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.