Uncle Frank's place

A parcel arrived from my sister last week.

It contained a name-plate for our new house in the Lot et Garonne, with stylised letters burnt into a piece of Tasmanian King Billy pine.

It was a wonderful gift.

I attached it to the side of the barn, by the entry to the house.

I chose Ellesmere as the name of our place in memory of my Uncle Frank's house.

I called him Uncle Frank though he wasn't really my uncle, but a good friend of my grandfather's.

It was the 1960's and Frank Roberts, a retired surveyor, lived in a sprawling country house on the outskirts of Chinchilla, in south-west Queensland.

Frank regularly made the five-hour journey east to Eumundi, where my papa and aunt lived on a little dairy farm.

Eumundi is in the hinterland of the Sunshine Coast.

He'd turn up on a Sunday morning in his sky-blue Morris Minor, with his battered old suitcase on the back seat and Belle, his kelpie-dog, beside him in the front.

On a couple of occasions, Aunty Viv took me to visit Frank in Chinchilla. We would go in her old Volkswagen beetle and stop half-way for lunch, eating sandwiches she had prepared.

"Viv"...  overlooking Oyster Bay at Stansbury SA  2014

I inherited "Viv" in 2000 upon the death of my beloved aunt. |It was a very tired and sad old motor car.

I had Viv restored until it looked like it had just come off the assembly line in 1955.

But back to Frank's place in Chinchilla.

Bordering a dry creek bed, it sat amongst mallee and gum trees growing in the red sand of western Queensland.

His house had a wide veranda, off which tall doors opened to many rooms. But one was off-limits to me. It was Frank and Ruth's bedroom, now locked and preserved as a shrine to his dead wife.

Frank's house contained many pieces of colonial Australian and English antique furniture and paintings.

There was a huge fireplace which warmed the house in winter. Belle would lie on a tattered rug in front of it. There was an old 1940's radio in the corner of the lounge room.

Above the hearth, an array of antique firearms, shotguns, were displayed.

Frank was an austere and upright man, somewhat eccentric. Though Australian, he conducted himself like a landed English gentleman.

He smoked a pipe.

I remember the wonderful, aromatic scent of his pipe tobacco. It permeated the house.

Frank was very fond of me.

He would sit by my bed at night, trying to comfort me as I laboured to breathe with childhood asthma.

It was only later that I learnt his beautiful wife Ruth, a Hull, had died in middle age of an asthma attack.

Frank never remarried. I think his heart was broken.

I never knew why Frank called his house Ellesmere, but I am proud to adopt the same name for mine.

  

A duck farm do

La Ferme de Ramon, near Galapian in the Lot et Garonne, farms ducks ... lots of them.

It is a well-known producer of quality duck products, including foie gras.

Last weekend it held its annual Foires au gras (foire means fair). Nice little play on words that.

The festivities culminated in a beaut Sunday lunch, which attracted people from miles around.

For 20 euros a head, you got a choice of entrée ...foie gras or ballotine/gallantine of duck.

For main course we shared a magret de canard avec frites (grilled breast served with french fries) and a cassoulet (beans with duck wings and sausage).

For dessert, we chose a tarte su pruneaux (prune tart).

We began our lunch with champagne and continued with a Cotes de Duras.

The bubbles, a Feneuil Pointillart from Chamery, were exceptional. We found out you could source it from a tiny post office in a two-horse, D666 town called Bourran. That's not so far to drive.

About 150 diners were seated at tables in the massive old barn. The rustic French atmosphere was enhanced by antique armoires (cupboards) and interesting old rural wares displayed around the walls.

...  and singer Pascal provided a lovely, easy-listening backdrop with his renditions of traditional tunes.

Outside the barn, there were lots of stalls selling wines, honey, candles, jams, armagnac and all sorts of duck products, including carcasses with necks and heads.

We bought one of those.

During lunch we sat next to a lovely couple, M. et Mme. Simon, who spoke pretty good English. We soon found out why. They had been all over the world through his job as an electrical engineer working for a multinational French company. He had site-managed the building of hydro-power stations, oil platforms and the like.

We came away from La Ferme de Ramon having thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

We had spent time immersed in rural French culture  ... and as a bonus we had made new friends.

M. et Mme. Simon invited us for an apero and nibbles that night ... and we gladly accepted.

Autumn colours and mushrooms galore

After a week of grey days, the clear blue sky is a glorious backdrop to the colours of autumn.

The sunshine highlights the stunning colours of deciduous trees and shrubs in the garden.

flame red leaves

green and gold

These mushrooms have come up around the garden, but particularly under the pines.

If there are any mushroom aficionados out there, can you advise?

don't know this one, is it edible or nasty?

pretty sure this is the edible puffball aka lycoperdon perlatum

this one looks dodgy

what's this one?

a treat or a threat?

these little characters ... benign or malevolent?

Red Gold

When we looked at Ellesmere back in February one of the attractive aspects of the house was its saffron garden.

Nicole Negrello proudly showed us the half-dozen raised beds, about a metre wide by 20 metres long, on the southern side of the property.

The beds were bare except for a few weeds and some tufts of grass.

"I have left you an explanatory chart in the barn," she said.

"It will tell you what to do next autumn."

Now, almost nine months later, we are seeing the magic that is happening along the sides and tops of these beds.

The previously dry, cracked clay soil has softened with the onset of autumnal showers.

The browned surface of summer has turned into a green carpet of weeds and grass.

With a strimmer I blasted this unwanted growth off the saffron beds, in anticipation of the little lilac flowers that would herald the arrival of our crop.

 A week ago, still nothing, and I started to worry that maybe this wasn't going to happen.

Then, a few days ago, they started to appear.

First came one or two, then more. They came up randomly, pushing up their little mauve stems no more than a couple of centimeters high.

They opened into flowers, with soft violet petals tenderly enfolding the red gold inside.

We were on.

According to the literature, there is only a short window of opportunity to pluck the red stigmas.

So far, we have harvested about fifty flowers and Cliona has dried the stigmas in the oven... a high temperature for a short time

There are many more to come, I hope.

It is a thrilling time ... in the garden of Ellesmere.

The Jolly Postman

I'm aware of quite a few negative anecdotes about La Poste here in France.

I complained once about what I suspected was interference in mail from overseas.

But then along comes Giles le facteur (the postman).

You hear him before you see him ... there's a loud, whistling soundtrack playing in his van.

It was around late May. We'd only just moved in when he drove up in his canary-yellow van and enthusiastically introduced himself.

Giles said if we ever had mail to post, he could do it for us. Put the letter or package in the letterbox and attach a clothes peg to the outside flap.

If we didn't have a stamp ... no worries, he would do that for us. Just leave some cash with the letter. If change was required, he would seal it in an envelope with a receipt from the Post Office.

It was easy and straightforward. Now, no more trips to the bureau de poste to find, alas, it was closed for lunch. Or, standing in a queue of people all wanting to do complex transactions.

Giles' service in La Poste began in Paris in 1985.

He then did a 10-year stint in Nantes and in 1997 went to work in Provence.

He was there for ten years before coming to the south-west.

Giles with his whistling van

Giles ... the happiest postman in the Aquitaine

Giles loves his job.

The best part, he reckons, is building and maintaining relationships with his clients.

He made an effort with us and I appreciated that.

There will be a bottle of champagne in the postbox this Christmas.

For a Madagascar school

A charitable organisation had organised a walk through the Bazens countryside to raise money for a village school in Madagascar.

Forty people gathered at the Domaine de Quissat winery at 9 o'clock on Sunday morning.

Most arrived by car. We had the luxury of sauntering the 800 metres from our place down the hill to Quissat.

Monique, the organiser, explained that the money would help build a canteen. Every morning bare-footed children walked miles to school, on empty stomachs. They arrived tired and hungry and had trouble staying awake through the lessons.

A hearty school breakfast would change all that.

So, with a good cause to walk for, we set off on our eight kilometre perambulation through farmland, forest and by the edge of rural hamlets.

We trudged over clods of recently turned clay; up and down stony hillsides; we took tractor tracks, forest paths and roadways.

By the fields of Chateau du Pecile, we came across an isolated, stone building of no more than 20 square metres. It was on the edge of a paddock, under some trees, with a sweeping view of the valley below.

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Two carved, stone cherubs flanked the doorway. The interior was bare except for a chair and a small, dust-covered refectory table. An antique, mantle mirror lent against one of the walls. There was a doormat sporting a Union Jack design.

Monique said it was once used for assignations. The walkers sniggered so she hastened to add it was just a joke. I reckon it could've been true.

The impressive Chateau, we were told, once had Australian caretakers. Now it was empty most of the time, its English owners coming out for a couple of months every summer and maybe at Christmas.

We passed under magnificent oak trees and an ancient cypress pine whose massive girth must have been at least five metres, its huge, magnificent branches splayed skyward.

For a while we walked with Luke, a tall, thin, silver-haired Belgian who'd lived in France for 40 years.

He said he had a connection with Madagascar.

Years ago he boarded a student who was studying agriculture at a nearby college.

This young man had left his wife and child behind in Madagascar.

One day the young man appeared quite upset and Luke asked him what the matter was.

He said his wife had contacted him to say that the gas bottle she used for cooking had run out and she didn't have enough money to refill it.

Madagascar is one of the poorest countries in the world.

When the young man's four-month study tour was up, he went back to Madagascar. He used his acquired knowledge to plant a large vegetable garden but every night, people came and stole his produce. All the work he did during the day was undone by these night raids.

The young man and his family migrated to France and he now lectures in tropical agriculture at a large Montpellier college.

He and his family are no longer poor.

When our group of walkers got back to Quissat, we were treated to a tour of the winery and a tasting.

About thirty people stayed on for a picnic lunch. It was one of those long-table-joyous-French-Sunday lunches ... wine and conversation flowed.

When it came time for dessert, the guests brought out their homemade cakes. These were cut up and passed around for all to share. There was a chocolate cake, a banana cake, a lemon cake, a pear cake and other pastry creations.

I fear we were the only couple who didn't bring a cake.

We'll know next time ...

And bring lamingtons.

Heritage shared

On the weekend, France threw open many historic buildings as part of Journées de Patrimonie (days to honour heritage).

I drove up to Clermont-Dessous, a pretty bastide (fortified) village with a beautiful domed church.

The parish church of Saint-Jean Baptiste was built in the 12th century and commands a superb view of the Garonne valley.

The church was restored in 1880 and received heritage listing in 1908.

the interior

one of the lead-light windows

a gorgeous Gothic chair

the confessional

the view from the church yard

The village has some wonderful stone and columbage (half-timbered) houses.

This home has an attractive little courtyard bathed in morning sunlight.

Artichokes follow the plough

So Remy the organic winemaker down the road had promised me some baby artichoke plants.

I walked over to his place the other day and asked if I could pick them up.

He said now was not the season for planting artichokes. He said I had to wait til March next year.

Oh, OK, I said. No worries.

He said the best thing to do now was to prepare the ground ... prior to winter. By this he meant turning over the soil, creating a large bed for next year's planting.

I had envisaged a plot of between 50 and 60 square metres.

But the clay ground is cracked and rock hard and I despaired at ever being able to dig it manually. It would do my back in, for sure. Perhaps I could hire one of those rotavators or whatever they're called.

I was out in the garden pondering this problem when I saw a large tractor in the corner of the adjoining field, right on the edge of our property.

It had been ploughing next door and had these huge steel rippers on the back.

It was 12.15 ... lunchtime for the industrious farmer.

I thought, if I keep an eye out I might catch him when he returns from lunch. So I got to work on pruning the huge rosemary bush growing near the pool, a job which afforded me clear sight of the tractor.

At 2.15pm a white van pulled up next to the tractor and two men alighted.

I seized my chance and walked down to greet them.

I introduced myself to the older man. He quickly guessed I was the new owner of Balette, a property his grandparents owned a long time ago.

He said he owned the field next to my place and one across the road and he lived over near Clermont Dessous. He said his name was Jean-Phillipe.

I explained that I wanted to grow artichokes on a patch of ground just twenty metres away and could I ask a big favour of him. I said I would compensate him for his efforts.

He laughed and shrugged off talk of payment or recompense. He said it would be a quick and easy thing to do, he just needed me to indicate the ground I wanted ploughed.

He climbed up into the cabin and in what seemed like no time had ploughed up my artichoke field.

He said he would come back in February and run over the patch again, to make it ready for planting.

I was absolutely thrilled.

Jean-Phillipe had saved my back, my time and a pile of money to boot.

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quick and easy with a large tractor

my field of artichoke dreams

I begged Jean-Phillipe to accept something for his trouble. He finally relented. I gave him a case of beer, though he continued to protest. 

I've got nothing but praise for my French neighbours ... especially ones with big tractors and big hearts.

Not gardening, sunbathing.

It's still summer-warm here in the south-west.

The sun is strong in a Simpson's sky, pale blue with wispy cloud.

The shade of the lime tree creeps closer to the pool, across a narrow stretch of grass and over a patch of river stones and washed gravel.

But it will not reach the pool's edge, as the sun arcs towards the west.

Overhead, a bird of prey circles lazily on the up-drafts. Keen-eyed and head down, it issues a mournful call, something between a whistle and a cry.

At ground level, there is hardly a breath of wind. The weathercock on the apex of the barn roof is perfectly still, pointing north.

Then, suddenly, comes the crack of gun fire from a thicket beyond my neighbour, the widow Rossi's house. The shots are no more than three hundred yards away. It's the opening day of the season.

I'm reminded we haven't seen our pair of pheasants for a couple of months. They delighted us with their occasional forays into the garden after we moved here in May. I hope they are still alive.

Around the house, there is plenty of work to do. Yesterday I decided to prune some bushy shrubs growing out of control at the southern corner of the barn, by the road leading to Remy's winery.

What I thought was a morning job is proving otherwise. It's going to take days. The more material I removed, the more I discovered. There was an under-story jungle of dead branches, beneath a canopy of prolific shoots.

I'm mulching the branches and disposing of them under a sprawling Leylandii pine at the bottom of the garden. The leaves and stalks go into large cardboard moving boxes which I take to the local dechetterie in Port Sainte Marie.

The dechetterie provides a convenient, free service. In Australia, it's called a tip, and it costs you to go there.

Whilst pruning, I decided to remove my shirt. This was a mistake. I paid the price when I got a big horse-fly bite on my back. In the heat of work, I never even felt him land or bite. Now I've got an itchy welt the size of a 50 cent piece.

In the buzzing and biting squadrons, mozzies might be spitfires but horse-flies are B-52 bombers. They are huge and scary.

So today, I decided to suspend gardening and instead spend a lazy day by the pool, reading David Niven's The Moon's a Balloon, sun-baking and dipping into the glassy, aquamarine water.

I have turned the colour of tobacco.

Haven't been this brown since my boyhood at Noosa.

au revoir Genevieve

My sister Genevieve is going home tomorrow.

After an unlucky start to her holiday, which saw her hospitalised for two weeks, things settled and she extended her stay by two weeks.

Today we had a farewell lunch at a nearby restaurant, Le Temps de Vivre at Saint-Hilaire-de-Lusignan.

It was, as the French say, super bon.

an entrée

a main course

a dessert

Genevieve in the middle

Life has dealt Genevieve a few tough cards, but she's happy these days. She deserves it.

We didn't do a lot of galavanting around. There was a cruise on the Garonne, a visit to the castle at Duras and crepes in the bastide village of Clermont Dessous.

We had a day sight-seeing, lunching and shopping in Bordeaux.

Most of the time we spent at home, our new home, where she was content to potter in the garden or lie by the pool.

At night, we had fun playing scrabble or arrowords.

We've thoroughly enjoyed Genevieve's stay. Although it is a long and tiring trip from Tasmania, we're hoping she'll come again.

Bodega at Prayssas

The nearby village of Prayssas had a Spanish-themed festival this weekend.

They called it Bodega. I was told it was an annual celebration of the Basque country and its food from the land (terre) and sea (mer).

There was a fair crowd at the Sunday lunch.

There were stalls selling vegetables and fruit, Spanish ham, jewellery, wine, waffles, chips ... and a vide grenier (car-boot sale).

At the foot of the tall church tower, the village square was decked out with tables and chairs ... those under the shady trees were popular.

So was the bar.

I bought a dozen Archachon oysters, opened them with a knife borrowed from the vendor and washed them down with a cold beer.

There was a stall selling mussels and paella.

The mussels were delicious, smothered in caramelised onion.

The tapas from the bar was great value at 10 euros. It consisted of six treats, sausage, octopus, chicken, potato, cheese, melon and bread.

A guitarist played and sang.

It was a wonderful atmosphere.

Wine tasting

We were happy to accept an invitation from our English chum Christopher Garety to attend a wine-tasting evening at his house in Tombeboeuf.

We joined him and his son Patrick and Patrick's fiancee Ellen last Friday night.

Christoper had chosen six red wines from his cellar and covered them.  His son poured them into tasting glasses, which were arranged on his father's West Australian jarrah table in the renovated barn.

The barn adjoins the house and is wonderfully decorated with African artifacts. Patrick and Ellen both live and work in Malawi and Christopher's wife Lorna lives in South Africa.

The wines were labelled A-F. They'd worked out a system whereby no-one knew which wines were which but could be checked after the event.

Well, the tasting proceeded. Each wine was sniffed, swilled and savoured. The tasting sheets were filled out.

After participants had commented on and scored each wine, Christopher revealed its identity, where it was from and the price paid.

After we had tasted all six and compared our scores, we found that each of us had a favourite.

However an overall trend had emerged. The two non-French wines had been the most impressive.

The French ones were ...

The fourth French wine was from Graves and didn't rate at all, quite insipid.

The overall winners, on aggregate scores, were wines from South Africa and Morocco!

Just for comparison ... these are the prices Christopher paid for the wines.

2008 Chateau Haut Coteau      20 euros
2011 Chateau Arnaud              30 euros
2015 Chateau Haut-Goujon    20 euros
2009 Meerlust Rubicon           30 euros
2013 Kahina                            13 euros

I scored the Meerlust and Kahina equally, at nine out of ten (exceptional), but gave Kahina my No.1 pick.

When it was unmasked, I was thrilled to discover it was Moroccan. I remember 40 years ago drinking a plonk called Doumi Rouge in bars in Casablanca.

The tasters ... photo by Christopher 

Christopher's renovated barn