The Silent Forest Beneath the Water

Yesterday we went walking, Léonce and I, to the lac de Montbel.  According to the weather forecast, this glorious, hot, blue-skied day was to be the last day of real summer: though the chilly early mornings and cool evenings tell us that already it’s early autumn.

It’s a tidy walk from Le Peyrat, where Léonce lives, over to the lake.  Gently undulating hills pass through farmland where the sunflowers have recently been harvested, and Gascon cattle languidly watched us as we walked by.

Past la Gastounette, we left the bright sunshine for the dappled shade of the forest, and took a path neither of us knew:  Because of the recent rain, we’d hoped for mushrooms, but no luck.  Instead, we cut through the trees, and found a beach.  Not any old beach, but one where the ancient stumps of trees, washed smooth like driftwood, emerged from the sand. This lake’s only existed for some 25 years.  It looks as if it’s always been part of the landscape, but the area was flooded to provide a reservoir serving mainly the Haute Garonne.  Now, besides providing water, it’s a playground for the area.  There’s a sailing club, kayaks, beaches for sunbathers and swimmers, and paths to explore.

For a few years though, it’s often been dry, very dry.  So our beach shouldn’t have been there at all.  We were walking among the remnants of a forest, cut down before the waters flooded in.  Waters lapping the edges of the sand left concentric patterns, and the lake-polished stumps lent an air of abandonment and mystery to our secret beach. We sat awhile on a couple of the less bottom-piercing stumps and let the quiet beauty and abandonment of the place take us over.  Then reality surfaced and we set off for home, discussing what we could cook for a quick meal before we went out once more, for a lung-exercising session at Choir

A Very English Pudding

The other day, we had French friends to dinner.  They bravely agreed to curry.  I thought I ought to check beforehand: the French – round here anyway – are curiously resistant to the fiery charms of the chilli plant, and hot spices generally.  They shouldn’t have worried, and neither should we.  They cleaned their plates and came back for more.

Having assaulted their palates with unfamiliar flavours, I wanted to make something rich and soothing to round off the meal.  And I remembered that, back in England, my friend Barbara had recently treated us to lemon posset.  It’s been around a few centuries, and was by no means a new recipe when Samuel Pepys had it for supper back in the 17th century.

At once palate-cleansing and luxurious, it’s so simple to make.  And when your guests ask for the recipe, you know you’ve struck gold.  Here it is:

Lemon Posset

Serves 4

500 – 600 ml. double or whipping cream (crème fleurette).  The quantities aren’t crucial.  Use a couple of pots of what’s available.

Up to150g. caster sugar
Juice of 3-4 medium lemons

Pour cream and sugar into a small saucepan. Slowly bring to the boil, stirring constantly to dissolve the sugar. Once boiling cook for a further three minutes, still stirring constantly.

Remove from the heat and pour in half the lemon juice whilst stirring the mixture thoroughly. It should start to thicken instantly. Taste the mixture and if its not quite tart enough for your tastes then put a little more juice in. It should be tangy but still very rich.

Allow the posset to cool for approximately five minutes and then pour into 4 glasses, coffee cups, or any small, pretty containers. The posset will start to visibly thicken as it hits the cool glass or porcelain. Cover and chill in the fridge for at least 3 hours. The posset should be quite firmly set.

Serve with lemon shortbread or other biscuits of your choice, or a fruit coulis.

A Hummingbird Hawkmoth Calls

This morning, we were busy in the courtyard. The final tomatoes needed harvesting, and the woodstore needed to be tidied and sorted for that all-important wood delivery before the cold weather sets in.

How can you concentrate though, when something as beautiful, as busy, and as graceful spends the morning hovering over your sage plants?

My camera wasn’t up to the job of recording those wings in constant fevered motion, so this image comes to you thanks to the BBC


Tell most Ariegeois that you’re going to Andorra, and they’ll assume you’re popping over to stock up on hooch, cigarettes, cosmetics and cleaning products, then fill the car with as much petrol or diesel as it’ll hold.

The Principat de les Valles de Andorra is a little historical oddity.  It’s a Catalan speaking independent country, only 468 square km., slap in the midst of the Pyrénées between France and Spain.  It was, since 1278, co-ruled by the President of France (as the Count of Foix is no more) and the Bishop of La Seu d’Urgell in Cataluña.  In odd numbered years, France receives tribute money, and in even-numbered years, the Spanish bishop calls in 900 pesetas (or the euro equivalent, I suppose), 12 chickens, 6 hams and 12 cheeses. 1n 1993, the Andorrans voted for democracy and a constitution- but those tributes still get paid.

What makes Andorra popular, here in the Ariège as elsewhere in France, is its lack of taxes.  Petrol therefore costs something like 40 cents a litre less than in neighbouring France, and you can buy 3 new car tyres for the cost of two here.  And so on.  So Andorra’s border towns are nothing more than huge unpleasant shopping malls, blighting the slopes of the wilderness Pyrénées on which they’re situated.  The capital city, Andorra le Velle, and the surrounding towns which have become its suburbs, are given over to little other than retail therapy.

In other words, not really our cup of tea.

Andorra, though, offers so much more.  Zig-zag up the narrow mountain roads only a few kilometres away from the capital, and you’ll be alone amongst grand peaks, dense forest and craggy paths.  Apparently, the further you travel from the capital, the wilder and more spectacular the scenery becomes.  Tiny villages remain undefended by castles: the circumstances of its past government meant castles were forbidden.  But charming Romanesque churches, often with original frescoes, are common throughout the country.

Henri and Brigitte invited his cousin and wife and us, to join them on a mid-week break at an Andorran hotel they’d chanced upon a few months ago.  Henri doesn’t do bargain basement, so we were surprised when he told us that full board at this 3 star hotel was 51 euros each.

Hostal La Font is in a tiny village, Os de Civis, clinging to the mountain side not, as it turned out, in Andorra at all.  It’s in Spain.  But it might as well not be.  The one road serving the community connects the village to Andorra la Velle and to nowhere whatsoever in Spain.  Out of season, 20 people live there.

It was busy when we checked in to the hotel though, just in time for lunch.  Vegetarians need not apply.  Before the meal, tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, dried sausage, olives all appeared on the table.  Then a hearty meatball-cabbage-chickpea-potato soup arrived.  Then a selection of salads and charcuterie.  Full yet?  I hope not.  There’s grilled lamb and 3 different sorts of grilled sausage with baked potato, and a large choice of puddings to come.  The secret of course is to help yourself to tiny portions of everything offered: that’s what I did anyway, because I knew there would be a 3 course meal in the evening, and Henri has a way of making sure that nobody does their own thing by skipping dinner – or even a course.

Anyway, after lunch, we all chose to stride forth into the mountains.  Henri’s cousin, Jean-Claude, has been a lifelong farmer, and made a great walking companion.  We learnt from him the grasses that any discerning sheep chooses, given half a chance.  He showed us how the local cows, a Swiss grey breed, have narrow agile hooves and legs to enable them to cope with climbing up and down the steep slopes of their summer pasture.  And he told us tales of transhumance: the days in spring and autumn when cows and sheep are taken up to high pastures for the summer, and down again in winter: for his sheep, each journey took three days.

Later, we explored the village.  Just as well the streets are equipped with handrails.  Steepest village I’ve met.  The dark local stone is the picturesque material both houses and streets are built from.  It might look pretty in the September sun, but life looks tough here, and I’m not surprised the village all but closes once the tourists go.

We’ll be back.  A walking week or so in these wild and empty mountains is a must, and hotels are affordable.  Anyway, the car needed 2 new tyres, and the money we saved by buying in Andorra all but paid for the holiday.

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For Two Days Only: Le Jardin Extraordinaire at Lieurac

Last year was a first for us at Le Jardin Extraordinaire. This weekend, we were back, and we’ll be back next year too, and every year.

The members of Artchoum enjoy growing flowers, vegetables, plants of every kind. They relish creating beauty, fun, intrigue, from anything – a discarded table becomes a woodland creature, an ancient trainer a Grumpy Old Man, a few stones in the river a symbolic gathering.  Professional artists work alongside interested members of the public for months and weeks beforehand just for this one weekend in September.

And we all turn up, in our hundreds, to explore this very special walk through woods, or along the shaded river bank, in this normally secluded spot.  Families, couples, groups of friends all come to share the atmosphere –  friendly, fun, joyful, peaceful, reflective.  Have a look at the photos, and enjoy the walk too

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An Italian Interlude

We spent last week in Italy, Lago di Garda to be exact.  We joined daughter No. 1, her husband and twin boys for a camping holiday. It  was all we hoped for: time simply to enjoy being together; breakfast, lunch and dinner all eaten outside; the easy transitory friendships of campsite life; splashing in the pool with the boys; rowing or swimming – rather badly – in the lake; and the pleasures of small-town Italy – people-watching as we sat at some street side bar or restaurant with an ice cream, beer, or plate of pasta, and  exploring charming back streets or ancient churches.

Malcolm and I had it best though.  Not for us the tedious wait in crowded airport departure lounges for the journeys there and back.  We drove through France and Northern Italy, and had a taste of regions we didn’t know, but plan to know better.  Here’s a slide show of some of the places we saw: the Alpes de Haute Provence, little known gems such as Cremona, where Stradivarius came from, the Mercantour and Luberon National Parks. Best of all was a day spent in Mantova (Mantua).  Unlike Florence or Rome, it’s on few tourist itineraries, so it’s unspoilt, uncluttered.

It’s a town whose prosperous Medieval, Renaissance and Baroque mercantile past is told in every street in the city centre, as piazzas, churches and fortified buildings crowd together demanding attention.  The old city is surrounded by waterways which once were swampy rivers, were then extended and widened for defence, and are now pleasant open spaces for pleasure boats, wildlife, fishermen, and people who like us, simply wanted a cool walk at the water’s edge. Go there if you ever have the chance.

Just in case you think we had a totally idyllic week, you might like to know that on the way home, Saturday night in our particular bit of northern Italy proved to be a hotel-free zone.  The nearest we came to finding a bed was when I went to check out a faintly unpromising looking albergo in some very untouristy town.  I scuttled away when I realised it was certainly the local brothel.  We slept in the car.

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