I woke up to a glorious autumnal morning at Bardies – the first frost of the season and a herald of the Pyrenean winter to come. Because we have had no significant rainfall, the vast spread of the Pyrenees looms, still snowless, to the south of us. I feel my energy levels rise. I love this time of year, just as I do Spring, because the air has been cleared of summer haze. It seers through my nostrils and clears my head of summer clutter, the endless meal plans and day trips mentally packed away until next year. Now, 'sans invitees', I can speak French again!
The garden is full of leaves, but not those on the stubborn lime trees in front of the house, which hover defiantly high above me. It will take more than a solitary frost to shift them. These two majestic trees, planted in 1912 and 1913 respectively, to celebrate the births of Germaine and Simone Henry, have seen much in their long existence and time is of no consequence in the rhythm of their lives.
Their crooked, wild sibling, however, who hides in their shadow, is destined for the chop in December. Pascal is already sharpening his tools. We are loathe to cut down trees but this one is cramping the style of her bigger sister and becoming seriously deformed herself in the process. Pascal brought the tree man round for a second opinion and it was a ‘no brainer’. As soon as all the leaves are off, it will be no more. There are mounds of mistletoe on it to harvest into the bargain, as well as a lot of chopping work for Pascal afterwards.
Another benefit from this summary execution, will be the climbing roses, stunted below her shady boughs by lack of sunlight. The old yellow climber on the dilapidated metal pergola has barely flowered in ten years and the recently planted St Swithun variety pink ones have sulked ever since they were dug in. Quelle sacrifice! One life for three more. Sydney Carton, eat your heart out!
We have had a labour intensive week at Bardies, jollied along by the heavenly weather. I say “we”, when really I mean Laurent, our ‘jardinier’. Actually, his name is Lawrence and he is English but I didn’t want you thinking ‘Mellors’! He is a genius and he comes to help me re-design bits of the garden twice a year. I have big plans, courtesy of a lifelong passion for Christopher Lloyd, and Lawrence interjects a note of practicality into my rantings. He listens to me patiently, with no hint of horror or disapproval on his face, then does exactly what he thinks is right, regardless.
Whilst I ferried the winter flowering pansies for the pots on the terrace and hauled bags of potting compost, Lawrence dug out masses of hypericum and re-seeded the lawn, lugged 18 barrowloads of horse shit from the stable to feed the shrub roses, pulled out the summer bedding plants from the veritable army of terracotta pots, untangled the borders and rockery, and planted 140 alliums, 200 ‘tete a tete’, 120 English, not Spanish, bluebells, as well as uncounted numbers of snowdrops, crocuses and tulips. He also scattered masses of aquilegia and poppy seeds scavenged from a friend's garden. That’s next year sorted then!
He chopped up a huge mound of smaller logs for the ‘salon’ woodburner for Christmas as well. Good man! Thank goodness we blew the budget on two of them last year, because with 12 young people in the house over Christmas, ranged in age between 13 and 21, the ‘salon’ will be a no-go zone. At least now the electricity meter won't be in freefall. Whilst the kids are welded to whatever celebrity game show final is scheduled for the festive period, the adults can be getting suitably squiffy in the ‘biblioteque’. We can meet in the middle for meals and the annual fracas that is present opening chez nous. Meantime, I must start searching the woods for a suitable Christmas tree. It will be fun!
Having cleared up the debris from the flue installation, I was suddenly inspired to wax all the oak floorboards and doors. Mad or what? We have enormous armoire doors from floor to ceiling on either side of the fireplace and they were so dry, it took a tin of ‘cire liquide’ for each one. I must have significantly reduced our fire risk! Rattling old edifices like this really need an army of servants, as I’m sure they once had, not just me and the occasional help of a ‘femme de menage. It’s a long time since I have been down on my knees for so long!
In between times, as ever, the kitchen beckoned and I had great fun being creative. Amazingly, there was still some basil growing in its large pot outside the kitchen door [a sign of global warming?] as well as tarragon, chives, parsley, marjoram and verveine. I made a plum and thyme jam to go with magret of duck, which seemed to work quite well. The basil, gently sweated with shallot, freshly chopped tomatoes and garlic, made a great coulis for a vegetable lasagne and a Chicken Basque. With Halloween around the corner, the ‘potirons’ are in season so we had a risotto one night and a pumpkin and cumin soup for lunch. I added a tin of chopped tomatoes and half a chorizo, together with a good dollop of smoked paprika, to the leftovers to make a really hearty Spanish style peasant soup, very Allegra McEvedy!
I also managed to find some lovely girolles in Cazeres, because we still don’t have any in our woods. There has been nothing, so far, to forage for this year. We desperately need some serious autumn rainfall. Apart from asparagus omelettes in Spring, mushroom omelettes in autumn are my favourite lunchtime treat. In the garden, the figs are finished [indeed, this year they never really got started] so instead I poached our windfall pears in red wine for desert. I still have some of last year’s bumper crop of figs marinating in ‘Absolut’ vodka in the fridge, which will make for some merry post-prandial activity at Christmas!
Meanwhile, my Facebook journey continues. It may seem to be a virtual world, but so far I have caught up with many old friends with whom we’ve agreed meetings in real time. There is definitely something so much more personal about Facebook, which makes you want to reply immediately. With regular e-mail, the temptation is always to leave it until after the gym, or supper or a good night’s sleep with the inevitable forgetfulness that follows. Is it the visual stimulus of a photo image, I wonder? Anyway, I’m loving it. It makes being in France like being next door, which may, or may not, be a good thing after all.
Monday, 19 October 2009
Friday, 9 October 2009
Family, Friends and Facebook
My metamorphosis is now complete! Not only have I become a compulsive blogger over these last months, but I have also finally decided to throw all notions of a secluded and isolated old age pottering around my 'potager' to the wind. My initial paranoia about privacy has turned into an amazing sense of liberation. Methinks, as well, that I have Twitter in my sights, despite the inevitable limitations on one's pretentiousness, creativity and poetic licence with a measly 140 characters! The world really is becoming a smaller place by the minute.
If people keep talking to each other, they are less likely to blow a gasket and hit each other, that's for sure. Whole family networks can be maintained with a quick posting on a 'wall', and everybody is happy to know that they are part of one big virtual happy family. It's so much better than the real thing in so many ways, because you don't have to fight for the bathroom, argue over the washing up, or sulk because one of your number nicked the last yoghurt that you had carefully positioned in the fridge behind the confitures and old pots of honey.
In the last 48 hours, since I signed up on Facebook, I have been amazed that not one of my many nieces and nephews has rejected me as a 'friend'. All I can say is that they must have total confidence in my broadmindedness, or else they know so much more about the technology than I do and can successfully hide or edit out any references to sex, drugs and rock and roll. My devoutly Catholic Irish mother would have grounded me for months had she worked out that my secret diary was hidden behind an air brick. Now, my own Catholic guilt has the reverse effect, for I cannot bring myself to overly intrude into the very precious private lives of my young relatives.
I am flattered that they show such a high degree of trust in me. It makes organising 'Noel' so much easier, when there will be 19 of us at Bardies. These semi- virtual friendships will be put to the test then, that's for sure, but Christmas 'en famille' in our rambling old chateau will be a first. The Heidlberg and Chiswick contingents are used to our ways, but the San Franciscans will have to cope with the double whammy of jet lag and traditional French Christmas fayre. No turkey this Christmas, I'm afraid. We're going for a brace of capons and a 'buche de Noel', and all objections will be smartly over ruled!
The kids are all excited and have been communicating endlessly with each other, I am told. Facebook really is amazing. Sophie, one of my nieces in Germany, immediately sent me a message saying, "Welcome, Auntie, to this amaaaaazing communication system", and that perfectly sums it up. I would never in a million years have bothered to email each of them, so I'm seeing at first hand just how effective it is. It makes the daunting prospect of all the preparations so much more enjoyable for everyone, when we each have a vested interest in the whole project.
The only person who is missing out is Grandma, which is sad because she is the person that we are all doing it for. She is a hugely entertaining and lively 85 year old, but despite being an ex-teacher and brilliant mathematician, she remains one of the many members of her generation who has failed to embrace new technology. It would be such a wonderful thing for her to be able to communicate with all her grandchildren, and we are all at a loss as to understanding why such an intelligent woman has run shy of such a life changing opportunity. We have offered to buy her a computer, set it up and coach her in its applications, all, to date, to no avail.
I have puzzled much over this conundrum. Why is it that older people run so scared of the internet? Is it the fear of failure? Surely not, especially when I know that my mother-in-law could out think and out perform many youngsters a quarter of her age. Is it that life already seems to go so fast for them, they just don't feel that they have enough time to invest in something so new and all-absorbing? Is it because they fear exposure to 'sharks' and 'shisters', made even more terrifying by tabloid horror stories? Is it because they wish to protect their privacy from prying eyes, a throwback from the war years for so many of them? Is it a gender issue, I wonder, with so many elderly widowed women convinced that technical matters are somehow not for them? I wish I knew the answer, because it is a real issue that we must address urgently, for ever-increasing life expectancy threatens to isolate this generation even further.
We know that communication is the essence of being human. I don't buy into the notion that Facebook is bad, per se, or that the new so-called 'Facebook generation' are inarticulate idiots. I know many, many young people [and I'm proud to say that quite a few of them have just accepted me as a 'friend'!] and they all seem to me to be better communicators than we ever were. After we'd done our homework, we used to flop in front of the TV or read racy books by Dennis Wheatley to alleviate the interminable boredom of termtime evenings. Sunday afternoons, with shops closed, churches open and friends grounded, was a weekly nightmare only to be escaped by talk of sharing homework with a friend.
Today's youngsters, in contrast, are planning everything, from their next party to changing the world on Facebook. Good on them! They are reading and writing too, and if writing is essentially about communication, then they will learn these skills prettily speedily on Facebook, or face a blank 'wall'. We moan that youngsters are apolitical, because they have no faith in our devalued party political system, but fail to see that they are highly motivated when driven by single, relevant issues. When they want to do something, they reach more people with a single posting than any party political broadcast could ever hope to do.
They have a lot to teach us, and we need to listen to them more, not less. In the meantime, I shall treasure my young Facebook friends, and indeed the older ones too. They can come and see us at Bardies anytime. After all, it's so much easier to organise now.
If people keep talking to each other, they are less likely to blow a gasket and hit each other, that's for sure. Whole family networks can be maintained with a quick posting on a 'wall', and everybody is happy to know that they are part of one big virtual happy family. It's so much better than the real thing in so many ways, because you don't have to fight for the bathroom, argue over the washing up, or sulk because one of your number nicked the last yoghurt that you had carefully positioned in the fridge behind the confitures and old pots of honey.
In the last 48 hours, since I signed up on Facebook, I have been amazed that not one of my many nieces and nephews has rejected me as a 'friend'. All I can say is that they must have total confidence in my broadmindedness, or else they know so much more about the technology than I do and can successfully hide or edit out any references to sex, drugs and rock and roll. My devoutly Catholic Irish mother would have grounded me for months had she worked out that my secret diary was hidden behind an air brick. Now, my own Catholic guilt has the reverse effect, for I cannot bring myself to overly intrude into the very precious private lives of my young relatives.
I am flattered that they show such a high degree of trust in me. It makes organising 'Noel' so much easier, when there will be 19 of us at Bardies. These semi- virtual friendships will be put to the test then, that's for sure, but Christmas 'en famille' in our rambling old chateau will be a first. The Heidlberg and Chiswick contingents are used to our ways, but the San Franciscans will have to cope with the double whammy of jet lag and traditional French Christmas fayre. No turkey this Christmas, I'm afraid. We're going for a brace of capons and a 'buche de Noel', and all objections will be smartly over ruled!
The kids are all excited and have been communicating endlessly with each other, I am told. Facebook really is amazing. Sophie, one of my nieces in Germany, immediately sent me a message saying, "Welcome, Auntie, to this amaaaaazing communication system", and that perfectly sums it up. I would never in a million years have bothered to email each of them, so I'm seeing at first hand just how effective it is. It makes the daunting prospect of all the preparations so much more enjoyable for everyone, when we each have a vested interest in the whole project.
The only person who is missing out is Grandma, which is sad because she is the person that we are all doing it for. She is a hugely entertaining and lively 85 year old, but despite being an ex-teacher and brilliant mathematician, she remains one of the many members of her generation who has failed to embrace new technology. It would be such a wonderful thing for her to be able to communicate with all her grandchildren, and we are all at a loss as to understanding why such an intelligent woman has run shy of such a life changing opportunity. We have offered to buy her a computer, set it up and coach her in its applications, all, to date, to no avail.
I have puzzled much over this conundrum. Why is it that older people run so scared of the internet? Is it the fear of failure? Surely not, especially when I know that my mother-in-law could out think and out perform many youngsters a quarter of her age. Is it that life already seems to go so fast for them, they just don't feel that they have enough time to invest in something so new and all-absorbing? Is it because they fear exposure to 'sharks' and 'shisters', made even more terrifying by tabloid horror stories? Is it because they wish to protect their privacy from prying eyes, a throwback from the war years for so many of them? Is it a gender issue, I wonder, with so many elderly widowed women convinced that technical matters are somehow not for them? I wish I knew the answer, because it is a real issue that we must address urgently, for ever-increasing life expectancy threatens to isolate this generation even further.
We know that communication is the essence of being human. I don't buy into the notion that Facebook is bad, per se, or that the new so-called 'Facebook generation' are inarticulate idiots. I know many, many young people [and I'm proud to say that quite a few of them have just accepted me as a 'friend'!] and they all seem to me to be better communicators than we ever were. After we'd done our homework, we used to flop in front of the TV or read racy books by Dennis Wheatley to alleviate the interminable boredom of termtime evenings. Sunday afternoons, with shops closed, churches open and friends grounded, was a weekly nightmare only to be escaped by talk of sharing homework with a friend.
Today's youngsters, in contrast, are planning everything, from their next party to changing the world on Facebook. Good on them! They are reading and writing too, and if writing is essentially about communication, then they will learn these skills prettily speedily on Facebook, or face a blank 'wall'. We moan that youngsters are apolitical, because they have no faith in our devalued party political system, but fail to see that they are highly motivated when driven by single, relevant issues. When they want to do something, they reach more people with a single posting than any party political broadcast could ever hope to do.
They have a lot to teach us, and we need to listen to them more, not less. In the meantime, I shall treasure my young Facebook friends, and indeed the older ones too. They can come and see us at Bardies anytime. After all, it's so much easier to organise now.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Here We Go Again......
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........
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........
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.
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