From Pyrenees to Pennines

Down among the dusty archives

Laroque d'Olmes' town insignia — Laroque d’Olmes’ town insignia

Like every commune in France – apart from those who’ve lost everything in flood, fire or time of war – Laroque has shelves, yards and yards of them, of municipal archives. In the main these are bound volumes of directives from central government relating to the Ariège. There are also endless files of copies of forms relating to hatches, matches and despatches, licenses for liquor, permission to drive carriages, horseless or otherwise, toll roads, road improvements, land sales, local disasters such as landslip and flooding, records of meetings, residency requests, paperwork relating to shops, artisans, workmen an apprentices, immigrants…. all human life is here. That’s before you realise there are bundles of engravings, daguerreotypes, photographs…..

They aren’t indexed.

Laroque’s Commission du Patrimoine, of which I am an enthusiastic but fairly useless member (I have no Tales of the Oldest Inhabitant, no competence to research French documents, no skills in artefact restoration or in industrial archaeology) has realised this situation must change.

An early job is to trawl through the central government volumes, which date from the early 18th century, and extract any information relating to Laroque. I can help here. It’s a question of skimming these volumes for relevant entries.

A bobbin worker immortalised in Laroque's Council Chamber — A bobbin worker immortalised in Laroque’s Council Chamber

Three of us sat down on Friday morning in the old Council Chamber of the Mairie, with its wall decorations showing noted politicians and industrialists, as well as allusions to the all-important textile industry. We had dusty piles of leather-bound volumes on the table in front of us. We turned to. It was fairly dry repetitive work, so we kept each other amused by reading out things that caught our eye. There were tales of Mayors drummed out of office (not from Laroque, no of course not) for inappropriate drunkenness. There were the lists of clothes to be supplied to those children raised in institutions, and the money made available for the care of each child.

An infant from 1 day to 9 months old needs:3 blouses, 2 vests, 6 (6 only?) nappies, 3 swaddling blankets, 2 baby's bonnets, a woollen dress and 2 bootees. — An infant from 1 day to 9 months old needs:3 blouses, 2 vests, 6 (6 only?) nappies, 3 swaddling blankets, 2 baby’s bonnets, a woollen dress and 2 bootees.

11-12 year old girl: 3 cloth blouses, woollen coat, cotton coat, cotton apron, cap, 2 pocket handkerchiefs, 2 lined caps, 2 pairs stockings, 1 pair shoes. 11-12 year old boy: 3 cloth shirts, 1 pair trousers, 1 vest, 1 waistcoat, 2 ties, 2 pocket handkerchiefs, 2 pairs stockings, 1 pair lined shoes. After 12, they made their own way in the world

I was intrigued to learn that there was in the 19th century, a single training school in the Pas-de-Calais in the north of France for would-be shepherds. Why would you spare your 16-year-old son to go to the other end of France, at some expense, to acquire his training (though there were no fees), when he could be back at home learning on the job? There was a similar mining school in the east of France.

A demanding clothing list for the shepherds' school: 8 new shirts, 8 pairs of stockings or socks, 2 cravats, 8 handkerchiefs, 5 blouses, 2 pairs winter trousers, 3 pairs summer trousers, 2 waistcoats, 3 woollen jumpers, 2 new pairs shoes, 2 pairs clogs and liners. The shcool did the laundry though. — A demanding clothing list for the shepherds’ school: 8 new shirts, 8 pairs of stockings or socks, 2 cravats, 8 handkerchiefs, 5 blouses, 2 pairs winter trousers, 3 pairs summer trousers, 2 waistcoats, 3 woollen jumpers, 2 new pairs shoes, 2 pairs clogs and liners. The school did the laundry though.

We were good though. We completed our self-appointed tasks. We found Laroque mentioned throughout the 18th and 19th centuries, as all other communes, in connection with, for example:

understanding its precise obligations to maintain communal roads and paths.
submitting to standardised checks to ensure fair weights and measures were being applied locally.
submitting returns showing who had joined the army, and in what capacity.
We learned where the nearest doctors, midwives (‘sage-femmes‘) and pharmacists to Laroque were.

Despite moments of tedium, this was a fascinating morning. I was privileged to inspect these old records, and to gain a little more understanding of life during this period, and an appreciation of just how far the long arm of the state, whether imperial or republican, extended.

Directives from the Empire in 1870 about fishing, recruitment to the national guard, ...er...mayflies, and billhooks — Directives from the Empire in 1870 about fishing, recruitment to the national guard, …er…mayflies, and billhooks

Imperial constitution and rights of succession

Country mouse

We were Christmas shopping in Toulouse yesterday. A day in this, the fourth largest city in France, is always a treat. It’s affectionately known as ‘la ville rose’, because of the predominant building material, a deep pink brick. Elegant long tall terraces of town houses, public buildings, hidden courtyards wait to be discovered and re-discovered on every visit. We have so much more still to find and explore. There are fabulous churches and museums, wonderful and often quirky independent shops, appetising restaurants and bars to suit every budget and taste. The River Garonne and the Canal du Midi pass though the city offering a feeling of space and fresh air.

Toulouse roofscape from Lafayette

Old building, new shop

Always plenty of interest if you keep your eyes open. Silk stockings once made here.

The Cathedral of Saint Sernin

The Garonne passing through Toulouse

The main square in Toulouse – the Capitole – at night

And yet…..

By about half past three, we’re footsore, weary and confused like Aesop’s poor dear Country Mouse who decided the simple, yet safe country life was preferable to the riches and dangers of life in the city. We want to go home.

I was always a city girl. Raised in London, I had a childhood enriched by Sunday afternoons at the Natural History Museum or frenetically pushing buttons at the Science Museum. We’d go to watch the Changing of the Guard at Horseguards Parade, nose round hidden corners of the city, still scarred in those days by the aftermath of wartime bombing. We’d go on our weekly shop to Sainsbury’s: not a supermarket then but an old-fashioned grocery store, with young assistants bagging up sugar in thick blue – er – sugar paper, or expertly using wooden butter pats to carve up large yellow blocks of butter. If we were lucky, there would be a Pearly King and Queen outside collecting for some charity.

It was Manchester for my university years. I loved those proud dark red Victorian buildings celebrating the city’s 19th century status as Cottonopolis, as well as the more understated areas once populated by the workers and managers of those cotton mills, but developed during my time there as Student Central. I loved the buzz of city life, the buzz of 60’s student life.

Then it was Portsmouth. Then Wakefield, and Sheffield, and Leeds. City life meant living with up to 750,00 neighbours. And I thrived on it. I never felt too far from wide open spaces, yet a short bus ride brought me theatres, cinemas, exhibitions, shops, choices of schools for my children. When we moved in 1997 to Harrogate, with a mere 75, 000 inhabitants, it felt small.

This is the Valley Gardens in Harrogate. I must say it doesn't look too crowded — This is the Valley Gardens in Harrogate. I must say it doesn’t look too crowded

Then we came to the Ariège, to Laroque, population just over 2,000. The largest town in the whole area is Pamiers, with a mere 19,000 inhabitants. How could we still think of Harrogate as really rather tiny? So we needed to change the way we saw things. We’re accustomed now to at least recognising most of the people whom we see round and about. We enjoy the fact that we count many people in the community as friends, and that we all turn up to the same events. We relish the space, the more relaxed pace of life, the sense of belonging that we have here.

These are the kind of traffic conditions we've got used to — These are the kind of traffic conditions we’ve got used to

Now, as we plan our return to England, the idea of the clogged roads of the Harrogate rush hour is unattractive, the busy streets unappealing. Ripon, where we more recently lived is much more like it: 14,000 people. But we ask ourselves – is even a town this size too big and scary for Country Mice? Should we continue as we’ve started? Perhaps we should look at Galphay, Gargrave, Greenhow or Grewelthorpe, average populations about 400? Or Masham, about 1,250? All of these are near our centre of gravity, Ripon.

So much to think about. But wherever we end up, we’ll still want the odd sortie to The Big City. Toulouse hasn’t seen the back of us yet.

Photos 4, 5, 6 0f the Toulouse series; the Pearly Kings and Harrogate’s Valley Gardens courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

An announcement

The church on the hill that is Laroque's main landmark — The church on the hill that is Laroque’s main landmark

I wonder what you’ll think when you read this? Will you be as surprised as you would be if you heard that the couple down the road, the ones who always seemed to be such a great team, always doing things together, are getting divorced? Or maybe you won’t be. Let’s see.

We’re leaving. Selling up. Returning to England. We’ve loved it here – we love it still. We believe we’ve made friends for life: we’ve had unforgettable times.

But in the end, the call of family and England itself was just too insistent. Throughout our time here (seven years full-time) I’ve had recurring bouts of home-sickness which Malcolm never understood until very recently, when he too got suddenly and painfully afflicted. We realised we don’t want to grow old here. I don’t want to find visiting family more of a circus than it already is: I don’t want to miss out any longer on my grandchildren growing up. So it’s time to go, whilst we’re still young enough to re-establish our English roots.

In many ways it’s an odd time to choose. The house has developed from the unappetising near-hovel that we bought (but which, oddly, was love at first sight: why?) to a comfortable and spacious dwelling with a pretty nice large back courtyard where we spend all our time in summer. We’ve only just finished the en suite bathroom, for goodness’ sake.

Before……

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And after……

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This last week we’ve been talking to estate agents, and realising that in tough times we’ll certainly have to use one – the French still usually prefer word-of-mouth and adverts in ‘Le Bon Coin’.

We’ll certainly be here till March: maybe longer. A lot depends on whether the house sells. And because the next move in England will be, we hope, the last one, we need to get it right. So a temporary pied à terre near Ripon seems quite on the cards at first. We’ve already started looking.

Don’t jump ship yet! There’s still quite a few months to go on sharing our Life in Laroque. And as for the next phase – who knows?

It’s not about the view…..

Well, not much anyway. You can’t go walking in that patch of the Aude near la Digne d’Amont and not enjoy looking at those vineyards marching across to the snow-covered Pyrenees one way, and the equally distant (and almost equally snow-covered) Montagne Noir the other.

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Today though, let’s not have a travelogue. Let’s look at one or two of the other things that caught our eye on today’s walk, sunny but oh-so-cold. We began walking in temperatures of not much more than minus 5 degrees. There was the ice itself, underfoot. The cold froze the mud and made it good and hard to walk on.

There were the frost-framed leaves mulching the ground.

There was a giggle-worthy notice on an electricity sub-station.

And in the tiny village of Toureilles (population 143), there was a statue to its most famous son. Pierre Bayle (1783-1794) was the youngest soldier ever to die for France. A drummer boy in the Republican Army, he was engaged in the campaign to prevent the Spanish invade Roussillon, and died in battle at Figueres, aged 11.

As we left Toureilles, along a single track road , we came upon a rather fine, wide, but very short stretch of road, with a fine stretch of car park along its length. It led only to a dusty track.If we didn’t know why it was there, neither did the villagers. Here’s what they thought of it.

‘Before: a pretty path. Now: urbanisation of our countryside’

‘Frequent landings’ – on the car park or runway presumably

Back in Digne d’Amont, the municipal notice board had news of an evening’s Bingo (Loto) on – shucks, we’ve missed it – 16th November. Prizes? Two loads of wood for burning, a whole pig (dead, of course) and a hamper of beef as well as other smaller prizes.

And at the end, Gilbert produced a cake for us to eat, formerly much enjoyed locally and which he’d managed to find out about: amazérat, a pastry with a solid bite to it and strongly flavoured with aniseed.

Cabin fever.

Marcel had little faith in the weather.

Snowy fields.

Snowy hillsides

Christmas is coming. Here’s mistletoe.

Snow-flattened grass

Small solar panels on the smallest room?

The lake at Juncas, windswept and chilly looking.

It WAS a bit wet.

Free food. An important bonus on any walk.

A 400 year old oak, with a girth of over 5 metres.

Snow, with autumn leaves still on the trees

Snowy field, green field

The rainy season still hasn’t stopped. It’s rained every day for over a fortnight now, except for one. That was Friday, the day it snowed. I had to come back from nearby Villeneuve d’Olmes at nearly midnight that day, driving at a stately 12 miles an hour along newly – and deeply – snow-covered roads. The last bit was easy enough though. I followed a snow plough.

So Sunday’s all-day walk was abandoned yet again. There was heavy rain again this morning. Nobody was leaving home except to collect the daily bread. We had a back-up plan, we members of the walking group, to begin walking at 1 o’clock if the morning’s weather was poor. By 11.45, with the skies still black and full of rain we were all ‘phoning each other to say ‘No thanks. Count me out’.

Except that at quarter to one, it stopped raining. I decided after all to make a break for it (Malcolm stayed in front of the fire). Maryse arrived at the usual rendezvous too, then Annick and Michel turned up. Then Jean-Charles, Danielle and Marcel. We’d all got cabin fever and we’d walk come what may. We had three rain-free hours. No country paths for us today: all sodden. Strictly road-walking. Snowy fields, snowy views across to the Plantaurel, a small lake, forest paths. We had our ‘pause café’ at Fajou, with its 400 year old oak, and an apple tree just waiting for us to collect its windfalls. Still no rain. Still an hour’s walk to do though, so we didn’t stop for long, and continued onwards, enjoying the familiar landscape in its new white winter clothing

Back home, refreshed after a shower and a cup of tea, I leaned over to draw the curtains. Of course I glanced out of the window. You’ve guessed. It was raining again

‘Rain, rain, go to Spain….’

I think we’ve had enough. When I last posted – three days ago – we’d already had a week of rain. It’s barely stopped since. During the night, we can hear dull thudding as the roof tiles take another sodden pounding. We get up in the morning, raise the shutters, and immediately the rain batters the windows. Going for the breakfast loaf, usually a good way to begin the day, seems unattractive. We make a comforting pan of porridge instead. And so the day wears on. We go out when we have to, but there’s no pleasure to be had in scurrying down the street, heads down, coats spattered by any passing car. And I don’t know when we’ll ever have a country walk again. The fields are waterlogged, the paths sticky and slippery with thick deep mud.

This was the River Touyre this morning at 9 o’clock. In summer it’s a mere stream, idly meandering over the pebbles and stones which line its route. In spring and autumn it’s hardly any deeper, but we’ll spend languid moments watching the trout as they glide serenely in the clear water , constantly on the look out for their next snack.

Today the water was brown, angry, tearing rapidly over the stones which we could hear clattering beneath. It had risen about three feet, covering the grassy banks and invading the garden of the hens who live opposite. They cowered indignantly beside their huts, unwilling to get their feet wet or risk being swept away.

Snow is forecast tomorrow….

Winter meets Autumn head on

Eight days ago: lunch outside in thin tee shirts: a garden umbrella protected us from the bright hot sun.

Seven, six, five, four, three, two, days ago. Rain. Rain. More rain. Heavy, chilly gusts choking the streets and drains with fallen leaves. More rain.

One day ago. Snow. The first snow – and in advance of the first winter frost too. Not a lot, but enough to rest heavily on fading garden plants, weighing down leaves and bowing stems.

This morning, we knew we’d need to get out early to beat the rain, which was threatening yet again. I didn’t take my camera because I thought the mountains would be shrouded in foggy mist. They weren’t. The lower peaks, and even the much lower hills of the Plantaurel peeked through a thin layer of snow that dusted trees and painted the rocky and grassy slopes a severe white. I dashed back for my camera. Five minutes? Ten? Long enough for the misty clouds to drop down and dump themselves on the snowy hilltops like squashy berets, hiding them from view.

And then, straight away, the rain again. That’s what we’ve had all day, streaming along the gutters, making splashy garden puddles, dripping incessantly from the trees and down our necks as we walk underneath. I continued my early morning walk regardless though, and caught what may be the last few days of Autumn colour, though little enough of the snow, which is there somewhere, under those bonnets of mist and cloud.

Snow on the Plantaurel behind Laroque.

A wet cow: a local cow, a Gascon. They’re used to it.

Mist over the Plantaurel

A neapolitan slice of snow, evergreens, autumnal trees and grass

A soggy walk along the Voie Verte

And the view from the path

Back on the road: Laroque

The mist hits ground level

Cauliflower please.

Those cauliflowers with their crisp, bright creamy curds look so enticing on the market stall at this time of year. They beg to be bought and transformed into something both appetising and full of goodness.

So often they disappoint . That bright white face displayed among all the cheery autumn colours of carrots and pumpkins, and the deep forest green of spinach and cabbage turns a sullen shade of oatmeal the second it’s introduced to a pan of boiling water. Leave it there a moment too long and it’s watery, tasteless and almost slimy.

But there are recipes in which it shines. On a miserable winter’s day after a few hours out in the cold, you can’t beat a plateful of good old cauliflower cheese made with lots of decent sharp-flavoured cheddar. You can get away with Cantal Entre Deux, but not the ready-grated Emmenthal that seems to be the default cooking cheese round here.

My next favourite is Rose Elliot‘s cashew nut korma – very mild indeed as far as curries go, but tasty and more-ish. I’ll adapt the vegetables to what I have in the house, but I’m always sure to include cauliflower. It’s a recipe I try to make a day ahead, because that way, the ingredients sit together in the pan and get very well acquainted overnight. By the time we eat them, they’ve become good and harmonious friends. And I get to use two of the chillies I’ve been carefully growing all summer.

There’s a bit of a theme emerging here: it’s all about comfort food. Perhaps because this week’s been unremittingly horrible. It’s rained and rained, the wind has blown, and then it’s rained some more. A fresh crunchy salad involving fine slices of cauliflower, enlivened by finely chopped herbs and a bright dressing simply wouldn’t hit the spot. Here’s the last suggestion, from Nigel Slater’s Tender, Volume one.

A mildly spiced supper of cauliflower and potatoes

That potato and cauliflower dish bubbling away

Serves 4

Ingredients:

3 large onions
Rapeseed oil
4 cloves garlic
Ginger: a thumb-sized lump
1 tbsp. ground coriander-a tablespoon
2 tsp. ground cumin
1/2 tsp.cayenne
1/2 tsp. ground turmeric
3 tomatoes (or 1/2 tin)
600 ml. water
3 medium potatoes
a large cauliflower
Handful unroasted cashew nuts
6 green cardamom pods
1 tbsp. garam masala-a tablespoon
150- 200 ml. crème fraîche
coriander-a small bunch

Peel the onions, chop one of them roughly, then let it soften with a tablespoon or two of oil in a deep pan over a moderate heat.
Halve and thinly slice the others and set aside. peel the garlic cloves, slice them thinly then stir into the softening onion. Continue cooking, without browning either the onion or the garlic.
Grate the ginger. These days I freeze ginger when I buy it, and grate from frozen. It’s so easy to deal with this way. Add to the onion and garlic.
Stir the ground coriander, cumin, cayenne and turmeric into the onion. Let them fry for a minute or two, then roughly chop the tomatoes and add them to the pan.
Add the water and bring to the boil.
Season with salt and a generous grind of black pepper.
Cut the potatoes into large pieces (as if for boiling) and add them to the pan. lower the heat and leave to simmer for fifteen minutes before breaking the cauliflower into florets and adding to the sauce.
Quickly toast the cashew nuts in a small non-stick frying pan until golden, tip them into the pot, cover with a lid and continue to simmer for fifteen to twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, fry the reserved onions in a little oil in a shallow pan till deep, nutty gold.
Whilst they are cooking, crack the cardamom pods, scrape out the seeds, crush lightly and add to the onions.
Continue cooking for five minutes or so, then, when all is gold and fragrant, remove and place on kitchen paper.
When the cauliflower and potatoes are tender to the point of a knife, stir in the garam masala (the spices in it are already roasted, so it needs very little cooking) and the crème fraîche. Simmer for a minute, then serve topped with the reserved onions and the roughly chopped or torn coriander leaves.

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.