A Posher Part of France

Last weekend we were invited to the Gers for a long weekend away. The weather was perfect, with a slight breeze and a hint of autumn in the air, a welcome relief from the claustrophobic heat of the last few weeks. After the sweaty exertions of the Bardies kitchen, it was nice to ring the changes and hightail it northwestwards to a chateau in the Gers and the warm hospitality of good friends. It takes a lot to drag me away from my hearth, my garden and my 'potager' these days but an invitation to spend time with our dearest friends and our godchildren was very special indeed.

Our respective lives are always so busy and tomorrow is always another day. We think that life will remain much the same as it always has done and that time is an infinite commodity. Work/ life balance becomes an illusory notion. Sadly, 'Slow living' is for holidays and soon forgotten under the tyranny of the 18.45 from Victoria or the 19.05 from London Bridge. We trade and exchange our free time within the trivial and erstwhile demands of work, whether paid or unpaid. In truth, we allow ourselves to become shackled to the mundane. It is so easy to forget that true joy comes with a life shared lazily with friends and loved ones. A fortnight after a summer holiday has ended, as the last vestiges of the summer tan are washed away, we have forgotten those heartfelt resolutions made in the freedom of an August sunset and a shared bottle or two of Pays d' Oc rose. 'Let's meet up sometime soon' becomes the easy mantra that it always was.

Then, out of the blue, there is a shift in the landscape of everyday life when we are tossed, to quote the late, great Christopher Hitchens, into "the land of malady". A primary cancer diagnosis is a great leveller, a secondary one a bitter realisation of the unfairness of life. What seems so important when one is fighting fit, is of no consequence when one is battling the ravages of "Tumourville". And so it was with this knowledge that we set off up to the Gers to spend precious time with a group of people who have impacted so much on each others lives. One of our number, as brave and stoical as Hitchens, has had to face the the same dumb question, "Why me?" Hitchens provides the answer for her when he writes, "the cosmos barely bothers to return the reply: Why not?"

I write of this because it changed the landscape last weekend so dramatically. The sky really was a cobalt blue, full of fluffy white clouds floating like angels' wings towards the horizon: the landscape was a verdant emerald, despite the 'canicule', reminiscent of a painting by Soutine or Cezanne, the sunflowers en route to our destination worthy of a table in an immortalised Van Gough room. Everything becomes clearer, sharper, more prescient, when faced with the reality of mortality. The small towns of St Clar, Lectoure and La Romieu were more beautiful than ever in the company of my dearest friend. Chateau Dehes, where we stayed, thirty minutes from Agen near the little village of Gazaupouy, provided a little piece of medieval Paradise not far from the ancient pilgrimage route of Santiago de Compostela. The irony of walking with the saints once again was not lost on us.

The sun rises and the sun sets each day but we don't see it because we are rushing for the bus or the tube, or writing that vital report or mopping the kitchen floor. Worst of all, the seasons change and we fail to see the people most important to us from one to the next; a postcard here perhaps, a text message there, an occasional email with a photo attached if time permits; even, God forbid, a Facebook message. We may follow the status of 'Friends' but we seldom allow ourselves the time for a big hug with them. We deprive ourselves of the warmth and embrace of human contact and we are the poorer for it. When days are numbered, we remember only those times when we sat together talking through the night as though our lives depended upon it.....and they do.

I wrote last week of us all sitting up until dawn playing music, like demented teenagers high on the joy of youth. I look back and think what a privilege indeed that night was, especially as J and O were not able to be there because of the ravages of illness. One needs a great deal of energy and stamina for one of our parties, it has to be said. "For me," Hitchens writes," to remember friendship is to recall those conversations that it seemed a sin to break off: the ones that made the sacrifice of the following day a trivial one." We may not have stayed up all night in the Chateau Dehes but we crammed into what time we had there more conversation than we had had in the previous three years; that is one of the great joys of sharing a chateau together.

It is a most beautiful place. It dates from the 13th Century and is believed to have been built by the British during the Hundred Years War to protect their alien borders. The walls are one and a half metres thick and of local, rich and creamy limestone. The tower rises fifty four feet from ground to battlements, dominating the landscape all around, a warning to potential intruders to keep well away. Unlike Bardies, it is a masculine structure, although the present day soft, sensuous furnishings are distinctly feminine. The oak beamed first floor salon, with its extensive triple aspect views over the surrounding countryside, is the perfect place for drinking Floc de Gascogne, the local 'apperro', and after dinner Armagnacs, of which both flowed as freely as the conversation. Dinner was served by candlelight in the stone walled undercroft. The ambiance was as magical as the company. We finished the night off with hot, freshly grated chocolate laced with Armagnac brewed by my delightfully talented god daughter, a marriage made in heaven, I always think.

We needed bread so we all went to see the 14th century cloister and tower at the Collegiate Church of St. Pierre in La Romieu before dinner, a stopping point for the pilgrims en route to Santiago de Compostela and now, since 1998, a UNESCO world heritage site. It is an architectural gem set in a tiny town of just five hundred and thirty- five souls. The all- pervading power of the church of Rome dominates this agricultural landscape and our medieval forebears must have been tithed to the hilt to pay for it. Then, the following morning, we went for 'petit dejeuner' in Lectoure, a small but regal town dominated by the 15th century cathedral of St. Gervais and St. Protais, which sits high above the Gers river. It was once the base of the Comtes d'Armagnac and the capital of the Lomagne region between the Gers and the Garonne. Like La Romieu, it was also a stopping point for Compostela's hungry and thirsty pilgrims.

Such devotion certainly boosted the economy of this part of medieval France and the quality of the buildings is testament to their spending power. As a result, it is a posher part of France, now full of lawyers and financiers who have snapped up and renovated its many architectural gems. The tumbling exchange rate of the previous few years halted this second British invasion somewhat but everywhere there are signs that things may be improving once again. We heard many British voices as we meandered through Lectoure's flea market and little streets, a sure sign of a more realistic exchange rate. Whether Brits are snapping up property in the Gers once again is another matter. Running these old houses on a pension is an impossibility.

Personally, I prefer Ariege. The beauty of France is that each region has its own distinct personality and we choose accordingly. The Gers is an area of outstanding beauty and the food and wine a gourmet's delight. Its rolling hills and vineyards, maize fields, cypress trees and sunflowers shimmering in the hazy summer sunlight are a vision of order, permanence and tranquility; its colours and smells are the stuff of memories to be resurrected as the first chills of winter seep into our bones: garlic and prunes, melons and wine, Armagnac and Floc de Gascoigne.

But my memories this year will be more subdued. They will be of a house full of friends looking at the world anew, savouring each other's warmth and friendship and renewing vows of fidelity.

"I wept when I remembered how of-

ten you and I

Had tired the sun with talking, and

sent him down the sky."

Eating, Singing and Dancing into a New Decade

It's been so long since I opened my Blog at Bardies tab, I'd forgotten that I'd left a draft from the end of May lingering in the unpublished file. It's rather good, she says modestly, considering that I was stressed to the eyeballs [is that a metaphor, I wonder?] with packing cases, interminable rolls of bubble wrap, removal vans and an urgent desire to book six sessions with a Brighton chiropractor. Reading it now, it seems like ancient history. Much of our lifetime's worth of material possessions are now either squeezed into the chateau or festering in the garage awaiting a sudden burst of energy or a massive injection of cash into the family coffers to fund my new writer's den at Bardies. Everyone should have 'a room of one's own', even if they are never going to be a Virginia Wolff or a Vita Sackville West, or even a Marilynne Robinson or a Madeleine Miller. We all live in hope.

Brighton is two hours and twenty five years away from Salisbury, and I say that in a caring way. Salisbury, like Ariege, is locked in a delightful time warp, both places where one walks with souls from a medieval past. Close your eyes and you can almost see wimples or Cathar tunics further along the narrow streets. Their modern day inhabitants may be internet-savvy but their values remain firmly 'a la recherche de temps perdu'. Brighton, in mind blowing contrast, is a bolt into the future, a cross between Sydney or San Francisco and a massive university campus full of boys and girls who never want to grow up. It's wild and whacky, and so full of 'joie de vivre' I sometimes wonder if perhaps I'd have been better off put out to grass on the South Downs. I jest, of course. I love it. The worst noise is from the seagulls, who screech and squawk all night long, drowning out the occasional fracas at nightclub chuck out time. As a contrast with Bardies, it is perfect for our next decade.

Life at Bardies this summer has been blissful and a foretaste, perhaps, of things to come. Our children, of course, opted for Brighton night life and sundry festivals in the UK for much of it, which left us pottering around in the 'canicule' lazily reading, swimming and dining. Were it not for the sad demise of my stepfather and the necessity to return for a few days to Blighty for the funeral, I would say that it was the most perfect sojourn here that we have had. We even had Charlie, our feisty Jack Russell, with us to make up for our missing youngsters. He proved to be a source of endless amusement but not so good on the post-prandial politics and music discussions. For the first time in I don't know how long, Peter managed a whole month chez nous, largely because he was on a three line whip because of the big birthday plans. The festivities began on 15th August and finished six says later, when the last of our guests departed. We will be issuing long service medals some time.

We kicked off with a fabulous lunch for fifteen under the trees in 38 degree heat, cooked by the amazing Marybeth Tamborra. I know that we live in France and adore Bayonne jambon secs and Bethmale Valley cheeses, but there is nothing quite like artisan prosciutto, pecorino and parmesan brought directly from Viareggio on the previous day's flight. Marybeth arrived laden with festive fayre from Italy, including a precious bottle of Marsala Superiore to make trays of Tiramisu for the weekend's big party. She even brought a ravioli cutter with her to complement my ancient pasta machine that hasn't seen active service in a wee while. We ate antipasti, a sublime ravioli with pear and pecorino in a sage butter sauce, fresh sardines and salad, cheese and a sharp lemon tart to die for, all washed down with Tariquet rose. After all, we couldn't ask her to lug a case of Pinot Grigio onto the flight too!

As more guests arrived for the long weekend, menus became simpler but the quality remained the same. I shall never forget the sight of dozens of fresh lasagne sheets drying on a pizza pole suspended between the mantleshelf and the spice cupboard. We slow roasted cartons of tomatoes and doused them in olive oil, garlic and fresh parsley. We made pizza Caprese for family and friends from freshly risen dough resting in a huge mixing bowl awaiting the go-ahead from Easyjet online arrivals and departures, buffala mozzarella and sun kissed tomatoes from my thirsty 'potager'. On the Friday, when the musicians were rehearsing their set together for the first time, I made Ottolenghi's cauliflower fritters with lime yoghurt, which we cooked on the plancha under the trees. We cooked, cleared and laughed all day long to a backdrop of Billie Holiday, rock 'n' roll and Katy's wonderful folk music.

Saturday's party food was a piece of culinary history, consisting as it did of a recipe for Persian lamb given to Marybeth by a Jewish exile from Tehran, her room mate at college, who finally escaped to Chicago after eight years under house arrest. The recipe for the Tiramisu came from an ancient Italian grandmother who taught it to Marybeth in Viareggio. The food that we put in our mouths says as much about a cultural heritage as a library of books or an archive. Even Ottolenghi's cauliflower fritters came from Sami Tamimi's Palestinian mother's recipe from the old city of Jerusalem, given to the children to take to school in a pitta for lunch. Then on Sunday we moved to Mexico with an authentic chilli con carne. Sharing such food with friends passes on these stories and continues the legacy, something which so often in our busy lives we replace with fast food and takeaways. The big food corporations have much to answer for in terms of our health but the obliteration of our culinary heritage runs a close second in the list of charges.

No Bardies bash would be complete without music and this year's offerings were as diverse as they were divine. We danced the night away to rock 'n' roll with Pierre Pheline on vocals, Peter V on lead guitar, Fran Okine on bass, Bob Morgan on keyboard and sax and Phil Overhead on drums. One seventy-five year old guest said that he hadn't danced like that for twenty years, a triumph indeed. I don't think that Peter would have wanted to celebrate his big birthday any other way...... a new decade, a new dawn and I'm feeling good! And just when we thought it was nearing our bedtimes, the amazingly talented Katy Heath took up Peter's Martin guitar and serenaded us until dawn, ably assisted by Bob on clarinet and Phil on percussion, with a dazzling repertoire of old English folk songs and contemporary re-arrangements of classics. Another guest said that he hadn't sat up listening to music until the sun came up since he was twenty-five.

And, just to ring the changes, Sunday started with a forty-five minute 'Magic Flute', performed by Peter's conductor brother, Richard Vardigans, with nineteen year old Georgie Malcom as the 'Queen of the Night'. Sensational! The mellow afternoon, when we were all bathed in warm, soft drizzle as well as a great deal of bonhomie and rose mistiness, was a magical moment which none of us will forget. The beautiful singing, which included a Russian folk song as well as Irish and English folk songs, and even some Abba, metamorphosed from acoustic and unplugged into an impromptu set of music wired for sound to dance to. By the end of it all, when we had eaten, sung and danced our way into Peter's new decade, we all stumbled [literally!] off to bed happy and replete. Life is worth living for moments like this so here's a toast to the good things in life but especially family and friends. Memories are made of this!

Making Shelves While the Sun Shines

Winter turned to summer almost overnight, from snow to sunshine, in as much time as it took the gallant Monsieur Lebel to isolate the hijacked radiator, check the pipework and fire up the 'chauffage' - an expensive business. Daytime temperatures of over twenty degrees have meant that we have been able to dry out the worst of the wet with windows wide open. Dare I say, but occasionally it has been too hot. I had to rummage around in the garage for the sunshade just for lunch! I don't mean to sound smug but it really has been lovely here. Salad lunches on the terrace in March are quite mad but thoroughly enjoyable.

When I was young, back in the stone age, winter still lingered, sometimes quite viciously, in March. Wind and rain were the norm, not an aberration. Whilst river levels here are high due to snowmelt, the ground remain hard and dry, a sort of mottled green and ochre colour rather than the lush, verdant greens that we are used to at this time of year. The farmers are in despair for the season ahead. Unlike the Aude, our neighbouring 'departement', we have never had water rationing but our water may have to be diverted elsewhere yet. In the Lauragais, they are talking of changing their crops altogether because there has been no significant rainfall.

Some of us might have thought that Al Gore was exaggerating the case for action on climate change with his exponential 'hockey stick' curve but only a blind person could question it now. The landscape of our garden is metamorphosing before our eyes. The two huge lime trees are slowly dying of thirst, dropping branches in desperation every time a storm breaks. The lush greenery that once dominated the garden is giving way to drought resistant shrubs. The new borders may not survive a savagely dry spring unless gallons of precious and expensive water are sprinkled over them. This is a new phenomenon.

Ten, nine, eight years ago, we had some pretty miserable Easter vacations here. The family, cousins, grandma, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all, regularly huddled around the log fire wishing that the sun would come out just for one day. Back then, most Easter egg hunts took place in the rain and Easter was the least popular time to visit. Nowadays, it is better than summer, for the air is clearer, the storms are fewer and the snow capped Pyrenees are at their most dazzling.

Last year in April we had a spell of blazing weather, with temperatures in the high twenties, followed by a huge dump of snow which killed all our bees. Over the years, they had made their hive under the pantiles in the roof so I suppose that it was ineveitable. The terracotta, tragically, simply baked them to death. They have not returned. Who knows what will happen this spring?

Meanwhile, I spent a horrendous, hot afternoon in IKEA in Toulouse. And I thought that Southampton was bad! To avoid any risk of litigation, I will refrain from ranting about unhelpful staff, the complete closure of the loading zone and 'jobsworths' who refused to let me leave one trolley whilst I walked half a mile with the other one to the car. Ugggggh! I appreciate that IKEA is just a posh, Swedish warehouse but cabals of unhelpful young people huddled round a desk discussing their social life whilst 60 year olds calculate the cost of their next visit to the chiropractor is not a good marketing strategy.

On the upside, where else can you get nicely designed and reasonably decent bookshelves for under 60 euros? I now have a bank of them in one of the upstairs corridors ready and waiting for the arrival of hundreds of books which do not have a UK home. I shall not need to spend money on a gym membership this side of Christmas. I love my Kindle, especially for traveling, but there is nothing like the tactile feel of a real book for identifying with the aspirations of the author. He or she put it down in print and chose a typeface and spacing to suit. We owe it to them to read in it print. I don't suppose that such altruism was part of IKEA's mission statement but they certainly help to perpetuate our obsessive need to be surrounded by books.

I have been reading a lot recently about the 'passeurs' from hereabouts who bravely took allied servicemen and other evaders over the Pyrenees at great, and often tragic, cost to themselves and their families. I was lucky enough to be invited to a lunch with Scott Goodhall, MBE, when I was staying recently with a friend. Scott set up 'The Freedom Trail', a commemorative walk which takes place every July and has written a book about it. An inspirational man, he has done a lot to bring about the public recognition that such people deserve and remains very active in the ELMS society. He also helped Edward Stourton with his Radio 4 programme about the evasion lines.

Then, like the proverbial icing on the cake, in the Musee de la Liberte in St Girons the other day, I was chatting to the curator, the delightful and modest Colonel Guy Serris, about who was still alive. Mid sentence, in walks 94 year old Monsieur Joseph Gualter, who escaped over the Porte de Salaud in 1941 to join the Free French, landing in Italy in 1943 as part of the first Allied thrust. Books and photographs are as nothing compared with living history. We passed a delightful afternoon drinking tea and discussing the impact of the war on France. He is the most wonderful man, with a dazzling smile and a wicked twinkle in the eye, and I thoroughly enjoyed his company. We all owe people like him a great deal for the freedoms which we take for granted. Another evader, 86 year old Monsieur Jean Pierre Denat, a pilot, joined us so I couldn't have asked for a better end to the afternoon. Better than building shelves!

Burst Pipes and Shattered Nerves

What a winter it has been in Ariege. Recorded temperatures sank as low as -23 degrees near us in the foothills of the Pyrenees. We get these winters, apparently, once every twenty five years. My friend, Meredith, much higher up in the mountains in Axiat, says that we have just forgotten what real winter means. If you read Graham Robb's wonderful and unique account of the history of France,'The Discovery of France', you'll see what she means. The mountain people of Ariege used to take themselves off to bed and hibernate for the duration, quite literally. I was very tempted to do so myself but instead took off for slightly warmer climes in Salisbury. A big mistake!

The catch on our bathroom window, inevitably north facing, had been dodgy for a while. The shutter had slowly begun to disintegrate too, leaving a residue of bits of wood and splinters on the gravel below. I stupidly ignored both, planning as I was to install double-glazed replacements in the spring. After last year's mild winter, and those before that, I had become complacent. Double-glazing could wait until I had created my summer kitchen. Then, to my horror, I discovered that the window had somehow blown open........ but only after my kindly neighbour had rung me to tell me that he had turned the water off for us because of the 'froideur'!

In a panic, I rang the ever gallant Tim and Tina who reassured me that all was not lost. They cleaned the worst of the dirty, melted water up, hung the sodden bedding on the line and began the count of broken pipes. Then, I leapt onto an Easyjet flight from Bristol to face the inevitable; fourteen burst pipes in the inadequately insulated loft, a number of broken taps and a bathroom radiator with a six inch gash in the side. Laurent, our wonderful and ever observant neighbour, will never know how much of our French life he saved that day. His speedy action resulted in little more than some puddles, a few stains on the ceilings, some damaged bedding and the necessity to re-polish some of the old wooden floorboards. I got lucky!

I have learnt my lesson. Mother nature always reverts to form. Instead of spending limited resources on cosmetic enhancements chez nous, every spare centime will go towards making the house better prepared for winter. Insulation comes first, then some secondary double glazing and, if the budget ever stretches that far, a solar panel or two. Oil prices have become so astronomical in France [currently, a thousand euros only buys us a quarter of a tank!], we try to use the central heating as little as possible. This is fine when we are 'in situ' because the woodburners are fired up. However, when we're away, the frost setting, which is supposed to ensure that everything doesn't freeze up when the temperature drops below two degrees, isn't geared up for temperatures diving below zero into double figures. I have only just realised this, to my great cost.

These old stone houses get sooooooooooo cold with no heating. When the sun is out, it's nearly always warmer outside at midday than in. This is a boon in summer but a disaster waiting to happen in winter. With no water and no heat, I was dependent on the generous largesse of friends, bliss for me but possibly a minor pain for them. They were all too polite to say so and, for that, I am grateful. I always try to be a good guest, bringing food and bottles of wine in, offering to cook dinner, keeping my room tidy and not hogging the bathroom or the computer. I have a mental checklist in my head of good and bad guests, born of years of shopping, cooking and cleaning for summer visitors. For once, I was a guest and totally spoilt. It's a life I could easily get used to. I had a glorious time and truly felt like I was on holiday, so thank you, dear friends.

I also took myself off to Toulouse for three days and two nights, courtesy of a great deal on Expedia for the quaint and lovely Albert 1er in Rue Rivals, close to the Capitole. Staying in a city is such a different experience from visiting for the day because, if you're like me, you try to walk everywhere. Suddenly, the signs from the 'peripherique' made sense and I didn't have to worry about finding a parking space. I was exceedingly lucky for the weather was gloriously sunny but cold, with a clarity in the air that only somewhere near the mountains can ever have. Even the stress of burst pipes and no heating paled in the glaring light. Whilst the grey skies of England had slowly been turning even the most optimistic of us unto winter depressives, Toulouse, even when bitterly cold, is a tonic for disheartened souls.

I was a woman with a mission. I wanted to find where the Quakers of Toulouse had been located during the 2nd World War and where Silvio Trentin's bookshop had been. I wanted to make a pilgrimage to the printing shop of the Lion brothers, where the resistance publications that had cost them their lives were printed. All were within walking distance, with the exception of the Musee de la Resistance and Deportation, which forced me to take my exercise for the day. I have long been fascinated with the Resistance in Toulouse, led by great intellectuals like Georges Friedmann and Jean Cassou, as well as with the bravery of the ordinary men and women who refused to acquiesce to the Occupation. Toulouse, the second city of the resistance, like the whole of south-west France, was not liberated by the Allies. It was freed by the actions of its citizens, many of whom at the time were refugees from Spain and other parts of Europe.

The German army of occupation surrendered on 22nd August 1944 in Castlenau-Durban, not far from us. Their surrender was, however, tinged with sadness. Just a few days before they had brutalised the little town of Rimont, killing eleven of its inhabitants and burning the village to the ground. Very little survived but the church and a few buildings to the west. A local resident showed me the where the new building line met the pink stone of its past. Our little part of France is steeped in history, pre-historic, medieval and contemporary and we are very privileged to always have something new to search out.

Now that the heating and water are back on, I am able to sit down and write. Oh, bliss! There are few advantages to burst pipes, other than the incentive to high tail it off to interesting places. Next time, though, for the sake of my nerves, I shall plan my trip in advance.

Speak Up, Speak out

Today is Yom Ha Shoah, Holocaust Memorial Day, and this year's theme is taken from Pastor Niemoller's poem.

First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist

Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist

Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist

Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew

Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me

This week Peter and I went to see 'Sarah's Key', directed by Gilles Paquet-Brenner and starring the redoubtable Kristin Scott-Thomas. It is a wonderful film and it made me cry. I had wanted to see it for a long time and it has only now struck me how appropriate it was that we should have seen at this time of Yom Ha Shoah.

It is the story of an American journalist, married to a Frenchman, who discovers that the family appartment in the Marais, into which she is moving with her husband and teenage daughter, once belonged to the parents of Sara Starzinsky. At 4 am on the night of 16th - 17th July, the Starzinsky's, along with over 13,000 other foreign born French Jews including their children, are brutally rounded up by the French police. Almost half of them are thrown into the Vel' d'Hiv, the covered winter cycling velodrome in the 15 eme arrondisement. There, they are left to fester in blistering heat, with no food, water or toilets, for five days, before being shunted off to the Beaune-la-Rolande internment camp. The key is the key to the wardrobe, about which I will say no more.

At Beaune-la-Rolande, where 2,773 people are sent, the children are separated from their parents. Fifteen hundred sobbing and distraught children leave on the last convoy, No. 20, in terrible conditions via Drancy, to Auschwitz. Sara is not one of them.

The film creates the horror of the 'Raffle' and the Vel d'Hiv. It is a shocking story because this atrocity was carried out by Frenchmen, not Nazis. Jacques Chirac apologised for this crime against humanity in 1995. The question remains, though. Where were the people who spoke up, spoke out? I am sure that there were many but their voices were drowned out by the others, the silent ones, the complicit ones, the greedy ones.

Closer to home, in St Girons, on 26th August 1942, two families were affected by the long arm of the brutal law of the German occupiers. It stretched uncompromisingly right into the southern 'zone libre'. One was the Silbermann family, originally from Jordanow in Poland, with their two teenage boys, Maurice, who was sixteen, and Leon, who was a year younger. The other was the family of two-year old Fanny Reich, both families arrested as part of the 'grand raffle' of foreign Jews ordered by the Nazis in the southern, unoccupied zone. They were taken from their home at 48 rue Sainte-Valier, next to the church, and interned at Le Vernet. They included her grandfather, Oscar Reich, who had been born in Vienna in 1885 [57], her father, Wolf, who had been born in Przemysy in Poland in 1903 [38], her mother, Mindla, who had been born in Zdunska Wola in Poland in 1901 [41] and her brother, Joseph, who had been born in Liege in Belgium in 1932 [10].

The family had lived in Liege since Hitler made his intentions known in the 1930's, where they had moved from Poland. They had thought that they were safe there because, so they must have believed, the Fuhrer's intentions were directed eastwards towards the country of their birth. When the German Blitzkrieg swept through Holland and Belgium in May 1940, so shortly after Fanny's birth on 21st February, they fled south and finished up in the sleepy market town of St Girons. Looking up to the great expanse of the Pyrennees from their little home by the church, they must have believed that finally they were safe. There was not a Wehrmacht or SS uniform to be seen, for St Girons was deep into the unoccupied zone.

So when they came for the Jews, they came quickly, and quietly, at 4 o'clock in the morning. In a closely guarded military operation, the armed policemen crept up on their unsuspecting prey in an operation called 'Spring Breeze'. Their victims did not get the chance to flee.

Little Fanny, just a toddler, was the youngest of 32 Jewish children and adolescents arrested that day in Aulus-les-Bains, Bordes-sur-Lez, Castillon, Foix, Le Peyrat, Ludies, Pamiers and Savignac-les-Ormeaux, as well as St Girons. According to one eye witness account, the police were in the full battle dress of blue uniforms, black tunics, black boots and silver-braided black caps of the French police. They carried revolvers at their waists. We cannot imagine the terror in innocent people's hearts that they must have created. In total, almost three hundred foreign born Jews were arrested in Ariege that day by the French police. They were taken to the internment camp at Le Vernet with just the clothes that they were standing up in and one small bag each. The French Jews were given a few months reprieve until their time, too, came.

On 1st September 1942, Fanny and her family left the station of Le Vernet in a convoy of 293 Jews, in filthy and overcrowded cattle trucks, bound for Drancy. They arrived at Drancy the following day. On 4th September, Fanny, together with Oscar, her grandfather, Wolf, her father, Mindla, her mother and Joseph, her brother left Drancy, with 248 other Ariegeois Jews. They were on Convoy No. 28 destined for Auschwitz. We feel sick to our stomachs at their fate.

Who in St Girons spoke up, I wonder. Did anyone speak out? It is almost seventy years ago but maybe someone knows of a brave soul who can answer my question? I should love to know. Fanny Reich is commemorated in St Girons, where there is a school named in the memory of an innocent little life snuffed out before it had ever properly begun. In death, she has become a symbol of hope; the hope that nothing like this will happen again. It must not, for we all shall speak up, speak out. For we will, won't we?

A Writer's Lot!

I have to apologise for my tardiness in blogging of late. I have not been skiving, honestly! As I promised myself when I hit the BIG ONE last September, I have finally got my head down and got stuck into writing my book. It's based on and around Bardies, with a huge cast of characters, some sympathetic, some not. It's based on an idea that I have had for a long time but, beyond that, I'm keeping 'schtum', largely because I don't want to tempt providence! I have really been enjoying sitting at my laptop, surrounded by mountains of books, with Billie Holiday, Serge Gainsbourg, Jacques Brel and Miles Davis keeping me company on the sound system.

I have become addicted to research. When I think back to my days of wading through catalogued library resources as a history student in those long, dark days [and the three day week!] before the internet, I find it hard to believe just how long things like a dissertation would take. Nowadays, with JSTOR and other amazing research tools at the click of a mouse, it's possible to find the most amazing snippets of obscure information without moving three feet from the woodburner! Winter work has never been easier and I love it!

This autumn was the perfect time for research. Trips out and about were an utter joy. The daytime weather, largely crisp, dry and sunny, was inspirational. Every morning I woke with the thought that maybe it would be a dull, drizzly day. But, no, the gods were with me. As December came and went, I garnered my scrappy bits of paper and hastily scribbled notes, and closed the shutters. I am closed for business, literally and metaphorically. I am turning into a grumpy old woman, swaddled in jumpers and warm shawls and living on a diet of soup and leftover mince pies and stollen! Right now, I do not want to surrender valuable hours to haute cuisine!

When the days lengthen again and I emerge like a chrysalis waiting to burst open and fly away, I will be back to my old, extrovert self, have no fear! Service will be resumed in the not too distant future. As the first wild snowdrops peep up, when the sun tempts them from their winter slumbers, I am ever aware that these days are precious. The hurly burly of spring will soon be upon us all, and what a joy it will be to feel the sap rising again and our energies restored. There will be little time for philosophising and navel gazing then!

There is something about the light at this time of year which makes me reflective and, lo and behold, amazingly productive. I am sorry if I sound smug, but I am very pleased with myself. Now that the kids are back at college and school, I begin to think of myself again. Someone once said that a family's joyful Christmas was a month of a mother's life sacrificed [was it me, I wonder?]. I wouldn't change it for the world because I know that one day they will want to spend Christmas with their own friends or new families but it is nice to reclaim my time and space, if only for a little while.

The evenings, tucked up by the log fire, afford none of the distractions of summer and I have become addicted to the lonely life of a scribe. Apart from anything else, I haven't had to concern myself with the needs of others. Scrambled eggs suit me just fine! Oh, bliss. Oh, joy! My hair's a mess, pyjama bottoms have become my new tracksuit chic and my daughter's old black 'Uggs' have been requisitioned as cosy footwarmers. The electric blanket is in overdrive, as I sit up until two or three in the morning reading my way through the mountains of books that I have accumulated for my project over the last year.

So, it's back to the grindstone for a little while yet. Bear with me, dear friends, for I haven't forgotten you. I haven't dropped off the planet; I'm just floating around in cyberspace and having one hell of a ride.....and I can't believe that we're almost half way through January already. Incroyable! So, a bientot, mes amis. Watch this space!

France's Rocky Road to Recovery

It is hard sometimes to concern oneself with the big picture when the little picture here in Ariege is so beautiful. As the last golden leaves of autumn flutter down from the trees and warm, dappled sunlight warms the bones on a mid November day, life seems incredibly good. The wood is cut for winter, the woodburner glows welcomingly after a bracing morning walk, a pot of pumpkin soup simmers on the stove and all appears well in the best of all possible worlds. The price of petrol and diesel, heating oil, gas and electricity, and food, especially flour and bread, is a cause for concern but otherwise life rolls on much as it has done for hundreds of years.

The one big difference in our lives, though, is the constant stream of information channeled into our little, almost perfect worlds, minute by minute. And, at the moment, it is all bad. There is no getting away from it, unless one is brave enough to remove oneself completely by surrendering broadband, mobile phones, television and radio. Whilst I fantasise about living the life of mystic, deep in meditation and inner harmony, I am in reality too much of a news junkie to ever allow myself to miss out on what is going on. Politics has been in my blood since my sixth form in the sixties and it's too late to change my spots.

No one can have failed to notice the current 'crise economique', not even the most apolitical Ariegois. It seeps into our everyday consciousness, impacting on the most potentially joyful of days. A collective depression palls over us all. We are all closing our shutters to the outside world and praying that we will all wake up tomorrow to find that it has been a horrible dream. Nothing much in our world appeared to have changed. We, the little people, all got up each day, went to work and paid our taxes [well, most of us here in Ariege anyway!]. For reasons beyond our control and our comprehension, we are are now, however, being told that we must pay a high price for government profligacy. Young people have little hope of gainful employment, small businesses are struggling and unemployment is rising. Everyone is complaining and 'Sarko's' name is mud. Even more worrying, there are whispers of the increasing popularity of Le Pen. Has it really come to this?

France accounts for one fifth of the Eurozone's GDP. It is a big player as the strutting Sarkozy is determined to show. Up until recently, because it wasn't as reliant upon exports as Germany, France seemed to be weathering the storm rather better than most member states. If one overlooks youth employment, the big role of the French state in injecting a fiscal stimulus of 2.25% in 2009/10 allowed French GDP to modestly rise whilst other economies struggled. Now, however, as public debt spirals upwards, the dangers of a consumer-led economic model financed by government transfers are becoming more apparent and the markets are twitchy. In the space of a decade, France has moved from a current account surplus of 3.1% of GDP to a deficit of 2.2%. With unemployment rising, the French government has cut its economic forecast from 2.5% to 2.0%, although most forecasters think that a figure of 1.5% or less is nearer the mark.

Sarkozy's determination to prove that France is Germany's equal in the economic stakes is beginning to look like wishful thinking. Certainly, it is true that France has thirty- nine companies in 'Fortune's' list of the top five hundred global companies, two more than Germany's tally of thirty seven. On closer inspection, however, it is apparent that most of France's top companies rely either directly or indirectly on state support and are close to Paris, unlike in Germany where the top companies are much more diverse and engaged in the production of high quality capital goods. With France's budget deficit likely to hit a staggering 8% this year, the highest of any triple A rated economy, such a huge dependance on the state has serious implications for its productivity, a fact not lost on the markets.

Furthermore, because France has high quality state institutions, which gobble up all the top graduates each year, there is a marked lack of innovation at ground level, unlike in Germany where graduates head for expanding commercial enterprises from choice. France's rigid job market and the exorbitant social costs of employment mitigate against the growth and expansion of small and medium sized enterprises, vital for an export led economy comparable with that of Germany. Added to this, the high cost of firing workers cements inefficiency and complacency, as most of us experience every day in France. The high minimum wage deters companies from hiring inexperienced younger workers, many of whom are well educated and up to speed with new technology. They either become another youth unemployment statistic, or flee to London or Frankfurt, where they can get their feet on the first rung of the employment ladder.

On top of all this woe at home, the crisis in Greece has massive implications for France. Data from regulators in Basle shows that French banks have far more exposure to Greek creditors than other European banks. The 'haircut' by banks of 50%, agreed last week by European leaders, will hit France's banks hard, requiring them to raise new capital to calm markets. This, on top of everything else, leaves Sarkozy looking like the emperor without his clothes. He won't be able to get away with slagging off Angela Merkel's eating habits a second time! He will need to show that he is able, and willing, to tackle the budget deficit just one year short of a general election. If not, the bond markets will have him by the short and curlies as quickly as Angela Merkel can say, ' Du fromage, s'il vous plait!'

France remains committed to the euro, despite its fundamental flaws. There is little talk here of a return to the franc, largely because France, along with Germany, still believes that the euro will survive the ravages of the global debt market. The costs of borrowing for Ireland, Portugal, Greece and now Italy have been pushed beyond affordable levels. And because the debts are on the verge of being unserviceable, unelected bond traders are defining the destiny of elected leaders. In Greece, Papandreou has been ousted, replaced by a government of national unity. In Italy, Berlusconi has gone too, to be replaced by a bureaucrat. These are worrying times for democrats, as well as economists. It will take very strong leadership from both Merkel and Sarkozy to reassure both the markets and the disillusioned voters of member states.

We are all caught between a rock and a very hard place. The very people who caused the crisis are now calling the shots. The streets of Athens have fired up a fierce, and sometimes violent, resistance to imposed austerity measures. None of us is immune, as the tented, becalmed protesters of St Paul's demonstrate. France's ability to organise its people on a grand scale should never, as history shows us, be underestimated. We await the next weeks and months with some trepidation. Sarkozy's saving grace is the prospect of the imminent general election. With the Socialists in disarray, I am tempted to say, 'Be very careful what you wish for.'

The great European project, born of hope and prosperity, begins to look, to many, like a fool's paradise. However, it is important to emphasise that it is not just an economic unit. It is an ideal, born of the horrors of the last war. For many of us, its roots are deep, the product of political will as much as economic necessity. The introduction of the single currency provided the glue that was intended to bond it together forever. Since the euro came into being on 1st January 2002, it has become the currency of 15 countries and 320 million people. The possibility of its breakup cannot be an option. It was ill thought out, not least because the European Central Bank has no mandate to be a lender of last resort, but the answer lies in structural reform, not abandonment.

As the Greek crisis has metastasised, we have to be bold. We can only go forwards and that means more, not less, integration. We are Europeans and we are all in this mess together. David Cameron can complain as much as he likes but Sarkozy is right to tell him to stop poking his eurosceptic nose into the affairs of the eurozone. You cannot be on the outside of the tent pissing in! Whatever happens, France's rocky road to recovery remains a fundamental component; for if France falls prey to the same predatory attacks by bond traders that have felled the smaller nations of Europe, then we might as well all roll over and turn off the lights. Now, is that soup ready yet? I am going to go back to my own little world of reading, writing and keeping warm.