Firewood

Monsieur Rigo lives in the hills above Castelmoron. He is a retired man who collects, cuts and sells firewood.

Two great sheds, about 75 metres long, dominate his property.  They once housed chickens, 5000 in each. But chicken farming is hard work and he stopped when his health began to suffer.

With a couple of stents and regular medication, Monsieur Rigo is in fine fettle these days. He takes it easy, just doing his firewood.

I wear leather gloves to handle the rough, splintery logs, but M. Rigo's hands are thick and calloused, the hands of a working man, a farmer. He shows them to me with pride.

He wants to know how old I am. "Sixty-one," I say.

"You're a young man," he says, grinning.

When I ask him how old he is, he takes off his cap to reveal a thin mat of wispy grey hair.

"Soixante-quinz," he says.

The view from M. Rigo's farm

We bought two cubic metres of wood, and helped him load his trailer. This will see us through the winter, we hope.

I read that wood is the cheapest form of heating in France, much less than electric heating. Having a woodburner is an efficient and attractive way of heating the house.

A mix of plum, acacia, oak and walnut

M. Rigo is also the proud owner of three vintage cars. I was thrilled when he showed them to me ... a Renault 4 from the 1980's, and two Citroen 2CVs from the 70's.

They are housed in one of his long sheds with rows of seasoning wood.

A few hens peck and scratch at where we've removed the wood, while a small mob of unshorn sheep hang around a hay feeder beneath the walnut trees. Near one of many woodpiles, a handsome ginger cat suns herself.

They sometimes lay four eggs a day, says M. Rigo

I was very pleased to make M. Rigo's aquaintance. Wherever we end up in the south of France, I know where to come for winter wood.