The vendange, exploring the GR36 and Edouard sans copines ( Edward no mates)

The vendange began hereabouts this week and for days prior to the off the viticulteurs were anxiously visiting the vines on a daily basis in order to determine the best moment to begin the harvest.    
  If you picture the picking being done by armies of pickers, bronzed peasants or students on gap years etc. forget it, it just doesn't happen like that anymore. It did until thirty or forty years ago: a local who owns vast vineyards inherited from his father told me that he remembers when he was a lad his father hired students for the grape picking. Apparently, the local men had a faiblesse for les jeunes anglaises who liked to come over to improve their French and earn some money grape picking to supplement their university grants. Now, most viticulteurs in this area  have specialised machines driven by one man which straddle the rows of vines and strip off the grapes as they go along.
   Some small growers still hand pick but it's hard, back-breaking work. We did it once when M.Rossignol was alive. He had only a few hundred vines and used the grapes to make wine and eau de vie for family consumption or to offer to guests at his table. Several of us, friends mostly, walked the rows of vines snipping off the bunches of warm sticky grapes with secateurs and transferring them to the panier carried by a companion who would then trudge off to unload them into the trailer. Returning to the chai, the grapes were tipped stalks, the odd leaf and all into a big mechanical wine press. After, we drank a toast to health and a good harvest in le mou, the grapejuice from the initial pressing. This year's harvest too looks to be a good one thanks to the permanent sunshine of the spring and early summer and the humid  heat and heavy, almost tropical rainstorms of the last few weeks.
  A few days ago Paul phoned to ask if I'd like to accompany him and a visitor, Roger, on a short hike to explore the GR36 north of here. The GR36 is a long distance footpath which has fascinated us for a long time. It has taken on almost mythic proportions in our imagination and we fully intend to walk it one day.The GR36 links the English Channel to the Mediterranean, over 1000k of footpath or should I say footpaths because in reality the Grande Randonnée is a series of interlinked footpaths and trails which combine to form a route leading southwards from Ouistreham near Caen in Normandy to Bourg Madame in the Pyrenées Orientales and then a short hop over the mountains and into Spain!
  The Grandes Randonnées criss-cross France and can be followed easily with a good hiking map and an ability to interpret the red and white striped signs, les balisages, which mark the route at frequent intervals. The signs or blazes ( as they are termed in English, Paul informs me) can appear in the most incongruous of places. We've found them on trees, on walls, on drainpipes, telegraph poles, rocks, on trunks in hedges, on rocks and very often on the road surface itself. Follow the direction to which the blaze points and you can't go wrong! But beware a red and white X which warns you that this is the route not to be taken. I think Robert Frost would have found this very useful information and it might have saved him a lot of agonizing.
   Leaving the village and following the blazes we soon came across a curious version of a lavoir. A lavoir is basically a wash-house where in days gone by, before the advent of the washing machine and presumably piped water, the women of the village took their laundry and did their washing communally.Lavoirs are built over a spring or a stream or next to a small river.They are usually small wooden structures, often open to the elements with a tiled roof overhead.To get to the washing platform at the water's edge you have to descend several steps.
   This one was different however. It was fitted with wooden platforms suspended by chains on both sides of the stream. Once the washerwoman had stepped onto the platform it could then be highered or lowered by operating a windlass type mechanism in order to ensure a comfortable working distance just above,or at,water level. Presumably in winter, when the stream was likely to be in spate, the platforms were raised and in summer and periods of drought the opposite applied. The whole thing was ingenious and I've never seen one like it before.
  Walking on through meadows and woodland we noticed a proliferation of sweet pea plants in the verges on either side of the path.A first they appeared wild but it soon became apparent that they were the remnants of vetch crops planted by the farmer to be ploughed back into the soil in order to improve the nitrogen content. The beautful little pink flowers brightened up our path on what was otherwise a grey and sombre day. As we headed further north the heavy clouds closed in and a light but persistent drizzle began to fall. You could hardly be blamed for thinking you were in south west Wales rather than south western France!
   At eighty seven Mme.Rossignol has been unwell for sometime.Once a busy farmer's wife, she loved her animals and spent all day,everyday, tending to them and her vegetables. M. Rossignol spent most of his time on his beloved tractor out in the fields in all weathers. A giant of a man whose height and weight would have made him the perfect second row forward in  any international rugby team. I once saw him tow a  heavy touring caravan almost fifty metres with his bare hands and he was about sixty five then!
  The Rossignols were virtually self-sufficient. They made their own wine and liqueurs, grew all thier own vegetables and kept pigs,rabbits and chickens. Madame is always tellings about when she had her own troupeau de chevres and shepherded them around the fields from dawn until dusk.Now only the chickens remain and even they have become too much work for her and so a neighbour and I look after them, an arrangement which suits us all very well since everyone gets to share the eggs.
  Madame Rossignol's pride and joy has always been her cockerel. She loves to hear it crow at daybreak. As she says, 'Si on n'entend pas le coq c'est triste et c'est plus la campagne!'
  There have been a succession of coqs and in recent years we have taken to naming each incumbent. The last two were named Désiré and Lionel.The magnificent Désiré who could have posed for a bronze statue of le coq français lived to a ripe old age. Sadly,earlier this summer when Mme. R was in hospital, Lionel le coq crowed his last. Apparently, on a day when Mme. Duval was feeding the hens, the proud creature threw back his head, crowed loudly and promptly keeled over. When Mme. R heard les tristes nouvelles on her hospital bed, she phoned me and asked me to go to la foire de Rouillac on the 27th of the month and purchase a new cock from one of les marchands de volailles. I must buy un coq demi-nain since the hens were themselves demie-naines we had bought there together two years ago.
 The 27th coincided with the visit of my daughter, her husband and our grandchildren and so we all set off together in search of Lionel's replacement.
 The foire occupies the whole town for the whole day and virtually everything stops to give way to the buying and selling of everything from livestock to fruit and vegetables, plants, clothing, fish and seafood, tractors, tools, wine and lots of other things too. Having perused all the poultry stalls the little ones finally chose a handsome little demi-nain coq with a bright red comb and classic plumage. Before he had been plunged unceremoniously into the cardboard carrying box he had been named Edouard.
  Unfortunately, Edouard has proved to be something of a misfit. He hasn't crowed yet, much to Mm.R's chagrin and skulks rather than struts around the yard attempting, unsuccessfully, to ingratiate himself with the matronly hens. However, there might be hope yet.We've recently added another four hens to the poulailler.They are younger birds, mere girls you might say, and Edouard's life seems to have been transformed. He ignores the older birds, no longer skulks and struts around after the younger hens, following them everywhere, unable to take his eyes off them.  A case of 'plus ça change' perhaps?

Footnote: Edouard still hasn't crowed yet but that might change too. Watch this space!

A roadside shrine,suicidal bathers and 'a well hung sardine'.

Southwestern France is a region rich in history.Since the distant past, humans have inhabited the area and the traces of their passing survive everywhere.

 This was the Aquitaine of Eleanor whose marriage to Henry II of England ensured that in the ensuing centuries the region would be claimed both by England and France and would lead to the bloody and devastating Hundrd Years War from 1350 until the final expulsion of the English in the mid-fifteenth century.

 Eleanor's Aquitaine was a rich realm, a land of sunshine, vines, troubadours and the birthplace of the concept of courtly love. And also of beautiful romanesque churches. Built mainly in the 10th and 11th centuries, they are still the jewels of many villages and towns to this day.

 In the Middle Ages the pilgrim routes from northern Europe criss-crossed the region and lead to the shrine of St.Jacques de Compostelle in northwestern Spain. Many villages display the stylised scallop shell symbol denoting their importance as staging posts on the route. Some still possess wayside shrines to the Virgin Mary where pilgrims would have paid their respects and offered up prayers for a safe and successful pilgrimage.One such can be found on the outskirts of a nearby village and has fascinated me for some time.We pass it on our way up to Paris before joining the N10 and once again on our return.It seems to mark the beginning and end of every journey.

 Strangely, even though France is not the great Catholic nation it was once, many French people still claim to be Catholic (although fewer and fewer attend Mass). Locals however,still visit the shrine and leave posies of wild flowers at its base. Perhaps the origin of the little shrine precedes Christianity and goes back further into the mists of time. Many such shrines often mark places associated with older deities whose existence, although forgotten now, might still be acknowledged in folk memory. I must conduct further research and try to discover the origin of the beautiful little shrine, if anyone still remembers or has any idea.

 Last weekend was glorious and with some friends, Jeff and Jane, I decided a sea fishing trip was in order. We planned to motor further to the north west, to a beautiful beach on the Atlantic coast and which faces the Ile d'Oléron.

 We arrived at low tide intending to fish the tide up and down again and having parked the cars in the car park some way away from the beach, we tramped through the pine forest and over the sand dunes to the shoreline. Everywhere the air was heavy with the scent of the pin parasol, the umbrella pine and the cloying fragrance of curry plants which amazingly really do smell like curry.

 A brief stop at a local market had provided us with fresh sardines for bait and a little fishing tackle shop in nearby village with several boxes of a strange little creatures known as vers de tube or tube worms. These marine worms live in little leathery tubes and are the bait par excellence for le bar (sea bass), le bar moucheté ( spotted sea bass) and the magnificent daurade royale (gilthead bream) which frequent the oyster parks and mussel beds on this coast.

 The beach is truly beautiful backed as it is by the pine forests and facing the coast of the island three or four miles distant. A fast tidal rip and huge Atlantic breakers showed how dangerous this coast can be even in the most clement weather conditions. Standing there, I was instantly reminded of the channel which separates Rainbow Beach from Fraser Island on the Queensland coast of Australia where we had stayed a few years ago.

 When we arrived the beach was empty apart from the odd solitary angler and walker but as the morning wore on, gradually couples and families appeared laden with picnics hampers and beach parasols.They were obviously intent on making the most of the last weekend of les grandes vacances before la rentrée ( the beginning of the new educational and working year which begins in September) and the long return journey to Paris and the towns and cities further north.

 Now don't get me wrong, I'm not a killjoy. I don't mind sharing the beach with anyone providing everyone respects other peoples' reasons for being there and their own personal safety. All I want is a  few yards of clear water in front of me to cast my line out into the surf.

 At first it looked as if my wish had been granted. However, as more and more holidaymakers appeared, having presumably enjoyed a protracted petit déjeuner at their hotel or campsite and looking forward to a day au bord de la mer, it was obvious that this was just not going to happen.What was most alarming was that although the beach was obviously not 'swimmer friendly',small children and older siblings were being encouraged by parents to don their swimming things and get into the water.

  By now the incoming tide was ripping through the narrows and the current was so strong that we had difficulty in keeping our heavily weighted tackle on the bottom.Several bathers,seemingly oblivious to the danger, ended up being swept along the shoreline directly under our lines. Despite warnings, 'Attention Monsieur/Madame, petit/petite. Le courant est très fort. C'est très dangereux vous savez!' they continued to laugh, wave and ignore our animated warnings that this was perhaps not the best place to be taking a final dip ( or perhaps it was!). I fully expected to see some small child or a careless adolescent swept out of their depth by the crashing breakers and carried away by the riptide. Luckily it didn't happen and as the afternoon wore on and the evening sun began to pinken the sky slowly the beach began to empty.The holidaymakers packed their gear and trudged reluctently back to the car park aware perhaps that now it really was la fin des vacances but buoyed up by the promise of les feux d'artifices in the local town that evening ( a small plane towing a huge banner and flying back and forth along the beach had  persistently proclaimed this fact all afternoon).

 Left in peace in the soft rosy glow of the approaching dusk we could once again enjoy our fishing. Jeff, who is new to sea fishing, asked me to show him how to hook a sardine in order to present it as a natural looking bait.I showed him and Jane how to thread the hook through the tail and then once again through the gill cover. The final touch involves winding thin elasticated thread around the 'wrist' of the tail to stop the sardine sliding down the hook when cast. The operation completed, I dangled the mounted sardine in front of him for his approval. 'Wow!' he said 'You could call that 'a well-hung sardine'!'

 As dusk began to fall, we  packed away our gear and prepared for the tramp back over the dunes to the vehicles. Not a great day's fishing, only one small turbot and a small bass to show for it ( released of course) but a memorable day nevertheless. A day in a beautiful setting with lots of sunshine, fresh sea air and lots to talk about later over a glass or two of wine.

Weather, fish and fowl and tourists

The summer seems to be drawing to a premature close. Already there is a hint of autumn in the air. The other morning I saw a group of swallows, adults and youngsters, gathering on the telephone wires along the road as if conducting a dress rehearsal for their future departure, something they don't usually do for some weeks yet.

 The farmers are already ploughing in the stubble left following the corn harvest which happened in July, a month earlier than usual. Ever since the summer arrived early everything has seemed to be four weeks in advance. Blackberries aand elderberries appeared in the hedgerows weeks ago and the main sunflower crop is now over.Only the huge brown seed heads now remain in many fields.

 July saw the end of the hot dry weather and the last three weeks have been wet and unsettled with lower temperatures than usual.We normally experience the stifling heat, les grandes chaleurs, until the end of August.Traditionally the heat begins to break after the Assomption on the 15th August.

 The weather seems to have affected the birdlife too. Orioles,whose fruity whistle can usually be heard in the woods opposite our house, seem to have disappeared earlier than usual although strangely, the number of hoopoes seems to have increased. Two or three pairs of birds frequent the fields and gardens around most villages.Our lawn,which is now green again after the rain, attracts a particular individual on a daily basis.He scours the area for grubs and worms, his crest proudly erect like some ancient Roman warrior.

 A friend who lives deeper in the Charente, in the foothills rising towards the Charente-Limousine, has been fortunate to see red-backed shrikes on several occasions recently. They seem now to be less frequent around here probably due to the change in farming practices which seems to have driven them eastwards towards the edge of the Massif Central. The spread of the vineyards,sunflower and maize fields has meant that fewer farmers keep cattle and sheep and so the shrike, which feed on the insects that plague the animals in the summer months, have moved on to the upland areas where animals are still kept.

 Following the heavy rains the river has resumed its normal flow and consequently the fising has improved. I recently caught a nice barbel in very good condition from one of my favourite swims at La Touche. I saw several large river carp cruising among the lily pads in the gin clear water.These fish are cunning,wary creatures, easily spooked and far harder to catch than their cousins in lakes and ponds. Earlier on in the season we had several big leather and mirror carp from a beautiful lake in the Haute Charente. I must try to catch one of these river monsters though, perhaps in the autumn when the water is more coloured.

 I have been surprised by the number of British visitors in the area despite the exchange rate and the fact that our guests have told us that they find France very expensive. My daughter and her husband were recently charged 8 euros 50 for a glass of rosé wine at a seaside bar on the Ile de Ré. But then again, the island has become the St.Tropez of the Atlantic coast and attracts thousands of tourists each summer. Obviously, the locals know that they have to milk les vacanciers when they can. The annual influx of wealthy second home owners, many of them Parisians, who enjoy le chic of holidaying alongside les vedettes de la télé and other celebrities can also be a curse as well as a blessing for the locals. Many of them of them are discovering that they are being priced out of the housing market and are subject to higher taxes and prices.

 Strangely though, locals in this area seem to be more tolerant of Brits, second home owners and residents, than they are of les Parisiens, possibly because they accept that les Anglais ( the French tend not to differentiate between Scots, Welsh and English ) perhaps contribute more to the local economy.

 My neighbour, Mme Rossignol, told me of some Parisiens who made themselves very unpopular locally by complaining to the local Mairie about a neighbour's cockerel who woke them each morning with its crowing. For good measure they included his fumier - from which the bird presumably crowed and which also offended their sensibilities!

 'Mais vous, les Anglais, vous acceptez tout ça. Après tout ça fait partie de la vie de la campagne n'est-ce pas?

Perhaps it's the Gallic charm that enchants us.

An oriole in my fig tree.

The spring came early this year; it was the end of winter one minute and then almost overnight it was early summer. The early spring blossoms, the ruby red quince, vibrant yellow forsythia and the beautiful dusty pink tamarisk all seemed to come into bloom two weeks or so before they normally do and  almost in the blinking of an eye. This seems to have been the pattern all along this year. The hay was cut in the middle of May, as opposed to June in normal years and some farmers have already begun the corn harvest. I don't suppose the vendange be any earlier than normal because the viticulteurs will want the grapes to soak up as much sunshine as they can before they are picked.
Just in front of the terrace there is fig tree planted by my friend and neighbour M. Rossignol many years ago just after we had bought the house. Then it was a holiday home to be enjoyed whenever we could find the time to leave behind our busy lives in Paris in order to make the 500 kilometre roadtrip down here to snatch a couple of weeks in the countryside. Our neighbours were so kind and first welcomed us to the village with invitations to share long,convivial (and delicious) meals with them in their farmhouse kitchen.Over the years we became firm friends and as a gesture of their friendship and because every Charentais house should have one, they planted us a tiny fig tree in front of the house.
In the intervening years the tree has flourished and grown amazingly. It is now a fine specimen of ficus carica which gives us two crops of figs a year, one in May and one again in September.The fruit we sometimes eat straight from the tree, usually during the cheese course when we eat outside on long spring, early summer evenings, or preserved, as fig jam.
The figs,of course, are also of great interest to birds and insects. Hornets love the sticky, over ripe fruits as do the birds. Almost every bird in the area seems attracted to them and this year our fig tree was graced with with the presence of one of Europe's most exotic summer visitors-oriolus oriolus, the Golden Oriole.
  The Oriole is a medium-sized bird, about the same size as a Blackbird. The similarity ends there however because the Oriole has bright yellow head, back and underparts and black wings or at least the males have.The females are a litle duller being mostly olive green with dark wings. The oriole's song is a rich fluty 'wee-alla -wo' and they can sometimes make a squealing cry like a cat. A remarkably exotic bird which probably looks more at home in Africa where it overwinters than it does in the fields and woods of Europe the oriole visits us each summer arriving in May and leaving as summer ends. There are always a couple of pairs nesting in the woods near the village and you can sometimes see a bright flash of yellow between the branches but only fleetingly, as they emphasize their reputation of being secretive arboreal birds.Not this year however. This spring,attracted by the ripening figs, the oriole visited my fig tree on several occasions. I have suceeded in seeing one from my kitchen window. I don't imagine there are many birders who can claim a Golden Oriole on their garden list. A good tick!

Kingfishers, Hoopoes and a Little Owl

This morning the sky was overcast and there was more than a hint of rain to come. It has been cooler here for most of the past week and on several occasions I truly believed we would get the rain we so badly need.  
   I met M. Martin our local builder at the déchetterie. He was dumping some rubble from one of his jobs and although happy with the weather so it seemed, it allowed him to get on with his buiilding and renovation work, he was sympathetic to the farmers; they needed rain badly. He waved a piece of  broken timber in the direction of the blackening clouds.' Eh oui, ça tourne et ça tourne mais ça tombe pas!' It did rain later on in the morning however but only a few centimetres worth; hardly enough to warrant a celebration.
   Later I drove down to the river intending to fish for barbel at La Touche but when I got there the river was so low that it wasn't worth the effort of unpacking the gear from the van. The water was gin clear and the bottom was clearly visible, the current reduced to a trickle. Obviously, the local farmers, desperate for water for their maize and sunflowers, had been pumping water out of the river somewhere along its length. It's a real problem and will be resolved only when we get some really heavy rainfall over an extended period, probably  though not until the autumn.
I was lucky enough however to see a kingfisher profiting from the low, clear water. These jewel-like birds little birds are always a joy to see and I am often lucky enough to see one or two when I am fishing. If I remain perfectly still, they sometimes perch near me, perhaps drawn to the many small shoal fish my bait attracts. On my way home I saw a beautiful Little Owl on a telegraph pole. There was also a pair of hoopoes on the bushes near the reservoir at the bottom of our lane. I have seen more hoopoes this year than in any other and this all over the south west and down into Spain. Obviously, the past few breeding seasons have been very successful for this species.
 So no fishing but three brilliant birds to compensate for the disappointment.

Feeble Showers

The birth of this blog coincides with one of the driest springs this region has known.Our neighbour, Mme Rossignol,who is in her late eighties, says it's cyclique and that during her long life she has seen this all before. Like most people around here and especially the agriculteurs, we get our weather forecasts from the internet and French television. Since there is strong belief that the region is a microclimate, we tend to mistrust the national television forecasts which are too general for our purpose and log on to the local weather website ( l'ésprit du clocher is still alive and well! ) I wonder if there is much difference between this and trying to forecast the weather by interpreting the signs as Mme. Rossignol assures me her ancestors did very successfully, more successfully than la météo.
Anyway, today's forecast hinted at faibles averses which, roughly translated, means s*d all!
    The situation is serious. No appreciable rainfall has occurred since last February.The local farmers have all but exhausted the subterranean water supplies and have for the past few summers been  pumping water from the rivers in order to irrigate their maize fields. This water has not been replaced by winter rainfall for the last few years. This year, because of the warm dry spring, the hay was ready for cutting in early May and now the harvest has already begun. The paysage looks like it usually does in late summer.
     This region is known, like most of the south-western corner of France, for its sunflowers. July and early August see the fields and hillsides covered in dinner plate sized flower heads. Sunflowers are usually planted quite late to ensure warm sunny growing conditions. This year those conditions which have been with us since March, have meant that the earth is hard and parched and the new crop straggly and undersized compared to what it should be now.Only the vines seem to be enjoying the warm dry conditions. This year's cru should be a good one!

The birth of a blog.

I thought this would be easy but it isn't. I'm already suffering the pangs of giving birth to it. All I really wanted to do was to create a blog on my life here in France and update it on a regular, if not daily, basis. It will be a kind of journal if you like with thoughts and observations on daily life, the people, the country, the weather, the wildlife etc. Nothing to set the world on fire but some gentle musings and reflections. It will be aimed at those who are interested in France, French life and culture and who would appreciate the observations of the author, someone who has lived here for over twenty three years.

The writing doesn't scare me after all, it's a facet of my profession; no it's the technology which I'm finding testing. We'll have a go and see where it leads us. If you're interested in France, the French or indeed my journey then please follow.