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Posts tagged ‘The Bean’

Nov 9

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Life is too short to stuff a mushroom!

So said the glorious self-proclaimed ‘Superwoman’ who is Shirley Conran and I have to agree.  However, it is also true that if I live to be twice the age I am now I will never tire of stuffing mushrooms.

Oddly enough, as a child I was frightened to the point of being phobic of fungus. It’s called Mycophobia in fact and happily I grew out of it (except for a disastrous relationship with a man called Mike but that really is another story).  Who knows why I was so scared, but my evil older brother was quick to use toadstools to ward me off if he didn’t want to play with me. On one occasion, along with one of his best friends he trapped me in the narrow passage between our old wooden garage and the laurel hedge, dark and dank on one of those musty Autumn days, by luring me down to ‘see something amazing’.  I was about 5 so imagined a lollypop tree at the very least. They blocked the entrance as I ventured in to find the wonders of which they spoke, so that there was no escape when I came across the giant clump of festering fungus in my path.  I was found some time later, a gibbering, sobbing wreck by my father who presumably assumed I was playing quietly somewhere on my own.  I don’t believe in Karma so do not connect in any way the fact that the friend was later the sole British survivor of the Estonia Ferry disaster, with the torturing of an innocent by fungus.

Today I can be found happily examining the huge variety of fungi that we find out walking, photographing them and poring over our books to find out if they are edible.

In August, walking high above the Vallee de la Santoire in the Cézallier paysage of Le Cantal, we found the most enormous mushroom.  It looked like a pancake and was roughly the diametre of a big one.  We photographed it.  The following day, our young neighbour happened past with an armful of the same whoppers … I asked him if they were edible.  Oh yes, he replied – they are Coulemelle and they taste really good – especially the young ones.  His girlfriend (who hails from further south in Lozère) was later heard shouting down the phone to her mother ‘he’s brought me a load of enormous flat mushrooms …. what on earth do I do with them?’.  Despite the fact that I prefer not to be branded a nosy neighbour I listened intently and made notes.  On checking our book they get three chefs hats which is as good as it gets – the edible fungus equivalent of a big fat gold star.

The Bean gives scale to the beast

Coulemelle (Latin name Macrolepiota procera) grow a long stem with a distinctive frill some way up.  The young plant has a rounded cloche cap which eventually opens up into a large flat beret.  They look very sturdy but in fact they are delicate and on picking will quickly start to wilt underneath.  The gills (lamelles in French) are almost tissue soft.

When Two Brains arrived from the US for his present stay, we walked a walk I have not done for a year even though it is only a ten minute drive from home, on account of the fact that there is a kilometre stretch on the road and The Bean behaved deplorably the last time and had to be carried.  Low and behold on our way we found a Coulemelle.  Just one and quite old so we decided to make it into soup as instructed by those we had spoken too or evestropped on.  You can also include them in a stew the same sources reveal.  My first attempt at the said potage and I can report it was edible but the flavour so delicate as to be barely discernable and my choice of thyme to season overwhelmed the mushroom.  Overnight, though it developed and the second bowl at lunchtime the following day was improved if not memorable.  And we didn’t suffer any ill effects.  Which was a big hurrah!

A week and several walks later we hit the mother-load.  These little lovelies tend to grow on their own – or at least apart from one another, not in sociable clumps.  We found a baby all by itself and then in a barbed wired field taunting us, an adolescent and a fully mature stonker.  Two Brains hesitated but surcumbed to the look of longing on my face and braved the field like a commando seeking a hostage.  The Bean watched anxiously but mercifully beloved master returned unharmed and triumphant.

Stealthily sliding under the wire
Commando style across the field
Capturing the hostage
Return to the wire
The Prize
The Bean watches anxiously

The next day, a single speciment close to home and the cook-up was on.  The baby made a lovely omelette – and the curious thing is that the taste is stronger than their older siblings.  The big boys went into a soup thus:

  • Remove stalks and discard (I expect they are perfectly edible but I didn’t)
  • Cut the cap into thin spears
  • Sweat a largish onion (and if you must a clove of garlic but personally I think that is too strong) in a small knob of butter or about a dessert spoon of olive oil
  • Chuck in some parsely stalks, chopped
  • When the vegetables are softened, add about a pint of milk and the same of water
  • Simmer for 45 minutes adding a good tablespoon of chopped parsely half way though
  • Blitz with a blender and stir in a good dessert spoon of cream or crème fraiche and eat with the smug look of someone who is eating something delicious that cost next to nothing

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So there you have it – my first recipe for virtually free soup.  We are no experts and as tempting as it is to go into a fungal frenzy we are taking one genus at a time and learning about it.  And we have our gloriously irreverant pharmacist to assist where necessary because this is France and that is all part of the Chemist’s service.

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PS:  On the same walk we picked up a huge quantity of Chataignes (sweet chestnuts) of which more in a later post including some tasty recipes (assuming we survive the tasting) …

 

 

Oct 30

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Who’s gonna drive you home ….

I’ve spoken before about the number of miles I drive, we drive – The Bean and I and whenever possible my Two Brained husband too.  But there is a fourth crucial element without which it would not be possible to even leave the house here except on foot (or pedal power which is another story entirely).  That is the car.  The car that since we moved here (and including the long drive from Oxfordshire) has covered an eye-watering 30,000 miles – that’s in one year and a handful of weeks.   I have been remiss in not speaking of this wonderful little beast – bright yellow and Spanish (SEAT) it was originally called Devendra Flan when I got it 2 and a half years ago.  My mother helped me find it and wanted to call it Buttercup (in fact she insists on calling it that to this day and I don’t correct her).  The name came from a Devendra Banhart song called Little Yellow Spider and the ubiquitous Spanish pudding found on virtually every menu across that great country’s girth which is actually Creme Caramel but which the Spanish always refer to simply as Flan (or Flarn ‘you don’t know flarn’ – Ben Stiller and Jack Black know).  Anyway since becoming French the car is known as Fronk and his voice, courtesy of the TomTom is beautifully gaelic.

Why now?  I hear you ask … why the sudden reverence to this 4 wheeled delight?  I’ll tell you … they say that you only realise you love something when you are about to lose it.  Fronk has had his share of scrapes this year including a broken wheel when I frappéd a concrete pillar in a blizzard but I knew he would pull through and he did.  He’s driven to and from England 6 times since and had a service there in May followed by a new drive shaft (cambelt) and a bit of surgery to replace something in his ignition timing in September when he went into Limp Mode (yes, honestly that’s what it’s called) on the M4 to Bristol.  New tyres to complete his all weather set (which took some ordering in the UK in September ‘no, madam – they won’t be available til November’ but were eventually tracked down and fitted and the English tyre man paid tribute to the French workmanship on the front wheel (from the frappé) which was a moving moment in my personal journey of entante cordiale.  He seemed so well on the trip back earlier this month, so well when I drove to Clermont to meet The Brain from his plane the following week, so well as we travelled the typical couple of hundred km around the place to walk and visit houses and just generally potter around.  The shock when we sashayed out in the late Autumn sunshine last Thursday to drive a few km to do a couple of hours walk and settled behind the wheel, turned the key and nothing, absolutely nothing happened was a fully armed body blow.  Panic!  Rush back indoors, Google  wildly for homestart information when you don’t have roadside assistance …. blank, zippo, Google say ‘no’.  Fortunately The Brain was calm and I have a good filing system – a call to the insurance company revealed that homestart is part of our policy with MAEF and half an hour later the cavalry arrived.  The car started – I was watching from our balcony – smiles all round.  Then confusion (me) as the car was loaded onto the breakdown truck (Depanneuse) … phone calls were made and the men stood round in a circle being well … men.  The truck was driven away with Fronk on top, I was beside myself – he had clearly died and I hadn’t even said goodbye. Tears were soothed  by The Brain – apparently it was the spark plugs, the man had ordered them and they would be fitted the following day when they arrived (French for spark plug is Bougie incidentally which is the same as candle so it was fortunate that it wasn’t me doing the talking because that really would have been an invitation for misunderstanding …)

The following day the car was returned.  Humming, frankly and I was singing along.  I love that car.  I don’t care who knows it and I will never again commit the sin of omission and fail to mention the crucial part he plays in my life.  Thank you French insurance, thank you French garage.  I love you all.

PS:  You might like to take note that according to the garage here, it is common place for garages not to bother to change plugs when they service a modern car … these had never been changed and the car has done 135,000 miles in total and had a major service in the summer.  You might like to make sure your garage does bother.  Just a thought 😉

Oct 29

12 Comments

I’d like to dedicate this award to ….

This is where I say thank you to the lovely Bendilyn Bach, writer of a blog that I read and unfailingly enjoy, by the name of ‘Loving a Frenchman’.  I’m saying thank you to Bendilyn not just for writing words that never fail to please me, for making me smile or think or both but also for nominating me for a Liebster Award.  The Liebster, as you may have found out on your blogly travels is a way of paying it forward and saying ‘take a look’.  The formula is simple – I now answer the questions Bendilyn set for me and her other nominees and then I nominate 11 Blogs which I love for the award and ask them 11 questions which they in turn answer.  I have laid out the rules below.  And in case you missed what I said THANKYOU BENDILYN!

Liebster

The rules:

  • Thank the person who nominated you for a Liebster Award and link their blog to your post.
  • Answer the 11 questions they’ve asked you.
  • Nominate 11 bloggers who have 200 followers or fewer for the award.
  • Ask 11 questions to your nominees.
  • Let your nominees know you nominated them once you’ve posted about your Liebster Award.
  • Add the Liebster Award badge to your blog!

The questions asked by Loving a Frenchman and my answers:

  1. Why write?
    Because it needs to come out
  2. What is one item on your bucket list?
    To drive an ice truck
  3. What historical figure would you most like to meet?
    William Wilberforce
  4. Favorite book.
    Le Petit Prince, Antoine de St Exupery
  5. Favorite movie.
    It’s A Wonderful Life
  6. Favorite song.
    How Can I Tell You, Cat Stevens
  7. What is your biggest regret?
    I don’t have them – no rear view mirror or I would eat myself up with guilt and remorse
  8. What will you never do?
    Knowingly eat Andouillette (the dish of death)
  9. Dogs or cats?
    Dogs (but I don’t hate cats)
  10. Whom do you admire?  Why?
    The Queen (though I am not a Royalist) – she has the most difficult job, had no choice as to whether to take it and has carried it out for decades with dignity and aplomb
  11. What can we do to make the world a better place?
    Be mindful

Drum roll …. my nominees are:

  1. The Mindful Expat … I love this blog written by an American Psychologist who, for the love of a French Engineer has found herself in Lyon
  2. 750 Metres …. the husband of another blogger I follow and love (La Petite Maison Bijoux) writes about gardening in Haute Loire at altitude – lovely pictures and clean, clear script make this a favourite
  3. Ditzy and Disapproving … the new kid on the blog this is a funny irreverent blog which alternates between the Dizzy lover of all things and the grumpy old woman in the making.  The author to my certain knowledge is 24!
  4. No Blog Intended … another young woman blogging about life in Belgium and the aspiration to study in Russia
  5. Carls Crafty Kitchen is my favourite food blog …. Carl is a wonderful cook, a great raconteur and a closet comedian
  6. Create and Consult … Peronel Barnes is a very talented artist and a very smart business woman – her words are worth reading
  7. Femme au Foyer ... the writer lived in Clermont Ferrand capital of The Auvergne, France with her husband and tiny children and is now back home in the USA with the same husband and an extra even tinier child … this is a warm and lovely journal
  8. Diving for Pearls – the blog of a one time professional photographer who makes you wonder at her skill and long for her to be professional again.  She blogs in a wonderfully conversational way about creating and creativity and peppers her site with the most beautiful photographed images.
  9. Michael Gordon online is all about the healthier way to be – from barleygrass to magnets, Michael covers it all.  And water.  And as a BOGOF Michael is an independent celebrant whose other blog Vows that Wow is a great introduction to the alternative means to a baby naming, a wedding or a funeral.
  10. Living in Light – Bobbi Kumari is the lightest brightest of shiny stars and her fashion designs are wonderful.  That she is a Christian underpins her work, her life and her writing.
  11. The Politics of it All – Another bright young thing – this time Alfie Lambert … smart, contentious and articulate his writing never fails to prick my grey cells in a good way

And here are my questions to the nominees:

  1. Why should people read what you write?
  2. Fruit or cake?
  3. What is success?
  4. Advice to your 14 year old self
  5. Favourite place on earth
  6. Pictures or words?
  7. If you could spend an afternoon with anyone, alive or dead, who would it be?
  8. First love
  9. Town or country?
  10. The greatest invention of the last 100 years
  11. What is content?

If blogging be the food of life, write on 😉

PS:  The title says I would like to dedicate this award to and I do dedicate this award to my husband (he of the Two Brains) and The Bean.  One got me through the early days of being alone in the deepest depths of a foreign land and the other makes me a better person – I’ll leave it to you to work out which is which ….

 

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Aug 16

25 Comments

I don’t care what the weatherman says ….

‘If the weatherman says its raining, you’ll never find me complaining’ goes the Louis Armstrong classic ‘Jeepers Creepers’.   Which some days, in fact some summers – this we are told is the worst for 100  years for sunshine and the worst since 1977 for rainfall,  is just as well.

You might recall that we had started out for Paris at midnight or thereabouts and arrived just before 6 a.m.  By 11 O’Clock I was clear of the Embassy and we walked a little before heading back to the car and out of the city for the long drive home.  And it is still a long drive – that 500 km to get to Paris is exactly the same on the way back.  We decided to stop for lunch in Orleans, capital of le Loiret in the region known as Centre because that’s just exactly where it is.  In the centre. And in the centre we found a lovely restaurant which filled us full of fish (me) and pork (him).  The waiter had clearly stepped straight out of Le Cage aux Folles sporting the skinniest of skinny jeans, a very chic loose white shirt with a smattering of flowers, Converse low-tops which matched my own and hair tied back in a tiny tight bun. He spun and pranced with zesty aplomb and I could happily have taken him home and put him in my wardrobe to pull him out when I need a breath of fresh air in my life.  The rain had persisted down on Two Brains and The Bean whilst they waited for me in the park opposite l’ambassade and it increased as we drove south.  We were cold and wet when we arrived at the restaurant but a replete belly does much  to improve damp spirits and after a quick flick round the city in the car and a decision to visit in the dry some day we set off again through the rain towards our ultimate goal.

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Some time ago, I expressed a desire to see Bourges (capital of the Cher also in Centre).  I pass by the signs whenever I do the long drive to Calais or back (or, indeed the slightly shorter trip to Paris).  Where Orleans is a pretty plateful – half timbered buildings, a cathedral that ranks with the finest in France and the river running stately through the middle, Bourges is frankly gluttonous.  Everywhere you turn are cobbled streets lined with those beauteous half timbered houses reminiscent of Stratford (upon Avon not Olympic Central).  The Cathedral is enormous, monstrous even.

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Overall and oddly Bourges didn’t do it for us.  It stuffed us full but left us feeling empty.   It confused us and that was the problem – Bourges doesn’t quite know what it is.  But the fact is that it is so much easier to have a strategy when you are one thing.  If you are a small and perfectly formed medaeval or whatever epoque village or even a middle sized or large one you have an identity and your planning can and should encapsulate that.  If on the other hand you have been an important place since Roman times, have a plethora of half timbered Shakesperian houses, a volume of 17th and 18th Century masters dwellings and a cathedral which mushroomed in a mere 60 years to be a soaring gothic monster you have an identity crisis in your melting pot.  DSCF8516Of course a melting pot can work,  but the real problem comes when the place has been ripped to bits by allowing nondescript modern buildings in the centre and no thought has been given to the way they harmonise with the old.   Of course the heavy hitters all over the world, the big iconic cities, can cope because they have huge budgets born of investment and commerce but for a place like Bourges with an embarrassment of historic gems but a total reliance on their tourist income it must be beyond challenging to manage.   If someone comes along with an idea and a desire to be in the city then taxes and the prospect of employment force the good folks of the town to say yes, eager to enhance the towns coffers – those same coffers that must be stretched to breaking by the voracious needs of so many historic treasures.  We have since discovered that the town has quite the problem with vandalism and youth crime – this, it seems is the fate of such places the world over and I wish I was smart enough not just to question but to dish out the answers.   The people, though,  were thronging and despite the looming skies and damp underfoot it still looked the fine historic town that it is.

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We made our way to a cafe and as we sat down the sky unzipped and a deluge of biblical proportions (not the first and not the last of this journey) flashed down.  We sat outside, The Bean sensibly hiding under the table which, though protected by an awning began to puddle nicely. The place was staffed by three men – the oldest, clearly the boss and a younger man who swiftly took our order, coffee and creme brulee for me and chocolat chaud and a mousse au choc/vanille for Two Brains.  Picked up off the table and cradled like a baby in our arms, it remained dry enough to eat swiftly.   We watched a young woman with a baby in a buggy all enveloped in a rainhood with the older child wearing her coat to protect him.  Sleeves down to the floor and dragging feet he clearly felt it unfair that the baby had the luxury of cover whilst his mop of hair was stuck to his head with cold water that then ran down his cheeks in pesky rivulets.  She smiled and smiled and the little boy will look back one day and realise what a good mummy he has.  We attracted the attention of the youngest of the trio of staff and asked for more drinks.  He looked at our now sodden bill, loped inside and 15 minutes later was still affecting to clean behind the bar.  Older man passed.  We said we had asked for coffee and he leapt indoors shooting the boy a look and saying a very few words that proved suffficient to galvanize, nay ignite the youngster.  Smiling to himself the boss retreated.  One day the boy will look back and remember what a good boss he had ….

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PS:  Like many I’m a sucker for a gargoyle and amongst all the amazing carvings surrounding the cathedral was this absolute gem who looks for all the world like Voldemort in J K Rowlings Harry Potter series.DSCF8508

Aug 14

5 Comments

We’ll always have Paris ….

Last week the usual suspects – the two of us and the extremely small  dog got into the car at midnight ten and headed for the bright lights of Paris.  It’s about 500 km to Paris and we had an appointment at the US Embassy just off Place de la Concorde at 08:50 sharp.    Dog settled under her blanket in the soft basket she travels in when we drive – the definition of a ‘litter’ is a mode of transport powered by humans (often slaves) in which the high-born travel in luxury.  That pretty well says it in terms of The Bean in transit.

The two of us are well versed in long drives living where we choose to.  So one of us drives for 2 hours and then we swap, the theory being that you get some sleep.  We at least rest.  Nonetheless, arriving as we did in the City of Lights at a little before 6 a.m was slightly hallucinagenic.  I was driving as we headed down the right bank of the Seine and Two Brains snapped like a Jap as le Tour Eiffel loomed ahead.  Frank (pronounced Fronk after the wonderful wedding planner in ‘Father of The Bride’), our SatNav, called us ever onwards to our destination and was surprisingly accurate in finding a carpark right opposite our destination in Rue Gabriel.  So amazed were we that he had pinpointed what we had asked for (he has a talent for getting tired and emotional at the most inopportune moment) that we drove past and had to do a sweeping circuit back again.  Safely parked we surfaced into the great iconic square and this is the point – it was almost empty – insignificant traffic around, the sky lightening and for once an almost uninterrupted view of a landmark.

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The drive was entirely worthwhile.  Whatever awaited in the Ambassade (and for that you will have to wait) somehow didn’t matter in that moment in the slicing chill of the early morning which could only come close to being spoiled by a hugely rude waiter at breakfast.  And believe me, he tried ….

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PS:  The quote is, of course, from Casablanca and is attributed to Howard Koch one of several screenwriters who came and went in the process of producing that miracle of a film.

Aug 5

38 Comments

I’ll be your dog!

We walk.  The Bean and me and HB2, when he is here makes three.  There are 340 marked PR (petit randonnees) across le Cantal and I have set myself the ideal of walking all of them.  In keeping with the rest of France these are marked walks, mostly circular and varying in length and difficulty.  The simple colour coding system tells you if it is easy (blue), longer and more difficult (yellow) or very long and varying in difficulty (green).  One weekend recently we decided to drive to the far north east of the departement (a drive of about 1.5 hours) and do a nice long green walk.  The duration was estimated as 4.75 hours for the 14.5 km.  We packed a picnic of cheese and bread and tomatos and set off.  The day was glorious – sunny, hot and with a fair scattering of the fluffiest white clouds dancing across the bluest of blue skies.

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The walk was glorious too … and along the way we three became four.  About 5 km into the walk having marvelled at a tiny Roman bridge, failed to find a museum founded by two young boys aged 11 and 16 in the 1990’s housed in a pain four they restored themselves, and nattering contentedly whilst watching The Bean foraging and ferreting as she does, we entered a petit hameau.

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 As we exited the village it could not escape our notice that a young and very boisterous German Shepherd dog, ears yet to stand upright so probably no more than 8 months old, was running along beside us.  We stopped and shooed him home.  We walked back up the road to encourage him but, oblivious, he continued out of the village.  After a kilometre we were concerned – he was haring in and out of fields, he was very very happy, joyous in fact, but he clearly was not clear about where he lived.  Let me put this in to context – this is a huge and rural area … houses are scattered and he did not appear to belong in the hamlet we had traversed.  The Bean was getting fed up with being carried to prevent canine fisticuffs so we decided to release her and let them bond or not.  DSCF8108At this point I named the dog Boomerang for not so subtle reasons.  We spoke to him in French – he was quite forgiving of our accents but he obviously had absolutely no notion whatsoever of discipline.

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An hour later, so three hours into the walk, we decided it was time for lunch.  The puppy sat nicely on the other side of the track on whose grassy verge we had plonked our behinds and watched intently as HB2 wielded the Opinel (as essential a French accessory as a mobile phone to an adolescent, this is a wooden handled foldable knife which comes in a huge variety of sizes … the blade on ours is about 3 inches) to cut cheese and bread.  What lovely manners I murmured – he clearly knows not to disturb his humans when they are eating.  DSCF8109The words barely vapourised in the air, he leapt up and floored me and I, like a beetle on my back, was helpless to fend off his face-licking.  ‘Non’ bellowed Two Brains at which the dog fell back looked around and seized up my spectacle case before bounding up the path and lying down with his trophy triumphantly pinned between his front paws.  We hastily finished our peturbed picnic and packed up.  The dog surrendered the glasses case and off we set again.DSCF8142

The day was hot and of course got hotter as hot days always will, so when we entered the sweet and tiny hamlet, no more than a farm, a couple of houses and the remains of a church now welded to a barn, we were gently fatigued.  DSCF8123Actually we failed to notice the welded church as we searched for the table d’orientation so that we could regally survey the landscape laid out below us.  We found, we surveyed and we assumed l’ancien eglise must have succumbed to the elements at some point because it was no-where to be seen.  Assume, as our youngest daughter regularly reminds me, makes an ass out of you and me.  And as we walked on now following yellow markers (we had been following green and then green and yellow together which is not unusual – the paths often link for a while) and occasionally consulting the book for reference points the terrible truth began to dawn.  We, The Bean and the adopted dog which showed absolutely no sign of fatigue were on a different walk.  And the walk was taking us in entirely the wrong direction.  In this terrain it is not a simple matter of backtracking so we took the decision to continue in a circle back to the village with the viewing point.  And from there try to find our own walk.  That this meant in total a deviation of 6 km with a stray dog seemed perfectly reasonable to our heat-shrunk minds.  And so it was that this raggle taggle foursome made its way back into the village and joy of joys there, beside the welded church which we had failed to notice before which was indeed (as the book told us it was) opposite a table d’orientation (not the one we had found earlier but one looking in the opposite direction – so we have now regally surveyed the entire 360 degrees of landscape laid out before us in this lovely spot), joy of joys in addition there was life – there were people.  Real people.  A woman coming out of her milking parlour, two little girls of around 6 years old and a smaller little boy and, as it turned out, the most joyous of all – Granny!  The imposter dog disgraced himself by hurling upon the children with us shouting – ‘he’s not ours – he’s following us’.  But as deranged as this must have sounded these lovely people helped us.  Granny really.  The younger woman did not understand a map which is entirely reasonable given that she knows perfectly well where she is and doubtless can find her way anywhere necessary with no problem at all.  They clearly thought us mad to be wanting to walk but Granny showed us the way, even tipping us off for a shortcut and with much waving, sighing relief and many thanks we continued on what would be the last 5 or 6 km of our epic journey.  The dog was still with us – Granny had advised us to find the mayor in the town and pass the problem to him.  We felt rather bonded to Boomerang by now and agreed that if we were by now in our own house with a garden (the search is on) we would keep him.DSCF8141

It was on this last part of the journey that I realised that he had clearly been a commando in a previous life.  He took to leaping up high banks and running ahead of us only to explode down on us again when we least expected it.  This was very funny except when we were walking high above a small river and he decided the best approach was to divebomb The Bean and see how funny she would look bouncing down the sides of what, in my tired, vaguely emotional and borderline delirious state seemed to be a very steep ravine.  We put him on her lead (perfectly adaquate for her, this slender piece of leather looked more than faintly ridiculous on the overgrown puppy).  It was clearly a new experience and took all of Two Brains strength to keep him vaguely steady.  At the end of the path, relieved that we were coming into the last village before our destination, we let him run again.  We were just congratulating ourselves at how clever we were to train him a teeny bit in the hours (and by now it had been 5 hours) he had been with us when he bowled us the googly of the day.   At the entrance to the village was a huge, very old and very deep water trough – the sort that entire small herds of cattle could take their fill at when moving from field to field or field to barn for milking.  The sort that appear in Constable paintings of rural idyll in the 18th Century.  DSCF8152Rambiggles the divebombing commando dog went over to look, braced himself and leaped in.  Being steep sided he could not get out.  That in itself was bad enough but I should tell you that the water was gloriously embellished with hugely swollen cowpats across its entires surface … how, why, I know not.  I prefer to keep it that way.  Sighing the sigh of the resolute and exasperated, Two Brains walked over, hooked the dogs collar and pulled.  I held my breath so hard I think I may have turned blue because Two Brains can’t swim.  Images swam infront of my tired eyes of me, anchored by The Bean, having to pull the pair of them out.  Or me diving in and shouldering them as The Bean hooked them out.  I was well and truly scared.  I am happy to report that none of this came to pass and the dog was liberated.  And liberally drenched us with stinking water as he shook himself dry.

Onwards to our destination and we sank onto the tailgate of our car, changed our boots, ate biscuits and wondered what on earth to do … Sunday night is not the night to find a mayor and we didn’t feel like ringing 112 and declaring an emergency.  Lights from the Auberge called us like moths and we walked in – it was quite a chic establishment and we looked and probably smelt like something you would cross the street to avoid,  but thankfully the lady in charge was sweet and accomodating and took control.  Dog was fed, shut in and the Mayor informed in the morning.  We have since heard that he has been returned to his rightful owners.  For how long is a dubious question – this dog is in dire need of a high fence, a strong lead and Barbara Woodhouse (or for those of you not old enough to remember her … Dog Borstal!)DSCF8132

PS:  The necessary PS.  So touched were we by the lovely attitude of the family high up on the rounded hill who helped us that the following week we returned with a box of sweets to thank them.  The look on the face of Granny and the children was enough to warm my heart for the rest of my life.  We chatted for a while – she said she was pleased to have helped us, that she could no longer walk where we had walked but she used to and is sad those days are behind her.  She told us she had been to our part of Cantal and that she liked Saignes (about 10 km from us) because of its beautiful Roman Chapel.  The children, dark limpid eyes fixed earnestly on the tin with its sweet delights to come, listened, smiled and waved us off as we drove away.  I am certain that they thought us dotty but they didn’t judge us, had never expected to see us again in their isolated spot where they have lived and will live out their lives, and will live in my memory for the rest of my life as an example of who I would like to be.

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Aug 5

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This surreptitious scion of summers circumspect ….

 …. In fairness, Emily Dickenson was not specific about which mushroom was ‘the elf of plants’ but I like the poem and it fits the moment.

Two Brains, The Bean and I strolling into the square last week were stopped in our tracks by Didier, one of the characters of our village.  He is the most delightful and gentle man, reminiscent of Steinbeck’s Lennie in  both stature and his mode of dress – typically dungarees with a long sleeved collarless vest under and a hat, woollen tea cosy in winter and cotton with a little peak more hunter-worker than baseball in summer.  I should be clear that he has tonnes more wit and hopefully is not liable to break necks nor baby animals with over-zealous caresses.  He lumbered over towards us gesturing and grinning and delightedly told us that the Girolles (you may know them as Chanterelles) have arrived and exactly where in the masses of forest surrounding us to look for them.  Indeed, he reported,  one local had bagged 17 kg of the golden lovelies that very morning.  Our joy at this sharing was two-fold … in the first instance we happen to love edible fungus and Girolles rate very high on the richter scale of delicious mushrooms, but the more important delight came from the fact that we were being treated to information that would not normally be shared with random strangers.  Actually, the information is guarded jealously by locals who prize the flavour at their own tables and make a good profit by selling to restaurants and market stalls and shops …. it made us realise that we are slowly slowly ever so slowly fitting into our community.

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Girolles, Chanterelles call them what you want are amongst the nicest fungi to eat.  Delicate on the tongue, some say they smell of apricots – I can’t say I quite recognise that, but their colour is spectacular – amber-yellow, on the apricot side of orange, and their shape beauteous … the way the narrow gills flare upwards to the crown, forcing it inside out and the raggedy edges – like a tiny shiny golden shamrock when they first appear and when fully mature like the thinly beaten bell of a primitive hunting horn.

We have picked three bags full between Didier’s sharing of the good news and the writing of this little blog  – parsley from our balcony  to finish the gently sauteed darlings and then bound in eggy splendour enriched with a dollop of creme fraiche they make for a delicious omelette –  the more so for the scrabbling in the woodlands, the sun speckling through the canopy of leaves, the ground slightly damp and the air scented faintly musty.

 

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If we could train only The Bean to seek them out how rich we would be but absent her interest in any such sport, we will content ourselves with the delight of spotting the little elves in moss and grass and the thick carpet of years and years of dead leaves.  Later in the week we will stroll into the bar and thank Didier with a drink and a smile.

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PS:  Remember, there must always be a PS, there are two types of mushroom, Le Fausse Girolle (literally, false Girolle) and Lactaire Orangé Fauve which are easy to confuse with a Chanterelle the first is edible but only when cooked and the second, though not deadly will make you ill if eaten.  Alongside a good book and the advice of a local (whom one hopes is neither trying to fool you nor kill you) in France you should take fungus to any pharmacie where they will identify them for you with authority.

Mar 16

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A Frozen Bean

I am a dog.  My needs are simple.  Food (not necessarily dog-specific food), a bed (actually three beds – one up, one down and one in the car) and exercise.  In return I give total devotion and protection from the evil cat next door.  Serious  … it might look harmless but it’s actually extremely dangerous which is why I must attack it.

Today I want to tell you about snow.  I did not ask to come to this place (which took what felt like my whole life to get to and, even though I am small, I was squishelled in the car so tightly that to move risked the whole thing bursting on the peage) but I really do like it here.  I get to run around loads, I have discovered that I don’t mind getting wet and I rather like the snow.

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Snow is white and it is very very sneaky.  I never know that it’s occuring because I can’t see much from down here when I am in my house or in the car unless I stand on my back legs which I can do very well but I reserve the skill for getting attention and treats.   Snow makes the world look completely different and is strangely inviting.   Don’t be fooled though – it might look like a nice warm blanket but it’s actually very cold and when it blows across exposed places I have to close my eyes into slits which makes it tricky to see and also possibly makes even me quite unpretty.

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The best sort of snow is crusty and I can walk on top of it.  The worst sort is soggy and I can’t.  Then I have to walk in the footsteps of my humans.  His are best because his footprints are bigger and just the right size for me to jump in and out of. He’s quite often not here though so then I have to compact myself into hers.

DSCF4907Things smell different when it has snowed (they smell different when it has rained too – unfortunately you are only a human with a weak nose so you wouldn’t understand) and I find myself irresistibly compelled to dig in it – luckily my snout is quite gimlet-like and my paws are nice and pokey and nimble (which is why I can type) so I can make short work of digging a fine hole.  It’s what I do.  I am a dog.

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