Friday nights

In keeping with a tradition established by Cliona in Adelaide, she regularly prepares an attractive and delicious table of pre-dinner nibbles on Friday nights.

Last Friday night we enjoyed a selection of charcuterie, smoked salmon blinis and cheeses with crab-apple jelly and quince paste.

It was a cold night and we were as warm as toast in front of the fire.

It's often the little things in life that makes one happy.

Le Repas Chasseur à Coulx 2018

Hunters' Lunch  Coulx 2018

Low cloud the colour of steel hung over the hamlet. The bell of a 12^th century church chimed at midday as we walked the short distance from Jane and Tony’s place to where the feast was being prepared.

Faces moistened by drizzle, rugged up against the cold, we must have looked like a group of hungry pilgrims as we approached Coulx’s Salle des Fetes (community hall).

In the reception area, we hung our overcoats and paid our 20 euros.

Three long tables, each of 50 places, filled a room from which the stage had been removed to create more space.

A good proportion of the townsfolk had already arrived. Inside, we were met by Louis, the village patriarch, a kindly octogenarian whose face showed the creases of a full life, whose scalp was thinly carpeted with short-cropped, grizzled hair and whose eyes, narrowed to slits beneath arched eyebrows, shone, indeed sparkled as he chaperoned Jane and Tony and their “English” guests to their seats.

The tables were dressed with canary yellow cloths and decorated with mimosa, tiny pinecones and jugs of rouge, known as vin du pays (local wine). 

People brought their own “couverts” … plates, knives, forks etc ... and arranged these on the table as they sat down.

Once all the guests were seated, pre-lunch drinks (apéros) were served by the hunters and members of their families. Whisky, Ricard or Muscat.

The adults went around pouring drinks; little boys with arms outstretched made offerings of ice cubes in small aluminium bowls. 

Soup was a broth of tapioca in meat stock. This was a new savory experience as I’d only ever eaten tapioca in sago pudding.

I filled our wine glasses from a jug. Tony leaned over to me and said, “If you look around the room the French have not yet touched their wine.” I checked our table and the one in front and the one behind. It was true. Hardly anyone in the room had wine in their glasses. 

On each of the three tables, a few full glasses, here and there, betrayed the presence of foreigners … English, Dutch, Belgian.

It was only after the soup course that the French poured their wine. Dining protocols are always strictly observed.

Next on the menu was a plate of wild boar charcuterie with crudities (salad) consisting of a tranche of terrine and two slices of boar carpaccio, asparagus, a couple of cornichons and an artichoke heart filled with chopped cooked veg in mayonnaise.

After the entrèe came a slow-cooked ragout of venison. I looked around the room and wondered how many of these diners were in fact hunters. Some of these old men and young men were responsible for this feast, they had gone out on freezing mornings with guns and dogs and steely resolve. They had kept alive one of France's oldest traditions.

As well as the vin du pays in jugs, bottles of Haut Grand Champ Bordeaux 2014 began appearing on the table … and were replaced as we emptied them.

Next, steaks of sanglier (wild boar) with a mushroom sauce served with polenta. That was followed by boar cutlets … chargrilled and tender.

A slice of paysan cheese from the local Fromagerie Baechler at Temple sur Lot came with salad … and that was followed by tiramisu, a delicious melt in your mouth variation that was washed down with champagne.

Armagnac or Eau de Vie rounded off the lunch … and coffee.

This marathon of indulgence, blessed by Saints Hubertus and Vincent, went on until five thirty in the afternoon. A celebration of hunting and cooking, it began in muted fashion, but as the afternoon wore on it became louder and more convivial. 

Hospitality, fine food and good wine seem to have that effect.

As we left the hall, I noted the smile on Louis' face was as wide and warm as when we had entered … perhaps even wider.

It had been a memorable lunch.

Sunset

The naked trees are lit by the setting sun.

Their bleached, skeletal branches take on a ghostly appearance.

They shine brightly against a stormy sky.

Is it snow?

The sky was an unusual blue-grey and there was a penetrating chill in the air.

 The veranda thermometer registered 4 degrees.

Cliona came home from shopping and said she thought it had been snowing between Tonneins and Laparade.

I checked the local weather forecast. It said nothing about snow.

But my anticipation was piqued.

Then, something started to happen.

"It's snowing," Cliona said excitedly.

I rushed out of the warm living room and was hit by cold air.

I could see white dust on the black lid of our rubbish bin.

Hand outstretched, I collected pinhead-sized pieces of frozen rain falling from an arctic sky.

This wasn't snow.

I retreated into the house, disappointed.

The gate bell rang.

A hirsute man in a lumber jacket, clutching a folder, stood next to a white Renault van.

"I'm doing the census," he said. "You should've received the forms in your letterbox."

Then I remembered. I did receive some forms, but discarded them.

Guilty, I used that classic, disingenuous response, "Sorry, French is not my mother tongue."

"Never mind," the official said, "we can do it now."

"Ok," I said. "In that case you'd better come inside, out of the cold."

As we walked to the door, I tried to make small talk.

"I thought it was snowing," I said.

"Juste les toutes petits flocons (just tiny little flakes). It hasn't snowed properly here for six years," he said.

The census officer sat with me at our dining table as he filled out the forms, one for the house, one for me, one for Cliona.

His large hands were hairy and he was missing a left little finger.

A raging fire threw out good warmth but the room stank of smoke.

Cooking odours from the kitchen wafted in to attenuate the smell.

He expected Cliona's surname to be Hull. I said it was Martin.

"So, you are co-habitating?"

"No, we are married," I said.

He looked surprised.

"Yes," I said, "married women don't necessarily take their husband's name these days."

I'm not sure he agreed.

He put the completed forms into his leather folder.

I escorted him back to his Renault van.

It was still very cold but the menacing clouds had started to break up, revealing patches of blue sky.

The squirrel

My Australian tongue finds its French name unpronounceable. I may have to live here a dozen years before I succeed.

In  the meantime, I take great pleasure in this little chap. I could watch him for hours, playfully scampering around the garden, foraging for walnuts.

He is a nervous little Herbert. He props, puts his head up to look around, then resumes his hopping run.

His tail is a russet colour just like his body, and as long. We have seen another with a darker tail, maybe his mate?

Our little furry friend audaciously climbs onto the verandah table where Cliona has a basket of walnuts. Using his front paws, he plucks one from the basket and nibbles at it, before scurrying away, only to come back for another a few minutes later.

I've named him Herbert

Blue sky, white frost

The face of winter has changed, from grey to blue.

The rain has eased. The clouds have broken up. We've had the first frost for quite a while, covering the grass and sealing the car in an opaque sheet of ice.

The Lot, swollen and turbulent for weeks, has resumed its gentle, glassy undulation.

The sun makes an appearance and angles into the kitchen through a window, throwing rays onto a tray of vegetables we bought this morning at St Livrade.

The fire burns bright in the hearth. Last night, we put on some well-cured pine logs, complete with needles ... and were treated to a fireworks display.