Prayssas

Prayssas is a village to the south of Castelmoron, about halfway to Agen.

It has a truffle market on Sunday mornings in winter, so we set off with high hopes of experiencing something new and interesting.

We got there too late.

The centre of town was deserted, accept for one woman packing away fruit and veg into the back of a van.

She told me the truffle market kicked off at 10am and was over in minutes. Shivers, a truffle frenzy.

Despite the empty streets, Prayssas possessed an endearing charm. We figured everyone was inside enjoying Sunday lunch ... with or without truffles.

An example of columbages, a kind of add-on to the church buildings.

The Hotel de Ville abutts the hotel de biere.

Tobacco-brown timber doors framed by black cast iron. An eye-pleasing contrast.

Mr Lombard's butcher shop.

A village house with unusual sky-blue shutters.

An invitation from the Mayor

We received an invitation in the letterbox to a New Year's function in the village hall.

We arrived a bit early and watched as the room filled with about 300 locals, the vast majority senior citizens. The tables were set modestly, with small plastic plates and cups.

I got talking to the man next to me. I learnt he was the local Curé. He told me cakes and drinks would be served later.

I was chuffed when Jean Claude, our neighbour and councillor, brought the lady mayor over and introduced us to her.

When proceedings got underway, Madam le Maire, flanked by councillors, spoke about the achievements of 2016 and civic goals for 2017.

These included the construction of tennis courts and accompanying facilities. Cliona was pleased to hear that.

There would also be an upgrading of security at the primary school, in line with the state of emergency still in force throughout France. I was amazed at how a heightened sense of national vigilance had so permeated to the grass roots.

Then the President of the Commune took the microphone. He spoke for too long and the audience got restless. A long-haired man in his sixties, dressed shabbily in a green tracksuit and sitting three places down the table, looked over at me with exasperation. He made an eating gesture.

Finally, the formalities were over and big bowls of Spanish clementines were brought out.

Then cakes, two kinds; a flat, almond-flavoured Gateau Pithiviers and a Gateau Couronne des rois, appropriately served with a cardboard crown on top.

Bottles of bubbles were placed on the tables. This cheered up my scruffy mate.

The bubbles were good. There was a Blanquette de Limoux, a bone-dry fizzy white, and a Brittany cider, Val de Rance Brut, fruity but not cloyingly sweet.

The priest made an early exit and his place was taken by an elderly farmer, wearing a cap. He was very affable and keen to find out how an Aussie had ended up in Castelmoron.  He told me where he lived, in a small hamlet about five kilometres away, next to a plum orchard.

He said the Lot et Garonne was famous for producing prunes.

I said yep, if you liked prunes, you were in the right place. A bloke at the end of the table overheard and laughed, but not the farmer.

A swarthy woman, who I took to be from Mauritius who had been sitting next to the priest, joined the conversation.  Upon learning Cliona didn't speak much French, she informed us that elementary French lessons were available at the Town Hall. I said we would definitely take this up.

The friendly farmer then bid us farewell. As he stood up to leave, the Mauritan woman stood too. They left together.

Outside, the air temperature was minus something. But we had a warm feeling, leaving the Salle des Fetes. We were pleased we had gone to our first village function, and made some new aquaintances.

The local library

At Castelmoron, there is a small library, attached to the town hall.

I went there with my passport and electricity bill, expecting to provide proof of identity and address.

I needn't have bothered. I just filled out a modest form and paid an annual subscription of 7.50 euros.

My son has been raving about a French novel he read in English, "The Stranger" by Albert Camus.

I was chuffed when the librarian found it for me.

This extraordinary novel, set in French Algeria, was the young writer's first book, and won him the Nobel prize for literature in 1957.

My progress is very slow. I am constantly reaching for the French-English dictionary, but I'm appreciating just what a fine work this is.

The other publications I borrowed were editions of my favourite French comics ... Lucky Luke and Tintin.

Luke is a cool-hand cowboy cleaning up the Wild West. His arch-rivals are the four Dalton brothers, bumbling bad-arses who terrify the residents of one-horse towns but are no match for the quick-drawing, durry-dangling Luke.

The other comic or bande dessinee that I love is Tintin.

I was first introduced to Tintin at the home of a wonderful French/Moroccan family in Casablanca in 1977. It holds a nostalgic appeal to this day.

I have a month to read all of these. I will have to beg an extension.

A drive into the hills

Sections of the Lot are flanked by hills, some support Bastide towns that command wonderful views.

These towns held strategic positions and some still boast medieval fortifications, making them impressive and historically important.

We drove to Monflaquin, a Bastide town to the north-east. It has the distinction of belonging to that prestigious association,  les plus beaux villages de France (the most beautiful villages of France).

There are photos in shop windows showing the same streets a hundred years or more ago.

These photos are still contemporary, given the age of the town.

A month in France

After years of planning and anticipation, France is now a reality, though at times it seems unreal.

We retired, consolidated our savings, packed stuff, sold stuff, gave stuff away. Our furniture is in storage awaiting shipment here at a later date.

We said goodbye to children and grandchildren. Hard hugs, flowing tears, constricted throats at the airport.

Singapore Airlines Premium Economy Sydney to Paris, then a Blacklane Mercedes to Versailles, then a Citroen C4 to Roanne, then on to Castlemoron sur Lot.

We have people on our side, which is smoothing the transition. My second-cousin-in-law Karim has rented us his holiday house here in the Lot et Garonne and facilitated the opening of a bank account.

We also have the irrepressible John Dislins from Pleasehelp.fr to make things happen.

He and his team have already done much to assist us and will be in my corner for the Carte de Sejours.

Now, with Christmas behind us and 2017 about to unfold, we take stock of one month in France.

It has been every bit as good as I'd hoped.

When there are sunny days, we go cycling to St Livrade in one direction, or to Clairac in the other.

We pass broken down stone structures covered in blackberries. We pass magnificent Chateaux. The one near Granges lies abandoned and mouldering, but the one near Fongrave is superb. It has been faithfully restored and now offers luxurious holiday accomodation.

Our cycle route takes us between the river and its flood plain, skirting expansive farms that stretch away to forested hills crowned by the odd Bastide village, such as Laparade.

These are the vast acreages on which massive irrigation structures sit like great, steel stick-insects, poised, waiting.

And dotted around this agricultural landscape are farmhouses with pigeonnieres and soot-black timbered barns and industrial-sized polytunnels running off into the distance.

And then there are days of cloistering cold and fog, keeping us at home with a fire in the insert. As the weak sun slowly moves in a low arc towards afternoon,  the neighbour's farmhouse and orchard emerge out of the murkiness. We eat a simple lunch of cheese and cornichons on a baguette.

During those years in Adelaide, whilst plotting our escape, I would occasionally read the negative experiences of expats in France. I sometimes feared the journey might be better than the destination.

I needn't have worried. My fears were unfounded.

We just love it here.

Fog

This morning was particularly foggy. At 10am, you couldn't see beyond 50 metres. As I took the first shot, I could just make out a pair of ghostly figures walking across the ploughed field. The large clumps of turned earth would've made it heavy going.

By midday, the sun was burning up the fog.

By 1.30pm, the fog had all but lifted to herald a sunny day.

At the close of day, we are treated to glorious pinks on the western horizon.

Our first Christmas in France

Here are some photos and words to celebrate our first Xmas in France.

We respect and pay tribute to this day's long culinary tradition. We have done our best to follow it.

The lunch began with the opening of a bottle of Alfred Rothschild demi-sec champagne and some oysters which I had bought from the Marenne/Ile d'Oleron farmer at the St Livrade sur Lot Friday market.

Cliona did a wonderful job setting the table with exquisite lotus flower napkins ... and at 2.30pm we opened proceedings with a tranche of foie gras d'oie, and a glass of Chateau Grand Mayne 2013 Sauternes.

We followed with roast chapon, which is a large rooster, neutered at a young age and fattened on a local farm. Cliona slow-roasted the bird to perfection and made two stuffings, bread sauce, gravy, roast veggies and apple-flavoured red cabbage with cloves and nutmeg.

This was accompanied by a Grand Vin de Bordeaux, La Marquise d'Alphonse de Gamage 2012. It is a Merlot-dominant blend, with 15 per cent Cabernet Franc and 15 per cent Cabernet Sauvignon.

\

We concluded the meal with a slice of Buche de Noel, which I bought from the local Boulangerie/Pattiserie in the main street of the village.