Dear reader, perhaps you are feeling quite short-changed. You subscribe to a blog called ‘Life in Laroque’, and for the last 6 weeks or so, have had nothing but news from England: Yorkshire, to be exact.
Well, we’re back in Laroque, where in our absence they’ve had bitter cold, driving rain lasting for days, and astonishing heatwaves in which the thermometer has topped 40 degrees.
But just before we abandon postings about England, here is a souvenir slideshow of our time there. It’s a reminder for me really, so if dear reader, you decide to skip it on this occasion, I quite understand.
Well, a month in Yorkshire really. It must have been one of the best Mays on record: blossom, flowers, lush greenness everywhere. Here are some pictures to convince anyone who doesn’t yet know, that Yorkshire really is ‘God’s own county’.
About 15 years ago, we moved from Leeds (pop. 716, 000)……. to Harrogate ( pop.72,000). How charming and manageable in size it seemed!Now we’ve moved to Ripon (pop. 16,000). Its cathedral gives it city status, though it’s so much smaller than Harrogate.And of course, we also live in Laroque d’Olmes (pop. 2, 600)Where next? A farmstead on a remote hillside?
Returning to France on Wednesday was a bit of a shock to the system. Six weeks speaking English every time we opened our mouths, and then…..French again. It was there somewhere, deep inside the recesses of our skulls. But it was hidden right away at the back, covered in fluff, layers of dust and paint splashes, and scarcely fit for purpose.
Opening our mouths to make simple comments to the receptionist at our overnight hotel stop in Blois that first night back seemed strange. Standard phrases escaped our lips, sounding odd, like some once familiar lesson learned at school, since long-forgotten.
Two days on, things are returning to normal: the language machine has been oiled and serviced, and is creaking back to business as usual, as we resume our daily round.
But in those 6 weeks in England, we scarcely engaged our brains at all. We painted the house ready to be put in the hands of a letting agent. We packed. We discarded years of family life. We sorted out bags and bags of stuff for the local charity shop: we called there so often that we fully expected them to open a new branch named after us, and were convinced that the one day we didn’t go, disgorging huge plastic bags of donations from the car, they’d put out a Missing Persons enquiry. Things that neither family members nor the charity shop wanted got advertised on Freecycle, and we had fun helping those who responded to cram large bookcases or cumbersome chairs into rather small cars. ‘Freecycle groups match people who have things they want to get rid of with people who can use them. Our goal is to keep usable items out of landfills’.
Furniture and books – 9 cubic metres – were collected by a removal firm who’ll deliver it all to us here in about 10 days, after they’ve collected and delivered other consignments all over England and France.
What would we have done without all the friends who fed and entertained us in the evenings after our 10 hour-long-days labouring in the house? They made it possible for us to pack up virtually every cooking pot and plate days before the end of our stay.
And what would we have done without our friends in LETS? Some of you have asked what LETS (SEL in France) is:
LETS – Local Exchange Trading Systems or Schemes – are local community-based mutual aid networks in which people exchange all kinds of goods and services with one another, without the need for money.
Nidderdale LETS is the group in the Harrogate area. With about 50 members, many of us have worked and socialised together over the years, helping each other revitalise overgrown gardens or have a big spring clean. People offer massages, Alexander technique, translation services, animal care, teaching and practical skills: all sorts of things. This time, LETS members turned out in force to help us paint and clean the house from top to bottom. We couldn’t have done without them, and working together was fun and gave us all a feeling of real achievement as we shared lunch and conversation after a hard morning’s work.
After all that, though, our bodies were exhausted, and our brains non-existent. No wonder speaking French again seemed a bit of a challenge.
Depending on your point of view, it was either Napoleon or Adam Smith who first called England ‘a Nation of Shopkeepers’
But it was only after I came to settle here in France that I started to think of shopkeeping and market trading as skilled occupations, and realised just what is involved in keeping the customer happy.
It’s probably because it’s just so much easier, where we live in England, to nip down to the supermarket. There weren’t too many independent shops on our daily round: so much for a nation of shopkeepers. Mind you, we loved it when Emily was a Saturday girl at the French patissier who was then in Harrogate, Dumouchel. She would often be sent home with a couple of unsold petits gateaux for us to enjoy, or some slowly-fermented sourdough bread. It was small shop, and quite expensive, so she learnt quickly to value customers and to treat them well, so they’d come back. She learnt too that while most of the people she served were friendly and appreciative, customers could be curmudgeonly too.
The baker’s – busy at lunchtime
So who are the good commerçants here? Well, down at the bakers, they’ll often put aside our much-loved pain noir without being asked if I’m not in bright and early, knowing we’d be disappointed if they sold out.
Buying cheese at the market
Today at the market, madame who runs the cheese and charcuterie stall had printed off some recipes specially for me, because she knew I might enjoy trying them out.
Down at Bobines et Fantaisies, she goes to Toulouse most weeks to seek out unusual scarves and accessories, so there’s always something new and worth trying at her tiny shop. ‘Let her try it on. If she doesn’t like it, bring it back!’, she’ll insist, as you dither between a bracelet, a couple of scarves and a chic but cosy winter hat. These shopkeepers remember us, our tastes, our whims and foibles. They welcome us, and chat cheerfully with us, even if we leave the shop empty-handed.
Madame at Bobines et Fantasies helps me choose a few presents
There’s just one shop here that doesn’t cut the mustard. ‘Il n’est pas commerçant’ we all grumble. Those of us outside the select band are routinely ignored, and as we feel our custom isn’t valued, some of us now go elsewhere.
But not to the supermarket. Oh no. Yesterday we DID pop into one, but as the muzak system was belting out a schmaltzy version of ‘Auld lang syne’ in what passed for English, we very soon shot out again. Small Shops Rule OK.
With a house to sell in England, we’re still here in the UK. So let’s make the most of it, particularly at mealtimes. Here’s how.
Apples:
With any luck, Discovery, the very first apples of the season will appear any day now. I love their bright red skin, their crisp white crunchy flesh. They’re hopeless keepers, but for just a very few weeks, their bright fresh flavour presents a real contrast to the departing soft summer fruits.
And when they’re over? Well, there are James Grieves, Laxton Supreme, Laxton Superb, Worcester Pearmain, Lord Lambourne, Cox’s Orange Pippin and so many others to look forward to…if you can find them. And of course Bramley Seedlings too, so wonderful to cook with.
I was brought up to anticipate and celebrate the heady variety of taste, texture and appearance of all our English apples. These days I mourn the uniformity of the standard few varieties that stock the supermarket shelves, year in, year out. Often as not, they’re imported from New Zealand, South Africa, the USA, and France, while our own traditional varieties have become heritage items whose very existence is protected by Reading University’s National Fruit Collection at Brogdale
Blackcurrants:
I KNOW they’re available in France, but when we got back this time, we discovered a small blackcurrant bush had been secretly prospering in a forgotten corner of the garden. And there it was, laden with big dark purple berries, over a kilo of them, just asking to picked and enjoyed
Gooseberries:
Gooseberries, white, red and blackcurrants
Hardly seen in France, I love their crisp sour flesh, and eat them any way I can. Gooseberry fool is best of all: gently stewed fruit folded in with equal portions of good custard and double cream.
Raspberries:
They DO exist in France, but can’t compete with the big, juicy, tasty berries we have here: the best ones come from the garden of our friends Richard and Jonet here in Harrogate (and the best jam too). The rest come from Scotland.
Repeated pleasures:
Back in southern France, broad beans are long over. Here they’re at their best, so I’ve had two goes this year at my almost-favourite vegetable. OK, not a fruit. But very good anyway.
Summer pudding:
Surely the quintessential English pud? Gently cooked quantities of soft summer fruits, spooned into a basin that’s been lined with pappy English sliced bread, left for the flavours to mingle before turning out and serving with cream doesn’t sound too exciting maybe. But it is. Summer in England really isn’t summer until you’ve had your first helping. And as many helpings as you can manage before the season’s over
Summer Pudding
Ingredients
1kg (2lb) mixed berries (use a combination
of raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, redcurrants or blackcurrants)
160g (5½oz) caster sugar
10 thin slices stale white bread, crusts removed
Method
Place the berries, sugar and 60ml (2fl oz) of water in a saucepan. Bring to a gentle simmer on a low heat and cook, stirring to dissolve the sugar, for 3-4 minutes, or until the fruit has softened and produced lots of juice. Set aside to cool.
Pour the juice into a flat dish, reserving the fruit.
Cut one slice of bread into a circle small enough to fit the base of a 1.5l (48 fl oz) pudding basin, and another large enough to fit the top. Cut the remaining slices into triangles. Dip both sides of the smaller circle of bread quickly into the juice and place it in the bottom of the pudding basin. Dip both sides of each triangle of bread into the juice, then line the inside of the basin with the juice-soaked bread, overlapping them slightly to make sure there are no gaps.
Fill the bread-lined basin with berries, drizzle with any remaining juice and top with the larger circle of bread, trimming it to fit if necessary.
Cover the top of the pudding with clingfilm, then place a saucer or small plate that just fits inside the rim of the basin on top. Press the plate in, then weigh it down with a heavy can or two. Place the basin in a shallow dish to catch any juice that might overflow, and refrigerate for at least 12 hours.
To serve, run a thin knife around the inside of the basin and invert the pudding on to a serving plate. Cut into wedges and serve accompanied with plenty of thick cream.
I’m back home in Harrogate for a few days. It’s been quite a surprise. I left Carcassonne airport in bright hot sunshine, and arrived at Leeds/Bradford to….bright hot sunshine. And so it continued.
I spent a happy afternoon dealing with Weed Management and Invasive Plant issues. It was very satisying. Instead of grubbing about clearing a weed here, a weed there, I was able to sweep up vast armfuls of unwanted plants off into the compost bin, and create an instant impression that only the frogs, undisturbed for weeks now, failed to appreciate. If only I’d taken some ‘before’ and ‘after’ shots.
Most surprising of all has been the day light. I’d quite forgotten. Last night, I was still reading without having a light on at 10.00 p.m. 9.30 would have been more like it in Laroque. But it was this morning when I really realised I’d travelled north. The light was pouring through the bedroom window so brightly I sprang up to begin the day. And then realised it wasn’t even 4.30. Mornings here begin a full hour and a half earlier than in the south of France – though there is the hour change to take into account. I do sort of regret that I went back to bed, instead of taking an early morning stroll down to the Nidd Gorge. Maybe tomorrow.
We were back in England for a while, getting our house ready to market. Those TV makeover shows have got a lot to answer for. It’s no longer enough to do a bit of casual dusting. We de-cluttered surfaces, touched up paint, knocked the garden into shape, and even gave one room a total makeover (‘People are so thick’, advised one chap who’d come round to give us an estimate for removal. ’Just because you’ve got that room organised as a study, they won’t be able to see it as the house second bedroom. If you can, get rid of all those books, and set it up as a bedroom’). So we did. We boxed up several hundred books and put them in the garage, then covered the dark green walls in restrained buttermilk paint, and popped in a spare double bed we just happen to have, a chest of drawers, a bedside light or two. Add an artificial orchid from Habitat, et….voilà…one genuine bedroom makeover. And then we had to live in, and keep up with, all the unaccustomed tidiness. We hated it.
But we did love being in England. At least I did. Here are my 13 reasons for happiness. Definitely NOT in rank order
Harrogate in crocus and daffodil season must be one of the loveliest urban sights in Europe. The Stray, that splendid open parkland which girdles the southern part of the town, was all but submerged in a sea of purple white and orange crocus, gradually opening to reveal saffron coloured stamens as the sun teased the flower petals apart towards midday. The crocus fade away to be replaced by an equally extensive display of daffodils. They were only just reaching their best as we left town, but we did at least see them.
Radio 4. I had it on constantly. From Our Own Correspondent, Paul Merton on Just a Minute, Daniel Corbett’s animated and informative weather forecasts, Gardeners’ Question Time….. all to help the day go by as we scrubbed and polished
Spending time with those fantastic twin boys, the grandchildren, as they discovered the new adventure playground in Harrogate’s Valley Gardens.
Nidderdale LETS. What a great bunch of friends. We’d organised a Task Force of willing members to tackle the overgrown jungle that was our garden. Naturally it rained on the day. So everyone turned to in the house. They scrubbed paintwork, wrapped ornaments, painted the above-mentioned bedroom, hoovered…And we all had fun, and lunch together. How do people manage without LETS, or SEL as it’s called in France?
Friends. We had little enough time to socialise, but those hours spent sharing time at our house, in Ripon, in Huby, and in various spots in and around Harrogate were all very special
Charity shops. Whenever I’m in England, I spend time combing through the stock of books in all our local charity shops. With everything from the latest Man Booker winner to little-heard-of classics all going for anything from 30p. to a pound, why wouldn’t I want to stock up? And this time, we off-loaded quite a few things too
Freecycle. The amount of stuff that Harrogate Freecycle keeps out of landfill must be quite phenomenal these days. And its members seem to be amongst the nicest people in town. So we were glad to pass on some stuff to various happy recipients.
Pontefract cakes. Nothing else quite hits the spot. Oh, except perhaps luxury-end crunchy hand-cooked crisps from Marks and Spencer or Waitrose. Chilli flavour.
Power walking in the Valley Gardens, 8.30 a.m. Sunday morning, with Angela and Chris. Best start to the week. Not sure we really ought to call it power walking any longer though. Power chatting maybe.
Hot cross buns. When I was younger, Good Friday was the day of the year when we ate hot cross buns. Maybe for a day or two after as well, but no more than that. Freshly toasted and dripping with butter, the sugary cinnammon smells wafting through the kitchen, they were one of the food highlights of the year. Now they’re available all the time, they don’t seem half so special. But during this last English fortnight, Good Friday or no Good Friday, Malcolm and I made sure we got quite a few hot cross buns under our belts.
Indian take-away. After hard days spent painting and cleaning, few things are more reviving than a good Indian take-away. Hot, pungent, spicey, sour, the vivid flavours cheered us up and brightened our mood. The French don’t know what they’re missing!
Guardian and Observer. I know I could read Polly Toynbee, Nigel Slater et al on line. But it’s really not the same, is it?
Talking in English. The sheer relief of being able to chat, chunter, chew the fat, confide, discuss, digress, argue, amplify, explain, entertain, without pausing to consider whether I’ve chosen the right gender, the right word, the right ending. Yes, perhaps this really is so precious it really needs to go right up to the top of the list at number 1.
Having had three children, I’m no stranger to school open days. City life meant they had access to any number of High Schools, so between the three of them, over the years I’ve been to Open Days at: Abbey Grange; City of Leeds; Granby; Harrogate Grammar; Intake; Lawnswood; Pudsey Grangefield; Pudsey Priesthorpe; Rossett; St. Aidan’s, and probably a few others as well. You’d think that would be enough. But no.
Today we had the chance to see the Lycée des Métiers J-M Jacquard in Lavelanet at work when it threw open its doors. We couldn’t resist.
It was like none of the above. I’ve not been to a school before where pupils trundled round a huge loading bay in forklift trucks, moving pallets of goods into a ‘shop’ area where they practiced using computerized stock control. They’re the Logistics students. In another department, white-coated teenagers in white rubber shoes conducted experiments into water purity, or calculated how much salt a particular water source would need to optimize dishwasher use. They’re destined for the Water Processing & Treatment Industry when they leave school. In an enormous modern factory type space, several boys and one lone girl were applying their new skills to the Maintenance of Industrial Equipment.
Somehow, I don’t think any of my three would have wanted to be there – though they might have enjoyed driving the forklift trucks.
Of course, all the usual core lessons go on too – though no music, art or drama, and Mal and I had fun in an English class (none of those students wanted to be there, either). Their teacher was showing them pictures of the sights of London, and she encouraged us to help her prise English words and phrases from their reluctant lips.
By English standards, it’s a small school – maybe some 500 students (and all aged over 14). You might guess that there are about twice as many boys as girls. About 100 are weekly boarders, coming from as far away as Albi, almost 200 km. away. We inspected small dormitories and games rooms, which seemed curiously impersonal spaces for teenagers who spend their evenings there. In fact the whole school was a bit like that. It was impressive – wonderfully equipped with every technological gizmo; polite, helpful and enthusiastic staff and students; views of the Pyrénées . The focus in this Lycée is preparing for the world of work, and there’s no room for the displays of pupils’ work, the pictures on the wall, the school Annual Production, that are typical of an English High School.
But it’s clearly a happy and successful school, and we’re glad to have had the chance of a glimpse through its open doors.
Another day, another freeze. The other evening, we were with some friends. We watched the 10 o’clock news and saw satellite images of a totally white UK. Then a friend in the Ariège told us that the snow’s reached there too – not sent from our end though, but driven northwards from Spain. By lunchtime, the news on the French channel TF1 had made the snowy Ariège its special feature.
We might as well stay here then. The papers and radio repeat regular warnings of the ‘is your journey really necessary?’ variety, and they’re probably right. With grit and salt in short supply, the roads aren’t getting any easier, and the temperatures are dropping.
Here’s a miscellany of Harrogate photos: the town centre, chilly allotments, chillier birds, snowmen and similar, icicles….all a record of this extraordinary January
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
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