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.