Blog at Bardies

Speak Up, Speak out

2012-01-26T01:38:00.000-08:00

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!

2011-12-10T07:39:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-14T01:21:00.000-08:00

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.

A New Decade, A Whole New World

2011-09-04T03:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my birthday, and not just any old birthday. It was a big one! Too big, really, to fully comprehend. I still find myself thinking this morning, despite [or perhaps because of?] some extremely fine vintage champagne, "How the hell did this happen?" Us baby boomers, who used to air guitar our way through 'My Generation' yelling in unison,' Hope I Die Before I Get Old!', are now having to reconsider what we so earnestly wished for. Sixty is the new forty, some say, and I was very touched when my family tried to cheer me up with a frieze saying '50 + 10 = 40'. My darling twenty year old [I can't quite believe that either!] then put reality firmly back in place by saying, "I can't believe I've got a mum who's sixty!"

So, I've got some serious thinking to do. I've just finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert's much hackneyed book, 'Eat, Pray, Love', which another friend of mine has re-titled, 'Eat, Pray, Vomit'. I have to say that I rather enjoyed it and found myself cursing the fact that I didn't put pen to paper myself after trips to Lucca and Mexico, and a spell in the ashram in Pondicherri in 1986! Like Gilbert, I was 35 at the time and looking for the answers to life, the universe and everything. But, as someone once said, the art to being a writer is the ability to keep your bum on the seat and not, like my miserable efforts, to wander off for coffee and cake or a bottle of chilled white wine with friends at every available opportunity. I feel the same about Caitlin Moran's 'How To Be A Woman' and Alison Pearson's, 'I Don't Know How She Does It?' I know I can't write as well as them but, hell's bells, I could at least have bloody tried!

This year is going to be different. For one thing, my son is moving into a flat in London. I shall miss him terribly but can't help thinking goodbye to all the washing and thanks for all the fish! My daughter, the more independent of the two, is pretty well self sufficient already, needing little more than the odd word of encouragement and the occasional cheque. That just leaves me, hubby and the dog. Hubby can hop on the 6.40 pm Easyjet flight from Gatwick after a hard week at the office just as easily as the 6.50 pm from Waterloo to Salisbury. They each take exactly the same amount of time. Toulouse has always been a weekend commute city, as I know from Virgin Atlantic pilots who live in Pibrac, thirty six, I was told, at the last count. And then there are the Airbus guys who hop backwards and forwards from Bristol every weekend. I know because I often sit next to one of their number. And the dog, well, he can have his own passport too! As of January 2012, the ludicrous necessity to have one's dog checked over by a vet within twenty four hours of travel will be abolished, an impossibility from Bardies unless you drive through the night and risk killing yourself and your dog from total exhaustion! On y va! We have just taken the final plunge and put our Salisbury house on the market.

Spending a relaxing time with good friends this summer, who have taken the big leap across La Manche, has made me take stock of many things. Not one of them regrets such a move, despite it being much tougher than the idealised accounts that proliferate on Amazon. Winters are tough, bureaucracy is a nightmare and visitors are like fish [after three days....etc!]. The worst thing, I suspect, is the visceral pain of living away from one's children. I'm not very good without mine, although I am getting better at accepting that I need them rather more than they need me. My mother once telephoned my university, some 250 miles away, and asked them to send me home. I've never forgotten the embarrassment! No, I say to myself, I cannot be a helicopter mum. They have to fly. And so do I.

Life chez nous at Bardies is so very different. For one thing, opera is only on CD. For another, the only plays I can indulge in will be on television, or Radio Four. I will no longer be able to go to Intelligence Squared debates, Fabian Society events or Party Conference. I will need to cancel my RA and Tate memberships, along with the RHS, the Royal Opera and Welsh National. Glyndebourne would, of course, be a bridge too far. I couldn't possibly not come back for the excitement and anticipation of new productions [sorry about the double negative - I'm getting into French mode already!]. I will seldom hold a hard copy of the Observer, the Guardian or the Daily Telegraph in my grubby palm again. I shan't be able to lose myself in the glorious sound that is the Salisbury Cathedral Choir at Eucharist or Evensong. And I won't be able to drop in to a Monday night jam session at the Blues Bar in Kingley Street either. Girlie lunches at trendy London restaurants will be off the menu, as will raucous bi-partisan supper parties with friends of all political persuasions shouting irreverently at each other for the duration of the evening. The gym will be out the window, but to tell you the truth, it/ I was well past its sell by date anyway. In short, my life is about to be radically overhauled.

The upside will be that I shall be able to read the mountains of books that I have bought over the years because of all the time that I have spent doing all the things in the previous paragraph! I shall be able to see my bulbs in full bloom in springtime, something I always seem to miss. I will be there to ensure that my borders are properly watered in May and June so that they are at their very best in early summer and not, as is usually the case, desperately dehydrated and craving my arrival in July to revive them. I can finally have a proper 'potager', instead of my improvised wine boxes and hastily assembled 'bricolage'. I shall feast greedily on the fruits of my labours. Visits to art galleries may be few in the future, but I shall be able to paint and draw to my heart's content. I plan to visit painter and sculptor friends obsessively instead. I can/ will play the piano, albeitly to date very badly, again. And all those Beethoven and Mahler boxed sets of symphonies can finally justify their price. And Wagner, well, there's no stopping me now! No more excuses. I always said that I was saving golf and Wagner for my 60's, and the golf course is close by, at la Bastide de Serou. Peter could do with the practice too.

But, best of all, I can finally write with an uncluttered head. The three books [!] that I have on the go can be revised, re-edited, even rewritten, and my screenplay from 1996 can be removed from the filing cabinet for reappraisal. Some of my work is so outdated it is beginning to look like a period piece! It is all spread across three laptops and two filing cabinets, which tells you just how much technology and the world has moved on since 1986! Dare I even confess that I have a new idea for a novel set around Bardies? I am such a dilettante. My problem, as ever, is seeing anything through. It's about time I pulled myself, and my work, together and stopped playing around with it all like a kiddie in a sweetshop. My bum must stay on my seat, at least for three hours a day, for the foreseeable future.......and not on Facebook or Twitter, either! I'll take time out when the kids come, of course, and friends too, but in between times 'je vais travailler sans relache'.

So, watch this space! Alongside all this personal development stuff, I plan to run a few courses too. Food will, as ever, feature prominently. I may do posh B & B for selective guests via our Sawday's listing. Plans for the cookery book are taking shape, the text is already done and the photographer is booked for November. We just need to plough through a mountain of food after photographing it, which will, 'bien sur', be a real drag for all concerned! Cookery courses, with yoga or art/music, are a definite possibility, as is a hiking course to take in all our beautiful Romanesque churches with picnics along the way. We may even organise a trek over 'Le Chemin de la Liberte', the WW2 route for RAF aircrew and escapees, from St Girons, our local town, over the Pyrenees into neutral Spain. All things are possible in the best of all possible worlds.

We are therefore looking to restore the barn for larger numbers, subject to funds, which will be a project and a half. Kevin McCloud, eat your heart out! We really hope that Blues at Bardies in August 2012 will prove viable and flyers will be sent out in November to test the water. It would be so good to have a dry indoor space where we can have concerts, small gigs and the occasional 'vernissage'. And, lastly, the garden will remain a priority. The main garden is looking beautiful, thanks to much hard work by Lawrence and Pascal, but I now want to focus on building my Italian garden and my 'potager'. Inevitably, we will have to knock the little barn down first, so the mess will have to be cleared to create the space.

Perhaps writing all this down creates the focus, the resolution? It's good to plan, to visualise where you're going in life, especially as future decades are limited. Whatever people say about sixty being the new forty [tell my bones that!], it is a crossroads. We can't go back. We can only go forwards. Different people will take different paths and some people will think that I am mad for upping sticks at this stage of my life. As I have said before, the intention was to do it when the children were young and able to benefit from excellent local schooling and the French IB system, but the gods decided otherwise. Then, it was not destined to be. Now, however, I know that I have always wanted to do it, for a while at least. 'Live the dream', as they say.

And, as I look around me at the economic catastrophe that is unfolding here in the UK, I am glad that France's social model is a collective one. It may be slow, and bureaucratic, and heavily taxed, but it is undoubtedly a fairer way of life. It takes account of people who are not so lucky, or privileged, or well educated, or fit, or healthy. You are unlikely to get MRSA in a French hospital and you will probably get a choice between a glass of red, white or rose with your well prepared and nourishing meal. It still cares about the important things in life. Le 'pays' is sacrosanct. Community, family, friends, health, good food and wine, remain the stuff of life here and the wealthy do not spit in the faces of those less fortunate than themselves. In short, it is a very good place to be right now. So, as my seventh decade begins, it's a whole new world for me. Je vais profiter de ma nouvelle vie! And, if things get really tough here, you are always welcome to join me!

Duck Fat, Garlic, and Gout

2011-08-25T07:01:00.000-07:00

With apologies for the crib to the wonderful cookery writer, Jeanne Strang. As ever, it's been a greedy summer chez nous. We have had a house full of delightful teenagers, such a change from the usual coterie of 'soixante huitards' in varying stages of disrepair. The only constant is the drain on my time preparing two meals a day. Teenagers require more food than fully fledged adults but their sense of wonder and appreciation for one's timely efforts more than makes up for never getting beyond Chapter 5 of any book. Like everything else during the 'holidays' [ what a great euphemism!], my writing suffers, alongside the state of my nail polish and linen shirts straight off the washing line. A blog post? No chance!

This year I seem to have been particularly slow to put fingers to keyboard. I wonder if it's age? I used to be able to cook dinner, load the dishwasher [with some help] and polish off a blog or a paragraph or two of something else before the bottle was empty and my bed loomed. Nowadays, I seem to sit and chat rather more, deliberately avoiding the temptation to hit the 'Log In' page, especially where Facebook and Twitter are concerned. The mornings are different, of course, especially when daytime temperatures have frequently soared to the high 30's. I have become a complete Twitter addict, picking up news instantaneously and clicking onto links to read opinions, blogs and newspaper articles. Most days I don't need to get Radio 4 on i-player. Instead, the world is relayed very economically to me in 140 characters a pop. 'Incroyable!'

But I digress. Here in Ariege the local diet consists of duck, duck and duck. There are restaurants nearby where every principal item on the menu has been extracted from the duck. It never ceases to amaze me just how well we all feel on a diet saturated in duck fat. I cook our potatoes in it, with garlic and rosemary, I strain it through muslin after cooking 'magret de canard' and I slow cook 'cuisses de canard' in it to store in ancient 'confit' pots left by the previous owner. Just why it appears not to clog up one's arteries and slow down one's metabolism is a mystery to me. By all accounts, the people of our little part of France have the highest longevity in a country that has the highest longevity in Europe. The correlation may be a false one, for it may all be related to bountiful fresh produce and a relaxed life free of the stresses of urban living. Either way, we all feel on top of our little world.

The most extravagant indulgence in south west France is the 'foie gras', the best of which is produced from a sterile hybrid of Barbary duck and a native breed. The serving of it is a mark of status here and French dinner guests often bring it as a gift as a token of respect. It is as essential to this area as 'cassoulet' and the 'haricot'. Who am I to refuse? The ducks are initially fed a varied diet with normal exercise for strength before they are deprived of all exercise and force fed corn to produce the enormous fat livers that we know as 'foie gras'. Many find the the use of production line force-feeders so distasteful that they, understandably, refuse to touch the stuff. The old traditional method, usually involving a little old lady on a farm in the middle of nowhere moving from one duck to another with a funnel of food, may also be equally off-putting. I am an agnostic. I generally try not to actively seek it out but, with friends involved in the 'conserverie' business, I cannot resist a small 'tranche' of 'mi-cuit' [short for 'demi-cuit', or half cooked], sprinkled lightly with a little white or black pepper and served with a glass of chilled Sauternes or Montbazillac.

Garlic is the 'yang' to duck fat's 'ying' and I seem to get through strings of the stuff. I usually buy it from old men with smoker's teeth from our weekly Saturday morning market. This August, however, I finally fulfilled a long-held dream and managed to get to the St Clar garlic festival and contest. Peter, heroically, stayed at home to look after a bevy of bikini clad girls who needed feeding and watering. The festival is held on the third Thursday in August under the picturesque 13th Century covered market stall of the fortified village of St Clar in the Gers. Luckily for me, an old, dear friend of ours conveniently lives in nearby Mauroux. The population of less than a thousand is hugely swelled by visitors from the surrounding 'departements' and summer tourists, all excited to view and sample in sundry form its famous speciality, the fragrant and strong Lomagne white garlic. For the fifth time, although not last year, presumably to avoid any question of favouritism, this year's winner accepted her treasured accolade. To be the best in one's class in any village competition in France is tantamount to being an 'A' list local celebrity [something our pathetic TV 'wannabe's' would do well to learn from]. Hard work and dedication is rewarded and the prizes hard won.

We skipped the communal 'thonade' in the square in favour of a pizza in a more peaceful location [the price of going deaf!] but returned for the partying that followed. The loudest brass band imaginable, nicknamed 'les pruneaux d'Agen', rattled it's way through lots of favourite 'sing a long' songs, culminating in a fine rendering of 'YMCA' which got everybody up from the seats and onto the dance floor ready for the disco to follow. Many of the prospective dancers looked a little unsteady on their feet, which was hardly surprising as lunch and the day's jolly festivities had moved seemlessly into the evening's shindig. The whole event was so different from the all day drinking sessions which ruin many a warm evening in the UK. Three, maybe four or even five, generations were enjoying themselves, proud of their village, proud of their families and proud of their produce. Being just a little worse for wear was a badge of honour and not a single soul was rude, aggressive or out of order. As we left, people were slowly making their way home, smiling and happy, a joy to behold indeed.

Back at my friend Jim's house in Maroux, just five kilometres away, we finished the night with a Ricard or two. All was well in the best of all possible worlds until.......you've guessed it from the title of this missive, the dreaded payback for such hedonistic excesses arrived with a vengeance some five days later. Like a bolt from the blue, the searing pain of gout indiscriminately fells the most active of men. It wasn't pastis, we knew, because Peter doesn't drink the stuff. Likewise, it certainly couldn't have been garlic, renowned for its medicinal properties, that finds its way somewhere into most meals chez nous. We had had some fairly indulgent lunches and dinners 'sous l' arbre dans le jardin'', where the wine flowed copiously and four courses, sometimes five, had become the norm. But neither of us had anticipated the consequence. Experience should have guided us but, no, we failed to spot the signs. When Peter tried to get out of bed the next morning, he nearly fell over. As anyone with gout knows, it is a shared experience. He screams in pain; I scream with frustration.

Jim, himself a sufferer, advised a course of anti-inflammatory drugs only available on prescription from a 'medecin'. We searched the 'pages jaunes'. Eventually, we found a wonderful 'medecin' in St Girons called Dr Jean-Louis Vicq, who specialises in acapuncture, as well as regular medicine. After three sessions he can now walk again, but it was a close call. Trying to get across our 'tomettes' with the aid of a pair of steel capped hiking sticks was no joke! Going on all fours proved the easier option, especially up the stairs. I was relegated to another room, which was just as well as I think that I might have jumped out the window. There is nothing you can do except get it in the neck! I love the way that conventional and alternative medicine in France are considered natural bedfellows. There is no suspicion of quackery because most practitioners are also medically trained. Thank goodness we were able to find one so easily - a couple of days on anti inflammatory drugs will unsettle the strongest of stomachs.

Anyway, at the end of it all, after Peter had trawled the internet, he tells me that it's all the fault of foie-gras [oh, and my home made liver pate!]. Apparently, there is something in liver and kidneys that activates gout. Duck fat and garlic are fine. It has nothing to do with red wine, either, of course. To which my answer is, 'If you believe that, you'll believe anything!'

Queille Festival Fun

2011-06-01T10:08:00.000-07:00

For the first time in I don't know how many years, Ellie finished her exams before the start of the half term break. In previous years, my guilt has always got the better of me and I have only allowed myself the odd day of musical indulgence at one of the best boutique classical music festivals around. I love music festivals but generally avoid anywhere that has a big screen and a live relay - if I can't see the whites of performers' eyes, I don't want to know. I may be a wimp but I just don't see the point otherwise. Why spend hours queueing for dirty and foul-smelling portaloos amongst legions of fellow festival goers?

Friends tell me that Verona, Salzburg and Bayreuth are marvellous, and I'm sure they are. The Puccini Festival, on the lake at Torre del Lago, is supposed to be the most relaxed, if you don't count the 'craic' at Wexford. Glyndebourne is divine, but you need a small mortgage and a lot of luck to get there. For my money, one of the best value festivals is just an hour from us near Mirepoix, at the imposing Chateau de Queille, a venue which takes one's breath away. The price is all-inclusive and for less than the price of a pair of opera tickets, you get all concerts, lunches, dinners and entertainment, as well as unlimited wine, beer and soft drinks for the duration. You can even camp for free, although if you want to stay in one of the medieval tents provided, there is a supplement.

It was started twelve years ago by Nico and Rachel Lethbridge and the seventh festival, Q7 to people in the know, has just ended. It is a huge credit to Rachel and her industrious team that they have continued to provide sublime music, amazing vittals and a huge sense of joy despite Nico's untimely death four years ago. He is sorely missed but his memory lives on with the Queille Festival. As each year passes, it gets better and better and this year's festival was definitely the best. Rachel herself has now assumed the role of Artistic Director, and it shows. It is an amazing achievement and I urge anyone with a love of classical music and a sense of fun to watch out for the next one [see: www. queillefestival.net].

I drove to Beziers, and then alongside the bank of the beautiful Canal du Midi on one of the prettiest airport access roads imaginable, to pick Ellie up from the tiny Cap d'Agde airport. Ryanair flies there, exceedingly cheaply, from Bristol. Most other fares had been hugely inflated by the half term exodus and Ryanair, love them or hate them, pretty well always deliver what's on the tin. Cheapskate they may be, but their use of tiny, out of the way airports means that airport parking is a doddle, and with only one plane arriving every few hours, there are no immigration or luggage queues to get hot under the collar over.

In less than two hours of glorious early summer Languedoc sunshine, we were in the Hotel du Commerce in Mirepoix to shower en route. Some things in life remain constant, no matter how many years pass by, and this little, old fashioned Logis, with its shady restaurant garden, remains one of them. Madame greeted us with her customary 'acceuil' and it was nice to be back. My old bones are just a teeny bit creaky these days to brave the joys of camping, which is a shame, because much of the fun at the Queille Festival takes place around the campfire at night, after the more formal events have ended. My daughter had no such qualms, eventually sharing a tent with her German cousins because her incompetent mother had managed to forget the pegs and tent poles for hers.

We all assembled at 7pm, for drinks outside the ancient Romanesque chapel of Saint Sylvain et les Sept Freres Martyrs, which sits below the high wall of the equally ancient Chateau de Queille. Old friends and new exchanged pleasantries in anticipation of the weekend of heaven on earth ahead of them. There are many 'old timers' in our midst, and we share a common bond from the previous six festivals, as well as the ghosts of those now missing from our number. I am taken aback by how much they live on in their now grown up children. Where have the years gone, I wonder?

The first concert was ambitious and set the standard for the two days to come. Two quartets, the stunning Badke and the Ristov, together with the cellist, William Amherst, the double bass and baroque bass player, Carina Cosgrave and the harpsichordist, Stephen Dagg, performed a delightful programme of 17th C and 18th C music. Mozart's Divertimenti in F major, K 138 was followed by Corelli's Christmas Concerto, the Concerto Grosso in G minor Op 6 No.8 and the seldom heard Concerto No. 5 in F minor by Count Wilhelm Van Wassenaer. It was a revelation that an reticent amateur Dutch aristocrat had composed a series of works of such exceptional quality but, modestly, refused to allow them to be attributed to him. He was the very antithesis of our modern celebrity. The concert closed, to rapturous applause, with the ever popular Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G major.

After delicious canapes and chilled wines, we reconvened for something completely different. I have to declare an interest here, for the 'Gold Rush' was performed by my sister-in-law and my three talented nieces, who had completely re-scored Charlie Chaplin's phenomenal 1925 masterpiece. 'Lily and Co', with Julia at the piano leading her unique take on the silent Chaplin film rolling above her, was accompanied by her girls, including Lily, the youngest, with violins, flute, percussion and sundry sound effects. The film itself is a piece of social history, Chaplin's favourite, and it's almost impossible to believe that the icy Alaskan tundra, which was the backdrop of the massive rush for gold in the early years of the 20th century, was created in a studio with flour and icing sugar.

The famous boot scene, perfected after sixty one takes, caused Chaplin to suffer an insulin overdose because the boot was made of liquorice. As Julia rendered the closing bars of 'Climb Every Mountain', we all whooped with jubilation, a fitting end to a glorious first evening. Sadly, the Chaplin Society have deemed that, from now on, only Chaplin's own score can be used to accompany 'Gold Rush', or indeed any other Chaplin film, so this was the very last performance. It is their loss and the estate of Buster Keaton's gain. Roll on 2013.

A blazing Saturday morning saw two concerts with the Badke and Ristov Quartets and the talented young pianist, Simon Crawford-Phillips. The contrast between Mendelssohn's Octet in E Flat Op. 20 and Shostakovich's Piano Qintet in G minor Op. 57, at first sight, couldn't have been greater. According to Mendelssohn's sister, Fanny, the G minor scherzo was inspired by lines from the 'Walpurgis Night Dream' from Goethe's 'Faust':

"Clouds and mist pass
It grows bright above.
Air in the bushes
And wind in the reeds
And all is dispersed."

During the stunning Shostakovich, I couldn't help thinking of life in Stalin's Russia at the time of the first performance of the quintet at the Moscow Conservatory on 23rd November 1940. The witty finale, it seemed to me, could have been written with Goethe's prophetic words in mind. They were bleak times indeed, but Shostakovich manages a wry smile of hope at the end of it all.

A champagne picnic lunch, after an appetite stimulating hike through the 'campagne', was accompanied by more music from Julia and the cousins, this time playing a heady mixture of Irish, folk, country and Klezmer music. The views were stunning and the array of local pates and cheeses, not to mention rustic breads, a would-be dieter's nightmare. Thank goodness the trees provided a respite from the brilliant sunshine for a quick forty winks before the need to soldier back to base for the second concert of the day.

Schumann's Frauenliebe und Leben Op. 42 was sung beautifully by the South African soprano, Pumeza Matshikiza, with the acclaimed pianist, Julius Drake, accompanying. A change of musical direction followed, with haunting renditions of Fernando Obrador's 'Canciones Clasicas Espanolas' and Xavier Montsalvatge's 'Cinco Canciones Negras' before a short break before the third, and final, concert of the day. The contrast couldn't have been greater, for VOCES8 led us on a magical musical journey through their amazingly eclectic repertoire of classic and contemporary pieces scanning five centuries. From Palestrina and Bach to 'Jailhouse Rock' and songs from the great American songbook, we were treated to yet another hour of joyous music making.

The evening finished pleasurably with a delicious BBQ feast in the Big Top and a wild night of whacky music, led by the brilliant Baghdaddies with their blistering brass, Balkan rhythms and rousing harmonies. Being a lightweight, especially after too much sunshine and champagne at lunchtime, I skipped off back to the Hotel du Commerce to sleep, perchance to dream.

Sunday began with the obligatory Queille Festival mass [not really obligatory, of course, but 'de rigeur' for all us lovers of the sung mass], led by the inspiring Reverend Dr John Munns, with a small part of the service in French in deference to our surroundings. This year VOCES8 sang the Byrd Four Part Mass and it was truly glorious. As the sun shone against a brilliant azure sky outside the high Romanesque chapel windows, I thought to myself that just for a moment, all is well with the world. These brief interludes in life are precious indeed and to savour one like this is a privilege.

A little later, we were treated to a virtuoso performance by Simon Crawford-Phillips of Chopin Nocturnes Op. 55 Nos. 1 and 2 and Janacek's deeply moving 'On An Overgrown Path' Bk 1. As Janacek himself wrote, "All in all, there is suffering beyond words contained here." When we had picked ourselves up, Simon was joined by the Ristov Quartet for Mozart's Piano Quintet in G minor, K 478.

A leisurely lovely salmon and salads lunch in the meadow, washed down with refreshing glasses of Domaine Gayda rose, had us all scrambling for the shade again. The weather could not have been better and we have been blessed this year. We all remember the occasional downpours of previous years. Afterwards, replete and happy, we head back up the steps to the chapel for the final concert of the classical part of the festival.

The charming French clarinetist, Nicolas Baldeyrou, together with the Badke Quartet, performed an exquisite rendering of Brahms' Clarinet Quintet Op. 115 in B minor and, in his second piece of the concert, was joined by Simon Crawford-Philllips at the piano for Debussy's 'Premiere Rhapsody', both of which I loved. I had not heard the latter piece before and was struck by just how 'modern' it is. Finally, the gorgeous Pumeza Matshikiza returned [in a stunning black and white Amanda Wakeley gown], accompanied by Simon and Nicolas, to sing Schubert's 'Der Hirt auf dem Felsen' D 965, 'The Shepherd on the Rock', scored for voice and piano and an obligato clarinet. They did not disappoint; it was sublime. The concert ended gracefully with Pumeza and the Badke Quartet in a performance of Schubert's Marion anthem, 'Salve Regina' in A D 676. It was a fitting 'Adieu' indeed.

Sadly, for personal reasons, I had to miss the Grand Finale in the Big Top, an event which is legendary. This year's theme was 'One Thousand Nights and One Night', and people seemed to have been planning their outfits for weeks. I had retrieved a stunning pink silk sari from the back of my wardrobe, together with some pink sequined Indian slippers, which probably would have made me look like an overgrown pomegranate, but it was not to be. C'est la vie. Acrobats from Le Cirque la Cabriole and music from VOCES8 and The Baghdaddies set the scene and, by all accounts, it was a very late night to remember......like the festival itself. By 10am the following morning, I was pinned into my Easyjet flight, en route to a wet and windy Gatwick. Sadly, there was no magic carpet for me. Roll on 2013 when the magic will continue......

Buying for the Biblioteque at Bardies

2011-05-18T06:17:00.000-07:00

Funnily enough, I am not usually one for compulsive buying. I read this week that a national survey has discovered that, on average, men spend £25 per week on such 'must have' purchases, compared with the average woman's paltry £19. My guess is that electronic 'gismos' whack up the male average, whereas us poor females indulge our lacklustre lives with lacy fripperies from the lingerie department, age defying 'maquillage' and exotically fragranced candles to raise our spirits after a particularly gruelling day. For better or worse, I've always been happy with Marks and Spencer's multi-packs and a jug of flowers from the garden!

But that was before Amazon! I have to confess to a massive addiction to Amazon's second hand book service. The knack is to try to ascertain the condition of the book that you want and see how many you can buy for less than a euro/pound. You do then, of course, have to factor in the £2.75 postage. For hardback books, there are unlimited bargains to be had, all at a fraction of their original RRP's. Having some years ago decided to build a library of French books at Bardies [rather more about the French, than in French, I have to say], it's rather nice to have a collection of books that have been read at least once. Guests feel less intimidated about borrowing them, although I do draw the line at leaving them down by the pool or left abandoned, baking on a chair in the heat of the midday sun.

My interest in the Cathars began some sixteen years ago, when we bought our first house near Mirepoix. It had been a Cathar castle and there was an old medieval forge in the grounds, as well as a beautiful Romanesque chapel. As a history graduate, I had always known that history is written by the victors but the story of the Cathars became, for a little while, an obsession. Books on the subject were few and far between then. Yves Roquette's seminal book, 'Cathars', Zoe Oldenburg's ' Massacre at Montsegur', [the first populist account of the Cathars in the English language, translated by classical scholar, Peter Green] and Emmanuele Roy Ladurie's story of 'Montaillou' were about it. I hoovered them up and went on pilgrimages to every single Cathar castle in the region, buying guide books along the way whenever and wherever I could. We had some fine picnics at places with enticing names, like Roquefixade, Peyrpeteuse and Queribus.

When we moved west, to Bardies, it took a few years to turn what is now the 'biblioteque' from an earth floored woodshed [with two tree trunks holding up the bedroom floor above!] into a stunning faux Louis Quatorze room, with a run of ceiling height bookshelves covering a whole wall. Just about the time that the building work was completed, Amazon took off. It has to be the best internet shopping site ever, n'est-ce-pas! Ten years earlier, assembling a relevant library would have been a lifetime's work. Now, with 'one click', your fingers do the work and your bank manager takes a deep intake of breath.

I started, inevitably, with history books: Carlisle's 'History of the French Revolution' was an early purchase, a Folio edition no less, and William Doyle's 1990 classic, 'The Oxford History of the French Revolution', followed by Georges Lefebvre's 'The French Revolution' [Routledge Classics] and Christopher Hibbert's marvellous 2001 book, also, unoriginally, called 'The French Revolution'. I found Simon Schama's 'Citizens' [2004] and the first of Jonathan Sumption's books on the Hundred Years War, 'Trial by Battle' [1999] in a charity shop. I paid a bit more for Ruth Scurr's 'Fatal Purity: Robespierre and the French Revolution' [2007] and Jonathan Sumption's 1999 history, 'The Albigensian Crusade'. Then I bit the bullet and bought the second and third books in the Sumption trilogy, 'Trial by Fire' [2001] and 'Divided Houses' [2009], new from Amazon. I haven't read either yet but the others I loved.

Then, like a drug addict moving up a notch for an even bigger hit, I graduated to biographies: Christopher Hibbert's 'Napoleon: His Wives and Women', Nancy Mitford's 'The Sun King' and 'Madame de Pompadour', both found in charity shops, Antonia Frazer's wonderful 'Marie Antoinette', as well as her 'Love and Louis X1V: The Women in the Life of the Sun King', David Lawday's 'Danton, A Life' [2009], Leonie Frieda's 'Catherine de Medici' [2004], and all of Graham Robb's scholarly reads' 'Baudelaire' [1989], 'Balzac' [1995], 'Victor Hugo' [1998] and 'Rimbaud' [2001.

Amazon has a lot to answer for, for my addiction knows no bounds. Other all time favourite reads accumulated on the biblioteque shelves are Caroline Moorehead's, 'Dancing to the Precipice', Montaigne's 'Essays', Hilary Mantel's, 'A Place of Greater Safety', Graham Robb's, 'The Discovery of France' and 'Parisians', Adam Zamoyski's '1812: Napoleon's Fatal March on Moscow', Marcel Proust's, 'A la Recherche du Temps Perdu', everything by Irene Nemirovsky but especially 'Suite Francaise' and, of course, Baroness Orzcy's 'The Scarlet Pimpernel', my favourite read as a young girl and through which I discovered my love of history.

There are loads more. There are lots of books on people's new lives in France, some good, most tedious, the novels of Flaubert and Zola and their contemporaries, travel books, art books [long on Picasso!], garden books, books on the prehistoric caves, books on the villages of France, books on wine, cognac and, because no collection of mine could exist without them, books on food. The French cookery library is my pride and joy [and possibly the ruin of me!]. From Larousse to Elisabeth David and Gerard Depardieu, and Richard Olney and Trish Deseine to the blogger, Clothilde Dusoulier, there is, I think, something to inspire everyone to put on their apron and have a go in the kitchen.

And, finally, there is music to listen to and movies to put your feet up to on a rainy day: Jaques Brel, Serge Gainsbourg, Piaf, Billie Holliday, Georges Brassens, Stefan Grapelli, Django, Francoise Hardy and, God forbid, even the First Lady's humble efforts. It was too easy to buy them all with one click! Then, as if these two addictions weren't enough, 'World Cinema' sales on Amazon proved even more irresistible. I now have to hover by the postbox to squirrel my purchases furtively away before I am seen with the evidence. Not wishing to incriminate myself any further, this blog has become, conveniently, too long already to name them all here. Having become an addict of the French crime thriller, 'Spiral', on BBC4 on Saturday nights, I will admit to indulging in the DVD of the first two series.

When, oh when, will this compulsion end? With apologies to Dr Johnson, 'The man[or woman!] who tires of Amazon, tires of life.' Who needs a new frock when you can curl up in bed with a great book?

Vice and Virtue in Albi

2011-04-29T07:01:00.000-07:00

On a glorious Spring morning in April, Caroline and I decided to meet up in the historic and monumental town of Albi, in the Tarn 'departement' just fifty miles north east of Toulouse. From Bardies it is an easy journey, less than two hours if you can avoid the early morning rush hour on the 'peripherique'. We had set our hearts on a long, leisurely, 'girly' lunch al fresco and a trip to the Musee Toulouse-Lautrec, which is housed in the stunning 14th century 'Palais de la Berbie'. This is not, as we had wrongly surmised, an old Berber Palace abandoned after the Moorish invasions but the Occitan nomenaclature for a Bishop's Palace ['Bisbia']. We were blessed. There were few tourists and parking adjacent to the Cathedrale de Sainte-Cecile was easy.

Albi in the sunshine gives no hint of its darker days. History is full of fascinating paradoxes and the location of the bulk of the work of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec [1864-1901] here is one of them. The legacy of that acute observer of the 'demi-monde', who lived life to the full and was never afraid to show it, now rests 'in memoriam' in the midst of one of the greatest medieval edifices ever created to demonstrate the power and pomp of the prelates who lived here. If ever there was a building designed to incur the shock and awe of the cowering and unwashed masses, then this is it. You really do feel like an insignificant speck of cosmic dust when you gaze up at the skyline from the shadows of the cobbled courtyard so far below. The sheer, unadulterated, brutal power of the church surrounds and seeks to obliterate you.

For this palace, begun in the late 13th century, like the fortress cathedral next to it, was designed to say 'never again' to those who dared to question existing doctrine and authority. The full might of the Catholic and apostolic church was to remain supreme in the wake of the testing challenges of the humble Cathars, whose beliefs in gnostic dualism directly challenged Roman dogma . Rome called on its most powerful warriors, led by the brutal Englishman, Simon de Montfort [1160- 1218], to exterminate the Albigensians, so named because Pope Innocent II believed that Albi was the centre of the heresy. After the sack of Beziers in 1209, when every man, woman and child was killed in the belief that 'God will know his own', until his death in 1218, he inculcated fear and loathing throughout the Languedoc.

Alongside these brutal campaigns, Papal Ordinances were passed which imposed new penalties for heresy. The monk Dominic Guzman [1170-1221] aka Saint Dominic [1234], a friend of de Montfort, was instrumental in the setting up of the Inquisition. Catharism was doomed. New methods of torture and new crimes were created. In 1233 Pope Gregory IX charged the Dominican Inquisition with the final solution, the absolute eradication of the Cathar faith. The origins of the modern police state were conceived in the war against the Albigensians [aka Cathars]. Here in Albi today we see its manifestation. I can think of no other House of God which so resembles a fortress and no other Bishop's Palace which so resembles a police headquarters. There is no power but Rome.

On a beautiful day like today though, with its pink bricked facade and Baldaquin dappled in sunshine, it's hard to think of such darkness, especially sitting in a nearby restaurant eating 'souris d'agneau' with a glass of Gaillac rose. I came to Albi with friends in 1989 but remember little, except for the cathedral and the pink brick and tiles of the Renaissance town houses in the the tiny maze of medieval streets that surround it. The merchants of Albi, I read, made their money from the cultivation of 'Isatis Tinctoria', a dark blue dye which we call 'woad'. Albi was the centre of this thriving trade. It is bigger and brighter than I remember, due I am sure, to a spate of municipal facelifts. It is undoubtedly one of the most perfect places in the Languedoc in which to spend a lazy day.

After lunch, we head to see the Lautrecs. I am beside myself with excitement, after my recent trip to Paris. I had not thought of myself as a great fan of his work but somehow he has got to me, 'de la coeur'. I suppose that one of the reasons for my hitherto indifference was the ubiquity of his poster images. He must have kept legions of printers in profit for well over a century and such familiarity has devalued our experience. His paintings are a revelation, now hung here in his birthplace because the directors of various Paris museums disdainfully rejected his parents' generous offer of all the remaining works from his studio after his death. Paris's loss is Albi's gain. The Office de Tourisme must be rubbing its hands in glee, for the museum now houses over a thousand works and documents and has become the largest and most important public collection in the world dedicated to Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

Edouard Vuillard's [1868- 1940] portrait of him, brightly dressed in a crimson shirt and sunflower yellow 'pantalons', with a red and white neckscarf and jaunty hat, illustrates the pathos of his life, the cheery soul in the pain racked and crippled body. In complete contrast we see his own portrait of his tall, lean and athletic father riding a stallion with a falcon ascending on his left wrist. The contrast could not be more acute. Poor pitiful Henri, with his congenitally stunted little legs, has no choice but to cower in his studio painting an exciting world to which he can but aspire. Unable to participate in most of the activities enjoyed by his peers, the young Henri immerses himself in his art. When his mother takes him to Paris in 1882 and he settles in Montmartre, he finds the two things that he can participate in, booze and sex.

In his paintings we see the sensitivity of the alcoholic. He paints the women of the decadent and theatrical life of 'fin de siecle' Paris with little sentimentality but a great deal of love, affection and admiration. We look at his paintings and we sense that he knows their pain, and occasional joy, as he knows his own. He observes them acutely but we know that he knows them as well as he knows himself. He is of them, and one of them, despite being of aristocratic stock and from a different world. From his exquisite depiction of the boredom and monotony of the women in the salon at Moulins Street to the classical mastery of 'The Milliner', we see works of great contrast.

One of my favourites is 'Doctor Tapie de Celeyran', reminiscent of German Expressionists. We know his women so well, Yvette Guilbert, La Goulou, Jane Avril, La Mome Fromage, who are named, and those who remain un-named but forever etched in our consciousness. Their lives may have seemed to be mere 'demi-monde' in 'fin de siecle' Paris but, in posterity, they have real place and presence. He has served them well. Even the men he treats with respect, although it has to be said that he has created them as two dimensional beings, in complete contrast with his women. I particularly love the bland, beige Englishman at the Moulin Rouge. The one exception, of course, is Oscar Wilde, lonely, corpulent and red faced, far away in Paris in the Musee d'Orsay.

Henri de Toulouse Lautrec died from complications due to alcoholism and syphilis on 9th September 1901, aged 36. In his own short life he documented the lives of others for posterity. They were lives of vice and virtue, not considered worthy enough in their time for the grand museums of Paris. His parents, the Comte and Comtesse de Toulouse-Lautrec, who lived lives as far removed from the 'demi-monde' as the Bishop of Albi, wished to preserve their son's work and his last wishes. With the help of Gabriel Tapie de Celeyran, their nephew and Henri's first cousin, and his friend, Maurice Joyant, the legacy was eventually secured and the exhibition galleries were created and inaugurated on 30th July 1922. Today, visitors and fans arrive every year in their thousands to see the collection. It is a good reason to visit this splendid town. But whilst you while away carefree moments amongst these paintings, drawings and prints, spare a few moments for the poor souls who believed in the simpler values of the Albigensians. Vice and virtue coexist here, but sometimes it's so very hard to decide just who were the saints and who were the sinners.

Lost Souls And Lipstick Kisses In Paris

2011-04-09T12:27:00.000-07:00

A long, lazy weekend in Paris is a wonderful thing, especially in springtime. We didn't hesitate for a moment about going to see our daughter perform in a couple of Dance Band gigs last weekend. It's a funny thing when roles suddenly become reversed and the geriatrics become the groupies. In Paris though, on the left bank, the over sixties and seventies still tap their feet and jive along to the great American songbook. The soixante-huitards, who listened to jazz and blues at their parents' knees, are still full of that old Parisian 'joie de vivre' and 'je ne sais quoi'. With the sunshine dappling through the trees of the Luxembourg Gardens, they made the day. The youngsters were over the moon at such appreciation. Bien fait!

Afterwards, not wanting to cramp darling daughter's style, I decided, on a whim, to leg it south to seek out the old Barriere d'Enfer, Hell's Gate. It's now called Place Denfert-Rochereau, after an unfortunate French colonel who was roundly trounced by the Prussians during the winter campaign of 1870-71. The similarity in sound is undoubtedly a little French pun on its previous existence as hell on earth. Smack in the middle of a traffic traffic island, in commemoration of this dastardly defeat, is the Lion of Belfort. It is cast in bronze with its head facing westwards, away from Prussia, by Frederic Bartholdi of New York's Statue of Liberty fame. It serves as yet another reminder that we commemorate in order to forget, as Alan Bennet reminds us in 'The History Boys'. The defeat is long forgotten, like the lost souls below.

There are two stunning neoclassical buildings on the south side of the square, one next to the beautiful 'art nouveau' railings of the Metro, designed for the World Exhibition of 1900, and the other directly opposite. They once formed part of the original tollgates to the much hated Farmer's General Wall. Crippling taxes were levied on every item being taken in or out of the City of Paris and the road south was a profitable and essential thoroughfare. It was said that one passed through these tollgates in fear of one's life. So hated were they that during the steamy weekend of 12th July 1789 most of the tollgates were destroyed, presaging the bloodshed of the revolution that was to follow. These two, though, with their beautifully carved serene Greek maidens dancing around the architrave, miraculously escaped the revenge of the rampaging and angry mobs.

The rest of the history of this Place is now below ground, thanks to 'the man who saved Paris'. Graham Robb, in his charming and illuminating book, 'Parisians, recounts how in 1774 a gaping trench along the eastern side of the Rue d'Enfer opened up and swallowed all the houses for a distance of a quarter of a mile towards Paris. The Place d'Enfer really had become the 'Mouth of Hell'. The new Inspector of Quarries, whose job it became to inspect and report on the catastrophic collapse, was called Charles-Axel Guillaumot. The day following the collapse, he descended into the trench to a depth of eighty four feet and was truly shocked by what he discovered. The streets of Paris were perched precariously on top of massive undergound 'fontis', cavities, interspersed with 'cloches' of rubble liable to collapse at any moment, left by generations of earlier miners and quarriers who knew little of excavation. Paris had devoured its own foundations.

He made it his life's work to create spacious vaults and porticos to shore up the city above. Each 'cloche' was turned into a swirling cone of elaborate stonework and hacked out tunnels were faced with inscribed limestone walls. Amazingly, he recreated the above ground street names and a numbering system to identify the location of individual houses, to match his tunnels to the streets above and the landlords who were legally responsible for all the earth below ground level. The whole history of Paris was evident from this subterranean mirror image, from the Gauls and the Romans who had dug their building stone from quarries near the Seine, to the building stone below the Rue d'Enfer which had gone to make Notre Dame, the Palais Royal and the mansions of the Marais. Everything was there, bar the people who had made the history of Paris. All that rapidly changed.

On 30th May 1780 a brewer in the Rue de la Lingerie descended into cellar and found hundreds of decomposed and decomposing bodies piled there. Apart from the shock, it explained why his water was fetid. Since the arrival of the first smallpox epidemic some ten years earlier, which had killed off a tenth of the population and most of the infants under a year old, public health had become an issue. The overflowing graveyards of the Cemetery of the Innocents, close to what is now Les Halles and almost eight feet above the Rue Saint-Denis, were a major cause for concern. Nine centuries worth of putrefaction would be transported to an ossuary that Guillamot proposed to install in his waiting underground city. "Arrete, c'est ici l'empire de la mort," he would later have inscribed, his life's work done.

After months of secret debate, a royal edict of 3rd April 1786 determined that the bodies would be transferred southwards by cart and wagon, along the cobbled streets over the Pont Notre Dame to the Barriere d'Enfer to fill Guillamot's empty spaces. It was a macabre, and hugely expensive operation, which almost bankrupted the state. The repercussions were enormous, not least because of the higher taxes that were required. The gatekeepers of the Farmer's General Wall scrutinised the incoming wagons with even greater vigour. It was said that the number of skeletons that made the journey to La Tombe-Issoire was ten times greater than the living population of Paris.

The bones were arranged in decorative banks of skulls, tibias and femurs with many carved maxims, poems and other sacred and profane epitaphs. There is equity in death here. The bones of victims of the Saint Bartholemew's Day Massacre are muddled up with those of the Catholics who killed them. Later, following the bloodshed of the Reign of Terror, they were added to by the bodies of guillotined aristocrats. Camille and Lucille Desmoulins, Danton and Robespierre later joined them. Even poor Guillamot himself finished up here, lost amongst the other souls, when his gravestone in the Cimitiere Sainte Catherine disappeared. The remaining cemeteries of Paris were excavated in 1883 and Guillamot's bones were gathered up with all the others and deposited here in this vast ossuary. He has become part of the very structure he created, in memoriam.

Today, as you stand in front of the two very understated green 'porteils' that lead down the one hundred and thirty steps to the Catacombs of Paris, you realise that so much of the city's history lies here. There is no getting away from it, it is indeed the realm of death. There are the remains of between six and seven million Parisians laid to rest in high Romantic taste across a distance of two kilometres. The bones here are anonymous relics to a great and turbulent past. In an age when we shun death and tuck it away with pleasantries such as "passing away", a walk through the Catacombs provides a jolt to reality.

This is not the case at the Cimetiere of Pere Lachaise, laid out in 1804, north east of here. There, in contrast, you can walk with angels in the bright sunlight until you find whoever it was that you came looking for. The legendary lovers, Abelard and Heloise, rest here in a grand tomb, closer in death than they ever were in life. Edith Piaf is here too, in a very unremarkable grave. Ingres and Modigliani, Corot and Delacroix, Seurat and Pissaro are here, as are Balzac, Beaumarchais and Proust. Bizet, Poulenc and Chopin are also here. But it is to one grave in particular that most of us are drawn [two, I suppose, if you are a fan of Jim Morrison of The Doors, whose body has long since been returned to California but whose gravestone remains a place of pilgrimage].

The grave of Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde is the main attraction. He was laid to rest here in 1900, after his final sad days eking out an existence in Paris in a solitary room [No 16] at the Hotel d'Alsace on the Rue des Beaux Arts. We see what he became from a painting in the Musee d'Orsay, in Toulouse Lautrec's portrayal of him as an overweight, red faced voyeur at the Moulin Rouge. As large in death as he was in life, Oscar Wilde's tomb is a fitting testament to one of our greatest writers. He lived his life as art and Jacob Epsein's carved angel celebrates the elegance of the man before his fall. It is a very early piece by Epstein and it takes your breath away. Having been to the Bourdelle Museum, at his studio in Montparnasse, I was struck for the first time by his influence on Epstein.

Bourdelle's bas reliefs must surely have provided the prototype. It matters not, for this is living art. The most remarkable thing about Epstein's tribute to Wilde, with its red angel lips, are the hundreds of lipstick kisses below. He was more loved in death than he ever was in life. 'I love you', 'Anna and Mary love you', 'Amor', 'Forever', 'Libertad Siempre' and many more messages are scribbled on the pale yellow stone in red lipstick. If I had a pound for every lipstick kiss, I would be a rich woman indeed. It is a moving, living tribute to the great man himself and it is done with love. This is not the stuff of irresponsible graffiti. 'Au contraire', it is an expression of the ultimate human manifestation of love, a kiss. Another lost soul, the writer of 'De Profundis', has finally found happiness at last under a sea of lipstick kisses. How happy I am to have seen it.

Marvellous Montauban

2011-02-20T06:46:00.000-08:00

I cannot begin to count the number of times that I have hurriedly driven past Montauban, on my way to Bardies. Every time, particularly when the 'peage' is heaving with holidaymakers en route to summer sun, I think to myself, "I must stop here one day when it's quieter". Like so many places in southern France, if you don't mind the biting cold, the winter months are perfect for days out to bastides, ancient churches and museums. Another bonus is that, with the exception of the cashier and the odd security person, you are quite likely to be the only souls in the place.

So it was when my good friend Caroline and I decided to treat ourselves to a spot of lunch and an afternoon of culture at the Musee Ingres in Montauban. As it's only 53 kilometres from Toulouse, it was an easy drive up the motorway. The day was bitterly cold, all the better for having a serious 'menu du jour' after our pre-prandial walk around this small but perfectly formed pink bricked bastide. Some say that Montauban, founded in 1144, was the first bastide in southern France although I think that Mont de Marsan may have pipped them to this accolade.

It is surprisingly compact and in its tightly formed centre, almost every building is a joy to behold. The softly muted pastel coloured paintwork, on window frames and balconies, contrasted beautifully with the rose pink brick work. I am not usually an avid photo addict, generally preferring memory and context to moments artificially suspended in time, but I just couldn't resist the temptation this time. It could have been a film set or a template for a lavish coffee table book. The Pont Vieux, which took thirty years to complete and was inaugurated in 1335, survives intact with only its original fortified towers missing. It is a stunning feat of medieval engineering and spectacularly beautiful.

There is the most divine florist's shop called 'Zeste', painted in the muted French greys and greens that we usually only see on a Farrow and Ball paint chart. In sharp contrast to the dull, cold, murky grey day only the bulbs in pots, laden on metal patio tables outside, gave any hint that spring was in the air. The gorgeous patisserie opposite, with its vibrant blood orange colour interior walls, warmed the soul as well as the stomach. Even the tea shop, 'Le Gout The', proved an irresistable temptation, and all less than twenty five metres from the Musee Ingres.

The building that houses the works of Ingres and Bourdelle, both born in Montauban, is a major historical monument in its own right. It was begun by the Black Prince in 1363, when ceded to the English by the Treaty of Bretigny in 1360, but never finished because the English lost control of the town and were expelled in 1414. 'La salle du Prince Noir', the basement of the building, today contains many artefacts from Montauban's early history, including a grotesque 'banc de question', a medieval rack. During the sixteenth century, Montauban became one of four Huguenot strongholds, sustaining in 1621 a successful eighty six day siege by Louis X111, only to have its fortifications finally destroyed by Cardinal Richelieu, who entered the city on 20th August 1629. The fate of the Huguenots was not a pleasant one and many of the luckier ones finished up as emigres in Spitalfields in east London.

In a wave of Catholic reassertion, work began in 1664 on a new, majestic 'palais episcopal', which was completed in 1680. The Cathedrale de Notre Dame was erected shortly afterwards with the same purpose. It was confiscated in 1790 and bought by the 'municipalite de Montauban' as the 'hotel de ville'. A museum was created in 1820 and Ingres sent 54 works of art in 1851. Upon his death in 1867, Ingres bequeathed his famous violin and the building was renamed the Musee Ingres shortly afterwards. Today, there is also a contemporary art exhibition space, a large archaeological collection, a fabulous collection of old 'faiences' which includes eighteenth century pharmaceutical jars from the hospital and a permanent historical exhibition of local trades. You certainly get your money's worth here!

I have to confess that I have never been a huge fan of Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres [1780 -1867], despite his superb technical accomplishment. His art, to me, is the epitomy of an artist's notion of perfection , a cerebral rather than a heartfelt exercise in skill. Ingres was undoubtedly a master of the highest order, hugely influenced by his time in Italy emulating the grand masters of classicism. The historical paintings, including 'Le Songe de Ossian' and 'Jesus parmi les docteurs', are phenomenal, as are his stunning portraits, including the portrait of Madame Caroline Gonse. I particularly liked his early work, the 'Torse d'homme', painted when he was just nineteen, and his drawings but, in truth, I left slightly uninspired.

The sculptures of Emile-Antoine Bourdelle [1861 -1929] on the ground floor of the museum, however, proved to be the highlight for me, although if I could take just one piece home it would be Camille Claudel's exquisite head of a young girl. I love her work so much, racked as each piece is by emotional honesty. She is my sculptor super-hero. Bourdelle, who lived at No 34 de la rue de l'Hotel de ville just across the way, looked in his photograph as if he had just walked off the set of 'La Boheme'. "La musique, la sculpture, c'est la meme chose: le sculpteur compose avec des masses, des volumes, le musicien avec des sons,"he said. His 'buste de Beethoven' immortalises this philosophy. By his own admission, hugely influenced by Rodin, his work ranges from the grand and theatrical ['Herakles archer' and the murals for the theatre des Champs- Elysees] to the delicate and ethereal 'tete de Montaban', an exquisite piece of sculpture. I would not have missed them for the world.

As we were leaving this petite but beautifully formed town [the population is only just short of 56,000], I found myself visualising hordes of summer visitors thronging its tiny streets in August. It was beautiful in grey, so it can only be divine in full sunlight. On balance, though, I have to say that spending an afternoon devouring the contents of the Musee Ingres with no one else was a special privilege. They might have opened it just for us - it certainly felt as though this were the case. How uplifting these winter visits are proving to be. We're off to the Musee Toulouse- Lautrec in Albi next. We can't wait!

Here's To The Next Ten Years!

2011-01-12T08:25:00.000-08:00

I generally hate early January, except when there is masses of snow up in Guzet and the woodburner is burning fast and furious chez nous. I dream in vain because this year we decided, for various reasons, to have Christmas in England. It was lovely, of course, but my sense of deprivation, due in large part to the dreary, dismal, grey weather, makes me feel even more fed up. The heavy snow, which covered the whole of the UK and decimated the transport network, first stranded me in Dublin for three days with my daughter [always a joy!] and then forced me to give up all hope of getting down to Bardies in December to deliver Christmas puddings, cakes and presents. Tant pis.

For some bizarre reason I've just discovered, I forgot to blog in November, which is just as well because it would probably have been a rant about the fees charged by French banks, the hike in our 'taxe fonciere' and 'taxe d'habitation', the price of 'fioul' to replenish stocks for the central heating for winter and, inevitably, the failure of my battered old Jeep to pass its 'certificat de controle technique'. In the event, the first two I could do nothing about, the third proved not to be too bad due to my continued absence and the last, amazingly, a minor miracle because I've been given a year to put the faults right. Thank goodness, because by now my car would have been permanently grounded at Blagnac.

Enough of my ranting! There is something about January that pressages the spring to come. It remains, for me, a time of reflection, on the year past, future goals and lessons learned. I like to snuggle up, self-indulgently in the warm, and ponder my navel. It's less of an effort after Christmas because one's stomach sticks out more! When the weather is bleak, it's easier to stay indoors to think and write. The first hurdle for any aspiring writer, I always think, is to get one's bum on one's seat for at least two hours at a stretch. With fewer distractions, the creative juices begin to flow [helped greatly this year by Radio 3's incredible twelve days of 'The Genius of Mozart' - how I shall miss it tomorrow].

Even walking the dog at this time of year is less of a chore because a bit of exercise becomes a luxury rather than a necessity. 'I think, therefore I am' - was it Sartre who said that? So, in this navel gazing mode, I found myself thinking about Bardies on our tenth anniversary here. We bought it on the spot exactly ten years ago, for it was love at first sight for both of us. We were mad, I know, but neither of us has ever had a moment's regret. Our children were six and eight at the time and these last ten years, seeing our children grow there with their friends and cousins, have been the greatest joy. Home is where the heart is and my heart will always be here.

Bardies has taken a lot of love, work and dedication, not to mention money. She is a demanding mistress, always asking for more just when she's taken your last centime. If it's not rain pouring through the chateau roof, it's the potential collapse of the barn roof. Whenever one lot of broken guttering gets fixed, another section breaks apart in sympathy. We run, with buckets, to stand still! We still haven't tackled replacing the draughty windows and doors, although, to be honest, I can't bear the thought of losing the beautifully leaded glass panes in the rickety old 18th and 19th century windows. The prospect of every house looking the same to conform to well meaning regulations fills me with horror. If the answer is to stay away in deepest winter to conserve precious power, then so be it.

We have done so much over the last ten years and we plan to do so much more in the next ten too. With a fair wind, we should be able to finally restore the old barn. The preliminary work has been done by the indomitable Sean who, as ever, has done a stirling job. He is not called 'Mr Perfectionist' for nothing! It is so exciting to have a project, and this is one of many. Actually, it is the linchpin upon which most of the others depend, so watch this space! My sister-in-law in Germany once said to me how lucky I was because we had a dream - something to glue us all together and give our lives purpose. The blues festival, likewise, has become a family affair, something to cherish and be proud of when the guitars are finally hung up. The next one will definitely be in 2011, to celebrate a special anniversary in our household.

So, after ten years, it seems like we are still only just beginning. We have been so privileged to be a part of such a magical place - ten years in a history that spans centuries. Indeed, if one reflects on the pre-historic caves close by, we are a teeny part of a history that spans many millenia. How amazing is that? We are also thrilled that descendants of Louis Henry, who spent summers here when they were children, will spend some time chez nous this summer. The continuum of life is a precious thing and such a special direct connection will be one of the great joys of this year. So, here's to 2011, and the next ten years. I feel sure that the best is yet to come.

Encore La Jeunesse Dans La Rue

2010-10-18T04:33:00.000-07:00

Of course, I was not pleased that yet another flight from Toulouse has been cancelled. Of the five demonstrations against Nicolas Sarkozy's pension reforms, due to be put to the vote in the Senate on Wednesday, two have resulted in me having to make alternative arrangements. The call to 'bloquons l'economie' is beginning to have major consequences, with Paris's two airports, Charles de Gaulle and Orly, destined to be devoid of fuel by Tuesday and many petrol stations closed. Two friends told me that their flight home with Easyjet operated at a cruising height below the level requiring supervision by ATC. Desperate times require desperate measures, especially when the trains, too, are stopped in their tracks.

Saturday's demonstration in Toulouse was, by all accounts, a jolly and good natured affair. Indeed, in all the major cities where upwards of a million people appear to be on the march [not as many, it has to be said, as the three million reported at previous demonstrations], this particular 'rapport de force' [over the raising of the retirement age from 60 to 62, still the lowest in Europe, seems still to be light hearted. Whilst in one major poll it transpired that 65% of French people accept the demographics and the inevitability of some rise in retirement age, in another, by Ifop, it appears that a staggering 84% of 18-24 year olds are in favour of the protests. The placard saying "Strike until you retire" is not a joke at the protesters' expense, although it certainly brings a wry smile to my face.

As a stroppy student planning to read History and Politics, I was an enthusiastic supporter of the 'soixante-huitards'. We all believed we could change the world. Now nearing sixty myself, I can see the appeal of taking to the streets again, especially against a government as unpopular as that of Nicolas Sarkozy. To cast off walking sticks and zimmer frames and give one's new hip and knee joints a serious outing in pursuit of one's own self interest is temptation indeed. To walk off into the sunset of one's life, probably with more than a quarter of it left to tend one's roses and coo at one's grandchildren, with a comfortable pay-off from the state from 60 onwards, is a right that cannot be surrendered. Bugger who pays for it, though. No wonder the Germans, who already have a retirement age of 67, have shown little sympathy to either the Greeks or the French.

What I have difficulty comprehending remains the enthusiasm of the very people who will have to pay for it all, especially as France's pension deficit currently stands at 32 billion euros. Would UK students walk alongside us, I wonder, as our pensions are eroded? Both mine and my husband's dates for drawing our pensions have already been revised upwards, from 60-62 and 65-66 respectively [especially, rightly, over mine as we move forwards towards pensions equality], with not a pipsqueak from the National Union of Students. I think not. In contrast, to quote Ifop political analyst, Frederc Dabi, in France "since 1968 politicians have taken to watching the mobilisation of youngsters like one watches boiling milk."

As I have written about before, the French state, I am convinced, has a horror of it's streets, a legacy of those dark days of tumbrils and torment that have so shaped its modern democracy. It is particularly terrified, courtesy of the 68-ers, of its students and schoolchildren. For in 1968, Charles de Gaulle was almost toppled by them and forced to question the loyalty of his troops garrisoned in Baden Baden in the process. In 1986, and again in 2005, 'la jeunesse dans la rue', blockaded behind their barricades, so terrified the government once again, the power of the street prevailed and an anxious government kow-towed in the face of their fire bombs and vociferous resistance. Will we witness yet another climbdown this time?

Sarkozy talks tough but has alienated so many people, it's hard to make a judgement. The Left in France remains weakened by its electoral defeat and has failed to produce a coherent narrative. There is a sense of something important taking shape on the streets of France but no one appears quite able to define it. One of the wittier slogans sported in Paris, and there were many, said, 'Carla, we're like you. We've been screwed by Sarko too.' I am constantly amazed with the vitriol that so many French friends, who certainly never were Socialists, display towards the man that they voted for. I am inclined to think that they got the government they deserved. I am minded of my 1979 badge which said, 'Don't blame me, I voted Labour!'

There is a sense of betrayal, that somehow Sarkozy should have looked after their interests but has failed them. The revelations that his presidential campaign was boosted by illegal donations from L'Oreal heir, Lillian Bettencourt, who has also been accused of tax evasion, has left a nasty taste in their mouths. His failure to make any headway in reforming crippling employment taxes and archaic working practices has disillusioned many of his middle class supporters. One revelation over the last weeks has been that staff working for EDF and GDF have an average retirement age of 55.4 years, whilst those working for SNCF retire at 52.5 years. Those with battered private pensions can only but look on, goggle eyed, with envy.

Additionally, it has to be said, the awful spectacle of France expelling its Roma migrants in such a callous and contemptible sop to the Far Right, has denigrated France's status as a civilised nation at the heart of Europe. I have yet to hear a French friend utter anything but words of outrage at Sarkozy's appalling action in their name. Sarkozy, in his ego mania, has alienated both the Left and the Right and he has no place to go. With the next presidential election due in 2012, he will be forced to listen to his critics from all sides. Perception is everything in politics, and nowhere more so than in France.

The sense of unfairness is palpable and, with yet another demonstration planned for tomorrow, the mood may not remain as jovial as it has been up until now. It is possible that the deaths in Athens may have provided a cautionary lesson. We have not seen any barricades burning yet, and maybe we won't. But, then again, once 'la jeunesse dans la rue' decide to exercise their power, who knows where it will all lead? Sarkozy cannot afford to fail but to what lengths will he go to try to succeed? He is no Mrs Thatcher, despite his early pronouncements on economic reform, and I suspect that he knows it. As the stakes get higher each day, and with the whole of Europe watching, he knows that where France leads, others may follow.

I sense a seed change throughout Europe that hasn't been fully articulated yet. People everywhere feel that the price they have to pay for the reckless actions of others is too high. They didn't ask for this. They certainly didn't ask to have their pensions and benefits savagely cut back, nor that their children and grandchildren would be saddled with crippling debts. It has been dumped on them from a great height by the very people who are benefitting from the crisis. The bonuses due to be paid out by the banks to high performing employees have been made on the back of government lending and fiscal stimulus. It is grossly unfair. We all think so. Perhaps I will get my trainers and jogging pants on and join them after all!

The Things That They Loved

2010-10-08T03:22:00.000-07:00

I have only just got round to reading the entries in our visitor's book, and I am so thrilled by Lindsey's entry that I just had to reproduce most of it verbatim on my blog! We take so much of our peripatetic life here in the Ariege for granted, so it's a real joy to have other people remind us of those little things that are an integral part of day to day life.

So, with apologies for presenting Lindsey's elegant prose with a list, here goes......

"We are overcome.........by the house and this beautiful part of France. We particularly adored:-

the bats
the back steps from the kitchen
the livestock [cows and sheep]
the knives
the sheets
the gorgeous decor and bits and pieces and connections
the woodwork and locks
the pool and trampoline
the cosmos
cornflowers
lavender
linum
gladioli and canna flowers
the fritillarias
small blue tits
swallow tails
the source [our little waterfall]
the swallows
hoot of the owls
the redstart
nuthatch
jays
lime trees
French CD's
the pottery near Mas d'Azil
Montsegur
the outdoor games
the veg, herbs and tomatoes by the front door
having French neighbours

...................and just being here."

My sentiments entirely.

Another entry from Gordon says, so simply, "Chateau de Bardies exemplifies the grace and beauty of imperfection" - like it's chatelaine, too, I'm sure!

A Perfect Day

2010-10-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those mystical, magical days that we savour and remember before the first chilly north winds herald the arrival of winter. I always tell people new to the Ariege that the best time of year to see it in its full glory is in September and October. It can still be glorious after Toussaint but by then the weather is more unpredictable. As I try to figure out the exact words to describe the shades of blue and green that dazzled my senses all day, I am lost for words.

The closest I can get is to say one word. Vincent. His late landscapes, many of them painted after his breakdown, illustrate better than any pretentious writing the sheer, unadulterated beauty of 'La France Profonde'. My soul has been restored, which is more than can be said for poor Vincent. As a starry, starry night falls, I give thanks for the joy of days like today. It is a little too chilly to lie on a blanket under the stars tonight, but their sparkling presence makes me feel, as ever, unimportant in the greater scheme of things. I wish I knew more about them - although I am reliably informed that there is now an i-phone app that will 'read' the stars in your location for you. I must remember to download it before the weather changes.

Perhaps I am a little more reflective than usual, due to the sad loss, within less than a month of each other, of two dear friends. They will be sorely missed by all of us, and especially their children. None of us truly appreciates what we have until it is taken from us. Life and death are as inevitable as night and day. As the last of the summer flowers in the new border battle with the elements, I greedily think of next year's seed crop. It is sad to see them looking so desolate, pale imitations of their former resplendent glory, but I know that in their death, there is new life to come. Who knows where John and Bill are now, but I like to think of them sailing or playing cricket in some heavenly galaxy beyond our stars.

Anyway, back to my perfect day. I awoke at 6.20am and, as it was still dark, I padded downstairs to make a cup of tea to drink as I finished my current book - 'House Music', the wonderful diaries of Oona King, elected to Parliament in 1997 for Bethnal Green and Bow, and only the second black woman in the House of Commons. Having once harboured a half-baked fantasy of standing for Parliament myself, I can only think what a lucky escape I had. It's hell on earth for a woman, with days ending long after midnight, not to mention the sexism that inevitably pervades an institution dominated by white men in suits. Her diaries are heartfelt, honest and totally candid and they made me cry when she writes of her failed fifth IVF attempt. It more than touched a nerve for me because I've been there too. Her book should be compulsory reading for all aspiring female election candidates.

I then dozed to the 'Today' programme on BBC iplayer, after I had watched the sun come up over the misty valley below my bedroom window. I still cannot quite grasp the freedom that technology brings. You can be anywhere in the world and provided you can access broadband, BBC Radio 4 will be with you. A friend indeed. I know that I have written of this before but I just wish that the older generation could be lured away from their technophobia and opened up to the limitless possibilities for communicating with family and friends and accessing information that is just a mouse click away.

Minus husband and children, with the excuse of a bender of a cough and cold though, I marvelled, yet again, at Neil MacGregor's wonderful series on Radio 4 every morning at 9.45am, 'A History of the World in a Hundred Objects'. It will go into the annals of legendary BBC cultural series, alongside Kenneth Clark's 'Civilisation' and Jacob Bronowski's 'The Ascent of Man'. Today's object was an Aboriginal bark shield, brought back from Botany Bay in 1770 with the arrival of Captain Cook's ship. It made me think of our time living in Sydney in the early eighties, when I first became aware of Aboriginal history and their notion of 'The Dreamtime'. We could learn so much from their culture about respect for the fragility of our world, but we plough on regardless, plundering resources for the great engine of capitalism.

After a bath filled with fresh lavender blossoms from the garden, with the windows wide open and a view of our hills in front of me, I indulged myself further with breakfast on the terrace. Fig bread with fig jam, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a double espresso topped up with hot milk, is about as decadent as it gets. It felt like midsummer, but without the family and guests to look after. Heaven. Only the faded blooms in the terrace pots and the newly harvested lavender bushes give the game away.

With lots of urgent jobs to do before winter, like a kid playing truant from school, I made the conscious decision to head down to the pool [now, sadly, closed for winter because the nights are too cold]. With no one to cook for, and no one to worry about, I stayed there for most of the day. I didn't even have to worry about wearing a swimsuit. I even managed half an hour's yoga practice in the late afternoon sunshine, which would have been a very strange sight for someone with a satellite image. Naked middle-aged flesh is not the least attractive but viewed in 'up dog' or 'down dog' yoga positions, it borders on the perversely pornographic.

Afterwards, I raided our two fig trees and made some jam [well, more of a compote really, because figs are sweet enough already]. Then, because I'd made the jam, I thought I'd better make some wholemeal bread to go with it, which I did, courtesy of Richard Bertinet's marvellous book on contemporary bread making, 'Dough'. Not wishing to blow my own trumpet, it is a Miles Davis moment and I am dead chuffed. It always strikes me that bread is the very essence of life, something to marvel at and celebrate at every opportunity, and that making it connects us to a life force so much bigger than ourselves. It is no coincidence that 'Eucharist' is such a celebration.

I made a chicken stock for tomorrow's pumpkin risotto, from last night's roast chicken, some chicken soup with the remaining breast meat, and chicken in sherry and tarragon with the legs for my dinner, watering the garden in between. The woodburner is made up but unneeded. I've even planned my menu for the weekend, as Peter arrives tomorrow and we have guests for dinner. The rush will begin again in the morning and today's brief respite from the maelstrom that is everyday life will be but a distant memory once again. As I finish this, I shall head off to my bed with a cup of Green and Black's hot chocolate, Alice Sebold's 'The Lovely Bones' and Radio 4 ringing out from my laptop. Then, as I turn out my bedside light and turn off my electric blanket, with the stars outside twinkling through half open shutters, I shall give thanks for a perfect day.

Where Has This Summer Gone?

2010-08-25T10:34:00.000-07:00

I really can't believe that my last blog posting was at the end of June, post Glastonbury and pre Speech Day, and that we are now staring out of the window at pouring rain in anticipation of yet another British Bank Holiday weekend. Our return from foreign pastures anticipated two lots of exam results, both, thankfully, excellent. We are all ecstatic, despite the downpours, unlike the poor, desperate people of Pakistan. It's good to know that we are leading the fund raising efforts to help alleviate unimaginable tragedy and loss. Bardies already seems a long way away, though, thank goodness, I shall be back there in a fortnight's time to savour the hint of autumn in the evening air. Where has this summer gone?

As most people know, we opted out of our blues festival this year. The combination of a weak pound and the prospective double dip recession, back in December when the contracts were due to be signed, unnerved us. I desperately wanted Ian Siegal and his band to headline, not a cheap option at the best of times. We feared that many of our followers would decide to stay at home. So, in January, with deep regret, we decided to forego our bi-annual jolly and, I have to say, I missed it more than I ever thought I would.

I missed the camaraderie of 'Team Bardies', the boozy nights around the barbeque with old friends and great music [or great friends and old music?], even the endless trips to the 'decheterie' and the cash and carry. I missed the thrill of seeing Tim and Tina's faithful green and white striped tent rise up on the lawn at Bardies, like a kraken awakening from a deep slumber. I missed the sense of anticipation as the countdown begins and sundry musicians wander in at all hours of the day and night. I missed the sounds of silence as Sonny Black performs his solo set and the revelry of a reggae final set from Jeremiah Marks, with everybody singing along as though their lives depended on it. Roll on 2012, when we promise to put the show back on the road for Peter's big birthday.

There were many compensations though. The tender, loving care, and huge expense, that we have ploughed into the garden this year has paid off, although Simone's 'tilleul', which shades our outside dining area, remains very sick. The new grass is verdant and seems to have doubled the size of the garden, now ablaze with cornflowers, cosmos, sweet peas, cocosima and gladioli. It may not have survived so well under the tramplings of fun loving festival goers! I am so thrilled that we have finally begun to bring the garden back to life, with Sarah and Pascal's help, and I am sure that our festival followers will be amazed in 2012 by the transformation.

The St Lizier Festival, a classical music festival held in the cathedral of our nearby town, provided a rather more sedate musical backdrop to this summer's family holiday. It runs from the end of July until the middle of August each year. Mademoiselle Henry, our predecessor at Bardies, had been a patron of the St Lizier Festival. David Lively, the festival's music director and Annie Soubion, the festival organiser, knew her and had been to the house before we had bought it. Of course, we had to invite them to lunch! We were thrilled to bits that Felicity Lott, performing at the festival for the second time, came with them. With a brother-in-law who was a conductor, I know exactly what opera singers can be like. Instead, Felicity is the antithesis of the egotistical 'prima donna', charming, attentive, generous and great company. Her glorious concert of Schumann 'lieder' and French 'chansons' the following evening was a privilege to attend indeed. That someone of such reputation and stature should be happy to perform in the depths of the French countryside is testament to her joy in bringing her favourite music to a wider audience. It was one of the highlights of our summer.

A fortnight later, we were privileged to have a writer to stay. It seems to me that people who are at the top of their profession have no need to show off. Generosity of spirit is what singles them out as truly exceptional people. I know that there are many bad tempered geniuses but they are seldom able to pass on their wisdom, which is a shame in a world where mediocrity often seems to be the norm. We all need role models to inspire us, whatever age we are, and spending time with tremendously talented people leaves a warm afterglow, rather like the residual energy that always seems to me to emanate from a Jackson Pollock painting. Bardies has always been a natural home to creative people, musicians, artists, writers and journalists [and the occasional politician!] so it's always a joy to continue the tradition. It never ceases to amaze me just how privileged we are.

Two trips to Barcelona, one to drop off my sister and daughter at the airport, the other for me to take the ferry to Mahon, took me up and over the Pyrenees, via Ax and Puigcerda. How I love that drive! The second time I went via my friend Meredith's lovely house in Axiat, along the Route des Corniches. Both times, the weather was wet, grey and misty until I emerged from the Tunnel del Cadi, eleven euros out of pocket, into blinding sunshine. We found a lovely little boutique hotel in the Ramblas, which was perfect in every way. Barcelona, like New York, never seems to sleep and I could happily have watched the street mime artists from my window late into the night had I had the energy.

The staff could not have been more helpful, and never more so than when my trusty, ancient Jeep Cherokee decided to refuse to respond. Eventually, after a few tears of frustration and the odd Basil Fawlty kick, we got going. I am loathe to admit this, but I had to fill up in an out of town Barcelona petrol station with the engine running for fear of being stranded, unable to turn the engine on, once again. My poor sixteen year old daughter didn't know whether to stay with me and risk being blown to smithereens, or hide in the shop and risk just being severely maimed and burned! Fortunately, the pumps were a long way from the shop, so nobody witnessed my reckless necessity. Never again! My nerves aren't up to it.

A night in Castillon, with dinner 'al fresco' on Sarah and Pascal's west facing balcony with a myriad of chiaroscuro shades, and another with the Languedoc's most knowledgeable wine experts at my friend Caroline's delicious house and 'conserverie' in the Lauragais, rounded off our last few days in 'la France profonde'. It's been a busy summer, as ever, but a tremendously enjoyable and rewarding one. Our 'locateurs' have had nothing but praise for the 'esprit' of Bardies and our hard work getting it all ready. It is a joy to share it, especially now that the children seem to prefer to hit the summer high life of Cornwall and the Balearics. I await their return to more homely holidays chez nous. Meanwhile, I count the days until my joyful return. As the nights begin to draw in, I am thankful for the neat stack of logs piled high in the garage. It will not be so very long before we will be needing them, I fear. As another long, lazy summer slowly moves towards 'la rentree', we wonder at where the time went, yet again. And, as September beckons and I move into my sixtieth year, it becomes a metaphor for my life. Time really does speed up the older one gets.

Music and Sunshine

2010-06-28T03:32:00.000-07:00

The 40th Glastonbury Festival has just ended and my two sunburnt teenagers are wending their weary way home after the hottest weekend in a very long time. As Glasto virgins, they trundled into the sprawling site laden with wellies and waterproofs in the firm belief that mud was the norm. Watching it on television from the cool of our drawing room, it could have been 'Reggae Sunsplash'. Indeed, seeing the sensational Stevie Wonder performing last night, just as the sun was going down, transported me back down memory lane [a trip I seem to make more and more often these days!] to being at Sunsplash in Montego Bay in Jamaica, in1981, not long after Bob Marley had died from cancer.

Rita Marley, Peter Tosh and the rest of the Wailers were bereft without their leader and we all missed him dreadfully. Sunsplash was not the same without him. Then, on the last night, just as the sun was coming up, the opening chords of 'Master Blaster' rose from the stage. There, to pay his respects and lift us all from our misery, like a vision from the Old Testament in dreadlocks, was the great Stevie Wonder himself. It was one of the greatest musical experiences of my life and I have never forgotten the sheer joy, the camaraderie, the sense of belonging and the feeling of 'one world' that such a great man evokes. It was the closest I've ever been to heaven on earth!

When we texted our daughter around midnight last night, the reply came back immediately. "I have just had the best one hour and forty five minutes of my life!" I knew exactly what she meant. Music on a grand scale is a truly collective experience. Alex Grousset, a good friend of ours, brilliant jazz percussionist and sometime drummer in my husband's old rock and roll band, 'Route 66', used to say, "When people play music together they will not fight each other." He has put this into effect by setting up a charity in Africa which provides second hand instruments to the most volatile places on that war ravaged continent and promotes inter-tribal and inter-religious harmony. Stevie Wonder knows this better than anyone and his gentle call to a better world speaks louder than any self-interested politician. Mind you, as he says, "If I wasn't blind, I'd sure kick some ass!"

I also watched Toots and The Maytals, another Sunsplash veteran, and, as they sang, 'Monkeyman', I remembered vividly Jeremiah Marks' great set at our last Blues at Bardies festival. Glastonbury it wasn't, but in it's own little way, it achieves a similar objective. Everyone dancing and singing along with Jeremiah on the last night was a sight to behold! We run it, with the help of many loyal and very hard-working friends, for everyone, friends, musicians, locals and punters alike. It is a collective, and it shows. Because we include food and booze in the ticket price, everyone shares in meals and music. And, touch wood, the sun has always shone. We are very proud of it, not least because we have had some of the UK's greatest blues players come to us, including the Matt Schofield Trio, Ian Siegal, Sonny Black, Dave Kelly and Jeremiah. It was our kids', and their friends', first experience of a music festival and one of the reasons, I'm sure, that they have all so quickly acquired their parents' music aspirations.

We are so sad not to have run it this year. Seeing Glastonbury, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia for B at B. It wasn't meant to be, I know. We were brimming with great ideas and intentions this time last year, not least in getting Ian Siegal back, but the exchange rate did for us! At, effectively, 1:1, when we emailed our list of supporters no one was prepared to commit at the time that we needed to firm up some contracts. It's totally understandable. To fly out at the most expensive time of the year, probably with children in tow, hire a car and book into the 'Eychenne' or similar is a costly exercise at a time when most people are having to cut back on household expenditure. We have always heavily subsidised the festival but even we had second thoughts about the feasability of financing it this year. We had just wanted to break even, but, sadly, it would have been impossible.

We wouldn't have been able to run it with less than 180 paying punters and, at most, I suspect we would only have made 80 to 100. Flying out all the musicians or paying astronomical French taxes on top of hefty fees, was a fixed cost we would have been committed to regardless of numbers. It was a tough decision and many people, I know, were disappointed. Watching Glasto, now that the exchange rate has improved significantly, I did wish that we had gambled a bit and gone for it. It's a funny thing in life but usually, if you want something enough, you take risks and are rewarded for your fearlessness. Not always, though, it has to be said!

As a result of our procrastination, our summer plans are very much more relaxed. Instead of charging around like a blue-arse fly, booking hotels, flights, cars, marquees, food, booze, helpers etc I am writing blogs, going to summer parties and generally enjoying the best that the sunshine has to offer. It is a strange experience because much as I love peace and quiet, I miss the razzle dazzle of music and sunshine chez nous. We will definitely do a festival in 2012, for Peter's BIG birthday. Next year, for mine, which I don't really want to broadcast too much, we may do something smaller. I've always had a hankering for 'Baroque at Bardies'! Watch this space, double dips, debt crises and potential Greek defaults permitting. We live in uncertain times, for sure, but we musn't give up without a fight. Music makes you feel good beyond the trials and tribulations of everyday life. Music and sunshine remains a heady brew and we intend to keep the alchemy going for a while yet. You can follow our progress by logging into 'bluesatbardies.net'. We hope to see you rocking with us again very soon! A bientot.

Thirty Five Tons of Gravel and a Solitary Beehive

2010-06-20T13:08:00.001-07:00

I cannot believe that so much time has flown by since my last posting - ever thus it was at this time of year. Like everyone living with a garden in a temperate climate, and many in less hospitable environments, the garden currently dominates our time management. Those of us with school age children also have the added anxiety of support for angst- ridden teenagers with school and college exams to contend with. The teapot has certainly taken a hammering, thankfully not the gin bottle. And then, of course, there are all those delightful summer invitations that pour into our email and letter boxes to tempt us away from our labours.

The most enchanting of them all this year was for the opening night of Garsington Opera's magical 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', the most perfect opera for the Lady Ottoline Morrel's stunning garden at Garsington Manor. I know she's been dead for the best part of seventy years but her legacy lives on. The gardens were designed and constucted by Philip and Lady Ottoline Morrel between 1915 and 1926. Everywhere you walk evokes the spirit of the bygone age of the Bloomsbury set. At the entrance to the auditorium you pass Lady Ottoline's ilex tree and a liquidambar planted by King George V1 in 1926, when still Duke of York. Overbearing, pretentious and pompous many of them may have been, but you cannot begrudge them their passions, and gardening was certainly one of them.

The herb juice fuelled trysts of Hermia, Helena, Demetrius and Lysander and the marital contortions of Tytania and Oberon could easily mirror the libidinous activities of that extraordinary group of supremely talented people. There are certainly plenty of hidden niches around the Italian garden to share with statues of Amphora, Venus, Daphne, Cupid, Pluto and Apollo, amongst others. And then there are the borders, filled with the most spectacular array of quintessentially English summer flowers, the wild garden and the lofty regimental box's of the lower garden to admire and covet. Not since Charleston and Sissinghurst have I been so inspired in my plans for Bardies. When the subsidiary barn is finally knocked down I intend to make an Italian garden within the retaining walls. We can but dream....

Sadly, I am no Ottoline, Vita or Vanessa but, fortunately for me, I do not have to be. Our French predecessors at Bardies had their own vision for the garden. Our box hedges are formal and square, unlike the quirky conical specimens at Garsington, but they too define the structure of the garden. All we have to do is work within them. This year, with the help of the wonderfully talented Pascal and Sarah, we began to remove the all-invading 'hypericum' in an attempt to create new summer borders. Poor Sarah has had nightmares over it all because of the vagaries of the weather and because much of the new border has been grown from seed. It has been designed to provide summer flowers for the house, as well to feast the eye whilst dining under the lime tree. We have also begun a new rose and clematis walkway, helped by my darling baby brother who shovelled out all the rocks by hand in the pouring rain. Each year we plan to do a different section until this magical garden is fully restored to its former glory.

Germaine's 'tilleul' [lime tree], planted in 1912 to celebrate her birth, has been brutally battered by the snows and winds of this last, hard winter. The weight of snow in the centre has left it seriously mutilated. Fortunately, Simone's tree, planted the following year in 1913, survived with little structural damage. Monsieur Mangan, who last amputated it in 1995, has his surgeon's instruments at hand to come in July, once the 'florissante' has finished. He assures me that there will still be enough shade below but the surgery, I suspect, will be drastic. We have also lost the eucalyptus by the pool, the price of being a non-native evergreen genetically incapable of dealing with our harsh Ariegois winters. Global warming continues to play its tricks, and never more so than this spring when 30 degree temperatures were immediately followed by heavy snowfalls. The farmers are at their wit's end.

The seasons alter: the spring, the summer,
The chiding autumn, the angry winter change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which;

[from Benjamin Britten's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', libretto adapted from Shakespeare by Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears]

We have laid two new areas of lawn [well, Pascal has!] and we have our fingers crossed. The top one is looking good and the pool area is coming on too [having paid the price in the past for shortcuts with turf around the pool]. It had to be done. Next year we will do the top lawn, not least because the plumber has just ploughed a trench right through the middle of it to re-install the pool's water top-up system, mysteriously cut off many years ago. The wanton destruction of the lawn made me cry, but at least I am now motivated to completely reseed it in the autumn. The pool rockery has been augmented and with the recent rainfall, is now full of flowers. Our experiments with alpines are paying off. A radical new step has been the laying of thirty five tons of gravel along the paths and below the two 'tilleuls'. It has given the garden a completely different, more 'tidy', look but hopefully it will have the additional benefit of retaining much needed moisture. Poor Lawrence and Florian did a stirling job with the wheelbarrow.

Beth Chatto's influence and vision creeps up on all of us as we battle on with weeks, or months, of little rainfall. Things have been so bad in recent years that the water 'citerne' has become redundant in July and August. Water is horrendously expensive here and, in any event, we have a duty to try to preserve it, especially as our neighbouring department, the Aude, regularly has water bans. Being so close to the Pyrenees, we have to date avoided such drastic measures, which not only destroy months of work in the garden but also render swimming pools useless because it is forbidden to top them up.

Meanwhile, tragically, our bees seem to have succumbed to a mystery malaise. In every previous year they have thrived here, pollinating our 'tilleuls' and borders, as well as our wild flowers in the meadows, throughout the summer. Frederic, the bee man, is at a loss as to the reason so many of them have died, scattered in droves in the dormitory. On examination, they appear healthy but they are most definitely deceased. The only explanation seems to be the heatwave that preceded May's unseasonal snowfall. There was a hive under the pantiles, now empty, and he is sure that the heat below the terracotta must have created an environment close to a 'tagine'. Horrifically, they must have been baked to death and swarmed too late to recover. We wait to see if they will return to a new home, in a proper hive placed on top of the tiles on the garage.

We all have a duty to preserve the bee population and I can't bear to think of their permanent demise at Bardies. Like many people, I used to be frightened of them, not least because my sister-in-law and nephew both have to carry 'epi-pens' for fear of being stung and succumbing to encephalitic shock. In reality, bees seldom sting. Now I see them as our friends, part of our future and the future of our delicate world. Our solitary beehive is a beacon to the future. If they return, it will be more than an omen. It will be the start of a new adventure for us, with the help of Frederic. There used to be hives here and our predecessors produced their own honey. There is no reason to suppose that we cannot do the same. Honey from Bardies sounds like nectar from heaven - we await their return with bated breath.

Blog Not At Bardies

2010-04-19T12:36:00.000-07:00

Oh well, I suppose it was inevitable that Iceland and Mother Nature would seek revenge for past injustices. I was already feeling slightly guilty about hopping on yet another Easyjet flight to Toulouse from Bristol, 'sans famille' this time, so soon after our Easter sojourn, when the news came through. The glacier topped Mount Unpronounceable, aka Eyjafjallajokull, had decided to wreak havoc on the travelling public just as the Easter vacation was ending. Our lust for exotic holidays and city breaks, with no thought of any consequences other than a delayed take-off slot, left many of us stranded in airport lounges whilst volcanic ash, steam and dust blocked our incoming flightpaths more effectively than any potential terrorist outrage.

I count myself as one of the lucky ones. My journey originated just an hour's train ride from my home and it was easy enough to follow updates on Easyjet's website from the comfort of my study. Friends and family are scattered around the globe wondering how they are going to get back to work, school and important exams. My hairdresser's 9.00 am appointment last Friday had to be cancelled because his client's flight into Heathrow from Vancouver had been turned round half way. No late cancellation fee there then! Some friends are stuck in Val d'Isere [tough?], another on the floor of Bangkok Airport [seriously tough!]. The stories are fast becoming apocryphal and many of us will dine out on them for months.

As I unpacked my packets of seed and summer bulbs this morning, which I had set my heart on planting, and the two metres of crisp blue and white linen with which I was going to make a Roman blind for the kitchen, I felt decidedly uneasy. The weekend papers had been full of doom and gloom, especially the more serious analyses focussing on the likelihood of Mount Katia exploding into life and dwarfing anything we have seen from her little sister. Even these articles, though, seemed tame compared with the predictions of the father of Gaia theory, James Lovelock, shown as part of BBC 4's enlightening 'Beautiful Minds' series.

James Lovelock is now a gentle, kindly ninety year old with a mind as razor sharp as ever. He talks softly, like a benevolent great uncle dispensing toffee caramels. He is mesmerising. But what he has to say is more terrifying than anything anyone else has said on the subject of climate change. It is, as far as he is concerned, completely irreversible. Nothing any of us chooses to do will make the blindest bit of difference to the inevitable outcome. We are doomed. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are riding out in full regalia and they are closer to our tails than any one of us is prepared to acknowledge. In short, the great Sir James Lovelock thinks that we have ten years grace, possibly a little longer with a good wind behind us. 'Shock and Awe'? We ain't seen nothin' yet! Famine, water shortages, war, death, there was not a single cheery word in the whole interview. At most, a mere billion of us will survive. How depressing is that?

I looked for some degree of comfort from the fact that he would say that, wouldn't he? After all, he is ninety years old. His life's work is done and he can afford to make a mistake now. But no, he knocked that one on the head by saying that he was a great grandfather who fears dreadfully for the youngest members of his family. Like the rest of us, he fears for his children's children. His life's work has been about the interconnectedness of every aspect of nature. We have been shown the warning signs, the breakdown that has occurred, and now it is too late. We are looking at catastophe beyond our comprehension. Perhaps, methinks, the power and wrath of Eyjafjallajokull is a metaphor for what is to come?

So today, as I took Charlie, our dog, for a walk by the river at Laverstock, I was struck by how beautiful it all was. The ducks and drakes were swimming along with their baby ducklings in tow, with not a care in the world beyond the needs of new parenthood. The sun was shining through the trees, a little too hazily for my liking [was that an ash cloud dispersing above me?] and the birds fluttered overhead, not daring to come any closer because of Charlie's eager presence. Wild daffodil and narcissi were hanging on to their beautiful trumpets for just a little while longer. I wished I'd had a basket for the new nettle shoots, which will make a great spring soup or wild weed pie. Life was beautiful. Everything was beautiful.

And then I thought, 'Bugger Lovelock!' He may well be right. Then again he may not. 'Que sera, sera'. I'm not going to let him spoil my joy in the world. Hope springs eternal and all that. I vowed to live each day as if it were the world's last. We must all strive to do our utmost to preserve what we have, to love, protect and cherish it and to give thanks for the simple joys of life. If each of us changes the way we look at the world, if we stop taking it for granted and try to give back more than we take out, then maybe, just maybe, enough of us will survive to ensure that we will have a future. I must not fly! I must not fly! I must not fly!

A Dance to the Music of Time

2010-04-04T02:48:00.000-07:00

Is it really two months since I scribbled my last blog? I cannot quite believe that the snow has come and gone, leaving battered pantiles and a hole in the roof, and that the daffodils and narcissi are now semi-deceased. To be fair, they have hung on to their short spring flowerings for rather longer than usual because it's still pretty nippy around here at night. Our local ski resort, Guzet Neige, has no snow so there are no excuses for not getting on with the all those horrid jobs that the winter's hibernation and closed shutters has hidden from view these past six months. Out of the cupboard have come mops, buckets, brooms, sundry tins of emulsion and oil paints, and a long handled implement 'pour oter les araignees' [grovelling apologies for not having worked out how to accent my typescript, and on a blog about France, too!]. I'm sweeping out the cobwebs in more ways than one!

I have spoken before about the rhythm of life here, which I guess is much the same in the Welsh mountains, or the Highlands of Scotland, as it is in the Jura, the Massif Central or the Pyrenees. The long dark nights of winter, with only moonlight and the stars to guide one, limited both one's desire to venture too far afield and also one's ability to do so. Provisions were laid down for the lean times that followed Christmas. In my case, much of my pantry's contents has come from Intermarche or are left over from my big Waitrose pre-Christmas, pre-family's arrival, festive shop. I did, however, make a pear and ginger chutney, a beetroot and ginger chutney [I love the fire of ginger in winter!], a Christmas chutney, jars of piccalilli, some figs in vodka [more fire in the belly!] a Christmas cake and some chilli jam [Hot! Hot! Hot!]. We are still chomping our way through this eclectic collection of leftovers and, I have to say, there is nothing quite like a small slab of Christmas cake with one's 'cafe au lait' or even a 'tranche' of post prandial Roquefort.

It's a creative leap to find uses for mixed peel and dried fruit long after the Christmas Tree Fairy has been dispatched back to her 350 odd night's annual beauty sleep. But, surprise, surprise, I finally cottoned on to a use for them, courtesy of my old friend, the master baker and Bath cookery school owner, Richard Bertinet. A fortnight before Easter there appeared in my inbox, like manna from heaven, Richard's scrumptious recipe for hot cross buns. I have never been able to find hot cross buns here in the Ariege, so first thing on Good Friday morning, and for the first time in my life, I actually made them, cross and all! I had to change the recipe a little, because I needed to use up some dried cranberries lurking behind a surplus Christmas pudding but, I have to boast, they were rather good straight out of the oven and dripping with 'beurre d'Isigny'.

Then later, like our predecessors here, long before us, we even had a big bonfire to get rid of the garden rubbish, which had lain lost under a weight of snow through most of the winter. Why is it that it always looks as though one's garden has been stolen at this time of year? Bonfires are as much a part of seasonal ritual as food choices, are they not? Historically, bonfires marked the two significant seasonal events of the calendar. In some areas, the fires were lit at Midsummer and at Christmas. In others, they roared into action during Carnival and Lent. All over the countryside, struggling horsemen could find their bearings by following the light from the fires on the hilltops. The fires were a celebration of new life, sprung into being at the solstice, which took on new meaning as the harbinger of fertility; of people and animals, and especially of the fields [I always think of poor Edward Woodward in 'The Wicker Man' at the rather more extreme end of such celebrations!].

This dance to the music of time existed in the days when the agricultural calendar consisted of twelve months and two seasons. Whilst the two distinct seasons still exist here deep in the Ariege, much of urban France, like the UK, has surrendered its primitive rituals to fears of pyromaniacal outbreaks in contravention of strict EU health and safety legislation. When you can buy mince pies in September and Easter eggs in January all sense of the rhythm of nature and the seasons disappears. When electric light, admittedly now much dimmer with longer lasting lightbulbs, and television maintain a uniformity of time over an individual's twenty four hour day, it's that much harder to 'go with the flow'. In Salisbury I'm as guilty as the next person, allowing my day to begin with the 'Today' programme and to end with 'Newsnight'.

As long dark, bitterly cold nights give way to light mornings and longer evenings, we look forward to the heat of summer as 'nous otons les araignees'. Today, Easter Day, is the great celebration of new life. Christianity, with its emphasis on the Ressurrection of Christ, may have highjacked much older pagan traditions but the sentiment remains. We all celebrate, well the non-vegetarians amongst us, with a leg of new season's lamb, new potatoes and, here in France, asparagus. As I write this, the meat is slowly roasting in the oven whilst my daughter waits for me to make our family speciality celebration cake, a chocolate almond torte, using up almonds left from Christmas ground fine in the food processor. Tomorrow, we shall have that most traditional meal of 'lundi de Paques', wild asparagus omelettes. And, as my darling husband has just found his father's old classical 'LP's' in a box, we shall listen to a 1960's recording of Scottish Opera's 'Der Rosenkavalier' on the newly installed, old turntable as we toast the new season. Sadly, Peter's father left us long ago, before the children, so as we listen we remember the past as well as look forward to the future. The music of time, though, will continue to play on in our hearts.

Snowdrops and Sniffles

2010-02-12T05:49:00.000-08:00

Well, the good news is that I finally got to see the wild snowdrops along the lane to Bardies, always an uplifting sight after January's post- Noel plummet into the doldrums. I nearly didn't make it because poor Ellie succumbed to a viscious winter virus that caused her to cough non-stop for over a week. The pain and exhaustion of it all left her sobbing through her sniffles, which no amount of hot chocolate and boiled eggs and soldiers could abate. Why is it that when one's child is ill, there is nothing to be done but come out in sympathy? I should be thankful, I know, that winter bugs are the stuff of normal life but the hypocondriac in me inevitably goes into overdrive. It was with a heavy heart that I left for the airport.

As I looked out of my aeroplane window half an hour or so out of Bristol, I could see that the whole of central France was still blanketed in snow. After the endless grey days of recent weeks, the sheer exhilaration of seeing the Pyrenees sparkling in snow and sunshine was just what the doctor ordered, although Bardies was bloody freezing when I arrived. Just like here, our little part of France has had the coldest 'hiver' for thirty years. I kicked myself for not having replenished the kindling nor made up the woodburners before our rapid post Christmas dash for Blagnac. Scrambling round with a torch in the stable, nervously marvelling at how bats manage to avoid one's clattering presence, is a necessary prerequisite chez nous to firing up the Jotul. I vowed next time to do this before I leave.

The bad news was that there was a huge puddle of water beside the woodburner, and an even bigger one dripping through from the floorboards above. It had even caused the cast iron to begin to rust, so it must have been dripping for a while. The really annoying thing is that we had shelled out almost nine hundred euros, to a building firm which has since gone bankrupt, to finish a re-roofing job that we had already paid for! I try to desist from moaning about French workmen because it's always the same wherever one lives. This time, though, I'm really pissed off. At huge expense, we had the roof completely redone with 'flexi-tuile' beneath the terracotta pantiles, so that if tiles slip off rainwater cannot get in. Clearly, our builders did not do their job and I stupidly paid up in good faith. No wonder they went bankrupt! You can only piss punters like us off so many times before people twig what's going on. Unfortunately, the parcel stopped with us, 'caveat emptor' and all that.

Our insurer, to whom we pay the equivalent of a five star Caribbean winter holiday each year, says that we are not covered for roof damage. To be fair to him, it was pitch dark when he came, so it was impossible to tell whether 'la fuite' was caused by the weight of recent heavy snowfalls or from negligence by our recalcitrant builders. For all I know, it was caused by residual damage from the 'tempete' of last winter, for which we didn't claim either. I am resigned to being stuffed. My big worry is ongoing damage. The water has already flooded through the cupboard in which I store my spare pillows and duvets, and damaged the armoire doors in the process. It all smells disgusting! 'Une catastrophe' indeed, but inevitably part of our peripatetic existence.

Meanwhile, in the garden, the miniature 'tete a tetes' are poking their shoots up already. We only discovered a whole spread of them when we hacked back a mass of hypericum a few years ago. As 'Paques' approaches they are always a thrilling sight, presaging painted, blown Easter eggs, chocolate cake, wild asparagus spears and the new season's lamb. We have always celebrated Easter 'en France' and it remains one of the great joys of the family calendar. I love to fill the house with yellow daffodils and blue hyacinths and enjoy the opportunity to lunch on the terrace, warmly wrapped up, with snow on the mountain tops in the far distance. I know that it is still weeks away, but the anticipation is mounting already. This year, for a change, we may try to fit in some skiing in the high Pyrenees beforehand, one of the upsides of a long, bitterly cold winter here.

The garden has been very much on my mind of late, indeed one of the principal reasons for this stolen visit. Pascal et Pascal finally removed the warped and redundant tree and the space below is suddenly full of light. We have an old iron pergola there, over which have sullenly slumped some ancient, pale 'grimpant' roses for many years. I already detect signs of new life and I am looking forward to their renaissance this year. The border, sadly neglected in the shade for so long and strangled with hypericum, is about to be completely rejuvenated with a dashing new planting scheme, worthy of the late, great Christopher Lloyd himself. We are saving the vibrant red/yellow summer hues for the pool planting scheme, complete with ambitious plans for cannas and bananas, and instead concentrating on soothing pinks, blues, creams and lilacs. Our plan is to work on the detail between now and the beginning of March, by which time it will be 'go,go,go!' I can't wait. Watch this space!

The pool area is to be re-planned 'a la Beth Chatto'. We have struggled for years with grass, always unhappy with too much relentless heat and the salt water from the swimming pool. Now, 'finalement', we are going to have a go at a gravel garden. The reality of climate change has impacted even on our little micro climate. We do get significant rain in the summer still, but the unpredictability of it can cause us to lose plants much more quickly than in the past. Now, it is not unknown for it to rain for days on end in July or August, just when all one's relatives have arrived laden with suncream, shorts and sunhats, and then, when they have disappeared off home disgruntled, for it to metamorphose into a mini 'canicule'. Nowadays, we simply never know. If such unpredictability is bad for us, heaven knows what it's like for our struggling flora and fauna. If nothing else, gravel retains moisture, though heaven help us if it gets into the delicate pool filtration system.

The missing water supply to the pool still remains a mystery worthy of Agatha Christie herself. Karl, our extremely able 'plombier', has found all the pipework, which we had always known was there. When the pool was installed ten years ago, there was running water all the way from the house, fed by newly installed pipework channelled below the garden path. By the time we came to use the pool that first summer of operation, it had mysteriously disappeared, cut off somewhere en route. We have never been able to establish the reason, nor could our architect. We are now seriously beginning to believe that it was an act of sabotage by someone with a grudge against our architect, though, for what reason, we cannot begin to hazard a guess. Meanwhile, a hose is our only supply, which is far from ideal. We persevere.

It has been strange being totally alone here, with ghostly echoes of Christmas past at every turn. If I close my eyes, I hear the children's laughter, their music, their TV shows and videos. I see my family around the dining room table, Peter carving at the head. I see Richard and Jasmine at the piano, playing Tchaikovsky and Chopin, Julia and the girls with their guitar and violins, playing and singing carols, Peter on his guitar playing blues, Tessa helping me in the kitchen, Grandma looking benignly on. And behind them are the legions of our predecessors, celebrating Noel in their own unique way, like us but different. We are a small part of a very long chain, like the snowdrops in the hedgerow and the tete a tetes in the garden. Snowdrops and sniffles are just a small part of the continuum of human existence, are they not?

Nuns, Niqabs and Nightmares

2010-01-28T14:05:00.000-08:00

OK, I know I'm about to wade in where angels fear to tread but those of you that know me knew that I would, didn't you? One of my biggest problems in life is that I just can't keep my mouth shut, especially where issues of justice and fairness are concerned. This week we are observing Holocaust Memorial Day, a very important jolt to the senses every year, I always think, and never more so than today, which is the 65th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau by the Russians. Those of you that read my 'Wilcommen, Bienvenue, Welcome' blog some months ago will know how moved we all were by out trip to Auschwitz in December 2007. I defy anyone to go there and not think 'there but the grace of God'.

As a history student in the days before colour television was invented [only joking!], I found myself forever pondering how one of the most civilised and cultured nations could have acquiesed to such a load of racist bunkum. We cannot lay the blame on the Wagnerian images of blond, Aryan, blue eyed and supernatural beings of German mythology. No, the road to 'The Final Solution to the Jewish Question' was perpetrated in little more than an hour by Reinhard Heydrich and his fellow Nazi and SS leaders at the Wannsee Conference, held on the outskirts of Berlin, in 1942. Certainly, many horrific atrocities preceded this event but it was only in 1942 that one of the greatest crimes against humanity was validated.

In between the first performance of 'Das Rheingold' in Munich on September 22nd 1869, the prologue to Wagner's vast operatic trilogy, 'Der Ring des Nibelungen', and the Wannsee Conference on January 20th 1942, there was a constant 'drip, drip' of anti-Semitism. It is easy to see with hindsight how miniscule, unattributed stabs gradually cut away at the very fabric that bound German society together. The cuts became tears, and then slashes, until eventually whole swathes of the German population had been torn completely into redundant and disposable pieces. It was not long before the exercise was repeated throughout the rest of Europe. How could it have happened? The question is as pertinent today as it ever was.

But it could not possibly happen again, I hear you say, and please God, you are right. Carly Whyborn, chief executive officer of the Holocaust Memorial Day Trust said this week,"Britain is not Nazi Germany in the 1930's. It is not Pol Pot's Cambodia. But on Holocaust Memorial Day we can pause to look at how we treat those around us. We can all make the choice to challenge exclusion when we see it happening - we can choose to stop using language that dehumanises others and we can stop our friends and family from dehumanising and excluding others." Martin Stern, a Dutch survivor of Theresienstadt, says, "we won't solve the problem by UN resolutions on genocide. The only hope is that in the future every child in the world should be educated to immunise it against the tendency to hate others and to regard others as inferior."

Yet in the same week that we publicly remind ourselves of the lessons from our immediate history, France decides to recommend a total ban on Muslim women wearing the niqab, the full veil, in public places. I may be missing something but, as I understand it, the percentage of women donning such attractive and enticing attire is less than 0.1% of France's total Muslim population. I mean, after all, how many women would voluntarily opt for such incarceration. I may be opening myself to a massive deluge of hate mail but, really, it strikes me that the bulk of these women who say that it is their choice are educated, smart, sassy women, with a chip on their shoulder and the Islamic equivalent of two fingers up to Sarkozy's all -controlling state. Just who is the proponent of free and unfettered choice here?

The niqab is a cultural relic from the middle east. Saudi Arabia, with its Wahabi brand of extreme and anti feminist Islam, is the great perpetrator of such illiberal dress codes. Women do not have a choice there about not wearing it, any more than women in France will soon have a choice about whether they can choose to wear it and keep their jobs or claim their benefits. The big difference is that Saudi women have no choice and are therefore no real threat to the social order. French women do have a choice and, as a consequence, are seen to threaten the status quo. These women, many it has to be said, who are converts, flaunt their veils voluntarily, and that is their crime. Historically, none of us really cared about the veil when women were kept quiet behind closed doors, least of all the likes of men obsessed with beautiful and alluring women, like Nicolas Sarkozy.

Why is it always the women who are made the scapegoats in these power games? And now, as if some great practical joke has been played on the women of Afghanistan, Gordon Brown and Hamid Karzai are talking about making deals with deeply dodgy members of the Taliban, with appalling human rights records, and bringing them into the so-called democratic political process. It beggars belief. We pussyfoot around, making daft and wildly inaccurate speculation about the chosen attire of women in our own privileged communities, whilst we sell out our sisters to help exit a war we never wanted in the first place. With the Taliban back in town, the genie has sure as hell been let out of the bottle now. My heart goes out to the women of that beautiful and beleaguered country.

My own views on the veil are somewhat coloured by my education at the hands of Ursuline nuns. They had a very nice line in wimples, and there is not, as far as I can see, very much difference. They were certainly de-sexualised, permanently, as it happens, because of their vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Not much difference there then. In fact, the headmistress of my school, a six footer in stockinged feet, called Sister Philip, bore a striking resemblance to the late, great Peter Cook in 'Bedazzled'. When you have grown up with women clad from head to toe in black, you do not fear them in the least. In all truthfulness, I can't say that the issue of what women wear, however long or short, high-necked or low cut, black or white has ever really bothered me in the slightest. Surely, after all, that is one of the privileges of living in a free society? Whilst I would not relish my daughter adopting the tattoos and piercings of a Goth, I don't honestly think that it would justify throwing her out of the house.

With my own children I have always worked on the principle that if you say, "Yes, Darling, you look wonderful," and try your very best not to show any emotion in your face, as your eyes widen to the size of saucers, they usually tire of the desire to shock. Often, I found, threatening to adopt a fashion vaguely similar did the trick, particularly when tattoos were being considered. My big fear for the young women of France is that this very cowardly and silly recommendation will encourage droves of young Muslim women to make a stand. It would not be unreasonable, after all, to stand up for one's rights. We've all done it when we've felt we've been cornered. It's a natural human response. When I was young I did things that I'm now ashamed of, purely out of sheer bloody-mindedness. Why do we suppose young Muslim women are any different?

But, I guess, that's the real point. We do think that they are different. We do, somehow, and by proxy, think that we know what's best for them. We think that they are a threat to the very foundation of our liberal state. We think that it is the stuff of nightmares, the beginning of the rolling back of everything that we hold most dear. They, I suspect, think they are the height of edgy chic, the Islamic equivalent of punk or grunge. They strut their stuff with pride, especially on the smartest shopping streets in Paris and London. It identifies and radicalises them. It gives their lives meaning. It empowers them rather than subjugates them. In short, their niqabs are the very antithesis of everything we believe them to be.

I have listened to smart, young, giggling girls, swathed in black from head to toe, in Whiteley's or Selfridge's, and I promise you their conversation is the chat of all young women. I am sure that the same conversations are heard by other women every day in Lafayette and Bon Marche. "Shall I take the red or the black?" is a question about shoes, not cables. They are not a threat to us. I have no doubt that they are much more of a threat to their potentially militant brothers. They have made a choice, and they are proud of it. We should leave them be. We should stop this 'drip, drip' of cultural superiority right now and concentrate on the lessons of Holocaust Memorial Day. We owe it to our children.

I Love Paris Anytime

2010-01-22T10:28:00.000-08:00

Just when I was beginning to feel those winter blues creeping up on me, despite a good effort on the work front, a friend rang to suggest meeting up in Paris for some serious R and R. Well, what can a girl say? Bien-sur! I wouldn't have passed up the opportunity for the patisserie in Paris and a few days indulging my love of art for all the cheap offers on Easyjet. Indeed, it was the best of all possible worlds. I was able to meet up with my darling friend, Caroline, by train - she arriving at Montparnasse from Toulouse, me at Gare du Nord from London. Our little group was complete when Carole flew in from Bristol with her two very beautiful and utterly delightful daughters.

Spending time with young people always lifts the spirits, particularly when they laugh at your jokes and don't treat you like the geriatric that you know you are not that far off becoming. Holly, who is 25, is a History of Art student at Bristol University and passionate about her subject. Rosie, a mere 21, is an art student and loving all that that entails. Their mother owns a fabulous contemporary art gallery in Clifton, which shows Caroline's eclectic work amongst others of the great and the good, including Terry Fost and Patrick Caulfield. I was the joker in the pack, with merely a desire to be an 'artist', but probably rather more of the liquid variety!

We found our 'appartement' through my good friend and Caroline's sister-in-law, Inez Sarramon, who had borrowed it on our behalf from a male friend, who is away from some months in Argentina. It was fabulous, and not just because it was in the Marais, in the 4th Arrondisement, which is one of the most prestigious addresses in Paris. It was a penthouse flat with double patio doors and balconies on three sides, looking out in every direction. To the south-east, to the blue tubes and red and white cubes of the Pompidou Centre, to the east, to the Gothic church of St Gervais, to the north east, to the grande dame of Paris, Notre Dame, lit up in remembrance of its central place in the city's history, and to the north, the blue-white, shimmering dome of Sacre Coeur. It was too muggy and misty to see Montmartre, but through the haze we could just make out the line of the Eifel Tower. Location! Location! Location, indeed!

The owner, like many artistic and cultured gay men, is a man of exquisite and cosmopolitan taste. Everywhere one looked was a feast for the eye. There is a terrace covered in terracotta pots filled with greenery which, even in winter, were luscious and thriving. Amongst them, wherever one's eye alighted, were artefacts from around the world. Heads, masks, lanterns, candleholders and sculptures were displayed in their full glory and it was so very sad that the weather prevented us from sitting out and savouring their presence, alongside the fabulous views. The youngsters, however, made the most of the exterior space in their almost hourly requirement for a nicotine fix.

Inside, the art was to die for! Having detested my mother's penchant for snazzy 50's furniture when I was growing up, chucking out lovely Victorian pieces in the process, I have never understood the collector's obsession with that period. Not now! I am totally and utterly converted, for to see it laid out in minimal style and surrounded by contemporary art and beautiful things, it was a joy to behold. Against a background of plain white walls, the elegant, simple lines of simply curved veneered furniture works perfectly with contemporary style. Hugo's collection, from his multifarious trips abroad, of amazing cosmopolitan pieces, could not possibly have been shown off to better effect. In my bedroom, there was even the most fantastic collection of black and white photographs, mainly of men, engaged in sports ranging from boxing to gymnastics. I could have died a happy woman there and then.

After dinner chez nous, [from an afternoon's food shopping indulgence, prosciutto, a morel fettucine, followed by a walnut, Roquefort and feuille de chene salad, and not one, but two, tartes aux pommes, all washed down with copious quantities of vin rouge], we were ready for bed in anticipation of some serious art observing. The next morning, it really didn't matter that the weather was grey, because in the Rodin Museum on 79 rue de Varenne, Rodin's beautiful chateau home, the natural light from the vast array of windows all around dominated the great man's life's work within. If ever a soul dominated a space, then Rodin pervaded every pore of his grand domestic interior. You could physically feel his strength of will and purpose from beyond the grave. No wonder poor little Camille Claudel, such a talented artist in her own right, was so overwhelmed. It seems to me that she was like a butterfly at the foot of a bear.

When I saw the Rodin exhibition in London, I have to confess that I was underwhelmed, despite the very great talent of his bronze founder, Alexis Rudier. We know his work so well, it is almost too prolific. We have been so saturated by images of 'The Thinker', 'The Kiss' and 'Ugolino' that we take them for granted. Mostly, we have not seen the real thing so our perception is tainted. It is the price we pay for high exposure. As a society we know more about these great men of art and their works, but we have become inured to their true value. Like music downloads, at the flick of a mouse, we can indulge our thirst for knowledge but we cannot experience the real thing. Just as a great concert gives us an insight into the personality of the performer, so the soul of an artist speaks to us through the physicality of his work. There is no substitute for the real thing.

Here, not only can we see 'The Burghers of Calais', 'The Gates of Hell' and 'The Danaid', to name but a few, in the place that he so loved and where he worked from dawn until dusk, we can also see hundreds of smaller and less well known pieces. We can see his maquettes. We can see his portraits and some of his drawings. We can walk in his garden and savour its views. In short, we can walk in the great man's steps. We can see the work of Camille Claudel too, which is beautifully and sympathetically executed and not to be underestimated. We were privileged, for currently in residence is the Rodin/Matisse exhibition. Like the Picasso/Matisse at Tate Modern, I had no idea of the relevance of a contemporaneous showing of their respective works. It is always a revelation, and this week was no exception.

Whilst Caroline favoured Rodin's drawings as far superior to the creator of 'Fauvism', I wasn't so sure. Side by side, Matisse seems much heavier handed, less sensuous [and sensual], and considerably more free with interpretation. Despite her preference, and I greatly respect her superior knowledge, I still love Matisse's drawings and would happily have them on my walls. I said to her that I felt that Matisse was a 'voyeur', looking but not touching, whereas one had the feeling that Rodin had explored every hidden nook and cranny of the models that he depicted so beautifully. This man loved women and he knew what turned them on. The sensuousness and intimacy of lovers whispers hidden sweet nothings from every sketch. He knew his power and he used it ruthlessly.

From there, after an omelette and a glass of wine, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay where, unhappily, the permanent and stunning collection of Impressionist art is temporarily housed on the ground floor whilst its permanent location is being renovated. Had I not been many times before, I would have been disappointed. Then again, maybe not, for just to see this mind-blowing collection is the highlight for me of a trip to Paris. As with the Rodin, after endless birthday cards and Athena posters, there is a danger of saturation because one feels one already knows so many of them intimately. Not so. They are alive and kicking and the biggest high this side of legal! The vibrancy, the life, the light, the colour and the narrative of these paintings is the stuff of legend. We know them because they speak to us. They tell of the lives of ordinary people, 'paysans', painters, ballet dancers, music hall girls and prostitutes, and we know them. There is Oscar Wilde, with his luminous red nose enjoying himself in the dim light of the 'Moulin Rouge', alongside the poor little flat foreheaded bronze ballet dancer, with her real tutu and cream satin ribbon, wishing for the opportunity of a new life in the 'corps de ballet'.

This is Paris. This is life. Many of the paintings depict life in other places, like Rouen, or Arles, or even Tahiti, but they belong to Paris. They are a magnificent part of the history of this great city, and we love them for it. They are its heritage, just as they are ours. Where were they when the Germans rolled in in 1940? Where did they go? What lives have they led? They speak of the resilience of this great city, for they are still here to tell us their story. I could not imagine a life without them. Like a long lost lover, every time I come here I have to run and see them. They look even more enticing in January because the world outside is so grey. And, even better, you don't have to queue to see them. There is hardly a soul around you to encroach on the pure joy of such blissful reunion. As Eurostar is full of lots of £69 special offers at present, probably because people are worried about breakdowns due to fierce weather, I would recommend you jump on a train from St Pancras International and treat yourself to the best and cheapest high in the world. I love Paris anytime, and the great advantage of January is that it's almost all yours. Go on, spoil yourself! You're worth it!

Long Nights and Lazy Days

2010-01-13T12:23:00.000-08:00

January is a quiet time for most of us. The excesses of the festive season have taken their toll and most of us feel instantly queasy at the prospect of another mince pie or piece of Christmas cake, never mind a swig of Stone's Ginger Wine or Amaretto [now unfashionably called 'Disaronno'!], or whatever secret tipple it is that you only ever indulge in over the Christmas period. We vow to give up drinking, diet and take more exercise but the crippling cold mitigates against our good intentions and we finish up behaving just as badly, only we now feel guilty about it. Next year my New Year's resolution will be to not make any New Year's resolutions until the advent of spring. I want to see buds on the trees and bulbs in full bloom before I deprive myself of life's little pleasures.

I am one of those weird, warped people that actually likes January. I love to curl up with a good book by a fire, or watch crap movies on TV, or God forbid, 'Silent Witness', after a good stew or casserole and a glass or two of a robust, preferably Languedoc, red wine. More importantly, I always find that I am inspired to work, albeit at a leisurely pace, in January. There are so few distractions to lure me away from my desktop, I give in gracefully and go to bed genuinely looking forward to getting up in the morning and getting going again. Lunch, of course, intervenes, especially when I decide to raid the vegetables in the fridge to make masses of hearty soup. Apart from the ritual of making it at the beginning of the week [stock from Sunday lunch's chicken, peeling and preparing vegetables, watching over pot etc], it's a warm and welcoming interlude in the course of a day's gentle work.

Being a natural dilettante, though, even with minimal distraction, my limited concentration wavers as the natural light begins to wane. Charlie, our Jack Russell, will not let me ignore him indefinitely. He always senses when I am beginning to tire of my labours and knows exactly how to redirect my attentions. Even if I wanted to continue writing, I couldn't. No matter what the weather, we have to head off to the riverbank and the playground where his fellow canine chums hang out. Like teenagers in jeans and sloppy sweatshirts with hoods, dogs are pack animals, for sure. The upside of being a dog 'mum' for me is that I get to meet other owners, but more importantly, that I have become much more acutely aware of the miniscule daily changes of a single season.

There is always something new to see, like a secret cosmic message, which presages the change to come. January, more than any other month, keeps itself to itself and hides its hidden treasures, like a pirate's secret map. You know that there are hidden gems, but you have to search very hard to find them. Along the lane at Bardies, one of the greatest joys of the whole year is to see the tiny, delicate, wild snowdrop bulbs pop their heads up into the cold January air. They are so fragile, their flowers can be destroyed in minutes by a hailstorm or vicious downpour. As quickly as they come up, so they disappear for the rest of the year, when they are only sleeping. They have been there for generations and their brief sojourns above ground must have warmed the hearts of so many before us.

I am sad because this year I think I shall miss them. The heavy snowfalls and perishing cold in the UK has made travelling parlous. Since we set off for Bardies on 17th December, and wrecked the car in the snow in the process, the British weather map has been more akin to an Alpine one. With airports closed on a weekly basis and Eurostar regularly getting stuck in the tunnel, for the first time that I can remember, I haven't been down to my beloved Bardies in January with my laptop in tow. Post the hard work and chaos of Christmas, I have always relished starting my year's work off with time to myself, and there is nowhere in this world more conducive to creativity than Bardies [but, hey, I'm biased!]. Tucked up in the warm, with my music, books and computer for company, I need for nothing. I could, and would, hibernate there all winter if there were no other demands on my time.

In this semi-hibernation mode, I began to muse on how other non-employees like me work. Whenever I read an obituary, I am always taken aback by how prolific so many talented people have been. It similarly occurs to me, though, that for many people maybe it just seems to be so. I heard the supremely gifted Jennifer Saunders saying on the radio the other day that she had been known to dictate new material to her young daughters, who wrote it all down in pencil and crayon, in the car on the way to a script deadline meeting. Over a whole lifetime, it matters less how much you produce as the quality of it when you finally get round to doing it. Surely for all of us, our natural instinct is to sleep the winter away?

As the scholarly Graham Robb says in his wonderful book, 'The Discovery of France', that men and women who did almost nothing for a large part of the year tend not to figure prominently in history books. "The tradition of seasonal sloth was ancient and pervasive. Entire Pyrenean villages of wood, like Bareges on the western side of the Col du Tourmalet, were abandoned to the snow and reclaimed from the avalanches in late spring. Other populations in the Alps and the Pyrenees simply entombed themselves until March or April, with a hay-loft above, a stable to one side and the mountain slope behind." According to a geographer writing in 1909, he cites, "the inhabitants re-emerge in spring, dishevelled and anaemic". He goes on to say that human hibernation was a physical and economic necessity, since lowering the metabolic rate prevented hunger from exhausting supplies.

Nineteenth century economists and bureaucrats were appalled at such idleness and, just like today, compared France's more leisurely approach to productivity to the capitalistic and competitive economy of Britain. They were even more horrified by the troglodytic dwellings of the Dordogne, the Tarn, the Loire Valley, and the limestone and sandstone belt that stretches from the Ardennes to Alsace. Thousands of people disappeared into cliff faces, caves, chalkpits or quarries dug deep below the vineyards for months on end. In Arras and other Flanders towns, one third of the population lived in 'boves', from an old French word for 'cavern', in whole cities carved into medieval quarries. Their priority was survival, not economic growth, and the impetus for trade remained social rather than economic. "Most felt safer cocooned in idleness," says Graham Robb.

Sitting here in Salisbury on a cold, snowy January night, I can see their point. With no light, power or heat, and almost no food to sustain them, they were totally at the mercy of the elements. Life underground in the sleep-inducing gloom was infinitely preferable to the hardships above. Long nights and lazy days became the norm and, by all accounts, remained so until well into the twentieth century. It seems to me to have been a much better life than that of the average British mill worker and it goes a long way towards explaining our different cultural and economic heritages. Who knows, the EU Working Time Directive may have its roots in such ancient custom and practice.

So, for now, I am making the most of this time. Gone are the usual stresses and strains and demands on my time, for the snow has given us all a sense of perspective. Things that we would have loved to have done, we have been forced, along with our cars, to abandon. Work is enjoyable because it is uninterrupted by extraneous, and usually unnecessary, considerations. Life evolves into a rhythm and we seek out and find our inner selves in the process. I would say, 'Long may it last', but I also know that its true appeal lies in its temporariness. Spring will come, gradually, and these long nights and lazy days will be no more. For then I will look back with pleasure at my uninhibited slothfulness, as I rush round to catch up with everything that must be done, and for which there is no time to wait.

On The Twelfth Day of Christmas.......

2010-01-06T12:01:00.000-08:00

Well, what a fun time we've had. I always feel so sad that Christmas finally comes to an end on 6th January. When we were children, it really did start on 24th December with the decorating of the tree and it always ended, not quite as ceremoniously, on the feast of the Epiphany. It was still a special day in the winter calendar, for the Three Kings from the Orient were jolly bringers of gifts. The taking down of the tree was a special rite, with the same distant glimmers of future light as T.S Elliot so poetically propounds in 'The Wasteland'. Of course, when we lived in Madrid 'Los Reyes' was a bigger celebration than than 'Navidad' itself. Most Spanish children had to patiently bide their time through the twelve days of Christmas before they got their presents. Thank goodness, Freddie was only a tot and Ellie just a twinkle in her dad's eye!

The market saturation of the capitalist economic model, from the moment that some enterprising young 'tanenbaum' importer spotted Prince Albert's marketing potential, until now, when Waitrose et al begin stocking their shelves before the end of September, has changed the nature of Christmas for the worse. So many people are sick to death of the whole over-indulgent business that they are treeless by the evening of the 1st January. OK, I know in Austria and Bavaria they often take their trees down to make way for the brightly coloured decorations and firework bonanzas for 'Sylvestre', but that's different, I feel. For one thing, we don't have any skiing to cheer ourselves up!

My Christmas tree has stayed put! For one thing, we had to leave it up at Bardies because we ran out of time. The poor, dead car remained behind, looking decidedly sorry for itself, as we made our own way to Blagnac and onward to Bristol on Easyjet. It wasn't easy transporting two years worth of revision books and files for my daughter's mocks by plane, nor taking our son's keyboard home which he had deemed essential for his composition assignment. Dealing with European offices of insurance companies between 18th December and 2nd January has given us an interesting insight into the EU Working Time Directive. Indeed, one excuse for their tardiness was that they had not answered their telephones because the Christmas party was in progress. I wonder just how many parties they had?

Today, finalement, Regine, my neighbour, has rung to tell me that the car has gone. A result, although poor Regine was convinced that it had been stolen. There is no snow at Bardies currently she tells us, but Regine says that it is due. Back here in Salisbury, our garden looks like Narnia. It is beautiful, but with our 4 wheel drive in transit, we are virtually immobile. The insurance company refuses to give us a replacement vehicle until the car is 'in repair', rather than abandoned awaiting transit. I will desist from putting any expletives into print, but most words required to describe this ludicrous stalemate begin with the letters 'f' and 'b'!

We have SNOW! Lots and lots of it! The last time I remember snow like this, I was twelve. What a great present for the twelfth day of Christmas, for some of us idle romantics and dilettantes anyway. I love the way the UK just gives up the ghost and gives in gracefully to the elements. Sod it, we think, instead of battling near Arctic conditions, let's just give the kids a day off school and all have some fun instead. Overnight, we all metamorphose into children again and everyone is nice to each other. We are lucky, for we live in the city. I managed to hobble in with my bruised ribs to get to the dentist for my next major dental reconstruction and pick up fresh bread, milk and vegetables on the way. Everywhere was so quiet and everyone was so kind. People seem to be rekindled with the spirit of the Blitz. Friends kindly offered to take our daughter back to school in Blandford in their 4 x 4. She, unsurprisingly, declined, having already been told by her housemistress not to risk the journey.

Many people who did decide to chance it were not so lucky. Being stuck all night on the A3 near Petersfield must have been a nightmare, and thousands are without heat and light in this perishing cold. I am in seventh heaven. We have the fire going, the remains of the ham bone from Christmas making the stock for a hearty ham and pea soup and the Aga [sorry, I've admitted my one last uncontrollable addiction!] keeping the kitchen warm and cosy. I've bought the parsnips to make Jane Grigson's curried parsnip soup for tomorrow, and the potatoes to make a big fish pie with some of the contents of the freezer. I've also got enough mince to make lasagne for the whole street! There's something about cold weather and comfort food, and bugger the waistline. Oh, and I've still got my Christmas tree lights twinkling in the icy darkness. The only blight on the horizon is that they must come down by midnight or bad luck will fall upon us. Old Catholics like me don't dare take too many chances! Happy 'Los Reyes' everyone. Only 353 days to go until the First Day of Christmas!

Food, Glorious Food!

2009-12-28T08:39:00.000-08:00

As the last of our festive stragglers disappears out of the door and the mountain of clearing up begins in earnest, and I waddle around due to the agony of seriously bruised ribs compounded by the excesses of Christmas, I find myself reflecting on the fundamental joys of Christmas 2009. Having all the family together again for one last major beanfeast, before some of the teenagers decide to disappear off to newfound friends and families in years to come, was the greatest of them. With a whole ocean and a continent dividing us, it proved to be a very precious time forging new bonds and reaffirming old ones.

The American cousins have never spent Christmas with us, despite the older ones being seventeen. Thanksgiving is the main family holiday in the States so my sister-in-law usually just has the 25th December off work. As a single 'mom' of three, she cannot afford the luxury of unpaid Christmas leave, so the choice inevitably is between a summer holiday or an expensive Christmas trip. The airlines know that they have their Christmas pricing policy sussed! The double whammy of using up your precious holiday leave [never generous in the USA at the best of times!] and paying an arm and a leg to bring four full fare 'adults' across the pond mitigates against everyone being together. So this year was indeed something special.

Having Christmas at Bardies, en famille, then was the icing on the cake [which I only just managed to finish moments before they all came through the door!]. I even managed to make a 'stollen' this year too! We had a few anxious moments as we read and saw the horrendous holiday disruption being reported on the evening news but, remarkably, everyone made it with the minimum of delays. One brother-in-law flew from Dresden, via Schipol, the other drove down after taking an overnight crossing to St Malo with his family. My sister-in-law drove over the mountains from Heidlberg in a rental car because her own car had given up the ghost battling snow drifts in southern Germany. My mother-in-law made it from Kent to Gatwick in thick snow to meet up with my other sister-in-law and her children, who had had the good sense to take the Gatwick Express from London. And Easyjet didn't let them down either. A miracle indeed.

We started as we meant to go on, with a huge lasagne brought down from Chiswick by my sister-in-law in a freezer bag, still frozen because the weather en route had been so cold followed by a warming panetone bread and butter pudding, made with lashings of extra butter, cream and dried fruit. Nineteen around the table was a hoot and the logistics of serving everyone were helped by some deft changes to our kitchen layout - turning my workbench into a serving 'counter' was a stroke of genius, even if I say so myself! The kids, at first a little reticent with each other, and with us, warmed up as the evening progressed. By the end of it they didn't seem too daunted at the prospect of sharing rooms of six and five respectively, one sure way of getting to know one another pretty rapidly.

Christmas Eve got off to a cracking start with a solo performance on the piano of 'The Nutcracker', complete with narration and props, by my brother-in-law. I should really qualify this by saying that, as an ex Opera House Director of Music and Conductor, he does it for a living, giving solo pre-performance talks of all the major operas at the Berlin, Dresden and Leipzig opera. He has always struggled with his sight but, now, tragically, like Beethoven he has lost his hearing, torture indeed for a brilliant musician. He has his own little business now, which is much in demand, so we get personalised performances whenever he is with us. The kids will never look at the 'Nutcracker' in quite the same way again.

As we quaffed smoked salmon blinis [the blinis freshly prepared by one sister-in-law], sausage rolls [from the freezer cabinet of 'Les Mousquetaires', but surprisingly good], warmed mince pies [from Waitrose, of course!] and [pretentious or what!] 'Bellinis' [made the quick way a la recette de Jamie Oliver], we continued with carols in front of the Christmas Tree. As more alcohol was consumed, the quality of the singing deteriorated in inverse proportion. We might even have got onto 60's pop songs if we hadn't called time! I had made a huge fish pie during the afternoon so we were able to stagger into dinner without too much extra work. This was followed by Nigella Lawson's divine Clementine cake [actually, it was mine but you know what I mean!]. It was such a shame, though, that we managed to get the times of the Midnight Mass in the Cathedral in St Lizier wrong because the French go in for early starts and 'minuit' is pretty much the finale.

For Christmas Day, in true French style, we had capons, which were absolutely delicious. We started with some of Caroline's 'mi-cuit' foie gras [this is France!] and brioche, followed by the capons with all the usual trimmings. I had had the good sense to bring fresh cranberries with me to make a cranberry, port and orange relish. I had also brought vacuum packed chestnuts to make the stuffing because I have never seen any chestnut trees around us. The 'pigs in blankets' had been brought down especially from Marks and Spencer's in Chiswick because my fifteen-year-old daughter had been adamant that it wouldn't be Christmas without them. We even found Brussels sprouts locally, at the third attempt, which is more than many managed in the UK I gather. Sadly there were no parsnips to be found in a twenty kilometre radius, but with mounds of roast potatoes and honey glazed carrots, though, I don't think that anyone noticed.

The bread sauce I made with my own bread, because my darling mother-in-law had bought me a Panasonic bread machine a few years ago for my birthday "just in case you have a crowd, Lola, and can't get to the shops". Brilliant for times of mass catering like this, when the idea of slicing crusts off the round edges of baguettes is just a little too daunting. My mother-in-law had also made her legendary Christmas Pudding, which we served with creamy rum sauce from the family Father Christmas Toby jug [promised in her will to my sister-in-law in San Francisco!]. By the end of it, we were well and truly ready for the Christmas present unwrapping fracas, interrupted midway by the teenagers' urgent need to see the Christmas 'Doctor Who' special, which by all accounts was well below par. We finally got to bed, deliciously over indulged but thoroughly content, at 4.00am!

Boxing Day brought home baked muffins followed by much needed walks in the winter sunshine and trips to St Lizier and St Girons. For lunch, we had a whole leg of organic unsmoked ham, lovingly prepared by my sister-in-law and driven down, with festive coleslaw, home-made soup, baked potatoes, antipasti and salad, and the most divine cheese from Madame Gilbert in St Girons. A French 'fromagier' will never sell you a cheese which is anything other than perfectly ripe for the occasion. We had Brie, Camembert, and four different types of chevre and even the teenagers demolished platefuls saying that they had never tasted cheese so good. I had brought a Stilton with me but it remained unopened. Somehow it didn't seem quite right.

So now we're consuming all the delicious leftovers. We waved the German cousins off with sandwiches of Madame Gilbert's Brie and ham, mince pies, left over chocolate cake and fresh fruit for their long trek home. Those destined for Blagnac didn't need a packed lunch, sadly. It all seems to have gone so quickly, like Clara's 'Nutcracker' dream. The house is quiet, but ours again. We miss everyone terribly but it's nice to be just four. We talk and chat and curl up with new DVD's. We loved 'Milk' and 'Benjamin Button' especially, the first time that I've sat down in over a week.

Even the leftovers taste great. Last night we finished the fish pie and clementine cake. Today we had smoked salmon and cheese for lunch. Tonight it's ham and eggs with the remains of the 'leek gratin', followed by leftover bread and butter pudding. We seem to have eaten our way through the Christmas cookies [Nigella, again!], the chocolate orange muffins [Darina Allen] and the delicious stollen brought from Dresden by my brother-in-law, as well as the Christmas 'lebkuchen' brought from Heidlberg by the German contingent. Needless to say, the Christmas cake [mine!] and the big chocolate panetone [Carluccio's] haven't been touched. I wonder why? We are all stuffed after a festive feast of food, glorious food, that's why! The diet starts on 1st January!

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow

2009-12-23T23:20:00.000-08:00

Unbelievably pour moi, it's a whole month since I managed a posting. The last week of November and these mad, crazy three December weeks before Christmas have been fuddled in a haze of dental pain and, now, bruised ribs and a badly bashed big toe. Oh, woe is me! I am rapidly realising, the closer I get to my free bus pass, that after a certain age everything starts to wear out! First it was my eyes. Nowadays, I can't see a bloody thing without +3.0 glasses, which I seem to lose faster than Boots manage to restock them [obviously, my brain is going the same way too!]. Now, it's my teeth. There is no pain as debilitating as major tooth ache and two root canals and a shedload of painkillers and anitibiotics later, I am finally back on track for the festive frivolities.

The bruised ribs and blackened toe, however, are a more recent acquisition. There we were feeling thoroughly smug with ourselves that we had got through 'le Tunnel' with a mere two hour delay [at the time we couldn't understand why the sign said that this was due to winter conditions - little did we know!]. Once we got into France, it was like Narnia, only with HGV's and other more modern vehicles. The snow was falling in large flakes on the autoroute all the way to Rouen but the road remained open, despite the Arctic conditions. The gritters and 'saliers' had been out in abundance and it was apparent immediately that this is what the French get in return for their decidedly hefty taxes.

We managed to get as far as Orleans, by which time we had decided that the snow was becoming too icy and treacherous to push our luck too far. Safely tucked up in our functional, corporate designed Novotel bedroom after the obligatory steak/frites dinner, we turned on the TV. The full scale of the carnage on the French roads became apparent. People were stranded in their cars everywhere, but especially to the east in Alsace. The gods were certainly with us. After a couple of centimetres of overnight snowfall, we set off the following morning with no idea what to expect on the autoroute. It was deserted. The road was clear, every illuminated sign announced that 'saliage' was in progress and we were amazed at how easy it all was.

The oddest thing of all was driving along a French motorway with no trucks. We couldn't understand what was going on. Had we missed something? Was there a 'greve'? Eventually, on the opposite carriageway we saw a huge line of lorries parked along the hard shoulder. We ploughed on, puzzled. Then, near Limoges, we saw a similar line of stationary trucks lined up on our carriageway, topped and tailed with gendarmes. Perhaps they had become stranded during the night? Finally, the mystery was solved when we were directed off the autoroute into what appeared to be a deviation. Our hearts sank, thinking that our 'bon chance' had finally run its course.

Then, as we reached the roundabout, more trucks materialised and we assumed that there had been an accident. But, no, to our utter amazement it rapidly transpired that the gendarmes had closed the motorway simply to take any stray trucks off it. We were allowed back on, along with the few other passenger vehicles, to continue our journey. In order to keep traffic flowing and reduce the risk of accidents, the French traffic police had decided to transfer all the HGV's to the 'routes nationales'. Great for us, but a bugger for them. It made me think of my friend Caroline de Roquette, who makes divine fresh 'mi-cuit' foie gras, losing tens of thousands of euros worth of stock during a lorry drivers' dispute in the run-up to Christmas a few years ago. Perishable goods wait for noone.

We got safely all the way to the tiny 'hameau' of Gavats, less than a kilometre from the house, where we turn left to begin the climb up to us. As we turned left, we slid down the slope and, with the heavy weight of ten tons of Christmas stuff, swerved uncontrollably into the side of a neighbour's house. Unsurprisingly, the wall won, but in the process my slackened seatbelt didn't engage fast enough and the impact well and truly took the stuffing out of me! Thankfully, we weren't going too fast but, my God, it hurt. And, just to compound my injuries, as I was thrown back my legs lifted off the floor and my right toe took the brunt of the momentum. You couldn't make it up! It was the stuff of 'Live at the Apollo'.

Determined to unpack the mountains of stuff in the boot and roof rack, we managed to hobble up the hill with no seatbelts and a badly bashed in driver's wing, with me moaning and groaning all the way. Home at last - to no heating and no hot water! It's everyone's worst nightmare. It had been turned on for us by a friend the day before but something had seriously malfunctioned. I rang our heating engineer, only to find that the office would be closed until 28th December. Then, I rang his mobile just to depress myself even further. At least, though, we had the woodburners, which solved the heating problem, but they do not provide hot water and we don't have an immersion heater. Oh well, tomorrow would be another day.

We woke up to a bitterly cold, beautiful clear day. Bardies shrouded in snow is the ultimate feelgood experience, even with bruised ribs, a bashed toe, a smashed up car and no hot water. The quality of light here is magical and because we are at 500 metres, it has the same ambiance as a ski resort. We battened down the hatches and prepared for a long wait, as nothing ever happens here at the weekend. I don't think that we have ever drunk as many mugs of hot tea! Only when Peter's business partner rang to say that he had spent all day on the M20 trying to get to Folkestone with his family, en route to Christmas in Geneva, and had to turn round and go home, did we realise our luck. When we turned on the television and saw the news footage of desperate and anxious stranded travellers, we guessed that we must have been some of the last people through.

Over the weekend, the tales of travellers' woe only got worse as Britain battled, and lost, its fight against the elements. It was a story of two countries divided by a small sea and a big tunnel. It's true that noone, least of all Eurotunnel and Eurostar, had been able to anticipate the full, horrendous impact of Arctic weather conditions on the functioning of their services. However, I have to say, after our experience, that there appears to be no comparison between how the UK and France manage their road transport system in a crisis. Is it a matter of funding or one of organisation, we ask ourselves? It would be very unfair of me to cast aspersions when I wasn't there, but I can't help thinking that you get what you pay for.

Meantime, our heating is working again, the house is decorated and the family has arrived. Our car is to be towed home but, thankfully, we have our trusty, ancient, French resident Jeep here for last minute shopping. We will not go hungry. We are nineteen for Christmas, the stuff of my next blog. It's grey outside, but bright and warm indoors. The fires are stoked, the Christmas tree lights twinkling, Bach's Christmas Oratorio blasting from the CD player and everyone, so far, is happy. It's Christmas. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

A Whiter Shade of Pale

2009-11-23T05:40:00.000-08:00

As the howling gales thrash the last of the autumn leaves off the trees, leaving them scattered in huge piles like confetti from a giant's wedding, my muscle memory kicks into action again. The nerves around my sternum still concentrate like tightly stretched elastic bands whenever I allow my mind to wander back. For, since the autumn of 2003, this time of year lurches me back to a dark, bleak place where even the turning on of the sparkling Christmas lights in Regent Street or Bond Street could do nothing to dispel the gloom of the hard winter looming ahead of us.

That year our eleven year old son, Freddie, had been diagnosed with Ewing's sarcoma, a form of bone cancer. With only thirty or so cases a year, we were suddenly thrown from the security of a comfortable, complacent, cosy family life into the maelstrom that is the world of childhood cancer. Nothing prepares a parent for either the shock of diagnosis or the advent of night sweats as one anxiously contemplates the terror of possible outcomes. To say that one's life is turned upside down would be an understatement. Like the mythical Persephone, you find yourself cast into an alien underworld, a complete sub-culture of chemotherapy drugs, blood counts and antibiotics.

Freddie had commenced his gruelling pre-surgery chemo in the June of 2003 on Carousel Ward in the old Middlesex Hospital on Mortimer Street. Ironically, it was not a depressing place despite the fact that a children's cancer ward functions with its own language and points of reference, where a raised eyebrow or hesitant response can yield up a dozen nightmare scenarios. His surgery, to remove a sizeable tumour on his tibia just below his left knee, was scheduled for the 4th November, two weeks after his 6th session of chemo.

We knew that Freddie, now bald as a coot, had a small window of time where his blood counts would be stable. In a moment of madness, we decided to give him a a special treat and take him and his poor, neglected little sister to Eurodisney for a Halloween treat. Even though I secretly disapprove, I have to admit that the Americans do Halloween so well. The upside of the trip was that with his wheelchair and blue disabled badge, we were officially allowed to queue jump every ride. The downside was that poor Freddie got so tired out in the cold and damp, we needed to go back to the hotel to let him sleep at periodic intervals.

He was a trooper throughout and it gave him a much needed lift in advance of the prospect of losing almost half his tibia. Afterwards, with a week to spare, we decided to fly down to Bardies from Paris on the new Easyjet service. More than a trip to Eurodisney, Freddie wanted to get back to our beloved Bardies. For him, it represented a life before cancer and a life that he was determined to go back to once he was well again. As for me, I had never thought that we would get back at all, so it was with some joy and a great deal of trepidation that we arrived 'chez nous'.

No sooner had we lit the fire and put a casserole into the oven than Freddie began to complain that his chest hurt at the point where his intravenous 'Hickman line' was inserted. There was some residual blood around it so, as a precaution, I telephoned the hospital in St Girons and they said to bring him in immediately. Whilst Peter drove him down, I frantically called the Middlesex in London, where, fortunately, Krissie, his regular nurse, was on duty. "No worries", she said, in her best Aussie accent, "I expect that a bit of blood escaped due to pressure on the plane. Just get them to wash out the line with some saline, as per normal."

By the time I got back to Peter on his mobile, it had been done. We breathed a sigh of relief and thought that our troubles were over. We all went off to bed happy to be home, but to be on the safe side I put Freddie in the bed next to me. As I leant over during the night to check his temperature, as I always did throughout his treatment, I knew that something serious was brewing. He was like a furnace. When I checked his temperature properly with the thermometer it was pushing 40 degrees and therefore critical. I dressed rapidly, scooped him up and put him into the car for a mercy dash back to the hospital.

After a very brief 'triage', we were shown to our room. It was private, spotlessly clean and with a view up to St Lizier worthy of a tourist brochure. In the half light of the very early morn, the city towered, twinkling, above us. If I hadn't been so panic stricken, because by then Freddie was almost comatose, I might have appreciated it rather more. A succession of people, all dressed in white, came and went. They were so uniform in their uniforms that I had no idea if I was discussing the finer points of cancer treatment with the cleaner or the consultant.

Everyone, but everyone, was dressed from head to toe in white, with white leather clogs to accessorise their dazzling ensembles. There was not a dirty mark to be seen on one of them. No wonder the French health service is so costly - the laundry bills alone must take up a serious chunk of the annual budget! All around were hand disinfectant dispenser gels and, without fail, everyone washed their hands the moment they came into the room. I would find it hard to believe that a single MRSI bug could survive a second in that scrupulously clean environment. If you are going to be ill with a life threatening condition, you would want to be somewhere like this. You might miss the creature comforts of a British hospital, the pictures of Jemima Puddleduck and Winnie the Pooh, the ubiquitous mobiles and half-dead pot plants, or the general clutter and chaos, but you would know that no flesh eating bug would dare to stray within a kilometer of your bed.

I have to say, though, that the Middlesex was brilliant. The care standards were extremely high and the nurses and doctors dedicated, and never more so than when we were stuck, stranded and terrified, for a week in the hospital in St Girons. They directed operations from London through a bi-lingual Registrar, no mean feat as St Girons is a local hospital and has no expertise in the field of paediatric cancer care. After a succession of different intravenous antibiotics, Freddie began to revive and the panic abated. His temperature slowly reverted back to normal and we were given, albeit reluctantly, permission to travel.

After a week sleeping in a cot beside Freddie, with the best view imaginable, I was glad that we would be on our way back to Carousel and the next stage of Freddie's cancer journey. For, with all its faults, it had become our sanctuary and the place where we felt safe. Freddie remained a whiter shade of pale until his Hickman line was replaced but his surgery was successful. We had many more roller coaster rides through his treatment, a further eight gruelling chemo sessions followed his surgery, but none was as memorable as our week in the ward in St Girons. I missed the view, but most of all I missed the glass of wine with lunch and dinner. It could only happen in a French hospital!

We Will Remember Them

2009-11-11T05:01:00.000-08:00

As I sat down to write this, at two minutes past the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, with the BBC's live broadcast from Westminster Abbey in the background, I felt terribly sad. Here we are, in November 2009, with photographs on our newspaper front pages of a cortege of dead young men being driven from RAF Lyneham, through the Wiltshire village of Wootton Bassett, on their way to their temporary resting place at a hospital in Oxford. Where once we watched these moving services of remembrance thinking "lest we forget", now we look at them afresh, as we vow "we will remember".

When I was growing up in the 1950's and 1960's, no one talked about the war. Looking back, I can see that it was because its horrors were best left buried deep in the recesses of far distant memory. There were only three things about it that my mother, who nursed at Charing Cross hospital through much of it, ever told me. One was that she lost a favourite green leather shoe scrambling into an air raid shelter during one of the worst nights of the Blitz. Another was that her wedding ring [my parents married in 1942, when my father was on leave] was made from gold pooled by friends, otherwise they would have had no ring. The third was that she and her fellow nurses had had to cut down a poor dead airman who had parachuted out of his aircraft and somehow landed on the parapet outside their ward.

How many hundreds of other anecdotes had she hidden, I wonder? My father, who was in the RAF, never spoke about any of it although, to be fair, he had long died by the time my interest in history had manifested itself. My mother-in-law, who was a motorbike dispatch rider charging around the Chatham dockyards in the thick of it, has recounted very little. Rather like the reluctant tourist's return from an exotic holiday, laden with tales and photographs, they must have realised pretty quickly that no one wanted to know. A new dawn had begun and war was best forgotten. Remembrance Sunday came and went once a year, and that was that.

On my flight from Toulouse to Bristol last Saturday, I scavenged a free copy of 'The Daily Telegraph' from the British Airways newspaper rack as I boarded my Easyjet flight [it did say 'please take your complimentary copy', even if they had probably only intended them for their own customers!]. Inside, on the eve of Remembrance Sunday, was an illuminating article by Peter Parker, the biographer of the last British Great War veteran, Harry Patch, who died on 25th July this year at the ripe old age of 111. I had known that Patch had been called 'the reluctant hero' after his return, disillusioned, from the horrors of Passchendaele but beyond that I knew very little else about him.

It transpires that he had lost his Anglican faith when he left the army but later joined a choir hoping to revive it. "In the end, I went because I enjoyed the music and had friends there. But the belief? It didn't come. I felt shattered, absolutely, and didn't discuss the war with anyone from then on, and nobody brought it up if they could help it." In addition, according to Parker, he refused to join veterans' associations, had no wish to visit battlefields, never attended a regimental reunion and avoided all war films. It was only when the BBC wanted to film a documentary entitled 'The Last Tommy' in 2004 that he was persuaded to revisit Flanders. "What a waste. What a terrible waste," he memorably said.

I was reminded of a scene in the film version of Alan Bennett's superbly scripted 'The History Boys', almost as good as the stage play and with the same National Theatre cast. When Irwin, the new history supply teacher who aspires to a career in television, takes the boys to a war memorial, he asks them why they think has has brought them there. "To remember, Sir," they say. "No", he replies, "it is so that we can forget." And we did, didn't we?

Almost fifty years after the end of the Second World War came Bosnia, and Srebenica, and our attitude to war began to change. A sense of failure was seared into our complacent brains. Then, twenty one months into this new century, on 9/11, everything changed irrevocably. The poppies of Flanders' fields have now been replaced with the poppies of Afghanistan. Jonathan Friedland, writing in today's 'Guardian' headlines with "The coffins will keep coming until we conquer our amnesia on Afghanistan". It is a mess, a horrible, bloody mess, not least because we have forgotten why we went in there in the first place. A war whose aims have long been lost in the quagmire of international politics is taking young lives once again.

Harry Patch was conscripted into the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry in October 1916. Many of his friends had volunteered earlier for the Somerset Light Infantry. "We were the PBI - the Poor Bloody Infantry- and we were expendable," he said. I think of the fallen from Bardies today, too. Like the south west of England, the south west of France provided the infantry divisions in the Great War, the cannon fodder. The effects on the economy of both were devestating.

The Barthet family, who had owned the Chateau de Bardies since 1822, was decimated. Louis Barthet, the eldest son of Joseph and Marie Lesparda Barthet, survived but returned from the war wounded. His younger brother, Etienne was killed in 1916. Amelie, one of their sisters, married Captain Ambroise Henry, who was killed not long after the commencement of war. Suzanne, another sister, married Ambroise's younger brother, Lieutenant Auguste Henry, who was himself killed three weeks later.

There were many more from our little part of France who were sacrificed; the husbands and fiances of the maids, whose uniforms were still tucked away in 'armoires' upstairs when we bought the house, the gardeners who had left hidden traces under overgrown laurel trees, rather like at the lost gardens of Heligan, in Cornwall, the farmers who had tended and husbanded the land, the 'voisins' from the nearby 'hameaux'. They are commemorated in St Girons and will be remembered today.

The Second World War took a heavy toll too. George Crinon, who had married the daughter of Auguste and Simone Henry, professor of mathematics and principal of the college, was killed in June 1940 fighting for France. Many others, ununiformed, lost their lives as members of the 'maquis', the resistance, who were very strong in our area. The nearby village of Rimont on the main St Girons/ Foix road was the scene of a Nazi reprisal on 21st August 1944, when forty four trucks filled with soldiers newly back from the eastern front rampaged through the sleepy, innocent village. On that day, 11 Rimontais were executed, many women brutally raped and 236 buildings torched. We must not forget the price that civilians also pay in war.

The town of St Girons was also the starting point of 'Le Chemin de la Liberte', the final stage of the escape route over the Pyrenees organised by the O'Leary network. More than a hundred brave local men and women, called 'passeurs', lost their lives or their liberty taking the evaders over the high mountain passes to safety. They had a choice, and they chose to help people that they did not know at huge personal risk to themselves and their families. They are the unsung heroes and we remember them today, with deep gratitude, too.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Toussaint

2009-11-04T08:24:00.000-08:00

'Toussaint' is a time of reflection here, as well as being a special time of year for family and friends - a bit like Thanksgiving in the States, only a bit more sombre and minus the turkey and pumpkin pie. At this, the very start of winter, families get together from all over the country to remember their departed and count their blessings. I am constantly amazed to see people that I haven't seen all year arrive from Paris, Marseille, or wherever, for their annual get-together whatever the weather. It is always a weekend 'en fete' and, I suspect, a uniquely French celebration.

Since American film makers hijacked 'All Hallow's Eve' and turned it into a beanfeast of witch's hats and orange and black-iced cupcakes, most of us have forgotten the ritual significance of this time of year. 'All Soul's Day', the day after 'All Hallow's Eve' was a big event in my childhood. It was the day the dead returned to earth to make their presence known to us again, and we needed to acknowledge them big-time if they were to leave us be for the rest of the year. Pre- Michael Jackson's 'Thriller' video with his brilliant coterie of ghoulish dancers, it was a terrifying time for a child. Very sadly, and somewhat ironically, he has now become one of the departed himself.

I see that Sting has written a song called 'Soul Cake' for his latest album celebrating both winter and north- eastern folklore. According to him, the soul cakes were made to give to the dead when they returned on 'All Soul's Day'. The poor, though, being both very hungry and very canny, offered to exchange the cakes for prayers for the dead instead. According to him, it is a tradition that goes back five hundred years and was the precedent for 'trick or treat'. Amazing! We can't blame Hollywood then for all the ghastly commercial spin-offs that make today's Halloween a largely unpleasant experience, especially for terrified pensioners too frightened to open their doors.

All Saint's Day' [Toussaint], in complete contrast, was a time of light. We still had to go to Mass, but to give thanks rather than out of fear for peripatetic malevolent souls. The priest wore a white surplice, I recall. I don't remember it being anything particularly special, other than having to take flowers to my father's grave in Epsom cemetery afterwards. By then, as kids, we were much more excited at the prospect of fireworks on November 5th. Collecting old socks and scraps of fabric to make a 'guy', and firewood and kindling to make a huge bonfire to put it on, was much more of an adventure. Thankfully, my Irish mother had no real grasp of the nuances of English history, so it was party-time in our garden.

This year, I spent 'Toussaint' in the Lauragais, with my good friends Caroline de Roquette and Christian and Inez Sarramon. Christian and Inez come down from Paris every year to visit the family grave and spend time 'en famille'. This year, like last, was particularly poignant because Louis-Charles de Roquette, Caroline's husband and Inez's brother, and my darling friend, was killed in a tragic car accident in May 2008. Caroline's lovely farmhouse was filled with seasonal crysanthemums, in glorious, autumnal, deep red hues, in his memory. They had taken many more to the cemetery in St Felix Lauragais after a special mass for him. The pain of loss never really goes away.

I met them for a delicious dinner at Inez's house, where she had prepared her signature dish of 'blanquette de veau', one of my favourite traditional French dishes and one that she makes brilliantly. We talked and laughed, reminiscing over the old times but also looking forward to new ones. It made me think how sad it is that none of my siblings meets up to remember our mother, and that I am as guilty as they are for not organising it. The great thing about 'Toussaint' is that the date is always fixed in the calendar so there are never any excuses for putting it off. It is a great institution and it is such a shame that in the UK there is no real equivalent.

Christian had two new books, hot off the press and still wrapped in plastic, to show us. One is called 'Delices', full of fabulous photographs and history of the patissiers of Paris, and the other is called 'Linge', with stunning pictures of old linens from all over France. He is a genius! I had just bought 'France, A Sense of Place' and 'Gourmet Bistros and Restaurants of Paris', new, on Amazon's secondhand site for a knockdown price, which I just happened to have in my car. He kindly inscribed them for me for the biblioteque at Bardies.

Tellingly, he wrote in 'France', "quelques morceaux de France d'avant les e'oliennes". At Merveille, they have been invaded by enormous, triffid-like wind turbines because the Lauragais has a huge number of windy days each year. There is a price to be paid for everything and France has not shirked difficult environmental decisions. The 'e'oliennes' can look very striking when seen from a distance, but if you live in their shadow they are an ominous and noisy presence. Would we want them here? No, I don't think so!

'Toussaint' is a special time, and I am so pleased that they allowed me to share it with them. Without Peter and 'les enfants', I have time to reflect on the summer just gone and think of the year to come. We need this time to take stock, to batten down the hatches, especially when the wind is as strong as it is here right now, and to give thanks for what we have. Our need for preparing ourselves for the hardship of winter seems to me to be celebrated in so many ways at this time of year - Bonfire Night, Harvest Festival, Michaelmas, Thanksgiving, Advent and, the ultimate winter festival, Christmas. After that, sadly, unless you're a skier, it's downhill all the way!

Wilkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome

2009-10-24T08:44:00.000-07:00

I had thought that enough had been written in response to Jan Moir's disgraceful homophobic rant in last Tuesday's 'Daily Mail' and that, anyway, it probably wasn't the stuff of a blog from Bardies. As someone who would rather eat wild toad droppings than buy a copy of the loathesome 'Daily Mail', I must confess that I have only just downloaded the offending article. My reason for doing so is simple. When I opened my emails this morning, there were two from my closest, and gay, friends here in France, lamenting their shock and horror at the implications of Jan Moir's article.

Their request that we all boycott the newspaper is easy enough to deal with in my case, but their emails instantly prompted me to discover for myself just what she had said. It is, indeed, a shocking piece of 'kneejerk' journalism and one that must have broken the heart of poor Stephen Gately's mother. To use the story of his sad demise, of which to date none of us knows the exact cause, to legitimise in some perverse way, the consequences of being gay is media fodder for all homophobes. At a time when we know from police figures that homophobic crime is on the increase, such irresponsible journalism merely serves to stoke the fires of hatred.

Those who abbhor the idea that two people of the same sex can not only love each other but can also consolidate their union through a civil partnership ceremony, must have opened their paper of choice and rejoiced at Moir's statement that "Another real sadness about Gately's death is that it strikes another blow to the happy-ever-after myth of civil partnerships." Excuse me! How? Why? A young man dies tragically in the home he shares with his same sex partner and the whole legal edifice of civil partnerships can be doubted? What sort of distorted logic is this?

My friend Giovanni, quite rightly, is beside himself with anger at the implication that Stephen Grately must have died as the result of drug-taking and a sleazy gay lifestyle. How easy it is for right wing homophobes to link drug taking with sleaze and being gay! It reminded me of something that Rabbi Lionel Blue once said. "Just because you're in the gay world doesn't mean you go to orgies. You've also got to deal with relationships." In a heterosexual world, with a great deal of drug taking, pornography, prostitution and child sexual abuse, we don't question the legitimacy of marriage, do we?

It is the last line of Moir's article, though, which is the most shocking. In a chilling line, which Josef Goebbels himself could have written, she says, "For once again, under the carapace of glittering, hedonistic celebrity, the ooze of a very different and more dangerous lifestyle has seeped out for all to see." In a week when the BBC, wrongly in my view, gave Nick Griffin of the BNP a voice on the 'Question Time' panel, my thoughts turned to parallels with 1930's Weimar. The similarity is clear: gay equals deviant, and therefore dangerous.

Alan Cumming, the Scottish actor, who has played Emcee in Kander and Ebb's stage version of 'Cabaret' and is himself gay, presented a fabulous documentary on BBC 4 this week called 'The Real Cabaret'. It followed a showing on the same channel of Bob Fosse's 1972 film with Liza Minelli and Michael York, one of my all time favourite movies [thank goodness for satellite TV!]. The real cabarets were often run by Jewish impressarios, many of whom finished up in the gas chambers. What the 1972 film didn't show, was that the likes of the fictional Emcee and his coterie of homosexual and sexually ambivalent musicians and dancers would have finished up in the gas chambers too.

Not so long ago, we went to see Julian Clary in Rufus Norris's revival of the stage version. Norris, bravely, took Fosse's narrative all the way to its logical conclusion. In the film version, Emcee closes the curtains with the camera panning round the Kit Kat Klub to show swastika armbands on many of the visitors. In Norris's revival, Clary and the other performers slowly and subtly remove their clothes, turn round with their backs to the audience and huddle together at the back of the stage. As the light shines on them, the shower above them rains down. No one leaving that show would have been under any illusion about what happened to many of Berlin's homosexuals under Nazism.

Of course, this may sound a little over dramatic in the context of a second rate piece of journalism in a right wing 'red top'. We live in liberal times, don't we? Nick Griffin, thank heavens, has none of the misplaced abilities and political canniness of Jean-Marie Le Pen. But both Jan Moir and Nick Griffin have become major players this week in a debate about the sort of society we all want to live in. We have fought hard for our freedoms, for the right of all human beings not to live in fear of their lives for their race, their religious beliefs or their sexual orientation. Why does anyone care what two consenting adults do in the privacy of their own homes? Sadly, for all of us, it appears that fascists and fundamentalists still do.

In December 2007, on a bitterly cold, damp, grey day we went 'en famille' from Oskar Schindler's factory in the majestic city of Krackow to Auschwitz-Birkenau, less than an hour's drive away. The museum at Auschwitz is a true and fitting memorial to its lonely ghosts, but it is at nearby Birkenau that their souls speak to you. As we stood in the watchtower, alone, looking through the wintry mist at the forked railway line where Rabbi Hugo Gryn had waved 'goodbye' to his little brother, where Irene Nemirovsky and countless others were herded to their deaths, and Jacob Bronowski wept into the red earth for the failings of mankind, I knew why we were there. I said to the children, "This is what happened when people stood by and let injustice take hold. We must never let it happen again."

........... 'Auf Wiedersehen........ auf Weidersehen........ auf Weidersehen...........'

Photos by Peter Vardigans, Auschwitz-Birkenau, December 2007

A Week in the Garden

2009-10-19T13:05:00.000-07:00

I woke up to a glorious autumnal morning at Bardies – the first frost of the season and a herald of the Pyrenean winter to come. Because we have had no significant rainfall, the vast spread of the Pyrenees looms, still snowless, to the south of us. I feel my energy levels rise. I love this time of year, just as I do Spring, because the air has been cleared of summer haze. It seers through my nostrils and clears my head of summer clutter, the endless meal plans and day trips mentally packed away until next year. Now, 'sans invitees', I can speak French again!

The garden is full of leaves, but not those on the stubborn lime trees in front of the house, which hover defiantly high above me. It will take more than a solitary frost to shift them. These two majestic trees, planted in 1912 and 1913 respectively, to celebrate the births of Germaine and Simone Henry, have seen much in their long existence and time is of no consequence in the rhythm of their lives.

Their crooked, wild sibling, however, who hides in their shadow, is destined for the chop in December. Pascal is already sharpening his tools. We are loathe to cut down trees but this one is cramping the style of her bigger sister and becoming seriously deformed herself in the process. Pascal brought the tree man round for a second opinion and it was a ‘no brainer’. As soon as all the leaves are off, it will be no more. There are mounds of mistletoe on it to harvest into the bargain, as well as a lot of chopping work for Pascal afterwards.

Another benefit from this summary execution, will be the climbing roses, stunted below her shady boughs by lack of sunlight. The old yellow climber on the dilapidated metal pergola has barely flowered in ten years and the recently planted St Swithun variety pink ones have sulked ever since they were dug in. Quelle sacrifice! One life for three more. Sydney Carton, eat your heart out!

We have had a labour intensive week at Bardies, jollied along by the heavenly weather. I say “we”, when really I mean Laurent, our ‘jardinier’. Actually, his name is Lawrence and he is English but I didn’t want you thinking ‘Mellors’! He is a genius and he comes to help me re-design bits of the garden twice a year. I have big plans, courtesy of a lifelong passion for Christopher Lloyd, and Lawrence interjects a note of practicality into my rantings. He listens to me patiently, with no hint of horror or disapproval on his face, then does exactly what he thinks is right, regardless.

Whilst I ferried the winter flowering pansies for the pots on the terrace and hauled bags of potting compost, Lawrence dug out masses of hypericum and re-seeded the lawn, lugged 18 barrowloads of horse shit from the stable to feed the shrub roses, pulled out the summer bedding plants from the veritable army of terracotta pots, untangled the borders and rockery, and planted 140 alliums, 200 ‘tete a tete’, 120 English, not Spanish, bluebells, as well as uncounted numbers of snowdrops, crocuses and tulips. He also scattered masses of aquilegia and poppy seeds scavenged from a friend's garden. That’s next year sorted then!

He chopped up a huge mound of smaller logs for the ‘salon’ woodburner for Christmas as well. Good man! Thank goodness we blew the budget on two of them last year, because with 12 young people in the house over Christmas, ranged in age between 13 and 21, the ‘salon’ will be a no-go zone. At least now the electricity meter won't be in freefall. Whilst the kids are welded to whatever celebrity game show final is scheduled for the festive period, the adults can be getting suitably squiffy in the ‘biblioteque’. We can meet in the middle for meals and the annual fracas that is present opening chez nous. Meantime, I must start searching the woods for a suitable Christmas tree. It will be fun!

Having cleared up the debris from the flue installation, I was suddenly inspired to wax all the oak floorboards and doors. Mad or what? We have enormous armoire doors from floor to ceiling on either side of the fireplace and they were so dry, it took a tin of ‘cire liquide’ for each one. I must have significantly reduced our fire risk! Rattling old edifices like this really need an army of servants, as I’m sure they once had, not just me and the occasional help of a ‘femme de menage. It’s a long time since I have been down on my knees for so long!

In between times, as ever, the kitchen beckoned and I had great fun being creative. Amazingly, there was still some basil growing in its large pot outside the kitchen door [a sign of global warming?] as well as tarragon, chives, parsley, marjoram and verveine. I made a plum and thyme jam to go with magret of duck, which seemed to work quite well. The basil, gently sweated with shallot, freshly chopped tomatoes and garlic, made a great coulis for a vegetable lasagne and a Chicken Basque. With Halloween around the corner, the ‘potirons’ are in season so we had a risotto one night and a pumpkin and cumin soup for lunch. I added a tin of chopped tomatoes and half a chorizo, together with a good dollop of smoked paprika, to the leftovers to make a really hearty Spanish style peasant soup, very Allegra McEvedy!

I also managed to find some lovely girolles in Cazeres, because we still don’t have any in our woods. There has been nothing, so far, to forage for this year. We desperately need some serious autumn rainfall. Apart from asparagus omelettes in Spring, mushroom omelettes in autumn are my favourite lunchtime treat. In the garden, the figs are finished [indeed, this year they never really got started] so instead I poached our windfall pears in red wine for desert. I still have some of last year’s bumper crop of figs marinating in ‘Absolut’ vodka in the fridge, which will make for some merry post-prandial activity at Christmas!

Meanwhile, my Facebook journey continues. It may seem to be a virtual world, but so far I have caught up with many old friends with whom we’ve agreed meetings in real time. There is definitely something so much more personal about Facebook, which makes you want to reply immediately. With regular e-mail, the temptation is always to leave it until after the gym, or supper or a good night’s sleep with the inevitable forgetfulness that follows. Is it the visual stimulus of a photo image, I wonder? Anyway, I’m loving it. It makes being in France like being next door, which may, or may not, be a good thing after all.

Family, Friends and Facebook

2009-10-09T06:59:00.000-07:00

My metamorphosis is now complete! Not only have I become a compulsive blogger over these last months, but I have also finally decided to throw all notions of a secluded and isolated old age pottering around my 'potager' to the wind. My initial paranoia about privacy has turned into an amazing sense of liberation. Methinks, as well, that I have Twitter in my sights, despite the inevitable limitations on one's pretentiousness, creativity and poetic licence with a measly 140 characters! The world really is becoming a smaller place by the minute.

If people keep talking to each other, they are less likely to blow a gasket and hit each other, that's for sure. Whole family networks can be maintained with a quick posting on a 'wall', and everybody is happy to know that they are part of one big virtual happy family. It's so much better than the real thing in so many ways, because you don't have to fight for the bathroom, argue over the washing up, or sulk because one of your number nicked the last yoghurt that you had carefully positioned in the fridge behind the confitures and old pots of honey.

In the last 48 hours, since I signed up on Facebook, I have been amazed that not one of my many nieces and nephews has rejected me as a 'friend'. All I can say is that they must have total confidence in my broadmindedness, or else they know so much more about the technology than I do and can successfully hide or edit out any references to sex, drugs and rock and roll. My devoutly Catholic Irish mother would have grounded me for months had she worked out that my secret diary was hidden behind an air brick. Now, my own Catholic guilt has the reverse effect, for I cannot bring myself to overly intrude into the very precious private lives of my young relatives.

I am flattered that they show such a high degree of trust in me. It makes organising 'Noel' so much easier, when there will be 19 of us at Bardies. These semi- virtual friendships will be put to the test then, that's for sure, but Christmas 'en famille' in our rambling old chateau will be a first. The Heidlberg and Chiswick contingents are used to our ways, but the San Franciscans will have to cope with the double whammy of jet lag and traditional French Christmas fayre. No turkey this Christmas, I'm afraid. We're going for a brace of capons and a 'buche de Noel', and all objections will be smartly over ruled!

The kids are all excited and have been communicating endlessly with each other, I am told. Facebook really is amazing. Sophie, one of my nieces in Germany, immediately sent me a message saying, "Welcome, Auntie, to this amaaaaazing communication system", and that perfectly sums it up. I would never in a million years have bothered to email each of them, so I'm seeing at first hand just how effective it is. It makes the daunting prospect of all the preparations so much more enjoyable for everyone, when we each have a vested interest in the whole project.

The only person who is missing out is Grandma, which is sad because she is the person that we are all doing it for. She is a hugely entertaining and lively 85 year old, but despite being an ex-teacher and brilliant mathematician, she remains one of the many members of her generation who has failed to embrace new technology. It would be such a wonderful thing for her to be able to communicate with all her grandchildren, and we are all at a loss as to understanding why such an intelligent woman has run shy of such a life changing opportunity. We have offered to buy her a computer, set it up and coach her in its applications, all, to date, to no avail.

I have puzzled much over this conundrum. Why is it that older people run so scared of the internet? Is it the fear of failure? Surely not, especially when I know that my mother-in-law could out think and out perform many youngsters a quarter of her age. Is it that life already seems to go so fast for them, they just don't feel that they have enough time to invest in something so new and all-absorbing? Is it because they fear exposure to 'sharks' and 'shisters', made even more terrifying by tabloid horror stories? Is it because they wish to protect their privacy from prying eyes, a throwback from the war years for so many of them? Is it a gender issue, I wonder, with so many elderly widowed women convinced that technical matters are somehow not for them? I wish I knew the answer, because it is a real issue that we must address urgently, for ever-increasing life expectancy threatens to isolate this generation even further.

We know that communication is the essence of being human. I don't buy into the notion that Facebook is bad, per se, or that the new so-called 'Facebook generation' are inarticulate idiots. I know many, many young people [and I'm proud to say that quite a few of them have just accepted me as a 'friend'!] and they all seem to me to be better communicators than we ever were. After we'd done our homework, we used to flop in front of the TV or read racy books by Dennis Wheatley to alleviate the interminable boredom of termtime evenings. Sunday afternoons, with shops closed, churches open and friends grounded, was a weekly nightmare only to be escaped by talk of sharing homework with a friend.

Today's youngsters, in contrast, are planning everything, from their next party to changing the world on Facebook. Good on them! They are reading and writing too, and if writing is essentially about communication, then they will learn these skills prettily speedily on Facebook, or face a blank 'wall'. We moan that youngsters are apolitical, because they have no faith in our devalued party political system, but fail to see that they are highly motivated when driven by single, relevant issues. When they want to do something, they reach more people with a single posting than any party political broadcast could ever hope to do.

They have a lot to teach us, and we need to listen to them more, not less. In the meantime, I shall treasure my young Facebook friends, and indeed the older ones too. They can come and see us at Bardies anytime. After all, it's so much easier to organise now.

Here We Go Again......

2009-10-06T06:43:00.000-07:00

Last week, for my sins, I was at the Labour Party Conference, a rather funereal experience this year to say the least. Gone are the joys of drinks parties and fringe events, packed full of tipsy people desperate to hang onto the coat tails of aspiring, or as often as not, actual members of the government and their many acolytes. After May 1997, the skies really did seem bluer and the sun more benevolent to us lifelong Labour groupies. A new dawn had broken, or so we thought, but that was before 9/11, the Iraq war, 7/7, financial meltdown and Gordon Brown's dystopian grimaces. Now we are nearing the end of the road, I fear.

As I wandered aimlessly about, despondently looking for friends who have apparently jumped ship, I thought, not for the first time, 'Bring back Tony!' Now I know that not many people will agree with me, for obvious reasons, but I still think that he was the greatest asset we ever had [unlike poor Gordon who, with his rictus grin and vacuous promises, remains an electoral liability!]. The sun still shone in Brighton, but somehow it seemed a pale apology. The only good thing that remained was the seafront fish and chips.

There I was thinking, with a heavy heart, that there was so little to divide Big Gord from the Boy Dave, I might consider voting Green instead. Never in my life have I not voted Labour in a General Election, so this was betrayal indeed on my part. But, in Harold Macmillan's immortal phrase, a week is a long time in politics or, in this case, more like a couple of days. My maternal relatives, and their fellow Irish countrymen and women, have put Europe well and truly back on the electoral map. The spectre of the European Constitution being ratified before next May's general election has well and truly galvinised the 'castrati' of the Euro-sceptic Tory right.

Never have so many hitherto strangulated voices sung in such perfect harmony. Their moment has come and, mon Dieu, they are determined to have it. Hold onto your seatbelts, fellow Francophiles and Europhiles, for the road ahead will be rocky and deeply unpleasant. Already, Angela Merkel has expressed her discontent with Cameron and Co. by downgrading Tory relations in Europe, because of their unfathomable decision to ally themselves with the swivel eyed homophobes and Holocaust dissemblers already in the European parliament. Boris Johnson, the irascible blonde bombshell, is ready to take the helm and ride out with the Valkyries.

In yesterday's Daily Telegraph, Boris nailed his colours to the wall. In an amusing and offensive rant, he balked at the very real prospect of Tony Blair being thrust back into our lives as the first President of Europe, the one-man incarnation of the wishes of 500 million people and 27 countries. "Can you really imagine," he writes, "Nicolas Sarkozy being willing to share the international limelight with our Tony, when Blair is British, charismatic, and not remotely frightened of appearing in photocalls with people of more than five foot five inches in height?" If he thinks little of Tony Blair, he thinks even less of Nicolas Sarkozy and is 'heightist' into the bargain!

Why, oh why, do us Brits persist in the notion that somehow we still rule the world? For how long can the delusion remain that we are somehow, as a result of our DNA, superior to the French or the Germans, never mind the Italians, Spanish, Greeks and former east Europeans? When are we going to learn that we are now just little people ourselves, stranded on islands way to the west of Brussels and Strasbourg. We may have misguidedly thought that the USA would altruistically act in our best interests, but from Maynard Keynes to Tony Blair, the lessons have been hard ones to stomach. Our future must be in Europe and we fail to engage at our peril.

The failed referendum promise of Labour's 2005 Manifesto certainly leaves a sour taste in the mouth but this cannot be justification for retreat. We must move the debate forward, not backwards. In any event, the genie has been let out of the bottle and at least now a real election issue has been unceremoniously slapped on to the table. Here we go again........

Bend Me, Shake Me, Anyway You Want Me!

2009-09-23T02:04:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm finally back at Bardies, on a gloriously sunny day, after a gruelling five day yoga retreat in the Haut Garonne. I ache in places I didn't know I had and, I can tell you, keeping my rear end and my excess kilos up in the air in 'down dog' position for minutes at a time was no mean feat for wimps like me. My arms and shoulders are still screaming for mercy and it's forty eight hours since I was last upside down! Despite my feeble attempts at going to the gym, by way of pre-preparation, I know for sure that I must focus on getting myself vaguely back in shape if I am going to enjoy my dotage without a zimmer frame.

'Hey, you hypocrite!' I hear you say, especially after my previous eulogy to the great Keith Floyd, and, of course, you are right. On the other hand, enjoying good food, good wine and living life to the full, and being vaguely fit, are not mutually exclusive. In fact, I am certain that they compliment each other. After all, you can justify wolfing down more calories if you've been for a good hike around the Bethmale Valley or, even better, skied the pistes of Guzet Neige. The hills around here are not part of the Tour de France for nothing, which I have to admit is just one of the reasons why I haven't got on my bike to date! Things are about to change, although I have no intention of getting too carried away with this fitness lark. 'Peu a peu'.

For me, though, yoga is the ultimate form of exercise. It ticks all the boxes. Many years ago I did Iyenegar yoga, which involved a lot of polystyrene blocks and a great deal of time spent upside down in headstands. I was certainly supple and the meditative aspects of the classes helped get my head into the right space for dealing with hyperactive toddlers. Peace, calm and 'me-time' were a life saver. I only gave it up because I pulled a ligament trying to be over ambitious with my stretching on a bitterly cold winter's morning [the downside of the classes was that they were held in a de-consecrated church with virtually no heating].

These last few magical days have been a revelation. This time, I did Ashtanga Yoga which, if I'd known how hard it was when I started last Friday morning, I might have dipped out of. No pain without gain, as they say. You don't get a tea break, that's for sure. In fact, you don't get any breaks at all between moves, because it works on a continuum of sequences which you are supposed to master through constant repetition. In the 'Eighties', when we all battled to look like Jane Fonda, the trend was for aerobic classes. I can tell you first hand that Ashtanga Yoga is about as aerobic as it gets, and I was hiding at the back of the group!

You start with a sequence of moves known as 'sun salutations'. On my first morning I was pathetic, but I forced myself to do them despite having a bad back. When I first watched Katie, our lovely teacher with a beautifully supple figure to die for, I immediately thought 'no way!' Not being one to give up on things easily, I dutifully attempted to copy her fluid movements. I may have looked like a beached whale desperately trying to manoeuvre itself back into the ocean but I am proud to say that I slowly got the hang of it. I even, perversely, started to enjoy it. The really incredible thing was that it gradually made my back feel better though, obviously, not my arms or shoulders because of my weight.

Sun salutations are the most perfect sequence of exercises for a bad back and I don't know why chiropractors don't insist on them [perhaps they would if they didn't think they might get sued by clients unable to extricate themselves from some of the positions, which I guess is understandable!]. The idea is to do them every morning and I am determined to try my very best to continue with them 'toute seule'. I must make a note to keep Charlie, our Jack Russell out of the way because he's bound to see it as a new game, with potentially disastrous consequences for my health.

As we progressed, we continued with more complex sequences, some with greater success on my part than others. The early evening classes were my favourite. They were the 'ying' to the 'yang', soft meditative stretches designed to work on soft connective tissue, rather than muscle groups. I could happily have taken extra classes like these and felt fantastic after each one. Whereas half way through the frenetic activity of the morning class I was thinking, more often than not, about what I was going to have for breakfast, after the afternoon session I just felt an amazing sense of well-being and always had a spring in my step. I loved it and can't recommend Ashtanga yoga enough.

The retreat was held in the fabulous chateau of close friends near Aspet, a beautiful quaint little town nestling below the mountains. I am told that it has become much beloved by the English of late, although our friends bought their house in 1990, when most English people back then decamped instead to the Dordogne. Thai Ping and Giovanni, who own the house, have converted the top floor of one of their barns into a huge yoga studio, complete with Moroccan awnings and stunning views from the wide open windows over their magnificently landscaped and planted garden. Below was the pool, surrounded by stunning cobalt walls inlaid with mosaic. The house, originally built in 1792 by an unfortunate aristocrat who lost his head in the frenzy of the revolution, is to die for, full of fabulous things sourced from their many trips to Asia, as well as a fine collection of period pieces.

Katie Heller, from 'Tri Yoga', ran the course brilliantly and Thai Ping and I did the food. We ate so much, three meals a day, but it was all good healthy stuff and we only had a glass of wine each on the first and last nights. Honest! The cooking was more knackering than the yoga, but I did enjoy it. Pete Heller, Katie's husband generously cooked a fantastic butternut squash risotto on Saturday night. On Sunday, we drove over the border to Bossost for an exquisite lunch at 'El Portalet'. If you haven't been there yet, it's the best kept secret in the region. The restaurant is not flash but the food has shades of Heston Blumental in its staggering combinations of flavours. Excellent, and all for a 'prix fixe' of 25 euros a head.

On the same trip, we also managed to bag some great ceps and girolles from a man by the side of the road for 12 euros a kilo [none here yet because of the lack of serious rainfall] and stock up on duty free booze for 'Noel' in the huge hypermarket, where people behave like savages in pursuit of their hauls. After a serious lunch and a mega shop, we were all lined up in the yoga studio in our 'trackie bottoms' again by 6 o'clock, ready to roll. Keen or what? I tell you, this yoga lark really gets to you. Let's just hope I can keep it up! Bend me, shake me, anyway you want me..........!

Adieu Keith Floyd, RIP

2009-09-15T10:05:00.000-07:00

I really wasn't going to do another blog until I had planted out my smuggled buddlejas and penstemmons and severely contorted my middle aged body on a five day yoga course with my two best friends in their chateau neat St Gaudens. Having agreed to help provide the vittals [wheat, dairy and booze free, of course], food has been very much on my mind as I have waded through such illustrious publications as 'Dr Joshi's Holistic Detox' and 'Carol Vorderman's 28 day Detox Plan'. Still not sure what detoxing is, but I do so love playing around with new recipe ideas.

Then, this morning on the 10.00am news bulletin on Radio 4, the news came through that Keith Floyd, the original TV celebrity chef [if you discount the matronly and decidedly bossy Fanny Craddock!], had died. I was devestated and felt much the same overwhelming sense of sadness that I had felt when it was announced that first Bob Marley and then John Lennon were no longer with us. Only yesterday, in my local coffee shop, I was reading a hilariously funny extract from Keith Floyd's autobiography from a borrowed copy of the 'Daily Mail'. Remembering all those great programmes where it was obvious that everyone was totally plastered, I finally had it from the horse's mouth.

I knew that he had been diagnosed with bowel cancer but had thought that the prognosis would be reasonably good, despite his years of seriously 'going for it'. There was something so wonderfully reassuring about that permanently craggy old face that made us all feel reckless and carefree when it came down to the really important things in life. Food, wine and friends, thrown randomly together wherever one was in the world, provided his metier. He made us feel good about the good things, and bugger tomorrow. How different it all is today when, if you're female, you are made to think that if you have just half a glass of wine a week you are destined for a long slow death from breast cancer, or if you're male you will die of some complication from a sclerotic liver.

Ironically, just in case you're thinking 'QED', they say that he died from a heart attack. My guess is that the chemo drugs may have damaged his heart, but, of course, it is possible that the wanton self abuse of his life style was the principal reason. In any event, I don't know whether to be joyful for a life so well lived, or depressed because his death, if you'll excuse the awful pun, is yet another nail in the proverbial coffin for all of us 'bon vivants'. Personally, I don't want to be a dribbling, incontinent, brain dead 95 year old shut up in a lonely nursing home until I fall out of my wheelchair and keel over. Life is for living and as far as I am concerned I would rather have Keith Floyd as my mentor than some gym addicted Department of Health bureaucrat.

Friends of ours knew him in Bristol when he had his loss making restaurant. The restaurant was great, they told us, and the food was, as one would expect, fantastic. I was at a loss to understand how a restaurant owned and cooked in by the great Keith Floyd could have lost so much money. The answer was so simple, and a mark of the great man himself. Quite simply, the minute the bulk of his semi teetotal and dull customers left the restaurant, Keith would dive into the cellar and pull out sundry bottles of his favourite clarets and Burgundies for his 'chums' to taste and test.....and drink.....and drink. It was not unheard of for them to stagger out into the misty Bristol night air at 5 o'clock in the morning. He enjoyed himself so much, he never charged them.

Such generosity of spirit is uplifting and, in my book, is what life is all about. What else is there? Answers on a postcard please! Rien! I have just pulled out of my bookshelf an old copy of his definitive 1987 'Floyd on France', which was, at the time, south west London's answer to Elizabeth David and Julia Child. It is all so simple that us baby boomers, desperate to impress at our 'dinner parties' could knock off the real thing with none of the guesswork required for the lengthy tomes of ED and JC et al. We learnt to cook, thanks to him. He always said that everything that he cooked was courtesy of Elizabeth David but, in reality, he communicated to us the real essence of her work with none of the experimental pitfalls.

When we went to live in Madrid in 1992, with a hyperactive one year old in tow, we were able to sample the delights of Spanish food from his 'Floyd on Spain' book without having to stay up until 3 o'clock in the morning in the local Madrileno restaurants. I think that we pretty well cooked our way through the whole of his book on Spain, a bit like Julie Powell cooking her way through Julia Child et al's 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking'. It was easier for us because Floydy had written the recipes. If you haven't seen 'Julie and Julia' yet, by the way, you must. Meryl Streep was a brilliant Julia Child although, as I watched the movie, I realised that I had never ever seen her in the true flesh. Before Floyd, there were just books, not people. Julia Child was a great personality but, unlike Floyd, us Brits never saw her. The Americans did, of course.

So, adieu then, to a master. The world will not be the same without him. I mourn not just the man, but a way of life in retreat. It was great while it lasted and now it's Dr Joshi's holistic detox [my arse!]. So long, Keith, and thanks for all the fish!

Bardies 10:10

2009-09-13T11:49:00.000-07:00

I do not know where the first fortnight of September has gone - lost in a flurry of sewing on nametapes, getting shoes fitted and endless washing machine cycles. C'est la vie des Mamans! Here I am, finalement, with a few sweaty and tired moments to spare in front of my computer on the evening before my 18 year old heads off back to college. My original intention was to get this blog up on the 2nd or 3rd September in response to the 'Guardian's' launch of its 10:10 campaign.

For those of you who don't read 'The Guardian' on line, their campaign was launched at the Tate Modern on 1st September 2009, with the aim of asking individuals, businesses and organisations of all kinds to try to cut their carbon emissions by 10% in 2010. Not much, you might think, especially from the clean air of the Ariege, but if tens of thousands of people are fired up [sorry, no pun intended!] with enthusiasm for the project then the impact of our collective action becomes significant. Being a natural ditherer, I always think that the toughest bit of any course of action is the first tentative step. The great thing about this project is that you don't have to don a hair shirt in the process.

Ironically, the people that I know who are the most committed to reducing their carbon emissions live in the Ariege and have the lowest carbon footprint to start with. Karl, our plumber, drives an electric car and knows everything there is to know about reed beds and solar panels. We have talked many times about installing a 'pompe a chaleur' for heating, a brilliant idea if only the cost weren't as high as a brand new BMW! For so many of us, the costs of all this wonderful new technology remain totally prohibitive. The will is there, but the bank manager isn't.

Instead, for now, we have to look at other options. We have already put thermostats on all our radiators [not cheap!] and installed woodburners, which blew the whole of last year's budget, and some more. We are privileged to have masses of woodland so, as we just utilise the dead trees which are carbon neutral, we are able to heat the house in autumn and spring without resorting to a small mortgage to turn on the oil fired central heating. In January and February, though, we have to bite the proverbial bullet and kiss euro bills goodbye in the smoke. Not good for the environment, and not good for our peace of mind. No wonder our friend Jim, in the Gers, takes off for Brazil for the winter!

As we did both of these things before 1st September, I can hardly boast them as part of our 10:10 commitment. Likewise, our loft insulation, which we put in three years ago when we were feeling rather more flush and had run out of salad bowls to put under the leaks in the roof. Thank goodness we did repair the roof when we did, otherwise I dread to think what chaos would have greeted us back in January when the 'tempete' hit. As it was, we still lost a number of pantiles but the 'flexituile' held the water at bay and we were spared the need to repair rain sodden ceilings.

We have to now look at simpler measures to reduce our consumption by a further 10%. Travel is obviously the number one target and I promise I am working on it. I have signed up to the special offers on the SNCF website, but getting to Paris by train 'sous la manche' is still incredibly expensive and you can't really drag lawn mowers, vacuum cleaners and hedge cutters in tow, not to mention recalcitrant teenagers. We have, however, taken advantage of the car scrappage scheme to buy a more fuel efficient diesel car which will take the four of us, and the dog, more comfortably and all together. Hopefully, the plaintive moans of cramped children buried beneath mountains of surplus luggage and boxes of books, will be a thing of the past [as indeed should their demands to fly home on their own, in comfort, on Easyjet!].

I have come to the conclusion that the old ways are the best and, inspired by my visits to old, cold, draughty National Trust houses, I am determined to take a leaf out of their previous owners' books. Firstly, curtains. If big, heavy interlined curtains were good enough to keep the heat in Scottish castles in the depths of a Hebridean winter, then they must do the trick down in the Ariege. The poles are in place ready and waiting for the recently scrounged haul from my mother-in-law. She always knew that those muddy brown and sludge green curtains deserved a fate better than the local Scout troop's jumble sale! They may not be the height of interior design chic but if the choice is freezing your arse off, who cares?

Secondly, hot water bottles. Right up until she died, my darling old mum used to put two hot water bottles in my bed in winter whenever I went to stay with her. In my book, they are the ultimate token of love. To go to the trouble of filling a hot water bottle and putting it into someone else's bed is the test of true generosity of spirit. There is nothing in this world like that warm tingly feeling that takes over your body when you climb into a bed so warmed. And, unlike an electricity guzzling electric blanket, the heat stays with you until you blissfully fall into a deep sleep. OK, so the downside is the shock cold contact with an icy bag of rubber first thing in the morning, but, hey, there is no gain without pain!

Thirdly, I am going to disconnect the beautiful old French taps that fill our lovingly resourced period cast iron baths. I was in seventh heaven when I found our two French rolltop baths in Frome ten years ago. Not only had they not been spoilt by having been re-enamelled, they were complete with their original leaky taps. A good scrub and a lick of Farrow and Ball's 'Pidgeon' oil eggshell later, they looked like new and were perfect for our purposes. My bargain buys proved a bit of a disaster a few months later, though, when I had to have the floors reinforced with RSJ's to take their weight. Now, in comparison with showers, their respective water consumption is a 'No! No!'. It's such a shame, but serious times need serious measures. They'll still look good, even if the only way to fill one is with a bucket!

My fourth measure concerns lightbulbs. Because Bardies is so old, we tracked down old 19th century French light fittings and chandeliers, which we had converted. It may not be long before they are lit by a single lightbulb. We already use the new energy efficient bulbs where possible but, being blind as a bat at short range, the long lasting bulbs seem so dim to me. I simply cannot read with them. Can anyone, I wonder? What I don't understand is why a total ban on the old ones seems not to have spurred the manufacturers into producing suitable replacements. Torches and candles may be a short term answer but it would be nice to know that the future wasn't going to be totally dim. 'The lights are going out all over Europe and we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime' was never so apt.

I was pleased to see that EDF have taken the initiative of sending a graph of one's household electricity consumption on each bill, with a comparative one from the corresponding period from the previous year. I am very pleased to see that ours was significantly reduced, largely, I suspect, because the children had spent less time with us. They are hopeless and I am rapidly turning into a fishwife in pursuit of them when they leave lights and the TV on every time that they leave a room. A minor electric shock administered anonymously every time they walk out of a room might do the trick, rather like one of Pavlov's dogs. We, like most people in the Ariege, never leave anything on standby for the purely selfish reason that a storm can roll in overnight and wipe your computer or blow up your television set.

Of course, there is always room for more saving. I am going to use everything in the deep freeze by September each year [always good to delve deep and find things that you put away for a rainy day way back in 2001, or whenever!] and turn it off for the winter, as well as the fridges. I am also going to hide the supplementary electric radiators for emergencies only. It is amazing how quickly one adapts to temperature reductions, especially if it happens slowly. We certainly didn't have central heating when I was growing up, and the house awaiting slum clearance that I lived in at university was so cold that my washing froze in the bathroom. I seem to recall many nights going to sleep in my coat, but that may have been down to too many beers in 'The Buttery'! My mum used to buy me sheepskin lined boots long before 'Ugg' made them fashionable and, even now, I still wear them to ward off the foot-numbing cold of our unsympathetic 'tomettes'.

At the end of the day [sorry for the cliche, but one day it may be!] these measures are as nothing compared with the threat that is before us. We are really not very good at looking into the future, especially the bleak and barren one that so many Africans, South Americans and Australians will face if we don't get our act together soon. I cannot possibly pretend that I am anything other than a hypocrite, an environmentally part-time, self indulgent, gas guzzling, water consuming, heat loving individual, whose actions, alongside tens of thousands, or indeed millions, of others, continually damage our precious world. I wish that I could wave a wand, so that it would all go away and we could get back to the serious business of simply enjoying ourselves. I can't, and neither, sadly, can you. We are all on the same long, hard journey and the sooner each of us takes those first few steps towards a world that our grandchildren can inherit, the easier our shared journey will become. 10:10 is a start, but only a start. Bon chance!

Of Borders, Bees and Buddleja

2009-08-28T08:37:00.000-07:00

August is a funny time in the garden, although the late, much loved Christopher Lloyd might disagree. It is betwixt and between at the best of times, never mind when there has been a mini 'canicule'. Before I left Bardies [in time to celebrate Freddie's major milestone of being able to enter the best of the UK's public houses legally!], we had had very little of the summer rainfall which usually takes our house guests by surprise. Despite my forewarnings, because of our southerly latitude, new visitors to the Ariege assume that we have a Mediterranean climate. Without fail, most people arrive with shorts and teeshirts and very little else, other than a swimsuit or bikini and a bottle of high factor sunscreen. When the storms roll in, I scramble for my surplus winter woollies for them all whilst Peter stokes up the woodburner.

Not this year. The heatwave has continued unabated and I have had to rely on a small army of friends and helpers to water the parched garden and top up the thirsty swimming pool. For some annoying reason, which we've never quite established, the pool was installed without an automatic water top up system. Thus, when the water level drops below the level of the filters, the pump stops working and the algae have a field day. I have recurring nightmares about green pools full of 'Fungus the Bogeyman' creatures!

The borders were looking tired a fortnight ago, despite everyone's valiant efforts. The lavender was already over the top and the roses and oleanders were consuming every bit of their lacklustre energy on staying alive. Apart from the anenomes, which seem to thrive here in August, and the geraniums and petunias in pots, the only real colour in the garden is from an unruly mass of yellow 'hypericum' which seems to spread further and further each year like an invading army on the advance. It is more commonly known as 'St. John's Wort' and I often think that, had we had Bardies during my bleak days of post-natal depression in the early 1990's, I might have saved myself from two years of unmitigated misery.

A serious exercise in border planning is required. We have done very little to the garden at Bardies during the last ten years, other than our feeble attempts to tame the worst of its excesses. When we moved in in 2000, it resembled the lost gardens of Heligan. Underneath banks of triffid-like laurel, with trunks the size of telegraph poles, and an array of densely packed undergrowth, we have tried to rediscover the lines of the original borders. With the help of Sarah and Pascal, we are now slowly getting there.

The garden had been beautifully laid out by our predecessors over a century before. Unlike the formality of many French gardens, they seem to have opted for an adventurous planting scheme, which, surprisingly, even consisted of yuccas and palm trees! Much of its original shape was clearly defined by the two hundred year old box hedging, which forms six separate garden spaces to the right and left of a central avenue of box. We nabbed one for the pool and its 'plage', behind which, because of the slope, we planted a rockery. The other five, however, are now in desperate need of a serious rethink.

Obviously, colour, form and shape, as well as suitability to our very erratic climate, are major considerations, but my priority will be for a bee-friendly garden. Now, more than ever since the advent of the mysterious Colony Collapse Disorder, it is incumbent on all of us to do whatever we can to help arrest the decimation of the world's bee population. Einstein prophetically said, "If the bee disappeared off the surface of the globe, then man would have four years of life left. No more pollination, no more plants, no more man." More recently, Jeff Rooker, the Labour Peer, calculated that it was only ten years before the honeybee became extinct, and that was in 2007. We are facing a major 'catastophe'.

There are many reasons speculated for the present crisis, including the use of a pesticide containing methyl parathion called Penncap-M, whose active ingredient resembles pollen and is therefore carried back to beehives where it does untold damage. The use of mobile bee colonies for industrial pollination is however, in my view, the principal reason. The California almond industry alone is estimated to require the transportation of 40 billion bees. Other crops dependent on the reckless movement of mobile hives include nuts, beans, soya, rapeseed, sunflower, maize and most fruit and vegetables especially citrus fruits and apples. In total, approximately 90 commercial crops are involved, leaving the bees with compromised immune systems resulting in the invasion of the hives with parasitic pests and resultant disease.

Whilst there is not much that we at Bardies can do to right the wrongs of the commercial food producers, we can at least encourage our own bee populations to thrive. The previous owners at one time had bee hives and made their own honey, for we discovered all the old equipment as well as old honeycombs in the garage. We still have bees at Bardies, but they are not in hives. Last year they were at the top of one of the bee-loving lime trees, planted in 1913 for the birth of Simone Henri. This year, they seem to have found a home under the pantiles in the roof above the dormitory. Their space must be limited because they have swarmed twice. We have been told that it will be virtually impossible to remove them completely because they will always find residue honey. I have to say that as long as no one gets caught in a swarm, I'm not too bothered.

Peter was at Bardies last week, watering the garden and salvaging the lawn from the worst of the summer's heat. As he was not due in to Gatwick until 10.30pm, with an eye on future planting, I decided to treat myself to an afternoon at Great Dixter, before picking him up. I went along after a jolly lunch in Rye with some friends who live in nearby Peasmarsh, and we were all blown over by it. It is stunning. I used to read the legendary Christopher Lloyd's articles in 'The Guardian' and have a copy of his book of collected pieces called 'Cuttings', but nothing prepared me for the sheer physical assault on my senses from this floral tapestry of colour, form and scent. There is nothing to compare it with. He was the Van Gogh of gardening and Monet's garden in Giverney, although beautiful in its own right, looks positively pedestrian in comparison! If someone asked me to describe Great Dixter's garden, I would simply say, "Colour! Colour! Colour!"

So now, after spending a small fortune on Amazon collecting up his works, I am sitting planning my own Bardies tapestry. It will be different, of course, because without Fergus Garrett, a small army of helpers, a huge budget and a further 50 years of longevity, I couldn't get close to anything at Great Dixter. I plan, though, to use colour confidently as a result of his inspiration and, in the process, to create a garden full of flowering plants with plenty of nectar and pollen to encourage honeybees. We already have lots of lavender, rosemary, sage, lilac and ceonothus but we need plants that will provide nectar and pollen year-round. I have barely taken my nose out of his 'Succession Planting for Adventurous Gardeners' [Christopher Lloyd 2005, published by BBC Books] in the last few days and already, I have ordered collections of penstemons, aliums, salvias and buddlejas to kickstart my 2010 project. Bees and buddleja in next summer's border will be a marriage made in heaven. And we'll have Blues at Bardies too, to celebrate it. What bliss!

PS For information: bee loving plants for spring include astilbe, bluebells, flowering cherry, ceonothus, crab apple, daffodils, forget-me-knots, hawthorne, helibore, pulmonaria, pussy willow, rosemary and viburnum; for early summer, antirrhinums, aquilegia, astilbe, campanula, fennel, foxgloves, geraniums, potentilla, stachys, sweet peas, teasel, thyme and verbascum; for late summer, angelica, asters, buddleja, cardoons, cornflowers, dahlias, delphiniums, eryngium, fuschia, globe thistles, heathers, ivy, lavender, penstemmons, sedum and verbena; additional bee loving plants include alyssum, aubretia, basil, cosmos, cotoneaster, globe artichokes, gypsophila, honeysuckle, hollyhocks, lilac, lime trees, lupins, marigolds, marjoram, mint, poppies, pyracantha, sunflowers and zinnias.

Ma Jeunesse Fout Le Camp

2009-08-08T11:31:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. In a blues playing, jazz loving, rock and roll household of aspiring musicians, I am totally addicted to the utterly compelling 'chansons' of Francoise Hardy. Her 1996 cheapie compilation album, 'Les Chansons d'Amour', which I bagged on Amazon for £2.98 before I left the UK, has been this summer's 'Bardies feelgood album'. We always seem to have one album which none of us ever tires of for the duration of our stay. Previous year's choices have been Bruce Springstein's 'The Rising', Tinariwen's 'Water is Life', Ian Siegal's 'Meat and Potatoes', Miles Davis's 'A Kind of Blue', and Murray Perahia playing Handel and Scarlatti and Glenn Gould humming along to 'The Goldberg Variations'. Our taste is certainly catholic.

I still can't get 'Tout Les Garcons et Les Filles', with its catchy tune and evocative lyrics, out of my head. It reminds me of my white 'Correges' boots, of which I was so proud, and ironing my long wavy hair in front of 'Ready Steady Go' before going out on a Friday night. Cathy McGowan may have been the height of Sixties chic for us English girls but there was no one to beat Francoise in the style stakes. As someone recently said of Carla Bruni, "A beautiful woman in a Chanel trouser suit could recite a telephone directory in French and still sound good." Francoise Hardy really can sing as well. When I browsed through a phenomenally expensive and damaged paperback about her in our local St Lizier 'Les Mousquetaires', called 'Tant de Belles Choses' by Pierre Mikailoff, I was struck by a photo of her in concert at Olympia from 29th October 1965. She was the original trouser suited chanteuse.

Her songs grip you immediately, even, I'm sure, if you can't understand her native tongue. Raw emotion needs no translation. All the great singers, from Callas and Sinatra to Ian Siegal and Bruce Springstein, have it. Whilst we may not be able to define it, we all know it when we hear it. They speak to our souls, and we feel better people for it. They lift us up and free our hearts. They make us sing, or dance, or both. They make us, momentarily at least, forget our troubles. They give us the words for love, and they explain away our sorrows. You are never alone whilst their music plays, and what a joy it is. Oh, Francoise, as you sing 'Ma jeunesse Fout Le Camp' [ 'My Youth Went Away'], I wonder where the years have gone? But, then again, methinks, how lucky we have been with the music of our time.

Along with 'Chansons d'Amour', I also bought Jaques Brel's 'C'est Comme Ca' and Serge Gainsbourg's 'Initials SG' [at equally cheap prices] from Amazon. I love them too, though not quite as much. I first heard of Jacques Brel [1929 -1978], the Belgian singer, when Alistair Campbell raved about him as one of his choices on 'Desert Island Discs'. The song he chose was amazing, and I thoroughly agree with everything that AC said about him. I am just sorry that somehow my youth passed him by [Jacques Brel, not Alistair Campbell!]. Not so, the gravelly voiced, chain smoking Serge Gainsbourg though. How many of us girls only realised what we were missing, as we groped behind the youth club with some spotty, downy chinned fellow adolescent, when we heard Jane Birkin singing [?] alongside him in 'Je T'aime, Moi Non Plus'? The song may have been rubbish, but the sentiments were life changing! There are much better songs on this album, but none of us will ever forget 'Je T'aime'.

After nearly choking on my Friday night fish and chips a few months ago, when I saw Carla Bruni Sarkozy strutting her stuff [well, sitting on a bar stool actually] on the late Jools Holland show, I was going to ask the question, "What is she for?" I was even more determined to slag her off when I saw her singing alongside Bono and all the other 'look at us, we're so important and we're going to change the world' celebs performing at the absent Nelson Mandela's 90th birthday party bash in New York. But something held me back. I don't know what it was. OK, so I know she's thin, she's beautiful, has a stunning retro chic wardrobe and has had more famous men than I've had hot quiches.

My petty jealousy seemed unworthy. I thought, purely for reasons of research, and also to compare her with the indominatable Mademoiselle H, that I might buy one of her albums. I didn't, largely because they were three times the price, but I did watch the video on the Amazon site that goes with her 'Comme Si de Rien N'Etait' CD. I am prepared to eat my chapeau! She may not have Francoise's voice, or indeed a good voice, but she certainly has that indefinable something. She talks of her music and her need to work on her voice, which I thought showed an disarming humility. She obviously loves her music and her relationship with her producer, Dominique Blanc Francard, is clearly an artistically fruitful collaboration. When she talks of the loss of her brother, of whom she sings in 'Salut Marin', I was moved. I think I shall buy the CD after all.

Music was, as ever, one of the main topics of conversation at Bardies. We have been hesitating about doing Blues at Bardies next year, our third festival, because of the economic downturn and, quite frankly, because it costs us an arm and a leg to put it on. We have always been happy to subsidise it to the tune of a big party but the costs of flying over musicians from the UK, in addition to the exhorbitant social security charges of French musicians, and wining, dining and accommodating people for a whole weekend have escalated beyond our budget since the pound has plummeted so horrendously against the euro. Last year we made the mistake of trying to mix and match it with our silver wedding anniversary celebrations, which meant that it was neither one thing nor t'other.

A year is a long time though and now that the recordings have finally been mixed, we are gobsmacked at our achievement. The calibre of musicianship and the quality of the music is mindblowing. It is easy to forget this in the sheer exhaustion of the aftermath. After many bottles of wine and much late night discussion, we have decided to go for it again on the proviso that we can, at least, make it more or less break even. We will never cut back on the quality of music on offer, but we are looking at ways to be more practical in our very amateur organisation. We have some great ideas, of which you will hear more in future blogs. I am desperate to get Ian Siegal back again [Ian, if you read this, we'll give you and Kat a free holiday into the bargain!]. His recording from the 2006 festival is sensational.

We also think it may have swung the decision of our 'locateur' to rent Bardies later this month, because Peter sent him some downloads. He [the locateur] says that we must do it again and that he wants to book his tickets now, just on the basis of a couple of songs from Ian. High praise indeed, but we are not too modest not to know that we have something very special going down here. A few house rentals will certainly help to amortise the costs. We are thrilled to say, after our 'inspection', that we have officially been invited to be included in the 'Alistair Sawday Special Places to Stay'.

When we bought the house in 2000, we never intended it to be anything but our home. Now, with teenage children desperate to hit the European nightclub scene, we have decided to bite the bullet and use a couple of August rentals to boost the flagging coffers. One friend told us about 'Owner's Direct', the most user-friendly of websites, where we now have a listing, and another about 'Schoolstrader.com', which is to 'ebay' what Primark is to Selfridges. It's not the quality of the merchandise that's at issue, it's the sheer, cluttered scale of the operation. Chateau de Bardies is the most beautiful place, and so special, so I'm not sad to share it with like-minded people. In actual fact, I'm rather chuffed because I know that everyone will fall in love with it, just as we did.

So now, we're back in England for a bit. Freddie is 18 tomorrow, the reason for our early exit. We came home yesterday, via Paris, which was 34 degrees on Thursday night. We stayed at the Hotel Clement, in Rue Clement on the left bank directly opposite 'Le Marche Saint Germain', a real find. The whole area buzzes with life and, for a brief moment, you can close your eyes and imagine what it was like in those heady days of 1968. Many of the old bookshops have long gone, now turned into trendy bistros, but the spirit remains. It was my lucky day, because I did manage to buy a copy of Francoise Hardy's 2008 autobiography, 'Le Desespoir des Singes' from a 'bouquiniste' for 8 euros instead of 21. I am determined to rent a cheap apartment here in order 'to do' Paris once again before my zimmer frame beckons. My youth may have gone away, but I'm not quite ready to give up the ghost just yet!

Du Fromage, S'il Te Plait

2009-08-01T06:10:00.000-07:00

One of the by products of a houseful of 'invitees' is a surplus of leftovers. Having been brought up in the fifties by a frugal, though caring, mum, I have learnt the value of food. I don't just mean its monetary value, although in these less bountiful times everyone feels the need to cut back on unnecessary expenditure, but also the fact that a producer has gone to a great deal of time and effort to make his product. We owe it to our farmers and growers to treat the product of their hard worn labour with respect, which in my book means not jettisoning it all just because someone's taken a a great big chunk out of it and it doesn't look pristine anymore. Our advertisers have a lot to answer for.

So many leftovers can be 'repackaged' on shiny new plates, cut into smaller morsels for an appetiser, worked into a pie or casserole or just covered with a fresh sprinkling of newly snipped herbs and some good olive oil. My all time favourite transformation is when those knobbly old bits of cheese hacked into after a good lunch or dinner metamorphose into a tart of some form or other. I love all cheese, from the palest delicate 'crottin' to a nasal blowing ripe Livarot, and many would say it shows! But with a skinny younger sister who has a broken femur and wrist due to osteoporosis, I've decided I'm not about to give up my favourite indulgence in a hurry.

Cheese and pastry are a marriage made in heaven. One of our many house guests many years ago gave me a copy of the wonderful Tamasin Day-Lewis's [she with the gorgeous brother whom we all fell in love with in 'My Beautiful Launderette'] fabulous cookery book, 'The Art of the Tart'. I have improvised many of her recipes over the years, largely because we just can't get the same quality of cream here. Her asparagus tart is to die for and we live on it during late spring and early summer when French asparagus is at its best. It is her cheese tarts, though, that make for the greatest satisfaction in recipe re-working.

I have to be honest and say that before the pound hit rock bottom against the euro, I would regularly phone up Martine Crespo in St Girons to put in an order for lunch. Ellie is partial to her quiche Lorraine, Freddie to her croustarde de montagne and Peter and me to her tarte aux tomates et courgettes. Less honest hosts could easily pass them off as their own! Not this year, though. We all have to tighten our belts, so to speak [ah, that it were the case for me!]. A good place to buy cheese economically is from the 'Vente directe' shop opposite the St Girons 'Intermarche', a great place to buy at good prices if there are lots of you or you don't mind freezing it. The temptation is always to buy too much, there is so much choice. It varies from day to day and you can never be sure on any given day what will be available.

This year almost every lunch has been an experiment in adaptation. One of my favourites is a chevre and tomato tart, made in a hurry the cheat's way, with 100% 'pur beurre' ready made pastry or, for real, with pastry made in the food processor. You can use any chevre but logs are best because you can slice it to overlap perfectly with slices of tomato. I put a good dollop of Dijon mustard into the base, a serious handful of Gruyere or Emmentale 'rape' on top of it, then slice the chevre and tomatoes, arrange them in rounds and top with as many fresh herbs you can muster, shaken together with some olive oil and one or two minced garlic cloves and loads of sel de Guerande and black pepper. Forty minutes in a moderate oven and you're done!

My other great favourite is a Roquefort and walnut tart, just discovered, which is great for using up old bits of Roquefort. Just sprinkle the base of your tart with the cheese and walnut pieces, broken up into fairly small bits, and pour 300 mls or so of creme de Normandie entiere beaten lightly with an egg and 4 egg yolks and some pepper, and cook till browning gently on top. Heaven! I cannot begin to bore you with the number of combinations I've thrown together, some infinitely better than others. It's so satisfying, as well as leaving you, smugly, with a tidy fridge. My mother-in-law would be proud of me!

Our local cheeses are fantastic, although rather more expensive these days. I particularly like the gloriously rich 'Le Pic de la Calabasse' from the fromagerie artisanale in St Lary, the Bamalou 'Petit Bethmale de Chevre' and the fromage artisanal au lait cru de vache from the Fromagerie de Moulis. One of the great joys of the Saturday morning market in St Girons over the years has been buying Stan's superb 'Le Montagnol' fromages made from either vache, brebis or chevre. I don't know if it's just me but he does seem to have become grumpier and less patient with his customers over the years. When he didn't even wait for me to choose a second cheese this morning before turning to his next punter, I was minded of Van Morrison in concert. You may be one of the best, but you won't always be able to get away with treating your loyal supporters with total indifference! The contrast with the delightfully smiley, elderly purveyor of the 'Le Brussard' chevre from Soulan, not far from Stan's pitch on the market, couldn't have been more marked.

Last week we had some friends for lunch and they brought with them the most delicious 'crottin de chevre' made by their neighbour in Laborie, not far from Castlenau-Durban. It always makes me laugh to think that a 'crottin' is so named because it resembles the the rear end deposits from a goat, sheep, mule etc. Only the French would happily describe a style of cheese with the same nominative as dung! How I love this country! It is what it is, end of story.

Talking of which, at the very same lunch I also served some supermarket Brie. Nothing wrong with that. My best friend in the Lauragais, Caroline de Roquette, who runs an amazing conserverie, regularly serves supermarket cheeses, saying that it's all in the keeping. Cheese must be eaten when it's ripe, something us English so often forget. Anyway, whilst Pascal, Sarah, Peter and I were discussing the merits of the crottin, Ellie tucked into the Brie. Suddenly, she gagged and yelled "Mum, it's moving! I feel sick!" I put on my specs and looked at her plate. Sure enough, there were a couple [only a couple, I promise!] of tiny white maggots on the plate. In my desire to ripen the Brie, I had obviously left it out in the recent heat, albeit covered, for far too long. The poor girl was mortified, as indeed was I, at such a lack of housekeeping in front of my lunch guests.

I needn't have worried. Pascal, being French, said 'C'est normal. Pas de probleme.' He then told us that there were certain cheeses which he preferred with the odd maggot or two. Yet another example of French practicality when it comes to food. I think, though, that when I next say to Ellie 'Du fromage, s'il te plait,' she may run a kilometre! Poor child, I've probably scarred her for life!

Old Farts and a Buddhist at Bardies

2009-07-26T03:56:00.000-07:00

Well, what a whacky week we've all had. It was born of an idea mooted at last summer's blues festival that a select group of us old Hull University alumni would reconvene chez nous for a rather more tranquil exchange of views, work and family updates and reminiscences. We have three ex presidents, one vice president, a treasurer and the chairman of our debating society among our group so, of course, our time together can hardly be described as tranquil.

The Buddhist amongst our number was the first to remind me of my casual invitation. When I answered the phone, way back in the depths of winter, he said in his deepest bass Yorkshire drawl, "Lola, I've got something to tell you." My heart sank, especially as he is now seventy [he was a very mature student in 1970!], as I considered the potential severity of the various medical diagnoses that he might be about to impart. "I've become a Buddhist," he continued, slowly as ever. "Thank God for that, Tom," I replied, "I thought you were going to tell me that you were terminal!" Big mistake to a Buddhist!

Six months later, flights booked, ferry crossings organised, children farmed out, cats and dogs kenneled and laptops packed away, here we all were at Bardies ready to recreate our very own decrepit version of 'Life on Mars.' Tom and Areta, their daughter Jane, who had been our thirteen year old bridesmaid in 1983, and Jane's young son were the first to arrive on Monday. They had driven up all the way from Andalucia, where they now live, to holiday with Tom's brother before coming on to us. We were very touched, even more so because we all know how slowly Tom drives. A two day drive at either end of one's holiday is effort indeed to catch up with old friends.

They were followed a couple of days, and a storm or two, later by Peter, who had been delayed by a flare up of his once a decade gout, and two more friends. The others arrived on Thursday in time for a grand celebratory dinner for our wedding anniversary and our best man's birthday. As each new arrival strolled through the door, the alcoholic contents of our fridge multiplied in both quality and quantity! It was a heavy duty night worthy of the occasion but possibly one more suited to the twenty year old livers of our youth. Out wonderful butcher in St Girons had prepared a filet de boeuf fit for a dauphin, and to follow we gorged ourselves on a selection of Madame Gilbert's delicious fromage and my best and richest chocolate cake recipe. Even a Buddhist like Tom was in awe of the quality of the meat, though, of course, I served him pasta and fresh pesto.

And so it continued! It struck me as we lurched from one 'repas' and load of washing up to the next, that slow living and Buddhism is a marriage made in [oooops!] heaven, at least for a man! Time and space are infinite, I think, and one's concept of time is immaterial, except when lunch or dinner has to be put on the table. I am very open about the endless possibilities for the explanation for our existence, but the gap between this life and our expectation of the next seems to me to be dependent on the kitchen. Such routine mundanities as picking, peeling, washing, chopping, stirring and cooking are the very stuff of life and without them we will eventually die. I know the great mystics could survive on the top of a mountain with nothing but a loin cloth and and an apple, but my Irish Catholic heritage has drummed into me the need to provide. I cannot have my guests meditating on empty stomachs! Food is life and the provision of it part of a great karma.

But I digress. Tom had read philosophy and had always assumed the role of intellectual mentor to us lesser mortals concerned with the rather more mundane choices of economics, history and politics. You could not get away with a casual throwaway comment in 1970, and it was good to see that nothing has changed since. We honed our debating skills at his knee and he taught us a lot. It is hard to believe that so many years have passed by and that now, at seventy, he really is a sage. If you're not into Buddhism though, or like some of our number positively agin any religious belief at all, it's the stuff of late boozy nights screeching amicably at each other!

He is now beginning to look like a Buddha. My greatest fear for him is that he may be re-incarnated as Pope in his next life, which I would be very happy with but he would consider hell on earth. One of the most memorable moments of the week was sitting under the trees in our garden, all bar Tom hungover, as we meditated quietly in front of the white agapanthus flowers. The sun was dappling through the trees and, as Tom hit the gong and the birds sang out in unison, peace and love abounded. Cliched, I know, but the communion of old friends is something very special indeed.

There were many other memorable moments too, boring to recall for anyone not witness to them, but they all involved people working together. It is a massive logistical exercise to keep everyone fed, watered, wined and happy but, I'm pleased to say, a joyful one when everyone mucks in and does their share. And, as so often happens with a house full, I've discovered new recipes born out of a need to be creative with leftovers. My 'not quite quiche Lorraine' was made with strips of leftover Bayonne ham gently crisped before being put into the pastry case with four egg yolks whipped into some 'creme de Normandie', only slightly spoilt by my slip with an oven glove whilst it was still runny and renamed by everyone 'Lola's drunken quiche'! The green beans with pesto and grated parmesan were rather good too.

So now the house is quiet and the old farts and the Buddhist wending their weary ways home. We already have a re-match planned for Norfolk in the autumn. I have time to think, reply to my emails, return phone calls, tidy up the borders, laze in the sunshine and, best of all, practice my expertly taught new meditation skills. I miss them all already but the upside is that I am looking forward to a few early nights off the booze. And, best of all, Freddie arrives on Tuesday. It will then be just the four of us together for a few days, days to cherish as our children grow older, for I suspect, as the years go by, there will be fewer and fewer of them. More glorious summer days to savour at Bardies and I do not want them to end.

Glory Days

2009-07-20T16:48:00.000-07:00

Well, we made it! I'm so impressed with the DVLA, who got my replacement licence to me in three days, and HSBC, who got my replacement cards to me [well, to the bank so Peter could pick them up for me, but still pretty impressive]. I didn't even have to panic over the weekend! So, on Monday morning, Ellie and I took a leisurely drive from Salisbury down to Portsmouth to take the 12.00 ferry to Le Havre. As a regular Brittany ferries punter I have to say that, whilst the food and general hospitality is nothing like as good, LD Lines is a pretty good alternative at less than half the price. The ship was squeeky clean, all chrome and shiny hard surfaces, but the staff were friendly enough and with an outside berth day cabin thrown in for our eighty odd quid, we were very impressed. The afternoon siesta provided a welcome cure-all from the excesses of a long Sunday lunch with local friends. By the time we got to Le Havre, we felt ready to hit the town, which in this case was Honfleur.

Peter and I used to skip off occasionally for romantic nights in Honfleur, 'avant les enfants'. It's still as beautiful as it was twenty years ago and, as far as I could make out in one evening, relatively unchanged. I was really pleased for Ellie that it lived up to my hype, especially as, foolishly, I had booked a hotel on the outskirts because it had parking and I didn't want my precious new Bosch lawn mower nicked! It was a glorious evening and after our twenty five minute hike, we were ready to tackle a serious gourmet dinner close to the Vieux Basin. As it turned out, we were in the midst of a 'pont des fetes' and the town was heaving, so we decided to grab the first available table for two right on the waterfront. The food was average, but the view and the ambiance more than made up for it. It seemed impossible to believe that we had left the wet, windy weather of England just a few hours before. It's no wonder so many tourist ads for France picture the boats and the harbour at Honfleur. It's the stuff of paintings and TV commercials, not a quick stopover, but we loved every minute of it.

The following day, we stopped with Ian and Jackie Hoare at 'La Souvigne', not too far from Tulle. We first met them because I always carry a Sawday's French B & B book with me when I'm travelling through France. Ian is half Hungarian and Jackie is half French and they both went native many years ago. Ian is a mine of information about French culture, food and wine. He is also a sommelier and a member of the Bergerac wine fraternity, which also boasts the amazing Patricia Atkinson amongst its number. If you ever want to read a story about a woman's determination to see something through, I really recommend her book. They cooked the most delicious dinner for us, including some cured ham from 'Bernard' [the pig, not the producer] which Ian had been given in lieu of his assistance in designing a website for 'Bernard's' owner. The main course was magret cooked in an oriental style, the recipe of which I'm going to pinch for my summer guests, followed by local cheese and homemade raspberry ice cream. Ian tells me that he now has 180 recipes up on his website, so I feel a spot of plagiarism coming on. We waddled off to bed 'tres content' and a lot more knowledgeable.

After a moderate drive, we eventually got to Bardies on Wednesday afternoon and couldn't believe that everything had gone so swimmingly. The temperature guage in the car had hit 32 degrees and we were desperate to cool off our mosquito bites. As we walked slowly down to the pool arm in arm, a citron vert vision appeared before us. "Mum, the pool's gone green!" Oh, shit, I thought. What do I do now? It's never happened to us before, but that was before our 'jardinier' went walkabout. Tina, our 'woman Friday' has gone off to Glastonbury working for a fortnight and seeing 'The Boss' in the process [oh no, I'm not jealous - much!]. With no one to top up the non automatic water levels, the pump had cut out during blistering temperatures giving the algae a field day. I couldn't believe my eyes. The lime in my gin and tonic, which I needed to recover from the shock, was an identical shade of Trisha Guild green.

The next day the nice man at Ariege Piscines finally rode to my rescue, at huge expense I'm sure, and all became well just as the thunderstorms rolled in. Fortunately, we were due to go visiting because my friend Molly has had major surgery on her back. I spent Friday sorting the house out in anticipation of our imminent arrivals and cooking some tasty morsels to help speed Molly's recovery. The basil that I had planted has thrived on the sunshine so pesto was a must. There is nothing so simple and delicious as home made pesto, for which I never use a recipe. I just toast up a good handful of pine nuts, which I throw into the food processor with a bunch of basil, a couple of garlic gloves, plenty of freshly grated Parmesan and good olive oil drizzled through the funnel. A quick whizz and you're done. Pronto pesto! Divine. I also threw together a griddled aubergine and tomato cous cous salad.

We went to Molly's via the Saturday morning market in St Girons, already demonstrating the fact that the English are not keeping away from France despite Robert Peston. Whilst it's not quite Kensington 'en campagne', it's getting as close to Brits abroad as we used to deride the Gers for being. Our little secret is no more, methinks! I don't want to be a 'nimby', so I'm trying to be positive. It's good for the local economy, nobody could seriously come here if they didn't have a decent smattering of French and more people might read mine and Kalba's blogs [see 'Slow Living in the French Pyrenees' on Blogspot]. We bought masses of bio salad stuff for Molly, olives, cheese and a divine 'croustarde des myrtilles', as well as some 'fraises des bois'. Hopefully, it will keep her going for a bit, stuck up the mountain as she is without a shop.

She lives in Axiat, opposite the Roman church of St Julien. If you haven't yet been along the Route des Corniches, it's a must. A corniche is a road that winds along the side of a steep coast or cliff and whilst this isn't as famous as it's Riviera cousins, with their car ads and movie car crashes. not to mention poor old Princess Grace, it is equally as stunning in a mountain sort of way. It's the old pilgrimage route to Ax which starts at Bompas, 3 km north of Tarascon, and winds its way through Arnave, Cazenave and Senconat up to Axiat, before going on to Lordat and Unac before Ax itself. It is one of the most beautiful drives in the Ariege, and if you are a cyclist one of the most challenging. The Tour de France comes this way periodically so it's certainly not for cycling softies. Axiat itself boasts a church of exquisite proportions, if one ignores the 19th century sacristy tagged on for practical reasons rather than architectural merit. It has a distinctly Burgundian elegance to it, with its square bell tower, and it would seem highly probable that the Comte de Foix, Roger II, was highly influenced by the Abbe de Cluny who had 'donated' it on 25th January 1075.

We were pleased we went and it was great to see Molly looking so well just a week after major surgery. The afternoon flew by. As we wove our way back down the mountain in the late evening sunshine, with Springstein blasting out from the CD player, I couldn't have felt happier. Here I am back in my beloved Bardies with long summer days ahead. The first of our many house guests begin to arrive on Monday, culminating in a big reunion of the class of Hull University'73, our best man's birthday and our wedding anniversary on Thursday. What fun we shall have. Glory days indeed.

A Civilised and Cultured Nation

2009-07-10T02:01:00.000-07:00

I had intended to write my next blog on 14th July, a significant enough date in French history but also the day on which I was going to start my summer jam making, one of the great annual events in life at Bardies. I promise that the next one will be concerned with the simple joys of such everyday mundanities.

Instead, as ever in life, events have intervened. On Wednesday morning, after an overnight pit stop with Peter near Lancaster Gate, I decided on the spur of the moment to pop down briefly to the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition, before meeting up with him again for our special treat to ourselves of a theatre double bill at 3.00pm. As I hopped on the number 94 to Picadilly, two undernourished and painfully thin men blocked my way through the almost empty bus, and I thought 'how odd'. A few seconds later, I realised that they had pickpocketed me and there I was with no money, including lots of euro notes which I had exchanged especially, no credit or bank cards and worst of all, no driving licence. Quel catastrophe!

With the lunchtime ferry to Le Havre looming on Monday, I did not begrudge them the money [well, not much!], but I am beside myself with the loss of my cards and driving licence. It is, to my knowledge, unlawful to drive in France without carrying a driving licence. After the bus was evacuated, the police called, endless phone calls and mild hysteria on my part, Peter met me with some cash and off we went to Ronald Harwood's double bill of 'Taking Sides' and 'Collaboration' at the Duchess Theatre. All thoughts of my predicament evaporated the moment the curtain went up.

The first play, 'Taking Sides', is about Dr Wilhelm Furtwangler, the German composer and conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic, and is set in 1946 when he was interogated by the Americans over his collaboration with the Nazis. The second play, 'Collaboration', is about Richard Strauss's relationship with his Jewish librettist, Stefan Zweig, and the impact on their relationship of Nazi threats to Strauss's Jewish daughter-in-law and his grandchildren. Both plays examine the propensity to take the high moral ground from the safety of our own comfort zones. Nothing is as it seems, especially when we discover that Furtwangler also helped over eighty Jewish musicians to escape.

In case you are wondering why I am writing this in a blog about Bardies, I wanted to share some thoughts about some notes in the programme. Mathew Scott, the composer, asks why such a cultured, intelligent country fell for Nazism. Ronald Harwood, the writer, replies, "It is one of the mysteries of history. I've always said about the Germans that they are cultured but not civilised, we're civilised but not cultured and the French are civilised and cultured, which makes them unbearable."

Of course, it got me thinking. Firstly, about the fictional events in Sebastian Faulkes's 1999 novel, 'Charlotte Gray', specifically about how some people behaved in occupied France, and the events surrounding the Drancy holding camp to the east of Paris. The plight of the two little Jewish boys in the story, Andre and Jacob, still brings me to tears. And then, inevitably, my thoughts turned to what is probably the greatest and most awe-inspiring work of fiction that the occupation of France produced, the wonderful 'Suite Francaise' by Irene Nemirovsky.

Only two of the planned five books were written, in her miniscule script in a leather bound notebook. 'Storm in June', about the flight from Paris, and 'Dolce', about life under German occupation in the fictional village of 'Bussy', are all the more compelling because they are almost simultaneous with the events in the lives of the writer, her two daughters and her husband, Michel Epstein. These two magnificent novellas are set between June 4th 1940, as German forces prepare to invade Paris, and July 1st 1941, when some of the German occupying forces are re-deployed to the Soviet Union.

We shall never know what happened to the vast array of characters in her planned later books because Irene Nemirovsky was arrested on 13th July 1942 in the village of Issy-l'Eveque, and sent to her death in the Auschwitz infirmary, of typhus, on 17th August 1942. Her husband also suffered the same fate a few months later, when he was sent to the gas chamber immediately upon his arrival, but her daughters survived. One of them, Denise, discovered the treasure of her mother's manuscript in 1999. The book was published in Paris to great critical acclaim in 2004, and later brilliantly translated by Sandra Smith for a wider audience.

I cannot reccomend it highly enough to all lovers of all things French. It is both sad and joyful, as Nemirovsky records the best and the worst of times in France under German occupation. Who knows what any of us would do in such dire circumstance? We all like to think that we would behave with the utmost honour and integrity, but the reality of choices with the severest of consequences would undoubtedly lead most of us to inhabit that grey world of uncertain morality in between the black and white.

Both Furtwangler and Strauss, and many of the characters in 'Suite Francaise' were confronted with difficult dilemmas. The fictional Bruno von Falk, the young German Wehrmacht officer billeted with Lucille Argellier and her widowed mother-in-law in Bussy, in 'Dolce', the second novella, is charming, has read Balzac and plays the piano beautifully. He had hoped to be a musician before his Wehrmacht obligations intervened. Like Captain Corelli, he is a civilised and cultured man living in uncivilised times. We feel for him, because the world he now lives in was not of his making. He is from our world, where music, art and literature are the mark of the civilised human being.

But, oh, how quickly such glorious things can evaporate before our liberal eyes. The real choices of war take precedence, unless like Furtwangler we close our eyes to reality. In our part of France, the starting point of Le Chemin de la Liberte was St Girons. Evaders, who included hundreds of Frenchmen wanted by the Gestapo, Jews fleeing their oppressors and the many RAF and American airmen shot down over Nazi occupied Europe, were passed from one link to the next in a chain of local helpers who clothed, fed and hid them at great personal risk to themselves. According to official statistics, there were a staggering 33,000 successful escapes across the whole length of the Pyrenees during the course of the war.

Of these, 782 escaped over the mountain peaks of the Ariege. In June 1943, there were 113 successful evasions through Le Chemin de la Liberte. Several other escape trails were established near St Girons as the war progressed, starting from Foix, Tarascon, Aulus-les-Bains, Massat, Castillon, Seix and Seintein, each one known only to its special guide, its 'passeur'. These men were incredibly brave. Not for them the musings of black and white, as they risked not only their own lives but the lives of their nearest and dearest too. As German surveillance increased, often they were betrayed by their fellow countrymen working for the hated Vichy run paramilitary 'Milice'. Over a hundred 'passeurs' were arrested or deported, or shot on the spot for their bravery. Remarkably, despite such setbacks, the St Girons-Esterri escape route via Mont Valier remained operational until the end of the war.

We owe these truly brave and civilised men and women, an incalculable debt. For, as well as the precious lives that they saved, they have enabled us to retain our fundamental faith in human nature. Sadly, I do not know their names. They will never have the fame and adulation that Furtwangler and Strauss were accorded, both in Germany and beyond, for their great music making. But they are as much a part of the great tapestry of human history that has made France a civilised and cultured nation as its greatest writers, artists and composers.

Grafting for a Slow Life

2009-07-04T04:18:00.000-07:00

I was rung up last Thursday by our delightful 'Alistair Sawday' inspector. She is an American lady of high culture who has gone native up in the high Pyrenees with a restored auberge called 'La Genade'. We met almost a fortnight ago when she came to give us the once over for inclusion in next May's re-publication of 'French Holiday Homes'. She is the epitomy of that group of civilised, well-travelled, intellectual Americans, so despised by their previous president and his accolytes, who is as at home in London, Paris or Beijing as they would be in New York, Atlanta or San Francisco. We have been privileged to meet many such Americans on our travels over the years and I am thrilled for them that the new Obama administration has enabled them to lift up their heads once again.

Needless to say, after the serious business of the day was done, we talked of such things. We also talked of 19th century English literature, her great love, and every conceivable aspect of French, English and European history and culture that it was possible to cram into a long, slow lunch under the lime trees at Bardies in one afternoon. I finally waved her off to drive back up the mountains at 7.30pm.

Such are the joys of life and lunching in our part of the world. Speedy Brits, used to a 'Pret a Manger' sandwich or salad at their desk, take a few days chez nous to 'chill' [as my teenage kids would phrase it]. We consider it a good lunch if we are still going at 4.30pm and there is still some chilled 'rose' left in the bottle to finish. Critics of the French economic model, of course, bemoan the impact of the lunch recess. Given the choice between the two, I know which is the more civilised option, although it has to be said that when you find the electric doors of your local 'bricolage' store, or bank, or 'tresorerie' refusing to budge at one minute to midday the temptation to mutter 'merde' is often overwhelming.

Meredith had just finished harvesting some fresh peas from her 'potager' when she called. She told me that she had been speaking with the head of Sawdays in Paris, who is putting together their first 'Slow France' publication, and that I should seriously consider applying for a listing at some stage. I was flattered, of course, but my reply was 'Gosh, Meredith. Think of the work!' I simply couldn't imagine doing it all myself, and neither could she. It takes a phenomenal amount of energy keeping up with her own 'potager', her 'table d'hote' guests, and her own cleaning, as well as the washing and ironing of bed-linen. When my house is full with non-paying guests, it's not much easier either. We had a laugh as we spoke of the vagaries of a fantasy 'slow' life, a la William Morris et al. Such a life was always the privilege of the aristocracy, who had minions, inevitably paid a pittance, to support their creative aspirations.

These days, Sissinghurst, Charleston and the like have been superceded as role models by the much more 'hands on' approach of Jimmy's Farm and the River Cottage. We sit in our cosy houses with food on the table and look back nostalgically to a world where we could physically touch and see the products of our labours. Marx got it absolutely right when he describes the process of 'alienation' in a soul-destroying world of rapidly advancing industrialisation and 'division of labour'. Cut off from the source of our energy, especially our food, the capitalist role model swallows us up in its ever-demanding quest for profit. We are left bereft and in search of our very souls. It is the price we have paid for material gain.

Short of a major revolution and the overthrow of capitalism as we know it, it's hard to see how the average working man or woman can afford a slow life, especially at Tesco prices. I know that the demand for allotments in the UK is at an all time high, but I wonder at the other compromises that have to be made to put home grown vegetables on the table. My mum did it in the 50's and 60's, when over half of our long, narrow garden was given over to vegetables. She had both the most beautiful and the most productive garden in the street, alongside a full-time nursing job, four children and home cooked food. She certainly couldn't afford help and as a result, she was permanently knackered. Sadly, I don't remember her ever having enough time to sit down to talk or play with us.

Don't get me wrong. I think that slow living is great if you are privileged enough to be able to do it. I just know, as a busy mum, that there are only twenty four hours in the day and that the struggle to do and be all these things often leaves us going to bed riddled with guilt and failure. It takes real graft to lead a 'slow life', as the five historians and archaeologists who set out to recreate farm life in 1620, in Peter Sommer's 'Tales From the Green Valley', so ably demonstrated on our television screens recently. Carl Honore's admonition of impatient sex in 'In Praise of Slow' may be wonderfully apt but, unfortunately, at the end of a tough day labouring on the farm, my guess is that some 'slow sleep' is more likely to be the urge that comes to mind first!

Interestingly, I read today that Britons are less satisfied with life than many people in poorer countries, and that they use too many of the world's resources. The 'Happy Planet Index', devised by Nick Marks [no pun intended!], which measures life expectancy, happiness and the environmental impact of different nations, put Britain 74th out of 143, with Australia at 109 and the USA at 114. The highest ranking European country was the Netherlands at 43. Britain's poor ranking, unsurprisingly, was deemed to be due to a combination of social problems, including high levels of inequality, poor living and community breakdown, as well as the high carbon footprint of most of the population. The countries that came top were middle income countries in Latin America, Asia and the Caribbean with a high level of life satisfaction and a low carbon footprint.

Clearly, if we aspire to the basic tenets of slower living, and reduce our carbon footprints in the process, we will be happier human beings. We will also be doing something, hopefully not too late, to improve our world for our children. This strikes me as the main motivation for a conscious realignment of our priorities, rather than the misty-eyed vision of past times gleaned from our television screens. We can learn a lot from the lessons of the past, but we need to be realistic. The great advances of the 20th century, in science, technology and medicine, have already made our lives much easier and, let's not kid ourselves, better. We now need to harness them to the needs of a changing world with an uncertain future. And we will.

Slow living is the natural order of things in this part of France, and long may it last. Bardies, until the ravages of two world wars, had always been self-sufficient. Throughout the house, when we bought it in 2000, there was evidence of the industry of the previous owners. They did everything themselves, from growing fruit and vegetables and making their own conserves and chutneys in enormous copper confiture pans, to raising cows, chickens and sheep and making their own charcuterie. In between they rode, hunted and fenced. The women made, embroidered and mended curtains, bedlinen, napkins and clothes. Bardies was a veritable cottage industry, little changed in centuries. But hidden away in armoires upstairs, were masses of servants' uniforms, all hand-made as well. A whole army of people enabled the house to function. These days, there is just me, with a little occasional help from Carine. I'm forever grafting for a slow life. The good news is I'm a fast worker!

Voyages of Discovery

2009-07-01T14:47:00.000-07:00

Well, I finally hobbled onto Eurostar on Saturday morning after a long night on the autoroute, toute seule, and ten glorious days at Bardies getting ready for our Alistair Sawday inspection [more excitement on this to follow in the next post!]. My only incentive for driving back was the urgent need to replace our ancient rattling lawn mower and recently deceased hedge cutter. With over thirty metres of ancient box hedging to contain after the spring rains and early summer sunshine, and a still decidedly unfavourable exchange rate, I decided to hit the road in pursuit of UK bargains rather than prop up the profits of our local 'Briconautes' yet again. French prices before the nose dive of the pound were horrendous. Now they look like someone put the decimal point in the wrong place.

Driving through France is always a voyage of discovery. At Easter, we detoured 'en famille' to Oradour-sur-Glanne in the Haute Vienne department not far from Limoges. I had wanted to visit this remarkable testament to the horrors of war since seeing the Jeremy Isaac's award winning 1973 series 'The World at War'. Thirty six years later, the image of Dr Desourteaux's abandoned car, amongst many others, still remained with me. Everything is as it was left on Saturday 10th June 1944, when one of the worst civilian atrocities in France was perpetrated on the innocent people of Oradour by the Der Fuhrer Regiment of 2nd Waffen-SS Panzer Division Das Reich. 642 men, women and children were brutally murdered, the majority being burnt alive beyond recognition in the church. A visit to Oradour is a pilgrimage rather than a voyage, a 'must' for children studying the history of the Second World War. We were all deeply moved by the experience. 'Souviens-toi'.

Returning home after Easter, sans enfants who had flown home with their dad, I went via Caen-Ouistreham, another reminder of those dark days. A month after the horrors of Oradour, on 9th July 1944, seventy five per cent of the city of Caen was destroyed by allied bombers as part of the back up for the D-Day landings. There were more than 2000 casualties. Anthony Beevor, controversially, recently said in an interview that the bombing of Caen was close to a war crime. I found myself wondering if an atrocity is easier to conduct if you cannot see your victims. Did the people of Caen suffer the torment of their burns with less pain than those in the little church in Oradour? Having also been to Dresden, I find this to be an essential moral question.

On a cheerier note, with almost a day to spare, I indulged myself beforehand with a seafood lunch in Deauville-sur-mer, as 'Great Gatsby'ish' today as it ever was, only bigger and richer. Taking a post-prandial walk along the seafront afterwards, I came across a plaque to Claude Lelouche's 1966 film, 'Un Homme et Une Femme', which won the coveted Cannes 'Grand Prix' and was partly filmed in Deauville. My first ever serious boyfriend, who was called Michael, was obsessed with Anouk Aimee and we saw it at least three times. I was in the sixth form, not doing French 'A' level, but from that moment I knew I had made a big mistake. Until then, French, like Latin, had been a chore, studied only because they were compulsory subjects at GCE for aspiring historians. We saw ourselves as the lovers in the story, French of course, and my love affair with all things French began in earnest.

I picked up my French again at the Alliance Francaise, where I finally learnt to speak the language, rather than rote learn irregular verbs and schoolgirl vocabulary. My French improved considerably, albeit only to the level of a seven year old. Then, over ten years ago, I watched a BBC TV documentary called 'The Language Master', where the polyglot Michel Thomas taught a disparate group of sixth formers in a London comprehensive how to speak passable French in just five days. I was gob-smacked. There were no books, no blackboards, no little notebooks of vocabulary and no homework. He got and kept their cynical attention for long enough to teach them the basic structure and ability to use the language. I immediately went out and bought his French course, and we've never looked back. As I drove into Calais last Saturday, I listened to the very last CD of his advanced course and finally learnt the elusive subjunctive tenses. Twelve years later, I finally feel that I'm getting there.

Just over a hundred years ago French was a foreign language to the majority of the population. In 1880, just over a fifth of the population felt comfortable speaking French, so I am not so far behind. In 1863, down where we are in the Ariege, virtually none of the communes was French speaking. Some cynics say that this is still the case. It's certainly true that the Ariegois 'twang' is difficult on the ear but getting oneself understood is as big a problem now as it was to Racine and his fellow metropolitan travellers in previous centuries. So much misunderstanding of French culture and custom derives from this essential fact. For a real insight, I thoroughly recommend Graham Robb's scholarly 2007 book, 'The Discovery of France', which I am currently engrossed in.

The rebranding of the France in 1790, with the formation of uniformly sized 'departements' named after rivers and other geographical permanences and the deliberate attempt to obliterate the Oil, Oc, Franco-Provencal and gypsy Basque and Catalan Calo languages, separated the language, customs, culture and superstitions of the traditional 'pays' from the demands of the new order. This mis-match continues today as we are all taught the highly codified and formal foreign language known as French. We struggle with our genders, pronouns and irregular verbs yet none of us speaks the language correctly. It's a consolation to know that this is just as true for the average French person too. We have a number of recognised minor dialects in everyday use not so far from Bardies. They include Ariegois, Fuxien, Luchonnais, Capcinais, Andorrais, Puigcerda, Roussillonais, as well as the major dialects of Couseranais, Commingeois, Catalan, Bigourdan and Languedocien.......and I worry about the accuracy of my French? Everything in France is a voyage of discovery, and long may it last too.

A Dinosaur Discovers Blogspot

2009-06-15T02:55:00.000-07:00

You may find it hard to believe but whilst I knew about blogs and blogging, I had absolutely no idea how easy it would be on Blogspot. It's brilliant! Left to my own devices, I would be happy with my ancient electric typewriter and a France Telecom landline. Now, thanks to my savvy kids, I am entering a wonderful new world of being able to share my love of the Ariege with anyone who wants to know more.

We first discovered the Ariege in 1994, the year our daughter was born. We had only recently returned to the UK from a stint in Madrid, and knew that we wanted to remain 'Europeans'. We had loved Spain, especially the Pyrenees, but opted for our first love, France. We madly agreed with some friends of ours to buy a house jointly somewhere within an hour's radius of Toulouse. In those days, pre Ryanair and Easyjet, the only carriers were British Airways and Air France, and Toulouse was the only viable airport for this unspoilt part of France.

We intended to drive for Easter, Christmas and summer vacations, nine hours or so from the Normandy ports of Caen and St Malo, and a few hours more from Calais or Boulougne, but we wanted our new home to be accessible for weekends. We saw many beautiful, often deserted properties and got a real feel for the region. We were in love! It seems incredible now, but fifteen years ago there were hardly any Brits at all in the Ariege. Mirepoix was a shadow of the bustling, thriving tourist trap that it has now become since the arrival of Ryanair to Carcassonne. This really was 'la France profonde'.

In the process of searching, we read everything that we could find about the region. Having read history as part of a joint honours degree, I was amazed to discover two centuries or more of Cathar history virtually unknown to anyone without a special interest in their lost world. We went to Montsegur, Queribus and Montaillou and eventually found our own house with direct links to the Cathars, whose origins dated from 1002AD. We loved the Chateau de Queille, close to Mirepoix, and spent many happy years there before moving west to the Chateau de Bardies, not far from St Girons, in 2000.

When we arrived here to see it in December 1999, with the first snowfall of that winter, it was like walking back in time. The pace of life hasn't changed here for centuries. I had recently read 'La Gloire de Mon Pere' and here I was peering into a world of life as it used to be in Pagnol's Provence. It was the antithesis of life in England. We could immediately visualise ourselves decamping here for the following summer, and the deal was done.

That first summer, we had a party and invited all our neighbours. I was fascinated by stories about our predecessor, Madame Simone Henri, and what a wonderful woman she had been. I was also curious about the history of the house and the lives of the Barthet, Henri and Crinon families who had lived here for 178 years. We were part of a continuum and felt honoured and privileged to be warmly welcomed as worthy successors. We have kept in touch with M et Mme Crinon, which is a bonus.

Over the years since we have had wonderful times with family and friends. I am proud to say that our parties and hospitality are legendary and we have made many new and lasting friendships with people throughout the Ariege. Our 'Blues at Bardies' festival has been an ambitious, but hugely enjoyable sideline, which keeps my music mad family happy every two years. If I had my way, I'd be here permanently. I'm now counting the months until my youngest goes off to university!

Meantime, I plan to continue my endless creative projects. Like many people looking carefully at the way we all live now, we are fully signed up members to Carl Honore's 'In Praise of Slow'. Life at Bardies is slow by metropolitan standards, but it is exceedingly creative and expansive in an altogether different way. If you believe in the existence of leylines, then Bardies is definitely a 'haut lieu d'energie'. The difference here is that our energies are channelled positively. Situated on top of pre-historic caves and in close proximity to Cathar sites, how could we not have a spring in our step?

We try to support local French artists and artisans, as well as the many local artisan food producers. As a committed 'foodie', I hope to be able to blog about new wine and food discoveries, as well as art and sculpture and places to visit. Music, though, is our first love, so watch this space! In fact, being a serial chatterbox, now that I have come out of my cave, I may well blog about just about anything! A bientot.

PS You can check us out in more detail through www.chateaudebardies.net and www.bluesatbardies.net