Ukraine came to our small town last night ...

- a small, insignificant town in the middle of France Profonde.

For some strange reason the Grand Kyiv Ballet chose us on their European tour.  A town that could do no more than offer them the "salle des fêtes" with its too small, noisy stage without scenery, a ropey sound system (no orchestra) and an audience on hard stacking chairs.

They danced Sleeping Beauty - the choreography and the costumes so musty and classical that it felt like we were seeing the first performance.

The girls were taller than the boys - and we think they were just boys (the male principals being otherwise occupied). Young boys, not yet with the strength or experience to lift their partners effortlessly. 

At the end, following a somewhat subdued curtain call (no curtains as such of course) the young prince ran off-stage and re-emerged waving the Ukrainian blue and gold flag and the audience rose to its feet and applauded and applauded.

At Last!

The sun has reappeared after a fortnight of gloom and I make the most of it.  Time to brutally prune the vine that runs virtually the length of the terrace.

I realise as I do it how much my father would have loved this.  He was a robust pruner - much to my mother's horror, as she watched through the kitchen window yet again most of the long stems of the clematis montana disappear into the wheelbarrow before they'd had a chance to flower.

I think our French acquaintances also look with some horror on what I do with our vine.  Ours is much more of a tangled mass than the neat, compact structures in the vineyards.  We were told when we bought the house that the previous but one owner - Serge's aunt - had planted three vines, one for each of her sons.  By the time we moved in the vine at the far end of the terrace had died and the one in the middle (a white grape) was struggling.  But the vine nearest the kitchen was doing superbly and remembering the Great Vine at Hampton Court I decided to let it weave its way along the dead branches of the other two.  Over the years it has almost, but not quite, reached the far end.  And the white one in the middle has coyly put out new tendrils and gives us a few modest small bunches among the overly abundant red.

As I prune another memory of my father comes to mind. He loved France and things French. My mother recounted an occasion early in their relationship - both barely out of their teens.  He and his (female) cousin spent the entire time speaking French to each other and ignoring my mother.  I think he was hoping to impress. I think my mother showed great generosity of spirit that she forgave him his rudeness.  I'm glad she did - somehow, over the years my father passed on his love of France to me. 

(Mind you, I could do with his language skills!)

Twelfth Night

As we are leaving the mayor's "annual" get-together, being held for the first time in three years, I tell our neighbour Laurence I am going home to take down our Christmas decorations (as is customary in the UK) on Twelfth Night. She says: "But you are in France now!" and we laugh.

In fact, little is left of the evening in which to complete the task after the mayor has introduced every single person involved in running the commune to the rest of us, in the process forgetting a few individuals, being reminded, probably saying at least four times that is all he is going to say, then thinking of something else.

For our "new" mayor (Covid having intervened) it's the first time he's had a chance to be centre stage in front of all of us and he makes the most of it. 

The place feels smarter under his guiding hand. An enormous new TV on the stage at the salle des fêtes has a continuous slideshow of how money is being spent in the village. The salle itself has been redecorated with better insulation and new heaters on the walls. Those of us who have come well wrapped up are too warm by the time his speech has finished and there is a slight sigh when he hands the mike to the local priest and then to the elegant blonde who is our representative from the  Assemblée Nationale. She knows her audience - her first words are about protecting the local "chasse".

The equally elegant man in the dark cashmere coat and black mask (one of the few in the room still concerned about Covid) from the local Commune of Communes has the wisdom merely to give us all New Year greetings when it comes to his turn to speak.

The small, elderly retired farmer who introduced himself to us when we arrived writes down his address and elaborate details as to where to find his house. He tells me his father was a "domestique" to a previous family who owned our house many years ago. It sounds like things did not end well and I'm not sure I want to know more details. He is also trying to persuade us to join a country dance group he goes to - he talks about "Scottish dancing" - I am briefly excited about the thought of the Gay Gordons and Stripping the Willow - not danced for fifty years - but reality and Tod's two left feet bring me back down to earth.

And I'm back down to earth again this morning - the dining room table is covered in decorations that need putting into boxes and up into the loft. At least I managed to get them off the tree last night before bedtime.

And French Christmas decorations? Some will still be seen in situ at Easter. No Twelfth Night superstitions here.

Where did it go?

 Only one more day to 2022.  

I meet the jolly lady who retired from the mayor's office at the last election in Leclerc, by the large open chill cabinets that are being stocked with platters of finger food for thirty. She catches me leaning over the small cakes drenched in dark chocolate, which look delicious.  I regretfully turn my back on them. After all, what would we do with thirty small chocolate cakes on New Year's Eve when there will only be the two of us?

She tells me they had a family Christmas, but - like us - their New Year's Eve will be a party-free zone.  We share the experience of an "other half" whose view is that this is only a day like any other.  She and I, on the other hand, will be keeping an eye on the TV to count down the final minutes.  I might even raise a glass to absent friends - we have a somewhat strange orange Martini that Tod bought with the intention of adding a suitably festive flavour to the carrots on Christmas Day. We both agreed next time we'll use Frank Cooper's Oxford marmalade which has a suitably tangy bite to the oranges. As usual, we over-catered - after all how big a capon did we need just for the four of us?  The meat from  the bones of yesterday's stock sits in the fridge looking at me reproachfully every time I open the door.  Maybe a curry in a day or two?

The jolly lady and I seem to be the only shoppers in Leclerc not stocking up for tomorrow night's celebrations.  Shopping trolley loads of alcohol are being wheeled through the check-outs.  There is a special counter set up with an assistant just for the oysters and the seafood section has never looked so exotic. Do the French in France Profonde really buy sea urchins and if so, what on earth do they do with them?

Even though we will be having quiet nights in, we wish each other "Bonnes fêtes" - the traditional greeting for this time of year - and agree we will meet again shortly in 2023, at the mayor's annual shindig on January 6th, where he will give the commune his annual overview - his first for three years.  No doubt it will be a very crowded and cheerful affair - whatever he has to impart.

So, whether you are happily letting 2022 quietly slip away or sending it off with an exuberant celebration, may I say "Bonnes fêtes" and wish that 2023 is happy and healthy and that we all find at least some small measure of sanity and hope in the year ahead.  

"What is a parsnip?" ...

 ... the hairdresser asks me (in French).

I go into town early in the hope that I can have my hair cut before the Christmas rush.  I am lucky - a man getting a final whisk over with the hair dryer and otherwise the place is empty.

I practise my limited French vocabulary on her and ask her what she's doing for Christmas and the New Year. Not surprisingly perhaps, given her job, she will be busy.

So, the conversation turns to what I am doing.  A Christmas Day lunch with friends.  Would it be a "buffet espagnol?" which (if I remember correctly from an club evening some years back) is where everyone brings a dish.  Not quite. But they will be bringing the Christmas pud.

So, of course, it being a French conversation, we are now discussing in detail what the meal will include.  Are we having turkey?  No, a capon (tastier than a small, scraggy turkey).  And what will we be having with the capon - green beans?  This is where we get into deep water. I volunteer the word "parnais" which is a mistake, as the word had no "r" in it.  But even saying it without the "r" elicits a blank look.  So now she's confused and I'm confused about this French word and how it's spelt / pronounced, which in English is "parsnip".

I volunteer "like a carrot, but white". "Ah, navet". "No" I've seen the word, but I know it's not that (it's a turnip I discover later).  I try adding, "cooked in the oven with rosemary", but that's just adding to the confusion. 

So we decide to discuss the first course.  I don't even attempt to describe what we are really having - butternut squash soup - and substitute "potimarron" (another kind of squash, round, bright orange and lacking in taste) which she does know.  But it goes downhill again when I tell her I will be adding ginger to the soup. She is very suspicious of this culinary practice.  Fortunately by now my haircut has reached a stage where, with some relief for both of us, we can return to the topic of "more off the back or is it fine as it is?"

And the reason for this immense confusion over "panais" (parsnips)?  And the no-go area of butternut squash?  Fifteen years ago, when we first came here, neither were to be found anywhere, except occasionally at a farmers' market where the Brits shopped. Butternut squash was unknown and not grown.  Parsnips were grown, but only to be fed to animals. And why not for humans? Because during the Second World War that was the diet the French were reduced to eating. 

Nowadays, much to our delight, butternut squash and parsnips are to be found everywhere. But these essential additions to a full-blown British Christmas Day lunch with friends quite elude the comprehension of a young hairdresser in France Profonde.

I Erred

 Finally, after a mere fifteen years, I plucked up the courage to invite our farming neighbours round for "aperos".

It was during the summer and they were heading into Leclerc and I was heading out.  After we'd briefly chatted and as we said our goodbyes, I (to my own surprise) said "You must come round for aperos" and almost immediately regretted it - after all what would we talk about? But then she turned and gave me the most beatific smile and I knew I'd done the right thing. 

As they are farmers, we agreed nothing would happen 'til after the harvest, which has long gone.  And finally, I realised we could not defer the evening any longer and we arranged for a Saturday two weeks ago. In fact, that evening never happened - his very elderly mother, who had been unhappily in a home, died that morning, so far from having our evening we found ourselves on the following Wednesday at a funeral in the tiny local church and we moved our get-together to last night.

For nearly three years throughout Covid we've had no visitors. And for much of that time Vita became increasingly frail.  By the end, the house had become her sanctuary and kennel - mats and towels all over the place, a bucket and mop to hand for accidents, the kitchen door left open so she could head out for a comfort break whenever she needed.  So, there was not much point hoovering and dusting and we lived contentedly (most of the time) with the mess.  But now, we were about to have guests!

A frantic week was spent removing cobwebs, chasing down dust bunnies, washing corners where Vita cleaned her messy wet beard when she'd drunk half her water bowl and carried most of it across the kitchen floor.  In contrast Bertie is such a clean drinker.

Alongside the manic house cleaning was an anxiety about what to get for food and drink?  We have never done aperos. What would they be expecting?  So I turned to the forum I use all the time when I am struggling with French mores and our life here and over several days the advice rolled in with some very fancy suggestions for what to make and serve.  

The advice that stuck was: "I’d err on the side of too much rather than too little". So I erred. 

 Crudités with four types of dip, followed by beautifully soft, plump prunes wrapped in wafer-thin streaky bacon, bite-sized chipolatas (herby ones from Lidls and spicy merguez) plus the “toasts” with paté she brought, followed by my mini quiches and some tiny hot cheesy /filo things I got from Lidls freezer cabinet, followed by home-made mince pies (and she asked for the recipe, so I sent her home with the last four). 

They stayed until gone ten and would have stayed longer but for the fact she had a bad cold and was beginning to flag, so I packed them off home. Tod was worried about not understanding but the conversation flowed freely, not least because there is so much we do not know about each other and they can tell us so much about our old house and its surroundings. We learnt (among many other things), that he leaves a tiny part of his field un-cultivated because the great grandparents of the family who used to own this house are buried there in (unmarked, probably protestant) graves. 

And the beatific smile from her when I invited them?  She has been wanting to see inside our house for years. We are the third English family to own it in the last forty years or so and the local community have watched it being transformed from a near ruin to a habitable family home (it's still a work in progress of course). 

She went home content - four mince pies and an evening inside the house she wanted to know.  I need not have worried about our evening together.

At the Sea

Hard to believe - yesterday's early afternoon temperature was 29°C. We decided to make the most of it and headed for the sea.  This time, we introduced Bertie to the Atlantic beaches of Cap Ferret.

The sand on the towels is from his digging.  His spiky fur is from the salt water, having followed me into the surf, paddling against the rollers as he tried to reach me. 

He thinks being at the beach is wonderful And so do we.- especially on a glorious day in October.

At Last!

 A small rain has blown in, bringing with it cool weather and the smell of distant wildfires in the Gironde.

Earlier in the week, while it was still sunny and warm we headed with Bertie for Lacanau and the beach

The final stage of the journey - cross country from Bordeaux - always seems to take forever.  Even more so this time. Our speed was reduced from eighty kilometres an hour to fifty as we drove between the burnt black trunks of pine trees, acrid smoke still drifting across the ground.  Two fire engines on guard attested to the possibility of  further breakouts.  We were lucky.  A few days earlier and the road would have been closed.

Finally, we made it. And found a restaurant that did crispy, light, fish n'chips and a bowl of water for Bertie, who poked his head through the terrace railings and watched the world go by.  

The beaches in town are supposed to be dog-free, so we turned north, parked between the trees and tramped over the dunes to the sea.  At some moment in the last couple of years Bertie grew up and can now be trusted (in the right circumstances) off the lead. A beach out of town and out of season in South West France is the right circumstances and he spent a joyous afternoon haring off into the middle distance to meet and greet other dogs and then rushing back to tell us.  It makes the disappearance of Vita from his life easier.

Afternoon tea, ice-cream and cannelles back in town and another bowl of water for Bertie and then we headed home.  He hardly stirred the whole way - it had been a good day for all of us.