Snippits from Life in France - "Ring them Bells"

“ Home is the wallpaper above the bed, the family dinner table, the church bells in the morning, the bruised shins in the playground, the small fears that come with dusk, the streets and squares and monuments and shops that constitute one’s first universe”.  Henry Anatole Grunwald.

The rhythmic chiming of clocks and church bells immediately transports me back to my pre-digitalised childhood - the days when mantle and grandfather clocks were wound by hand and church bell ringers weren't almost extinct. A simple, secure childhood filled with love, adventure and laughter. 

Throughout my travels across the length and breadth of France the sound of church bells has been a scarce occurrence, so it was quite perplexing to be welcomed to My French Folly by pealing church bells at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday night - our first night in residence.

Amidst the dust, rubble and disappointment that greeted us courtesy of My Man on the Ground, (the scoundrel parading as our renovation project-manager) I felt unexpectedly at peace hearing these bells. By habit I counted the chimes. 3 different sized bells were identified without a discernible pattern to their ringing. ......100, 101, 102....... When the last bell was finally struck, a lingering, deep, resonance echoed across the valley.

The village's own 19C Notre Dame

By the next day we realised that our watches could be abandoned.  The bells rang 8 times on the hour, 4 times every half hour and come 7 o'clock, (a.m. or p.m.) the bells went bezerk. An irritation for some, reassuring for others.

Inquiries about the origin of this 12-hourly phenomenon usually met with similar responses. " I don't know" or "it just is". My curiosity was eventually satiated months later when exploring the remains of the 12C Church, (affectionately know as La Vieille Eglise), with a local historian.  No bells can be heard here now - the steeple collapsed a few centuries ago as most of the footings of the church subsided into the soft earth of a reclaimed swamp.

The remains of the village's La Vieille Eglise

The 7 o’clock ritual was a call to prayer. Nestled in a valley at the foot of the village, it is understandable why the ringing of La Vieille Eglise bells was so prolonged and varied – the sound had to carry up to the surrounding houses, across fields, and through the forests to neighbouring hamlets. Quite some distance.

Today the chiming emanates from the grand 19 C church, perched in the centre of the village directly opposite My French Folly. With only 10% of the community attending church regularly and the proliferation of timepieces, from watches and mobile phones to almost every technical household item, it is heartening that this centuries old tradition continues.

A bell's not a bell 'til you ring it. A song's not a song 'til you sing it. Love in your heart wasn't put there to stay. Love isn't love 'til you give it away. Oscar Hammerstein 11

Inside the remains of La Vieille Eglise

If the cap fits .........

Currently, I resemble a horse. 

Courtesy of  ehow.com

My smile reveals a mouth of very large (I would say “oversized”) teeth. Thank you father. When adult teeth superseded my juvenile teeth an overcrowding issue developed in my average sized mouth. So off I trotted with mother to the orthodontist, Mr. Chalmers – an elegant gentleman who always arrived at his consulting rooms clad in an immaculately cut dark suit, a bowler hat and very shiny shoes. Despite the weather, in his hand he carried a wooden handled, black umbrella in a jaunty, but dignified manner. Mr. Chalmer’s eyes shone when I first opened my mouth. 4 molar extractions were promptly ordered so my teeth could be correctly spaced using wire bands. The result? A smile full of very large, straight equine- looking teeth.

Note: Father has large teeth that sit perfectly in his large mouth.

Courtesy of gypsy-willow.hubpages.com

I have spent the summer vacation (southern hemisphere) sorting through the attic where many treasures, references that aren’t being used, and photos have been hastily stored without a suitable filing system. Being very sentimental, I tend to hold onto items with history and often put smaller ones and professional notes in unlabelled boxes or files. Then there are the lovely old pieces of furniture that  have been stock-piling for the stone cottage we planned to build on our 12 acres in the countryside. However, after buying My French Folly the stone cottage idea is shelved. Consequently I have also been sorting through this beautiful furniture in order to sell it – unexpectedly time consuming. It was during a recent rummaging and organizing episode in the attic that I dislodged a hard-wood table that was precariously perched on top of boxes of files that sat on top of a much loved wooden box of Lego – kept for the hypothetical grandchildren. 
As the tower of goods toppled towards me, my arms haphazardly scrambled to halt the cascade of boxes and the bridge of my nose gallantly stopped the fall of the unusually heavy table. Much blood, pain and swelling of my nose at its point of contact with the table resulted. "Look on the bright side - now your glasses can't fall off and you can wear a pince-nez!" was optimistic Mr R's initial response my mishap.

So with a mouth full of large teeth and a recently acquired huge, red Roman nose, I resemble a horse. More specifically, when I smile I look like “Charlie” , the first horse I rode.  Just hope I don’t find chaff on my dinner plate tonight.

One accident (of birth) + one recent accident (physical) = one horse-faced me.

Courtesy of "Equine Dentist"

Too Hot to Handle

Billabong. Tabilk Winery, Australia

Gardening is spiritual, anchoring me to the earth and seasons – my form of green meditation. While I don’t apportion my time to gardening accordingly to its importance to my life, just wandering around the yard, pulling a few weeds here and there, spot watering and planning my next major activity are incredibly fulfilling and soothing. 

A worm on the 4th floor of Annelid House.

Part of my green landscape is my worm farm that supplies me with lovely, organic fertilizer while disposing of our herbaceous kitchen scraps. Harvested rain from the house roof usually manages to provide the garden with water until early summer. 

Bee-keeping activities have now ceased due to my allergies but I still delight in seeing bees in my garden foraging around in search of sweet nectar.  

So it is with a heavy heart that I have to report the death of the worms in the worm farm due to my forgetfulness.

The 4-tiered annelid-tower has survived in the shade for the last 10 years, through all weather - fair and foul. Kitchen scraps go into its top store, garden fertilizer and compost come out from the bottom– until last week’s unseasonal 41 ^o C. (106 ^o F). The weather was so uncomfortable that once I made it home from work and feed the troops, I just flopped around the house preparing the bare minimum for the following day, before collapsing onto my bed.

No thought was given to the new seedlings in my vegetable patch or to my wonderful worms.

Third floor worms

Suffering from the heat, I omitted to remove the lid off the worm farm to allow the tower to cool – a necessity once the thermometer hits 35 ^o C. My oversight became apparent when my little soil Trojans were to be fed during the weekend. As I approached the worm farm, laden with kitchen scraps, I noticed a cloud of frenetic flies. A foul odor hung in the air. ….. “Something’s wrong.” Removing the lid of the 4-tiered annelid-tower unleashed a sickening smell and revealed a sea of discolored, putrefying worms. Phew!  My supportive family retreated indoors amidst screams of disgust leaving me to deal with the product of my neglect. Not an easy task given the size of the tower, and the stench.

On our 12 acres in the countryside, huge eucalyptus tree branches frequently
fall during strong winds,  adding to our list of chores.
Their removal can consume hours of our time and test our patience.

Yes, lurking under my suburban exterior is an avid greenie – not one who hugs trees in protest, but one who hugs them out of sheer delight; inhaling the sent of their wood,  feeling the texture of their bark, observing the intricacies of their being and feasting on the hues and contrasts of the colours of their bark. Isn’t nature wonderful?

Chic Provence Design Tour - link is working now!

Bookings for Chic Provence Design Tour Printemp 2013, are now open. Download the tour brochure by clicking on the above link to Chic Provence.

Season's Greetings

Merry Christmas and best wishes for a peaceful, prosperous and happy 2013.

                                                   

Nous vous souhaitons un Joyeux Noël et une très bonne année  

2013. Nous ésperons que vous passez d'excellentes fêtes de fin d'année .

Snippets from Life in France - la baguette

What can be more quintessentially French than seeing a baguette tucked under an arm, protruding from a basket or strapped onto the back of a bicycle?  Scrumptious, long, thin, crusty. A challenge for aging gums – so I am told.  

In true French style, the land of red tape has a law governing the ingredients of the authentic baguette dough.  Slight variations are allowed in the length and width of the loaf as well as in the proportions of some of its components. The small dimples on the bottom of the loaves made by the linen on which the dough sits while proving, reassures the purchaser of this infamous loaf that it has been baked by une boulangerie artisinanale.
The baguette as we know it today is a product of the 1920's, descending from a long and proud history of French bread making. Apparently baguettes were created as a result of a new French law which was introduced in 1920, forbidding bakers to start work before 4.00 am. This meant that the traditional, round bread loaves would not be on the boulangerie shelves in time for breakfast. And so the baguette was born.  The baguette's large surface area to volume ratio allows it to be prepared and baked more quickly - ready for the early morning customers. 

The boulangeries are the heart of the community. If, as in our village, there is more than more than one, each boulangerie will have its own loyal band of followers. For the many surrounding small villages and hamlets without a resident baker, a mobile boulanger visits daily announcing his arrival with a “tout, tout” of the van’s horn.

Early risers in our village will see a large white van backed up to the door of the Flourentin boulangerie. Members of the baker’s family scurry to and fro stacking their mobile shop with baskets of baguettes and other artisan-baked delights to sell via the vehicle’s side window. For many the boulangeries serve another important function  -  disseminators of local news and gossip........ Some things never change.

My heart lept when I spied these old mouldy linen-lined baguette baskets at our local vide – grenier. To Mr R’s relief, practicality over-rode emotions so reluctantly they were left on the side of the road for some other purchaser to scoop up and rescue.

The following recipe was given to me from a delightful dame française. Although the ingredients and instructions are simple, there is a definite art for producing an authentique baguette artisanale. Bonne chance!

FRENCH BREAD (2 loaves)



Preparation time: 25 min           

Cooking time: 30 min           

Total time: approximately 180min

        



Ingredients



2 cups warm water 
(40 ⁰ C or 110 ⁰ F )

1 tablespoon of  yeast


1 tablespoon of  sugar


2 teaspoons of  salt


5 cups plain (all-purpose) flour
 


Directions



• ·      Dissolve yeast and sugar in warm water in large bowl.
• ·      Allow yeast to proof or foam (approximately 10 minutes).

• ·      Add 3 cups flour and salt; beat for 2 minutes.

• ·      Stir in 2 cups flour to make a stiff dough.

• ·      Knead the dough on a lightly floured surface until it smooth and elastic (about 8 -10 minutes).

• ·      Place the dough into a greased* bowl, turning the dough to coat all surfaces.
• ·      Cover the dough in the bowl (using plastic film or a damp tea towel) and let it rise until it has doubled in size.

• ·      Punch down the dough then divide it in half.

• ·      Shape dough into two long, thin loaves.

• ·      Grease* and sprinkle with cornmeal.
• ·      Place loaves on a baking sheet  or in pan or a French bread baking tray and make some superficial diagonal cuts on top of the loaves.

• ·      Cover and let rise until each loaf had doubled in size.

• ·      Bake at  190 ⁰ C or 350 ⁰ F for approximately 30 minutes.

• ·      Note: For a very crunchy crust, sprinkle or spray water onto the loaves during baking.
  * Use a pastry brush dipped in butter or a light oil such as grape seed oil

The Fool

There has been a flurry of emails sent to France this week with very few responses making their way back to Australie.  My despondent-odometer has been rising as my faith in the promises and professionalism of others declines. 

Yes, I am a dreamer and a fool. I chanced upon a description of my state of being ..... and no, I'm definitely not into tarrot cards, but "if the cap fits..........."

THE FOOL.  In medieval courts, the court jester was someone who was not expected to follow the same rules as others. He could observe and then poke fun. This makes the Fool unpredictable and full of surprises. He reminds us of the unlimited potential and spontaneity inherent in every moment. There is a sense with this card that anything goes - nothing is certain or regular. The Fool adds the new and unfamiliar to a situation. The Fool also represents the complete faith that life is good and worthy of trust. Some might call the Fool too innocent, but his innocence sustains him and brings him joy. In readings, the Fool can signal a new beginning or change of direction - one that will guide you onto a path of adventure, wonder and personal growth. He also reminds you to keep your faith and trust your natural responses. If you are facing a decision or moment of doubt, the Fool tells you to believe in yourself and follow your heart no matter how crazy or foolish your impulses may seem. 

Today is bathed in sunshine. Time to put aside work, France and the internet and get a big dose of vitamin D while pottering in the vegetable patch ..... Simplicity..... Bliss.

The Cost of the Good Life - NSR

I revel in harmless rituals that create a sense of anticipation and enjoyment. One such practice is our regular weekend tête à tête over some nibbles while drinking champagne- authentique of course - with my French girlfriend, Angelique. Conversation easily flows  following its  usual path -  a few laughs; highs and lows of our week; work; news ... of various sorts ... food; wine; life in general and of course, life in France et Ma Folie Française

On the opposite sides of the globe, Angelique and I were both brought up in households that drank a glass of carefully chosen wine with dinner. No beer in our fridge.  No mixed drinks - with the exception of the occassional good G&T in summer. Defintely no excess. As the years have passed this practice has continued.......... 

My downfall is drinking wine while chatting socially, when waiters wander through the crowd topping up my glass while I am too busy talking to register what is happening - or my host does likewise.  

In our house, I'm nick-named "Cadburys" - a glass and a half (of wine) and I am useless. A situation that is not pleasant for me - occasionally amusing for others - with prolonged, negative effects on my feelings of wellbeing.  Consequently I am usually a "one standard drink" sort of woman.  But put a wonderful glass of French champagne in my hand, get me talking about France in my best (albeit faulty) French, add a hostess who is very liberal with drinks and blessed with the ability to produce vast quantities of alcohol dehydrogenase et voila.....une catastrophe pour moi! 

Ah....the price of the good life! NSR - no sympathy required...........

Courtesy of FracChampagne

* Champagne labels obtained through Google.

Snippets from Life in France – The Business Card

Setting up house in rural France when one speaks little French and normally resides 16000 km away, is a voyage of discovery. Although fraught with difficulties, (a head on car crash, a few trips to hospital, falling through a rotting floor, trying to deal with my elusive and swindling Man on the Ground….), when reflecting on the positive experiences, the negative ones  diminish in significance.

One of my greatest joys has been meeting the colourful characters who reside, temporarily or permanently, in our corner of France. With a tendency to be shy, I had to put aside my foibles and take the initiative to talk to people in painfully poor French. As a passionate flâneur, opportunities naturally arose to make acquaintances as I meandered through the village. One such person was Toby. I had passed Toby’s maison secondaire on the edge of the village a few times during my daily strolls, twice stopping to photograph the worn exterior of sa maison before I chanced upon him, seated on his terrace with a pipe in one hand and a glass of red in the other, savouring some regional produce and the delights of dusk – a time when the cooling air releases the fragrance of the forest and birds are called to song.

During my first apero chez Toby, an old film camera was produced as Toby boldly inquired, “ Do you mind if I take a shot of your face with your name? Terrible memory. Like to avoid embarrassment.”  Dutifully the “newcomers” lined up on the terrace, chatting (wine glass in hand) while waiting for their turn to have an identifying portrait taken – a procedure reminiscent of that of the dreaded, annual school photograph.

Like many houses in France, the antiquated exterior of Toby’s maison belied its tastefully restored interior. Giant butterfly nets hung from oak beamed walls and each item of decoration and carefully placed furniture had an interesting history.

Toby was relaxed and quietly confident – a man who has made a career from his passions and takes life in his stride. A charming host and an entertaining raconteur with a soft BBC accent. His thick brown hair has a rogue lock that frequently has to be flicked out of his face. With a portly frame and gentle demeanour, Toby reminds me of a much-loved teddy bear. He seldom ventures into the heart of the village, preferring to spend his time meandering through the local forest where he collects butterflies and other insects from which he makes preserved collections – a pastime he has pursued in France since childhood.

One gets the impression that despite the personal challenges he has faced, Toby still views life as a “Boy’s Own Adventure”. During our conversations, it was clear that he has an upbeat outlook on life that enables him to make the mundane appear exotic. One gets an inkling of this from his business card on which the whole family appears along with the farcical name of his commercial enterprise. A side of this card reads as follows.

Toby Nightingale Sporting & Natural History Anthony Nightingale Poultry & Rural Pursuits Henrietta Nightingale Fencing, Theatre & English Literature	(Interpretation: A gentleman who enjoys the pursuit of his passions, regardless of the financial rewards. Life is to be enjoyed.)
	(Interpretation: Anthony has finished school and, at the age of 18, doesn’t know what to do with his life so he is currently breeding poultry while he “finds himself”.)
	(Interpretation: Henrietta is a drama student who has completed an Arts degree and fences as a hobby. Has yet to discover the importance of financial security.)

Now how could life ever be dull with a business card like that?

The Seasons - snippits of my life.

“Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence

Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance.

Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence.

Winter passes and one remembers one's perseverance."― Yoko Ono

The change in the seasons is a time for contemplation.

I love to record the transformations in the family's gardens. 

The seasons make me feel "alive". 

Snippets from Life in France - des jardins potagers

Neighbours' potager wall

Life in our corner of France has a gentle rhythm that is aligned to the seasons.  Summer temperatures in the high 20's to mid 30's (celsius) with intermittent heavy rains, (clearing the air of its gathering humidity),  ensure bountiful yields from des jardins potagers, if one keeps an eye on the bugs, mildew and enormous mustard brown slugs - so strong that they can upend a flower pot.

Frequently I would see the tip of an inverted "v" over the high old stone fenced vegetable plot on the corner of the ruelle as I rocketed down the hill on my bike before turning right to My French Folly. It would be the derriere of either Sylvie or Christian who were bent over, tending their potager. Often I would find  produce from their patch of earth on the stone seat beside the back door - tomatoes, lettuce, potatoes, cucumbers and haricot vert (eaten al dente after being tossed in unsalted butter and garlic). Wonderful. My meagre contribution to the community table was fresh herbs - basil, parsley, chives & thyme - which grew prolifically beside the front door after being planted within a few days of our arrival at our house.

Stone seat on the terrace beside the back door.

During the first week of Autumn, a daily vision would be the neighbours sitting in the afternoon sun with a huge sack of dried beans (pods and seeds) at their feet and a bowl in their laps which would catch les harricots blancs as they were released from their casings. These white beans were then tipped into a big bucket from which they would be divided, stored and consumed in the coming seasons. I felt privaliged to be able to pull up a chair and join in this ritual and the ensuing family chatter. During this activity  I would find myself taking stock of my surroundings as we sat in the gentle autumn sun overlooking the village and the verdant green rolling hills and surrounding forests, hearing the now familiar  bird calls and smelling the scent of fresh earth.

These lovely old shutters keep the hot sun out of the kitchen.

Back from the Depths of France.

Life inevitably doesn’t go to plan. I thought I would be spending the last 3 months in France, writing, photographing, occasionally working on My French Folly with the odd foray into other parts of the country and Europe, but it wasn’t to be. However, I am now quite conversant with French building regulations, the legal system and hospitals! 

The geography of our French village makes telecommunications unreliable. No blogging, few phone calls and no television. I have now come to appreciate life without constantly being plugged into the internet, news and current affairs.

After Mr R returned to Australia I didn’t have a car (a long story). There is no regular public transport in our village except for a très cher taxi service, which I tried once: 50 euros to go 12 km down a country road. Consequently I had to plan my time and purchases very carefully - a habit I have lost over the years with extended trading hours and a car on hand, in Melbourne!

Although my faith in the kindness of others has been intermittently jarred during the last 5 years, while in France it was gradually restored - despite the dishonesty and unprofessional behaviour of My Man on the Ground.  In a nutshell, I’ve had a great adventure – one of discovery and personal growth, (yes it can still happen at my age). The simple life has great benefits. I can’t wait to return to My French Folly.

P.S. I am still jet lagged so it will take me a while to catch up with those of you who thoughtfully contacted me while I was in France.

In Transit

Our arrival in France has been stalled due to a few additional "mishaps' by the tradesmen working on My French Folly. On the plus side we have been spending the extra days having a wonderful time in Switzerland surrounded by snow capped mountains and enjoying the exceptional hospitality of my cousin & her family. I will be out of the blog-sphere for a few days until we hook up a computer in France.

A bientot