The Frog  Fair was really great fun.   Hundreds of visitors crowded into St. Géniès de Fontedit.   There was a real carnival atmosphere, with brass bands, drummers and, inevitably, the cooking of frogs.   Here is the man preparing to cook the little buggers.   15 minutes later this counter was 20 deep in people waiting for half an hour for their frog lunch .   I stuck with chips.

Off we go on our travels again!   Poor old Mistress R. Soul will be blowing a gasket if we don’t rest her soon.

But so much to see and so little time.

We let Johnny and Maz rest on their first evening here as they’ve been before and were here for longer this time.   They bought us another flamingo gift in exquisite taste.  Blow up ones to hold our drinks when our dip pool is set up for the summer.   If all goes well (ha, as if that’s gonna happen) the pool will be ready for revellers next week!

However, big plans were made for Monday and Thursday.

The only request we had received from Les Fromages (aka Maz and Johnny) was for a Brocante or Boot Fair.    We  discovered there was to be one at Bouzigues (I know faithful followers, we have been there several times, but sans Brocante).    It was a beautiful setting with stalls set up along the sea front, very friendly stall holders and a great variety of stuff.  Money was spent by all.   Our purchase finally proved that we have no idea of the worth, nor aesthetic value of anything.   We’ve hidden the lamp we bought for 10 euros!

Gazzie and Johnny feasted on oysters and us women on chips, all washed down with  an excellent pichet  of white wine.   Our host/ waitress was, we all agreed,  the kindest, smiliest, nothing-too-much- troubliest that we have ever met.   A total joy to spend a short time in her company and gaze at the sea.

To give our guests an extra treat we decided to take the car ferry across the Petit Rhône.   Unluckily there was a cafe serving beer at the ferry terminal.  The weak willed men went to get one. The ferry tooted to go and in the time it took to pay for the blooming beers, the ferry went.     This  free ferry runs every half  an hour and we had things to see.   So we drove  all the way back the way we came.

Gazzie and I had decided to take our friends to Ste. Marie de la Mare.    When we visited in February we saw a pretty little town, with odd cone shaped white houses and six people:  gentlemen of a certain age playing Boules in the square.

We had heard that next weekend was the festival day of Ste. Sara Kali, (the Black Madonna) patron saint of gypsies and that gypsies from all over Europe go to Ste. Marie to watch the ceremony of taking her statue into the sea.

Five days in advance of this, we thought we might see some preparation.   As we drove in,  the car parks were full of caravans and trailers.  Instead of six people there must have been six thousand milling around the square.   We amazingly found a car parking space and as we left the car we were met with a wall of noise;   ear splitting recorded music and thousands of laughing, shouting voices.   And many, many armed police.

We hurriedly walked away from the cacophony into a quieter area and in complete contrast found this gypsy singer/guitarist playing to a small but appreciative audience.

 

 

It’s all about bulls, horses and maleness.

In the sea front bars, the young men, carefully coiffured, their muscled bodies gleaming with body oil, drank beer, played guitars and paraded themselves loudly in front of the young women ( I only took a quick glance) .   The very air appeared to be laden with testosterone.

 

“Gazzie,”  I said quietly, “can we head home?   I fear if I stay here a moment longer I shall start to grow testicles”.   With a horrified look downwards he jumped in the car.

 

The drive home seemed very long and like weary children we fell indoors and ate pizza.

On the Tuesday we were back to French class.   Have I said before I love this class?  We sit in Bérènice’s dining room conversing in pretty awful French, while her three cats put paws over their ears and hide under the chairs.  We are such a mixed bunch but we laugh till we ache most weeks.

Home to Johnny’s asparagus risotto, with wonderful asparagus from the farm shop. Where, incidentally, Gazzie buys his red wine in a 5 Litre cubi at a cost of  7 euros.    And says it is wonderful.   Mmmm

Wednesday found us back in Beziers.   I had to have an ultrasound, so our friends wandered around Beziers while we experienced  another part of the French Health system    It was a very modern building, with free parking. We were seen early and whilst my doctor had no English  and I little French, we seemed to manage.   Though Gary said he did look surprised that I had all my clothes off when he was only looking at my stomach.

Ten minutes later we left with my x-rays, his observations on what he had found and were lighter by £75.   Fair do’s    At the moment we can claim back three quarters of that.

Gary translated the doctor’s observations, Then looked up the medical terms on Google, put on his doctor’s uniform on and told me what he’d found.   Basically water retention we think!   We go to our doctor next week.   £25!

We met up with our friends, had lunch in the lovely Café Des Arts, home and then tea with an artist friend of ours.   Funny but over here you don’t seem to have tea for tea, but wine and cake.   And tea lasts from 4 till 8!

And so, dear patient bloggees, we arrive at the last day of our friends’ visit.   They are to go home Friday lunchtime and I have my Creative Writing class in the morning.   We had planned what we hoped would be a lovely surprise for them.

We had booked a lunch cruise on the Canal du Midi.

 

It was so calm, so relaxing and the weather was kind enough.  The two young French people (Andrea and Jerry) who run these cruises do a range, which includes one hour canal cruises and evening cruises with dinner and gypsy guitarists.

We had a lovely cold buffet lunch with lots of variety and a wide choice of drinks  Just a perfect way to spend two and a half hours.

 

 

Home to Prawn Curry

Purrfeck!

Oh.   Scenes from a French idyll.

I am beginning to wonder if the village of Neffiès is actually a fantasy.    Like a French “Brigadoon”.    Of course we had to take Les  Fromages there to see the murals   We met a few people on our way to the church.   Every single one smiled and said “ Bonjour”.

Silence fell as we wandered about this exceptionally pretty village.   Then  we heard singing.   Into a patch of sunlight beside the church came a mother and two tiny little girls, holding hands and singing on their way home from nursery school.

Collective intake of breath and holding back of tears.

 

 

When thinking about my next blog I realised that my offerings were becoming a bit like Facebook;  I was in danger, latterly at least, of presenting our lives as a hedonistic idyll.   I’ve  even photographed meals for god’s sake!   My intention was always to tell it how it is  and not give you the impression of never ending outings, with a never ending procession of visitors and never ending jollity.

(Jan being not jolly)

Whilst it would be boring for you to read about them,  we do have periods without guests, when we stay at home, do washing and ironing and shop for food    I still have days  of terrible homesickness and a physical ache for my family and friends.   ‘It ain’t all beer and skittles, know what I’m sayin’?

It is such a day today and it’s hot as Hades outside.   So I’ll tell you about, and remind myself of, some more of the lovely stuff.

With most of our guests we do visit the village of Neffiès, only 5 minutes by car from here and a pretty, hilly, arty little place.   It has enough shops and two restaurants and some interesting murals.  A lovely place to live methinks.

Murals and trompe l’oeils

and garage doors

and doorways

In between visiting more distant places, we are still finding delights  on our own doorstep.

Recently we booked to go, on our own, to a wine tasting at the local village of Laurens where our friend Ginny lives.

There was to be a five course taster menu, paired wine with each course, and a singer from the Montpellier Opera Company.

”Sounds like  our sorta gig, Gaz”, says I.   As you know my word is his command, so he booked.

On the afternoon of this much anticipated occasion, as we watched the rain tear up paving slabs and the wind scoop up small people and deposit them inconveniently distant from their homes, Gaz asked me what had attracted me to this event.

“Opera singer”, I said.   He nodded.   “Wine”, I said.   He made a strange wiggly sign with his hand.   “Food,” I said more quietly, as despite my size, it is not one of my over riding interests.

Pouring more cold water on the event than there was outside, he intoned:

“Wine will come a thimbleful at a time and at least two of the courses will be with red.   Which you don’t drink.   Those two courses are pork and then duck, one of which you don’t like and the other of which you would never let into the country,  let alone your mouth.

“Opera singer?” I said faintly.

”You might be alright there,” he said.

Well, my bloggees, you know me.    By the end of the evening I was drinking red wine like a red wine drinker facing a red wine drought.  I even  did a bit of begging for other people’s dregs.   I made several new friends and Gary had met four new golfing buddies so he doesn’t have to play with  himself anymore.

(And Gaz said there wasn’t enough wine!)

i went home sober, hungry and with the prospect of losing Gary to golf three or four times a week.   The opera singer was, well, the brother of the vigneron.    Who was, incidentally, a woman (obviously, the vigneron not the singer ).   Oh and a thimbleful is hardly enough to be able to savour and judge a wine.   In my opinion.

An aside:   the next book to read and discuss at my Book Club is “The Sober Diaries”.   Honestly I’m going to enjoy that one!

And so.   The Pezenas Brocante Festival   or Antiques Fair    Instead of taking over a handy field, this takes place in the avenues and alleyways of Pezenas.   There was a carnival atmosphere with live music and sunshine and an air of bonhomie.

The antiques are, naturellement, very French and exhorbitantly expensive.   Lovely to look at and to wander amongst though.

 

A yummy plate of paella (we are very near the Spanish border!) …

…. and then home.

Off to the Frog Fair (Fête de Grenouilles) at St. Genies de Fontedit today.   Legs will be eaten.    But not by me.

 

 

Dear bloggees.   The technology gremlins have been at me again.   It’s disappointing to find that what I think you are receiving is not always the case.   Some photos have been missing from the last three blogs.

We think this has been corrected.   If you go to the blog site Wrinkleysgapyear.com you might see more photos.  It only affected the last three posts.

Though, honestly, maybe life’s too short.

Poppy field with Muffin

(I don’t know what these little buildings are.  I’ll try to find out)

The countryside is singing with wild flowers of every kind and the garden of our little home is awash with colour   Not many French homes seem to have flower gardens.   I think it is because of the extremely hot summers that we have been warned about but, so far, have no evidence of.

We’ve been to the local airports so often that people think we work there.    Gary loves a pilot’s uniform.   Said yet another teary farewell yesterday to Lin and Lawrence who, unbeknownst to us had a five and half hour delay, as “spare parts” were awaited from across the globe to glue the plane together.  God protect us from Mr Ryanair!

(Cafe in Olargues.   Wall art)

Visiting Olargues in the pouring rain was a new experience.  Cobbled, perpendicular streets, rain and flip flops not being a great combination.   But we found a welcoming cafe (just the one open in a back street) with hot coffee and sandwiches.

So we ooh-d  and ahh-d through misty car windows.  Drove home and Gazzie actually barbecued and our guests ate indoors, while  I went to my first proper book club meeting (the previous one had been a “social”).  We discussed “Elinor Oliphant is completely Fine”, whilst drinking Rosé wine and eating chips and mayonnaise!   The only way to do it.

 

Fortunately, Tuesday brought sun and we wowed our guests with the Petit Camargue.  We visited a part of Grau du Roi  that we didn’t know and had lunch at the Quayside.  Looked in lots of lovely dress shops on our way back to the car.   Must go back when we win the Lottery!

 

(This is a random stranger, but he looked so content, it captured our mood)

On to Aigues-Morte, now awake and vibrant in brilliant sunshine and clear blue skies.  Our guests seemed to be as impressed as we always are with this lovely area.

 

So when we are asked if we get bored of showing off our lovely countryside to visitors the answer is “Not so far”.  Each friend has different interests and so visiting the Canal du Midi with Mandy and John opened our eyes to other aspects of this interesting waterway.  Like where would you join the canal with your boat, wondered Sailor Mandy.   And we discovered where : in an apparently almost deserted part of the canal

And off they went in their hired car to look at the famous Nine Locks (where we have already been, bloggees, remember?) while we attended our French conversation group after a long break.

Gazzie obviously gets bored occasionally with all the pastoral and watery idylls and decides to scare the living daylights out of me by going up mountains.   So whilst I thoroughly enjoyed the coffee and house sized baguettes in Fraisse sur Agout,

 

onwards and upwards went Gazzie.   I tbink he was fantasising that he was Sherpa Tensing on his way up Everest.   I didn’t see much more of the scenery as my head was in Mandy’s lap, screaming, “Gary take this bloody car downwards this instant”.  He ignored me and carried on to his destination which was a rather disappointing lake called Lac du Laouzas. Not worth the climb in my humble opinion, but the others coloured themselves impressed in order to curry favour with the driver.

However, we rounded off a scary day with a wonderful meal in Les Palmiers in Pezenas.

More teary goodbyes.   These goodbyes are doin’ my ‘ead in!

Wines in waiting    The stark, stumpy vines in January…

This week, green and healthy growth.

And almost here, tiny grapes just appearing.

This is wine growing country as you know At one time, virtually the whole community were involved in some way or other, working for the separate domaines or wine growing dynasties, such as Domaine Mon Plezy.

A lot of the domaines have returned to their independent status after the popularity of the massive co-operatives waned, amongst accusations of inferior quality. One can still see these huge buildings around the area empty and falling to disrepair. However lessons were learnt and some of the smaller wine growers are again using co- operative wine producers and producing a superior quality of this nectar of the gods.

Handily for me the most popular grape round these parts is Picpoul. We first tasted this crisp, white wine at the Goods Shed in Canterbury with Maggie and Peter; now we see it growing. Gives one a sense of almost parental pride.

So, we were very excited on Sunday last to be going to our first dégustation or wine tasting.   It was to be the first tasting of the rosé wine from the Sarabande domaine.  This is a tiny domaine owned and run totally by Isla , originally from Ireland, and Paul from Australia.   They have two young children; they grow the vines, and do the weeding, tending and picking and produce delightful red and rosé wines.   At first,  I declined a glass of rosé, on the basis that I don’t like it.  “I know you will love it” quoth Paul and so I did.  I had to keep trying but after a fair test of 3 glasses I had to agree.   Loverly.    And dry as a bone ( technical term, unknown except among us wine quafficionados)

In their spare time (!) Isla and Paul make Sarabande gin which is rated very highly and sold to many other countries.  And they run different events around their wine tastings throughout the year.   AND they never stop smiling.

Although the guests last evening were of several nationalities, it was obvious who was the target audience.  Supper was provided by Mr. Fish and Chips

So in this exciting new world in which we live,  we attend everything.  If someone’s inspecting a drain in the next village we’ll be there.  At home I would not stir past the front door for less than a Michelin starred meal and free champagne (oh I forget you nearly all know me.   Ok for a free meal and a bottle of Prosecco).  Add into this picture my well known fear of anything that isn’t an actual human being i.e under the generic description of “animal”,  then dear bloggees you would have been surprised to see me in a field, at the end of nowhere, with a load of chickens.

” Would you like to see the chickens that produce your lovely morning eggs?”

”No”

“But it’s an idyllic spot in the country   with chairs you can sit on and everything.”

”No.”

”Take you out for lunch after.  With wine and stuff”

”Can I stay in the car?”

” Yes,  but you’ll want to get out.”

Ever in the forefront of my mind, whatever the occasion, is “what to wear”,  so in the absence of such mundane footwear as Wellington boots, I put on my black patent leather thigh-high, four inch heels,  Jimmy Chews   (yes, ok,  I was fooled.  I suppose I should have guessed as they were only £28 as opposed to £300 or so for real Choos)   We drive to some god forsaken place, up dirt tracks and then had to walk, yes walk, for miles to an opening in a hedge where sat Brian, our friend and egg man, and about eighty chickens.

Honestly, is it me?   The noise and the smell were horrendous and the other three adults cooed and clucked and stroked these beaky things    I did admit, I am not a total philistine, that some of the iridescent feathers were pretty but when Brian said to me “Jan, do youwant to hold this egg, it’s straight from the hen?”   I shuddered and politely said, “No thank you dear, let it cool down, put it in a nice grey box with five others and I’ll pretend it came from a supermarket”.

One interesting thing occurred to me though.   The chickens were eating the vine leaves and presumably the grapes when they come.   A bit of fermentation and I could have wine-infused eggs for breakfast.    I think it could catch on.

After the other three finally gave in and tore themselves away I was pleased to get back to the car    Until a nasal scorching, eye piercing odour told me that Hugh had taken the opportunity to bring three tons of chicken pooh back for his garden.   Ah the joys of country living.

Brian invited us to afternoon tea with his sister Sharon in her house in Roujan   It is an enormous three storey conversion project.    The gardens have been done, the pool installed and an amazing and enormous kitchen.   The whole of  the top floor and roof are yet to be rebuilt and unfortunately some of the work already undertaken is seriously sub standard.   Sharon , Brian’s sister,  seems very philosophical about it all.    However, she lost her farm, her home and most of her possessions to the Mugabe pogroms in her native home of Zimbabwe.    After the unimaginable horrors of her last years there I suspect a leaking roof is small fry.   She is a brave, bright and intelligent woman and I hope we shall become friends.   Despite …. the three dogs, two cats and the chicken sanatorium, housing chickens at every stage from incubator to old age.   What is it with people and animals here?

To round off a blog mainly about wine, Sharon is a wine importer    Currently she sells  South African wine to newish markets such as China.   However now she lives in France and has a French partner they hope to produce their own wine label.   She made Gary a gift of a bottle of Rhône wine which he had difficulty describing amid his exultant cries of “Oh, Oh.    It’s ….  oh”.  An adjectivally challenged man is our Gaz.   He later found that the wine was in the top 2 per cent of Rhône wines   A gift indeed.

i received one glass of a nice white.   I’ll give her one more chance to be my friend. One.