Reflections of Sunflowers (3 page)

The last time we managed a spring visit was in 2001, when we tried a new route, flying very cheaply from Stansted to Bordeaux. The coach ride from Victoria to Stansted felt rather elderly and stately, but I actually enjoyed seeing London from such a high point of view. I also enjoyed the lack of responsibility for getting there on time. It is a long way and we were in the very competent hands of a fresh-faced, chatty, driver, wearing an earring. We Buzzed to Bordeaux; no-frills flying. In fact there was just as much space as on a flight to Antigua, to which we had treated ourselves a few months before, and considerably less junk; no pillows, socks, earphones, or blanket to juggle with, and no tightly wrapped condiments and cutlery to enrage one, only to be dropped, irretrievably, on
the floor or down one’s shirt. This time we simply chose from a tray of delicious sandwiches, which were so well filled that we found it enough to share one, deciding to keep the other to eat later. Alas, we had temporarily forgotten the foot and mouth epidemic. We were not allowed to take our sandwich off the plane. Firm but unexpectedly generous, the stewardess refunded the cost of the uneaten sandwich.

Our hire car was almost brand new and it was wonderful to be motoring once more along the uncluttered French roads. That April was unusually cold with bustling clouds in a bright blue sky. When we arrived at the house we were thankful that our friends Hugh and Sally had switched on our one, rarely used, electric fire and lent us another one to heat the bedroom. We laid a great wood fire for the morning and put hot water bottles in the bed before going down to the farm for our evening meal.

The first meal of the holiday in the warm kitchen where we have been so generously fed over the years is always special. We drink
pastis
or a home made
apéritif, vin de noix
or
vin de pêche
or, my favourite,
quinquina

Here is the recipe, which was given to Claudette by a friend with family in Italy.

We, too, now make
quinquina
in London.

We began the meal with
le tourin
, the special soup of the region. The first time we tasted this garlicky broth topped with bread and melted cheese, we had been aroused in the middle of the night to taste it, with half the village, including the mayor, in our bedroom, but that’s another story and one that I have already told. This time the soup was not, said Claudette,
fabrication maison
, but was apparently left over from
le repas des chasseurs
, the hunters’ reunion of the previous evening. Raymond’s eyes shone as he described the meal they had eaten, especially the
salade de gésiers
, bits of preserved duck gizzard, which followed the soup. He then extolled the next course, a
civet de chevreuil
, jugged venison, which was followed in turn by yet more venison, this time a roasted haunch, then came the
fromage
, and, to complete the feast, a tart; no doubt all washed down with excellent wine. Clearly
there had been soup left over that evening, perhaps in anticipation of all that was to follow, and Claudette had simply brought it home. Nothing is ever wasted here. We,
chez
Claudette, followed the remains of the hunter’s soup with a delicious salad; golden-yolked eggs, tomatoes, sweet onions, potatoes and a smidge of tuna, everything fresh and delicious. Our hostess then produced an
omelette aux asperges
, followed by roast guinea fowl and potatoes sautéed with garlic.

As we discussed current affairs on both sides of the channel, Raymond declared himself perplexed by the approach to the problem of the outbreak of foot and mouth, then at its height in England. He couldn’t understand the wholesale slaughter.

‘
La fièvre aphteuse
,’ as it is called in France, ‘
c’était toujours là
,’ he said. ‘It’s always been around. If an animal got sick we treated it. Sometimes we used
poudre de cuivre
, or something else…
c’était quoi
, Claudette?’

Claudette frowned. ‘It’s all so long ago.
Grezille
was it called?’

‘
Oui. C’est ça
,’ said Raymond. ‘The same stuff they used to use when they shoed an oxen. And we used
chaux vive
, quick lime, to wash our boots. We did isolate the sick animal but it was very rare for any of the others to catch it. If it got better, which it usually did,
tant mieux
, so much the better. If it remained feeble…well, off to the abattoir, but…killing the whole
herd,’ he threw up his hands ‘
Jamais! C’est de la folie!
Mind you,’ he added gloomily, ‘until ten years ago we did vaccinate against it. Then –
les gens de Bruxelles
,’ his face made it quite clear what he thought about them, ‘they changed their minds. It was Britain and America who persuaded them. It’s the large industrial farms that cause all the problems.’

‘
Comme toujours!
’ said Claudette, carrying in an enormous flan.

She then proceeded to tell us just what she, as a working farmer, thought about common market regulations. Each year she hand-rears one calf, which stays with the mother and is only given a supplement of cereal to augment the mother’s milk. This calf provides the family with veal for the next year. Now, apparently, she had just been told that the latest regulations meant that after slaughter, the abattoir would return to her neither the brains, the intestines or the sweet breads; all the specially prized delicacies which she loves to cook and for which she has many special recipes.

‘
Même pas pour la consommation familiale!
’ she cried indignantly. There was a gleam in her eye, which suggested that she intended to find a way round this next year.

A few days later the carcasse of her special calf came back from the slaughterer and we went down to watch it expertly butchered by Robert, Grandma’s cousin. In his long life he has been both a butcher and
an
inséminateur
, and now, in his busy retirement, he is an enthusiastic beekeeper. He drives an old Post Office van, which has been repainted with
VIVEZ MIEUX! MANGEZ DU MIEL!
in large letters on the side. On market days he chauffeurs the little bus, which takes the old folk from his village to market. Today he was
le boucher
.

The operation was to take place in Grandma’s kitchen where, so long ago, I sat to pluck my first and only duck. I can clearly remember the weight and the scent of its still-warm body on my lap, and the quiet amusement of Claudette and her mother at my squeamishness. Today, for the calf, the kitchen is all prepared. The long table is covered with scrubbed oil-cloth, another smaller wooden table placed at right angles. Already at the far end of the table lies the pallid head of the calf, the long-lashed eyes closed, the pale, thick, protruding tongue curved upward.

Robert greets us. Almost eighty now, his great jowls a little slacker, his sturdy frame just a little lighter, his eyes are still as bright as ever behind his small, round spectacles. He sharpens his knives with a flourish, his one-shouldered butcher’s apron securely tied and reaching almost to his ankles. He places the knives precisely then goes outside to help Raymond. Together they stagger back in with the half-carcass. It seemed a small animal when alive; dead, even half of it seems enormous. And after all the bureaucratic fuss about brains and sweet breads and intestines I am astonished
to see the gleaming spinal cord, considered in England a possible source of BSE, running the length of the body. Claudette dismissed my enquiry with a ‘
Pouff
’ – there were more important things on hand.

As Robert deftly chopped and sliced, each cut of palest pink meat had to be carefully wrapped in tough yellow plastic bags for the
congélateur
; first
le filet
, then
les côtelettes
, followed by the tougher cuts for
pot au feu
.

‘And don’t forget to make me a little slit in each piece,’ she insisted. ‘To put in my
farce
.’ She makes her stuffing with bread, egg and garlic. Robert’s mobile eyebrows twitched but he obliged, using the tip of his knife with extreme delicacy. As each section of the calf was cut up the possible dishes were discussed that could be concocted from ‘
une bonne escalope, un jarret de veau, une demie épaule
’.

‘Could you not roast a half-shoulder as you might with a lamb?’ I enquired. They considered momentarily then shook their heads. ‘
C’est meilleur en casserole avec des petits légumes
,’ they agreed.

Robert too, was bemused by the English reaction to
la fièvre aphteuse
, the foot and mouth.

‘I remember ’46 and ’47,’ he said. ‘
C’était l’épidemie mais
,’ his eyebrows shot up. ‘One or two might be infected. They might even lose a toenail – that was the worst –
mais…jamais le reste du cheptel l’attrapait. Jamais!
Never the rest of the herd.’

‘Just what I told them,’ agreed Raymond.

Robert tapped his nose. ‘
C’était un complot, un complot des marchands
,’ – a plot by the wholesalers, he said, darkly. ‘
Il y a trop de viande dans les grands congélateurs
– there’s a meat mountain.
Si vous tuez beaucoup de bêtes, vous pouvez vendre les autres
– if you dispose of all the live ones you can sell what you already have in the freezer.’

‘And it’s the small farmer who suffers every time,’ said Raymond, ‘
comme toujours
.’

It did get warmer that spring but it also got wetter. We took Raymond and Claudette out to Sunday lunch to try a new restaurant,
Le Moulin de Labique
. In spite of the rain, which had just begun, the setting of the old mill was very picturesque. We were rather alarmed when we first entered to find that we were the only customers, but we had hardly sat down when a party of fourteen arrived and the room soon hummed with discussions of the menu. Once again, in this region of good food, we marvelled at the choice and the value for money. The days of five courses for 80 Francs had gone forever but, for 150 francs, at that time about £15, there was a choice of three starters, one of which was a salad with semi-cooked
foie gras
. The main dishes included a
roti d’agneau
with orange and ginger,
un civet de cannette
with
tagliatelle
, or
magret de canard
– duck breast – with a honey and shallot sauce. As usual we all had something different.
The lamb was especially good and the portions were generous. Claudette enjoyed herself, tasting everything. She loves to eat out and is much more adventurous than Raymond, who prefers to stick to what he knows. The desserts included
gratin de poire avec eau de vie de poire
and a homemade
mousse aux framboises
, so I was happy. And we drank a good bottle of Bordeaux for 10 francs.

The patron was in the process of restoring the rest of the building and took us on a tour to show us the beautiful tiled staircase leading up to the accommodation above. We wished him well. There are many such enterprising ventures, which begin hopefully, but the season here is short – mid-July to the end of August, as far as the French holiday-maker is concerned. Even
les étrangers
are heading homeward by the end of September. To make a good living all year round one must attract and keep local wedding parties and reunions, and the competition is fierce.

We ran to the car park, the rain even heavier now and clearly settled in for the afternoon. But Sunday is Raymond’s day off. ‘
On va rendre visite a Ursula, peut-être?
’ he asked eagerly. ‘
Je voudrais bien voir sa petite maison
.’ Ursula had recently sold her very large farmhouse with extensive outbuildings and had moved to a smaller house. She always welcomed visitors, but I knew that she had broken her wrist during the winter and I wondered if we might find her a little frail. She
was, after all, well over eighty. Braving the rain and up to her ankles in mud, she waved as we stopped the car. Her short, stylish hair with its blonde streaks was crammed under a sou-wester. She had just finished mucking out her two horses.

We crowded into her snug little house, hung with all the rosettes she has won for riding competitions. It is just across the courtyard from that of her daughter Susan, who came in briefly to greet us before dashing off again through the rain as she was preparing a meal for fourteen that evening. They are a formidable pair. Ursula showed us the photographs taken the previous summer when Susan had brought her mother back to England for a surprise party. Susan’s brother had organised everything and the large and extended family had decorated a barn and crowned Ursula, ‘Queen of the Summer’.

‘And the wrist?’ I enquired. ‘Is it better?’

She flexed her arm. ‘What a nuisance it was,’ she said. ‘But I’ve almost forgotten about it now.’

‘
Elle est indefatigable!
’ said Raymond as we left.

It rained the next day and the day after. A frog took shelter in the bathroom. There were lakes on either side of the house and, with the incessant rain, an inevitable drop in temperature. We kept the fire constantly burning. On a brief trip for supplies we were splashed by a council lorry, carrying large and ominous road signs.
ROUTE INONDÉE
. Getting the garden
into shape, one of the main reasons for our visit, was out of the question and I consoled myself by listening to
France Musique
, the French equivalent of Radio Three, while polishing the furniture. It gave me pleasure to look at the newly plastered wall in the main living room, which our gentle giant M. Duparq had finished at the end of the previous summer. Only the bottom half had needed replastering and the new work was skilfully blended with the rough finish above it. While removing damaged plaster around the window he had unearthed some very attractive edging stones and had waited until we returned from shopping before covering them up again. When we decided to leave them exposed he was pleased and pointed them with great care.