A visit to Latour-Marliac

This is a beautiful place, at Temple sur Lot.

It propagates and sells water lilies.

In 1889, the famous Impressionaist painter Claude Monet saw these lillies on show in Paris. It was a coup de coeur.

He ordered lillies from Latour-Marliac to put into his water garden at Giverny.

These lillies featured in a series of famous paintings Nympheas.

A statue of Joseph Latour-Marliac in the nursery

Not a lily, but just as pretty!

A little froggy friend

Petanque

After six months, I finally pluck up the courage to inquire about joining the Castelmoron petanque club.

Every Friday, in the village square, a group of men gather under the plane trees. When I pass, I hear the click and clack of steel balls and the banter of the players.

Heavily pruned branches, knobbly and bare in the winter, now provide a canopy of shade against the summer sun.

I go into the clubrooms and discover the president of the club is my good mate and neighbour Jean-Claude.

He is very encouraging. He understands that I have little knowledge or experience of this game.

As instructed, I arrive at the clubhouse on Friday at 14.25 hrs to register.  I pay Jean-Claude 2.50 euros and get a number.

This is a male-dominated sport. Of the 40 participants, three are women.

There are four rounds. Games are played between pairs. Teams are posted on a board hung on a tree trunk and as there is another Tony in the group, I am listed as "Hull".

Men call out the names of their partners and groups of four go off to claim an area for their game.

A swarthy chap in a singlet, shorts and a beret looks around and mutters "Hool?".

I identify myself to him and we find our opponents.

I've pretty much got no idea what's happening, so I follow my partner's instructions implicitly.

He tells me when it is my turn. He directs me to stand in a little circle drawn in the dirt and throw my boule at the petit (jack), which is about six metres away.

I quickly learn that there are two types of throw. Point is where you lob your boule to land and roll close to the jack. The second type of throw is tire, where you hurl your boule on a low trajectory to knock your opponent's boule away from the jack.

The object, of course, is to be closest to the jack.

Boules are thrown out of the back of the hand, to give back-spin. Players walk around with palms facing backwards, which gives them a strange kind of simian gait.

At the conclusion of the afternoon, after four games,  I've played in two winning teams. This was not due to anything I did, but to the skill of my partners.

I was impressed by just how good some of them were, particularly the accuracy of their tires.

Back in the clubhouse, Jean Claude is giving out little buttons to winning players. I receive two buttons. Each is worth a euro at the bar, or they can be accumulated towards a 15 euro supermarket voucher.

Hmm, I'm not sure I'll ever get to 15.

Adelaide hot

Scattered clumps of green algae float on the surface of the murky river. Out in mid-stream, the deeper water feels colder. On the town side, two charter boats have docked below the Chateau Solar, now the Hotel de Ville. I swim towards them. The current quickens. I increase my stroke rate. Youths are running and jumping off a two metre high concrete wall, in front of the boats, near a flight of stone steps. I reach them and catch my breath.

I swim back across the river. And emerge refreshed, the evaporating water cooling my body. Within minutes I am hot again. The temperature is in the high 30's.

This is just like the oppressive heat we used to experience in waves during the Adelaide summer.

In South Australia, slow-moving high pressure systems over the Great Australian Bight pushed desert-heated air south into Adelaide.

In France, it appears to be a similar phenomenon, with air flows moving north from the Sahara across Spain.

In Adelaide, we had airconditioning. Here we don't. We've done what friends have advised, opening the windows at dawn, then closing the shutters to the blazing sun. We've got frozen water bottles positioned in front of the fan.

In the early afternoons, I've been going down to the river. The Castelmoron bridge looms large over the town's beach, which has just received its summer dump of white sand. This makes it cleaner, more attractive and softer underfoot. River beaches can be muddy and stoney.

Back home, crickets are making a racket outside the door. The neighbour's wheat has turned from blue-green to golden-brown. A distant field of young corn is being drenched by irrigation.

It's Adelaide hot.

What trees? Part 2

For my knowledgeable mate, chm ... here are some close-ups of the trees you weren't sure about.

And the second one, with the symmetrical shape ...

And these ...?

What trees are these?

For all you dendrologists out there ... can you please help me identify these trees in our Lot et Garonne garden?

Is this a haselnut?

Haselnut?

A close up of the nascent nut

This one?

And this one?

And this one?

C'est la vie

Sometimes things don’t go according to plan.

We thought we were lucky to get two spots at the Fongrave dinner dance on Saturday night, having booked well after the cut-off date.

The notice on the door of the community hall, advertising the dinner, had said 20 hrs.

We arrived at Fongrave village square about ten minutes to eight. There was hardly anyone around. Amusement rides set up for  Fongrave en fêtes stood empty, a few youths on pushbikes milled around.

There was a beer stall, which we were glad to see on a very warm evening. We got a beer and sat down on a bench that took in the church and the river.

Slowly, people began to arrive, older couples, young families, individuals. People greeted each other with a kiss on both cheeks. They stood around the beer stall, chatting.

By 8.45, no one had gone inside the hall. Children were enjoying the one carousel ride that was now operating. Everyone was relaxed, no one was entering the hall to take their places at the tables inside.

We were the first ones to go in. We paid and received three little tickets, entitling us to collect an apero, plat and dessert (pre-dinner drink, main course and dessert).

We were directed to sit at table six, in a vast hall where about a dozen tables were arranged around an expansive dance floor. Organisers had set for about 115 people.

We were seated just long enough to rearrange the plastic cutlery before a harried-looking man in thick-rimmed glasses bustled us off to table seven.

We dutifully obliged.

So we sat and waited. At 9.15, the apero and nibbles table at the end of the hall was opened and I went over to get our drinks. The apero was punch, an unsophisticated, sweet fruit juice with a hint of spirit.

Cliona had one sip and gave me the rest. We ate some cheap chips and bacon flavoured nibbles. We were starving. We tried the bread, cut into pieces in a little basket, but it was dry.

People were very slowly moving into the hall and over to the apero table. Little children were running all over the place. 

The DJ was a grown-up version of fat-boy slim.  When he wasn’t outside smoking, he sat bored behind his sound equipment.

At 9.30, there was still no sign of the plat … poulet Basquaise with rice.  This was to be followed by salad, then cheese. Dessert was tarte au pomme.

People were going back for a second and third apero, despite the one ticket system. Only half the tables were occupied. Children still played unfatigued all over the dancefloor.

The organisers at the apero table, where I assumed we would go to collect our meal, seemed nonplussed about the delay.

When it got to 9.40, I asked a man at our table, who I guessed was related to one of the organisers, what time he thought dinner would be served. He said, “I don't know but it does seem to be taking a long time, I’ll find out.” I watched him as he walked over to the apero table where he inquired of a young woman I took to be his daughter. He got a gallic shrug for an answer.

It was now almost 10pm.

We had arrived ten minutes before the advertised time of 8pm. We sat outside people-watching for an hour. We then sat inside people-watching for another hour. We’d had a glass of punch and a couple of chips. None of the advertised wine, nor water, had appeared on the tables. And there was still no sign of the food.

Is this how a community dinner in rural France normally plays out? We didn’t know.

And we didn’t wait to find out.

We drove home, more philosophical than disappointed. We opened a tin of cassoulet and a bottle of red.

The next day I rang the reservation number. I gave my name and said my wife and I were very disappointed by the dinner dance. I think the woman I spoke to knew we had left before the meal was served and appeared to anticipate my complaint. She said something along the lines of, “That’s how these evenings go.”

She continued, “There’s no problem, SMS me your address and I will send you a refund.”

She didn’t sound like she was in the mood to discuss the issue further so we politely said goodbye.

I wondered if Cliona and I had brought false expectations to the evening.

Still, you live and learn.

C’est la vie.

Such a pretty house

There is a house just out of the village, on the road to Fongrave. Its Greek island blue and white form a backdrop to a riot of glorious potted colour.

The home owners told me they've tried for many years to win the village prize for the most colourful flower display.

It is a source of angst that they still haven't.