Creating an impression

I've spent a fair bit of time extolling the virtues of the landscape of Southern Burgundy - the beauty, the colours, the textures and hues. However, nature is not the only provider of such wonders, the people of this region offer a huge array of splendour all of their own making and I'd like to share some of this today. As Mark and I have had so many friends and family members over visiting recently, we finally got around to taking some time out to visit places and events that we'd only ever heard of or read about. First up for an afternoons jaunt were two artisans just a hands throw from home. Pascale Grisard paints on fabric and her colourful designs capture the flora and fauna of these parts. I was bought a great painting of a charollais cow as a house warming gift several years back. I named her 'Monalisa vache' as her big brown eyes seemed to follow me around the kitchen. This time I received a cockerel (thank you aunty Jean!) who now proundy presides over the living room. As well as paintings, Pascal also produces lampshades, cushions, scarves - the list goes on.

Next it was off to glass artist Jean Charles Doyen. We were treated to a demonstration of his remarkable skill as he crafted a goose from two sticks of glass. His minute insects were incredible to see (we've now started a collection of these) and I now know where this years Christmas presents will be coming from. In contrast to Jean Charle's miniature marvels, the magnificent metalic sculpture that stands sentinel at La Butte de Suin is immense. La butte de Suin is a prominent rocky hilltop above the small village of Suin where bullet holes can still be seen in the wall marking the place the village's mayor was shot for failure to comply with Nazi occupiers.

But on to jollier things - cakes.
The effort and craftmanship that goes into these delicacies is remarkable and the cake shop in Cluny has to be my all time favourite place to buy cakes. Exquisite!!

Art comes in many forms and we were blessed with fine weather (after an unseasonaly bad start to June) for the Macon Music Festival. Every street corner, every square and every car park had a stage, amps, fancy lighting and music eminating. As we wandered from one street to the next we were treated to rock, blues, folk and trance. The dancing (organised and spontaneous alike) lifted spirits and a natural high ensued. I had to be dragged away but not before one last enthusiatic cavort with my friends on the third floor of the central carpark.

Reconnaisance in Beaujolais

One of the offerings from the really big dream company is Burgundy Bike Breaks, guided motorbike tours of this wonderful region of ours. Through our endeavours to promote this we have met a number of smashing people (no pun intended), two of whom, Pete and Chrissy who run Bikiers lot, are spending a couple of days with us. We're planning to offer twin centre holidays so, after our trip down to the Lot region (finally visited the magnificent Millau Bridge) Pete and Chris have come to see what we have to offer at this end. The roads in the Beaujolais area, just to the south of where we live, are great for bikers: hills, bends, good surfaces, stopping points for photo opportunities, not much traffic and plenty of places for a coffee or comfort break. As luck would have it, we woke to dense fog the day we were due to go on our grand tour and were obliged to take the car. However, we were still able to use our time to plan routes and see what was out there for the discerning tourist. Fleurie has long been my favourite red wine and one of my favourite wine villages too. I hadn't been there for a while and was surprised as we turned into the place to find a new resident - Father Christmas! I suppose everybody likes a change of scenery once in a while and Fleurie is a beautiful place but to move your centre of operations (and Christmas is a BIG operation) to a small village in France seems a little odd. I took a sneaky photo then turned my attention to another operation - wine tasting. The wine producers of Fleurie have come up with a great idea. They have a large salle (room) where all of their wines are represented and take it in turns to man the place. A lovely lady, Mme Lardy (who was anything but lardy) was at the helm and we sampled her wine along with that of three other vignerons. Bottles in bags, the urge to purchase was upon us and we dipped into the local shop to seek out more quality buys. Chris found a candle in a wine glass that she just had to have and we spotted some beautifully painted wine bottles. Not bad value at 44 euros each (about £40) until Mark pointed out that they were empty!! We stopped at the lovely Roses hotel in Julienas for coffee and cake and then later visited the old station at Romaneche Thorins which has been turned into a restaurant and entrance to the Georges Duboeuf world of wine. We'll come back for a full tour another day but on this coldish and damp afternoon, we comforted ourselves with the most delicious hot chocolate - blocks of belgian chocolate on a lolly stick that you stirred into steaming milk. Perfection.

No shrinking violets here!

I had a truly splendid time yesterday. One of the wine villages, Chaintre, was holding it's annual 'Rare plant fair' which gave me the chance to combine several of my favourite pass times: gardening, being among vineyards and meeting up with my girlfriends, in one blissful, sunny afternoon. I was accompanied by two of my dearest friends, Veronica and Di, two wonderful souls guaranteed to lift the spirits. Veronica was a little sceptical as we set out as she had been to one of these rare plant shows before and had been dissappointed when the rarist plant on offer had been a lupin!

The wine villages of the Macon Village route are splendid, each has at least one chateau and the ornate tiles and towers take your breath away. The vines grow right up to (and around) the houses and if the plot of land is over a metre square, there will be grapes growing on it. We found ourselves ooohing and ahhing at every bend in the road and frequent stops for photos meant the event until it was in full swing by the time we arrived. As we stepped from the car, the smell of sweet lilac and wisteria wafted on the warm air and the heat reflected from the ancient stone buildings added to the already balmy temperatures.

There were plenty of stalls and whilst the plants were not necessarily exotic, they all looked incredibly healthy and tempting. Mark and I are in the process of creating a rockery and adding to our culinary patch so I was particularly keen to root around the veggie stands. Di is starting a garden and was taken by all things delicate, unusual or both. Veronica had filled her wicker basket to bursting point with aromatic herbs and then turned her attention to catching up with old friends, Veronica knows everyone!

Overcome with heat and excitement, we decided to take a breather in the pretty main square. The villagers were selling sugared waffles and local wine at only 1 euro a glass. We found a shady bench and people watched as we sipped cooling drinks. It's so uplifting when everyone around you has a smile on their face. Having placed our entry tickets, now marked with our names and contact details, in an urn to win a prize (another trip to Lourdes?), we completed one more circuit of the fair to ensure we hadn't missed anything. I bought Morocaine mint, some rather unusual tomato plants that promise to deliver black, yellow and orange tomatoes later in the year, a pretty little blue flowering plant whose name escapes me at the moment and an astilby. Back at Veronicas I was presented with a linseed plant from her amazing garden and went home eager to dig and plant and water...

Easter Bugnies

Easter is a big event in France - bigger than Christmas, as one friend explained it 'Babies are born everyday but how often do you get a crusifiction and a resurection in the same week?' Can't argue with that! One of the treats over in our part of the world is the Lyonnaise Bugnes (pronounced boon ya) which is more frequently made as an alternative to pancakes at Mardi gras but also eaten throughout the Easter period. Originally, these delicacies would be offered to travellers on the road from Dijon to Lyon - the invent of the super fast A6 autoroute linking the two cities has put pay to this tradition. As Adam, my partner Mark's son was over for a week, we were invited to combine a cookery lesson with some french tuition at the home of my dear friend and village Post Mistress, Christine. Hopefully you'll improve your language skills as well as your culinary ones by following these simple steps-

Christine's recipe for Bugnes lyonnaises :
300 g de farine (all purpose flour)
3 œufs (eggs)
30 g de sucre en poudre (caster sugar)
120 g de beurre (butter)
1 cuil. à soupe de rhum (desert spoon of rum)
1 pincee de sel (pinch of salt)

1 sachet de levure de boulanger ou 20g de levure en cube dissoute dans un peu d'eau ou lait tiede (sachet of dried yeast or 20g fresh yeast dissolved in a little warm water or milk)
huile à friture (oil for frying - we used sunflower oil)
sucre glace (icing sugar)

We took a basin known as a 'cul de poule' (chickens bottom!) and put the flour and yeast in it. Next we made a well (the french call this a fountain) and, after cracking the eggs and throwing away the shells (coquille, not to be confused with coquin - an annoying person/ rascal) put the beaten eggs into the centre.

The butter was melted with the sugar and Christine told us how important it was to 'wash' (watch?) the butter at this time. The melted ingredients were then added to the eggs (you can add some rum too at this point) and flour and Adam began to stir. 'Puke, puke' Christine said cheerfully. We gave her quizzical looks. 'That's the sound the mixture makes when you stir'. We explained what 'puke' meant in english and decided we needed to find a new word for the sound dough makes.

Once all the ingredients had been incorporated into a doughy mixture, you should set this aside for two hours. We didn't have the time and were too hungry and excited to wait so we moved swiftly on to the next stage - rolling out 'etaler'.

Once the kitchen table had been covered with it's new table cloth of Bugne dough, Adam began the intricate process of cutting the 'pâte' into small strips. I acted as the go between passing segments as they were cut to Christine to deep fry. Small golden pillows of pastry puffed up in a matter of seconds and were lovingly scooped from the oil onto a cosy pad of kitchen roll to drain.

A sprinkling of icing sugar was used to finish these little delicacies and then the best bit - eating them still warm.

Marche des Perce neige

I have long promised my french neighbour that I would one day blog in French so, as this story involves her, I have had a go at repeating it in French. Please feel free to offer corrections!!

Dave (my soon to be father in law) is over at the moment helping Mark with work in the barn. He’s been working solidly for two weeks now so today I thought we’d take a day off to join our fellow Montmelardies and, as it turned out, folk from far and wide, on the annual ‘Marche des Perce Neige’ (snow drop walk). This event is well known in these parts and, in the past, as many as six hundred people have taken part. We picked my neighbour Mireille up en route to the community centre and, despite the temperature showing as -4 (and probably -10 by the time you built in the wind chill factor), we eagerly registered for the 12k option, studied our route maps and pulled on our gloves and slid our hats down to our eyes before stepping outside. Boy, was it cold and the wind hit us full on. Before we’d walked 100 metres my ears were throbbing and the muscles in my shoulders had started to tense. I found myself surrounded by people swathed in scarves who, had I not known better, could have been auditioning as extras in a ‘Return of the Mummy’ type film. We had to pass Mireille’s farm and the temptation to concede that we’d probably given it our best shot and duck into her warm kitchen to drink coffee was strong. However, the wind dropped and the moment passed and we were soon climbing the lane to the junction known as Le Chien Pendu (the hanging dog). No-one has ever given me a satisfactory explanation for this name, nor for the fact that the two houses that sit at this cross roads are both called La Maison Brûlée (the burning house). Bizarre- I wonder whether this harks back to more violent times in our village’s dim or murky past. Not wishing to dwell on such sobering thoughts, we crossed the road and took the well signed path to the summit of Mont St Cyr (771 metres). I’d never approached from this direction before and the path meanders upwards through dense pine trees that make it impossible to see more than 50 metres to either side. Small rivulets criss-cross from time to time and where the path was steepest, small cascades had frozen producing miniature ice sculptures. We’d begun to get into our pace and were beginning to overtake people now. One man told his wife to move to one side to let ‘the young ones through’ which made my day, whilst an elderly lady commented that ‘Ca mont toujours Le St Cyr’ (St Cyr just keeps going up). I wanted to tell her that ‘what goes up must surely come down’ but thought it was best to conserve my breath. The inside of my jacket was beginning to feel like a sauna and Mireille had long since removed her hat and gloves as we emerged into the grassy clearing just below the summit. Huts had been erected and we were offered the choice of drinks (we opted for the mulled wine) and food - a platter of cheeses, meats, bread, cake and chocolate as well as apples, fruit jellies, dried apricots and prunes. Dave took a quick trip down memory lane to a time when prunes and custard had been a regular childhood treat. ‘Aren’t they supposed to keep you regular?’ I just hoped their effects wouldn’t kick in too soon; we still had a way to go. As we sat eating, the snow began to fall, a gentle covering but enough to urge us on. The route down followed the edge of the mountain and to one side we looked out across the valleys and hills beyond, across woodland and pools, fields of grazing cattle and stone buildings in varying states of disrepair. The light snow had muted the usually vibrant greens to a single tone. To the other side was dense forest that, Mireille assured us, was home to wolves (this is not the case). In the distance we heard the drone of first one car engine and then another- we were approaching the road back to Montmelard. At Vicelaire, on a bend in the road, a local wood craftsman has carved a menagerie of beings out of local oak including what we affectionately term ‘the pissing man’. The below 0 temperatures hadn’t affected his ability to flow but he did have a pained expression on his face. The path darted up behind the statues quite steeply but we now had a carpet of pine needles underfoot to cushion our progress. Mireille informed us that the French for pine cone is ‘pomme de pin’, literally pine apple. We told her that if we translated this back into French it would be ‘ananas’, most confusing. An arrow pointing to the left informed us that we were almost back and a few moments later we were crossing my favourite zebra crossing. It starts in the middle of one road and crosses to the middle of another, ensuring all safety precautions are thrown to the wind. A few minutes later the church bell struck 1pm as we pushed open the door and slipped into the warmth of the village hall once more. Hot onion soup and pancakes awaited us. Once sated, I suggested that the other two might like to go round one more time but they didn’t take me up on this. Our pockets stuffed with leaflets advertising dozens more local walks (‘tis the season), cheeks glowing with the exertion of it all, we returned home to a well deserved nap in front of the fire.

Dave (qui sera bientôt mon beau-père) nous rend visite pour assister Mark aux travaux dans la grange. Il travaille solidement durement deux semaines maintenant si aujourd'hui, j'ai pensé qu'on pourrait prendre une journée de congé pour se joindre aux autre habitants de Montmelard et, comme il s'est avéré, le folk d’aussi très loin, sur l'annuel ‘Marche des Perce Neige'. Cet événement est bien connu dans la region, et dans le passé, pas moins de six cents personnes ont pris part. Nous avons recueilli ma voisine Mireille en route vers la salle communale et, malgré la température montrant que -4 (et, probablement par le temps que vous avez construite dans le facteur de refroidissement éolien -10), nous avons enregistré avec empressement pour l'option de 12k, étudié notre itinéraire et cartes mis nos gants et tire notre chapeau bas à nos yeux avant de sortir. Comme il fait froid et le vent nous frapper en plein visage. Avant que nous avions marché à 100 mètres mes oreilles bourdonnaient et les muscles de mes épaules avait commencé à tendue. Je me suis retrouvé entouré de gens enveloppés dans des foulards qui, si je n'avais pas connu mieux, pourrait avoir été auditionner comme figurants dans un ‘retour de la momie’ film. Nous avons dû passer la ferme de Mireille et la tentation d’entrer dans sa cuisine chaleureuse pour boire du café était forte. Toutefois, le vent est tombé et le moment où passé et nous avons été rapidement grimper la voie à la jonction connu comme Le Chien Pendu. Personne ne l'a jamais de me donner une explication satisfaisante de ce nom, ni du fait que les deux maisons qui siègent à ce carrefour sont tous deux appelés La Maison Brûlée. Bizarre, je me demande si cela remonte à des temps plus violents dans l’histoire de notre village. Ne voulant pas s'attarder sur ces pensées qui font réfléchir, nous avons traversé la route et prit le sentier bien signé au sommet du Mont St Cyr (771 mètres). Je n'avais jamais approché de ce côté en avant et le chemin serpente vers le haut à travers une dense de pins qui font qu'il est impossible de voir plus de 50 mètres de chaque côté. Petits ruisseaux traversent le chemin, de temps en temps et où le chemin était plus raides, petites cascades ont gelé produire des sculptures de glace miniature. Nous avions commencé à entrer dans notre rythme et commencent à dépasser les gens maintenant. Un homme dit à sa femme de se déplacer d'un côté pour laisser « les jeunes par le biais » qui a rendu ma journée tandis que, une dame âgée a commenté que « Ca mont toujours, le Mont St-Cyr ». Je voulais lui dire que « ce qui monte doit sûrement vers le bas» mais je pense qu'il était préférable de conserver mon souffle. L'intérieur de ma veste commençait à me sentir comme un sauna et Mireille avait depuis longtemps enlevé son chapeau et des gants, comme nous sommes sortis dans la clairière herbeuse juste sous le sommet. Baraques avaient été érigés et on nous a offert le choix de boissons (nous avons opté pour le vin chaud) et l'alimentation - un plateau de fromages, charcuterie, pain, gâteaux et du chocolat ainsi que des pommes, gelées de fruits, abricots secs et pruneaux. Dave a évoqué quelques souvenirs remontant à son enfance, à époque où les pruneaux à la crème anglaise étaient une gâterie courante. "Ça fait aller aux toilettes, non?" J'espérais simplement que leurs effets ne se manifesteraient pas trop tôt. Comme nous étions assis manger, la neige commençait à tomber, un revêtement doux mais assez pour nous pressent. L'itinéraire à suivre le bord de la montagne et sur un côté nous avons regardé à travers les vallées et les collines au-delà, à travers des bois et des étangs, des champs de pâturage du bétail et des bâtiments en pierre dans différents états de délabrement. La neige légère avait transformé en une couleur uniforme les verts habituellement éclatants. Forêt à l'autre côté était très dense qui, Mireille nous a assuré, a été la maison des loups (ce n'est pas le cas). Au loin, nous avons entendu le vrombissement de premier moteur d’une voiture et puis une autre, nous approchions de la route de Montmelard. A Vicelaire, sur un coude de la route, un artisan du bois local s'est taillé une ménagerie d'êtres hors de chêne locaux y compris ce que nous avons affectueusement appelle «l'homme pisse». Les températures inférieures à 0 n’avaient pas affecté sa capacité d'écoulement, mais il avait une expression douloureuse sur le visage. Le chemin se précipita derrière les statues, mais nous avons maintenant un tapis d'aiguilles de pin sous les pieds pour amortir nos progrès. Mireille nous a informés que les Français appellent des cônes du pin "Pomme de Pin". Nous lui avons dit que si l'on traduit ce retour vers le français, il serait «ananas», plus confuse. Une flèche pointant vers la gauche nous a informés que nous étions presque en retour et quelques instants plus tard, nous traversions mon passage piéton favori. Elle commence au milieu d'une route et traverse au milieu d'un autre, assurant toutes les précautions de sécurité sont jetés au vent. Quelques minutes plus tard, la cloche de l'église a frappé 1pm comme nous poussa la porte et se glissa dans la chaleur de la salle des fêtes encore une fois. Soupe à l'oignon et les crêpes nous attendions. Une fois rassasié, j'ai suggéré que les deux autres aimeraient faire le tour une fois de plus mais ils ne me prennent pas en place sur ce point. Nos poches bourrées de dépliants publicitaires des dizaines d'autres promenades locales (c'est la saison), les joues en feu avec l'effort de tout cela, nous sommes rentrés à une sieste bien méritée avant le feu.

There's snow place like home

Well I just knew it! Loi d'emerdement again (see 27/10/09). I announce the arrival of spring only to find myself some 10 days later buried under 8 inches of snow, unable to leave the house, with more snow forecast. So, me being me I look around to find the wonder in my present situation. We're fortunate enough to have a 4x4 vehicle (but not so fortunate in that it's been in a garage in macon for the week) and can usually access our house in any condition. However, our guests on Wednesdays drive a car and, as such, weren't able to make it down our snowy lane. No worries- they parked in the church square at Montmelard where Mark and I met them on foot. Wrapped up in multitudinous layers with hats and scarves to boot, the two children were able to approach the house on sledges. Tramping through the snow we marvelled at the upward facing icicles clinging to the blades of grass normally tickled by the numerous water trickles that meander across the farmers fields. Plucking one of these ice pops (complete with grass centre) our friends daughter popped it into her mouth and happily sucked away as she was towed along the frozen footpaths. The sun tried it's best to shine through the gently falling snow and we wondered whether it was possible (or likely) to have a rainbow made by snow (and if so, would it be called a snowbow?) as we sat feasting on pizza and home made carrot cake we watched the birds on the birdtables. I had requested bird feeders for Christmas and had not been dissappointed (I think I had 7 at last count). What wonderful creatures birds are, so agile, so determined. To watch their colour against the snowy backdrop is a joy and to be witness to their activity is a privilege.

Here comes the sun

I'm going to whisper this as I don't want to jinx it 'I think spring may be on it's way'. Since Tuesday we've had terrific blue skies, sun that actually warms you when you stand within it's beams, and birds chirping their little hearts out. Every Tuesday evening I spend a couple of hours with Christine, the local post-mistress, as we endeavour to improve our foreign language capabilities (hers in English, mine in local dialect French). This week we were taking a look at sayings and idioms. As I knocked at her front door I was struck by how light it still was (for 5.30) and checked my watch to make sure I wasn't an hour early. 'It's spring' she said as she welcomed me in. 'One swallow does not a summer make' I replied!! The next day, however, there were the same blue skies, brilliant sunshine and tuneful birds. Mark and I were off to meet a local photographer and entrepreneur, Roland Walrawens, who's photos I'd admired on google earth and who only lives a short distance from my home. I had left my jacket at home, was sporting my sun glasses and even turned the heating down a notch in the car although I stopped short of opening the sun roof. As Mark and I sat munching our way through a delicious chocolate cake in Rolands kitchen, the room flooded with sunlight. Roland picked up one of his many guitars and started to play 'here comes the sun'. I closed my eyes and hummed quiety along. Here comes the sun indeed.