Strawberries Etc
Local strawberries (from Carpentras) are now in full flood in the shops and markets. The first melons, from the same place, and cherries are also appearing and herald my favourite season when peaches and apricots join them and the fruit season really takes off. The apricots here can be the size of small apples and are rich in juice and flavour. Add to that the asparagus that is still plentiful and you really have summer eating.
I was thinking of this while sitting on my balcony, taking in the scent of the honeysuckle, eating strawberries and drinking a glass of rosé wine. It's the last point that brings home that summer is coming. Rosé wine is something of a saviour here for the local vignerons. Good red wines abound in the world and competition is fierce and thus prices to the growers and vintners low. I now love Côtes du Rhône wines but can easily appreciate those from many other parts of the world. Good rosés are much harder to find and this area produces some of the best. However, for me, rosé wine is a summer drink. I hardly drink a single glass in winter. In the summer, outdoors, it seems the ideal drink for lunch or as an aperitif. Rosé wine and strawberries on the balcony in the sunshine is a hard act to beat.
A Sad Note
Sylvère, whom I've mentioned before several times, died last Thursday and was buried today. He was a village character, well liked and generally looked after by the village. The mayor, in a speech at the graveside, summed him up well. He had had a hard life, a foundling from Marseilles, placed when very young with a farming family not far away and exploited by them. He came to the village in his twenties and continued in agricultural work, often taken advantage of because he was something of a simpleton, but latterly watched over and taken care of by the village. He remained single all his life so the village looked after his funeral too. Around a hundred or so attended a short service at the St Marcel chapel and walked with the coffin to the cemetery.
I remember him as good natured, a boules player who could be brilliant or atrocious, more often the latter, for which he was frequently jided but which he always took in a good spirit. He loved to have a mischievous dig at people. Knowing I was English he always asked if I was American and he would often talk to me in provencal knowing I'd have a job understanding. One of his favourite phrases, throwing a decent boule after a bad one, was “es miou” (c'est mieux), or “ben juga” (bien joué).
Mana, who attended the funeral, wondered why there had to be a ceremony at the chapel since Sylvère had never been religious. This raised a point in my mind that I had often pondered. One is always supposed to have respect for others' religious beliefs and, except in extreme cases, that is a simple enough courtesy to extend. However, the same courtesy never seems to be extended to agnostics or atheists and their beliefs. In the absence of anyone to defend them, they are liable to have religion thrust upon them. And this is accepted.
Footnote 1
Friend Steve has pointed out that in my list of generally eaten river fish I omitted to mention pike, or pike-perch as they are often referred to here. A serious omission; pike can be delicious and is often found on local menus.
Footnote 2
St Marcel is the village patron saint. However, there are two St Marcels. One of them is not only a saint but was also a pope. The village, centuries ago, opted for this one on the grounds that a pope saint would probably offer better protection than a mere saint.
lundi 31 mai 2010
vendredi 28 mai 2010
Summer Firsts
Summer Firsts
Last Monday was the first pizza evening of the year that we ate outside on the Bar du Pont terrace. It really is a landmark because, coming later in the year than usual, it will now be the norm until September, barring rain. And I find it adds a lot to the evening, particularly as the evening wears on and the air becames balmy.
Anyway, it sparked me to invite half-a-dozen people to eat on the Thursday and half-a-dozen more to have aperitifs with me on the Friday. Time to get my terrace room going and do more eating and drinking outside. There was more clearing up to be done than I had supposed but it got done and I decided to cook a curry, to make a change for my French guests. Fortunately it went down well and no one left much before midnight. For me, it was a chance to try out the terrace room with the sliding doors back, the fountain going and, hopefully, the scent of honeysuckle drifting on from the terrace.
The honeysuckle has now started blooming, both on the terrace and by the balcony at the front of the house and it really makes a difference to the experience of sitting out in either place. The jasmine is also about to break into flower so there should be lots of pleasant evenings ahead.
Friday began with a trip to Savoillan high in the hills behind for a lunch organised at the auberge there by the Amitié Mollanaise, the village club which had organised the bloules trip. I had been told I had to go to it and found out why when there. The club president got up when everyone was seated and said how proud they all were by the boules team which had finished as top team in the Vaucluse. And I and the other team members were presented with three bottles of wine in a presentation pack. Also, it was pointed out that a photo of the team and a short article were published in the local newspaper, La Tribune. Obviously, this felt great but I couldn't help thinking that it was a bit over the top; after all, we had finished only seventh. The psychology of it seems to be that finishing above all the Vaucluse teams was what was important; it was the Drôme giving two fingers up to the Vaucluse, a bit like winning a derby match.
I had to leave quickly after the (lengthy) lunch in order to get the terrace room ready again for the people coming for aperitifs. That evening also went well but it has been a learning experience for me and I now have a much clearer idea of what is involved in using the terrace room. Firstly, I need more cutlery, plates and glasses stored in the room, to avoid too many trips up and down three flights of stairs. Secondly, I think that ten people is probably the maximum that can comfortably be entertained there. Seating and table space dictate that. Besides which, that is about as much washing up as I am prepared to do at one time!
All in all it has been a hectic 48 hours but a rewarding time.
Last Monday was the first pizza evening of the year that we ate outside on the Bar du Pont terrace. It really is a landmark because, coming later in the year than usual, it will now be the norm until September, barring rain. And I find it adds a lot to the evening, particularly as the evening wears on and the air becames balmy.
Anyway, it sparked me to invite half-a-dozen people to eat on the Thursday and half-a-dozen more to have aperitifs with me on the Friday. Time to get my terrace room going and do more eating and drinking outside. There was more clearing up to be done than I had supposed but it got done and I decided to cook a curry, to make a change for my French guests. Fortunately it went down well and no one left much before midnight. For me, it was a chance to try out the terrace room with the sliding doors back, the fountain going and, hopefully, the scent of honeysuckle drifting on from the terrace.
The honeysuckle has now started blooming, both on the terrace and by the balcony at the front of the house and it really makes a difference to the experience of sitting out in either place. The jasmine is also about to break into flower so there should be lots of pleasant evenings ahead.
Friday began with a trip to Savoillan high in the hills behind for a lunch organised at the auberge there by the Amitié Mollanaise, the village club which had organised the bloules trip. I had been told I had to go to it and found out why when there. The club president got up when everyone was seated and said how proud they all were by the boules team which had finished as top team in the Vaucluse. And I and the other team members were presented with three bottles of wine in a presentation pack. Also, it was pointed out that a photo of the team and a short article were published in the local newspaper, La Tribune. Obviously, this felt great but I couldn't help thinking that it was a bit over the top; after all, we had finished only seventh. The psychology of it seems to be that finishing above all the Vaucluse teams was what was important; it was the Drôme giving two fingers up to the Vaucluse, a bit like winning a derby match.
I had to leave quickly after the (lengthy) lunch in order to get the terrace room ready again for the people coming for aperitifs. That evening also went well but it has been a learning experience for me and I now have a much clearer idea of what is involved in using the terrace room. Firstly, I need more cutlery, plates and glasses stored in the room, to avoid too many trips up and down three flights of stairs. Secondly, I think that ten people is probably the maximum that can comfortably be entertained there. Seating and table space dictate that. Besides which, that is about as much washing up as I am prepared to do at one time!
All in all it has been a hectic 48 hours but a rewarding time.
mardi 25 mai 2010
The River and Reflections Thereon
The Ouvèze
Some time ago, whilst I was sitting with the usual boules crowd before playing, Guy Fabre was reminiscing about the river Ouvèze which flows through the village. Guy, at 93, qualifies probably as the Oldest Inhabitant in the village. Anyway, he remembered swimming as a youth in the river. Looking at it now, that is difficult to imagine. It's a couple of feet deep, maybe three, normally in places but mostly runs a few inches deep over stones. When there's significant rainfall here or upstream, it can rise by six inches or so but that is about it; it certainly, even at its fullest in winter, never looks swimmable.
Daniel came round to eat this evening and also reminisced about the river. What he remembered as a child was eating “fritures” from it. I first came across fritures in Corsica, basically small fry caught locally and deep fried; doused in lemon juice and with some pepper, they taste great. But those I had in Corsica, and have had subsequently, have always been from the sea. It never occurred to me that you might do the same with river fish. But Daniel remembered eating gudgeon, sticklebacks and other small river fry as fritures. His father caught them and his mother cooked them. Trust the French to find some tasty way of eating anything.
There are still plenty of fish in the river but I have never seen a mass of small fry that you might, even if the thought occurred to you, catch and...... well, fry. In general, as I understand it, river fish other than salmon, trout and eels are best avoided. They tend to have a lot of bones and taste of mud, which is more than enough to put off most Englishmen. I do know that the Poles traditionally eat carp at Christmas, but they don't bath for a week beforehand because the carp is occupying the bath being de-muddied. There is a species of carp around here called a “sandre” that is prized and appears on restaurant menus but I presume that also is demuddied somehow before being cooked and served. Daniel didn't mention anything about demuddying the small fry so I presume they hadn't lived long enough to pick up the muddy flavour.
Anyway, it appears that the problem with the river is that more and more water is being taken from it upstream before it reaches the village. I hope someone is monitoring that because it would be awful to contemplate the village bisected by only a dry river bed.
Reflections Thereon
Daniel reckons the problem is too many people, hence more demand for water. It's probably true, although there is no industry upstream to make large demands on water supply, but agriculture of one sort or another may be making significant inroads. However, that is difficult to square with the relatively sparse (for Europe) population around here and abundance of natural springs. If it's true here, it must be true of many, many places in Europe.
I do remember a case where this was certainly true, in my very much earlier meandering from Afghanistan into Pakistan and India. In Afghanistan there were villages of a few dozen or hundred inhabitants with a river/stream as their main source of water and they washed in it, did the laundry in it, pissed in it and drank from it with apparently no ill effect. Across the border into Pakistan and India, the sole difference was that the dozens or hundreds of inhabitants had to be counted in their thousands and the result was typhoid, cholera, etc. Pressure of population. But what do we (can we) do about it?
Some time ago, whilst I was sitting with the usual boules crowd before playing, Guy Fabre was reminiscing about the river Ouvèze which flows through the village. Guy, at 93, qualifies probably as the Oldest Inhabitant in the village. Anyway, he remembered swimming as a youth in the river. Looking at it now, that is difficult to imagine. It's a couple of feet deep, maybe three, normally in places but mostly runs a few inches deep over stones. When there's significant rainfall here or upstream, it can rise by six inches or so but that is about it; it certainly, even at its fullest in winter, never looks swimmable.
Daniel came round to eat this evening and also reminisced about the river. What he remembered as a child was eating “fritures” from it. I first came across fritures in Corsica, basically small fry caught locally and deep fried; doused in lemon juice and with some pepper, they taste great. But those I had in Corsica, and have had subsequently, have always been from the sea. It never occurred to me that you might do the same with river fish. But Daniel remembered eating gudgeon, sticklebacks and other small river fry as fritures. His father caught them and his mother cooked them. Trust the French to find some tasty way of eating anything.
There are still plenty of fish in the river but I have never seen a mass of small fry that you might, even if the thought occurred to you, catch and...... well, fry. In general, as I understand it, river fish other than salmon, trout and eels are best avoided. They tend to have a lot of bones and taste of mud, which is more than enough to put off most Englishmen. I do know that the Poles traditionally eat carp at Christmas, but they don't bath for a week beforehand because the carp is occupying the bath being de-muddied. There is a species of carp around here called a “sandre” that is prized and appears on restaurant menus but I presume that also is demuddied somehow before being cooked and served. Daniel didn't mention anything about demuddying the small fry so I presume they hadn't lived long enough to pick up the muddy flavour.
Anyway, it appears that the problem with the river is that more and more water is being taken from it upstream before it reaches the village. I hope someone is monitoring that because it would be awful to contemplate the village bisected by only a dry river bed.
Reflections Thereon
Daniel reckons the problem is too many people, hence more demand for water. It's probably true, although there is no industry upstream to make large demands on water supply, but agriculture of one sort or another may be making significant inroads. However, that is difficult to square with the relatively sparse (for Europe) population around here and abundance of natural springs. If it's true here, it must be true of many, many places in Europe.
I do remember a case where this was certainly true, in my very much earlier meandering from Afghanistan into Pakistan and India. In Afghanistan there were villages of a few dozen or hundred inhabitants with a river/stream as their main source of water and they washed in it, did the laundry in it, pissed in it and drank from it with apparently no ill effect. Across the border into Pakistan and India, the sole difference was that the dozens or hundreds of inhabitants had to be counted in their thousands and the result was typhoid, cholera, etc. Pressure of population. But what do we (can we) do about it?
dimanche 23 mai 2010
Boules Tournament in Chorges
The Expedition
Seven of us in three cars set off for Chorges in the Hautes Alpes, not far from Briançon and the Italian border, to participate in the annual regional Ainés Ruraux (rural wrinklies) boules tournament. We set off more in hope than expectation, a first team of Daniel Sue (not my usual friend Daniel), Michel and myself, and a last-minute scratch team of Daniel's wife, Dany, Chantal and Michèle, with Michel's wife Chantal as chief supporter. The women had decided at the last moment that rather than be supporters and wear miniskirts and pom-poms (as I had suggested) they would form a scratch team for the tournament.
And we had a very enjoyable three days, the more so as they were blessed with good weather, great mountain scenery and some success in the tournament. We stayed in a holiday village just outside Chorges, overlooking the large Serre-Ponçon lake and surrounded by snow-covered peaks rising from 9000ft to 12000ft. The first evening after our afternoon arrival, a journey of some 2.5 hours, was simply convivial. The next day was nose-to-the-grindstone boules, the following day we explored the area and then we meandered back to Mollans, picknicking on the way. Here's how it all happened.
Boules
The boules tournament was the object of the exercise, although we were all fairly relaxed (externally) about our chances of achieving anything. It was the first time Mollans had entered a team for the tournament so nothing much was expected of us against other teams from the PACA (Provence, Alpes, Côte d'Azur) region, grouped into teams from the Vaucluse, the Var, the Hautes Alpes, the Alpes Maritimes, Haute Corse and Corse du Sud. Since technically Mollans is in the Drôme Department and part of the Rhône Alpes region rather than PACA, we were lumped in with the teams from the neighbouring Vaucluse. The problem with our being in the Rhône Alpes tournament, as we should have been, is that we would have had to travel much further. Mollans is a little outpost in the far south of the Drôme, surrounded by the Vaucluse.
Anyway, there we were and we did better than expected. The women's scratch team which seemed sure to finish last actually finished 24th out of 30 teams, which rewarded their courage in entering. We finished 7th, which was higher than we ever thought we would and could have some significant implications. Our position was higher than any of the other teams from the Vaucluse, which technically means we should represent the Vaucluse in the national tournament which takes place just outside St Tropez in October. However, we are not (technically) in the Vaucluse. I can foresee more than a few Clochemerle moments coming up. No one is easily going to take from us the opportunity of a trip to St Tropez in October; on the other hand, I can foresee the other teams from the Vaucluse having the same desire and objecting that since Mollans is not in the Vaucluse, it can't represent it. We also have a slight problem in that one of our team members feels that we will be slaughtered at national level and doesn't want to be part of that. I think he may be right but think also that the opportunity to play at national level can't be passed up. We shall see..........
I personally was pleased with the kindly meant insults and praise I received from teams we played against: “ces sacrés anglais qui viennent nous embêter” and “le roi des pointeurs”, the latter a bit over the top. We all got cups, mine a vulgarly large one, and went home feeling the exercise from a boules point of view had been worthwhile.
Exploring The Area
We went first to see a 12th century abbey, the Abbaye de Boscodon. It has apparently had a chequered history. It functioned as an abbey until around 1770 when it turned into a forestry centre. Then it was sold after the French Revolution as a state asset and became a small hamlet in its own right, with some 20 families living in it. Finally it was bought in 1972 by an association dedicated to restoring it and is now mostly restored and occupied by a mixed lay and clerical community. The massive architecture and pure uncomplicated lines of its original mediaeval design were certainly worth seeing.
We then went on to see the Demoiselles Coiffées, a number of earth and rock pillars topped by boulders that stand in a small wood. They look striking, if somewhat precarious. The boulders atop the pillars clearly indicated glacial action and they are in fact the result of a former glacier melting. What intrigued me though was how the pillars came to be; it seemed unlikely that they could have formed just because harder rock had resisted the erosion all around. Apparently the glacier melting causes salts to rise by capillary action in certain places and create a form of cement which holds the compacted earth and rock together and resists erosion. Hence the pillars; the boulders on top were simply left there as the glacier melted and the surrounding area eroded. Most of the pillars themselves are now significantly eroded and some of the demoiselles are already “décoiffées”. So the sight won't be around for much longer.
Meandering our way back we stopped for a while in a gorge of the river Méouge. The river is a placed one for most of its length but tumbles down at one point through a gorge where it is spanned by an old bridge that was once part of a mule trail. There was a waterfall and it was easy to see that the river could become quite dangerous there if it flooded; as it did apparently in 1909, sweeping away a mill that stood beside the bridge and of which only a few bits of wall are still visible.
So, a very enjoyable three-day excursion from Mollans,
Seven of us in three cars set off for Chorges in the Hautes Alpes, not far from Briançon and the Italian border, to participate in the annual regional Ainés Ruraux (rural wrinklies) boules tournament. We set off more in hope than expectation, a first team of Daniel Sue (not my usual friend Daniel), Michel and myself, and a last-minute scratch team of Daniel's wife, Dany, Chantal and Michèle, with Michel's wife Chantal as chief supporter. The women had decided at the last moment that rather than be supporters and wear miniskirts and pom-poms (as I had suggested) they would form a scratch team for the tournament.
And we had a very enjoyable three days, the more so as they were blessed with good weather, great mountain scenery and some success in the tournament. We stayed in a holiday village just outside Chorges, overlooking the large Serre-Ponçon lake and surrounded by snow-covered peaks rising from 9000ft to 12000ft. The first evening after our afternoon arrival, a journey of some 2.5 hours, was simply convivial. The next day was nose-to-the-grindstone boules, the following day we explored the area and then we meandered back to Mollans, picknicking on the way. Here's how it all happened.
Boules
The boules tournament was the object of the exercise, although we were all fairly relaxed (externally) about our chances of achieving anything. It was the first time Mollans had entered a team for the tournament so nothing much was expected of us against other teams from the PACA (Provence, Alpes, Côte d'Azur) region, grouped into teams from the Vaucluse, the Var, the Hautes Alpes, the Alpes Maritimes, Haute Corse and Corse du Sud. Since technically Mollans is in the Drôme Department and part of the Rhône Alpes region rather than PACA, we were lumped in with the teams from the neighbouring Vaucluse. The problem with our being in the Rhône Alpes tournament, as we should have been, is that we would have had to travel much further. Mollans is a little outpost in the far south of the Drôme, surrounded by the Vaucluse.
Anyway, there we were and we did better than expected. The women's scratch team which seemed sure to finish last actually finished 24th out of 30 teams, which rewarded their courage in entering. We finished 7th, which was higher than we ever thought we would and could have some significant implications. Our position was higher than any of the other teams from the Vaucluse, which technically means we should represent the Vaucluse in the national tournament which takes place just outside St Tropez in October. However, we are not (technically) in the Vaucluse. I can foresee more than a few Clochemerle moments coming up. No one is easily going to take from us the opportunity of a trip to St Tropez in October; on the other hand, I can foresee the other teams from the Vaucluse having the same desire and objecting that since Mollans is not in the Vaucluse, it can't represent it. We also have a slight problem in that one of our team members feels that we will be slaughtered at national level and doesn't want to be part of that. I think he may be right but think also that the opportunity to play at national level can't be passed up. We shall see..........
I personally was pleased with the kindly meant insults and praise I received from teams we played against: “ces sacrés anglais qui viennent nous embêter” and “le roi des pointeurs”, the latter a bit over the top. We all got cups, mine a vulgarly large one, and went home feeling the exercise from a boules point of view had been worthwhile.
Exploring The Area
We went first to see a 12th century abbey, the Abbaye de Boscodon. It has apparently had a chequered history. It functioned as an abbey until around 1770 when it turned into a forestry centre. Then it was sold after the French Revolution as a state asset and became a small hamlet in its own right, with some 20 families living in it. Finally it was bought in 1972 by an association dedicated to restoring it and is now mostly restored and occupied by a mixed lay and clerical community. The massive architecture and pure uncomplicated lines of its original mediaeval design were certainly worth seeing.
We then went on to see the Demoiselles Coiffées, a number of earth and rock pillars topped by boulders that stand in a small wood. They look striking, if somewhat precarious. The boulders atop the pillars clearly indicated glacial action and they are in fact the result of a former glacier melting. What intrigued me though was how the pillars came to be; it seemed unlikely that they could have formed just because harder rock had resisted the erosion all around. Apparently the glacier melting causes salts to rise by capillary action in certain places and create a form of cement which holds the compacted earth and rock together and resists erosion. Hence the pillars; the boulders on top were simply left there as the glacier melted and the surrounding area eroded. Most of the pillars themselves are now significantly eroded and some of the demoiselles are already “décoiffées”. So the sight won't be around for much longer.
Meandering our way back we stopped for a while in a gorge of the river Méouge. The river is a placed one for most of its length but tumbles down at one point through a gorge where it is spanned by an old bridge that was once part of a mule trail. There was a waterfall and it was easy to see that the river could become quite dangerous there if it flooded; as it did apparently in 1909, sweeping away a mill that stood beside the bridge and of which only a few bits of wall are still visible.
So, a very enjoyable three-day excursion from Mollans,
mercredi 5 mai 2010
A Thought-filled Day
Wine
The trip to the vineyard in Cairanne duly went ahead this evening with Marcel Richaud, the “vigneron”, proving very hospitable and his wine very good. The evening did raise a few issues, though, regarding good wine. His wines are not in fact denied the AOC Cairanne label because the vines are outside the designated area, as I had surmised, but because he chooses not to make them according to the AOC prescriptions. One thing we easily agreed on then is that the AOC labeling now serves no useful purpose. He has no problem selling his wines because enough hoteliers and restaurateurs appreciate them to buy them, at significant prices, even without the AOC certificate.
I think this raises a problem for people outside the area (e.g. in the UK) looking for some guarantee of quality. How do you know the wine is good unless you can taste it? Wine tastings in England are nowhere near as ubiquitous as they are here. I suspect that, in the future, we will (have to ) rely on critics, trusted merchants or word of mouth to sort this out. Since the ultimate test is one of personal taste, that is perhaps as it should be. Anyway, even in France, the AOC ticket is definitely dead. Formally killing it will, I assume, mean scrapping a significant number of entrenched jobs so that may take some time to happen.
La Réunion
Back at the ranch and over curry after the wine tasting, conversation between Daniel, his son Kevyn and I turned to La Réunion; I can't quite remember why. Anyway, it proved interesting on several counts. I enquired how people lived with the volcano (the island is essentially just a volcano cone rising out of the sea) and, as I suspected they must, the lava flows always descend down just one side of the island. The islanders and their habitat are on the other side. Daniel said, however, that there was a church in the line of the lava flows that was protected by a barrier that diverted the lava round the church. Most interesting was the church name: Saint Expédite. It, and various local chapels of the same allegiance that had been spawned off it, were all renounced by the Catholic church. Why? Well, it seems that in the dark past some relics had been sent to the island to be placed in the church. However, all that was decipherable on the box that contained them when they arrived was the word “expéditeur” (sender) or part of it. So the islanders naively but in good faith assumed these must be the relics of a Saint Expédite. Never has a saint been so simply cannonised and, what's more, it is a saint exclusive to the island. If you ever have a letter or parcel returned to you in the post, you can thank Saint Expédite.
A further reminiscence of Daniel was that his grandmother had said “l'argent blanchit” (money whitens). The phrase had stuck with him and I can easily understand why. It has almost a double meaning. It was uttered at a time when marriage between “natives” and their colonial masters was generally frowned upon. However, mixed marriages happened. In particular, they could, in the extreme at the time, be sanctioned between very rich locals and a white woman. Significant wealth in an indigenous person meant that he (and it was always a “he”) was partially accepted in the colonial community. So, in a sense, it made him whiter. Also, though, any offspring would presumably be likely to be of lighter skin than their father and so the phrase was true in that sense too. It turns out to be quite a profound statement.
The final reminiscence of Daniel's of note concerned vanilla. Apparently vanilla pods don't naturally carry the familiar vanilla flavour; they have to be tricked into doing so. The man who discovered the trick, in the early 18th century, was one Edmond Albius, a native of La Réunion, who became quite famous as a result and has streets in La Réunion named after him today. I didn't know that. And it seems apposite that the name Albius is not that far from the Latin for white, which is the colour we associate with vanilla.
Computers
Writing of reminiscences and given my computing background, I was reminded of a couple of prophecies by Professor Iann Barron, of various claims to fame. At the time (in 1970), he headed up a company that had designed the first British minicomputer, the Modula One. I was involved in organising a future-looking conference at which he was invited to speak. He had three (correct) prophecies to offer. Firstly, that IBM would rule the computer world for the foreseeable future, secondly that magnetic disks would remain the principal storage medium for the foreseeable future and, thirdly, that everyone would have to learn to use a keyboard. I was reminded of these predictions because I'm sitting at my PC keying and storing this post.
The second two forecasts are, in retrospect, truly remarkable. At the time, you could buy a very expensive (several thousand pounds) report from a renowned American soothsaying company, which shall remain nameless, that stated positively that bubble memory would replace disks before the 1970s were out. Can you even remember having heard of bubble memory now? At the time, keyboards were very much the preserve of predominantly female secretaries and typing pool operatives. Who could ever have imagined, then, the explosion of PCs, mobile phones and other hand-held keyboard devices that both sexes use routinely today? Everybody (virtually) has learned to use a keyboard.
Iann Barron went on to various professorial chairs and deserved acclamation in his field.
The trip to the vineyard in Cairanne duly went ahead this evening with Marcel Richaud, the “vigneron”, proving very hospitable and his wine very good. The evening did raise a few issues, though, regarding good wine. His wines are not in fact denied the AOC Cairanne label because the vines are outside the designated area, as I had surmised, but because he chooses not to make them according to the AOC prescriptions. One thing we easily agreed on then is that the AOC labeling now serves no useful purpose. He has no problem selling his wines because enough hoteliers and restaurateurs appreciate them to buy them, at significant prices, even without the AOC certificate.
I think this raises a problem for people outside the area (e.g. in the UK) looking for some guarantee of quality. How do you know the wine is good unless you can taste it? Wine tastings in England are nowhere near as ubiquitous as they are here. I suspect that, in the future, we will (have to ) rely on critics, trusted merchants or word of mouth to sort this out. Since the ultimate test is one of personal taste, that is perhaps as it should be. Anyway, even in France, the AOC ticket is definitely dead. Formally killing it will, I assume, mean scrapping a significant number of entrenched jobs so that may take some time to happen.
La Réunion
Back at the ranch and over curry after the wine tasting, conversation between Daniel, his son Kevyn and I turned to La Réunion; I can't quite remember why. Anyway, it proved interesting on several counts. I enquired how people lived with the volcano (the island is essentially just a volcano cone rising out of the sea) and, as I suspected they must, the lava flows always descend down just one side of the island. The islanders and their habitat are on the other side. Daniel said, however, that there was a church in the line of the lava flows that was protected by a barrier that diverted the lava round the church. Most interesting was the church name: Saint Expédite. It, and various local chapels of the same allegiance that had been spawned off it, were all renounced by the Catholic church. Why? Well, it seems that in the dark past some relics had been sent to the island to be placed in the church. However, all that was decipherable on the box that contained them when they arrived was the word “expéditeur” (sender) or part of it. So the islanders naively but in good faith assumed these must be the relics of a Saint Expédite. Never has a saint been so simply cannonised and, what's more, it is a saint exclusive to the island. If you ever have a letter or parcel returned to you in the post, you can thank Saint Expédite.
A further reminiscence of Daniel was that his grandmother had said “l'argent blanchit” (money whitens). The phrase had stuck with him and I can easily understand why. It has almost a double meaning. It was uttered at a time when marriage between “natives” and their colonial masters was generally frowned upon. However, mixed marriages happened. In particular, they could, in the extreme at the time, be sanctioned between very rich locals and a white woman. Significant wealth in an indigenous person meant that he (and it was always a “he”) was partially accepted in the colonial community. So, in a sense, it made him whiter. Also, though, any offspring would presumably be likely to be of lighter skin than their father and so the phrase was true in that sense too. It turns out to be quite a profound statement.
The final reminiscence of Daniel's of note concerned vanilla. Apparently vanilla pods don't naturally carry the familiar vanilla flavour; they have to be tricked into doing so. The man who discovered the trick, in the early 18th century, was one Edmond Albius, a native of La Réunion, who became quite famous as a result and has streets in La Réunion named after him today. I didn't know that. And it seems apposite that the name Albius is not that far from the Latin for white, which is the colour we associate with vanilla.
Computers
Writing of reminiscences and given my computing background, I was reminded of a couple of prophecies by Professor Iann Barron, of various claims to fame. At the time (in 1970), he headed up a company that had designed the first British minicomputer, the Modula One. I was involved in organising a future-looking conference at which he was invited to speak. He had three (correct) prophecies to offer. Firstly, that IBM would rule the computer world for the foreseeable future, secondly that magnetic disks would remain the principal storage medium for the foreseeable future and, thirdly, that everyone would have to learn to use a keyboard. I was reminded of these predictions because I'm sitting at my PC keying and storing this post.
The second two forecasts are, in retrospect, truly remarkable. At the time, you could buy a very expensive (several thousand pounds) report from a renowned American soothsaying company, which shall remain nameless, that stated positively that bubble memory would replace disks before the 1970s were out. Can you even remember having heard of bubble memory now? At the time, keyboards were very much the preserve of predominantly female secretaries and typing pool operatives. Who could ever have imagined, then, the explosion of PCs, mobile phones and other hand-held keyboard devices that both sexes use routinely today? Everybody (virtually) has learned to use a keyboard.
Iann Barron went on to various professorial chairs and deserved acclamation in his field.
mardi 4 mai 2010
Back Again
Oh To Be In England.......
Well I was, and in April too. Having been warned of a mini heat wave which was top hit the country the weekend I arrived I took only one sweater; which proved to be just about enough. However, my mother's birthday went well and during my stay I managed to buy her quite a lot of plants and also to plant them. Her garden is looking good and she seems pleased with it. It's important because that and the birds that come to feed there are her main source of entertainment now.
I expected to see lots of spring flowers on my drive from Southampton airport and did but to my surprise they were cowslips rather than primroses and in abundance. When I was young and in the Chiddingfold area, primroses were common and cowslips quite rare. The reverse seems now to be true or is this just an exceptional year? There were wood anemones also, and I managed to see some bluebell woods before I returned home. Primroses we have here but not cowslips, wood anemones or bluebells.
I had noticed on my drive down to Avignon airport that the Judas trees and tamarisks there were all showing their colours and, on my return, they were back in the village too. The coronilla filling the wayside and hillsides with yellow have been joined now by broom and so the broom will continue for another couple of months as the coronilla give up. Also on the wayside are abundant purple salvias, white campion, red poppies and lime green euphorbias. The latter two look great when growing together.
People passing by still compliment me on the front of the house but it's looking a bit sad to me, with the bulb flowers now all dying. My pansies too seem to have contracted some sort of pansy rot, a thin film of mildew on the leaves. However I shan't do anything about them until I return from the Great Boules Contest in the Alps starting in ten days' time. The women coming with us have said they will act as cheer leaders so I've told them I expect to see miniskirts and pom-poms on all of them. And we need a chant of some sort, such as “Mollans, Mollans, on gagne tout le temps”. (In my dreams!). I won't record some of the more scurrilous chants thought of.
Avignon airport, by the way, is a dream; the way every airport should be. It does depend somewhat though on having only two or three flights a day coming and going (absolute maximum, and that is in peak season). The airport building is little larger than my house, you can park right outside for a week for a pittance and if you have to wait more than 10 minutes for your luggage or there are more than three people in front of you to check in then it's obvious that something is terribly wrong. There can be a slight downside; my plane arrived about a half-hour early once and, since the customs people weren't supposed to be on duty until the scheduled arrival time, they refused to let the passengers in until then. So we waited outside the arrivals entrance until we were due to be there. Only in France......
Friends Steve and Jo kindly ensured my seedlings were watered while I was away; they now need potting on or transferring to where they are to grow and I need to get that done quickly so that they are able to look after themselves before I leave. But the weather here continues to be inconsistent so it's a question of dodging the showers to get them in.
This afternoon I went to the Rieu Frais vineyard in St Jalle to try to get some Viognier in bag-in-box. Not only did they not have any but they said they wouldn't have any this year as the harvest had been 20% down last year. They have it in bottles but at 6.90 euros per bottle it's not for everyday drinking. The Domaine Durban in Beaumes de Venise has a respectable Viognier at a couple of euros less so that will have to be it. At Rieu Frais they haven't yet used the English translation of their brochure that I did for them last year; said they were very grateful but hadn't had the time (with the tourist season already started). Well, we are in Provence.
On my way back I noticed some small flowers that looked interesting by the wayside, one lot pink and the other lot blue. I have no idea what they are but they are clearly alpines and they were on the St Jalle side of the mountain; I've not seen them this side. I then found to my chagrin that I hadn't got the usual trowel in the boot of my car so there was no chance of digging up a sample to plant in my garden; plants like that here all have long tap roots to take them through the summer and there's no chance of getting the root up without a trowel or similar. Jo gave me a small penknife to attach to my car keyring for just such an occasion but I'd taken it off to travel to England (no chance of getting it through airport security) and hadn't put it back on. Tough.
Daniel called round this evening for a whisky after working on his film on olives this afternoon. He invited me to go with himself and Kevyn to visit a vineyard that Kevyn knows in Cairanne tomorrow evening. I've already tasted the vineyard's top of the range wine at Daniel's and it's very good but expensive for a table wine at around 7 euros per bottle. Presumably the vineyard is outside the designated AOC area. When France gets around to it (next century?) it will drop the AOC system. It no longer serves any useful purpose that I can see. Nobody now produces plonk and expects to be able to sell it in an increasingly discerning market. The market for the Algerian/Moroccan red that was cheap enough to take to a party and aunty's Blue Nun have now gone. The best value wines around in France tend to be those that fall outside AOC areas and therefore can't command the AOC premium price but are often better than their AOC neighbours. How you find these, other than by tasting, is another question. Anyway, the visit should be suitably liquid and I've invited Daniel and Kevyn back here to eat afterwards. I feel a curry coming on......
Well I was, and in April too. Having been warned of a mini heat wave which was top hit the country the weekend I arrived I took only one sweater; which proved to be just about enough. However, my mother's birthday went well and during my stay I managed to buy her quite a lot of plants and also to plant them. Her garden is looking good and she seems pleased with it. It's important because that and the birds that come to feed there are her main source of entertainment now.
I expected to see lots of spring flowers on my drive from Southampton airport and did but to my surprise they were cowslips rather than primroses and in abundance. When I was young and in the Chiddingfold area, primroses were common and cowslips quite rare. The reverse seems now to be true or is this just an exceptional year? There were wood anemones also, and I managed to see some bluebell woods before I returned home. Primroses we have here but not cowslips, wood anemones or bluebells.
I had noticed on my drive down to Avignon airport that the Judas trees and tamarisks there were all showing their colours and, on my return, they were back in the village too. The coronilla filling the wayside and hillsides with yellow have been joined now by broom and so the broom will continue for another couple of months as the coronilla give up. Also on the wayside are abundant purple salvias, white campion, red poppies and lime green euphorbias. The latter two look great when growing together.
People passing by still compliment me on the front of the house but it's looking a bit sad to me, with the bulb flowers now all dying. My pansies too seem to have contracted some sort of pansy rot, a thin film of mildew on the leaves. However I shan't do anything about them until I return from the Great Boules Contest in the Alps starting in ten days' time. The women coming with us have said they will act as cheer leaders so I've told them I expect to see miniskirts and pom-poms on all of them. And we need a chant of some sort, such as “Mollans, Mollans, on gagne tout le temps”. (In my dreams!). I won't record some of the more scurrilous chants thought of.
Avignon airport, by the way, is a dream; the way every airport should be. It does depend somewhat though on having only two or three flights a day coming and going (absolute maximum, and that is in peak season). The airport building is little larger than my house, you can park right outside for a week for a pittance and if you have to wait more than 10 minutes for your luggage or there are more than three people in front of you to check in then it's obvious that something is terribly wrong. There can be a slight downside; my plane arrived about a half-hour early once and, since the customs people weren't supposed to be on duty until the scheduled arrival time, they refused to let the passengers in until then. So we waited outside the arrivals entrance until we were due to be there. Only in France......
Friends Steve and Jo kindly ensured my seedlings were watered while I was away; they now need potting on or transferring to where they are to grow and I need to get that done quickly so that they are able to look after themselves before I leave. But the weather here continues to be inconsistent so it's a question of dodging the showers to get them in.
This afternoon I went to the Rieu Frais vineyard in St Jalle to try to get some Viognier in bag-in-box. Not only did they not have any but they said they wouldn't have any this year as the harvest had been 20% down last year. They have it in bottles but at 6.90 euros per bottle it's not for everyday drinking. The Domaine Durban in Beaumes de Venise has a respectable Viognier at a couple of euros less so that will have to be it. At Rieu Frais they haven't yet used the English translation of their brochure that I did for them last year; said they were very grateful but hadn't had the time (with the tourist season already started). Well, we are in Provence.
On my way back I noticed some small flowers that looked interesting by the wayside, one lot pink and the other lot blue. I have no idea what they are but they are clearly alpines and they were on the St Jalle side of the mountain; I've not seen them this side. I then found to my chagrin that I hadn't got the usual trowel in the boot of my car so there was no chance of digging up a sample to plant in my garden; plants like that here all have long tap roots to take them through the summer and there's no chance of getting the root up without a trowel or similar. Jo gave me a small penknife to attach to my car keyring for just such an occasion but I'd taken it off to travel to England (no chance of getting it through airport security) and hadn't put it back on. Tough.
Daniel called round this evening for a whisky after working on his film on olives this afternoon. He invited me to go with himself and Kevyn to visit a vineyard that Kevyn knows in Cairanne tomorrow evening. I've already tasted the vineyard's top of the range wine at Daniel's and it's very good but expensive for a table wine at around 7 euros per bottle. Presumably the vineyard is outside the designated AOC area. When France gets around to it (next century?) it will drop the AOC system. It no longer serves any useful purpose that I can see. Nobody now produces plonk and expects to be able to sell it in an increasingly discerning market. The market for the Algerian/Moroccan red that was cheap enough to take to a party and aunty's Blue Nun have now gone. The best value wines around in France tend to be those that fall outside AOC areas and therefore can't command the AOC premium price but are often better than their AOC neighbours. How you find these, other than by tasting, is another question. Anyway, the visit should be suitably liquid and I've invited Daniel and Kevyn back here to eat afterwards. I feel a curry coming on......
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