Reality check

It is only too easy to forget, living in our lovely, private valley that there are two reasons for having sheep in our fields. First, they exist to eat the grass so the golf fairways do not need to be mowed every other day. The second is for the ewes to give birth to lambs which we feed, then kill to eat.

For many years we were intermittently protected from this reality because various third parties dealt with the problem, selected the lambs, took them away and paid us. The other way of avoiding the reality was to sell live lambs to engraisseurs, keep a few for friends, ourselves. But I still had to take those to the abattoir and get the carcasses cut up.

Then, a great stroke of luck! An organic co-operative decided to hire a butcher. His task was to select and collect animals, take them to the abattoir and cut up the carcasses ready for sale. The various joints were vacuum packed, weighed and labelled. This made it so much easier to sell – half a lamb, pre-packed, freezer ready.

This butcher, the best 'third party' of all, invested heavily in a laboratoire, so that he would meet all sanitary and bio regulations. Unfortunately, success went to his head and he quickly opened a butcher's shop – not in a good location – and started to visit local markets.

Of course, he equally quickly went spectacularly bust, six zeros if one can believe local rumour. Of course I felt sorry for him – but slightly less than I felt sorry for me, back at square one. Fortunately, in 2012 I was put in touch with a young farmer who was just starting to breed Clun Forest sheep – he bought all the lambs with great enthusiasm. Promised to buy this year's lambs, so I was quite serene. Silly me.

But another engraisseur who lived closer by was a retired sheep farmer who missed his sheep. So he took all bar five that I kept for autoconsommation. Audrey, Alexandre and I (actually mostly A&A) had to work out a way to get the lambs to the local abattoir and then to find a butcher. By leaning on friends, discussing euro charges, the lambs got taken to the abattoir and we found a butcher who would help.

However, we ourselves had to pick up the carcasses, in my car. I vacuumed the boot, lined it with sheets and off went, Alexandre and I, arriving at the secretariat at 08.30 a.m as instructed. The secretary was there. I paid the charges and asked if the carcasses could be loaded.

The secretary said the director had gone to have a blood test. We asked when he would be back. She did not know because he had just gone for his blood test. We commented how unpleasant this was, a blood test on an empty stomach.. All she knew was that he was gone for a blood test. Every time Alexandre grew a little taller, leaned over her slightly. She got the point: blood test or no, we were not leaving without our lamb carcasses. She asked Alexandre if he thought he could carry the carcasses – he said, of course. Sigh.

Alexandre was garbed in a plastic jacket to save his clothes and we were duly given our four lambs. They looked beautiful. When we got them to the butcher, he said they looked beautiful. After he had jointed the carcasses, the butcher said there was a lot of meat and it looked very good. Alexandre and Audrey were the first to eat some of the meat – it tasted very good, they said. And therein lies the consolation of breeding animals for meat.

Fire all the time

The greatest of country winter skills is the ability to keep the home fires burning, especially the ones in open fire-places. The truly skilled, and lucky, country fire-bugs manage to keep an open fire alive for twenty-four hours. It is revived in the morning from embers that were covered in ashes last thing at night. The ash broods over the embers like a hen over eggs.

seemingly no sign of life

We feel very proud because we have managed to keep a fire going for seven days. This morning's fire I revived with three Kleenex, a couple of sticks and half a fir-cone. No matches involved.

Obviously the type of wood that is being burnt counts for a lot. The fruit woods, for example, (cherry,pear,apple) are lightweight and burn clear away. The same goes for the 'white' woods – ash, aspen, beech. Pine burns well, smells good but tends to spit and tar up the chimney.

Not a good wood for a room with expensive rugs in front of the fireplace, for then, as the loi d'emmerdement maximum' will have it, the sparks will jump the fireguard. Sparks from chestnut logs that are not properly dry are even worse – they seem to be able to jump six feet.

The secret is to get an angular log for last thing at night, one that has all sorts of nooks and crannies in which fire sparks can lurk. It is what professional firemen dread. The fire seems to be out but a little wind – or breath in our case - and the glows start to flame. Add a little dry tinder and the whole flares up.

but there is a glowing heart

The best, the most prized and most expensive firewood is well seasoned oak. Heavy oak logs that have been split into manageable widths, about a metre long, and that have dried for three a good three years since splitting. We were briefly the proud owners of an X ton hydraulic log splitter but it was a cumbersome device, our tractor was underpowered. Eventually it became too dangerous to take it into the woods. Fortunately, Jean-Claude down the road had always wanted one and he had a full powered farm tractor. We struck a deal, he took it away and we gained lots more space in the tractor shed.

Now we use professional wood cutting companies to cut down selected oak and chestnut trees, do the splitting and stacking near the house. Then we – that is Alexandre – cuts the logs into stove or fire-place sized chunks and stacks them. A very comforting view.

Of course, in line with the law that one workman creates work for another – the bucherons did manage to drive their ginormous tractor and trailer right over the the inspection chamber of the Hermitage's septic tank. |In March I screeched for M. Angibaud, who empties our septic tanks (and any leaking pools), who said he would come, fix. In September he came – by which time I had almost given up. But he did a beautiful job. His sons were this year's chimney sweeps.

Country Mouse travels with her Hat

Country Mouse went to London last week. But this time she went better armed. She wore her Hat. Actually, not only the Hat, but also a black suede coat with a detachable black fox fur collar (bought for 10€ in a brocante) and very shiny black shoes. Sadly, age dictates, these were flatties.

The Hat is a 'Borsalino', bought for heaven knows how much, many years ago in Swaine, Adeney and Briggs, then of St James, London SW1. I bought it after Humphrey Bogart was filmed wearing it and before Harrison Ford gave it world-wide fame in the Indiana Jones films. In the United States these Italian made hats are called 'fedoras'. In TV series they are usually worn by Mafia types, along with the ubiquitous, long camel hair overcoat. (See any episode of 'Law and Order.')

POOH MODELS MY HAT

The Hat's influence was first felt at St Astier railway station where Country Mouse, her husand, our daughter/chauffeur and grandson arrived just as the train was drawing in. We were on the bridge over the rails, I waved and blew a kiss at the driver who was already being beseiged by daughter and grandson. The train driver waited for us – most unusual - to board and the conductor did not charge a penalty when we had to buy tickets from him. Indeed we got the standard old age discount which is considerable.

It, (or should I say we?) drew glances for the rest of our journey to London. The Gatwick border control agent asked me to take my Hat off – the Bordeaux agents did not. Obviously leaving is less important than arriving. It made me more conspicuous – without the Hat there were times when I was invisible to taxis, or so it seemed. And it impressed in shops.

But I think the Hat's most important influence was on our return trip. We boarded the dreadful Gatwick Express at Victoria Station and installed ourselves, first class in deference to the Hat, at a table. I nodded at the man with the drinks trolley. He acknowledged my greeting.

Later we bought some drinks from him, there was a confusion about the cost. Then I gave him a pound tip and a handshake. He smiled and disappeared.

Somewhat encumbered by luggage, we got off at Gatwick – only to find the ticket barrier at the top of the escalator, closed. And JP's ticket was on the table in the train carriage. He turned, resigned to going back to find train and carriage. Then we heard a voice, 'sir, sir and madam'! It was the young man from the drinks trolley. Would he have recognised us without my Hat?

Meat and maths don't mix

Idly pushing the garden lettuce round the basin of water, I wondered if snails could swim. A problem with a pesticide free vegetable garden is pests. If weeds are flowers in the wrong place, then pests are animal life in the wrong place. A snail head peeked over the side of the bowl – and answered my question. Yes, snails can swim.

Very small snail saving its life on a cauliflower floret.

There was a knock on the door. Madame Landraudy of our local chasse arrived on the doorstep. She was carrying a large and heavy black plastic bag. My ungrateful heart sank as she handed it over. I had been so blissfully contemplating my freedom from the potting/freezing/bottling that is associated with autumn in the country.  Then there I stood on the doorstep with a 3kg++ leg of wild boar and no room in the freezer.

A deep breath, an executive decision and I took the leg to Christian the Wonderful Butcher. 'Mince me this,' I requested, 'and mix in with the same quantity of farce.' (that is seasoned sausage meat). I did a little math in my head (not a good place for sums) and reckoned I would need twelve 500 gr paté jars. These I duly bought at Ast-Vert, got a large number of packets of streaky bacon at LIDL and some bottled chestnuts at the boulangerie / general store.

When I brought the mix home – 6.3 kg, Christian insisted – I put it in my largest pan, added a bottle of red wine, a tied bunch of herbs and left it to marinade. I did make two meat patties for lunch to check the seasoning. Fine. The jars were prepared by putting two crossed strips of streaky inside and then put out in the cold until I was ready to fill the jars. Mistake: Cha-Cha tipped up the protective tray and helped himself to the bacon from three jars. Tant pis.

I halved the mixture – using my second largest pan – and crumbled in the chestnuts. Then I started to fill the jars, a skilled job as the mince has to be well tamped down so as not to leave any air gaps. Consternation. Half the mix filled all twelve 500 gr jars. Fortunately there is a pizza kiosk in front of Ast-Vert, so we ordered a pizza and John went to buy another 12 jars.

These are the eight pots without chestnuts...

The other half of the mixture filled eight of the 500 gr jars, plus I had to find a little 250 gr one for the scrapings. So, all in all, I now have 20 jars of wild boar paté – the nice Familia Wiss ones with 'gold' seals and outer screw lids. The EdF has got to be happy – to sterilise them I used the oven, 190C for four hours, at peak time,and could only get seven pots in at a time.

What had I forgotten? That weight does not necessarily indicate volume....?

Here comes the rain!

The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness has drawn to a close. The season of perpetual rain has begun. The fruits of the wild fig in the field have ripened, exploded and fed the hornets. We are still waiting on the domesticated figs to make up their minds. Two inches of rain, at least, has fallen since last Sunday. Yesterday it was not safe to drive, the rain fell so hard.

The plums, apples and pears have been the joy of the ewes for many weeks now, as have the chestnuts and acorns. A varied diet is good for all. The humans (that is A³ plus Michelle) have had a good harvest of champignons also.(I do wish I could find an adequate translation for that word. Mushrooms will not do, for they are not all field mushrooms (agarics) nor will 'toadstools' with its overtones of poison).

Just a glimpse of this winter's stores.

Apple juice anyone?

And this is last winter's jam!

But this year, I sit here, rather smugly – for I am not being bullied by the 'mellow fruitfulness'; I do not have to pot/jam/freeze or otherwise conserve anything. Alexandre braved the wrath of the sheep and collected many kilos of apples for pressing into juice (and that after depriving them of most of their plums!) Audrey has made enough tomato coulis to keep the local McDonalds in sauce for a few days. And there is green tomato jam.

Arnold had a rush of blood to the head when he saw Alexandre's sacks of apples and remembered he had taken away our aged barrel of 'cider' more years ago than we can remember. It was our first attempt to process the abundant apple harvest. We took the apples to the local trout farm at Lisle – now a very distinguished river-side restaurant called Le Moulin de l'Isle – where they were washed in fish-water, then crushed. The resulting filtered juice was put into our 50 litre oak barrel. And that was that. The bung was in as was the wooden tap. We never managed to get either to open which is why Arnold took the barrel away. It is now soaking in the gentle rain so that its staves will swell, ready for next year's juice.

Ah well, I like rain! I like walking in the fields, protected by my boots from evil, biting arthropods. I like kicking away the leaf and twig dams in the newly born stream so that the water rushes through to the lake. I like what the rushing water reveals, the fossils, the broken coloured quartz stones – the odd golf ball. I am happy in the wet. Especially as there is always a fire in the range to dry me.

Toast on the range

Oh, joy! It is time for toast on the range again! The last fly of summer is dead, the fly-catcher strips are burnt and the range re-lit. The temperatures may have dropped but the sun still shines – mostly. Young Angibaud came to sweep all the chimneys that were used last winter. He also peered up those that had remained unused – just in case Asiatic or local hornets had decided to build their winter quarters there.

This is not a joke. One winter we gaily lit the dining room fire-place, very little used, only to find that it belched smoke everywhere. A tentative poke upwards with the domestic chimney sweeping equipment dislodged the parts of some wasp or hornet nest. An urgent call to the professional sweep was made and he was only too glad to come and oblige - later. (We ate dinner in the kitchen.)

I forget now whether that was the same winter that we lit the dining room fire just before our dinner guests were due. The smell was awful. It seemed that our then cat, probably Ginger, used the ash as cat litter. I presume it was Ginger because he did the same when he went to live with Veronica and flatly refused to use the cat flap in winter, despite much training and persuasion. Nothing wrong with ashes, says the cat.

John took the (hated by me) Simplicity sit-upon plus trailer down to fairway two to collect fir-cones for use as fire lighters. Now we shall be able to dry them in the bottom oven and dispense with all other fire-lighters, especially those noxious to the atmosphere and our hands.

We can still look forward to roasting chestnuts on the hot-plate, the sheep have not eaten them all. It is a slightly dangerous activity as they have to be pressed against the hot plate with the insulating lids. Lift those up and one risks exploding nuts.

But this is a minor risk. What worries me is the 'expert' talk – in newspapers – about the coming winter. The consensus is that it will be one of the colder winters, direct from our friendly central Russian steppes. Will it be time for triple clothing layers after Christmas? Will we have to drain the water systems of the gites? Who knows – weather gods are notoriously disinclined to be predictable.

A goat comes calling...

An unexpected visitor this week – one impressive black and brown billy goat peacefully grazing in our fields. How he got there, we do not know, nor do we know why he decided to come. It is unlikely that he had any real reason for coming – he left home because he could.

Am I magnificent or what?

 A quick phone call to the nearest goat farm, at La Veyssiere on the way to Mensignac, about a half kilometre from La Chaise, confirmed that the farmer was one billy goat short. The road between La Chaise and La Veyssiere is a rural backwater, only really busy at champignon time or if someone is cutting wood.

But, and this is an important qualifier, to get into the La Chaise fields Billy Goat had to cross a main road. A quiet moment whilst one thinks of what might have happened but fortunately did not.

La Chaise has received other runaways before Billy Goat.....if one forgets to close the main gate there are always lost hunting dogs coming in of a Sunday evening, for example. And let us not forget this summer's abandoned black kitten..

The most physically impressive of the random animal visitors was the donkey that installed itself in the orchard. This was many years ago, before Arnold, Audrey and Alexandre, whilst Clea and Harry were still small and I was very, very far from being able to cope with such large animals.

Fortunately, the donkey was alternatively cropping the grass and eating the peaches and we still had a little fencing round the orchard. I closed the orchard gate, then the road gate and remembered I had heard donkey braying coming from the direction of Chantepoule, a kilometre down the road to Tocane.

I telephoned my one and only acquaintance at Chantepoule who, fortunately, immediately knew the likely owner of a donkey. Owner came to retrieve his pet,was duly grateful and I was given a Kilner jar of home preserved peaches. Well, that made up for the ones the donkey had eaten.

But escaping animals happen both ways. Mother Ducks have very little sense. One year our Mother Duck, who had a very large brood, would absolutely insist on taking them into the ditches along the main road. In the end I stopped trying to work out why and just tried to keep them in – unsuccessfully. One embarrassing morning I discovered a car had stopped just before our wooden gate and the kind driver was shepherding the ducks back under it. Shepherding ducks is not easy, He was rewarded – eventually – with a ready-to-roast duckling.