From Pyrenees to Pennines

Mr. Chilli

Jean Philippe Turpin and his stall at Mirepoix market last week.

About a year ago, I was doing my regular shopping in Lavelanet market when I saw a new stall. An amazing stall, jewelled with the bright crimsons, scarlets, yellows, greens, purples and blacks of an array of a score or more of varieties of chilli.

It wasn’t busy. The stall holder was holding court to nobody at all till I came along, so we got talking. Mr. Chilli (Jean Philippe Turpin) would have as his mission statement if he went in for such things, ‘passionate about chillies’. He was selling the harvest he had been carefully husbanding all season: mild chillies, warmly scented chillies, chillies with a kick, chillies with a punch, and killer chillies. Nobody was interested.

He knew he had a chance with me, because I’m English. The French, famously, do not like hot spices. Without English customers – not many of us in Lavelanet, but rather more in Mirepoix – he would have had no business at all. I bought quite a selection from him, carefully trying to memorise the properties of each variety, and froze them. They lasted me all winter.

In the spring, he appeared again. This time he was selling chilli seedlings. The varieties were coded from 1 to 10, with 1 being mildest-of-the-mild, to 10: blows your brains out . He had one or two specimens even I wouldn’t touch – 10 + 6. Together with two English fellow aficionados and gardeners, I’d pop to see him most weeks – maybe to buy another plant, maybe only for a few handy hints. He never seemed to mind if we didn’t buy: our enthusiasm won him over and he would spend ages patiently explaining how to get the best out of our precious seedlings.

The season wore on. The seedlings became plants, then fruiting specimens. Now we’ve come full circle. The stall is crammed again with baskets of chillies in every shape and size and colour. Some look like crinkled Chinese lanterns, some like cherry tomatoes, some like tiny black bilberries, while many of course are the familiar long pointed droplet. Now he’s busy producing chilli oil, chilli paste, chilli condiments of every kind to sell throughout the year.

Banner above Mr. Chilli’s stall

He used to live in Paris, but it’s not the kind of place, or the kind of climate, where chillies can thrive. Not in the kind of quantities he was growing them. Even back in those days he had getting on for 50 varieties. So a couple of years ago he looked for a space and a place in the sun, and ended up in a village near here, Saint-Quentin la Tour. He decided to turn his obsession into a business: I think a man who eats chillies for breakfast can fairly be described as obsessed. Mr. Chilli has few rivals. To his knowledge, there is only one other chilli producer in the whole of France, near Béziers. If you visit his garden, with its views over the Pyrenees, you’ll see row upon row of chillies, chillies and more chillies. They are protected from frying in too much sun by a system of canopies, staked to keep them posture-perfect, and generally treated to a firm-but-fair regime designed to encourage self-reliant, hearty, healthy and productive plants. He’ll have harvested the lot by now.

Hundreds and thousands of chillies

Chillies protected from the sun – and storms

So from now on he has a busy period when he’ll swap his outdoor work for indoor activity. He’ll be air-drying chillies for the winter, turning others into chilli-based products, always choosing the best and most appropriate variety for the job in hand.

And the last two times I’ve visited him, I’ve had to wait my turn. Curious customers and would-be customers crowd round his stall, examining all those different varieties, asking questions, making tentative purchases . They’re all French. Mr. Chilli knew he was in for the long game. Perhaps he’s beginning to win.

Something old, something new

Our new friend Jenny-from-Bilbao came for a flying visit late last week, so we did a quick Cook’s Tour of some of our favourite spots. Roquefixade, of course, Montségur: and then on a bright Autumnal Saturday morning, we finished off by a quick look at our local lake, Montbel. It’s a man-made reservoir, actually, but it looks as though it’s been there forever, and fish, herons and humans all appreciate its cool expanse of water as a change from all those hills, mountains, rivers and streams.

Those herons

What a difference a day makes. Sunday sulked. It rained in the night, it rained in the morning, grudgingly cleared up, then spent the rest of the day teasing us with odd showers which never quite decided whether to go for a full-blown drenching, or merely hang around as damp atmosphere, cloaking the landscape with fog.

View down over Laroque

How did that get there?

Misty view over the Douctouyre valley

Copse along the ridge

Out of the woods once more

… but not for long.

This young lady welcomed us as we passed her farm

Autumn colours

And some more

Autumn leaves

Our misty wooded path

The view’s largely obscured now

Last lap. Civilisation approaches….

Almost home. This farm’s for sale. Any takers?

Tamed trees. The edge of Laroque

So our planned walk from Croquié, with its promise of stunning views as our reward for a stiff climb was abandoned. Instead we met at 1.00, we hardy types, and Jean-Charles proposed what I thought was little more than a walk round the block. ‘Just up to Tabre, along the ridge and back’ he said. Well, Tabre is the next village along, Mirepoix direction, so that sounded easy enough. So off we went, along a bosky path, through Tabre, up a hilly climb to great views back to Laroque. A long and often muddy forest track took us past further views, over the Douctouyre valley, and circled us over and past the next village along from Tabre, Aigues-Vives. Down we climbed again, and took paths through fields back to Laroque. A fabulous walk, all 15 km or so of it, and almost every step of it previously unknown to us. And we pride ourselves on having got to know our patch pretty well. Thank goodness for local friends who carry on helping us to discover even more.

A Renaissance feast

Along the road from us is Mirepoix: the pretty town, the one with the half-timbered houses set round a central square, where it’s good to sit outside with a nice cool beer of a summer evening surveying several centuries of history. A bit of a contrast with shabby old Laroque. It’s something of a Mecca for both locals and tourists, as it has a busy programme of festivals throughout the year, celebrating everything from Jazz and Swing to the apple harvest.

There was new one the other week, La Fête de la Gastronomie. We missed most of the talks, walks, demonstrations and foodie events, what with being in Bilbao. But we did get back just in time to catch the visit to a tiny church in the tiny nearby hamlet of Mazerettes. This was no church guided tour however. We’d come to hear Martine Rouche talk about the fresco there, depicting the feast of Herod during which the head of John the Baptist was dished up. No, it wasn’t an art history lecture either, nor a biblical exposition. Martine Rouche has researched this fresco – one of several recently restored in the church – to help us understand dining and feasting in this part of 16th century France.

The fresco is dated 1533, so Herod’s feast reflects the customs in use at that date. At that time, there was no special room designated for dining. The host had the table arranged wherever it suited him best, whether it was the main hall or a bed-chamber. In contrast with the fine elaborate costumes worn by the guests, the table itself is quite simply and starkly dressed. Not so many years before, food had been served on ‘tranchoirs‘, thick solid slices of bread. Now, simple round plates were provided.

There weren’t many glasses on the table either. These were expensive rare items still, so guests expected to share . Servants would hover, ready to refill glasses as required, and everyone would drink from the glass nearest them. Glasses didn’t come as a matching set: there were as many designs as there were drinking vessels.

Besides these, there were drageoires of crystal, designed to hold sugar and spices, which guests would nibble at throughout the meal. This fashion for having these expensive and elegant tit-bits spread from Italy through southern France and Lyon , eventually reaching this area.

There were knives. These were personal property. You’d take your own with you and use it both to cut food, and as a means of conveying it to your mouth: no forks yet. Then you’d take it home with you again.

And this curved implement is a furgeoir. You may not want to have one at table yourself. The pointed end is a toothpick, but you’d have used the spoon-like end to scoop out earwax when the fancy took you.

Under the table is a nef. Though this one isn’t, such containers were often in the shape of a nautilus shell. The principal guest at a banquet might have one as a sort of superior picnic hamper. He’d use it to keep his knife, his napkin, maybe some spices, and some anti-poison specifics. Later, the nef was replaced by the cadena, which might have several different compartments.

As to the food served, there are few clues here. Apart from the head of John the Baptist, which was not intended to be eaten, there were some sides of ham and other fairly unidentifiable items. More information comes from contemporary receipt books. Local grandee Phillippe de Lévis, who was responsible for commissioning the frescos in the church, also hired patissiers, who of course submitted detailed bills . These confirm what we already know: that the church calendar ruled. Periods of plenty (‘régimes gras’) were interspersed with simpler and restricted ‘régimes maigres‘. Every Friday, Lent and Advent among others were ‘maigres‘ . Meat and dairy products were avoided in favour of simpler, less rich foods. Fish was generally allowed, but for the wealthy, this was scarcely a privation. The River Hers was rich in salmon, and would be prepared with fine and not-at-all-simple spices: cinnamon, ginger, pepper, cloves – and sugar. Even certain water fowl, such as the moorhen – ‘poule d’eau’ – were considered honorary fish.

But outside those periods of abstinence, what feasting took place! A meal might begin with individual tarts, and go on to several courses of salads, fruits, boiled meats, roast meats, sauced meats. From our point of view, the courses differed little from one another. Our clear expectations of the kind of things that might appear as an entrée, a main course and a desert did not hold good back in the 16th century.

It all sounded pretty unappetising. What with sharing glasses, enduring course after course of rich and highly spiced food, it would probably have been a relief to go home . The men at least had opportunities with hunting and other manly pusuits to burn off a few calories. Not quite so easy for the women, I think.

And thank you, Martine Rouche, for a fascinating and entertaining afternoon.

Bilbao: the Guggenheim Museum.

What is there to write about the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao that hasn’t already been written? What photos haven’t already been taken? Images of this extraordinary site are so widely available that you’re bound to have seen dozens already. We certainly had. Nevertheless, we were unprepared for the impact this quite extraordinary building, surrounded as it is by a giant bridge and dozens of skyscrapers, had on us as we first spotted its titanium hulk shimmering on the other side of the River Nervion.

We spent the day there on Thursday. And partly because photography isn’t permitted within the building , partly because the architecture itself is what we’d gone to see, that’s what I’ll focus on here. That and those few monumental works which are outside the building. It was the Basque government itself that proposed to the Guggenheim Foundation that it would fund a building to be built in Bilbao’s decrepit port area. In exchange, the Foundation agreed to manage the institution, rotate parts of its permanent collection through the Bilbao museum and organize temporary exhibitions. This astonishing investment has paid off, as the museum is in many ways responsible for Bilbao’s presence on the tourist map, and its economic success in difficult times.

Frank Gehry, a Canadian-American was appointed architect. He said ‘So I started drawing fish in my sketchbook, and then I started to realize that there was something in it’. Indeed. Besides the fish – scintillating , titanium-cloaked fish – the building seems like a fantastical ship, or even a fleet of ships. Within, however, the building is organised like a flower, with galleries as petals developing from a central atrium. Bowing over the Nervion, it seems to link itself first to the river, then to the city opposite.

There are a few works outside. There’s Anish Kapoor‘s ‘Tall Tree and the Eye’, mirrored orbs which reflect and dissolve images of the river, the city and the museum itself. There’s Jeff Koons‘ playful, pansy-planted, monumental in scale West Highland terrier ‘Puppy’, a well as his stainless steel multi-coloured ‘Tulips’, buoyant and colourful. Louise Bourgeois’ ‘Maman’ is in fact a mammoth spider on extended, delicate legs. She’s powerful but vulnerable, strong and yet fragile, just like, apparently, Bougeois’ mother. Only Fujiko Nakaya‘s ‘Fog sculpture’ puffing out swathes of mist over the small lake outside the museum did little for us.

If you’ve not been here yourself, Google will put you in the way of anything you could possibly want to know. Here are some of the dozens of photos we took. Click on any image you’d like to see enlarged.

As you walk from the town centre, this is the view you’ll see

‘Maman’

Anish Kapoor

Anish Kapoor – detail

Jeff Koons’ ‘Tulips’

‘Tulips’ detail

Postcards from Bilbao

Early last Sunday, we were contemplating the week ahead. We expected a pleasant enough few days, entirely devoid of incident.

By late lunchtime, we’d planned the makings of an adventure to Bilbao.

There’s a local information exchange service here for English-speaking residents of the area, and last Sunday, looking through emails, one from the group caught my eye. A woman called Jenny, going to a conference in Bilbao, found that at the eleventh hour, her friend and co-delegate was unable to go. Would anybody like to share her car journey and a small flat in Bilbao for the duration? Well, why not? An email or two, a few phone calls, and the deal was done. Monday morning saw our journey begin with a quick stop-over in the French Basque country.

A view of the Guggenheim Museum from the Puente Zubi Zuri

We hit it off with Jenny from the first, and whenever she wasn’t out at her conference we loved spending time with her. The events there enabled her to meet fellow professionals throughout Europe, as she develops her own future plans here in France. Everyone there was enthusiastic to use woods and forests as an educational resource (such as this one that Jenny’s still involved with back in the UK): but it didn’t give her much time in Bilbao itself. So Jenny, these postcards are for you. If others enjoy looking at them too, so much the better.

Bilbao’s a large city, and quite confusing to get into by car. Its history as a port soon becomes clear, though it went through many years as a heavily industrialised city, attracting workers from throughout Spain, thanks to the locally available iron ore. As in so many other steel-making towns of the western world, those days are largely over. Partly thanks to the Guggenheim Museum, of which more in a later blog, and partly thanks to a burgeoning service industry, Bilbao is reinventing itself.

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The Basque alphabet: thanks to Wikipedia

We were happy to stroll round the centre in the warm sunshine, soaking up the sights and helplessly trying to decode any signs and posters we saw in – to us – unintelligible Euskara, the Basque language. There were the old narrow streets of the Casco Viejo: though the 19th century is represented too, in the elegant square courtyard which is the Plaza Nueva. We enjoyed the later developments along the river and on the other side of the original town. Our flat was on the same bank as the old centre, but so steep are the streets there that we needed the frequent travellators and escalators to help with the climb. Best of all was our journey up on the funicular: a 750 m, but almost vertical-seeming three-minute journey way above the city, to enjoy the views over Bilbao and surrounding countryside.

Journey up on the funicular railway

Don’t look down!

We’ve arrived at the top.

View over the city in bright sunlight.

Another view…..

….. and another

It’s the Alhóndiga I particularly want to share with you though.

Built in 1909 as a wine warehouse, it fell out of use in the 1970’s. Eventually, Philippe Starck was charged with its re-invention. Wow. The interior has been transformed into an atmospheric, dynamic and exciting space. An internal building, almost Romanesque in its severe simplicity houses, amongst other things, a mediatheque and a sports complex. That’s on the top floor. Glance upwards and you can see the eerie outlines of the swimmers ploughing up and down the pool. This interior edifice is supported by 43 squat columns, each different from the other: some are decorative, others reminiscent of ceramic vases, others of Gothic churches… and so on. You’ll want to examine each one. And then enjoy a meal at the restaurant. High quality cooking at modest prices in a cheerful and slightly quirky environment is a fine way to finish your tour.

Entering the Alhóndiga

Pillars

Pillars again

And more….

Look up …. to see the swimming pool

The mediatheque

A reading area in the mediatheque

The restaurant

Anglepoise lamps light the area

Bilbao seems to be a confident city, proud of what it offers. Street and park cleaners (goodness, they even wash the bus shelters) work far into the evening to keep the streets tidy and smart. As night falls, you’ll want to join the locals strolling the streets, stopping at some cheerful bar for a drink and a selection of pintxos (tapas). And eventually you’ll drift off to bed, to sleep off the effects of your busy day and recharge your batteries for the next

Bilbao by night

The station by night

By day, a busy roundabout outside the Alhóndiga. By night, a peaceful place to relax.

A busy bar, a busy street.

Another river view.

Our street at night, the travellator easing the upward journey

Prunelles, gratte-culs et champignons…

… which are, being translated, sloes, rosehips and mushrooms. But it sounds rather more poetic in French, non? Even if you take into account that ‘gratte-cul‘ translates as ‘scratch-bum‘, because as every naughty school child knows, rosehips seeds are distressingly itchy when shoved down against the skin.

Anyway, I went off by myself for a walk the other day, starting by the ancient and slightly isolated Chapelle Saint Roch. There’s still a pilgrimage there every year, because he’s the patron saint of plague victims, and well, you never know, do you?

I’d got several ‘au cas où‘ bags, ‘just in case’ I found sloes, rosehips and mushrooms. It wasn’t ‘just in case’ really though. I know exactly where to look for the juiciest sloes, the thorniest rosehips, and even a decent clutch of field mushrooms. Finding mushrooms before the French get to them counts as a real achievement for me.

It pays to have tough clothes when you hunt among the scratchy brambles for the sloes and hips nearby

Here are my sloes, destined not for sloe gin this year: we seem to have such a lot left from the last few years. No, this year I’m making a richly flavoured jelly with the fruit I picked that morning and a few windfalls.

And here are the rosehips. It’s a syrup for those, I think.

Rosehips with thorns ready for the attack

But the mushrooms…… Someone got there before me. And it wasn’t a Frenchman . Grrr.

I didn't know slugs ate mushrooms — I didn’t know slugs ate mushrooms

‘Our favourite walks’: a nomination

The walk begins. St. Julien de Gras Capou

We keep a mental list of the walks we’ve particularly enjoyed. Walks we’ve treasured for the views, the flowers, the butterflies, the skyscapes, the lunchspot – all sorts of reasons. The only problem is that the walk at the top of the list tends to be the one we did last. There’s no such thing as a duff hike round here.

But last Sunday’s walk is assured a place of honour on this list. It’s one we’ll want to share with you if you come to stay, and we’re keen to do it again ourselves, at every season of the year.

If you drive from here to Mirepoix, you’ll pass through a village called la Bastide de Bousignac. Just after that there’s a road off to the left, signposted to Saint Julien de Gras Capou. Take it. It’ll wind upwards between grassy pastures, home to sheep and cattle and not much else, and finally deposit you in the main street of the village – current population 62. Park near the church, lace up your walking boots, grab your rucksack with its all-important picnic, find the first yellow waymark – and set off.

The village is so-called because back in the 12th and 13th centuries, it had acquired a reputation as being the place where fine fat capons were raised to feed fine people: that’s the ‘gras capou’ bit. I don’t know where St. Julien comes into it. There are hens here still, and in so many ways, the village is perhaps little changed. It’s a peaceful, rather isolated place, despite being so near to Mirepoix and one of the main roads in the Ariège.

Our walk took us along farm and forest tracks, through fields and woodland still splashed with colour from flowers and late butterflies. It was an easy route, rising only gently, passing the tiny hamlet of Montcabirol towards the village of Besset. Shortly after that though, we found we did have a short sharp climb, through the woods, to reach the Pic d’Estelle.

Wow. It was worth it. From here, we had a 360 degree panorama. The chain of the Pyrenees marched across our horizon, its peaks already dusted with snow, or even quite thickly covered in the case of the higher summits. As we turned in other directions, we could see Mirepoix, immediately recognisable from its distinctive cathedral spire, and the Montagne Noir beyond. There are foothills nearby too, across which pilgrims on the Chemin de Saint Jacques de Compostelle still travel: and other sights too – the ruined Château de Lagarde, and its near neighbour the Château de Sibra. We stayed a long time, simply relishing these views, the sky, the silence and peace at what seemed to us, at that moment, the top of the world.

When we finally shrugged on our rucksacks once more, we only had three or four more kilometres to go, along more unpeopled pathways. After negotiating the only obstacle of the afternoon, a group of cows supervised by a bull – we let them get well ahead of us – we were soon back at base. It was good, very good. I just wish my camera could do justice to those peaks. But we’ll be back, in winter, when they’re truly thick with snow

The walk begins

We passd a few fords: here’s a puddle

And here’s what we spotted at the isolated hamlet of Montcabirol

First view of the Pyrenees

We’re at Pic d’Estelle

Looking down over Mirepoix

That’s our path

That’s one of our cows

If it’s fish, it must be Wednesday.

Our village shop has a daily battle on its hands to keep itself in our hearts and minds as we plan our weekly shopping. With three supermarkets (two of them offering ‘le hard discount’) within two miles, it’s all uphill.

Dominique and Joel, the owners, have three types of customer: the old faithfuls who buy all their groceries there. There are so few of these that if one of them goes on holiday, or worse, dies (I did say old faithfuls), it makes quite a difference. There are those of us who shop a fair bit there, and make a conscious decision to do so, to keep the shop in business as an asset for the whole community. And there’s the passing trade, and those who only go if they’ve forgotten the matches, or fancy a tub of ice-cream just before closing time.

So they encourage local producers, offer delivery, open earlier and later than the supermarkets (though they have a long break at midday) and are constantly on the look-out to stay noticed.

One of their winning ideas, though, is to supply fresh fish on one day a week. You’re as well to get yourself there in good time on Wednesday, or it’ll all be gone. Every week, there’ll be a choice of two varieties. And last week, the choice was a fairly unusual one for this part of the world: mackerel, my favourite. Inspired by various ideas from BBC Good Food, though owing allegiance to none in particular, this is the speedy no-nonsense meal I came up with.

Grilled sweet soy mackerel

Ingredients

4 mackerel fillets
zest and juice of 1 lime, or 1 lemon
1 tbspn. rapeseed oil
Noodles, as required

For the sauce

2 tbspn. soy sauce
1 red chilli, deseeded and cut into matchsticks
Juice 1 lime or lemon
Thumb sized piece of ginger, finely grated
2 tbspn. muscovado sugar
2 tbspn. water

Score the mackerel fillets a couple of times on the skin, then lay them in a shallow dish. Sprinkle with the lime or lemon zest and juice, and leave to marinate for 5-10 mins.
Place all of the sauce ingredients in a small pan and gradually bring to a simmer. Cook for 5 mins to thicken slightly, then remove from the heat and set aside.
Turn the grill to its highest setting and place the mackerel on a greased baking tray, skin side up. Sprinkle the fillets with the oil and some sea salt, then grill for 5 mins until the flesh is opaque and cooked through.
Meanwhile, cook the noodles.

To serve: divide noodles between shallow bowls, top with mackerel fillets, and drizzle the soy sauce mixture over the top

Léran: the fall and rise of a village

Just 4 km along the road from us is a village. If you’re passing through (and you won’t: it’s not on the main road to anywhere much) you’ll probably think it’s just another sleepy French backwater. A backwater called Léran.

But you’d be wrong. Over the last five or six years, Léran has reinvented itself.

Once upon a time, when this area was, for the time, quite industrialised, when Laroque and Lavelanet were churning out textiles to meet an apparently unending demand, Léran was the leather-working village. It must have been quite a smelly unappetising place with all those hides hung out to dry and cure. The river Touyre, flowing through the village, was dirty and polluted from the leather making processes. It would already have been pretty bad from flowing through Lavelanet and then Laroque when dyes from the textile trade were flushed into the waters. Friends of ours remember their parents being employed in the still-busy leather works in those days. Immigrant workers from Spain and Italy were much in demand to augment the local working population.

But times change, and as the textile mills declined, so did the leather works. Léran’s population fell as the young left to seek work elsewhere.

About perhaps twelve years ago, a few anglophones, scouting around for somewhere attractive to open chambres d’hôtes, found the village, noted its quiet agricultural setting, its château built by the local landowners, the Lévis- Mirepoix, and the stunning views towards the Pyrenees. They opened a couple of businesses. Guests, above all English, but other English-speakers too came to stay, liked what they saw, and some looked for properties to buy in the village. At that stage houses were cheap enough in this failing little community.

Slowly, the village came back to life. Marek and Shirley Woznica (yes, they are English) bought the run-down and almost decrepit little village bar and set about turning it into le Rendez-vous, the village hub for French and English alike. Quality meals, quiz nights in both French and English, open mic events soon became part of their regular programme.

Le Rendez-vous on a warm summer's evening, while the market's in full swing — Le Rendez-vous on a warm summer’s evening, while the market’s in full swing

At a village vide grenier (that’s ‘empty your attics’, the French answer to our car boot sale) some years ago, we remember French inhabitants telling us that the English were responsible for some revival in the village fortunes. ‘But it’s a shame they keep themselves to themselves and don’t mix with us’, they said regretfully.

Well, that might have been true then, but it’s no longer the case.

About five years ago, another English resident, Alan Simmonds, a fine musician, decided to begin a choir. Inevitably, people round here call it ‘the English choir’, but it’s truly cosmopolitan, with singers from several different countries of origin in Europe and beyond. It’s already got a name for itself, and is quite in demand.

In summer, there are the Friday evening markets, when visitors and residents alike crowd into the village streets to buy their evening meals from an eclectic mix of food stalls, and sit down to share their meals at long ranks of tables laid out along the main street. This is Léran at its liveliest.

Evening market: crowds from the village and beyond sit down to eat together in the main street

But it hasn’t been onwards and upwards without some struggles. The village shop closed, then the bakery. Léran no longer had any shop but a hairdressers. A now rejuvenated village council decided to act. They opened up a municipal storage building, named it ‘Les Halles’, and set about encouraging a mix of local traders to come on different mornings of the week to sell bread, meat, charcuterie, cheeses and vegetables to the villagers – it’s the only community round these parts that now has a daily market. So far it’s going well.

And this year, the village has developed yet another project: ‘Léran: le village qui chante’. In mid-June, St Cecilia’s Day, French communities everywhere throw themselves into a weekend of music-making of every kind. There are concerts in churches, bars, along the street. Anywhere. It’s a great weekend to be in France. But Léran wanted to do even better. With a tuneful choir, and some fine musicians living in the community, from opera singers to folk music, the villagers pulled together to put on a three day series of events. This is how they described it in their publicity:

Everything from popular operatic arias to foot-tappin’ jazz. Soulful solos to choral songs that rock the rafters.
World-class singers, a host of musicians, and the hugely popular Choeur de Léran.
All in a lively village with the Pyrenees as backdrop.

They weren’t wrong. Concerts in everywhere from the local hall, the village church and even local houses drew enthusiastic audiences from miles around. We loved the Baroque group, ‘L’ensemble de Montbel’, which we attended. No wonder le village qui chante now wants to make it an annual event.

Peering through the main gate of the Château de Léran

More recently, there has been one very sad event. In July this year, that château I mentioned caught fire one afternoon. It had been fairly recently developed as rather elegant flats: now one of the turrets has been consumed by angry flames. It’s a sad loss for the community.

So there we are. A lively and vigorous village community which we’re delighted to have as neighbours. Do we ever wish we’d chosen to live there instead? Well, no. We like the English whom we’ve met there, but we’re glad that we don’t have the easy option of making our social circle an English one, which must be almost inevitable in a community of so many Anglophones. We’ll go on coming for a meal chez Marek and Shirley, we’ll look out for concerts and other events in the village, and then we’ll stroll over the hill back to Laroque.

Les Halles in full swing

Sreet view

Our favourite house on Rue de la Place: always cheery with flowers

Monument aux morts in the centre of the village

Avenue of plane trees near the Château de Léran

And another view of the Château

Le Jardin Extraordinaire est mort. Vive le Jardin Extraordinaire.

Gosh. Was it really only five weeks ago that we were there? Was it only 5 weeks ago that we togged ourselves in skimpy sun gear, floppy hats and clodhopping sensible shoes to make our annual pilgrimage to Le Jardin Extraordinaire? If you’ve been following our story of our life in France you may remember the photos of this joyful, playful, meditative, exuberant, and quite lovely space which so many of us come to explore and relax in for the one weekend only, in very early September (follow the link above).

The meadow at the Jardin Extraordinaire today

Today we wanted a walk: it’s not high summer any more, but the sky was very blue, the sun was pretty hot, the morning mists had burnt off and who knows if tomorrow it may rain? We wanted to take bags and a bucket and see if there were a few late blackberries (there were), a few sloes (there weren’t) and a few early walnuts (there were) to make our sortie near Lieurac worthwhile.

Our path took us past the site of Le Jardin Extraordinaire. It’s not normally a public space, so we couldn’t wander down to the river, or scramble up the hillside. But we could walk by the meadow which had greeted us at our last visit, and we could see the tunnels and bowers of gourds. Autumn has struck. The bright fleshy stems and leaves of the gourds and sunflowers have changed into gnarled and bony twigs. The pumpkins which once peeped from beneath their leafy green sunhats are now exposed on bare earth, those leaves crisp and brown like curls of tobacco. The sunflowers still rear their tall heads over the scene, but they too are blackened and dry.

Dying sunflowers

Ripe pumpkin

Supervising sunflower

It’s still lovely though. This is no cemetery. The seed pods, the gourds, the berries are all ripe now, They’re ready for the next stage: marauding animals may eat them, humans too, or else they’ll seed themselves, so that early next year, the garden can begin to grow again, and be transformed by the creative artists and gardeners of Artchoum.

And we too marauded today. We came back after our walk with full bags, muddy shoes, and that feeling of well-being that comes from a peaceful and productive afternoon out in the countryside in the bright Autumn sunshine