Christmas markets always used to be a German thing. They still are, I think: they do sound rather special. It’s many years now that Leeds has had its own German Christmas Market, though I’ve always wondered what would bring German stall holders across the channel to pitch their stalls. Just as I’ve wondered what the attraction is for the hundreds and hundreds of French market traders who regularly fetch up in the UK for the popular French markets, where the prices are inevitably sky high.
But Christmas markets, where you can look for all your presents, made by local craftspeople and artisans, or in sweatshops in China are everywhere. The difference is that in the UK, they began in November and are now largely over. Here they’re just beginning, and will go on in some cases, like Toulouse, until after Christmas.
Depending on your point of view, it was either Napoleon or Adam Smith who first called England ‘a Nation of Shopkeepers’
But it was only after I came to settle here in France that I started to think of shopkeeping and market trading as skilled occupations, and realised just what is involved in keeping the customer happy.
It’s probably because it’s just so much easier, where we live in England, to nip down to the supermarket. There weren’t too many independent shops on our daily round: so much for a nation of shopkeepers. Mind you, we loved it when Emily was a Saturday girl at the French patissier who was then in Harrogate, Dumouchel. She would often be sent home with a couple of unsold petits gateaux for us to enjoy, or some slowly-fermented sourdough bread. It was small shop, and quite expensive, so she learnt quickly to value customers and to treat them well, so they’d come back. She learnt too that while most of the people she served were friendly and appreciative, customers could be curmudgeonly too.
The baker’s – busy at lunchtime
So who are the good commerçants here? Well, down at the bakers, they’ll often put aside our much-loved pain noir without being asked if I’m not in bright and early, knowing we’d be disappointed if they sold out.
Buying cheese at the market
Today at the market, madame who runs the cheese and charcuterie stall had printed off some recipes specially for me, because she knew I might enjoy trying them out.
Down at Bobines et Fantaisies, she goes to Toulouse most weeks to seek out unusual scarves and accessories, so there’s always something new and worth trying at her tiny shop. ‘Let her try it on. If she doesn’t like it, bring it back!’, she’ll insist, as you dither between a bracelet, a couple of scarves and a chic but cosy winter hat. These shopkeepers remember us, our tastes, our whims and foibles. They welcome us, and chat cheerfully with us, even if we leave the shop empty-handed.
Madame at Bobines et Fantasies helps me choose a few presents
There’s just one shop here that doesn’t cut the mustard. ‘Il n’est pas commerçant’ we all grumble. Those of us outside the select band are routinely ignored, and as we feel our custom isn’t valued, some of us now go elsewhere.
But not to the supermarket. Oh no. Yesterday we DID pop into one, but as the muzak system was belting out a schmaltzy version of ‘Auld lang syne’ in what passed for English, we very soon shot out again. Small Shops Rule OK.
Everyone in Europe, it seems, has been battling with snow this week. Everyone that is, except us and anyone within easy driving distance of our part of the country.
Road clearing in Cherbourg, 2nd. Dec
Night after night the French news bulletins have been full of tales of woe, endurance, hardship, slipping and sliding and Dunkirk Spirit in Lyon, Orléans, Brittany, and Strasbourg. Before passing on to the rest of the news, we’d then have a shot or two of traffic jams on a motorway outside Newcastle, or a firmly shut-for-business Gatwick Airport. Neighbours and friends gleefully filled us in on how dire they’d heard things were in the UK.
Finally, yesterday morning, the snow arrived here too. Frankly, we knew we weren’t going to get the news crews down here looking for a story. It hardly settled, and then it began to disappear. Still, I found excuses in the afternoon not to get on, but to sit next to the woodburner and do some jobs on the computer. I got distracted. Somehow, although it’s not at all my newspaper of choice, I started to look at the readers’ photos on the Telegraph website. They’re terrific. Gorgeous snowscapes from all over Britain; funnies, such as the rabbit tentatively sniffing at a snowman; curiosities such as the milk bottles out on the step whose contents had expanded to make tall chimneys of frozen milk extrude from the top. Sorry – my links won’t lead you to the exact photos, because the Telegraph’s organized them into galleries. But have a look anyway. You too may spend quite a while browsing through for your favourite.
Near Roquefixade
And now here are our snow photos, taken on the way to Pamiers, and home from Foix. We were meant to be Christmas shopping. Well, that didn’t last. A cup of decadently rich smooth hot chocolate at a chocolatier in Pamiers, and we were off. The pretty way home, via Foix, seemed a much better idea. My photos will impress nobody who’s been battling with the real stuff this last week. But we like them anyway
….as you can see. And it all had to be moved today, off the street, through the house, and into the woodstore. Using a calculation from an American site, it seems we have probably moved in excess of 10,000 lb. of weathered oak. ‘We’ being me, Malcolm-the-convalescent, and our lovely friend Martine, who dropped in to say ‘hello’, saw what we were doing, and rushed straight home to change into grot gear and come back to help.
But we’re happy. 2 ‘piles’ of oak- 8 cubic metres – should keep us cosy through all of this winter, and the next one too. And in case you’re wondering, this wood came courtesy of a farmer in Ventenac, about 8 miles from here, via le bon coin. So we peasants DID need the internet, after all
Over the past months you may have sighed indulgently – or with irritation – as I’ve described our attempts to get to grips with our peasant lifestyle. I’ve smugly talked about our efforts to get a 52 weeks a year veg. patch going, about going equipped on every walk, prepared to carry loot home: a bagful of walnuts, chestnuts to roast, windfall apples and pears, a log or two for the fire. We enjoy what we do and it matters to us, but frankly, if we don’t get these things right….well, there’s always the market, or someone around who can sell us what we need.
Until now. Now we’re in crisis. We’ve no firewood for the wood-burning stove. Well, not much anyway. A friend’s cousin was supposed to supply us with our wood for the winter, and he did. But it won’t do for this winter, and probably not next either. We need wood that’s had all its natural moisture weathered out of it, leaving it dry and combustible. What we got was freshly-hewn logs. They sit in the grate and spit and sulk. We’ve been busily lugging them to the open first floor of our atelier, and stacking them where the air will get at them and dry them out.
Wood for the stove....going....gone
So now, half way through November, we’re asking anyone who’ll listen where we can buy seasoned wood. And the answer is, we can’t, it’s too late. It’s all sold. Like real peasants, we face the prospect of a winter without our beloved wood-burning stove. Unlike those peasants, we do have a few radiators, but they don’t glow cheerily at us after a chilly day playing at being self-sufficient in the great outdoors.
And unlike those peasants, we’ve had another, peculiarly 21st century crisis. Our computer became terminally ill. Its death in the night seemed certain. We were distraught. How to keep in contact with friend in 3 continents? How to pay bills, organise our banking, buy tickets to England for Christmas? Hearing of our distress, friends and family phoned, diagnosed, offered treatments, and somewhere in among all this, a remedy appeared. It might turn out to be merely patching the wound, but it’s working so far. It’s reminded us though that we’re not quite the horny-handed sons-and-daughters-of-toil that we like to see ourselves as. We have some way to go before we achieve The Good Life
A rural scene a few miles from our house. This farm's ready for winter
A friend brought us some mushrooms yesterday. I’m not going to tell you which friend. And I shan’t tell you where he found them either. He was ranging about in the woods, snaffling mushrooms. If the forest ranger or a landowner had caught him because he’d strayed onto private land, they could have fined him. 150 Euros. And the friend who was with him, another 150 euros. It’s a lot to pay for half a pound of mushrooms, but everyone does it.
Nobody however, wants to kill the goose that lays the golden egg, and most people, like our friend, pick carefully and respectfully so that mushrooms will still be growing there tomorrow, and the next day, and for as many years as there are people wanting to eat them.
The ones he brought us are lactaire delicieux – saffron milk caps. I know they exist in England, because Googling produces a score of recipes from the UK, but I’ve never seen them there.
In fact they’re native to this part of the world, both in France and Spain, and live in the acidic soil under Mediterranean pine trees. They’re yellowy orange, and exude orangey milk when broken or cooked. Roughly handled, they develop a scary green stain. But that doesn’t mean they’re poisonous. Anything but.
Here’s what he suggested we do with them.
You’ll need at least 2 or 3 large ones each. They’re often small though, so you may need more. Clean them by brushing them gently and lay them cap side down in a shallow buttered oven dish. Cover generously with knobs of butter and Roquefort cheese – 4 parts cheese to one part butter. Grill till the cheese is melted and the mushrooms cooked. Serve with lots of crusty bread to mop up the juices, and a green salad.
If he brings any more, or if we’re lucky enough to find some ourselves, I’ll be Googling again, because there are any number of simple ideas, just waiting to be tried and enjoyed.
M. Moulin demonstrates his mill in action. The stream and water wheeel are beneath the floor
Readers in Europe probably noticed that European Heritage Days were held about three weeks ago. These usually give the chance for Buildings-With-A-Past which aren’t normally open to the public to dust themselves down, smarten themselves up, and take a bow.
Round here there was the labyrinth at Mirepoix Cathedral, three local Romanesque churches, a château at Belesta which is being restored, as a labour of love by the two who bought it. And, and and….so much to see, so little publicity for some of them.
A chance conversation led us to a hamlet called Éspine, to see the ancient mill there. It had been in the family of the current owner for generations – until current owner’s dad sold it. This did not go down well. Son managed eventually to buy it back again, and has restored it with love and real enthusiasm.
A flour sack from his collection
If he ever thought about having such a thing as a mission statement, it would without a doubt be ‘Passionate about Flour Mills’. Monsieur – I don’t know his name – let’s call him M. Moulin, danced between mill race and flour sacks and ancient machinery and quirky collections of flour canisters, generating a hitherto unrealised ardour for milling among his many visitors.
3 grindstones. When they wear down, they have to be turned over and re-etched
You wouldn’t know it was a mill. It looks like a stone house built over a stream. The mill-wheel’s underneath, using the stream’s fast-flowing energy. M. Moulin showed us a map of all the mills existing at the time that Napoleon had a sort of mill-census taken. There were thousands. One mill served the needs of about 300 people. Villagers would come in several times a week to have small quantities of grain milled, so it was the hub of the community, the place to gossip and catch up while waiting for your flour.
His collection of flour canisters
Something odd though, something no scholar has been able to provide an explanation for. South of a line drawn through France from Bordeaux to Lyon, the mills were the wheel-under-the-mill type. North of this notional line, it was the mill-with-vertical-wheel-in-the-water, or the windmill-with-sail that we’re familiar with. M. Moulin reckoned that this was because the southerners were superior engineers: their type is harder to make. The twinkle in his eye told us he knew this might not always be true.
Early last century, 3 principal flour firms started to dominate the market. They bought up the small mills and closed them, concentrating milling in large industrial settings. Another strand of village life disappeared. At least at Éspine, the building remains for us all to enjoy
Early morning. Getting miles of tables ready for endless breakfasts
We first came upon the mega-ramble when our own group went along, a couple of years ago now, on a walk organised by the FF Randonnée Midi- Pyrénées group. We and about 800 others. It’s something of a military operation. Breakfast is offered, refreshments along the route, which has to be signposted beforehand and cleared afterwards. Photocopied maps are handed out, and when it’s all over, there are exhibits to mooch round, apéros to drink, trophies to award (the oldest walker, the person who’s travelled furthest to participate, that sort of thing). There’s often a sit down meal on offer too, though not that day.
171 walkers wait to start off
Interesting, but walking with dozens – hundreds – of others isn’t really our thing. This means we quite often sit out the Sunday walk, because these occasions happen pretty often.
Today, I made an exception. In France, basic health care is free, but most people chose to top up by insuring themselves with a Mutuelle, which covers all the bits the system doesn’t pay for. To publicise themselves, and various health charities, the Mutuelles of the Ariège organised a walk near Mirepoix today, and they needed our help.
Post-walk snacks. Healthy, of course
Early this morning, under the covered market hall in Mirepoix we set up tables, prepared healthy breakfasts (breads, cheese, fruit juices, dried prunes) and registered walkers. Some people waymarked the route, others acted as marshals, and lots of us got to walk as well. 171 walkers today. Why would we be so public-spirited? Perhaps this picture tells you why.
Sitting in the main square in the sunshine, enjoying the meal we were offered as a ‘thank you’ for our work earlier. We’d have done it anyway. A good day.
Something else though. Sitting down with everyone after it was all over, I reflected how far we’ve come. This week, Malcolm’s been in England, so apart from exchanging English/French conversation on Tuesday for an hour, and enjoying lunch with an English friend on Friday, I’ve spent the rest of my time walking or eating with friends, shopping, singing, going to the gym and all the rest, entirely in French (well, I’ve done some hard labour at home too. But I only had myself to talk to). Over two years ago, when we first sat down for a communal meal, we could see people’s eyes glaze with fear as they thought they were going to be stuck with that English couple. Could we speak French? Well, yes actually, but both easy chit-chat, and more serious discussion were difficult for us in a noisy group situation. Today I was happy to be the only foreigner in the group: instead of fearing me, it was ‘Is that chair next to you free? May I sit with you?’
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
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
You must be logged in to post a comment.