‘Whether the weather be cold, or whether the weather be hot,
We’ll weather the weather, whatever the weather, whether we like it or not.’
Indeed. Not cold. Not hot. Just wet, very wet indeed. Just look at those floods in England, Brittany and even the Var. We really shouldn’t complain when the worst we’ve had here is a soaking and muddy boots. Especially when, as on Tuesday, the downpours suddenly stop, the sun comes out and dries up all the rain, and we can get out and enjoy the views.
Christine took us out on a walk she enjoys, just up the road from her house. It’s great for these soggy times, because it involves walking on roads so narrow they can barely be dignified as ‘single-track’ – but they are tarmacadam, and therefore mud free – and on farmyard tracks used so often that they too are in decent enough condition. The sky was very blue: spring was in the air.
As we started climbing, the mountains came into view
We passed Troye d’Ariège and the sheep farm we’d once visited, and then our path rose to allow us views of the Pyrenees before returning us once more to the valley floor, to la Bastide de Bousignac, and then back to her village, Saint Quentin.
Shadows lengthen as we near home.
The pollarded avenue on the road into la Bastide de Bousignac.
Reception committee from the birds as we arrive back in time for tea.
She’d made a cake. I’d made a cake. We put each to the test. Hers was yoghurt and bilberry. Mine was a pear, almond and chocolate loaf, recently posted by the deliciously greedy Teen Baker. Which was the better one? Malcolm and Max diplomatically cast a vote for each, and they weren’t wrong. We all tucked in, feeling we deserved a reward after an hour or two eating up the kilometres in the warming gentle sun.
We’ve been wondering for a while how to commemorate our leaving Laroque. Not long now: we’re working towards mid-March. We thought some kind of party, but with weather so uncertain, some friends away in February or early March, the house gradually being more and more unpicked, and with no obvious alternative such as a village hall or room-above-the-pub, it was all a bit of a puzzle.
Then the walking group here in Laroque stole our thunder. Subtle hints came our way, and we understood that we were at all costs to keep Friday evening free. We realised that food was involved – of course, c’est la France – but other than that, were left pretty much in the dark.
Finally, the invitation became more specific. We were to present ourselves at the restaurant up the hill, Table d’Angèle, at quarter to eight, and don’t be late. So we did. And there were 22 of our friends, our companions on Sunday and many other days of the week, ready to greet us as we came through the door.
Democracy was abandoned for the evening. Choose where to sit? Not a chance. We were instructed to do as we were told, and ushered to the centre seats, the places of honour. So different from our very first community meal in the same restaurant, when we were pretty new to Laroque. People then were wary, wondering how hard it would be to cope with talking to their new English neighbours. This time, we were all laughing as we sat down together. It was a fine meal, entirely cooked and served by the immensely hard-working two-person team of Obé (named after Obélix of Asterix fame) and his wife.
We took our time. There was plenty to eat, and lots to talk about, but finally, we took our last mouthfuls. The evening was not, it seemed, drawing to a close. Yvette stood up, a parcel in her hand. It was this book:
They’d chosen it because they knew it would remind us of our home here. But they thought that it linked too with our Yorkshire home, as the textile industries play such an important part in the history of both areas.
Then Henri stood up. In his retirement he’s become a keen amateur painter, and his latest piece was done with us in mind. Montségur, local landmark and place of pilgrimage. Here it is: he’s presented it to us, and it will always have a place on a wall in our home, wherever we live in the future.
Henri had another trick up his sleeve too. He produced a large jar of ‘confiture de vieux garçon’. Not much jam about this. It was jar of red fruits macerated for several months in sugar and alcohol to spoon into a glass to both eat and drink.
‘Confiture de vieux garçon’
We put a jar of Seville orange marmalade for each guest at the meal (hence that ‘marmalade factory’) round the table, with instructions on how best to enjoy it. We continued drinking, talking, laughing. Somewhere in among, Malcolm made an emotional speech. Blanquette de Limoux finished off the meal, and eventually, slowly, the evening drew to its close.
Such a memorable evening. We’re touched beyond measure to have been so welcomed in Laroque, and that our friends chose to mark our departure with such careful planning and generosity. It’s unthinkable not to come back, and often. We’ve insisted too that they must all plan a visit to come and discover Yorkshire. Like the Ariège, it’s splendid walking country.
Thanks , Jaques and Yvette, for most of the photos. Mine seemed not to cut the mustard this time. Too busy having a good time I suppose
View from our bedroom window, today and every day this week
This is getting beyond a joke. For a week now, with the exception of last Tuesday, it’s rained. Sometimes it’s just drizzled. Sometimes it’s rained good and proper. Sometimes it’s poured. Walks are cancelled, and the market’s a dismal affair with few stallholders and even fewer customers.
The River Touyre crashing under the bridge near our house.
It’s muddy, angry, fast-flowing, and rising steadily
Surging past the back of our house: too close for comfort
But I had to go yesterday, whatever the weather. I’d been promised Seville oranges. ‘Will you have any more next week?’ I asked anxiously. ‘Oh yes, I’m bound to.’ ‘For we English types, I guess?’ ‘No. Not at all. I adore Sevilles. I make tons of marmalade. So do my neighbours.’
Well, that did surprise me. Listen to this recipe from a French neighbour, a lovely woman whom I know to be a keen cook. (Sorry, Sharon, you’ve heard this tale. Bear with me).
‘Take ordinary oranges. Squeeze the juice, and then take the peel and boil it in plenty of water. Throw away the water. Repeat three times until you’ve got rid of the bitterness. Chop the peel finely…..’ By then she’d lost me. I didn’t really listen to the end of the recipe. I felt that on the subject of good gutsy marmalade, this woman and I had nothing to say to one another.
Seville oranges waiting for the chop.
Anyway, tired of downsizing for the time being, we’ve applied ourselves to the business of our marmalade factory. We have our own needs to satisfy, and those of all our French friends, who profess themselves rather keen on our bright and bitter conserve. This year, I’ve chosen Dan Leppard’s recipe. I’ve got a variation on the go, as well as one version where I follow him to the letter. Instead of using the whole peel in the finished product, I’m using only the thinly peeled zesty part, though of course all the pith will be boiled up with the pips before being discarded.
Chopped Seville oranges waiting for the pot.
We’ve been scrubbing, squeezing and chopping half the morning, and now the two varieties are sitting waiting for tomorrow , when we can boil each of them to setting point, get out a crusty loaf, butter, and apply ourselves to the serious business of a taste-test.
The downsizing continues. We’ve become accustomed to discarding ancient birthday cards, messages sent to us to our last day at work, and even our school reports from the 1950s and ’60s. We’ve come to expect gales of laughter from friends who don’t share our hoarding instincts and who observe our inner struggles with astonishment (yes, that’s you, Kalba).
So what happened this week? I thought it was time to get rid of my sewing box. I thread a needle maybe twice a year when a button falls off or a hem comes adrift. So why do I need about three dozen reels of cotton in every colour you can think of, miscellaneous hooks and eyes, multi-coloured embroidery thread, a clutch of thimbles, a box of rusting pins and two darning mushrooms, all inherited from my mother?
All the same…. those reels of genuine cotton from the 1950s – no polyester mixes here , those cards of thread in various shades of tan , all the better to darn your stockings with, and even those hooks and eyes are all pieces of history. I thought the friends I keep up with on Facebook might like to see them. I posted these photos:
And within minutes I had an urgent request from that militant non-hoarder, Kalba, that I should give them to her, swiftly followed by a similar request from another friend. Daughter Number 1 weighed in, as I knew she would, swiftly followed by Daughter Number 2. Son has been strangely silent, but daughters have agreed to share custody of the cotton reels. Three more people joined the conversation, and started waxing nostalgic about darning mushrooms. Then someone else pointed out that the factory producing the hooks and eyes had been part of her childhood neighbourhood, but had been closed for decades, and more people joined in to celebrate the almost-forgotten skill of darning. A further request for the contents of my sewing box came from America, and a school friend whom I’ve not been in touch with for years made contact.
One way or another, my battered old sewing box has awakened memories, provoked recollections and conversations, and generally livened things up. Just as well I didn’t dispose of it years ago. There’s no chance of its being discarded now. Apart from anything else, you just look some of these items up on eBay. I’m sitting on a small fortune here.
Yesterday, I changed my mind. But nobody led me into a darkened room…..
I had my reasons after all. I was unlucky last year. I probably will never have the chance to do raquettes ever again. My Thursday walking friends wouldn’t set the bar too high. Everyone raves about the Plateau de Beille as a winter sports playground ….. These all turned out to be excuses rather than reasons.
A very mild winter means you have to climb pretty high this year to be sure of snow. The Plateau de Beille is high. 1800 metres and rising. The snow appeared at the roadside only during the last kilometre or so of a very dizzy 10 mile climb upwards. And when we arrived, the car park was packed, and every school child in the Ariège seemed to be there, muffled in ski-suits and excitedly fastening on skis. Which was fun to watch, but we were relieved that once we too had got booted and spurred, in our case with raquettes, and yomped just half a kilometre or so, we were in the wild and wide empty spaces .
Children arriving: all togged up
Getting organised.
Children get away from a day at their desks.
And that’s where it all could have gone wrong for me. We came to a signpost: ‘Pas de l’Ours. 11km’. ‘Eleven k? With raquettes? I don’t think so.’ I was not alone in protesting. Anne-Marie and I wimped out and chose a 3 km pathway, and had a fine time chatting as we soldiered up an admittedly steep slope, safe in the knowledge that this challenge would quite soon be over. Resting at a cabane at the top, we were surprised to be joined by our friends. It seemed their journey had taken a different route to this point, and whereas we had 2 km to complete, they still had 10. Three of them had a bit of a think. ‘We’re coming with you’. And that’s what they did. We waved the other six goodbye and arranged to meet in three or four hours: slow stuff, snow-shoeing.
The B team set off.
Tired already.
Nearly at the end of the journey.
We had a fine time. We got back to base in time for lunch and watched the children on the nursery slopes and the huskies drawing sleds as we ate our picnic in the bright cold sunshine.
Busy huskies
Then we discarded our raquettes and rucksacks, dumping them in the car, in favour of a snowy walk to see the views. It became windy. It became cold. It threatened to rain. But we weren’t on an 11km. route march, that was the main thing.
Can you see 3 different sets of animal tracks?
Perfect prints. But of what?
Bigger beasts.
When our friends re-joined us, they announced that they hadn’t been either. They’d found a short-cut and taken it. Cheats. But it just shows. This raquettes lark isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Little and not-very-often seems to be the way forward. But next time, I’ll stay at home.
The end of the day: cold, windy, but still good to look at.
Click on any of the circular images to see the whole photo, and a miniature slide show.
About a year ago, someone suggested ‘Les Collines du Vent’ – the Windy Hills – for one of the Sunday walks with our Laroque walking group. The appointed day came, and it rained – a lot. We re-scheduled. The day came again, and it rained – a lot. We re-scheduled. The day came yet again, and it was foggy, a real pea-souper: the kind of fog that almost any Frenchman confidently assures us blankets London every day of the year (any Frenchman who’s read Charles Dickens that is).
And so it went on for five or six attempts. Today though, it didn’t rain. Nor was it foggy. In fact it was sunny until we left the Ariège and approached our destination in the hilly countryside in the Aude outside Castelnaudary. Then it became rather grey, though not menacing enough to stop us in our tracks. What DID nearly stop us in our tracks was the wind. The countryside here is rolling and open. The idea of any walk in the area is to get up there and stride from hilltop to hilltop. But that wind! It gusted and blew. It snatched us off-balance. It whistled through our trousers and tried to grab our hats. And it was only doing what it apparently does almost every day of the year. No wonder our path led us past a windmill during the afternoon.
The weather brightened, and we had wonderful all-round panoramas. Sadly we couldn’t quite see the Pyrenees: distant mists saw them off. And in the early afternoon, we had evidence that we really were the tough guys we thought we were, battling through that wind. We were overtaken by a battalion of the French Foreign Legion in training. Though admittedly they were all additionally burdened by enormous rucksacks that must have weighed 40 kilos. And guns. If you’ve read ‘Beau Geste’ you will remember that this band of soldiers is recruited from foreign nationals who wish to serve in the French army (don’t ask….). Coming from different countries, different cultures, the men are put through very challenging training designed to build their esprit de corps. We noted that Marcel, our leader for the day was putting us through a similar programme. Though at the end, he offered us a large slice of the Galette des Rois which he himself had made. We’d already had our usual lunch time bonanza of wine-and-cake-sharing. But nobody refused this last additional treat. We felt we’d earned it.
Back in 2007, family members funded the trip of a lifetime for me. A whole month in India: a country I’d wanted to visit since my teenage years.
I wanted to keep them in touch with my travels. I wanted my friends too to know what I was up to. So with great difficulty, since I was and am no geek, I started a blog. If I knew then what I know now, I’d never have chosen the blogging platform I chose to use. When I revisit it, I find it clunky and cumbersome. So I decided to transfer the lot to WordPress.
Here it is. and you’ll recognise the first few sentences of its front page post.
It makes a change from winter in France or in England. It certainly makes a change from the freezing conditions being endured by my American readers. But worry not. Next time, we’ll be back in France again.
Epiphany, 6th January. Today’s the day when here in France we’re supposed to eat Galette des Rois – Kings’ Cake, because this is the day when, according to tradition, the three kings arrived to visit the baby Jesus.
When I went down to the baker’s this morning, I found there were two sorts on offer. Should I chose the yeasted brioche style more popular down here? Or should I go for the layers of puff pastry filled with almond cream? I couldn’t help thinking that Madame was nudging me towards the puff-pastry option, and that suited me fine.
A galette, a cardboard crown, a fève…. and just a few buttery crumbs
As you share it out, one of you will find yourself with a fève in your portion. This used to be a bean, but these days it’s usually a little china trinket. And there he was, in the very first slice I had on my plate, a little yellow-uniformed fellow on a plinth inscribed ‘le pompier japonais’ – the Japanese fireman. Lucky me. I got to wear the cardboard golden crown supplied at the baker’s and proclaimed myself King For The Day. Which was fine as far as it went. I’m still waiting to be dressed in fine robes and whisked off in a sparkling limousine to some red carpet event. It’s getting on for bedtime, and so far…. nothing.
I did get to commune with a kitchen full of odds and ends however. I found half a stale ‘bio’ baguette, and half a Livarot cheese that was uncharacteristically disappointing from the very first mouthful. Though it wouldn’t find a place on the menu of any Royal banquet, I decided on a version of an austerity dish that’s always popular in this house.
Savoury bread and butter pudding
Ooops! I almost left it too late to take a snap of a crunchy crust of baguette nestling in its cheesy, eggy blanket.
(serves 2)
Butter the base of a shallowish baking dish
Cut and butter thick slices from a baguette or other loaf . I usually find 2 slices per person is enough.
Grate or slice some cheese you’re trying to get rid of and use it to top the bread and butter. Usually I use a hard cheese like cheddar, but the Livarot worked just fine .
Arrange in the bottom of the baking dish.
Beat together 2 eggs, about 150 ml. milk, or milk and cream, or milk and plain yoghurt (this really is about emptying out your cupboards and the fridge), and season. Today I added a teaspoonful of grainy mustard and a handful of chopped parsley, but it could have been chopped chives, chopped chilli, some crisply fried bacon pieces…..
Pour the eggy milk over the bread and cheese and – this is important – leave for at least half an hour for the bread to absorb the liquid.
Bake in a hot oven (170 degrees fan oven) for about half an hour till puffy, risen, and with a rich golden crust. Eat immediately, with an astringent salad of bitter leaves to counteract the richness of the dish.
Actually, it’s not remotely sophisticated, but I don’t think those three kings would have turned up their noses at this meal after all those days and nights trekking across the desert to find a baby in a stable. But we still have a slice or two of Galette des Rois if they’d prefer.
I’ve been in a difficult mood all week. This down-sizing malarkey isn’t suiting me at all. Though I haven’t been down to the tip yet to excavate for my lost goods, it can only be a matter of time. I gave some books to a friend this morning, books dating from my student days, then took them back from him. ‘I will give them to you’, I promised, ‘but I just need a bit more time’. I haven’t read those books in 40 years. But I might.
So to distract myself, every afternoon this week I’ve set off on my self-imposed challenge. I want to see how many more short walks, each lasting two to three hours I can discover setting off from the house. We know such a lot already: at least four different ways to get to and from Léran, two to La Bastide sur l’Hers and several other shorter ones in the same direction. Walks to and from Dreuilhe, Lavelanet, Regat, Tabre, Aigues-Vives, Campredon, Patato (yes, really), Fajou…..
The area we’ve explored least lies westwards from Laroque. There’s a small and charming village called Esclagne about two and a half kilometres away as the crow flies. I reckoned I could find any number of ways to get there and back, and so far this week I’ve come up with three – and that’s not counting the road, obviously.
French maps (I need to whisper this, in case anybody French is listening) are not a patch on our UK Ordnance Survey maps, mainly because they’re hopelessly out of date. Paths peter out, if you can find them in the first place, because as in England, not all farmers welcome ramblers. Yesterday I scrambled under several barbed wire fences, and several more electric ones. Waymarking tends to be unreliable too. The path along the ridge leading from Laroque to la Bastide offers no possibility of going wrong. There’s a cliff-edge on one side, and thick woodland on the other. Nevertheless, it has trusty yellow waymarks painted on trees or rocks every few yards. But get yourself into territory where there are multiple five-lane-ends, or a couple of tracks that might or might not have been made by resident deer, boar and badgers, and you’re abandoned to your fate.
Still, Esclagne is mounted attractively on a hill top. You can see it once you’re in the area, and if you haven’t managed to track down a suitable path, all you have to do is choose fields with not-too-cruel fencing, not too boggy, no bulls in sight, and walk. It’s a chance to come upon herons startled from their familiar deserted feeding ground, make friends with affectionate donkeys, or simply enjoy the views.
Esclagne has some 115 inhabitants. Even such a tiny village qualifies for a mayor and town council, a town hall, and a community notice board filled with all kinds of official pronouncements. The inhabitants are no longer dominated by farmers and agricultural labourers, but townies looking for a peaceful retirement. Unlike their British counterparts, they are not resented. They haven’t priced the country folk out of suitable housing. There’s been enough and to spare since the first world war, which emptied the villages of their menfolk. Those who weren’t killed often didn’t return, preferring to make an easier living up in the more prosperous north. Still, it’s not a lively village. There are almost no children living here. I did spot a traffic hazard though: a busy group of hens all foraging around the traffic signs warning of (a) a 30 k.p.h speed limit and (b) speed bumps.
So that was Esclagne. I consulted the map, found yet another path worth exploring, and after 10 minutes or so found myself dumped once more at the edge of a wire-fenced stubbly field. Never mind. I could see Laroque ahead of me at the bottom of the hill. Just point myself in the right general direction and head home. Another successful walk.
It’s not so hard, walking through fields.
And there’s Esclagne, just ahead.
The Pyrenees are never far away.
That group of trees was often in view.
The nearest I came to a traffic jam in Esclagne.
Since this is a French village, electric wires are part of the scenery.
School panama hat: signed by all my friends before becoming a museum piece. Or I could have done as some others did, and thrown it into the Thames.
The fact that I can show you a picture of what remains of my school hat, some 55 years after I first wore it, tells you a lot about me. I am a hoarder. I have books that have come with me since childhood, wallets full of photos from places I can no longer identify, mementos from holidays that were reasonably unmemorable, scraps of wall paper from houses I no longer live in. I keep step ladders deliberately paint-spattered from the occasions I used them when house-decorating because they tell a story of my changing tastes, and remind me of former homes. I’m impossible, and I know it.
It has to stop. We’ve lugged furniture and possessions half way across Europe to furnish and personalise our home here, and we’re determined that we’re not going to ship the whole lot back. The house here has conspired to feed my addiction. It’s … ‘ow you say? ‘Deceptively spacious’ . That means that almost every – large – room has cavernous cupboards. There’s an attic with 3 rooms begging to be stuffed with my junk, an outside workshop, several inside storerooms. I’ve had no incentive to change.
But when we return to England we’ll be looking for a home of modest proportions. It won’t have more than one spare room. It certainly won’t have a cavernous outhouse. The rooms are unlikely to be enormous. So we’ve both taken a grip, especially me.
Yesterday, I threw out that hat. I sorted through all those precious paintings my children made when they were under 10 or so, and have kept just a small selection from each of them. I threw out boxes of tiny black and white photos peopled by unknown old friends, and junked all the letters I wrote home in my very late teens when I was an au pair in Italy. Actually, for the first time since those days, I read through a few, and then I couldn’t wait to destroy them before anyone else realised what a pompous brat I was.
Now we’ve got the difficult bit. We’ve put aside a whole book-case full of fiction that we probably bought in charity shops in the first place. No: that was easy enough. Now there are all the books we’ve loved since adolescence, the seminal works from university days, the much-loved reference books which may in some cases be outdated. There’s all my history of art books with wonderful reproductions, Malcolm’s language stuff, my vast collection of cookery books. Of course we won’t get rid of them all. But some must go. Last time we did this, 20 years ago, we were leaving our large house in Leeds. We sold a large selection of our less-used books to a second-hand book dealer. A week later, I was down at his shop, buying quite a few of them back again.
If you need a new bedtime story, we may be able to help.
The stuff we’ve so far discarded is, if suitable, bagged up for Secours Populaire here in Laroque. The rest has been dumped in one of the town poubelles: municipal dustbins. Don’t be too surprised if in a couple of days, you find me at the tip, desperately scrabbling through the rubbish awaiting transportation to landfill as I hunt for my old school hat.
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
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