Scripts, Weather and Cooking
Daniel has really got the bit between his teeth for the script of “La Partie de Boules n'aura pas lieu”. More than half-a-dozen pages this week and the skit shouldn't run longer than 20 minutes so he's well on the way into it. I sent him an email, in the style of the crazy Démokos character:
Un scénario parfait,
Je veux vous le dire,
Sans doute a-t-on trouvé
Un nouveau Shakespeare
Of course, there will be revisions and second thoughts but it looks like we should have something workable within a month. Then there's the question of the actors..........
The weather the past few days has been......inclement would be the good British term. Unusually for here, a combination of overcast skies, some rain and bitterly cold. Usually, when the Mistral blows, it chases away the clouds and leads to cold but sunny weather. Somehow, the Mistral seems to have chased away the sun this week.
It should have been a week to get on solidly with scraping the beams in my bedroom but the weather seems to have dented my enthusiasm. So I've been cooking (and reading) instead. The flanchet they sell here is the basis for a mean pot au feu so that's one of the dishes I've been preparing. A good chunk is enough for three people so Steve will come round and share it with me on Sunday and I'll have enough over for Tuesday. I've also done a veal, pork, bacon, onion, etc pie which Steve and I shared this evening, Jo being away in the UK.
My real pièce de résistance here though is, surprisingly to me, Shepherds' pie. It's hardly what you would call haute cuisine but the French don't have it and love it. Everyone I've served it to here has asked for the recipe! In particular, it's Daniel's favourite so I'll have to make one to keep him going on the script. Apart from the fact that friends and neighbours like it, it has good potential for jokes. I assume amazement that French laws don't allow the killing of shepherd's to make pies and suppose that some stupid EU health and safety legislation is at the root of it. I made a Shepherds' pie in January after returning from Christmas in England and pointed out that around Christmas was the ideal time to get shepherds. They would all be star gazing, searching the sky for something or other, so it was easy to creep up on them and hit them over the head. One of my other dishes that seems to go down well is petit salé. I can't remember seeing salt pork on sale in England but it's easily available here and adding some onion, poitrine fumé and a whole fistful of thyme to the lentils gives a real zip to the dish.
The weather forecast is hopeful so, with luck, I can move on from this bout of cooking and start to do some things outside (apart from boules).
Friday, 6 March 2009
Monday, 2 March 2009
Ambiance
Ambiance
It was pizza night as usual tonight, although with fewer participants than usual. In all, even with Daniel's son Kevyn (and apologies for spelling his name wrongly in my last posting) and his friends, there were only about ten of us. Nonetheless, it was a good evening.
Before that I had played boules with Daniel and ensemble in the afternoon and played badly; so it was a boules afternoon that I will happily forget. Afterwards, before going on to the pizza evening, I called in on Daniel for an aperitif and was greeted as always by his dog, Gillette, looking for dog treats. I had remembered to bring some in my pocket. What struck me was the ambiance in the house, with Kevyn's friends wandering in and out of the room where Daniel and I were drinking and talking, doing some work on their laptops, talking amongst themselves or into their mobile phones and so on. It reminded me of a time in my late 20s when I would often go on from the local pub in Merton, the Admiral Nelson, to friends' Keith and Janet's house to continue chatting, drink coffee and eat cheese and biscuits. Keith and Janet were half a generation ahead of me, friends of my family. Their adolescent children would bring home friends after their own evenings out and everybody would mix in happily together. I thought then that, if and when I had children, I would like my house to be the one in which the children chose to bring home their friends to congregate, after school, after an evening out or whatever. I think that children are very sensitive to atmosphere and will naturally veer towards a place where they can relax and be themselves without any unduly inhibitive pressure. It never happened for me, whether because of my divorce or for some other reason. But Daniel's house, with Kevyn's friends around, had that same easy, relaxed atmosphere, spanning the generations, that Keith and Janet's had had in my past.
Tomorrow I have invited friend Steve to come round and eat shellfish. His wife, Jo, has gone back to England to see her mother (who is a valiant 95, the epitome of Shakespeare's sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything but game to go on) and Jo is not keen on shellfish. So Steve and I will take advantage of her temporary absence to have a shrimp fest. Jo is an excellent cook but Steve has occasional longings for some shrimp, crab, oysters, etc which can be assuaged during Jo's visits to see her mother.
It was pizza night as usual tonight, although with fewer participants than usual. In all, even with Daniel's son Kevyn (and apologies for spelling his name wrongly in my last posting) and his friends, there were only about ten of us. Nonetheless, it was a good evening.
Before that I had played boules with Daniel and ensemble in the afternoon and played badly; so it was a boules afternoon that I will happily forget. Afterwards, before going on to the pizza evening, I called in on Daniel for an aperitif and was greeted as always by his dog, Gillette, looking for dog treats. I had remembered to bring some in my pocket. What struck me was the ambiance in the house, with Kevyn's friends wandering in and out of the room where Daniel and I were drinking and talking, doing some work on their laptops, talking amongst themselves or into their mobile phones and so on. It reminded me of a time in my late 20s when I would often go on from the local pub in Merton, the Admiral Nelson, to friends' Keith and Janet's house to continue chatting, drink coffee and eat cheese and biscuits. Keith and Janet were half a generation ahead of me, friends of my family. Their adolescent children would bring home friends after their own evenings out and everybody would mix in happily together. I thought then that, if and when I had children, I would like my house to be the one in which the children chose to bring home their friends to congregate, after school, after an evening out or whatever. I think that children are very sensitive to atmosphere and will naturally veer towards a place where they can relax and be themselves without any unduly inhibitive pressure. It never happened for me, whether because of my divorce or for some other reason. But Daniel's house, with Kevyn's friends around, had that same easy, relaxed atmosphere, spanning the generations, that Keith and Janet's had had in my past.
Tomorrow I have invited friend Steve to come round and eat shellfish. His wife, Jo, has gone back to England to see her mother (who is a valiant 95, the epitome of Shakespeare's sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything but game to go on) and Jo is not keen on shellfish. So Steve and I will take advantage of her temporary absence to have a shrimp fest. Jo is an excellent cook but Steve has occasional longings for some shrimp, crab, oysters, etc which can be assuaged during Jo's visits to see her mother.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Giraudoux, Boules and a French version
Boules and Giraudoux
I played boules today with Daniel, his son Kevin and his sons friends. Daniel mentioned that he has now started on the full text for a skit that I thought of.
When the boules players gather in the summer, there is frequently quite a long wait while the players sort themselves out. Some players don't want to play with others, some don't want to play in teams of two, some haven't brought their boules with them, sometimes there is an odd number of players, etc. These pre-game discussions can go on for so long that I wonder whether we will ever get down to playing. It brought to my mind Jean Giradoux's play “La Guerre de Troie n'aura pas lieu” or rather « La Partie de Boules n'aura pas lieu ». I mentioned the idea to Daniel and did a 3-page sketch of the potential text, which needed fleshing out.
Daniel has picked up the idea and run with it. He wanted first to re-read Giraudoux's play to refresh his memory and try to see which characters (Cassandre, Priam, Hélène, Agamemnon, etc) he could incorporate into the Mollans boules version. But now he has started writing. With decent progress and success it could be staged at the festival of the rue des Granges in the summer. How many of the boules players fancy themselves as actors remains to be seen.
La semaine en français
Bien que ce blog soit écrit en anglais (pour la plupart) j'ai cru qu'il pourrait y avoir des lecteurs français qui aient de la peine à lire l'anglais et qui voudraient bien voir un précis en français. Donc je l'intention d'ajouter à la fin de chaque semaine un résumé en français. Et je compte sur mes amis de m'avertir si je fais des fautes de grammaire ou d'expression. Comme ça, je ferai des progrès en français. Voilà.
La nouvelle la plus importante en fait n'est pas arrivé pendant cette semaine mais pendant la semaine précédente (quand je n'écrivais pas ce blog). C'est que ma fille Natalie et son copain Andy, qui étaient venu me rendre visite, se sont décidés à se fiancer pendant qu'ils faisaient du ski (ou peut-être pas!) sur Mt Ventoux à Mt Serein. J'en suis très heureux. Je devrais peut-être ajouter que ce n'est pas que je suis heureux de me débarrasser de ma fille mais que Andy et Natalie vont très bien ensemble.
Mes autres réflexions pendant la semaine regardaient surtout ce qui m'avait frappé comme différent ici à Mollans, de mon point de vue en anglais du sud de l'Angleterre. Par exemple, l'attitude envers les poutres et les chevrons/lambris qu'on trouve un peu partout ici dans les plafonds. Pour moi, ce bois du 19eme siècle est à chérir. Pour les Mollanais en général, puisque presque tout le monde a des poutres, on peut très bien peindre le bois ou le cacher derrière du plâtre. Donc, dans ma maison, j'ai une quarantaine de poutres/chevrons à décaper. Les conséquences de l'altitude me préoccupe aussi. Des différences de deux ou trois centaines de mètres, telles que l'on trouve au sud de l'Angleterre, n'ont pas d'importance. Ici, tout autour, il y a des différences de plusieurs centaines ou de milliers de mètres d'altitude et les conséquences pour la température, le soleil et l'ombre sont très évidentes. Également en ce qui concerne les droits et les responsabilités pour les propriétaires de maisons de village. En Angleterre normalement, tout est bien documenté et il y a très peu de cas où les droits/responsabilités sont partagés entre propriétaires. Ici, c'est le contraire.
Pour finir, il y a une petite histoire que je dois raconter, bien qu'en moins bon français que mon ami René l'a récitée. L'histoire explique comment Mt Ventoux a eu son nom. Il paraît que, à l'époque où Hannibal et ses troupes traversaient la France pour aller s'amuser en Italie, (il y en a qui croient qu'ils ont pris un pot au Bar du Pont mais ce n'est pas bien documenté) un de ces troupes en revenant vers l'Afrique a grimpé jusqu'au sommet de Mt Ventoux (qui n'était pas encore Mt Ventoux, bien entendu) en portant toutes les dépouilles qu'il avait ramassées pendant sa visite en Italie. Il s'appellait Abou. Il y avait beaucoup d'entre les troupes de Hannibal qui s'appellaient Abou puisque c'est un nom très commun en Afrique. Mais lui, du moins quand il avait atteint le sommet de Mt Ventoux (qui n'etait pas encore.....) s'appelait Abou Tdesouffle (le « t » ne se prononce pas dans le patois de Carthage). Or, il ne voulait pas descendre et continuer jusqu'à l'Afrique avec toutes ces dépouilles donc il les a mises par terre et il a monté un panneau sur lequel il a inscrit « Vends Tout ». Et c'est comme ça que le Mt Ventoux a eu son nom.
I played boules today with Daniel, his son Kevin and his sons friends. Daniel mentioned that he has now started on the full text for a skit that I thought of.
When the boules players gather in the summer, there is frequently quite a long wait while the players sort themselves out. Some players don't want to play with others, some don't want to play in teams of two, some haven't brought their boules with them, sometimes there is an odd number of players, etc. These pre-game discussions can go on for so long that I wonder whether we will ever get down to playing. It brought to my mind Jean Giradoux's play “La Guerre de Troie n'aura pas lieu” or rather « La Partie de Boules n'aura pas lieu ». I mentioned the idea to Daniel and did a 3-page sketch of the potential text, which needed fleshing out.
Daniel has picked up the idea and run with it. He wanted first to re-read Giraudoux's play to refresh his memory and try to see which characters (Cassandre, Priam, Hélène, Agamemnon, etc) he could incorporate into the Mollans boules version. But now he has started writing. With decent progress and success it could be staged at the festival of the rue des Granges in the summer. How many of the boules players fancy themselves as actors remains to be seen.
La semaine en français
Bien que ce blog soit écrit en anglais (pour la plupart) j'ai cru qu'il pourrait y avoir des lecteurs français qui aient de la peine à lire l'anglais et qui voudraient bien voir un précis en français. Donc je l'intention d'ajouter à la fin de chaque semaine un résumé en français. Et je compte sur mes amis de m'avertir si je fais des fautes de grammaire ou d'expression. Comme ça, je ferai des progrès en français. Voilà.
La nouvelle la plus importante en fait n'est pas arrivé pendant cette semaine mais pendant la semaine précédente (quand je n'écrivais pas ce blog). C'est que ma fille Natalie et son copain Andy, qui étaient venu me rendre visite, se sont décidés à se fiancer pendant qu'ils faisaient du ski (ou peut-être pas!) sur Mt Ventoux à Mt Serein. J'en suis très heureux. Je devrais peut-être ajouter que ce n'est pas que je suis heureux de me débarrasser de ma fille mais que Andy et Natalie vont très bien ensemble.
Mes autres réflexions pendant la semaine regardaient surtout ce qui m'avait frappé comme différent ici à Mollans, de mon point de vue en anglais du sud de l'Angleterre. Par exemple, l'attitude envers les poutres et les chevrons/lambris qu'on trouve un peu partout ici dans les plafonds. Pour moi, ce bois du 19eme siècle est à chérir. Pour les Mollanais en général, puisque presque tout le monde a des poutres, on peut très bien peindre le bois ou le cacher derrière du plâtre. Donc, dans ma maison, j'ai une quarantaine de poutres/chevrons à décaper. Les conséquences de l'altitude me préoccupe aussi. Des différences de deux ou trois centaines de mètres, telles que l'on trouve au sud de l'Angleterre, n'ont pas d'importance. Ici, tout autour, il y a des différences de plusieurs centaines ou de milliers de mètres d'altitude et les conséquences pour la température, le soleil et l'ombre sont très évidentes. Également en ce qui concerne les droits et les responsabilités pour les propriétaires de maisons de village. En Angleterre normalement, tout est bien documenté et il y a très peu de cas où les droits/responsabilités sont partagés entre propriétaires. Ici, c'est le contraire.
Pour finir, il y a une petite histoire que je dois raconter, bien qu'en moins bon français que mon ami René l'a récitée. L'histoire explique comment Mt Ventoux a eu son nom. Il paraît que, à l'époque où Hannibal et ses troupes traversaient la France pour aller s'amuser en Italie, (il y en a qui croient qu'ils ont pris un pot au Bar du Pont mais ce n'est pas bien documenté) un de ces troupes en revenant vers l'Afrique a grimpé jusqu'au sommet de Mt Ventoux (qui n'était pas encore Mt Ventoux, bien entendu) en portant toutes les dépouilles qu'il avait ramassées pendant sa visite en Italie. Il s'appellait Abou. Il y avait beaucoup d'entre les troupes de Hannibal qui s'appellaient Abou puisque c'est un nom très commun en Afrique. Mais lui, du moins quand il avait atteint le sommet de Mt Ventoux (qui n'etait pas encore.....) s'appelait Abou Tdesouffle (le « t » ne se prononce pas dans le patois de Carthage). Or, il ne voulait pas descendre et continuer jusqu'à l'Afrique avec toutes ces dépouilles donc il les a mises par terre et il a monté un panneau sur lequel il a inscrit « Vends Tout ». Et c'est comme ça que le Mt Ventoux a eu son nom.
Friday, 27 February 2009
Buyer beware
Caveat emptor
Anne-Marie and Patrique came round tonight to see what I'd been doing to the house. They knew it before I bought it and wanted to see the changes I had made. After the grand tour, we sat around eating and chatting and the conversation turned to the perils of buying houses in old villages (or anywhere, come to that). I mentioned that Mana was having a spat with a neighbour over the flow of a downpipe from the gutters of her house which (allegedly!) ran down against a wall on the neighbours property. Gutters here almost always just empty into the road below. The neighbour was complaining that the water was destroying her wall. However, the wall (allegedly!) was illegal anyway since it blocked a public right of way. Two arbitrators were coming from Buis to the Mairie in Mollans to try to sort the dispute out. More of that when I know the outcome.
Anyway, I added two problems narrowly avoided in my own experience. When friends Steve and Jo bought their house, I helped with the legal language in the contract of sale. They wanted to buy “en tontine” (maybe I'll explain later). The point was that 3 versions of the contract faxed to me didn't mention en tontine. It was only with great insistence that these words were eventually inserted. It was surely just coincidence that if, as Patrique pointed out, you wanted this clause inserted later, you'd have to pay the notaire (lawyer) quite a lot more.
When I bought my own house the contract of sale I was invited to sign just happened to omit one of the parcelles (plots of land) in the sale. A word processor error, I was told. I had previously totally ruled out a house which turned out to have floors overlapping with an adjacent house, where the definition of responsibility for roof, ceiling and floor was simply guesswork.
Patrique mentioned the situation of his mother who lived in Corsica, where apparently very many agreements are made on a handshake without any supporting documentation. She owned (undocumented) one quarter of a floor of a house. So who exactly owned and was liable for what?
These, it would seem are omnipresent hazards of buying village houses, where virtually none is totally freestanding and all kinds of overlaps and potentially shared responsibilities are common, even if the notaire is totally on the ball. Plus the problem of searches, for incoming motorways, high speed rail track, etc, which I won't go into here. Caveat emptor!
Plants
Anne-Marie wanted to know what flowers she could plant in a place in her garden almost always in shade. I immediately thought of bergenias, which I had grown successfully in just such a spot in my garden in England. Just after she and Patrique had left I thought of pulmonaria and cyclamen but will try to think of others before the next pizza evening.
Anne-Marie and Patrique came round tonight to see what I'd been doing to the house. They knew it before I bought it and wanted to see the changes I had made. After the grand tour, we sat around eating and chatting and the conversation turned to the perils of buying houses in old villages (or anywhere, come to that). I mentioned that Mana was having a spat with a neighbour over the flow of a downpipe from the gutters of her house which (allegedly!) ran down against a wall on the neighbours property. Gutters here almost always just empty into the road below. The neighbour was complaining that the water was destroying her wall. However, the wall (allegedly!) was illegal anyway since it blocked a public right of way. Two arbitrators were coming from Buis to the Mairie in Mollans to try to sort the dispute out. More of that when I know the outcome.
Anyway, I added two problems narrowly avoided in my own experience. When friends Steve and Jo bought their house, I helped with the legal language in the contract of sale. They wanted to buy “en tontine” (maybe I'll explain later). The point was that 3 versions of the contract faxed to me didn't mention en tontine. It was only with great insistence that these words were eventually inserted. It was surely just coincidence that if, as Patrique pointed out, you wanted this clause inserted later, you'd have to pay the notaire (lawyer) quite a lot more.
When I bought my own house the contract of sale I was invited to sign just happened to omit one of the parcelles (plots of land) in the sale. A word processor error, I was told. I had previously totally ruled out a house which turned out to have floors overlapping with an adjacent house, where the definition of responsibility for roof, ceiling and floor was simply guesswork.
Patrique mentioned the situation of his mother who lived in Corsica, where apparently very many agreements are made on a handshake without any supporting documentation. She owned (undocumented) one quarter of a floor of a house. So who exactly owned and was liable for what?
These, it would seem are omnipresent hazards of buying village houses, where virtually none is totally freestanding and all kinds of overlaps and potentially shared responsibilities are common, even if the notaire is totally on the ball. Plus the problem of searches, for incoming motorways, high speed rail track, etc, which I won't go into here. Caveat emptor!
Plants
Anne-Marie wanted to know what flowers she could plant in a place in her garden almost always in shade. I immediately thought of bergenias, which I had grown successfully in just such a spot in my garden in England. Just after she and Patrique had left I thought of pulmonaria and cyclamen but will try to think of others before the next pizza evening.
Thursday, 26 February 2009
Signs of spring
Sun and altitude
The sun has been shining for most of the past ten days and now hits my kitchen window just after 9.00 in the morning. A month ago, it didn't get there until nearly 11.00. I find that makes an enormous difference to my state of mind when I get up and think about getting bread for breakfast. It makes it a pleasure to go out and walk through the village; it also makes me want to get gardening but it's still a little early for that, although I have pruned the vine that runs over my balcony.
The reason the sun hits the front of my house earlier is that it is now higher in the sky and clears Mt Bluye, facing my house, that much sooner. As I have lived most of my life in southern England, altitude has meant little to me. Here, the ramifications are many. Even though we've had little snow in the village this winter, snow has been visible on the high ground all around since November. The higher you go, the colder its gets; that will be news to no one. What is less immediately evident is that high ground throws long shadows so, even when the temperature is a balmy 15 degrees in the village, it is still possible to find iced-up ditches in corners permanently in shadow. Even on the smaller peaks around, you can climb one side bathed in warm sunshine and find snow on the other side as soon as you go over the summit. It's a phenomenon I haven't experienced before, except in the Hindu Kush.
Boules
Fine sunny days have meant a return to boules. I need to become more consistent. On my day, I can point with the best of them (we won't discuss shooting) but there are times when I struggle for any kind of consistency.
There are normally no more than a hardy half-dozen playing but that is enough. Nous sommes les durs. The attitude of most of those who play is that, if the sky is overcast or there is a cold wind, why not leave it until the weather improves? It will surely do so within a day or two.
Pedro, the man who re-insulated my roof, told me how he came to Mollans (from Alsace) 25 years ago when he was 17 to work for a builder. He had to report for work each morning at 7.30 at the builder's house. One day he arrived to find the builder's house still closed up. When the builder eventually arrived at the door, still in pyjamas, he said: “What are you doing there?”
“I'm here for work”, said Pedro
“But it's raining”, said the builder, “We don't work when it's raining”.
I wonder what kind of a living that would get you in Alsace.
Blue skies
When the sun is shining there is often not a cloud in the sky. I'm not used to completely cloudless skies so they are still remarkable to me. More striking, however, is the depth of the blue. The shade is generally quite light during the day, more or less a Wedgwood blue; it is the depth of the colour that is striking. On summer evenings it can turn a much deeper, but still wonderful, shade. No surprise then that painters have frequently come to Provence for the quality of the light. “Le ciel est, pardessus le toit, si bleu, si calme” (Verlaine: D'une Prison).
The sun has been shining for most of the past ten days and now hits my kitchen window just after 9.00 in the morning. A month ago, it didn't get there until nearly 11.00. I find that makes an enormous difference to my state of mind when I get up and think about getting bread for breakfast. It makes it a pleasure to go out and walk through the village; it also makes me want to get gardening but it's still a little early for that, although I have pruned the vine that runs over my balcony.
The reason the sun hits the front of my house earlier is that it is now higher in the sky and clears Mt Bluye, facing my house, that much sooner. As I have lived most of my life in southern England, altitude has meant little to me. Here, the ramifications are many. Even though we've had little snow in the village this winter, snow has been visible on the high ground all around since November. The higher you go, the colder its gets; that will be news to no one. What is less immediately evident is that high ground throws long shadows so, even when the temperature is a balmy 15 degrees in the village, it is still possible to find iced-up ditches in corners permanently in shadow. Even on the smaller peaks around, you can climb one side bathed in warm sunshine and find snow on the other side as soon as you go over the summit. It's a phenomenon I haven't experienced before, except in the Hindu Kush.
Boules
Fine sunny days have meant a return to boules. I need to become more consistent. On my day, I can point with the best of them (we won't discuss shooting) but there are times when I struggle for any kind of consistency.
There are normally no more than a hardy half-dozen playing but that is enough. Nous sommes les durs. The attitude of most of those who play is that, if the sky is overcast or there is a cold wind, why not leave it until the weather improves? It will surely do so within a day or two.
Pedro, the man who re-insulated my roof, told me how he came to Mollans (from Alsace) 25 years ago when he was 17 to work for a builder. He had to report for work each morning at 7.30 at the builder's house. One day he arrived to find the builder's house still closed up. When the builder eventually arrived at the door, still in pyjamas, he said: “What are you doing there?”
“I'm here for work”, said Pedro
“But it's raining”, said the builder, “We don't work when it's raining”.
I wonder what kind of a living that would get you in Alsace.
Blue skies
When the sun is shining there is often not a cloud in the sky. I'm not used to completely cloudless skies so they are still remarkable to me. More striking, however, is the depth of the blue. The shade is generally quite light during the day, more or less a Wedgwood blue; it is the depth of the colour that is striking. On summer evenings it can turn a much deeper, but still wonderful, shade. No surprise then that painters have frequently come to Provence for the quality of the light. “Le ciel est, pardessus le toit, si bleu, si calme” (Verlaine: D'une Prison).
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
An Engagement
Skiing on Mt Ventoux
I've been getting back to my normal routine this week after having my daughter and her boyfriend, Natalie and Andy, stay with me for the past week. It was half-term in England (she teaches), they wanted a short break, he wanted her to learn to ski since he does so himself and so they decided to stay with me and ski at Mt Serein, the ski station about 1000ft below the summit of Mt Ventoux. I duly booked lessons, borrowed a set of snow chains (although friends Anne-Marie and Patrique had offered their car, equipped with snow tyres and chains as fallback) and gathered information on skiing on the mountain. In the event the snow chains weren't needed.
Mt Ventoux isn't on the general skiing tourist map but is much used and appreciated locally. The state of the snow can be uncertain, even occasionally in January and February, but this year it has been good. Green, Blue, Black and Red pistes were all open. And Mt Serein is a delightful resort, small and friendly. On the Tuesday evening, Andy wanted to know where he could get some fizz and plastic glasses, I presumed for toasting Natalie as a skier after the last of her lessons on the Wednesday. I was going shopping so got them for him. When they arrived back at the house on Wednesday afternoon, it turned out Andy had proposed to, and been accepted by, Natalie. I think that, in the snow, he had ended up on his arse rather than his knee to make the proposal but.........whatever. They make a great couple.
We completed the week with a little tour to see the Pont du Gard and the Ardèche gorges. On the night they arrived I'd invited friend Daniel and his daughter, Anne-Laure (who is a similar age to Natalie and speaks excellent English) to dine with us, Natalie and Andy came to the pizza evening, and we all eat with friends Steve and Jo at my house on the Tuesday and at their house on the Thursday, so one way and another it was quite a crowded week. And a delightful one.
Wood beams
I'd accelerated the decorating I was doing in the house before Nat and Andy's arrival and, with some help from friends Steve and Jo, had finished the new terrace room and the top bedroom (apart from some lights I have to fit). So the last big decorating project is my own bedroom. It currently has awful wallpaper which I have to get off to discover the state of the walls behind it. They feel OK but you never know. More significantly, the small beams which run laterally across the ceiling to the big beam which runs down the centre of the room (and of which there are 34, 17 each side) have been painted. Now, I'm generally against the death penalty but I think I might entertain it for people who paint wood beams. From my background as a southern Englander, if you have old wood beams, and these date from the mid-19th century, you flaunt them. Moreover, the house is basically all wood and stone and I want to keep it that way, with the wood and stone showing where possible. The attitude to wood beams here is quite different. Everybody has them so they are not particularly valued and aren't reckoned on much as features. In many houses, even the very large wood beams running across ceilings are plastered over. Well, I don't care; I want my wood beams and the paint is going to have to come off, however long it takes me.
Flowers
Neighbour Josette, a keen gardener, accosted me on my to get bread this morning and said how much everyone admired the pansies I have in pots outside the front of the house. They are all blue (of course) and they are looking good now. I planted them in November but they have bided their time to put on a show now that the sun is shining more consistently.
I've been getting back to my normal routine this week after having my daughter and her boyfriend, Natalie and Andy, stay with me for the past week. It was half-term in England (she teaches), they wanted a short break, he wanted her to learn to ski since he does so himself and so they decided to stay with me and ski at Mt Serein, the ski station about 1000ft below the summit of Mt Ventoux. I duly booked lessons, borrowed a set of snow chains (although friends Anne-Marie and Patrique had offered their car, equipped with snow tyres and chains as fallback) and gathered information on skiing on the mountain. In the event the snow chains weren't needed.
Mt Ventoux isn't on the general skiing tourist map but is much used and appreciated locally. The state of the snow can be uncertain, even occasionally in January and February, but this year it has been good. Green, Blue, Black and Red pistes were all open. And Mt Serein is a delightful resort, small and friendly. On the Tuesday evening, Andy wanted to know where he could get some fizz and plastic glasses, I presumed for toasting Natalie as a skier after the last of her lessons on the Wednesday. I was going shopping so got them for him. When they arrived back at the house on Wednesday afternoon, it turned out Andy had proposed to, and been accepted by, Natalie. I think that, in the snow, he had ended up on his arse rather than his knee to make the proposal but.........whatever. They make a great couple.
We completed the week with a little tour to see the Pont du Gard and the Ardèche gorges. On the night they arrived I'd invited friend Daniel and his daughter, Anne-Laure (who is a similar age to Natalie and speaks excellent English) to dine with us, Natalie and Andy came to the pizza evening, and we all eat with friends Steve and Jo at my house on the Tuesday and at their house on the Thursday, so one way and another it was quite a crowded week. And a delightful one.
Wood beams
I'd accelerated the decorating I was doing in the house before Nat and Andy's arrival and, with some help from friends Steve and Jo, had finished the new terrace room and the top bedroom (apart from some lights I have to fit). So the last big decorating project is my own bedroom. It currently has awful wallpaper which I have to get off to discover the state of the walls behind it. They feel OK but you never know. More significantly, the small beams which run laterally across the ceiling to the big beam which runs down the centre of the room (and of which there are 34, 17 each side) have been painted. Now, I'm generally against the death penalty but I think I might entertain it for people who paint wood beams. From my background as a southern Englander, if you have old wood beams, and these date from the mid-19th century, you flaunt them. Moreover, the house is basically all wood and stone and I want to keep it that way, with the wood and stone showing where possible. The attitude to wood beams here is quite different. Everybody has them so they are not particularly valued and aren't reckoned on much as features. In many houses, even the very large wood beams running across ceilings are plastered over. Well, I don't care; I want my wood beams and the paint is going to have to come off, however long it takes me.
Flowers
Neighbour Josette, a keen gardener, accosted me on my to get bread this morning and said how much everyone admired the pansies I have in pots outside the front of the house. They are all blue (of course) and they are looking good now. I planted them in November but they have bided their time to put on a show now that the sun is shining more consistently.
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Pizzas and jokes
Pizza night
Last night was pizza night. For about 3 years now it has been the custom for people in my road to gather at the Bar du Pont once a week to socialise and exchange news and jokes. A man with a pizza van parks outside the bar and we buy our pizzas from him and drinks from the bar. From April/May to September we congregate on the terrace outside the bar but the rest of the time it's a question of pushing the tables together inside, dragging in tables and chairs from outside if necessary, and then putting our heads together. Since we started doing this, others in the village, not from my road, and René and Ahmelle, who now live outside the village, have joined in. There are normally about a dozen of us but it can be double that number.
Pizza night used to be on Friday, which made it a convenient end-of-week event. However, another pizza man, Roberto, appeared on a Monday and, by general consent, made decidedly better pizzas. So true to the French gastronomic tradition, pizza night was changed to when the food was better. So it's a beginning of week rather than an end of week event now.
Although pizzas are the standard fare, Roberto sometimes comes with galettes, gambas or moules- frîtes to provide some variety. He also occasionally (and generously) offers crêpes to finish off the meal. So the gastronomically inspired change has definitely been worthwhile.
How Mont Ventoux got it's name
There are two official versions of how Mt Ventoux got its name, which I won't go into here. However, when the jokes start flying on pizza night, René is always in the thick of it. He's one of the most humorous people I've ever met. So, of course, he had a version of how Mt Ventoux got it's name and it had nothing to do with either of the official ones. The story was as follows.
It is widely believed locally, on scant evidence, that Hannibal passed this way going to and from his foray into Italy. It certainly doesn't do the tourist trade any harm and several local places make reference to him. Anyway, according to René, on Hannibal's way back through this area, one of his troops, laden down with loot from the Italy campaign, made his way up Mt Ventoux. Hannibal had lots of troops named Abou but this one, certainly by the time he got up Mt Ventoux, was called Abou Desouffle. Having got to the top, he decided he was carrying far too much booty so he piled it all down on the ground and put up a notice “Vends tout”. And that's how Mt Ventoux got it's name.
Last night was pizza night. For about 3 years now it has been the custom for people in my road to gather at the Bar du Pont once a week to socialise and exchange news and jokes. A man with a pizza van parks outside the bar and we buy our pizzas from him and drinks from the bar. From April/May to September we congregate on the terrace outside the bar but the rest of the time it's a question of pushing the tables together inside, dragging in tables and chairs from outside if necessary, and then putting our heads together. Since we started doing this, others in the village, not from my road, and René and Ahmelle, who now live outside the village, have joined in. There are normally about a dozen of us but it can be double that number.
Pizza night used to be on Friday, which made it a convenient end-of-week event. However, another pizza man, Roberto, appeared on a Monday and, by general consent, made decidedly better pizzas. So true to the French gastronomic tradition, pizza night was changed to when the food was better. So it's a beginning of week rather than an end of week event now.
Although pizzas are the standard fare, Roberto sometimes comes with galettes, gambas or moules- frîtes to provide some variety. He also occasionally (and generously) offers crêpes to finish off the meal. So the gastronomically inspired change has definitely been worthwhile.
How Mont Ventoux got it's name
There are two official versions of how Mt Ventoux got its name, which I won't go into here. However, when the jokes start flying on pizza night, René is always in the thick of it. He's one of the most humorous people I've ever met. So, of course, he had a version of how Mt Ventoux got it's name and it had nothing to do with either of the official ones. The story was as follows.
It is widely believed locally, on scant evidence, that Hannibal passed this way going to and from his foray into Italy. It certainly doesn't do the tourist trade any harm and several local places make reference to him. Anyway, according to René, on Hannibal's way back through this area, one of his troops, laden down with loot from the Italy campaign, made his way up Mt Ventoux. Hannibal had lots of troops named Abou but this one, certainly by the time he got up Mt Ventoux, was called Abou Desouffle. Having got to the top, he decided he was carrying far too much booty so he piled it all down on the ground and put up a notice “Vends tout”. And that's how Mt Ventoux got it's name.
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