The truffle market

A thick rope, which stretches waist high across the stone floor, keeps buyers in an orderly queue.

The morning sun is streaming in through the long windows of the marketplace.  Sellers are standing at long trellis tables, their charcoal-coloured nuggets laid out neatly on little white doilies. Beside each truffle is written its weight and price.

As 10 o'clock approaches, the anticipation mounts. The white-moustached man who spoke to us on arrival, re-appears as Doctor Who ... in a flowing black gown, wearing a black fedora and sporting a double gold sash around his neck. He has assumed the role as patron of truffles, the master of ceremonies.

The church bell chimes from on high. This is the signal for a man in a blue rain jacket and scarf to look up at the expectant crowd and shake a small, silver bell, announcing the start of the Prayssas truffle market.

The rope drops, buyers surge forward to engage with sellers, truffles are picked up and sniffed, money changes hands. Within ten minutes, it is pretty much all over.

Truffle sellers with their treasures on display

Buyers ready to go

The truffle "Master" 

With an earthy or yeasty nose, these gourmet fungi are worth 1000 euros a kilo

Black gold 

Truffles are venerated by gourmands all over the world and their production has spread as far a field as Australia.

French producers now use dogs more than pigs to uncover the treasure.

Its near mythical status means the ceremonial protocols surrounding its sale have assumed almost religious proportions.

Casseneuil

Casseneuil is a pretty village just a short, leisurely drive from Castelmoron.

I was particularly impressed with the architecture of the old quarter, which must date back to medieval times.
Don't forget to click on the images for bigger, better-resolution photos.

Slightly ramshackle residences rise up at the river's edge, defiant and resilient.

They tower above a lone rowboat moored romantically on the edge of the Lot.

There's always a Boulangerie, this one is housed in a stately old building.

President Trump

I think we should all stock up ...

Firewood

Monsieur Rigo lives in the hills above Castelmoron. He is a retired man who collects, cuts and sells firewood.

Two great sheds, about 75 metres long, dominate his property.  They once housed chickens, 5000 in each. But chicken farming is hard work and he stopped when his health began to suffer.

With a couple of stents and regular medication, Monsieur Rigo is in fine fettle these days. He takes it easy, just doing his firewood.

I wear leather gloves to handle the rough, splintery logs, but M. Rigo's hands are thick and calloused, the hands of a working man, a farmer. He shows them to me with pride.

He wants to know how old I am. "Sixty-one," I say.

"You're a young man," he says, grinning.

When I ask him how old he is, he takes off his cap to reveal a thin mat of wispy grey hair.

"Soixante-quinz," he says.

The view from M. Rigo's farm

We bought two cubic metres of wood, and helped him load his trailer. This will see us through the winter, we hope.

I read that wood is the cheapest form of heating in France, much less than electric heating. Having a woodburner is an efficient and attractive way of heating the house.

A mix of plum, acacia, oak and walnut

M. Rigo is also the proud owner of three vintage cars. I was thrilled when he showed them to me ... a Renault 4 from the 1980's, and two Citroen 2CVs from the 70's.

They are housed in one of his long sheds with rows of seasoning wood.

A few hens peck and scratch at where we've removed the wood, while a small mob of unshorn sheep hang around a hay feeder beneath the walnut trees. Near one of many woodpiles, a handsome ginger cat suns herself.

They sometimes lay four eggs a day, says M. Rigo

I was very pleased to make M. Rigo's aquaintance. Wherever we end up in the south of France, I know where to come for winter wood.

A short visit to Bordeaux

I’d forgotten how beautiful Bordeaux is.

We were there today, for the annual winter sales. Cliona had read about the boutique shops at the Quai des Marques, five huge hangars on the left bank of the Garonne, near the magnificent Pont Jacques Chaban Delmas.

As Cliona prefers shopping to eating, and I am the reverse, I left her there and walked across the Quai des Chartrons and then down the Quai de Bacalan.

I saw many lunch spots but stopped at a place called Bar Voltigeur. Outside sat a solitary smoker. The air was freezing, but the sky was blue. The river sparkled in the sun.

Inside, I took a small table at the back and was served by a young man in jeans and a check shirt. He had longish hair, scrunched and tied at the back. He had a full ginger beard … and a smile on his face.

The bar was austere, with little atmosphere. The lunch crowd was returning to work or lectures and this left just a few men, dining alone.

On the wall above me, a sign explained the origin of the word “Voltigeur”.

It said, “In 1809, a voltigeur was a soldier in Napoleon’s army. In 1932, the name was given to a French cigar, in memory of the soldiers of the republic.”

When my waiter brought my meal, he said, “There you go.”

I had a bowl of mashed potato with a Toulouse sausage sitting in it. There was a small wicker basket of bread. I drank a beer.

For dessert, I had a lovely slice of chocolate tart with a side serve of whipped cream.

Red rugby flags adorned the bar, over which wine glasses hung and caught the light. The barman/owner calculated my bill and my English speaking red-bearded waiter said goodbye and smiled again.

Outside, I looked up and admired the three-storey bourgeois apartments overlooking the river.

This architecture spoke of a rich and vibrant past, once busy docks bustling with Bordeaux’s wine trade.

Apparently, the Chartrons suffered a commercial decline after WW2, but has now enjoyed a renaissance. Indeed it appears the whole of Bordeaux has enjoyed a renaissance. It is a beautiful city. Now I remember.

Making new friends and a sad anniversary

Thanks to Graham Roberts for buying the defiance edition of Charlie Hebdo for me. I contacted him a year ago from Adelaide and he went out and found a copy, despite its scarcity.

I took delivery of it when we visited Graham and Kerrie yesterday. They’re an Australian couple living in a lovely townhouse at St Foy la Grande, an hour’s drive north of Castelmoron, on the Dordogne River.

l to r: Cliona, Graham and Kerrie Roberts outside their house

Seeing the now famous cover brought back the horror of that cowardly attack.

But reading the articles and cartoons reassured me that CH’s smart-arsery had not diminished. They were not cowed by violence, nor silenced by slaughter. Their contempt for bullshit burned brighter than ever, their ridicule of medieval dogma shone through.

Hilarious was their cartoon showing the two befuddled jihadists looking around “heaven” and asking "Where are the 70 virgins?". Well, they were on another cloud gleefully bonking the C.H. mob!

One of the highlights of the edition was an interview with Charb from the afterlife. He was asked how he felt. 

“Not too bad, considering,” he said. 

“Where are you?” 

“Everywhere and nowhere,” replied Charb, “but I don’t want to sound like some kind of mystical turkey.”

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.