Morocco ...part three

Jamilla and I hired a car in Casablanca and drove to Marrakech, passing at speed through lunar landscapes made earthly by lines of dead cactus and mud villages almost invisible against the baked-brown hillsides.

Arriving in the fabled pink city, we left the car in a dusty carpark on the edge of the medina, at Bab Aylen.

We followed Didier, our Airbnb host, under a medieval stone archway and into the thronging, noisey thoroughfare, the tall, grey-haired Frenchman flicking the occasional "Salaam Alicum" to Arab acquaintances he passed.

The entrance to the riad

Deep in the popular quarter, a series of cobbled alleyways led to Didier's riad. Its unprepossessing entrance belied a pleasant, courtyard home into which you descended through a cast-iron security door.

Inside, a bougainvillea climbed towards the light and was alive with tiny, chattering birds. Although Didier's heart was in Marrakech, a cluster of fascinating artefacts betrayed his Madagascar dreaming.

Didier's riad

the archway leading to Didier's Marrakech riad

Morocco ... Part two

Before we left Casablanca for Marrakech, I wanted to visit some of my old haunts from 40 years ago.

Jamilla and I went to rond point (roundabout) Mers Sultan, a chaotic merging of seven, wheel-spoke lanes in a residential suburb not too far from the city. I used to live in a first floor flat near here. I thought I'd found my old flat, or at least the street-level entrance to it, but I could not be sure after so many years.

During long balmy evenings I used to lounge around on the terrace above the street din with my friends Ahmed and Abdulhak, smoking and listening to "Can't Buy a Thrill".

Ahmed is dead. Abdulhak is an Imam in Italy, or so I've heard. Nothing lasts. Nothing stays the same. Experiences fade to memory. Once familiar landmarks become a palimpsest.

So now, I wanted to sit outside Cafe Mers Sultan, on the rond point, and drink a beer or a coffee, just like I did almost every day in '78. But the cafe's licence had long changed, forbidding the consumption of alcohol al fresco.

I walked to Brasserie du Soleil, fully expecting it to be gone ... but it was still there. This is where I ate dinner most nights, at a footpath table. It's still called Brasserie du Soleil but has become a dark and dingy beer bar, windows papered up, as if it should be ashamed of itself.

Nothing stays the same.

Morocco ... Part One

It's been thirty-two years since I was last in Morocco, a long time between mint teas.

I took my daughter there to celebrate her 26th birthday.

Our sojourn began with a one hour wait at Casablanca airport's passport control.

Despite the long queue behind us, the immigration officer was happy to spend some relaxed time querying Jamilla's origins.

"You've got an Arabic name?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"But you are Australian?"

"Yes."

"Is your mother or father Moroccan?" he asked.

"Yes, my mother," she said.

It was late at night and we got one of the last trains from the airport to the port, then paid an exorbitant fare for a devious taxi driver to take us through near-empty streets to our hotel in the old city.

the view from our hotel terrace

Casablanca port

Restaurant routièr

Continuing on the theme of cuisine bourgeoise ...

The one-sided sign faces east, so traffic on the D666 heading towards the A62 tollway might see it, then again, they might not. Traffic coming the other way will be none the wiser.

The sign carries the heading, Restaurant Traiteur, under which is written Cassany Remy and a phone number.

It sits opposite an open field and a farmhouse screened by large firs and a tall hedge. The restaurant itself is hidden behind a clump of trees, accessed by a pot-holed asphalt driveway. This leads to an expansive truck and car park. On this day, it contained quite a few vehicles.

But it didn't look like a restaurant. It looked like a house.

Although the place came highly recommended, I was struck by doubt and announced to our guests from London that I would not be held responsible for what might happen.

We walked in through the front door and saw a number of men seated at two long, narrow tables running the length of the facing wall.

There were smaller tables against the other wall and we were seated by a smiling, matronly woman wearing an apron. Most of the men followed us with expressionless stares. They made no response to my face-nodding "Bonjour". I got the impression we had entered a clubhouse ... without an invitation.

A platter of diced beetroot was already on the table. Our matronly waitress brought us a basket of bread and a cold, one-litre jug of house red.

The dining room was poorly lit and had a rather gloomy, nondescript decor.

The men at the long tables returned to their meals and conversation.

We helped ourselves from a metal tureen of soup, ladelling the steaming broth into our bowls. Before we could top up, the tureen was whisked away.

After soup, four serves of pork terrine in aspic were brought to the table. Each slice was topped with a small mound of shallot and vinegar reduction. The diced beetroot now came into play.

Once that was finished, we didn't have to wait long until a large oval dish was put in the centre of the table. This contained slices of roast pork loin in a thin sauce of its own juices. It was accompanied by a big dish of steaming haricot beans, thick and salty, mushy and yummy.

Next, a large bowl of dressed salad. Then, a not-too-shabby cheese platter with another basket of bread. Finally, a selection of supermarket desserts, such as chocolate mousse or sweet yogurt.

The coffee, served tar-black and bitter, was drunk from our wine glasses.

We asked the matronly woman about the restaurant. She said it was only open for lunch, Monday to Friday. She said it was family-owned and had been operating from this house for a very long time.

She gestured to the outside and said she could remember when the house was surrounded by farms and there was fresh produce right on their doorstep.

She said she was a close friend of the family and had worked for them for thirty years. The customers were truck drivers, tradesmen, workers and travelling salesmen. Some came back every day, she informed us proudly.

The cost of our home-cooked, delicious and very filling meal was 12 euros a head. We drank only a third of the wine.

One year now

Today marks exactly one year since we arrived in France.

When I came here, I brought with me romantic images, captured in my early 20’s and half-forgotten, like photos in an old trunk. 

Images such as ...

- men in berets playing petanque under plane trees

      or driving Citroen 2CVs or Renault 4s through

      medieval stone villages whose church belltowers

      rang out on Sunday mornings.

- signposts like quaint little gravestones by the road.

- seafood markets in coastal towns

      where exotic shellfish sat on beds of kelp

      at 20 francs a kilo.

- art galleries and atmospheric bookshops.

- patisseries and boulangeries where women in aprons,

     unfailingly polite, served baguettes and

     mouth-watering pastries.

- cafés on grand squares where

      travellers sat at outdoor tables dreaming of Fes or Marrakech

      and writers sat ruminating with pen and cigarettes.

   

Some of these images may be quixotic, some anachronistic.

Of course, expectations have not all been met.

The pace of life here is not as slow as I thought it would be.

The French drive fast and reckless on narrow country roads, as if fleeing an outbreak of plague. There are some exceptions.

Real estate agents are lazy and unprofessional, with some exceptions.

The bureaucracy is not as bad as I’d been led to believe, with some exceptions.

And while, after 12 months, we still have not found permanent digs, I remain confident of finding the dream house. I envisage a place in the country built of stone, with exposed oak beams throughout and a large poële in the lounge-room.

The kitchen will be big and warm and have space for my dear Aunt Viv’s farmhouse table and my cedar chiffonier meatsafe. It will have a big range and copper pots will hang down from long metal hooks. 

Outside, there’ll be chooks and a veggie patch and fruit trees and, if I may indulge, a pool.

It will be both a house for winter and a house for summer.

I hope to be able to report, in 12 months’ time, that we are there. 

The fugitive pheasant

This afternoon we saw a pheasant in our back yard.

It was skulking about, under the fir tree, where the shade-cloth covered fence makes a corner, by the road.

Every now and again, it would bend its neck and peck in the ground for an insect. Then it would stand stock-still, its head and body rigid, for minutes at a time.

Then it moved again, craning its neck forward in little thrusting movements. It was a large, majestic bird, with coppery feathers and a tail that stuck out straight behind it. A cream beak and scarlet eyes were set in an iridescent green head and at the neck it wore a white collar.

The bird continued to strut nervously along the fence that ran down to the river, between our lawn and the wild grey-brown undergrowth of our neighbour’s unkept property.

We left our new friend in the yard and went for an afternoon constitutional. That’s when we discovered the reason for its furtive presence.

A hunter and his dog were across the road in the tall, dry, scrappy weeds of a winter paddock.

The dog was small and brown and it dashed about excitedly, hither and thither, its neck bell ringing loudly. The young hunter’s shotgun was propped skyward on his right shoulder.

In the distance, we heard the crack of a rifle and the baying of hounds.

Along the Lot, hunters are given access to tracts of wild vegetation sheltering game such as deer and pheasant. 

When we got back from our walk, an hour and a half later, the pheasant was still pacing cautiously in the garden.

Under the fir tree by the log pile, it froze again, behind the green shade-cloth of the fence, out of sight of the hunter and his dog. 

Cuisine Bourgeois

Intrigued by Charles Henry's reaction to my "In Mary's footsteps" post, I googled upon this wonderful image and explanation ...

French cuisine is much more than the haute cuisine inherited from the nobility. It is also the tasty, inexpensive cuisine that French families eat every day, called cuisine bourgeoise, or “bourgeois cuisine.

In Mary's footsteps

We finally got to have lunch at Chez Jeanne, the restaurant in the Perigord Noir hamlet of La Pomarède made famous by Australian author Mary Moody.

Chez Jeanne has been in the same family since the early 1900s. Mary put it on the map in 2005 with a documentary film and book, "Lunch with Madam Murat", celebrating the establishment's 100th anniversary.

The restaurant is plainly decorated, with marble-look vinyl flooring, pale-yellow walls above a timber dado, cream-painted beams and a white ceiling. Around the dining room hang framed photos of La Pomarède taken at the turn of the century.

And there were posters advertising the just-released 2017 Beaujolais Nouveau.

Wednesday's lunch was alphabet soup, followed by a thin slice of quiche with a side of dressed cabbage, a main of rotisserie chicken, cheese and creme brulee for dessert.

The chicken was served with a garlic/olive sauce, crisp, golden fries (cooked in duck fat) and peas. The petits pois came in a delicious sauce made with their own sweet juice, to which was added tiny pearl onions, bacon dice and a drizzle of duck fat.

A 750ml bottle of local red wine (for four) and a jug of water were on the table and a basket of bread came out with the soup.

Our lunch was a delicious, home cooked meal that could not be faulted.

The place had only one or two empty tables. Most of the diners were retired people, there were some workmen, a young family with twins celebrating a birthday and an octogenarian couple whose walking sticks were propped against the wall. There was a middle-aged man with protruding eyes and a sagging face, like Toad from Toad Hall. He looked around lugubriously as he slowly ate his lunch.

At the end of our repas, we met Sylvie, who has succeeded her mother as the driving force in the kitchen. And then we met the matriarch herself, who featured prominently in Mary Moody's film.

Stooped and worn, she smiled sweetly beneath tired eyes and said, "We adore Australians."
"I am honoured to meet you," I said.

Chez Jeanne is that type of French restaurant now on the critically endangered list.

To eat here is to glimpse a bygone France, where rural and regional communities were serviced by value-for-money, family-run restaurants. It is to experience a France whose simplicity and ease of living now seem to belong to another era.

Our five course meal and wine cost 14 euros a head.

The River House

Part 3

Pictures

The River House

Part 2

When the autumn mornings are fine and mild, we breakfast at the long table under the veranda. The rising sun angles in through the leafless and truncated branches of a 100-year-old chestnut, growing just metres from where we sit. A stack of firewood in the centre of the garden attests to its heavy spring pruning.

Beside the firewood, a walnut tree stands majestically in full, yellowing foliage. It’s home to two chocolate-brown squirrels who, when the coast is clear, scurry down the trunk to gather nuts lying about on the ground. They scamper across the yard with a playful, hopping run, occasionally stopping to lift their heads.

On the river, two pure-white swans move over the glassy surface, silently and effortlessly as if powered by an underwater force. They hold their necks perfectly straight, like aristocrats.

Late afternoon finds us on the timber landing where the barque is moored.  A squadron of egrets flies in V formation into the setting sun. A breeze springs up, crinkling the inky surface of the river. In the garden, a child’s swing moves, leaves rustle, causing some to fall.

On the other side of the Lot, an arched grey-stone bridge spans a tiny tributary, beyond which we can see the rooves of houses in the town and the pyramid-shaped cap of a pigeonniere (dovecote) rising above its neighbours.

In the first and last light of day, the river is a sheet of mercury, a vast, flat mirror reflecting the church spire of Temple sur Lot and the willows that grow on the water’s edge.

We know young rowers are out training. We hear the rhythmic slap and grind of their oars before their boats come into view. The rowers' movements seem lazy, but are actually quite measured and fluid, with a slight jerk of elbows as they complete their stroke.

Their coaches follow in inflatables, barking instructions.

   

The odd fishing boat hums past. Near us, close to shore, air bubbles betray the presence of underwater life, concentric circles meet other concentric circles to make chaotic patterns that quickly disappear.

We are thinking about buying a fishing line. But I fear we might land a monster, one of those huge catfish that lurk, according to local legend, in the depths of the Lot.

One late afternoon, noisy activity draws me away from the river to the front fence. 

The brown forest of corn across the road is disappearing. A harvester with huge teeth like giant hair clippers is cutting swathes through the dry, leafy stalks, leaving tracts of stubble.

By some mechanical magic taking place inside its massive frame, the harvester strips the cobs and exudes the waste. After three or four passes through the field, it stops to shoot a golden stream of kernels into massive trailers attached to tractors.

Dust rises and drifts over our neighbour’s property. He is an old man who lives alone in a hobbit house buried under a jungle of blackberry. Only the roof of its pigeonniere is visible above the vegetation.

We have seen him drive past La Maiterie in his vintage, tan-coloured 2CV, before braking to turn left into his driveway.

As the corn harvest progresses, he emerges to inspect the goings-on, then crosses the road to talk to the man sitting in the cabin of his tractor, waiting for his trailer to fill.

The river house

Part 1

Weathered old posts with arms outstretched support a veranda along the eastern side of the house. The end of one beam has been so degraded by wind and rain it resembles a gargoyle’s head, staring out at the river.

The columbage walls consist of thin clay bricks set in lime mortar between ancient timbers, bleached and scoured like driftwood. More recent terracotta tiles have been laid on the floor and a metre-wide border of sand-coloured river stones separates the veranda from the lawn.

The low-pitched roof is a cluster of overlapping roman tiles, chunky and lichen-flecked.

The front door opens into a salon/lounge-room dominated by a huge open fireplace. A blackened metal plate embossed with a coat of arms, like some giant crusader’s shield, is attached to the back wall to protect the lime mortar from the heat.  On one side of the fireplace sits a wicker basket holding paper and kindling, on the other, a large copper pot with pine cones.

Massive oak girders, soil-brown in colour, run the length of the room. They protrude through the eastern wall into the veranda, while on the western side of the room they stand on two brick and mortar columns that flank the door into the garden. Adzed from giant trees in the time of the Sun King, their impressive girth supports a number of smaller, equally ancient joists, parched, split and honeycombed by borer.

The renovation of this house, in the early 2000’s, was done by an architect careful to preserve its 18^th century character. Of all the features he retained, the most impressive is the bousillage wall with its petrified planks and straw-embedded mud, cracked now like a creek bed in a drought.

The house and adjoining low barn merge into one long, single-storey building that stretches from the road to the river, a distance of about 70 metres. It sits perpendicular, not parallel, to the Lot. Its southern end is just a few metres from the water.

Library documents show La Maiterie was built around 1730. It became the home of a priest, Father Bolurrieres, a scholarly and highly-regarded man who held the positions of Curate of Castelmoron, Archdeacon of Marmande and Monclar and the Canon of the Cathedral of Agen.

Father Bourrieres was known for his generosity and compassion, a friend to the poor. Many a peasant received victuals at his door or warmed their hands in front of his winter fire.

He bequeathed La Métairie to his nephew, Antoine Negre, on condition that it would eventually be turned over to his parishioners. Mr Negre lived out his days in the house and upon the death of his last surviving child, the property reverted to the parish.

We used to cycle past the house in the autumn of 2013, whilst holidaying in Castelmoron. On the front gate hung a for sale sign with a phone number. I rang it out of curiosity.

The price was high, which I put down to its river frontage.What I didn’t know was the barn had been converted into four bedrooms, each with an en-suite.

When we returned to live in Castelmoron last year, we again cycled past Le Maiterie on a regular basis. One day we saw the owners in the front yard, so we stopped and introduced ourselves, and told them of our past interest in the house.

Over the ensuing months, we would stop our bikes at the front gate and call out to the Hanocqs. We learnt they lived near Versailles and came down to Fongrave on an irregular basis. The house, with its swimming pool and access to the river, was rented out for a tidy sum during the summer.

On one of our springtime stops at Le Maiterie, the Hanocqs invited us in for a drink. We were captivated by the house. 

We went home and said to each other, “Wow, if only we could live there.” We couldn’t afford the summer rent, so the idea was hatched to ask the Hanocqs if they would consider a winter rental.

They agreed, and so here we are.

Lamb and quince tajine

Wearing shorts and a polo shirt on a warm autumn day, I went shopping for the ingredients of a Moroccan lamb and quince tajine.

At the St Livrade market I found quinces and a bunch of coriander at the stall of a young Moroccan, a serious lad who rarely smiles.

I caused him angst with a 20 euro note. He fussed around looking for change and apologised for the delay.

I surprised him with “Makain mushkin”, which means “no worries”.

He smiled.

I went to my favourite butcher shop to buy lamb shanks but I didn’t remember the French words. I confessed this to the woman serving me and proffered in English ‘lamb shanks’.

She, and most of those waiting at the counter, looked blankly at me.

So I pointed to my bare shins.

That’s when I panicked, knowing that psoriasis had left large patches of scar tissue on my lower legs.

Fearing the entire butcher shop’s attention was now focussed there, I was relieved when my friendly butcher said, “sourrie d’agneau?”.

“Oui! Oui!,” I said.

In the late afternoon, as the tajine cooked on the stove, Cliona and I sat outside, enjoying a lambent dusk. 

We watched the planes, picked out by a setting sun, move like silver darts across the sky.

The lamb shanks, onions, garlic, coriander, cumin, ginger and cinnamon all combined to nicely complement the quince, whose tartness was softened by honey and a throw of sugar.

With the meal, we drank a blend of tempranillo, cabernet sauvignon and garnac, a Spanish wine acquired on a recent trip to San Sebastian.

Motoring nostalgia

Preservation of heritage is one of the reasons I love France ... not just architectural or cultural, nor the maintenance of food and wine traditions.

Here are some beautiful old cars and motorbikes from a recent show in Castelmoron.

They are evocative of a romantic age.

this Peugeot 403 convertible is on the market for 50,000 euros

I have a soft spot for the 403

Autumn

Autumn blew in over the village and dispatched the last heat of summer.

In our front yard, the leaves of trees have turned blood red. They cling on tenaciously, under an Irish sky that has drizzled for days.

The Hirondelles have long flown south, leaving empty their twilight perch.

All over the yard, mushrooms have sprouted. They appeared quickly, seemingly overnight.

In nacreous-coloured clumps they cluster and hunker in the short grass under the oak.

Others with broader, tobacco-brown seats on longer stems, stand under the fir.

We took some ivory coloured ones to the pharmacy and the pharmacist gave them the thumbs up. We cooked and tested them tentatively, but their taste was bitter. We desisted.

A plague of fruit flies has bred in the rotting plums, figs and apples in orchards and on roadsides across the Lot valley. These tiny devils have been swarming around our back patio and some have managed to infiltrate the house. I am employing, with some success, vinegar traps in the lounge and the kitchen.

The farmer has ploughed his field and it is lying fallow, for the moment.

The temperature inside the house is cooling and I've started to think about firewood.

We will soon be moving from here to the river house, with its huge open fireplace and ancient oak surround.

We will spend the winter there.

The farming life

We live on the outskirts of the village, next to a farm.

Yesterday, all afternoon, the young farmer ploughed his field.

He went up and down his paddock, stopping at our boundary to turn around and go again. Behind his tractor a line of curved steel blades sliced through the dung-brown clods and a roller of sharp-toothed discs broke the soil down further.

A flock of egrets followed the tractor, in a feeding frenzy.

They rushed forward and plunged their long, yellow beaks into the dirt, then scattered in a flurry of wings as the tractor turned. They regrouped, rushing in again, then took flight to catch up to the tractor once more.

The farmer worked til early evening, and resumed after dinner, the lights of his tractor we could see through our french doors.

Harbingers of winter

Our liquid amber has been the first to turn.

Its living leaves are the colour of a sunset, or a fire.

The fallen ones form a carpet of gold on the ground below.

Worried by the wind, they rustle and shift, while in the foliage above, around an abandoned nest, spiky green seed balls hang like Christmas decorations.

A chill is in the air and the first rain in months drizzles from an oyster sky.

Thousands of swifts have left their twilight perch

On the high-voltage line above the farmer's field

to make their long journey south, I presume.

the restaurant at the foot of the steps

Alla Rampa is a restaurant at the foot of a steep ramp near the Spanish Steps, a stone's throw from the Piazza di Spagna.

It came highly recommended.

We walked from the Villa Borghese, a longer journey than anticipated.

We were hungry and thirsty.

The restaurant was like an oasis, it had an attractive terrace and a wonderful interior.

As you would find in all good European restaurants, the serving staff was ranked in order of seniority. The older men were in white coats and black bow ties while the younger waiters wore black coats and white bow ties.

The murals and fittings had turned this eating house into a romantic opera set, reminiscent of Romeo and Juliet, or a street scene from Napoli.

It almost didn't matter what the food was like. But the food was great. Alla Rampa had the most amazing buffet selection of anti-pasta. Their house wine was superb.

We were thrilled to have found this place. What a great way to end our Roman sojourn.

Roman doors

I am fascinated by the wooden doors in European cities ...

Villa Borghese

The first part of our last day in Rome was devoted to the Villa and Gallery Borghese.

Here are some photos which I hope do justice to the masterpieces we saw.

ceiling panting in the central hall

the beauty of marble

Caravaggio's Madonna with the serpent

David by Bernini

Floor mosaic from 300 AD

A Roman Emperor

Apollo and Daphne

Piazza Navona

Another great day in Rome. 

We were exhausted from two days of sightseeing, having walked more than 15 kilometres, so today we got up late and took the bus to Piazza Navona where, two thousand years ago, chariots raced around a dusty, elliptical arena to cheering crowds. Now the stands are gone, replaced by tenements and restaurants. Huge stone fountains and an obelisk occupy the centre of the square.

We had just ordered our lunch in a tiny trattoria on a narrow, cobblestoned street away from the square, when an elderly, well dressed man came up and asked us something in Italian. His angled dark eyebrows and stubble of grey beard gave him a stern look. He had large, black-rimmed glasses, was bald on top but wore longish grey hair over his collar.

I said “I’m sorry, we don’t speak Italian,” and he said in English, “There is sun on those other tables, may I sit next to you here in the shade?”

“Of course you may.”

And so he asked where we came from and I said France, and he was surprised by that, but then started speaking to us in French so I explained that I was an Australian now living in France.

I asked him how long he’d been in Italy and he said 70 out of his 81 years and then, just as our meal arrived, he pulled out a cigarette packet and asked me if it would be a problem if he smoked. I said yes it would, but thanked him for asking, it was very considerate. I politely suggested he could move to another table that was now in the shade and he seemed happy with that.

He had a well-educated, urbane manner, perhaps a little distracted, perhaps a tad off-centre mentally. While he was waiting for his meal he was reading a book by Andrea Camilleri, titled La Mossa del Cavallo.

I know this because he got up and disappeared into a doorway just as his coffee was brought out, leaving the book open on the table. I had to satisfy my curiosity.

There was something slightly melancholic about this old man, as if he had lost his wife and now lived a lonely life. Yet he had a scholarly air and carried himself with dignity.

The old man came back after about ten minutes and we said goodbye.  We walked back to the square and stopped for coffee at the Bernini café on the edge of the piazza, now half cooled by shade and half bathed in warm sunshine.

Keats and Shelley

The highlight of Day 4 in Rome was a visit to Keats and Shelley house, abutting the Spanish Steps.

This beautifully restored lodging house, in which the English romantic poet John Keats died of tuberculosis in 1821, is now a museum. The walls of its main room are lavishly appointed with bookshelves donated by the US Stock Exchange.

These bookshelves of warm, American walnut contain hundreds of precious volumes by and about the great poets. They fill the place with a musty, redolent odour, showcasing the rich heritage of English literature.

The room in which 25 year old Keats died was cleared of every article and stick of furniture. Everything was burnt in accordance with Vatican law.

The floor tiles, the ceiling and the small fireplace are the only original features of the room remaining.

The walnut boat bed is from the 1820's and is of the exact style of the original.

Whilst Shelley never lived in or visited this house, the museum honours his deep friendship with Keats and his exalted place in the pantheon of English romantic poets.

Shelley loved Italy, but tragically drowned off the Tuscan coast a year after Keats' death. He was 29.

Images of antiquity

The Roman Empire may have fallen 1500 years ago, but evidence of its grandeur are manifest in parts of the city.