Summer in the South-West

The French emerge from their winter ensconcement to revel in summer life.

They frequent their local night markets (village food stalls with music).

They gather for long Sunday lunches ... beneath shady trees.

They are out in their potagers (veggie patches) and their flower gardens ... all the colours of the  rainbow.

They go to the beach, or into their pools, to seek refuge from the waves of heat.

They flock to cultural and music events.

So here at Ellesmere, we do what the French do ... enjoying those summer rituals that make life so pleasant.

tomatoes, eggplant, peppers and basil

the gardener's reward 

ready for Sunday lunch

a summer ritual

Valedictory lunch

We had such a wonderful time with my brother John and his wife Karen, who stayed with us for three weeks.

They are continuing their European holiday before returning to Australia.

What better place to enjoy a valedictory lunch than Chez Jeanne in the hamlet of Pomarede, in the Lot department, made famous by Australian journalist and author Mary Moody.

She wrote a book and made a film about the restaurant, on the occasion of its 100th anniversary, about fifteen years ago.

It has been in the same family all this time.

It offers traditional cuisine bourgeoise, with soup, entree, main course, cheese and dessert ... with bread, water and a bottle of wine.

Madam Murat is now in her eighties and her daughter Sylvie has taken over the running of the business.

Sylvie's daughter, apparently, is not interested in carrying on the family tradition, so the long-term future of Chez Jeanne is under a cloud.

The book that Mary wrote

The restaurant sits in a quiet hamlet

The mural of Madam Murat and her father

The menu for today

Goodbye and bon voyage, Karen and John

John and Madam Sylvie

Chez Jeanne offers a particularly warm welcome to Australians.

We always try to take visiting family and friends there.

Summertime and the river

Cultural activities and catching up with friends are among the great pleasures of summer in France.

Yesterday afternoon we participated in a cruise along the Lot river with others from the Temple-sur-Lot French/English language group.

Last night our Castelmoron-sur-Lot French language group held a "best plate" night at the home of Alistair and Kate Forbes, who own a beautiful property right on the river, about five kilometres from the village.

My brother John and his wife Karen are visiting from Australia and they have been getting a taste of our dolce vita in the Lot et Garonne.

Here are some photos from last night ...

Alistair entertaining the guests

It was a gourmet night and Alistair, as usual, provided the music. He included in his repertoire "Les feuilles mortes" and "Champs Elysees" for our French friends.

The old blanket chest

At one of my many visits to the nearby dechetterie (tip) at Nicole, I spied this old trunk, painted a dirty brown and looking neglected amongst the mountain of broken pallets and rotting boards.

After scraping the paint off, I could see the chest was made of what looked like Baltic pine.

The interior was papered.

The trunk was sanded in preparation for finishing. I removed the inside paper.

The pale pine was stained to match our decor, particularly the ancient, oak beams and wooden doors in our living room.

I applied a traditional finish of linseed oil, beeswax and turpentine.

Once a discarded relic, the century-old trunk now boasts a new life as our coffee table.

The bench at the bottom of the garden

Ever since we moved into Ellesmere, I've wanted to have a bench on which to sit and enjoy our garden.

I soon discovered the cost of a new one was prohibitive.

So I kept an eye out at vide greniers (garage sales) for a used one.

At a local brocante (old wares) shop, I spotted a rusted, broken-down old bench. I quite liked the style.

It had cast-iron ends with wooden slats.

It was in very poor condition so I got it at a good price.

I dismantled it ... discarded the decayed and broken slats and began the painstaking task of removing all the white paint.

I also had to remove the rust from the ironwork and cut new seating slats. I kept the three back-support slats.

Once the cast-iron ends and back-support slats were cleaned and the new base slats cut, the bench was ready to finish. By "finish", I mean spraying the metal with black paint and oiling the timber slats.

Finally, the piece was finished and ready to install in the garden.

I placed it under the lime tree, by the many heuchera and hellebores, looking back over the pool towards the house.

There is something deeply satisfying about a garden bench, where you can sit calmly and contemplate the beauty and tranquillity of the garden.

 

Flowers galore

Cliona and I will be forever in the debt of the artist responsible for the palette of colour around Ellesmere.

At the beginning of her ten-year tenure, Nicole Negrello designed the garden and chose the plantings.

We bought the house from the Negrellos a year ago.

In these wondrous and warming Spring days, it is such a pleasure just walking around the yard.

The irises are nothing short of magnificent. They are like some kind of intricate, papier-mache creation.

And there are the roses, of course.

And myriad other blooms ...

a humble bumble bee feeding on a rabbit's ear

like a supernova

deep-throated pink

Uncle Jack's grave

I never knew my uncle Jack, who was a bomber pilot in the Second World War.

He was shot down whilst returning from a raid over Germany in the early hours of 2 June, 1942.

There was a crew of six in the Wellington that crashed that night near the village of Estinnes au Mont, in Belgium.

Flight Sergeant Jack Walsh was the skipper .... three Australians and two Englishmen made up the rest of the crew.

Last month, on the day before Anzac Day, I visited Jack's grave in Charleroi, Belgium.

The day was bleak and cold. The sky was overcast.

We easily located the Commonwealth War Graves section of the Charleroi communal cemetery but it took almost ten minutes to find the headstones of the six airmen.

Two ravens flew overhead and made an ugly, mournful sound.

Light rain began to fall.

I had brought no bouquet of flowers but my friend Hedley gave me a commemorative poppy lapel pin to place at Jack's grave.

It was a moving experience.

The attrition rate of bomber crews was such that Uncle Jack had written to my mother (his sister) in fatalistic terms.

John Francis Walsh was just 22 years old.