Joyeux Noël

 

We have moved to rue Auber, Marseillan with all the expected difficulties of relocating on market day to a medieval village with winding streets the width of a Fiat 500 into a house with four flights of perpendicular stairs. What fun we had!  Actually, it was fun thanks to the help offered by Michel and Patrice (old hands at such moves being born and bred in the region) and the mandatory break in proceedings to partake in a leisurely lunch at the Port, three courses + wine, of course....

Marseillan looks appropriately festive with all the streets bedecked with lights as would be expected, but what wasn't expected is the amount of activities and events on offer, the marché de noël complete with cute log cabin chalets as stalls and the crèche animée with lifesize animatron characters and real ducks, geese and hens - a terrific effort for this little town! 

 

Pere Noel arrived on the back of an elephant, which threw me somewhat - perhaps sleigh and reindeers are just too old hat here?  Musicians in fancy dress stroll the streets playing traditional songs and a bizarre medley of carols set to a samba tune; we have partaken in the communal roast chestnut tasting, warmed up with plenty of vin chaud and had to leave the performace of the nativity by La Pastorale des Santons de Provence as we hadn't a clue what was going on - probably because they were using an ox and an ass as narrators... 

 

Christmas Eve is the Big Day in France, rather than the 25th, so we plan to engage fully in La Parade Imaginaire where fairy tale characters parade through the streets from the port to the Place de la Republique - I am really hoping for an appearance of my favourite 50 foot Polar Bear float tonight as he hasn't been seen yet and I do prefer him to the rather ravenous looking Wolf float currently stalking the streets. After the parade are Chants de Noël by la Chorale des Enfants at the creche then midnight mass at, you guessed it, 9.30pm.

 

We are off to Grand Cap for some last minute shopping today and Monsieur Sanchez has delivered us a ton of logs for the fire.  I've given up on finding cranberry sauce and stuffing but am looking forward to both buche de noël and christmas pudding.  I'm none too happy at the weather forecast however, with sunshine and 15 degrees on the cards!  Nooooo!  I signed up for frosted windows and snow flurries, not lunch on the terrace!  Well, we shall see, but whatever the weather the log fire will be  burning and the wine will be mulled so I wish you all a merry Reveillon and jolly Noël!

 

 

Autumn into Winter

It's been rather a while since my last post and I don't have any good excuses to provide, such as climbing the Alps or moving house!  Unless of course a trip to Colorado counts... more of that next post.

Here in Clermont, Summer gradually and gracefully gave way to Autumn as the landscape slipped out of its metaphorical sundress and into the firey, golden-brown cloak of the 'season of mists and mellow fruitfulness'.  It was beautiful to behold!  The colours were breathtaking and even a simple walk to the boulangerie became a technicolour spectacle.

Clear blue skies and crisp mornings have become the norm - with some cloudy days too, naturally - along with occasional fierce winds blowing outdoor furniture across the garden and severely shaking the shutters, followed by unnaturally still, breathless days where leaves remain static on the trees and by the coast the sea is as flat as an oasis, yachts and skiffs perfectly reflected on the mirrored surface.

It's been a glorious time of year for walking dogs, smelling the woodsmoke from log fires, reacquainting ourselves with red wine rather than white or rosé, planning heartier meals and hauling out the Slow Cooker. 

Autumn has now very definitely waned and Winter is here.  With it arrived the Christmas decorations in the streets and squares, appearing almost overnight and with no grand announcements or ceremonies.  Some of these decorations just stay up all year and we are expected to turn a blind eye to them until they are suddenly illuminated for the festive season - a very curious French habit, I have to say!  Many of the decorations are beautiful and I appreciate them all the more for the light they give to the chilly, dark nights. I never could adapt to fir trees, tinsel, reindeers and sleighs in the forty degree humidity of an Australian Christmas; Winter and Christmas just feels 'right'.

We leave Clermont in a week and take up residence in Marseillan, my old haunt from early last year. We are not looking forward to the move (who does?) but Alex is delighted to be by the sea once more and our quirky new/old house in rue Auber will give us a genuine taste of French village life.  I'm wondering if I am up to the challenge of making a bûche de noël for a traditional Reveillon, the Christmas Eve dinner that forms the main celebration of Noël in France. Possibly not, so I have a back-up pudding as well!  We have retrieved the pets' Santa hats from the shed ready for their annual participation and are debating which is the best spot for the tree - it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

Time Out In Toulouse

Two hours down the road from Clermont is the fourth largest city in France  Sitting on the banks of the Garonne river is the centre of the European aerospace industry - home of Airbus and the Galileo satellite, an old and venerable centre of learning – its University founded in 1229, a city featuring World Heritage listed sites such as the Canal du Midi and the Basilica Saint Sernin, a place famous for its saucisson, a town known as La Ville Rose due to its singular pink brick buildings – a town called Toulouse.  It is NOT the birth place of celebrated Impressionist painter Toulouse Lautrec (that’s Albi).

We thought it was time we pay such an interesting place a visit and what better way to do it than to celebrate my mum’s birthday!  So we packed our overnight bags, packed the dogs too (yes, dogs allowed at the delightful Hôtel de France), packed into the Punto and drove off to Toulouse.

And how glad we were that we did!  It was a charmed visit from beginning to end.  The hotel was ideally placed next to Place Wilson (its statue and fountain honouring the poet Pierre Goudouli) in the centre of the old town, but more importantly featured rooms whose décor I approved and the staff were most welcoming to Roly and Pepper. 

Alex found happiness straight away in the form of a Chocolate Market a few steps from the hotel, where one is encouraged to stroll around and eat as much chocolate as is offered to you.  We were there quite a while....

Walking around, the architecture of Toulouse captured the imagination, its famous ‘pink’ brick buildings making for a quite unusual and very attractive cityscape.  The bricks are a reddish pink, rather long and narrow and look very handmade.  Paired with the blue-grey louvered shutters, they give Toulouse its distinctive, romantic French look.  I loved the shutters, and prefer them to the solid shutters I’m used to seeing. The louvers lend the windows and buildings a ‘just resting’ look, rather than the ‘shut down’ or abandoned effect the solid shutters give. And how evocative is sunlight slanting though shutters and creating patterned angles onto a parquet floor!

In our (not long enough) stay we wandered the winding streets, window shopped in the luxe designer boutiques, drank slightly better coffee than we have become accustomed to, ate fresh viennoiserie at a corner café in the crisp morning air and listened to chain smoking locals discussing politics and football.

We bought a crazy coat and a character confiture pot at the marche aux puces under the eaves of St. Sernin, listened to a world class choir rehearsing a requiem in that Romanesque basilica built in 1080, watched diners queueing for dinner at L’Entrecôte restaurant not once but twice in one night (it’s their secret sauce apparently..) and ate Italian food just to be contrary.

We cruised the Canal du Midi leisurely moving up and down the locks and watching the city slip quietly by, sipped the most expensive glass of wine we have yet encountered in France in a bistrot overlooking the Pont Neuf, bought roses and rings, cakes and crêpes, wrapped up warm in the morning and sun basked by lunch time, walked and walked and walked, ate and talked and, at the end of the day, slept like logs in our shuttered bedrooms.

It was memorable and very appealing. Made us wonder if this could be the place for us?  It certainly has a lot to recommend it and we thrived on its big city feel.  For now, though,  we will continue to focus on our chosen spot of Marseillan as we have an idea, a plan, that could well furnish us with our future (yes, we do have to think of making a living somehow!) and that hinges on Marseillan.  Should that change however, I think we will be most certainly making another visit to la ville rose that is Toulouse.

House Hunting in the Hérault

 

It takes a lot of adjustment learning to live in a French village after a lifetime of city dwelling.  We didn’t come here planning to live in a city, so adjusting is all part of the process.  Most people relocating to France are probably seeking a typical – hopefully idyllic - village lifestyle. With over 30,000 villages in France, more than any other country in Europe, there are plenty of villages to choose from!

Plenty of choice, however, doesn’t necessarily make looking for a new home easier, and once the vagaries and challenges of French house hunting are factored in, it becomes rather a steep learning curve, especially for those accustomed to the cakewalk that is house hunting in Australia. 

You see, in France they prefer to either post a homemade ‘A Vendre’ sign and hope for the best, or sign up with an agency (Immobilier) and hope for the best.  The Immos don’t seem that fussed about advertising properties on line, preferring a good old fashioned window display to lure prospects into their shop.  Once inside, the prospects are vigorously qualified in order to find out exactly what sort of property is being sought and at what budget.  Once this vital information has been ascertained, it is immediately, deliberately and completely ignored.  Prospects are then loaded into the agent’s car and driven for hours around the countryside to inspect houses that are either totally inappropriate or wildly unaffordable.

 

Houses that are shown on line do not reveal addresses - sometimes not even the name of the village is disclosed - making a preliminary drive-by to check location out of the question.  Properties are often listed without a single photograph of the house shown, but every last square metre of the floor plan rigorously documented.  I don’t care about the cubic size of the hall, show me the living room please!!

There is certainly no such thing as an Open Home (though all French agents we’ve met would just love it if this marvellous tool could be implemented).  Home owners are always present during inspections, along with the rest of their extended family, a few friends, several dogs and the odd chicken or two whenever possible.  They always offer a glass of wine or cup of coffee, which is nice.  And we’ve come away with fresh eggs on more than one occasion. 

We are getting used to it, and getting very used to the fact that a ‘typical’ French house doesn’t actually exist.  No two are alike.  Unsurprising, given that we’ve viewed places dating from the Eighth Century (yes, that’s 700 AD), castles and castle towers, former caves (wine cellars, not actual neolithic dwellings), converted vignerons, reclaimed stables, old bakeries, part monasteries, born again butchers and erstwhile ecoles. 

 

We have trooped around a dominatrix’s S&M parlour, stumbled about a windowless hovel, been swept through a septugenarian’s sex nest, introduced to many convoluted inheritance disputes, stalked around a swaggering maison de maitre or two, faked enthusiasm for innumerable garages, dungeons, combles, dependences, pavilions and mazets and been drummed out of a couple of domaines.

We haven’t seen a single bungalow or duplex.  We’ve been roundly warned off new builds as barely likely to last more than thirty years or so, unacceptable to people used to buildings lasting centuries. We’d like to find a village boasting at least a Spar and a Bar, but by no means all places do, although every single hameau or village seems to feature at least three coiffeuse, the French being really keen on nice hair at all times, starvation be damned.   

We realise we have Chateau tastes and Bergerie money and may have to lower our expectations somewhat.  Okay, it’s a bit painstaking and frequently frustrating but it’s such a marvellous insight into how life is lived here and how little has changed for centuries that the positives outweigh the negatives.  And isn’t that what we came for?  After all, how many homes feature a fireplace large enough to roast a boar, beamed ceilings, ciment tiles, dwarf size doors, a disused tower and a garden six streets away? In France quite a lot.  And we’re sure we will find the one for us any time soon.

 

Eat, Pick, Love - Food Foraging in France

Walking the dogs along country lanes is one of our favourite things. Always has been, but here in the Hérault our walks have turned into something quite different.  It’s a feast on foot!
 

The abundance of wild growing produce is thrilling to us, and something I’d quite forgotten about.  I had great fun as a child picking wild blackberries and returning home with a black tongue, pips in my teeth and nails, turning my haul over to my mum or grandma and looking forward to blackberry and apple crumble.  But this is something else!  

We now carry bottles and baskets with us as we walk the dogs and to return home with so much ingestible booty seems sinful.  But it’s quite the opposite, it’s nature providing for the winter months ahead and actually quite logical but still - it feels so generous!

 

We have come to the end of the blackberry season and the freezer is full of them waiting to be added to more crumbles and fools, whilst our homemade blackberry jam is served at breakfast every morning.  And Alex has made blackberry vodka!  This concoction needs to infuse for three or four months before it's ready to make its festive appearance at Christmas.  Can’t wait.

 

We have now moved on to figs, almonds, quince, grapes, apples, peaches, pomegranates, mushrooms and apricots; following later will be the olive harvest.  We are about to attempt an adventurous fig and almond jam; I am consulting recipes for poaching quince; all the other fruits can be eaten straight off the branch!  There are even fresh water springs dotted around the landscape dispensing pure mineral water that is delicious, refreshing, locally famous and perfectly free.

 

It’s fabulous French fecundity and we love it.  It’s also a robust reminder that autumn is around the corner and inevitably the long, long days and blazing sunshine of summer will wane – actually, mother nature has already hit the dimmer switch – but we don’t really care. Our pantry is full, our jam is sweet, we have nuts to crack, vodka to look forward to and the Vendanges (the grape harvest for this year’s wine) is in full flow.  La vie en rose indeed.

Water Jousting in Sète

One of the things I love about France is a kind of tacit acknowledgment (as I understand it) that if you do something stupid it's your fault and you have only yourself to blame.  Thus, if you injure yourself diving head first into an empty swimming pool that's your look out and there's no one to sue because an "Empty Swimming Pool - Do Not Dive" sign had not been erected. 

 

Which brings me to The 346th Annual Water Jousting Festival in Sète.

This five day aquatic party has been going for nigh on three hundred and fifty years and shows no real signs of having changed much since 1666. Basically, boys and men ten years old and upwards and with seemingly no height, weight or agility restrictions practise all year, then on the given date clamber atop boats fitted with a tintaine (a fitted wooden gangplank) and sail at each other armed with wooden shields and steel tipped jousts, the aim being to poke and topple your opponent into the water who then has to endure the 'swim of shame'.  There is a blue team (traditionally single men) vs. a red team (the married men).  The loss of a working body part / eye / dignity is seen as integral to the proceedings - all part of 'bigging up' as a Man.

Righty ho, let the games begin, and what fun it was too!  We relished once again the total lack of police presence,  gleefully noting that St. John's Ambulance or equivalent were missing entirely, revelled in the large bars lining the streets freely selling wine, pastis and beer for 1 euro a go, appreciated the band playing frantically, observed with interest the teenagers inking each other with marker pens and laughing uproariously every time a known associate humiliated himself. Any man, woman or child could have fallen into the water at any moment as there were no barriers and I sincerely doubt a great deal of thought had been given to public liability insurance.  All of which makes for a great laissez faire atmosphere! 

 

 

It was especially interesting to watch the boys clambering up the gangplanks of boats and setting sail on a direct collision course, wearing outfits basically unchanged for about a hundred years, armed with a steel tipped pole and protected by a small wooden shield.  I couldn't help thinking that in many other countries - certainly in Australia - participants would now be wearing life jackets and protective helmets at the very least, brandishing full length body shields made of kevlar, their poles probably replaced by something akin to a pool noodle.  Not in Sète.  If they want to joust, this is how it's done and competitors enter at their own risk.  Another "PC" thought - is this encouraging aggression and violence in youth or channelling human nature to a celebrated outlet with historic and cultural significance?  I incline rather towards the latter - especially when rival reds and blues are all gathered together after the event enjoying churros and galettes alongside the older competitors indulging in the 1 euro vin. Very typical, very historic, very French, very good!

French Food

I've just come back from Australia where I spent two weeks working on the launch of Eco Chic's own range of furniture and homewares http://www.ecochic.com.au/

There wasn't time for anything much other than working, sleeping and eating (though I did manage to sneak in the odd glass / bottle of wine).  There's no doubt it was very unsettling to return to Australia so soon after our Big Departure and the most notable thing I found I'd missed - apart from the coffee of course but I must not keep ranting on about this! - was the food. 


Interesting to note, in a country that actually has a monument to the culinary delight that is the Pie and has got by on basically three kinds of cheese (Tasty, Mild, and Colby) for decades, the food seemed more interesting, delicious and adventurous in Australia.  I have to ask myself 'why?'.  Is it just me, my palette and what I've grown up with / become used to (which is a fusion oriented cuisine) or is French food - dare I say it - a bit boring and predictable?  

It strikes me that the ingredients available in the supermarkets and markets are of top quality. However, what these ingredients are made into tends to be pretty much standard - at least in restaurants (we haven't dined in any French homes yet). By now, we almost know by heart what will be on the menu in any given restaurant and would dearly love a change. Magret de canard, brochettes de vollaile, steack frites, faux filet frites, moules marineres, pave de saumon, pizza with no frills, omelette with no filling.  Salad verte will be leaves, nothing else, and a dressing. Boring.

And don't get me started on desserts! Who ever invented Isles Flotantte should be shot. Never a worse dessert has existed. As far as I can grasp / stomach it, this is lightly whipped egg whites in custard. Say what?? Who awarded this abomination such prevelance on French menus?   Not an acceptable dessert, sorry.  Crepe sucre will be a crepe with sugar scattered on it. Nothing else. No lemon, no syrup, no nuts, no chocolate, no cream, no ice cream.  Nothing. You can order a Crepe Nutella and it will come with just that. No cream, no ice cream, no nuts, no frills, no nothing.  Boring.  Chocolate mousse is nice, but I make a good enough one at home.  Creme brulee, lovely, how about adding raspberries and experimenting with the topping?  Google Australia presents Australian Master Chef Creme Brulee with wasabi ice cream and umami crumble. Could be amazing, could be dodgy but at least the taste buds would be provolked!  No wonder French Women Don't Get Fat - they aren't tempted!  No, not fair, the bread and pattisserie here is formidable, as are the cheeses. But woman can't live on fromage alone. 

The French are famous for their resiliance to change. That's why so many people - ourselves included - find themselves attracted to the beautiful landscape, glorious architecture, cultural history, time honoured traditions etc. etc.  It's the point of difference here and it makes for some impressively preserved heritage + beauty.  It's also the bone of contention with regard to property laws, sexism, forward thinking etc. etc.  Could it be applied to food, too?  Should the French embrace foodie advances in taste and presentation?  Or is it just me? Have I become too fussy / have a polyglot palette / am not dining at expensive enough restaurants?  The mundane menu at the Melbourne Trade Fair Cafeteria seems light years ahead of French menus to me. However, is it just pretentious descriptions, jumped up ingredients and inflated prices?  I ate there frequently and the food was memorable, varied and tasty.  But it was more expensive - a single pasta dish is the same price as a three course formule at our local bistro.

So, in conclusion, what do you think - I do invite comment. Are we being unfair? Is French food still great and not in need of a bit of a 'fusion' kick and a makeover? Should we be spending more time at posher eateries and would thus find more rewarding experiences?  Our Aussie friends Anne and Emily (pictured here with apparently a cappucino, a frappe and a viennese coffee, no really - from one extreme to another!) ate their way around France with no budget limitations and found the experience distinctly lacking, so much so they preferred picnics.  Where is the most interesting and innovative French food to be found today - I'm quite prepared for it to be miles away from Clermont l'Herault! I'm so interested to receive feedback, and know most people can not reply to this blog without opening a google account which they don't want to do, that I'm giving out my e mail address paulabreckman@gmail.com - go for it, knock me out, shoot me down in flames but most of all tell me where to eat!!

Clermont l’Hérault

Leaving Montpellier behind has been far from traumatic. In fact, I don't think I've given that over burdened, grimy city a second thought - other than 'glad we're not there any more'. I really didn't expect to much prefer une vie à la campagne, but that's how it's turned out since we started living in Clermont l’Hérault in June. 

I was here in Clermont last year during a wintery February and a spring like March; the town presents itself quite differently in the full bloom of summer.  There are abundant flowers everywhere, including glorious displays of Laurier Rose, also known as Oleander and dubbed a 'toxic weed' in Australia therefore routinely chopped down.  This opinon is clearly not shared in France, where Oleander is actively cultivated and appreciated, and we now share that appreciation.  This time of year flags, bunting and floral hanging baskets adorn most streets and squares whilst pavement cafés multiply and flourish everywhere.

The bright blue, cloudless skies and long days of sunshine have encouraged wide exploration of the Hérault area and we have ventured further afield than previously, discovering new and memorable places.  

Pepper swims in the Lac du Salagou; Alex paddles his pirogue on the river at Aspiran; we have danced at the Fête in Cabrières; enthusisatically tasted the new season's rosé wine at Fontès (very good, bought a case); we've listened to the free Bach recitals performed every Wednesday at St. Paul's with musicians from all over the world playing the grand organ; viewed the abstract art and photography exhibitions at the Ancienne Ėglise; drunk pichets of wine and enjoyed the Mélo Divin live music festival at Allées Salengro which also hosts open air cinema sessions and jazz concerts.

Bastille Day was a huge indulgence of non stop almost free wine and music, with spectators - including toddlers  - weilding fireworks whilst watching the official firework display. The visible lack of an overbearing police presence, security guards, barriers, crowd control, hooligans, ambulances waiting for business etc. etc. was truly liberating, with everyone expected to regulate their own behaviour - if you maim yourself with a firework there's no chance of a law suit or an ambulance so this has a beneficial knock-on effect!   

We've sampled cheese at the night market at Octon, lit camp fires and roasted marshmallows (this particularly appealed to Alex as the possiblity of just lighting your own camp fire pretty much isn't an option in Oz), listened to salsa amidst the natural wonders of the Cirque du Mourèze and marvelled at the limestone gorges of Saint Guilhém le Desert. We've visited Roujan, Neffiès, Muviel-les-Béziers, Plaissan, Lodève, Cuxac d'Aude, Nébian, Saint Jean de la Blaquière - all places we could easily consider living.  We honestly and truly drive around with a boules set in the boot of the Fiat and whip them out for a wine fuelled challenge wherever a boulodrome presents itself. 

We've only been here four weeks!  Last Thursday I just couldn't summon up the energy for a wine tasting plus musical hommage to Dalida followed by dancing until 2am at Adissan and turned in early.  Who would have thought la vie à la campagne offered so much?!  We selected Montpellier for what it might have to offer and found what we were looking for forty minutes from its bright lights.  So much so that we've talked seriously to a couple of real estate agents....