The point of an Easter Egg

Has anyone else noticed that commercial eggs, eggs bought in shops or from market stalls, lack two important characteristics? None of them are plain white and very, very few have a pointy end. (Hint: if you do see white eggs, check whether they are duck eggs before buying.)

commercial eggs, bought Sunday 27/03 morning - note triangles

To me these seem an important cultural loss, not least because teachers of English, teaching Gulliver's Travels, will have to explain what the Littlendians and Bigendians were on about to children for whom eggs are simple ovals. Secondly, it takes away the fun of hitting a boiled egg on one end or the other, or slicing through in one quick, skilled movement and argument as to which is the best technique*.

last week's La Chaise eggs

My first job, for pocket money, was in a greengrocer's shop, part of a national chain, where I packed up orders for delivery and sorted the eggs, stamped with the little British Lion mark. It was in the days of 'Go to Work on an Egg' advice, long before eggs were declared to be dangerous to health, if not downright bad for the susceptible – cholesterol and allergies. I sorted the eggs into brown and white. The brown went into a straw lined wicker basket, lion stamp inwards, under the handwritten sign 'Fresh Farm Eggs, with a handwritten price.

commercial eggs - note triangle

The virtual disappearance of the white hen's egg, deprives children and adults (usually mothers, of course) of another charming Easter ritual. This one involved interestingly shaped green leaves – clover, fern tops, small but perfect oak leaves – brown onion skins and yards of white muslin bandage.

Children collected the leaves whilst mother washed the eggs. The leaves stuck to the damp egg, which was then wrapped in onion skins, then wrapped in muslin, carefully fixed with a pin and boiled hard. Instant decorated egg.

Two prize La Chaise eggs - with pointy ends!

Later, when safe flavourless food colouring became available to housewives, the eggs were often luridly coloured and hidden in the house or garden for young children to find. When we sold our London house a couple of years ago, I found a mini chocolate cream egg in the garden, lodged in the crook between leaf stem and leaf of a ficus. I decided to leave it – for luck – for the new owner.

* If you must find an argument of this nature – try walnuts. There are those who think they are easier to crack if hit, with boxwood hammer, on the pointed end. Then there are those who think the opposite. Of course, third parties think they should be hit on the join between the two ends....This argument is confined to people hand-cracking walnuts for walnut oil purposes.

A natural question

It is always a joy to return to La Chaise from 'Away' especially in the Spring. The grass and the trees have been washed clean. New grass is lushly growing. Catkins grace the hazel twigs, sway with the slightest waft of air. The stream flows from the ravine into the lake. It overflows. The sheep in the shed complain: they want OUT, NOW.

Of course there is mud, there are puddles and water flows from the woods to join the stream. The sheep cannot be allowed out quite yet for 80 kilos spread over four small cloven feet, probably half the size of your hand, will churn up fields worse than a wild boar looking for worms. We compromise and let them into the fenced woodland either side of the house. The sheep eat anything green, the lambs just rush around being silly.

Hyacinths returned to the 'wild'

And I rush around to see which wild flowers have come out where, whether the rosettes of fat green leaves that indicate possible wild orchids later are in the usual places. Also I like to check whether the 're-wilding' of my former pot plants has succeeded. The answer is mostly, or yes up to a point. It has succeeded with hyacinths liberated from the window boxes and with some primulas. Some of the latter come back with primula flowers – one reverted back to being a cowslip, but a dark red cowslip. I think the sheep ate it.

Daffodils a-drooping

Given the conventional idea that Nature's creations are all 'fit for purpose' (humans excepted, possibly) I wonder why so many daffodil stems break once they carry a flower? It does not seem to vary with the type of daffodil, double or single, narcissus or classic yellow, wild or planted. For three score years and ten (plus)* I have believed that daffodils, like all bulb plants, spread by the division of the parent bulb. Now I learn that they also have seeds but these take a long time to germinate into a bulb then a flower. Not a commercial proposition – but may account for random clumps appearing suddenly in unexpected places.

Rescued daffodils on kitchen table.

Planting daffodil bulbs is not as easy as I had thought.   Some years ago I bought about 100 bulbs from a very respectable Dutch horticultural catalogue and asked Arnold to plant them at the end of the lawn.  They came up two years running then ...I don't know, either that part of the lawn was too dry or the moles had eaten the bulbs.

One worrying observation:  the juniper bushes on the slopes of Fontenelles field( aka 'Greece' towards no 4 green) are all dying.  As these are very much associated with wild orchids - why i do not know -  I was much saddened.   Young juniper bushes are springing up elsewhere - but how long before the wild orchids migrate to join them?

The end of junipers on 'Greece'?

*  Actually I don't think my mother taught me about bulbs until I could read, so deduct five years

from that figure.

BioMassMadness

Our small commune, St Aquilin (pop 500) is riven by rumours, libel, slander and general ill-will over a project that, in the abstract, is all that fits in with current bio preconceptions, all that could be desired ecologically, arguably even economically. In real life, in this real village, it is expensive,in the wrong place, probably not economic and so, arguably, just plain daft.

The project is to create a methane gas plant that would be fuelled by cowshit and other farm detritus, that would produce electricity which would mostly be sold to the French state electricity body, Electricite de France, some used to dry farm produce that is otherwise subject to weather variations, such as maize, walnuts, wood, hay.

Here is the first snag: a monopoly purchaser is as unreliable as a monopoly supplier. Those whose decision, a decade or so ago, to cover barn roofs in solar panels, was swayed by the option to 'sell' electricity in excess to their own needs, will very probably agree.

The project has been launched by probably the village's largest, in terms of land owned or leased, accredited organic farmer.  He is a charming, active young man who has specialised in rearing cows, growing cereals and gathering walnuts.  His rapid acquisition of land, whether purchased or leased, has inevitably irritated others who either coveted the same properties or generally go 'mutter,suffer,grumble' about 'upstarts' and whatever the French is for 'getting too big for his boots.'  He is associated with a few other farmers in the immediate neighborhood (not actually St Aquilin locals) and has formed an association that has been given the State accolade GIEE – groupement d'interet economique et environnemental – by the Department of Agriculture.

The farm buildings, surrounded by trees, many of which will have to come down - site of the future gas dome

Unfortunately, the operational centre of his farming activity, and the proposed site for the methaniseur is surrounded by woodland, some of it protected. Not far from this rustic centre, at the end of a rural road shaded by ancient chestnuts are four houses and an unexceptional chateau.

Their proprietors learned of the project by accident through an article in the local newspaper, the respected Sud-Ouest early in 2015. Not surprisingly they are incensed and very vocal on the subject.

An existing gas dome of similar size to the one projected

Their complaints vary from the insecurity of the project –

methane is an unstable gas, deadly in some forms (ask coal miners) and popularly known for its use as rocket fuel;

– include damage to the local environment as 25 ton lorries deliver the (smelly) raw material on a road not suited to such weights;

- is uneconomic and will not create the projected jobs;

- last but not least, the impact on the value of their properties...nimbyism exists in rural France, too.

It is also argued that Germany, so far ahead in many matters ecological, is having second thoughts about the impact of methane gas plants, that it has shut some down.

Also, there is already a methaniseur under construction in the commune of St Astier, not far away, on a main road. (Random info: St Astier was a more important saint than St Aquilin, the two are thought to have been friends. St Astier has a church to his name that is 1,000 years old, well the site is anyway.)

There are only four real employers based in St Aquilin, the

Mairie and the school, the bar,restaurant,epicerie Le St Aquilin, and the camp site with summer bar and restaurant, also a stocked lake for fishing, L'Etang des Garennes. The latter two, only potential employers, are also likely to suffer from the development.

The heart of the problem of this near 3m euro project, the 7^th such in the Dordogne, is that it cannot get off the ground without departmental, state and EEC aid. No one can predict, should it come into existence, how long it will need a monetary subvention. It is an expense for the many, of benefit to a few.

On the equality of plants

The Lady of La Chaise is in a panic.  Audrey and Alexandre, along with Charlie and (H)aska the dog have gone away and left her.   Admittedly The Lady has not been left for long, only four days.  But she has been left in charge of the vegetable garden.

The tomato jungle

 The vegetable garden is a riot of rampant courgette plants, some of which are producing pumpkins, bolting lettuces, unknown greens and a tomato jungle. At least two courgette plants are trying to climb up the weeping mulberry.  A boundary climbing rose is sneaking two feelers along the grass towards the tomato jungle. There is mint everywhere and some spring bean plants have decided to return.   At least, they look like bean plants.

ramping courgettes hide nettles.

The problem is this:   Audrey and Alex appear to believe in the equality of plants.  In short, no 'weeding'. An admirable approach, probably - except that weeds (sorry, plants) such as nettles nestle sneakily under courgette leaves. This makes it difficult to pick (steal?) courgettes, whether round or long, without getting severely stung.   And not a dock leaf visible

good things from the veggie jungle

Boots might be an answer.   Only The Lady's boots are likely to be a) filled with wet golf balls by adored grandson (wet because they first passed into the watering can) or b) still housing last years hornets.   Hornets, even when dead, can sting.

The solution might be to persuade Audrey and Alex that 'weeding' is a form of 'pruning'.   They are absolutely excellent at pruning.   Audrey has revived one of our wall decorating climbing roses.   It is now flowering for the fourth time this year.   Alex last year pruned - practically slaughtered - an aged walnut.  It has decided to live, rejuvenated, might even produce walnuts in a few year's time.

Meanwhile Autumn has encroached on August.  We have had an excellent early crop of boletus edulis (penny buns, in English) and the oronges have escaped from their hiding place deep in the woods to the fringes of fairway
three. Again, we have the Biggest Ever puff-balls in the woods.

the largest puff-ball  ever since last year

And the first autumn crocus before August is even finished.!!

Rain making rituals and fowl mysteries

Sheer desperation is supposed to stimulate imagination, out of the box solutions - and so on.  The temperatures were getting hotter, the grass browner, the heavy crop of fruit on the trees was not swelling into ripeness.

Then Alexandre had an attack of creativity.  He would immediately build the tandoor oven I had wistfully mentioned at the beginning of the summer.  It took him two days and a borrowed electric cement mixer. This reminded us of the old days - days when we could either boil a kettle or run the cement mixer. Definitely not two electricity powered machines at the same time.

just waiting for fire and food

No sooner was the elegant terra-cotta lid put on the tandoor,  the cement mixer returned to its senior owner, an initiation (chicken skewers) planned for this weekend, then the rains came down.  Since Friday rainfall has threatened to from millimetres to a centimetre, perhaps even more. 

The Black Pond in the Woods is filling nicely. So presumably is the lake at the bottom of the valley.   But it has been too wet to go see.

Were I to go see I would hope to see the ducks there, the ones my grandson so gleefully, if unsuccessfully, chased.  Since this traumatic occasion (for the ducks, boy enjoyed) there has been no sign of them.  No sign of white feathers anywhere, which would indicate a four legged predator, a fox or wandering hunt dog.  They were too young to fly.  We have not ventured into the deep woods to seek further.

The recent spell of extremely hot weather has been our accepted explanation for the lack of eggs in the hen-house.  Or perhaps they had been 'laying away' but not even Haska, the pretty black and tan dog, had been seen with any eggs.

Today, Audrey discovered a faint track in the grass leading to the hen-house.  She traced it back to the lawn, heading for the woods..  There was animal shit on the wall.   We looked at each other.  The pine marten is back, we said.

Birds come, birds go

We feel very proud of ourselves at La Chaise.  A third brood of swallows have hatched, and flown.  Their parents built them a new nest, pre-used homes obviously not appropriate for this late brood.

Always hungry, always crying

 As always the nest was in Alexandre' atelier which seems a little odd.   First there is the coming and going of Alexandre, plus the noise of his machines when he is working there.   He is not bothered by being dive bombed by indignant swallow parents.  Somehow the excessive amount of bird shit associated with nests does not fall on his machines or whatever work he is doing.  They must have come to some arrangement but Alexandre is not telling.

pre-used and rejected

It is only in the last three years that swallows have come back to La Chaise.  We do not know why they went, not why they have returned.    It is not due to an absence of cats, though there was a period feline , free. Now the majestic Cha-Cha, who condescends to be fed by Alex and Audrey and occasionally brings them a mouse in return, stalks the grounds.   His ambition seems to be to install himself in our house. But, unusually for a cat, he understands the word 'No' - even 'Non' - unlike the visiting three year old who ignores both.

So the swallows have left but there are ducks back on the duck pond down the farm.  This also after a period of well over three years since the last duck was killed by a pine marten.   We were practicing what is known as a 'vide sanitaire' in local farming terms.  In other words, the absence of prey for the nuisibles is supposed to make them look for food elsewhere.  No doubt the news that two pine martens had been so stupid, or arrogant, as to get themselves trapped  only a few weeks ago also helped.

should never have left the pond

Unfortunately the ducklings were not safely on the pond when the near three year old grandson saw them.  They were waddling on the path, nibbling the odd bit of grass and occasional bug.   Grandson yelled 'canard, canard,'  and set off in pursuit.  A three year old boy can run nearly as fast as three month old ducklings.  The ducklings dived under the fig tree by the barn and tried to hide. Grandson got on all fours and went after them under the fig tree.  The ducklings escaped the other side.   Oma had to lie flat on her stomach to rescue grandson from fig branches.  The former rushed off to the pond, determinedly pursued by the latter: canard, canard!'.  The latter was carried back home, in tears, for tea.

And another unanswerable animal question...

Why is it that some domesticated animals, those with the escapology gene can only find their way out?  An escape route seems to be one way. They never return via the way they left.   Mostly they do not come back. 

Very small lambs go through a period of getting under fences. The drinking tubs are one way, either through the water, in danger of drowning, or, for the cleverer ones, just alongside and under the wire.  And since one cannot herd lambs at all, definitely not one on its own, the whole flock has to be moved to where the lamb is.  This also goes for single escaped ewes, double figures are more manageable.

a lamb's way out....

Hens are the only escapologists with a return instinct.  But they get out in silent devious ways, usually unseen, make a terrible triumphant racket, then get down to eating what they ought not. They come back in equally devious manner, driven by thought of the regular bed-night snack. 

Actually, that is wrong.   Cats go and come in their own mysterious ways. There are no known ways of controlling cats. Everyone knows that.

Edward, the Black Prince with Tiger, his ginger cat

Our longest-lived labrador, Edward, the Black Prince of La Chaise, had us beautifully trained.  When we noticed his absence, and if I had time, I got into the faithful Peugeot 504 estate wagon and would drift round the country lanes, preferably the ones in the woods.  The diesel engine would be run in its noisiest gear.  Sometimes Edward would deign to come out of the woods with a resigned expression on his face.   I would open the boot and he would hop in.

When we had not noticed his absence, difficult I grant but we sometimes had other things to do than concentrate on the needs of dogs, then an evening phone call would come.  'Edward is here,' would say our nearest neighbour,' he wants his lift home.'   Or, when in luck, that neighbour fancied a drink and Edward would be brought home in style, on the back seat.

The current chief escapologist at La Chaise, is Roger, our new pedigree Clun Forest ram from the Pyrenees.  He bitterly resents being fenced in, will batter down fencing and gates, use the styles, to get out of whichever field he is in to join the ewes and lambs.   He will, however, being a friendly chap, follow Alex back to wherever if Alex is carrying a pan of maize grains.  Typical male, guided by his stomach.

Roger the Ram, trapped behind a mains voltage electric fence.