A Covid Christmas

It should have been a shared event, but instead it was a quiet celebration for two, just like our first Christmas in France four years ago.

Our friends from the UK did not come, it was their third cancellation in nine months.

So, as the grey sky blew away, revealing a weak winter sun, then greyed over again, our two reindeer stood stoically by the 19th century amphora outside the front door.

Behind them, a riot of yellowing mulberry leaves lay strewn on the ground, cast down by persistent winter winds.

And with the temperature hovering around five degrees, we hunkered down inside Ellesmere in front of the wood burner.

The bar opened early, with Christmas morning champagne and later, mulled wine through to lunch.

Down in the dank and dimly-lit cellar, beneath the barn, a Penfolds Shiraz Bin 128, vintage 2003, lay on its side awaiting a call to action.

We'd carried it with us from Australia.

Placed next to a crystal decanter on the marble top of the Louis 16th sideboard, it gradually lost its sub-terranean chill and warmed to room temperature, 23 degrees.

There was an early skype with relatives in Australia, then we had a late breakfast of avocado, smoked salmon and poached eggs.

Cliona started on the goose, filling the four kilogram bird with a Delia Smith forced-meat stuffing and a second, spiced cranberry and apple mixture.

While the goose rested after two-and-a-half hours in the oven, we had our seafood entrée.

Roast goose, stuffing and vegetables for main course ...

And for dessert ... a tranche of Bûche de Noël from the Port Sainte Marie bakery.

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While the French celebrate with a grand repas on Christmas Eve, we stick to our traditions and have an indulgent day on the 25th. 

You can easily be a gourmand in France, it is one of the truly great joys of living here.

Wild Boar

We had a visit from our friend Brigitte the other day.

She informed us she had some wild boar for sale, did we want any?

I told her I couldn't take a whole animal but perhaps a shoulder and a leg.

We collected the freshly killed and butchered boar that afternoon and proceeded to cut the shoulder into cubes for a stew.

The rest we put in the freezer.

We had some friends around for lunch. The ragoût de sanglier  was delicious.

The other day, as I walked to the barn, I looked westwards and noticed a large dog running across the ploughed field.

But it was not a dog. It was a wild boar.

It cantered ponderously across the large clay clods, with forequarters that seemed bigger than the rest of its body.

Its big, black-maned head bobbed up and down.

It made its way down the slope and into the forest.

google pic

I looked for pursuing dogs or hunters but saw none. The boar was wisely putting distance between it and danger.

Near dinner time, I asked Cliona about the big broccoli and swedes I had growing in the field.

"Shouldn't we be harvesting them now?"

"No need," she said, "they'll be there next year."

"But what if the wild boar come up out of the woods and dig them up?" I asked plaintively.

"Then we'll eat the boar, so no loss."

I hadn't thought of that.

Her logic was impeccable.

Is it the sun?

 

Tonight, after returning to the house from my sundowner in the garden, I spy the sun rising in the east.

But it is 5.30pm!

I look to the west, and see the washed colours of a late autumn sunset.

That is the brightest moon I've ever seen!

Late autumn sky

After a day's work in the garden, it's time for a sundowner.

I sit in my usual spot by the barn, looking out to the south.

I can see beyond the first ridge, beyond Clermont Dessous and St Medard to a distant skyline ... the Pyrenees!

In the crepuscular light, it makes a saw-toothed crease on the far horizon, but close enough to set one dreaming.

Because beyond the Pyrenees lies Spain, and beyond Spain ... Morocco.

While its peaks are normally hidden behind haze or cloud, occasionally, just occasionally, there they are.

Overhead, the thinnest crescent moon appears in the west, above the tops of the Lalandi pines, like a sharp tear in the sky.

A bird of prey hovers above the grass below the fruit trees. He swoops low but then arcs upwards and flies away. Maybe he spotted me sitting here.

I love the calm, approaching night. 

The sky is brushed with horses' tails turned pink by the setting sun.

There's a chill in the air.

The cycle of life

Well into September and the days are unseasonably hot, not a cloud in the sky to cool the intensity of the sun.
The tomatoes are in full swing. So are the chilis and peppers in the raised beds.

Behind the door of the barn, wasps are swarming. It's a frenzy of nest-building. Their meringue-style structure swirls down the pocked stone wall and even onto the inside of the door.

I leave them alone, as they are native to France ... unlike the Asian Hornet, for which I have set a sweet trap in the fork of our pear tree.

Insect life proliferates around Ellesmere. Bees, flies, wasps, hornets, butterflies, midges ... the list goes on and on. We have so many geckos, darting across the pavers and taking refuge behind shutters.

Unfortunately the pheasants and partridges have disappeared. Large buzzards may have been responsible for the elimination of the 12 chicks that followed their mum around the garden three to four months ago. They are no more, we haven't seen them at all.

The hunting season started yesterday ... gunshots rang out around us in patches of forest.

The days are growing shorter. I observe the cycle of life with great interest and pleasure.

Six Paddys plus two

Ellesmere hosted six Paddys plus two for a Sunday lunch.

Six Irishmen and women, plus an Australian and an Englishman.

We had drinks under the leafy canopy of one of the Mulberry trees.

We enjoyed four courses and plenty of good wine.

tables set for eight

looking over to the lunch across the pool

ready for the guests to arrive

six Paddys plus one

main course of tandoori chicken, rice and green beans

entrée of two cold soups

lemon posset with raspberries

a mauled cheesboard

All you can say is, "the craic was good!"

The potager coming on

As we move toward mid-July, the crops in the four raised beds are growing prolifically.

And down in the field, the tomatoes are bushing out, as well as reaching upwards.

cucumbers and chillis in near bed, peppers in far bed

a dozen varieties of tomatoes

aubergines, two kinds of basil and chillis in near bed, potatoes in far bed, young lettuces in fruit boxes and roquette gone to seed in the foreground

The flowers at the front of the house have benefitted from nettle juice ...

The strong light of summer and the colours of the garden make this time of year special.

A warm summer's evening in the garden

A few photos taken in the soft, clear light of late afternoon ...

The partridge family

A pair of adult partridges had become a common sight in our garden.

But after their absence for a period I began to worry.

Then, joy!

Mum and a dozen babies showed up ... and it was a real thrill.

the chicks are perfectly camouflaged against the stones and leaves

They have their favourite spots in the garden and tend to come out in the early evening.

I've come to recognise mum's call and, with my camera at the ready, can quietly locate them.

The sunny calm

Sunday was a bright, warm day.

But it proved to be the calm before the storm.

Monday morning brought thunder, lightning and a downpour.

the view from our front window

The storm quenched the garden's thirst, which had returned after a week of sunshine.

But not before I'd harvested our first artichoke.

Around the fountain, the irises are eye-catching ... white on tanned skin, violet on boot-polish black and purple stripes with just a hint of gold.

 

Lurking in the shadows, catching the rays of the afternoon sun, a glorious rose.

The first flowers of Spring

Oblivious to human events, the seasons and Nature move forward inexorably.

Here are the first flowers of Spring in the garden of Ellesmere.

A 19th century amphora, a recent purchase for the garden.

The beauty of Nature can comfort us in times of stress.