The hills are alive ...

Last night we drove into the hills behind Castelmoron to attend a cabaret evening. It was held in a rather isolated, 18^th century manor house, beautifully renovated. We parked at the edge of a driveway that looped in front of the grand entrance, as guests shuffled in through the front door. Overhead, the cloudless night sky was a black canopy, punctured by stars.

The host couple is busy seating people and serving drinks. The menu is a main course of confit du canard with pommes de terre dauphinoise and a side-salad dressed with balsamic. Dessert is a tarte au citron or a tarte au caramel salé.

Drinks are surprisingly cheap. A bottle of excellent, full-bodied Spanish red costs just 5 euros.

At our table, four couples represent eight nationalities. There is a dark-haired Portuguese man who’s lived in France since he was 11 years old. He is a butcher from nearby St Livrade sur Lot. His wife is blond and Ukrainian. She speaks a host of eastern European languages, but little French or English. An ebullient Spaniard at the end of the table has a construction business and speaks fluent French. His wife is French. The other couple at the table are newly arrived in the Lot et Garonne. She is from Yorkshire. He is a New Zealander. They have no children, four dogs, and want to buy a block of land and build an off-grid, straw bale house in a forest. Any forest.

Our hosts are an energetic French/English couple who operate this large estate as a chambres d’hotes (bed and breakfast) and a separate gite (holiday unit). The house has several beautifully furnished rooms, a large, outdoor swimming pool and a jacuzzi. It is very busy in summer, but in winter they have time to host these cabaret evenings.

The band is a rhythm and blues trio, consisting of lead guitar, bass and drums. They play Clapton, Dire Straits and J.J. Cale covers. They are a bit loud for mine, and a bit loose, but most people seem to enjoy the music and by the end of the night many are up dancing.

At the Iberian end of the table, quite a few pre-dinner whiskies and cognacs are consumed. This is followed by wine. The Portuguese butcher becomes more effusive. The Spanish builder, more friendly. Their wives sit quietly with Giaconda smiles.

The Yorkshire woman wears her dyed-red hair in long curls, and talks ten to the dozen. Her Kiwi husband has a pointy, waxed moustache and looks like a young version of Lord Kitchener. He manages to get the odd word in edgewise.

Unfortunately, chatting becomes impossible … is my hearing getting worse or is the band getting louder?

At 11.30, our hosts begin clearing tables so we figure it is time to go.

We promise our new Portuguese friend we’ll look up his butcher shop. The English woman promises the Spanish builder she will consult him over their plans. Cards are exchanged.

We exit into the chilly February night, still star-blasted and sublime … well satisfied with our first Castelmoron cabaret experience.