Reflections of Sunflowers (14 page)

Everything was turning colour. Our sumach trees are always the first to come into their true glory, followed by the Virginia creeper. Even the leaves on the
boule de neige
were tipped with pink. We had seven fat, glowing, pinkish-red pomegranates hanging outside the living room window. Across the newly cut maize field I could see the glowing shape of a field of soya bean. Close up one can distinguish the wonderful tones of yellow, orange and scarlet. Scarlet too were strings of berries twined round the barn door by the white bryony, which, with a root like an enormous white swede, rampages everywhere with its delicately
shaped leaves. Even the leaves on the fig tree were turning. Some of the remaining fruit, too high to reach, had split open and peeled back showing the soft, red-brown flesh and golden seeds. The last few peaches hung on our little tree. On our way to buy wine to take home from the
Coopérative
we passed a splendid field of millet. The ripened spears of bronze glowed in the sunlight against an almost violet sky. I thought of our friend Jean, a painter, who was coming back to her house and studio in the village in a few days’ time. Jean had recently retired from running a busy art department and was, I knew, looking forward to her new freedom to stay and enjoy the autumn landscape. But she would have to hurry. The drone of distant combines signalled a complete change of scene. Two days later the burnished rows of millet had vanished, replaced by great brown furrows of rich soil.

We made our last trip to the market at Libos, the road winding through contrasting colours of newly turned fields; some white with chalk, others red with iron, and every shade of brown in-between. The market was full of anoraks and parkas, warm slippers, woolly hats and padded gloves, pumpkins and
pruneaux
and hunting gear. The herb and spice stall is always in the same place but you could find it anyway by following your nose. I bought a large bag of verveine for making tisane; my own little plant,
whose leaves I used to dry in the sun, had not survived last year’s frosts.
Herbes de Provence
were also on my list and, this year,
baies roses
, the bright red berry which colours the selection of mixed peppers. I first tasted them in a restaurant in Agen, where we ate swordfish
au baies
roses
. The tiny peppercorns had a unique, aromatic flavour, and were so delicious I wanted to repeat the experience. The name simply translates as pink berries, which is not helpful. The spice man told me that it is not actually a peppercorn at all, but a berry from a tree. He did not know the correct name and neither do I, yet.

On Saturday the first grapes would be picked. We always stay to help with the first
vendange
, which is in an old sloping vineyard, the vines planted closer together, before harvesting with machines was thought of. It was a beautiful morning, the air fresh and the sun soon strong enough to encourage a row of cardigans and jackets draped along the vines. Raymond drove the tractor, pulling the small trailer into which strong young men emptied our baskets, heavy with grapes. These were, in their turn, tipped into a large trailer which, at the end of the day, would wind its way slowly behind the winking light of the tractor, to the
Cave Coopérative.
There was, alas, no Madame Barrou this morning.

‘Elle a la sciatique,’
said Raymond dolefully. Everyone sympathised.

As requested, I left the vineyard and went down to the farm at about eleven-fifteen to help cut the bread, stir the soup, wash the salad, cut the tart, filter the
rosé
, lay the table, and put out basins of hot water and bars of yellow soap for
les vendangeurs
to wash their hands. However, apart from the soap and water, Claudette – with her usual efficiency – had already done most of it. I washed up a couple of saucepans and we sat chatting in a rare moment of nothing to do, until the first cars turned into the courtyard and weary workers climbed out stiffly, stretched their backs, washed their hands and sniffed in happy anticipation the good smells coming from the kitchen.

We were seventeen at the long table under the hangar, six English, including Kevin, still hard at work on the chateau, his wife and children, two friends, and two Portugese. As we drained our homemade aperitifs and lifted the lids on the great soup tureens, the talk was of the authorities, who were getting more vigilant. Every addition or improvement to one’s property was being monitored they agreed, as they ladled out the soup. I remembered an occasion, long ago, when this very hangar was in the first stages of being spruced up. We had gone down one morning to find Raymond and Claudette busy moving furniture. There was, we learnt, a rumour of an impending visit to the whole village by some rating official. We were
swiftly coopted into transforming the hangar back into being
‘non habitable’
. Old sacks were hung over the new radiators. Chairs and tables were removed. Old baskets and implements were hung about and a rack of onions pushed against the wall. Finally the oldest 2CV was driven up over the newly paved floor which was scattered with earth. It was all done with speed and much glee. Whether the official ever came or not I don’t remember.

Now they talked of people in Provence who were, it was rumoured, erecting plastic screens to foil the official helicopters who made regular inspections, taking aerial photographs of new pools and extensions.

‘They measure everything,’ said Jean-Michel, darkly.

For once Raymond agreed with him. ‘You remember the cotton you found, Ruth?’ he laughed.

Some weeks before I had returned from shopping and, having parked the car, had idly wound up a length of thread lying at the edge of the field. I wondered at first if it had come from the hem of a skirt until it grew ever longer. It was Raymond who solved the mystery when he mentioned that the official who spends his days walking round the fields with his cotton measure had recently been.

‘But they must use up hundreds of kilometres of thread?’ I had said.

‘Bien sur,’
Raymond replied ‘But – you can say your
field is so many
hectares
, they don’t necessarily believe you,
les bureaucrates!
’

Soup finished, he poured the wine. The soup was followed by two, beautifully arranged,
plateaux
of hors-d’oeuvre: eggs with bright gold yolks, large field tomatoes, a mound of fish in mayonnaise. They were soon demolished. People had been working since eight-thirty with, as usual, no mid-morning break. Next we had a dish of cauliflower, cooked, drained and chopped up very small. Tiny shreds of bacon were added and the mixture had been baked in a thick and tasty
béchamel
. The pace of eating grew slower as slices of roast pork were served. These were followed by green salad, cheese and, finally,
tarte aux
poires
. The children ran about in the courtyard as Claudette poured coffee into our wine glasses. This was a working lunch. No elegant coffee cups from Limoges today. Conversation rolled round the table. Raymond’s brother was in fine form. He is older than Raymond and has bright twinkling eyes.

‘Ah, we’re all getting older,’ he said. There was no denying that!

‘You know what we’re called?’ he asked me.

‘Le troisième âge,’
I said.

‘Oh ça, oui,’
he shrugged. Then he smiled.
‘Mais aussi, les Tamalous.’

‘Les Tamalous?’
I’d never heard this expression. It sounded vaguely oriental.

‘Oui,’
he said triumphantly,
‘Les Tamalous!’

‘Mais pourquoi?’

‘Parce que,
’ he spoke slowly.
‘Maintenant, quand on se rencontre, on dit toujours, “T’as mal, ou?”’

Every time we meet each other nowadays, we say: ‘You’ve got an ache? Where is it?’

Three days before we leave and the wisteria, the clematis and the bignonia have still to be cut back, the oleander in its pot must be moved to the south-facing terrace. All the other tender plants must be loaded into Raymond’s old
fourgonnette
and taken down to their winter quarters where Claudette will care for them until the spring. It was Jean-Michel who, several years ago, endeared himself to his new mother-in-law, or in the much more gallant French version, his
belle-mère,
by constructing large, wooden-framed, plastic screens with which, in winter, she could close in the
open-ended
hangar, to make it frostproof.

M. Escoffier will come to close our pool the day after tomorrow, which means we can swim up to the last minute. Gone are the days when we spent hours hauling out the ladder, adding the winter product to
keep the water clean and prevent its freezing, and wrestling with the heavy winter cover. This was an earlier primitive cover weighted down round the edge with six or eight long inner tubes. Strings were attached to the tubes so that they could be threaded through the cover, hauled into place and then filled with water. The whole procedure would take us the best part of a very wet day.

I check the cupboards. Nothing must be left anywhere that is within reach of mice. Everything remotely edible must be put in tins for if they are especially hungry they will chew through strong plastic boxes. One year, large holes were gnawed in the outlet hose on the washing machine and there were teeth marks on what was left of an old bar of Wright’s coal-tar soap! I make a list in my notebook
‘pour la prochaine fois,’
for next time. I find it impossible to remember when I am in London exactly how much dark brown sugar, mixed spice, Earl Grey tea or jars of mincemeat I have left. There are few things now that one cannot buy in France, even Marmite and peanut butter, which were always on the list for the children in the early days. But of course some are more expensive. Tea we bring from England and I always make sure that we return with enough coffee to last us through the winter. Mike takes care of the wine.

The washing machine trundles away on its last load in our outside laundry, where, long ago, my
predecessor Anaïs kept her pig. I stow the sun-aired bedding in wooden chests scented with lavender and close the rooms one by one. Who will be sleeping in them next year? We have many regular visitors but we also enjoy seeing friends who sometimes break their journey by spending a few days at Bel-Air. In the children’s room there are bits of Lego under the bed, a single sock. Two somewhat lonely garden chairs remain by the pool, the rest are carried in and stacked. There is a certain satisfaction about thinking: that’s the last time I need to wash that pot, shake that rug, sweep that floor, but, in weather like this, it seems madness deliberately to return to cold and damp, to city crowds and an inevitably more stressful lifestyle.

Our friends from Spain will arrive this evening. It is not good timing for us but they are en route to visit relations in Brussels and will, in any case, sleep at the farm. We have taken Raymond and Claudette to stay with them several times in La Guardia, an ancient hill-top town in Northern Spain, surrounded by the vineyards of La Rioja, and Claudette is anxious to return their hospitality. I make a tart with a box of blackcurrants I find at the back of the freezer compartment and take down the last of the ice cream. Mike is a French ice cream addict and there is a much greater variety of flavours than in England. Seriously dark chocolate is his favourite.

Our friends arrive safely and the next morning
Mariá Arrate insists on going to market in Villeneuve. Having brought us all peppers,
chorizo
, paprika, jam, and honey from her bees, Mariá Arrate, an intrepid shopper, is now buying cheese and pâté and beetroot to take to her brother. Pâté to Brussels seems rather like coals to Newcastle to me but she is unstoppable. We intended to have a simple lunch in the garden and bought
crevettes
, bread and salad in the market, but Claudette insists that we eat
ensemble
. We take down our meagre contribution and begin with the last of our local melons, and one brought from Spain, Raymond grudgingly admitting that the Spanish variety has a certain merit. We share out our prawns and continue with slices of veal, and a sauce made with tiny mushrooms and olives. Next we sample the vegetable, which Mariá has also brought with her. She and Claudette had already set about cooking it. It is called
Bourache
, which translates as borage, and we only eat the stems. After five minutes in the pressure cooker with slices of onion, pumpkin and salt it is served. I find it edible but unremarkable. Mariá mashes hers up with olive oil.

Claudette reminds me that, before we leave, I must pick a hundred leaves from my little peach tree if I want to make
vin de pêche
, the delicious aperitif we have just enjoyed. I had always imagined it was with the fruit that this was made but now I learn that I must marinade my leaves in
eau de vie
for two months
then add one glass of the strained liquid to each litre of medium sweet white wine.

‘Mais, pas trop doux,’
advises Claudette. ‘It’s best to taste and add sugar if necessary.’

Mariá Arrate and her husband José Mari, are taken on a tour of the farm and then to
France Prune
, the Co-operative where the local plums are finally taken. They always stock up with
les Pruneaux d’Agen
, for all their friends and family, when they are here. We return to Bel-Air for our final preparations.

I cut the last of the lavender and the Chinese lanterns. The lanterns I hang outside in the porch to make the house look less forlorn when we leave. The lavender is tied upside down in paper bags and hung from the giant nail in the corridor. This is where Anaïs, so Grandma told me, always hung her tansy, her verveine and other herbs to dry. Next spring I shall strip the stems and add to my lavender bags. I cut back the bignonia, my red trumpet climber, which fell off the wall in a high wind two years ago. It was bent over at such an acute angle I feared that it might die but new shoots are already up to the roof while the fallen trunk makes a spectacular hedge of flowers.

I do my best with the fragile stems of the clematis, twisted up into the wisteria which, once again, reaches out its tendrils to lasso anything within reach. I am not much good at cutting back; much better at planting.

Back to the farm at eight o’clock yet again to eat together, we begin with
le tourin
, the famous, extremely garlicky soup with which newly weds, and others, are sometimes surprised in the middle of the night. Then Claudette has made
crêpes
filled with
jambon de York
and cheese.
These are followed by her own
confit
de canard,
a gigantic mushroom omelette and slices of her home-cured ham. I am amused to realise that we have eaten ham and eggs twice in the same meal; not one of Claudette’s most inspired choices of menu. However, she has been out with her guests most of the afternoon and has still managed to whip up an upside-down cake with pears, which she serves with a hot chocolate sauce. After coffee, and the obligatory
pruneau
in
eau de vie
in our still-warm cups, the best porcelain from Limoges this time, we bid farewell to the Spaniards. They will be en route for Brussels early the next morning and we shall be in the final throes of packing. They are trying hard to persuade Raymond and Claudette to go back with them to Spain when they make the return journey in a few days’ time. Raymond is clearly eager for an impromptu holiday but Claudette will take more time to decide.

The next morning is another cloudless golden day. We force ourselves to load the car. I carry everything onto the porch; Mike does the loading. Having been, as an eighteen-year-old, part of a tank crew, he is still an expert at packing a small space. We seem to have
a great many cases of wine, but I say nothing. I feel less guilty about my files, my boxes of books, piles of clothes bought in
la friperie,
and umpteen jars of strawberry jam for my kind neighbour who waters my plants in London. At last it is finished. The car is full, apart from a gap at the back, which we know from past experience that we must leave for Claudette to fill.

We have a last swim. I lie basking in the water while, miles above me, a tiny silver plane moves, with the faintest of sounds, towards Bordeaux, leaving a soft white trail across the blue expanse. Later, as we sit enjoying our favourite view for the last time this summer, a solitary cat walks up the track as if we have already gone. She passes the house and disappears in the stubble to go hunting. It is very still. We rest, lost in thought, until we see M. Escoffier’s white van coming quietly up the track. We wait to greet him, pick up the last two chairs and go indoors as the evening bell sounds across the fields.

The house already looks strange. Furniture, which normally lives outside, is stacked in corners. The sofa and armchairs are covered in plastic sheets. Everything is ready now to leave in the morning. Last minute turning off the water, stripping the bed and securing the shutters will take an hour. We get dressed in tomorrow’s travelling clothes, and take all the edible bits and pieces from the fridge down to the farm. The
inedible are also taken for the pigs: forgotten potatoes (already sprouting), limp salad, and old bread, hard as wood.

Claudette is stirring the soup, Raymond has opened a very dusty bottle, something that smells delicious is sizzling in a covered pan. This kitchen is a special place to us. For 25 years we, and so many of our friends, have been welcomed here without ceremony. We have eaten grand banquets off the best china with the extended family. Food fit for kings, meals that started at midday and went on till five o’clock in the afternoon. Mike and I have also, after returning from some trip together, eaten simple leftovers, after Claudette has scurried round to shut up the baby ducklings while I lay the table and wash the salad and Mike goes off to the
cave
with Raymond. We know we have been very privileged.

The following morning, ready to leave at last, Mike locks the door with the large key, its once attached, tattered shred of red cloth long vanished and replaced with string. One peach remains and as I take it I suddenly remember. Mike sits, fairly patiently, in the car while I pick one hundred leaves as fast as I can. We take a long, last look at Bel-Air for this year. We so nearly didn’t get here. Although still too thin, and not as completely back to normal as he would wish, my husband is more relaxed, bronzed and fitter. It has been a good summer. And as well as restoring our
health and spirits, we have also managed to solve our last real headache with the house. The new corner, roofed over with the ancient tiles from the Château, blends in so well it might always have been there. We drive down to the farm to leave the keys. Waiting for us on the table under the hangar are a
plateau
of grapes picked early that morning, a box of eggs,
confit
de canard
to put in the cold box and a jar of prunes in
eau de vie
. There is just enough room. After a last cup of coffee, hugs and kisses and promises to write, we circle the courtyard still bright with flowers, a wave and we are en route.

The inevitable sadness of leaving is mitigated by the prospect of staying the next night in the ancient city of Bourges, where we have booked a room. The receptionist has assured me that the hotel is well within walking distance of the great cathedral, which, I have read, holds some of the most wonderful stained glass in the whole of France. It is always difficult to adjust to staying the first night in a city after so many weeks surrounded by open countryside and I am slightly claustrophobic. We find our hotel in Bourges, but our proposed room is in a gloomy, modern annexe. The Hotel des Tilleuls is not, by any stretch of the imagination, anywhere near the centre of the city. We take another brief look at the room and turn it down, rather like the corners of the mouth of the astonished receptionist.

Now to find another hotel – not easy. All 86 rooms in the Hôtel Ibis are taken. An elderly local driver throws up his hands as the
navigateur
tries to help the driver to negotiate the one-way system in what is, by now, rush hour in Bourges. Twice more we draw a blank. Mike is surprisingly calm but I know it won’t last. The next hotel kindly gives us a map and a recommendation. When we eventually find the Hotel d’Angleterre it seems almost forgotten, sitting quietly at the corner of a square with a tinkling fountain. We are in luck this time. Not only do they have a lovely room and charming staff, but also a drive-in garage, a consideration when the car is so loaded. The manager sighs and explains that for some inexplicable reason, although they are in the oldest and loveliest part of Bourges, they are not in this year’s Michelin guide. We commiserate but are secretly thankful.

We get the last table for dinner that evening at the nearby restaurant, the Hostellerie de Jacques Coeur, where a large number of black-coated waiters serve with silent expertise. Our
crottin de chêvre chaud
– a small, warmed goat’s cheese – on its bed of crisp lettuce is placed reverently before us. My pigeon is delicious, Mike’s steak less so, but there are no vegetables. We finish with hot chocolate pudding with a runny centre, served with mint ice cream. We only drink a glass of rosé each and, for France, the meal is expensive, but
it is just the kind of soothing that we need after a long drive.

The next morning we get our first glimpse of the Cathedral Sainte-Etienne. It takes a moment after stepping through the door to realise that the amazing effect of the sheer length of the great nave is partly due to there being no transepts to break the line. The whole space is flooded with shafts of coloured light. The morning sun streams in through windows on every level, the lowest in the side chapels, double windows down the length of the aisles and great high windows almost to the vaulted roof, and colour and pattern everywhere. The cathedral was an ambitious project when it was begun in 1190, and the interior of the nave with its four aisles was not completed until 1270.