this case, more like a couple of days. My maternal relatives, and their fellow Irish countrymen and women, have put Europe well and truly back on the electoral map. The spectre of the European Constitution being ratified before next May's general election has well and truly galvinised the 'castrati' of the Euro-sceptic Tory right.
Never have so many hitherto strangulated voices sung in such perfect harmony. Their moment has come and, mon Dieu, they are determined to have it. Hold onto your seatbelts, fellow Francophiles and Europhiles, for the road ahead will be rocky and deeply unpleasant. Already, Angela Merkel has expressed her discontent with Cameron and Co. by downgrading Tory relations in Europe, because of their unfathomable decision to ally themselves with the swivel eyed homophobes and Holocaust dissemblers already in the European parliament. Boris Johnson, the irascible blonde bombshell, is ready to take the helm and ride out with the Valkyries.
In yesterday's Daily Telegraph, Boris nailed his colours to the wall. In an amusing and offensive rant, he balked at the very real prospect of Tony Blair being thrust back into our lives as the first President of Europe, the one-man incarnation of the wishes of 500 million people and 27 countries. "Can you really imagine," he writes, "Nicolas Sarkozy being willing to share the international limelight with our Tony, when Blair is British, charismatic, and not remotely frightened of appearing in photocalls with people of more than five foot five inches in height?" If he thinks little of Tony Blair, he thinks even less of Nicolas Sarkozy and is 'heightist' into the bargain!
Why, oh why, do us Brits persist in the notion that somehow we still rule the world? For how long can the delusion remain that we are somehow, as a result of our DNA, superior to the French or the Germans, never mind the Italians, Spanish, Greeks and former east Europeans? When are we going to learn that we are now just little people ourselves, stranded on islands way to the west of Brussels and Strasbourg. We may have misguidedly thought that the USA would altruistically act in our best interests, but from Maynard Keynes to Tony Blair, the lessons have been hard ones to stomach. Our future must be in Europe and we fail to engage at our peril.
The failed referendum promise of Labour's 2005 Manifesto certainly leaves a sour taste in the mouth but this cannot be justification for retreat. We must move the debate forward, not backwards. In any event, the genie has been let out of the bottle and at least now a real election issue has been unceremoniously slapped on to the table. Here we go again........
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
Bend Me, Shake Me, Anyway You Want Me!
Well, I'm finally back at Bardies, on a gloriously sunny day, after a gruelling five day yoga retreat in the Haut Garonne. I ache in places I didn't know I had and, I can tell you, keeping my rear end and my excess kilos up in the air in 'down dog' position for minutes at a time was no mean feat for wimps like me. My arms and shoulders are still screaming for mercy and it's forty eight hours since I was last upside down! Despite my feeble attempts at going to the gym, by way of pre-preparation, I know for sure that I must focus on getting myself vaguely back in shape if I am going to enjoy my dotage without a zimmer frame.
'Hey, you hypocrite!' I hear you say, especially after my previous eulogy to the great Keith Floyd, and, of course, you are right. On the other hand, enjoying good food, good wine and living life to the full, and being vaguely fit, are not mutually exclusive. In fact, I am certain that they compliment each other. After all, you can justify wolfing down more calories if you've been for a good hike around the Bethmale Valley or, even better, skied the pistes of Guzet Neige. The hills around here are not part of the Tour de France for nothing, which I have to admit is just one of the reasons why I haven't got on my bike to date! Things are about to change, although I have no intention of getting too carried away with this fitness lark. 'Peu a peu'.
For me, though, yoga is the ultimate form of exercise. It ticks all the boxes. Many years ago I did Iyenegar yoga, which involved a lot of polystyrene blocks and a great deal of time spent upside down in headstands. I was certainly supple and the meditative aspects of the classes helped get my head into the right space for dealing with hyperactive toddlers. Peace, calm and 'me-time' were a life saver. I only gave it up because I pulled a ligament trying to be over ambitious with my stretching on a bitterly cold winter's morning [the downside of the classes was that they were held in a de-consecrated church with virtually no heating].
These last few magical days have been a revelation. This time, I did Ashtanga Yoga which, if I'd known how hard it was when I started last Friday morning, I might have dipped out of. No pain without gain, as they say. You don't get a tea break, that's for sure. In fact, you don't get any breaks at all between moves, because it works on a continuum of sequences which you are supposed to master through constant repetition. In the 'Eighties', when we all battled to look like Jane Fonda, the trend was for aerobic classes. I can tell you first hand that Ashtanga Yoga is about as aerobic as it gets, and I was hiding at the back of the group!
You start with a sequence of moves known as 'sun salutations'. On my first morning I was pathetic, but I forced myself to do them despite having a bad back. When I first watched Katie, our lovely teacher with a beautifully supple figure to die for, I immediately thought 'no way!' Not being one to give up on things easily, I dutifully attempted to copy her fluid movements. I may have looked like a beached whale desperately trying to manoeuvre itself back into the ocean but I am proud to say that I slowly got the hang of it. I even, perversely, started to enjoy it. The really incredible thing was that it gradually made my back feel better though, obviously, not my arms or shoulders because of my weight.
Sun salutations are the most perfect sequence of exercises for a bad back and I don't know why chiropractors don't insist on them [perhaps they would if they didn't think they might get sued by clients unable to extricate themselves from some of the positions, which I guess is understandable!]. The idea is to do them every morning and I am determined to try my very best to continue with them 'toute seule'. I must make a note to keep Charlie, our Jack Russell out of the way because he's bound to see it as a new game, with potentially disastrous consequences for my health.
As we progressed, we continued with more complex sequences, some with greater success on my part than others. The early evening classes were my favourite. They were the 'ying' to the 'yang', soft meditative stretches designed to work on soft connective tissue, rather than muscle groups. I could happily have taken extra classes like these and felt fantastic after each one. Whereas half way through the frenetic activity of the morning class I was thinking, more often than not, about what I was going to have for breakfast, after the afternoon session I just felt an amazing sense of well-being and always had a spring in my step. I loved it and can't recommend Ashtanga yoga enough.
The retreat was held in the fabulous chateau of close friends near Aspet, a beautiful quaint little town nestling below the mountains. I am told that it has become much beloved by the English of late, although our friends bought their house in 1990, when most English people back then decamped instead to the Dordogne. Thai Ping and Giovanni, who own the house, have converted the top floor of one of their barns into a huge yoga studio, complete with Moroccan awnings and stunning views from the wide open windows over their magnificently landscaped and planted garden. Below was the pool, surrounded by stunning cobalt walls inlaid with mosaic. The house, originally built in 1792 by an unfortunate aristocrat who lost his head in the frenzy of the revolution, is to die for, full of fabulous things sourced from their many trips to Asia, as well as a fine collection of period pieces.
Katie Heller, from 'Tri Yoga', ran the course brilliantly and Thai Ping and I did the food. We ate so much, three meals a day, but it was all good healthy stuff and we only had a glass of wine each on the first and last nights. Honest! The cooking was more knackering than the yoga, but I did enjoy it. Pete Heller, Katie's husband generously cooked a fantastic butternut squash risotto on Saturday night. On Sunday, we drove over the border to Bossost for an exquisite lunch at 'El Portalet'. If you haven't been there yet, it's the best kept secret in the region. The restaurant is not flash but the food has shades of Heston Blumental in its staggering combinations of flavours. Excellent, and all for a 'prix fixe' of 25 euros a head.
On the same trip, we also managed to bag some great ceps and girolles from a man by the side of the road for 12 euros a kilo [none here yet because of the lack of serious rainfall] and stock up on duty free booze for 'Noel' in the huge hypermarket, where people behave like savages in pursuit of their hauls. After a serious lunch and a mega shop, we were all lined up in the yoga studio in our 'trackie bottoms' again by 6 o'clock, ready to roll. Keen or what? I tell you, this yoga lark really gets to you. Let's just hope I can keep it up! Bend me, shake me, anyway you want me..........!
'Hey, you hypocrite!' I hear you say, especially after my previous eulogy to the great Keith Floyd, and, of course, you are right. On the other hand, enjoying good food, good wine and living life to the full, and being vaguely fit, are not mutually exclusive. In fact, I am certain that they compliment each other. After all, you can justify wolfing down more calories if you've been for a good hike around the Bethmale Valley or, even better, skied the pistes of Guzet Neige. The hills around here are not part of the Tour de France for nothing, which I have to admit is just one of the reasons why I haven't got on my bike to date! Things are about to change, although I have no intention of getting too carried away with this fitness lark. 'Peu a peu'.
For me, though, yoga is the ultimate form of exercise. It ticks all the boxes. Many years ago I did Iyenegar yoga, which involved a lot of polystyrene blocks and a great deal of time spent upside down in headstands. I was certainly supple and the meditative aspects of the classes helped get my head into the right space for dealing with hyperactive toddlers. Peace, calm and 'me-time' were a life saver. I only gave it up because I pulled a ligament trying to be over ambitious with my stretching on a bitterly cold winter's morning [the downside of the classes was that they were held in a de-consecrated church with virtually no heating].
These last few magical days have been a revelation. This time, I did Ashtanga Yoga which, if I'd known how hard it was when I started last Friday morning, I might have dipped out of. No pain without gain, as they say. You don't get a tea break, that's for sure. In fact, you don't get any breaks at all between moves, because it works on a continuum of sequences which you are supposed to master through constant repetition. In the 'Eighties', when we all battled to look like Jane Fonda, the trend was for aerobic classes. I can tell you first hand that Ashtanga Yoga is about as aerobic as it gets, and I was hiding at the back of the group!
You start with a sequence of moves known as 'sun salutations'. On my first morning I was pathetic, but I forced myself to do them despite having a bad back. When I first watched Katie, our lovely teacher with a beautifully supple figure to die for, I immediately thought 'no way!' Not being one to give up on things easily, I dutifully attempted to copy her fluid movements. I may have looked like a beached whale desperately trying to manoeuvre itself back into the ocean but I am proud to say that I slowly got the hang of it. I even, perversely, started to enjoy it. The really incredible thing was that it gradually made my back feel better though, obviously, not my arms or shoulders because of my weight.
Sun salutations are the most perfect sequence of exercises for a bad back and I don't know why chiropractors don't insist on them [perhaps they would if they didn't think they might get sued by clients unable to extricate themselves from some of the positions, which I guess is understandable!]. The idea is to do them every morning and I am determined to try my very best to continue with them 'toute seule'. I must make a note to keep Charlie, our Jack Russell out of the way because he's bound to see it as a new game, with potentially disastrous consequences for my health.
As we progressed, we continued with more complex sequences, some with greater success on my part than others. The early evening classes were my favourite. They were the 'ying' to the 'yang', soft meditative stretches designed to work on soft connective tissue, rather than muscle groups. I could happily have taken extra classes like these and felt fantastic after each one. Whereas half way through the frenetic activity of the morning class I was thinking, more often than not, about what I was going to have for breakfast, after the afternoon session I just felt an amazing sense of well-being and always had a spring in my step. I loved it and can't recommend Ashtanga yoga enough.
The retreat was held in the fabulous chateau of close friends near Aspet, a beautiful quaint little town nestling below the mountains. I am told that it has become much beloved by the English of late, although our friends bought their house in 1990, when most English people back then decamped instead to the Dordogne. Thai Ping and Giovanni, who own the house, have converted the top floor of one of their barns into a huge yoga studio, complete with Moroccan awnings and stunning views from the wide open windows over their magnificently landscaped and planted garden. Below was the pool, surrounded by stunning cobalt walls inlaid with mosaic. The house, originally built in 1792 by an unfortunate aristocrat who lost his head in the frenzy of the revolution, is to die for, full of fabulous things sourced from their many trips to Asia, as well as a fine collection of period pieces.
Katie Heller, from 'Tri Yoga', ran the course brilliantly and Thai Ping and I did the food. We ate so much, three meals a day, but it was all good healthy stuff and we only had a glass of wine each on the first and last nights. Honest! The cooking was more knackering than the yoga, but I did enjoy it. Pete Heller, Katie's husband generously cooked a fantastic butternut squash risotto on Saturday night. On Sunday, we drove over the border to Bossost for an exquisite lunch at 'El Portalet'. If you haven't been there yet, it's the best kept secret in the region. The restaurant is not flash but the food has shades of Heston Blumental in its staggering combinations of flavours. Excellent, and all for a 'prix fixe' of 25 euros a head.
On the same trip, we also managed to bag some great ceps and girolles from a man by the side of the road for 12 euros a kilo [none here yet because of the lack of serious rainfall] and stock up on duty free booze for 'Noel' in the huge hypermarket, where people behave like savages in pursuit of their hauls. After a serious lunch and a mega shop, we were all lined up in the yoga studio in our 'trackie bottoms' again by 6 o'clock, ready to roll. Keen or what? I tell you, this yoga lark really gets to you. Let's just hope I can keep it up! Bend me, shake me, anyway you want me..........!
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Adieu Keith Floyd, RIP
I really wasn't going to do another blog until I had planted out my smuggled buddlejas and penstemmons and severely contorted my middle aged body on a five day yoga course with my two best friends in their chateau neat St Gaudens. Having agreed to help provide the vittals [wheat, dairy and booze free, of course], food has been very much on my mind as I have waded through such illustrious publications as 'Dr Joshi's Holistic Detox' and 'Carol Vorderman's 28 day Detox Plan'. Still not sure what detoxing is, but I do so love playing around with new recipe ideas.
Then, this morning on the 10.00am news bulletin on Radio 4, the news came through that Keith Floyd, the original TV celebrity chef [if you discount the matronly and decidedly bossy Fanny Craddock!], had died. I was devestated and felt much the same overwhelming sense of sadness that I had felt when it was announced that first Bob Marley and then John Lennon were no longer with us. Only yesterday, in my local coffee shop, I was reading a hilariously funny extract from Keith Floyd's autobiography from a borrowed copy of the 'Daily Mail'. Remembering all those great programmes where it was obvious that everyone was totally plastered, I finally had it from the horse's mouth.
I knew that he had been diagnosed with bowel cancer but had thought that the prognosis would be reasonably good, despite his years of seriously 'going for it'. There was something so wonderfully reassuring about that permanently craggy old face that made us all feel reckless and carefree when it came down to the really important things in life. Food, wine and friends, thrown randomly together wherever one was in the world, provided his metier. He made us feel good about the good things, and bugger tomorrow. How different it all is today when, if you're female, you are made to think that if you have just half a glass of wine a week you are destined for a long slow death from breast cancer, or if you're male you will die of some complication from a sclerotic liver.
Ironically, just in case you're thinking 'QED', they say that he died from a heart attack. My guess is that the chemo drugs may have damaged his heart, but, of course, it is possible that the wanton self abuse of his life style was the principal reason. In any event, I don't know whether to be joyful for a life so well lived, or depressed because his death, if you'll excuse the awful pun, is yet another nail in the proverbial coffin for all of us 'bon vivants'. Personally, I don't want to be a dribbling, incontinent, brain dead 95 year old shut up in a lonely nursing home until I fall out of my wheelchair and keel over. Life is for living and as far as I am concerned I would rather have Keith Floyd as my mentor than some gym addicted Department of Health bureaucrat.
Friends of ours knew him in Bristol when he had his loss making restaurant. The restaurant was great, they told us, and the food was, as one would expect, fantastic. I was at a loss to understand how a restaurant owned and cooked in by the great Keith Floyd could have lost so much money. The answer was so simple, and a mark of the great man himself. Quite simply, the minute the bulk of his semi teetotal and dull customers left the restaurant, Keith would dive into the cellar and pull out sundry bottles of his favourite clarets and Burgundies for his 'chums' to taste and test.....and drink.....and drink. It was not unheard of for them to stagger out into the misty Bristol night air at 5 o'clock in the morning. He enjoyed himself so much, he never charged them.
Such generosity of spirit is uplifting and, in my book, is what life is all about. What else is there? Answers on a postcard please! Rien! I have just pulled out of my bookshelf an old copy of his definitive 1987 'Floyd on France', which was, at the time, south west London's answer to Elizabeth David and Julia Child. It is all so simple that us baby boomers, desperate to impress at our 'dinner parties' could knock off the real thing with none of the guesswork required for the lengthy tomes of ED and JC et al. We learnt to cook, thanks to him. He always said that everything that he cooked was courtesy of Elizabeth David but, in reality, he communicated to us the real essence of her work with none of the experimental pitfalls.
When we went to live in Madrid in 1992, with a hyperactive one year old in tow, we were able to sample the delights of Spanish food from his 'Floyd on Spain' book without having to stay up until 3 o'clock in the morning in the local Madrileno restaurants. I think that we pretty well cooked our way through the whole of his book on Spain, a bit like Julie Powell cooking her way through Julia Child et al's 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking'. It was easier for us because Floydy had written the recipes. If you haven't seen 'Julie and Julia' yet, by the way, you must. Meryl Streep was a brilliant Julia Child although, as I watched the movie, I realised that I had never ever seen her in the true flesh. Before Floyd, there were just books, not people. Julia Child was a great personality but, unlike Floyd, us Brits never saw her. The Americans did, of course.
So, adieu then, to a master. The world will not be the same without him. I mourn not just the man, but a way of life in retreat. It was great while it lasted and now it's Dr Joshi's holistic detox [my arse!]. So long, Keith, and thanks for all the fish!
Then, this morning on the 10.00am news bulletin on Radio 4, the news came through that Keith Floyd, the original TV celebrity chef [if you discount the matronly and decidedly bossy Fanny Craddock!], had died. I was devestated and felt much the same overwhelming sense of sadness that I had felt when it was announced that first Bob Marley and then John Lennon were no longer with us. Only yesterday, in my local coffee shop, I was reading a hilariously funny extract from Keith Floyd's autobiography from a borrowed copy of the 'Daily Mail'. Remembering all those great programmes where it was obvious that everyone was totally plastered, I finally had it from the horse's mouth.
I knew that he had been diagnosed with bowel cancer but had thought that the prognosis would be reasonably good, despite his years of seriously 'going for it'. There was something so wonderfully reassuring about that permanently craggy old face that made us all feel reckless and carefree when it came down to the really important things in life. Food, wine and friends, thrown randomly together wherever one was in the world, provided his metier. He made us feel good about the good things, and bugger tomorrow. How different it all is today when, if you're female, you are made to think that if you have just half a glass of wine a week you are destined for a long slow death from breast cancer, or if you're male you will die of some complication from a sclerotic liver.
Ironically, just in case you're thinking 'QED', they say that he died from a heart attack. My guess is that the chemo drugs may have damaged his heart, but, of course, it is possible that the wanton self abuse of his life style was the principal reason. In any event, I don't know whether to be joyful for a life so well lived, or depressed because his death, if you'll excuse the awful pun, is yet another nail in the proverbial coffin for all of us 'bon vivants'. Personally, I don't want to be a dribbling, incontinent, brain dead 95 year old shut up in a lonely nursing home until I fall out of my wheelchair and keel over. Life is for living and as far as I am concerned I would rather have Keith Floyd as my mentor than some gym addicted Department of Health bureaucrat.
Friends of ours knew him in Bristol when he had his loss making restaurant. The restaurant was great, they told us, and the food was, as one would expect, fantastic. I was at a loss to understand how a restaurant owned and cooked in by the great Keith Floyd could have lost so much money. The answer was so simple, and a mark of the great man himself. Quite simply, the minute the bulk of his semi teetotal and dull customers left the restaurant, Keith would dive into the cellar and pull out sundry bottles of his favourite clarets and Burgundies for his 'chums' to taste and test.....and drink.....and drink. It was not unheard of for them to stagger out into the misty Bristol night air at 5 o'clock in the morning. He enjoyed himself so much, he never charged them.
Such generosity of spirit is uplifting and, in my book, is what life is all about. What else is there? Answers on a postcard please! Rien! I have just pulled out of my bookshelf an old copy of his definitive 1987 'Floyd on France', which was, at the time, south west London's answer to Elizabeth David and Julia Child. It is all so simple that us baby boomers, desperate to impress at our 'dinner parties' could knock off the real thing with none of the guesswork required for the lengthy tomes of ED and JC et al. We learnt to cook, thanks to him. He always said that everything that he cooked was courtesy of Elizabeth David but, in reality, he communicated to us the real essence of her work with none of the experimental pitfalls.
When we went to live in Madrid in 1992, with a hyperactive one year old in tow, we were able to sample the delights of Spanish food from his 'Floyd on Spain' book without having to stay up until 3 o'clock in the morning in the local Madrileno restaurants. I think that we pretty well cooked our way through the whole of his book on Spain, a bit like Julie Powell cooking her way through Julia Child et al's 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking'. It was easier for us because Floydy had written the recipes. If you haven't seen 'Julie and Julia' yet, by the way, you must. Meryl Streep was a brilliant Julia Child although, as I watched the movie, I realised that I had never ever seen her in the true flesh. Before Floyd, there were just books, not people. Julia Child was a great personality but, unlike Floyd, us Brits never saw her. The Americans did, of course.
So, adieu then, to a master. The world will not be the same without him. I mourn not just the man, but a way of life in retreat. It was great while it lasted and now it's Dr Joshi's holistic detox [my arse!]. So long, Keith, and thanks for all the fish!
Sunday, 13 September 2009
Bardies 10:10
I do not know where the first fortnight of September has gone - lost in a flurry of sewing on nametapes, getting shoes fitted and endless washing machine cycles. C'est la vie des Mamans! Here I am, finalement, with a few sweaty and tired moments to spare in front of my computer on the evening before my 18 year old heads off back to college. My original intention was to get this blog up on the 2nd or 3rd September in response to the 'Guardian's' launch of its 10:10 campaign.
For those of you who don't read 'The Guardian' on line, their campaign was launched at the Tate Modern on 1st September 2009, with the aim of asking individuals, businesses and organisations of all kinds to try to cut their carbon emissions by 10% in 2010. Not much, you might think, especially from the clean air of the Ariege, but if tens of thousands of people are fired up [sorry, no pun intended!] with enthusiasm for the project then the impact of our collective action becomes significant. Being a natural ditherer, I always think that the toughest bit of any course of action is the first tentative step. The great thing about this project is that you don't have to don a hair shirt in the process.
Ironically, the people that I know who are the most committed to reducing their carbon emissions live in the Ariege and have the lowest carbon footprint to start with. Karl, our plumber, drives an electric car and knows everything there is to know about reed beds and solar panels. We have talked many times about installing a 'pompe a chaleur' for heating, a brilliant idea if only the cost weren't as high as a brand new BMW! For so many of us, the costs of all this wonderful new technology remain totally prohibitive. The will is there, but the bank manager isn't.
Instead, for now, we have to look at other options. We have already put thermostats on all our radiators [not cheap!] and installed woodburners, which blew the whole of last year's budget, and some more. We are privileged to have masses of woodland so, as we just utilise the dead trees which are carbon neutral, we are able to heat the house in autumn and spring without resorting to a small mortgage to turn on the oil fired central heating. In January and February, though, we have to bite the proverbial bullet and kiss euro bills goodbye in the smoke. Not good for the environment, and not good for our peace of mind. No wonder our friend Jim, in the Gers, takes off for Brazil for the winter!
As we did both of these things before 1st September, I can hardly boast them as part of our 10:10 commitment. Likewise, our loft insulation, which we put in three years ago when we were feeling rather more flush and had run out of salad bowls to put under the leaks in the roof. Thank goodness we did repair the roof when we did, otherwise I dread to think what chaos would have greeted us back in January when the 'tempete' hit. As it was, we still lost a number of pantiles but the 'flexituile' held the water at bay and we were spared the need to repair rain sodden ceilings.
We have to now look at simpler measures to reduce our consumption by a further 10%. Travel is obviously the number one target and I promise I am working on it. I have signed up to the special offers on the SNCF website, but getting to Paris by train 'sous la manche' is still incredibly expensive and you can't really drag lawn mowers, vacuum cleaners and hedge cutters in tow, not to mention recalcitrant teenagers. We have, however, taken advantage of the car scrappage scheme to buy a more fuel efficient diesel car which will take the four of us, and the dog, more comfortably and all together. Hopefully, the plaintive moans of cramped children buried beneath mountains of surplus luggage and boxes of books, will be a thing of the past [as indeed should their demands to fly home on their own, in comfort, on Easyjet!].
I have come to the conclusion that the old ways are the best and, inspired by my visits to old, cold, draughty National Trust houses, I am determined to take a leaf out of their previous owners' books. Firstly, curtains. If big, heavy interlined curtains were good enough to keep the heat in Scottish castles in the depths of a Hebridean winter, then they must do the trick down in the Ariege. The poles are in place ready and waiting for the recently scrounged haul from my mother-in-law. She always knew that those muddy brown and sludge green curtains deserved a fate better than the local Scout troop's jumble sale! They may not be the height of interior design chic but if the choice is freezing your arse off, who cares?
Secondly, hot water bottles. Right up until she died, my darling old mum used to put two hot water bottles in my bed in winter whenever I went to stay with her. In my book, they are the ultimate token of love. To go to the trouble of filling a hot water bottle and putting it into someone else's bed is the test of true generosity of spirit. There is nothing in this world like that warm tingly feeling that takes over your body when you climb into a bed so warmed. And, unlike an electricity guzzling electric blanket, the heat stays with you until you blissfully fall into a deep sleep. OK, so the downside is the shock cold contact with an icy bag of rubber first thing in the morning, but, hey, there is no gain without pain!
Thirdly, I am going to disconnect the beautiful old French taps that fill our lovingly resourced period cast iron baths. I was in seventh heaven when I found our two French rolltop baths in Frome ten years ago. Not only had they not been spoilt by having been re-enamelled, they were complete with their original leaky taps. A good scrub and a lick of Farrow and Ball's 'Pidgeon' oil eggshell later, they looked like new and were perfect for our purposes. My bargain buys proved a bit of a disaster a few months later, though, when I had to have the floors reinforced with RSJ's to take their weight. Now, in comparison with showers, their respective water consumption is a 'No! No!'. It's such a shame, but serious times need serious measures. They'll still look good, even if the only way to fill one is with a bucket!
My fourth measure concerns lightbulbs. Because Bardies is so old, we tracked down old 19th century French light fittings and chandeliers, which we had converted. It may not be long before they are lit by a single lightbulb. We already use the new energy efficient bulbs where possible but, being blind as a bat at short range, the long lasting bulbs seem so dim to me. I simply cannot read with them. Can anyone, I wonder? What I don't understand is why a total ban on the old ones seems not to have spurred the manufacturers into producing suitable replacements. Torches and candles may be a short term answer but it would be nice to know that the future wasn't going to be totally dim. 'The lights are going out all over Europe and we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime' was never so apt.
I was pleased to see that EDF have taken the initiative of sending a graph of one's household electricity consumption on each bill, with a comparative one from the corresponding period from the previous year. I am very pleased to see that ours was significantly reduced, largely, I suspect, because the children had spent less time with us. They are hopeless and I am rapidly turning into a fishwife in pursuit of them when they leave lights and the TV on every time that they leave a room. A minor electric shock administered anonymously every time they walk out of a room might do the trick, rather like one of Pavlov's dogs. We, like most people in the Ariege, never leave anything on standby for the purely selfish reason that a storm can roll in overnight and wipe your computer or blow up your television set.
Of course, there is always room for more saving. I am going to use everything in the deep freeze by September each year [always good to delve deep and find things that you put away for a rainy day way back in 2001, or whenever!] and turn it off for the winter, as well as the fridges. I am also going to hide the supplementary electric radiators for emergencies only. It is amazing how quickly one adapts to temperature reductions, especially if it happens slowly. We certainly didn't have central heating when I was growing up, and the house awaiting slum clearance that I lived in at university was so cold that my washing froze in the bathroom. I seem to recall many nights going to sleep in my coat, but that may have been down to too many beers in 'The Buttery'! My mum used to buy me sheepskin lined boots long before 'Ugg' made them fashionable and, even now, I still wear them to ward off the foot-numbing cold of our unsympathetic 'tomettes'.
At the end of the day [sorry for the cliche, but one day it may be!] these measures are as nothing compared with the threat that is before us. We are really not very good at looking into the future, especially the bleak and barren one that so many Africans, South Americans and Australians will face if we don't get our act together soon. I cannot possibly pretend that I am anything other than a hypocrite, an environmentally part-time, self indulgent, gas guzzling, water consuming, heat loving individual, whose actions, alongside tens of thousands, or indeed millions, of others, continually damage our precious world. I wish that I could wave a wand, so that it would all go away and we could get back to the serious business of simply enjoying ourselves. I can't, and neither, sadly, can you. We are all on the same long, hard journey and the sooner each of us takes those first few steps towards a world that our grandchildren can inherit, the easier our shared journey will become. 10:10 is a start, but only a start. Bon chance!
For those of you who don't read 'The Guardian' on line, their campaign was launched at the Tate Modern on 1st September 2009, with the aim of asking individuals, businesses and organisations of all kinds to try to cut their carbon emissions by 10% in 2010. Not much, you might think, especially from the clean air of the Ariege, but if tens of thousands of people are fired up [sorry, no pun intended!] with enthusiasm for the project then the impact of our collective action becomes significant. Being a natural ditherer, I always think that the toughest bit of any course of action is the first tentative step. The great thing about this project is that you don't have to don a hair shirt in the process.
Ironically, the people that I know who are the most committed to reducing their carbon emissions live in the Ariege and have the lowest carbon footprint to start with. Karl, our plumber, drives an electric car and knows everything there is to know about reed beds and solar panels. We have talked many times about installing a 'pompe a chaleur' for heating, a brilliant idea if only the cost weren't as high as a brand new BMW! For so many of us, the costs of all this wonderful new technology remain totally prohibitive. The will is there, but the bank manager isn't.
Instead, for now, we have to look at other options. We have already put thermostats on all our radiators [not cheap!] and installed woodburners, which blew the whole of last year's budget, and some more. We are privileged to have masses of woodland so, as we just utilise the dead trees which are carbon neutral, we are able to heat the house in autumn and spring without resorting to a small mortgage to turn on the oil fired central heating. In January and February, though, we have to bite the proverbial bullet and kiss euro bills goodbye in the smoke. Not good for the environment, and not good for our peace of mind. No wonder our friend Jim, in the Gers, takes off for Brazil for the winter!
As we did both of these things before 1st September, I can hardly boast them as part of our 10:10 commitment. Likewise, our loft insulation, which we put in three years ago when we were feeling rather more flush and had run out of salad bowls to put under the leaks in the roof. Thank goodness we did repair the roof when we did, otherwise I dread to think what chaos would have greeted us back in January when the 'tempete' hit. As it was, we still lost a number of pantiles but the 'flexituile' held the water at bay and we were spared the need to repair rain sodden ceilings.
We have to now look at simpler measures to reduce our consumption by a further 10%. Travel is obviously the number one target and I promise I am working on it. I have signed up to the special offers on the SNCF website, but getting to Paris by train 'sous la manche' is still incredibly expensive and you can't really drag lawn mowers, vacuum cleaners and hedge cutters in tow, not to mention recalcitrant teenagers. We have, however, taken advantage of the car scrappage scheme to buy a more fuel efficient diesel car which will take the four of us, and the dog, more comfortably and all together. Hopefully, the plaintive moans of cramped children buried beneath mountains of surplus luggage and boxes of books, will be a thing of the past [as indeed should their demands to fly home on their own, in comfort, on Easyjet!].
I have come to the conclusion that the old ways are the best and, inspired by my visits to old, cold, draughty National Trust houses, I am determined to take a leaf out of their previous owners' books. Firstly, curtains. If big, heavy interlined curtains were good enough to keep the heat in Scottish castles in the depths of a Hebridean winter, then they must do the trick down in the Ariege. The poles are in place ready and waiting for the recently scrounged haul from my mother-in-law. She always knew that those muddy brown and sludge green curtains deserved a fate better than the local Scout troop's jumble sale! They may not be the height of interior design chic but if the choice is freezing your arse off, who cares?
Secondly, hot water bottles. Right up until she died, my darling old mum used to put two hot water bottles in my bed in winter whenever I went to stay with her. In my book, they are the ultimate token of love. To go to the trouble of filling a hot water bottle and putting it into someone else's bed is the test of true generosity of spirit. There is nothing in this world like that warm tingly feeling that takes over your body when you climb into a bed so warmed. And, unlike an electricity guzzling electric blanket, the heat stays with you until you blissfully fall into a deep sleep. OK, so the downside is the shock cold contact with an icy bag of rubber first thing in the morning, but, hey, there is no gain without pain!
Thirdly, I am going to disconnect the beautiful old French taps that fill our lovingly resourced period cast iron baths. I was in seventh heaven when I found our two French rolltop baths in Frome ten years ago. Not only had they not been spoilt by having been re-enamelled, they were complete with their original leaky taps. A good scrub and a lick of Farrow and Ball's 'Pidgeon' oil eggshell later, they looked like new and were perfect for our purposes. My bargain buys proved a bit of a disaster a few months later, though, when I had to have the floors reinforced with RSJ's to take their weight. Now, in comparison with showers, their respective water consumption is a 'No! No!'. It's such a shame, but serious times need serious measures. They'll still look good, even if the only way to fill one is with a bucket!
My fourth measure concerns lightbulbs. Because Bardies is so old, we tracked down old 19th century French light fittings and chandeliers, which we had converted. It may not be long before they are lit by a single lightbulb. We already use the new energy efficient bulbs where possible but, being blind as a bat at short range, the long lasting bulbs seem so dim to me. I simply cannot read with them. Can anyone, I wonder? What I don't understand is why a total ban on the old ones seems not to have spurred the manufacturers into producing suitable replacements. Torches and candles may be a short term answer but it would be nice to know that the future wasn't going to be totally dim. 'The lights are going out all over Europe and we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime' was never so apt.
I was pleased to see that EDF have taken the initiative of sending a graph of one's household electricity consumption on each bill, with a comparative one from the corresponding period from the previous year. I am very pleased to see that ours was significantly reduced, largely, I suspect, because the children had spent less time with us. They are hopeless and I am rapidly turning into a fishwife in pursuit of them when they leave lights and the TV on every time that they leave a room. A minor electric shock administered anonymously every time they walk out of a room might do the trick, rather like one of Pavlov's dogs. We, like most people in the Ariege, never leave anything on standby for the purely selfish reason that a storm can roll in overnight and wipe your computer or blow up your television set.
Of course, there is always room for more saving. I am going to use everything in the deep freeze by September each year [always good to delve deep and find things that you put away for a rainy day way back in 2001, or whenever!] and turn it off for the winter, as well as the fridges. I am also going to hide the supplementary electric radiators for emergencies only. It is amazing how quickly one adapts to temperature reductions, especially if it happens slowly. We certainly didn't have central heating when I was growing up, and the house awaiting slum clearance that I lived in at university was so cold that my washing froze in the bathroom. I seem to recall many nights going to sleep in my coat, but that may have been down to too many beers in 'The Buttery'! My mum used to buy me sheepskin lined boots long before 'Ugg' made them fashionable and, even now, I still wear them to ward off the foot-numbing cold of our unsympathetic 'tomettes'.
At the end of the day [sorry for the cliche, but one day it may be!] these measures are as nothing compared with the threat that is before us. We are really not very good at looking into the future, especially the bleak and barren one that so many Africans, South Americans and Australians will face if we don't get our act together soon. I cannot possibly pretend that I am anything other than a hypocrite, an environmentally part-time, self indulgent, gas guzzling, water consuming, heat loving individual, whose actions, alongside tens of thousands, or indeed millions, of others, continually damage our precious world. I wish that I could wave a wand, so that it would all go away and we could get back to the serious business of simply enjoying ourselves. I can't, and neither, sadly, can you. We are all on the same long, hard journey and the sooner each of us takes those first few steps towards a world that our grandchildren can inherit, the easier our shared journey will become. 10:10 is a start, but only a start. Bon chance!
Friday, 28 August 2009
Of Borders, Bees and Buddleja
August is a funny time in the garden, although the late, much loved Christopher Lloyd might disagree. It is betwixt and between at the best of times, never mind when there has been a mini 'canicule'. Before I left Bardies [in time to celebrate Freddie's major milestone of being able to enter the best of the UK's public houses legally!], we had had very little of the summer rainfall which usually takes our house guests by surprise. Despite my forewarnings, because of our southerly latitude, new visitors to the Ariege assume that we have a Mediterranean climate. Without fail, most people arrive with shorts and teeshirts and very little else, other than a swimsuit or bikini and a bottle of high factor sunscreen. When the storms roll in, I scramble for my surplus winter woollies for them all whilst Peter stokes up the woodburner.
Not this year. The heatwave has continued unabated and I have had to rely on a small army of friends and helpers to water the parched garden and top up the thirsty swimming pool. For some annoying reason, which we've never quite established, the pool was installed without an automatic water top up system. Thus, when the water level drops below the level of the filters, the pump stops working and the algae have a field day. I have recurring nightmares about green pools full of 'Fungus the Bogeyman' creatures!
The borders were looking tired a fortnight ago, despite everyone's valiant efforts. The lavender was already over the top and the roses and oleanders were consuming every bit of their lacklustre energy on staying alive. Apart from the anenomes, which seem to thrive here in August, and the geraniums and petunias in pots, the only real colour in the garden is from an unruly mass of yellow 'hypericum' which seems to spread further and further each year like an invading army on the advance. It is more commonly known as 'St. John's Wort' and I often think that, had we had Bardies during my bleak days of post-natal depression in the early 1990's, I might have saved myself from two years of unmitigated misery.
A serious exercise in border planning is required. We have done very little to the garden at Bardies during the last ten years, other than our feeble attempts to tame the worst of its excesses. When we moved in in 2000, it resembled the lost gardens of Heligan. Underneath banks of triffid-like laurel, with trunks the size of telegraph poles, and an array of densely packed undergrowth, we have tried to rediscover the lines of the original borders. With the help of Sarah and Pascal, we are now slowly getting there.
The garden had been beautifully laid out by our predecessors over a century before. Unlike the formality of many French gardens, they seem to have opted for an adventurous planting scheme, which, surprisingly, even consisted of yuccas and palm trees! Much of its original shape was clearly defined by the two hundred year old box hedging, which forms six separate garden spaces to the right and left of a central avenue of box. We nabbed one for the pool and its 'plage', behind which, because of the slope, we planted a rockery. The other five, however, are now in desperate need of a serious rethink.
Obviously, colour, form and shape, as well as suitability to our very erratic climate, are major considerations, but my priority will be for a bee-friendly garden. Now, more than ever since the advent of the mysterious Colony Collapse Disorder, it is incumbent on all of us to do whatever we can to help arrest the decimation of the world's bee population. Einstein prophetically said, "If the bee disappeared off the surface of the globe, then man would have four years of life left. No more pollination, no more plants, no more man." More recently, Jeff Rooker, the Labour Peer, calculated that it was only ten years before the honeybee became extinct, and that was in 2007. We are facing a major 'catastophe'.
There are many reasons speculated for the present crisis, including the use of a pesticide containing methyl parathion called Penncap-M, whose active ingredient resembles pollen and is therefore carried back to beehives where it does untold damage. The use of mobile bee colonies for industrial pollination is however, in my view, the principal reason. The California almond industry alone is estimated to require the transportation of 40 billion bees. Other crops dependent on the reckless movement of mobile hives include nuts, beans, soya, rapeseed, sunflower, maize and most fruit and vegetables especially citrus fruits and apples. In total, approximately 90 commercial crops are involved, leaving the bees with compromised immune systems resulting in the invasion of the hives with parasitic pests and resultant disease.
Whilst there is not much that we at Bardies can do to right the wrongs of the commercial food producers, we can at least encourage our own bee populations to thrive. The previous owners at one time had bee hives and made their own honey, for we discovered all the old equipment as well as old honeycombs in the garage. We still have bees at Bardies, but they are not in hives. Last year they were at the top of one of the bee-loving lime trees, planted in 1913 for the birth of Simone Henri. This year, they seem to have found a home under the pantiles in the roof above the dormitory. Their space must be limited because they have swarmed twice. We have been told that it will be virtually impossible to remove them completely because they will always find residue honey. I have to say that as long as no one gets caught in a swarm, I'm not too bothered.
Peter was at Bardies last week, watering the garden and salvaging the lawn from the worst of the summer's heat. As he was not due in to Gatwick until 10.30pm, with an eye on future planting, I decided to treat myself to an afternoon at Great Dixter, before picking him up. I went along after a jolly lunch in Rye with some friends who live in nearby Peasmarsh, and we were all blown over by it. It is stunning. I used to read the legendary Christopher Lloyd's articles in 'The Guardian' and have a copy of his book of collected pieces called 'Cuttings', but nothing prepared me for the sheer physical assault on my senses from this floral tapestry of colour, form and scent. There is nothing to compare it with. He was the Van Gogh of gardening and Monet's garden in Giverney, although beautiful in its own right, looks positively pedestrian in comparison! If someone asked me to describe Great Dixter's garden, I would simply say, "Colour! Colour! Colour!"
So now, after spending a small fortune on Amazon collecting up his works, I am sitting planning my own Bardies tapestry. It will be different, of course, because without Fergus Garrett, a small army of helpers, a huge budget and a further 50 years of longevity, I couldn't get close to anything at Great Dixter. I plan, though, to use colour confidently as a result of his inspiration and, in the process, to create a garden full of flowering plants with plenty of nectar and pollen to encourage honeybees. We already have lots of lavender, rosemary, sage, lilac and ceonothus but we need plants that will provide nectar and pollen year-round. I have barely taken my nose out of his 'Succession Planting for Adventurous Gardeners' [Christopher Lloyd 2005, published by BBC Books] in the last few days and already, I have ordered collections of penstemons, aliums, salvias and buddlejas to kickstart my 2010 project. Bees and buddleja in next summer's border will be a marriage made in heaven. And we'll have Blues at Bardies too, to celebrate it. What bliss!
PS For information: bee loving plants for spring include astilbe, bluebells, flowering cherry, ceonothus, crab apple, daffodils, forget-me-knots, hawthorne, helibore, pulmonaria, pussy willow, rosemary and viburnum; for early summer, antirrhinums, aquilegia, astilbe, campanula, fennel, foxgloves, geraniums, potentilla, stachys, sweet peas, teasel, thyme and verbascum; for late summer, angelica, asters, buddleja, cardoons, cornflowers, dahlias, delphiniums, eryngium, fuschia, globe thistles, heathers, ivy, lavender, penstemmons, sedum and verbena; additional bee loving plants include alyssum, aubretia, basil, cosmos, cotoneaster, globe artichokes, gypsophila, honeysuckle, hollyhocks, lilac, lime trees, lupins, marigolds, marjoram, mint, poppies, pyracantha, sunflowers and zinnias.
Not this year. The heatwave has continued unabated and I have had to rely on a small army of friends and helpers to water the parched garden and top up the thirsty swimming pool. For some annoying reason, which we've never quite established, the pool was installed without an automatic water top up system. Thus, when the water level drops below the level of the filters, the pump stops working and the algae have a field day. I have recurring nightmares about green pools full of 'Fungus the Bogeyman' creatures!
The borders were looking tired a fortnight ago, despite everyone's valiant efforts. The lavender was already over the top and the roses and oleanders were consuming every bit of their lacklustre energy on staying alive. Apart from the anenomes, which seem to thrive here in August, and the geraniums and petunias in pots, the only real colour in the garden is from an unruly mass of yellow 'hypericum' which seems to spread further and further each year like an invading army on the advance. It is more commonly known as 'St. John's Wort' and I often think that, had we had Bardies during my bleak days of post-natal depression in the early 1990's, I might have saved myself from two years of unmitigated misery.
A serious exercise in border planning is required. We have done very little to the garden at Bardies during the last ten years, other than our feeble attempts to tame the worst of its excesses. When we moved in in 2000, it resembled the lost gardens of Heligan. Underneath banks of triffid-like laurel, with trunks the size of telegraph poles, and an array of densely packed undergrowth, we have tried to rediscover the lines of the original borders. With the help of Sarah and Pascal, we are now slowly getting there.
The garden had been beautifully laid out by our predecessors over a century before. Unlike the formality of many French gardens, they seem to have opted for an adventurous planting scheme, which, surprisingly, even consisted of yuccas and palm trees! Much of its original shape was clearly defined by the two hundred year old box hedging, which forms six separate garden spaces to the right and left of a central avenue of box. We nabbed one for the pool and its 'plage', behind which, because of the slope, we planted a rockery. The other five, however, are now in desperate need of a serious rethink.
Obviously, colour, form and shape, as well as suitability to our very erratic climate, are major considerations, but my priority will be for a bee-friendly garden. Now, more than ever since the advent of the mysterious Colony Collapse Disorder, it is incumbent on all of us to do whatever we can to help arrest the decimation of the world's bee population. Einstein prophetically said, "If the bee disappeared off the surface of the globe, then man would have four years of life left. No more pollination, no more plants, no more man." More recently, Jeff Rooker, the Labour Peer, calculated that it was only ten years before the honeybee became extinct, and that was in 2007. We are facing a major 'catastophe'.
There are many reasons speculated for the present crisis, including the use of a pesticide containing methyl parathion called Penncap-M, whose active ingredient resembles pollen and is therefore carried back to beehives where it does untold damage. The use of mobile bee colonies for industrial pollination is however, in my view, the principal reason. The California almond industry alone is estimated to require the transportation of 40 billion bees. Other crops dependent on the reckless movement of mobile hives include nuts, beans, soya, rapeseed, sunflower, maize and most fruit and vegetables especially citrus fruits and apples. In total, approximately 90 commercial crops are involved, leaving the bees with compromised immune systems resulting in the invasion of the hives with parasitic pests and resultant disease.
Whilst there is not much that we at Bardies can do to right the wrongs of the commercial food producers, we can at least encourage our own bee populations to thrive. The previous owners at one time had bee hives and made their own honey, for we discovered all the old equipment as well as old honeycombs in the garage. We still have bees at Bardies, but they are not in hives. Last year they were at the top of one of the bee-loving lime trees, planted in 1913 for the birth of Simone Henri. This year, they seem to have found a home under the pantiles in the roof above the dormitory. Their space must be limited because they have swarmed twice. We have been told that it will be virtually impossible to remove them completely because they will always find residue honey. I have to say that as long as no one gets caught in a swarm, I'm not too bothered.
Peter was at Bardies last week, watering the garden and salvaging the lawn from the worst of the summer's heat. As he was not due in to Gatwick until 10.30pm, with an eye on future planting, I decided to treat myself to an afternoon at Great Dixter, before picking him up. I went along after a jolly lunch in Rye with some friends who live in nearby Peasmarsh, and we were all blown over by it. It is stunning. I used to read the legendary Christopher Lloyd's articles in 'The Guardian' and have a copy of his book of collected pieces called 'Cuttings', but nothing prepared me for the sheer physical assault on my senses from this floral tapestry of colour, form and scent. There is nothing to compare it with. He was the Van Gogh of gardening and Monet's garden in Giverney, although beautiful in its own right, looks positively pedestrian in comparison! If someone asked me to describe Great Dixter's garden, I would simply say, "Colour! Colour! Colour!"
So now, after spending a small fortune on Amazon collecting up his works, I am sitting planning my own Bardies tapestry. It will be different, of course, because without Fergus Garrett, a small army of helpers, a huge budget and a further 50 years of longevity, I couldn't get close to anything at Great Dixter. I plan, though, to use colour confidently as a result of his inspiration and, in the process, to create a garden full of flowering plants with plenty of nectar and pollen to encourage honeybees. We already have lots of lavender, rosemary, sage, lilac and ceonothus but we need plants that will provide nectar and pollen year-round. I have barely taken my nose out of his 'Succession Planting for Adventurous Gardeners' [Christopher Lloyd 2005, published by BBC Books] in the last few days and already, I have ordered collections of penstemons, aliums, salvias and buddlejas to kickstart my 2010 project. Bees and buddleja in next summer's border will be a marriage made in heaven. And we'll have Blues at Bardies too, to celebrate it. What bliss!
PS For information: bee loving plants for spring include astilbe, bluebells, flowering cherry, ceonothus, crab apple, daffodils, forget-me-knots, hawthorne, helibore, pulmonaria, pussy willow, rosemary and viburnum; for early summer, antirrhinums, aquilegia, astilbe, campanula, fennel, foxgloves, geraniums, potentilla, stachys, sweet peas, teasel, thyme and verbascum; for late summer, angelica, asters, buddleja, cardoons, cornflowers, dahlias, delphiniums, eryngium, fuschia, globe thistles, heathers, ivy, lavender, penstemmons, sedum and verbena; additional bee loving plants include alyssum, aubretia, basil, cosmos, cotoneaster, globe artichokes, gypsophila, honeysuckle, hollyhocks, lilac, lime trees, lupins, marigolds, marjoram, mint, poppies, pyracantha, sunflowers and zinnias.
Saturday, 8 August 2009
Ma Jeunesse Fout Le Camp
I have a confession to make. In a blues playing, jazz loving, rock and roll household of aspiring musicians, I am totally addicted to the utterly compelling 'chansons' of Francoise Hardy. Her 1996 cheapie compilation album, 'Les Chansons d'Amour', which I bagged on Amazon for £2.98 before I left the UK, has been this summer's 'Bardies feelgood album'. We always seem to have one album which none of us ever tires of for the duration of our stay. Previous year's choices have been Bruce Springstein's 'The Rising', Tinariwen's 'Water is Life', Ian Siegal's 'Meat and Potatoes', Miles Davis's 'A Kind of Blue', and Murray Perahia playing Handel and Scarlatti and Glenn Gould humming along to 'The Goldberg Variations'. Our taste is certainly catholic.
I still can't get 'Tout Les Garcons et Les Filles', with its catchy tune and evocative lyrics, out of my head. It reminds me of my white 'Correges' boots, of which I was so proud, and ironing my long wavy hair in front of 'Ready Steady Go' before going out on a Friday night. Cathy McGowan may have been the height of Sixties chic for us English girls but there was no one to beat Francoise in the style stakes. As someone recently said of Carla Bruni, "A beautiful woman in a Chanel trouser suit could recite a telephone directory in French and still sound good." Francoise Hardy really can sing as well. When I browsed through a phenomenally expensive and damaged paperback about her in our local St Lizier 'Les Mousquetaires', called 'Tant de Belles Choses' by Pierre Mikailoff, I was struck by a photo of her in concert at Olympia from 29th October 1965. She was the original trouser suited chanteuse.
Her songs grip you immediately, even, I'm sure, if you can't understand her native tongue. Raw emotion needs no translation. All the great singers, from Callas and Sinatra to Ian Siegal and Bruce Springstein, have it. Whilst we may not be able to define it, we all know it when we hear it. They speak to our souls, and we feel better people for it. They lift us up and free our hearts. They make us sing, or dance, or both. They make us, momentarily at least, forget our troubles. They give us the words for love, and they explain away our sorrows. You are never alone whilst their music plays, and what a joy it is. Oh, Francoise, as you sing 'Ma jeunesse Fout Le Camp' [ 'My Youth Went Away'], I wonder where the years have gone? But, then again, methinks, how lucky we have been with the music of our time.
Along with 'Chansons d'Amour', I also bought Jaques Brel's 'C'est Comme Ca' and Serge Gainsbourg's 'Initials SG' [at equally cheap prices] from Amazon. I love them too, though not quite as much. I first heard of Jacques Brel [1929 -1978], the Belgian singer, when Alistair Campbell raved about him as one of his choices on 'Desert Island Discs'. The song he chose was amazing, and I thoroughly agree with everything that AC said about him. I am just sorry that somehow my youth passed him by [Jacques Brel, not Alistair Campbell!]. Not so, the gravelly voiced, chain smoking Serge Gainsbourg though. How many of us girls only realised what we were missing, as we groped behind the youth club with some spotty, downy chinned fellow adolescent, when we heard Jane Birkin singing [?] alongside him in 'Je T'aime, Moi Non Plus'? The song may have been rubbish, but the sentiments were life changing! There are much better songs on this album, but none of us will ever forget 'Je T'aime'.
After nearly choking on my Friday night fish and chips a few months ago, when I saw Carla Bruni Sarkozy strutting her stuff [well, sitting on a bar stool actually] on the late Jools Holland show, I was going to ask the question, "What is she for?" I was even more determined to slag her off when I saw her singing alongside Bono and all the other 'look at us, we're so important and we're going to change the world' celebs performing at the absent Nelson Mandela's 90th birthday party bash in New York. But something held me back. I don't know what it was. OK, so I know she's thin, she's beautiful, has a stunning retro chic wardrobe and has had more famous men than I've had hot quiches.
My petty jealousy seemed unworthy. I thought, purely for reasons of research, and also to compare her with the indominatable Mademoiselle H, that I might buy one of her albums. I didn't, largely because they were three times the price, but I did watch the video on the Amazon site that goes with her 'Comme Si de Rien N'Etait' CD. I am prepared to eat my chapeau! She may not have Francoise's voice, or indeed a good voice, but she certainly has that indefinable something. She talks of her music and her need to work on her voice, which I thought showed an disarming humility. She obviously loves her music and her relationship with her producer, Dominique Blanc Francard, is clearly an artistically fruitful collaboration. When she talks of the loss of her brother, of whom she sings in 'Salut Marin', I was moved. I think I shall buy the CD after all.
Music was, as ever, one of the main topics of conversation at Bardies. We have been hesitating about doing Blues at Bardies next year, our third festival, because of the economic downturn and, quite frankly, because it costs us an arm and a leg to put it on. We have always been happy to subsidise it to the tune of a big party but the costs of flying over musicians from the UK, in addition to the exhorbitant social security charges of French musicians, and wining, dining and accommodating people for a whole weekend have escalated beyond our budget since the pound has plummeted so horrendously against the euro. Last year we made the mistake of trying to mix and match it with our silver wedding anniversary celebrations, which meant that it was neither one thing nor t'other.
A year is a long time though and now that the recordings have finally been mixed, we are gobsmacked at our achievement. The calibre of musicianship and the quality of the music is mindblowing. It is easy to forget this in the sheer exhaustion of the aftermath. After many bottles of wine and much late night discussion, we have decided to go for it again on the proviso that we can, at least, make it more or less break even. We will never cut back on the quality of music on offer, but we are looking at ways to be more practical in our very amateur organisation. We have some great ideas, of which you will hear more in future blogs. I am desperate to get Ian Siegal back again [Ian, if you read this, we'll give you and Kat a free holiday into the bargain!]. His recording from the 2006 festival is sensational.
We also think it may have swung the decision of our 'locateur' to rent Bardies later this month, because Peter sent him some downloads. He [the locateur] says that we must do it again and that he wants to book his tickets now, just on the basis of a couple of songs from Ian. High praise indeed, but we are not too modest not to know that we have something very special going down here. A few house rentals will certainly help to amortise the costs. We are thrilled to say, after our 'inspection', that we have officially been invited to be included in the 'Alistair Sawday Special Places to Stay'.
When we bought the house in 2000, we never intended it to be anything but our home. Now, with teenage children desperate to hit the European nightclub scene, we have decided to bite the bullet and use a couple of August rentals to boost the flagging coffers. One friend told us about 'Owner's Direct', the most user-friendly of websites, where we now have a listing, and another about 'Schoolstrader.com', which is to 'ebay' what Primark is to Selfridges. It's not the quality of the merchandise that's at issue, it's the sheer, cluttered scale of the operation. Chateau de Bardies is the most beautiful place, and so special, so I'm not sad to share it with like-minded people. In actual fact, I'm rather chuffed because I know that everyone will fall in love with it, just as we did.
So now, we're back in England for a bit. Freddie is 18 tomorrow, the reason for our early exit. We came home yesterday, via Paris, which was 34 degrees on Thursday night. We stayed at the Hotel Clement, in Rue Clement on the left bank directly opposite 'Le Marche Saint Germain', a real find. The whole area buzzes with life and, for a brief moment, you can close your eyes and imagine what it was like in those heady days of 1968. Many of the old bookshops have long gone, now turned into trendy bistros, but the spirit remains. It was my lucky day, because I did manage to buy a copy of Francoise Hardy's 2008 autobiography, 'Le Desespoir des Singes' from a 'bouquiniste' for 8 euros instead of 21. I am determined to rent a cheap apartment here in order 'to do' Paris once again before my zimmer frame beckons. My youth may have gone away, but I'm not quite ready to give up the ghost just yet!
I still can't get 'Tout Les Garcons et Les Filles', with its catchy tune and evocative lyrics, out of my head. It reminds me of my white 'Correges' boots, of which I was so proud, and ironing my long wavy hair in front of 'Ready Steady Go' before going out on a Friday night. Cathy McGowan may have been the height of Sixties chic for us English girls but there was no one to beat Francoise in the style stakes. As someone recently said of Carla Bruni, "A beautiful woman in a Chanel trouser suit could recite a telephone directory in French and still sound good." Francoise Hardy really can sing as well. When I browsed through a phenomenally expensive and damaged paperback about her in our local St Lizier 'Les Mousquetaires', called 'Tant de Belles Choses' by Pierre Mikailoff, I was struck by a photo of her in concert at Olympia from 29th October 1965. She was the original trouser suited chanteuse.
Her songs grip you immediately, even, I'm sure, if you can't understand her native tongue. Raw emotion needs no translation. All the great singers, from Callas and Sinatra to Ian Siegal and Bruce Springstein, have it. Whilst we may not be able to define it, we all know it when we hear it. They speak to our souls, and we feel better people for it. They lift us up and free our hearts. They make us sing, or dance, or both. They make us, momentarily at least, forget our troubles. They give us the words for love, and they explain away our sorrows. You are never alone whilst their music plays, and what a joy it is. Oh, Francoise, as you sing 'Ma jeunesse Fout Le Camp' [ 'My Youth Went Away'], I wonder where the years have gone? But, then again, methinks, how lucky we have been with the music of our time.
Along with 'Chansons d'Amour', I also bought Jaques Brel's 'C'est Comme Ca' and Serge Gainsbourg's 'Initials SG' [at equally cheap prices] from Amazon. I love them too, though not quite as much. I first heard of Jacques Brel [1929 -1978], the Belgian singer, when Alistair Campbell raved about him as one of his choices on 'Desert Island Discs'. The song he chose was amazing, and I thoroughly agree with everything that AC said about him. I am just sorry that somehow my youth passed him by [Jacques Brel, not Alistair Campbell!]. Not so, the gravelly voiced, chain smoking Serge Gainsbourg though. How many of us girls only realised what we were missing, as we groped behind the youth club with some spotty, downy chinned fellow adolescent, when we heard Jane Birkin singing [?] alongside him in 'Je T'aime, Moi Non Plus'? The song may have been rubbish, but the sentiments were life changing! There are much better songs on this album, but none of us will ever forget 'Je T'aime'.
After nearly choking on my Friday night fish and chips a few months ago, when I saw Carla Bruni Sarkozy strutting her stuff [well, sitting on a bar stool actually] on the late Jools Holland show, I was going to ask the question, "What is she for?" I was even more determined to slag her off when I saw her singing alongside Bono and all the other 'look at us, we're so important and we're going to change the world' celebs performing at the absent Nelson Mandela's 90th birthday party bash in New York. But something held me back. I don't know what it was. OK, so I know she's thin, she's beautiful, has a stunning retro chic wardrobe and has had more famous men than I've had hot quiches.
My petty jealousy seemed unworthy. I thought, purely for reasons of research, and also to compare her with the indominatable Mademoiselle H, that I might buy one of her albums. I didn't, largely because they were three times the price, but I did watch the video on the Amazon site that goes with her 'Comme Si de Rien N'Etait' CD. I am prepared to eat my chapeau! She may not have Francoise's voice, or indeed a good voice, but she certainly has that indefinable something. She talks of her music and her need to work on her voice, which I thought showed an disarming humility. She obviously loves her music and her relationship with her producer, Dominique Blanc Francard, is clearly an artistically fruitful collaboration. When she talks of the loss of her brother, of whom she sings in 'Salut Marin', I was moved. I think I shall buy the CD after all.
Music was, as ever, one of the main topics of conversation at Bardies. We have been hesitating about doing Blues at Bardies next year, our third festival, because of the economic downturn and, quite frankly, because it costs us an arm and a leg to put it on. We have always been happy to subsidise it to the tune of a big party but the costs of flying over musicians from the UK, in addition to the exhorbitant social security charges of French musicians, and wining, dining and accommodating people for a whole weekend have escalated beyond our budget since the pound has plummeted so horrendously against the euro. Last year we made the mistake of trying to mix and match it with our silver wedding anniversary celebrations, which meant that it was neither one thing nor t'other.
A year is a long time though and now that the recordings have finally been mixed, we are gobsmacked at our achievement. The calibre of musicianship and the quality of the music is mindblowing. It is easy to forget this in the sheer exhaustion of the aftermath. After many bottles of wine and much late night discussion, we have decided to go for it again on the proviso that we can, at least, make it more or less break even. We will never cut back on the quality of music on offer, but we are looking at ways to be more practical in our very amateur organisation. We have some great ideas, of which you will hear more in future blogs. I am desperate to get Ian Siegal back again [Ian, if you read this, we'll give you and Kat a free holiday into the bargain!]. His recording from the 2006 festival is sensational.
We also think it may have swung the decision of our 'locateur' to rent Bardies later this month, because Peter sent him some downloads. He [the locateur] says that we must do it again and that he wants to book his tickets now, just on the basis of a couple of songs from Ian. High praise indeed, but we are not too modest not to know that we have something very special going down here. A few house rentals will certainly help to amortise the costs. We are thrilled to say, after our 'inspection', that we have officially been invited to be included in the 'Alistair Sawday Special Places to Stay'.
When we bought the house in 2000, we never intended it to be anything but our home. Now, with teenage children desperate to hit the European nightclub scene, we have decided to bite the bullet and use a couple of August rentals to boost the flagging coffers. One friend told us about 'Owner's Direct', the most user-friendly of websites, where we now have a listing, and another about 'Schoolstrader.com', which is to 'ebay' what Primark is to Selfridges. It's not the quality of the merchandise that's at issue, it's the sheer, cluttered scale of the operation. Chateau de Bardies is the most beautiful place, and so special, so I'm not sad to share it with like-minded people. In actual fact, I'm rather chuffed because I know that everyone will fall in love with it, just as we did.
So now, we're back in England for a bit. Freddie is 18 tomorrow, the reason for our early exit. We came home yesterday, via Paris, which was 34 degrees on Thursday night. We stayed at the Hotel Clement, in Rue Clement on the left bank directly opposite 'Le Marche Saint Germain', a real find. The whole area buzzes with life and, for a brief moment, you can close your eyes and imagine what it was like in those heady days of 1968. Many of the old bookshops have long gone, now turned into trendy bistros, but the spirit remains. It was my lucky day, because I did manage to buy a copy of Francoise Hardy's 2008 autobiography, 'Le Desespoir des Singes' from a 'bouquiniste' for 8 euros instead of 21. I am determined to rent a cheap apartment here in order 'to do' Paris once again before my zimmer frame beckons. My youth may have gone away, but I'm not quite ready to give up the ghost just yet!
Saturday, 1 August 2009
Du Fromage, S'il Te Plait
One of the by products of a houseful of 'invitees' is a surplus of leftovers. Having been brought up in the fifties by a frugal, though caring, mum, I have learnt the value of food. I don't just mean its monetary value, although in these less bountiful times everyone feels the need to cut back on unnecessary expenditure, but also the fact that a producer has gone to a great deal of time and effort to make his product. We owe it to our farmers and growers to treat the product of their hard worn labour with respect, which in my book means not jettisoning it all just because someone's taken a a great big chunk out of it and it doesn't look pristine anymore. Our advertisers have a lot to answer for.
So many leftovers can be 'repackaged' on shiny new plates, cut into smaller morsels for an appetiser, worked into a pie or casserole or just covered with a fresh sprinkling of newly snipped herbs and some good olive oil. My all time favourite transformation is when those knobbly old bits of cheese hacked into after a good lunch or dinner metamorphose into a tart of some form or other. I love all cheese, from the palest delicate 'crottin' to a nasal blowing ripe Livarot, and many would say it shows! But with a skinny younger sister who has a broken femur and wrist due to osteoporosis, I've decided I'm not about to give up my favourite indulgence in a hurry.
Cheese and pastry are a marriage made in heaven. One of our many house guests many years ago gave me a copy of the wonderful Tamasin Day-Lewis's [she with the gorgeous brother whom we all fell in love with in 'My Beautiful Launderette'] fabulous cookery book, 'The Art of the Tart'. I have improvised many of her recipes over the years, largely because we just can't get the same quality of cream here. Her asparagus tart is to die for and we live on it during late spring and early summer when French asparagus is at its best. It is her cheese tarts, though, that make for the greatest satisfaction in recipe re-working.
I have to be honest and say that before the pound hit rock bottom against the euro, I would regularly phone up Martine Crespo in St Girons to put in an order for lunch. Ellie is partial to her quiche Lorraine, Freddie to her croustarde de montagne and Peter and me to her tarte aux tomates et courgettes. Less honest hosts could easily pass them off as their own! Not this year, though. We all have to tighten our belts, so to speak [ah, that it were the case for me!]. A good place to buy cheese economically is from the 'Vente directe' shop opposite the St Girons 'Intermarche', a great place to buy at good prices if there are lots of you or you don't mind freezing it. The temptation is always to buy too much, there is so much choice. It varies from day to day and you can never be sure on any given day what will be available.
This year almost every lunch has been an experiment in adaptation. One of my favourites is a chevre and tomato tart, made in a hurry the cheat's way, with 100% 'pur beurre' ready made pastry or, for real, with pastry made in the food processor. You can use any chevre but logs are best because you can slice it to overlap perfectly with slices of tomato. I put a good dollop of Dijon mustard into the base, a serious handful of Gruyere or Emmentale 'rape' on top of it, then slice the chevre and tomatoes, arrange them in rounds and top with as many fresh herbs you can muster, shaken together with some olive oil and one or two minced garlic cloves and loads of sel de Guerande and black pepper. Forty minutes in a moderate oven and you're done!
My other great favourite is a Roquefort and walnut tart, just discovered, which is great for using up old bits of Roquefort. Just sprinkle the base of your tart with the cheese and walnut pieces, broken up into fairly small bits, and pour 300 mls or so of creme de Normandie entiere beaten lightly with an egg and 4 egg yolks and some pepper, and cook till browning gently on top. Heaven! I cannot begin to bore you with the number of combinations I've thrown together, some infinitely better than others. It's so satisfying, as well as leaving you, smugly, with a tidy fridge. My mother-in-law would be proud of me!
Our local cheeses are fantastic, although rather more expensive these days. I particularly like the gloriously rich 'Le Pic de la Calabasse' from the fromagerie artisanale in St Lary, the Bamalou 'Petit Bethmale de Chevre' and the fromage artisanal au lait cru de vache from the Fromagerie de Moulis. One of the great joys of the Saturday morning market in St Girons over the years has been buying Stan's superb 'Le Montagnol' fromages made from either vache, brebis or chevre. I don't know if it's just me but he does seem to have become grumpier and less patient with his customers over the years. When he didn't even wait for me to choose a second cheese this morning before turning to his next punter, I was minded of Van Morrison in concert. You may be one of the best, but you won't always be able to get away with treating your loyal supporters with total indifference! The contrast with the delightfully smiley, elderly purveyor of the 'Le Brussard' chevre from Soulan, not far from Stan's pitch on the market, couldn't have been more marked.
Last week we had some friends for lunch and they brought with them the most delicious 'crottin de chevre' made by their neighbour in Laborie, not far from Castlenau-Durban. It always makes me laugh to think that a 'crottin' is so named because it resembles the the rear end deposits from a goat, sheep, mule etc. Only the French would happily describe a style of cheese with the same nominative as dung! How I love this country! It is what it is, end of story.
Talking of which, at the very same lunch I also served some supermarket Brie. Nothing wrong with that. My best friend in the Lauragais, Caroline de Roquette, who runs an amazing conserverie, regularly serves supermarket cheeses, saying that it's all in the keeping. Cheese must be eaten when it's ripe, something us English so often forget. Anyway, whilst Pascal, Sarah, Peter and I were discussing the merits of the crottin, Ellie tucked into the Brie. Suddenly, she gagged and yelled "Mum, it's moving! I feel sick!" I put on my specs and looked at her plate. Sure enough, there were a couple [only a couple, I promise!] of tiny white maggots on the plate. In my desire to ripen the Brie, I had obviously left it out in the recent heat, albeit covered, for far too long. The poor girl was mortified, as indeed was I, at such a lack of housekeeping in front of my lunch guests.
I needn't have worried. Pascal, being French, said 'C'est normal. Pas de probleme.' He then told us that there were certain cheeses which he preferred with the odd maggot or two. Yet another example of French practicality when it comes to food. I think, though, that when I next say to Ellie 'Du fromage, s'il te plait,' she may run a kilometre! Poor child, I've probably scarred her for life!
So many leftovers can be 'repackaged' on shiny new plates, cut into smaller morsels for an appetiser, worked into a pie or casserole or just covered with a fresh sprinkling of newly snipped herbs and some good olive oil. My all time favourite transformation is when those knobbly old bits of cheese hacked into after a good lunch or dinner metamorphose into a tart of some form or other. I love all cheese, from the palest delicate 'crottin' to a nasal blowing ripe Livarot, and many would say it shows! But with a skinny younger sister who has a broken femur and wrist due to osteoporosis, I've decided I'm not about to give up my favourite indulgence in a hurry.
Cheese and pastry are a marriage made in heaven. One of our many house guests many years ago gave me a copy of the wonderful Tamasin Day-Lewis's [she with the gorgeous brother whom we all fell in love with in 'My Beautiful Launderette'] fabulous cookery book, 'The Art of the Tart'. I have improvised many of her recipes over the years, largely because we just can't get the same quality of cream here. Her asparagus tart is to die for and we live on it during late spring and early summer when French asparagus is at its best. It is her cheese tarts, though, that make for the greatest satisfaction in recipe re-working.
I have to be honest and say that before the pound hit rock bottom against the euro, I would regularly phone up Martine Crespo in St Girons to put in an order for lunch. Ellie is partial to her quiche Lorraine, Freddie to her croustarde de montagne and Peter and me to her tarte aux tomates et courgettes. Less honest hosts could easily pass them off as their own! Not this year, though. We all have to tighten our belts, so to speak [ah, that it were the case for me!]. A good place to buy cheese economically is from the 'Vente directe' shop opposite the St Girons 'Intermarche', a great place to buy at good prices if there are lots of you or you don't mind freezing it. The temptation is always to buy too much, there is so much choice. It varies from day to day and you can never be sure on any given day what will be available.
This year almost every lunch has been an experiment in adaptation. One of my favourites is a chevre and tomato tart, made in a hurry the cheat's way, with 100% 'pur beurre' ready made pastry or, for real, with pastry made in the food processor. You can use any chevre but logs are best because you can slice it to overlap perfectly with slices of tomato. I put a good dollop of Dijon mustard into the base, a serious handful of Gruyere or Emmentale 'rape' on top of it, then slice the chevre and tomatoes, arrange them in rounds and top with as many fresh herbs you can muster, shaken together with some olive oil and one or two minced garlic cloves and loads of sel de Guerande and black pepper. Forty minutes in a moderate oven and you're done!
My other great favourite is a Roquefort and walnut tart, just discovered, which is great for using up old bits of Roquefort. Just sprinkle the base of your tart with the cheese and walnut pieces, broken up into fairly small bits, and pour 300 mls or so of creme de Normandie entiere beaten lightly with an egg and 4 egg yolks and some pepper, and cook till browning gently on top. Heaven! I cannot begin to bore you with the number of combinations I've thrown together, some infinitely better than others. It's so satisfying, as well as leaving you, smugly, with a tidy fridge. My mother-in-law would be proud of me!
Our local cheeses are fantastic, although rather more expensive these days. I particularly like the gloriously rich 'Le Pic de la Calabasse' from the fromagerie artisanale in St Lary, the Bamalou 'Petit Bethmale de Chevre' and the fromage artisanal au lait cru de vache from the Fromagerie de Moulis. One of the great joys of the Saturday morning market in St Girons over the years has been buying Stan's superb 'Le Montagnol' fromages made from either vache, brebis or chevre. I don't know if it's just me but he does seem to have become grumpier and less patient with his customers over the years. When he didn't even wait for me to choose a second cheese this morning before turning to his next punter, I was minded of Van Morrison in concert. You may be one of the best, but you won't always be able to get away with treating your loyal supporters with total indifference! The contrast with the delightfully smiley, elderly purveyor of the 'Le Brussard' chevre from Soulan, not far from Stan's pitch on the market, couldn't have been more marked.
Last week we had some friends for lunch and they brought with them the most delicious 'crottin de chevre' made by their neighbour in Laborie, not far from Castlenau-Durban. It always makes me laugh to think that a 'crottin' is so named because it resembles the the rear end deposits from a goat, sheep, mule etc. Only the French would happily describe a style of cheese with the same nominative as dung! How I love this country! It is what it is, end of story.
Talking of which, at the very same lunch I also served some supermarket Brie. Nothing wrong with that. My best friend in the Lauragais, Caroline de Roquette, who runs an amazing conserverie, regularly serves supermarket cheeses, saying that it's all in the keeping. Cheese must be eaten when it's ripe, something us English so often forget. Anyway, whilst Pascal, Sarah, Peter and I were discussing the merits of the crottin, Ellie tucked into the Brie. Suddenly, she gagged and yelled "Mum, it's moving! I feel sick!" I put on my specs and looked at her plate. Sure enough, there were a couple [only a couple, I promise!] of tiny white maggots on the plate. In my desire to ripen the Brie, I had obviously left it out in the recent heat, albeit covered, for far too long. The poor girl was mortified, as indeed was I, at such a lack of housekeeping in front of my lunch guests.
I needn't have worried. Pascal, being French, said 'C'est normal. Pas de probleme.' He then told us that there were certain cheeses which he preferred with the odd maggot or two. Yet another example of French practicality when it comes to food. I think, though, that when I next say to Ellie 'Du fromage, s'il te plait,' she may run a kilometre! Poor child, I've probably scarred her for life!
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