In the market this morning I learnt some new sayings and had a chance to reflect on some old ones.
First the new ones:
“Oursin dans les poches,” - A disparaging label for tourists who refuse to buy anything. Literally it means that they have sea urchins in their pockets. If you’ve never seen a sea urchin before visualise a miniature second world war mine floating at sea - they are round, small, spiky, salty, balls of anger and if you had one in your pocket you certainly wouldn’t be rooting around for loose change.
“Le Gibier d’Ete” - I first read about this saying in Peter Mayle’s excellent A-Z of Provence, but had never heard it used before. Once again it’s a derogatory way to describe tourists, in fact a market traders worst nightmare is that the Gibier D’Ete might all end up having Oursin dans les Poches. Gibier in French is an umbrella term for game and includes wild boar, hares, partridges, in fact pretty much anything that can be shot at. In summer when hunting is banned, the locals have to prey on the tourists instead. Hence their nickname “les gibiers d’ete.”
And a couple of old ones from England:
“The grass is always greener on the other side” - this expression came to mind as a delightfully eccentric French lady lectured me about the superiority of English society. She reflected on her visits to Kent villages, and described how people made way for her as she drove down the street, opened the door to her car, let her cross the road and generally behaved in a gentlemanly way. England she concluded was a much more polite society than France. I didn’t dare point out that nearly seven million English people a year thought differently and chose to spend their summer holiday in France.
“There’s no such thing as a free lunch” - Well there is if you are a Provencal market trader (and you are prepared to stand in the markets all winter making friends with the other vendors). As I set up at 7am this morning, Martine the honey and asparagus saleswoman who has the stand next to us, handed me a bag full of fine asparagus. “It’s perfect for soups and omelettes,” she advised. Later in the morning with my stomach rumbling I went in search of eggs. Barbara who runs the boucherie wouldn’t hear of me paying for a dozen of her free range, and so back at home at 2.30 I sat down to my lunch and started thinking about writing something on sayings, and whether they were true.
I’ll let you know whether the tourists really do become our prey or whether they turn out to have sea urchins in their pockets. As for the grass being greener, I am on the side of the 7 million English who come to France, it’s really rather idyllic here.
Finally for those of you who are regular readers of this column, the promised update on our big cat. Since I wrote the piece there have been no more sightings, but we did have a visit from a South African tracker, Owen, a man who’d spent a lifetime working in the Kruger national park. He disappeared into the trees near where we’d last seen the cat and within minutes signalled us over with a piercing whistle.
“Look here, and here,” Owen said pointing with a stick at impressions in the earth, “no way that’s a dog, put your hand in the mark and you can feel the five pads.”
We complied.
“That’s a cat, and it’s a hell of a big one.”
As a result sunbathing continues to be a nervous occupation.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Be careful what you wish for....
It was 8.54 am on Wednesday morning and thanks to the Aix rush hour and the legendary punctuality of TGVs, some kamikaze driving was called for. The short term car park was the wrong way up a dual carriageway, but for some reason that didn’t seem to matter, instead I felt like I was playing Frogger as I slalomed past onrushing trucks. Discarding the car we dragged our heavy suitcases down the road, furiously pumping our arms but going nowhere fast.
“If only we lived in England,” shouted Tanya as we grappled for our tickets, punched them and wheezed our way through the sliding doors. Sure enough, there was the TGV, smooth and sleek with its engine purring a challenge to the station clock. Panting our way to our seats we reflected that engineering works and replacement bus services had their upsides.
We were returning to London for a wedding but rather than anticipating seeing family and friends I spent the 4 hour journey to Lille fretting about an incident in the market, which had the potential to make Tanya’s comment prophetic.
A boy and a girl had approached the stand and studied the wine list. If I’m generous to my conscience they were 17 but it’s possible they were no more than 14. They selected a bottle and handed over some money, “it’s a present for our father” they chimed.
Tanya was off shopping and I simply didn’t know what to do. In France the journey from nipple to grape is one of the shortest in the world. Once a child is able to walk parents are happy to dilute water with a touch of wine and the two eager young palates before me probably knew more about tipicite and terroir than I did. Should I serve them? Culturally - never mind for now legally - was this type of transaction acceptable in France? Mechanically I counted out the change and handed it to them.
It was only after they left, bottle in hand that I pondered the consequences of my actions. “A present for their father,” - what type of fool was I? In a couple of hours they’d be swaying down the main street of the village singing the Marseillaise and when the gendarme picked them up and asked them where they got their wine from, that would be the end of our nascent rose empire.
And yet, perhaps I was right, perhaps French children were more honest and adult about alcohol than the English. They’d certainly showed no sign of embarrassment as I served them. Had I refused it could have been another Anglo-Saxon faux pas to add to a long list embarrassing errors.
More on the big cat next week - a south African tracker is coming to search for paw prints, that’s if we haven’t been deported in the meantime.
By the way for those of you who have read Extremely Pale Rosé , the wedding we were attending in England was Peter Tate’s daughter’s. She looked beautiful!
“If only we lived in England,” shouted Tanya as we grappled for our tickets, punched them and wheezed our way through the sliding doors. Sure enough, there was the TGV, smooth and sleek with its engine purring a challenge to the station clock. Panting our way to our seats we reflected that engineering works and replacement bus services had their upsides.
We were returning to London for a wedding but rather than anticipating seeing family and friends I spent the 4 hour journey to Lille fretting about an incident in the market, which had the potential to make Tanya’s comment prophetic.
A boy and a girl had approached the stand and studied the wine list. If I’m generous to my conscience they were 17 but it’s possible they were no more than 14. They selected a bottle and handed over some money, “it’s a present for our father” they chimed.
Tanya was off shopping and I simply didn’t know what to do. In France the journey from nipple to grape is one of the shortest in the world. Once a child is able to walk parents are happy to dilute water with a touch of wine and the two eager young palates before me probably knew more about tipicite and terroir than I did. Should I serve them? Culturally - never mind for now legally - was this type of transaction acceptable in France? Mechanically I counted out the change and handed it to them.
It was only after they left, bottle in hand that I pondered the consequences of my actions. “A present for their father,” - what type of fool was I? In a couple of hours they’d be swaying down the main street of the village singing the Marseillaise and when the gendarme picked them up and asked them where they got their wine from, that would be the end of our nascent rose empire.
And yet, perhaps I was right, perhaps French children were more honest and adult about alcohol than the English. They’d certainly showed no sign of embarrassment as I served them. Had I refused it could have been another Anglo-Saxon faux pas to add to a long list embarrassing errors.
More on the big cat next week - a south African tracker is coming to search for paw prints, that’s if we haven’t been deported in the meantime.
By the way for those of you who have read Extremely Pale Rosé , the wedding we were attending in England was Peter Tate’s daughter’s. She looked beautiful!
Friday, May 04, 2007
The Provencal Panther
When we moved into our house the landlord promised we’d see wild boar at the bottom of the garden, spinning a romantic tale about mothers and their babies coming down from the mountains in the hot summer months to look for water. While he was on the subject of wildlife you’d have thought he would have mentioned the panther. “There’s a tile on the roof that’s a bit loose, the hot water tank only lasts for one shower, and oh by the way there’s a man eating cat on the prowl.“ It must have slipped his mind. Still caveat emptor we’re stuck with our new companion.
It certainly puts a novel twist on sunbathing. First we check which direction the wind is blowing - I’ve seen Big Cat diary and the lions always make sure they’re downwind of their prey - and then we position the sun-lounger. Orientation with the sun is irrelevant, all that matters is a clear view of the tree line and an escape plan.
The Provencal Panther, as we’ve dubbed our new feline friend has been spotted twice. At first I was sceptical - the feral domestic black cats that inhabit the countryside are pretty large and the house guest responsible for the first sighting had been up all night drinking coffee and looking after his child. Fairy stories and caffeine were obviously a potent mix.
But a day later Tanya rushed to the window and reported an animal twice the size of the domestic cats, and one which moved in a totally different way, a kind of elegant elongated tiptoe with its belly pressed close to the ground and its nose quivering for scents. It slipped into the shadows before I got a chance to see it, but now we’ve got a long lense camera trained on the trees and a hotline to the picture desk at La Provence.
In another unrelated development a group of tourists have started hugging our olive trees. We emerged from the house one afternoon to discover a trail of hand holding hippies traipsing through the grove. They selected a suitable tree and formed a human circle around it, resting their backs against the trunk and emitting a low humming sound. Tree by tree they made their way around the field oblivious to the lurking danger. I had to presume that the invisible energy source they were tapping into would protect them if the panther attacked. Anyway I had washing to hang up.
Many thanks to www.Copyright-free-photos.org.uk for the free images
It certainly puts a novel twist on sunbathing. First we check which direction the wind is blowing - I’ve seen Big Cat diary and the lions always make sure they’re downwind of their prey - and then we position the sun-lounger. Orientation with the sun is irrelevant, all that matters is a clear view of the tree line and an escape plan.
The Provencal Panther, as we’ve dubbed our new feline friend has been spotted twice. At first I was sceptical - the feral domestic black cats that inhabit the countryside are pretty large and the house guest responsible for the first sighting had been up all night drinking coffee and looking after his child. Fairy stories and caffeine were obviously a potent mix.
But a day later Tanya rushed to the window and reported an animal twice the size of the domestic cats, and one which moved in a totally different way, a kind of elegant elongated tiptoe with its belly pressed close to the ground and its nose quivering for scents. It slipped into the shadows before I got a chance to see it, but now we’ve got a long lense camera trained on the trees and a hotline to the picture desk at La Provence.
In another unrelated development a group of tourists have started hugging our olive trees. We emerged from the house one afternoon to discover a trail of hand holding hippies traipsing through the grove. They selected a suitable tree and formed a human circle around it, resting their backs against the trunk and emitting a low humming sound. Tree by tree they made their way around the field oblivious to the lurking danger. I had to presume that the invisible energy source they were tapping into would protect them if the panther attacked. Anyway I had washing to hang up.
Many thanks to www.Copyright-free-photos.org.uk for the free images
Friday, April 27, 2007
An election joke from Lourmarin market
Le Pen, Royal, and Sarkozy meet at St Peter's Gates. Floating on a cloud nearby they see God. In a great booming voice God says:
"Monsieur Le Pen - what did you do for France."
Le Pen replies with a salute: "Oh Lord I tried to save her."
God thinks for a bit and then says: "Very well come and sit on my right hand side. Now Sego what did you do for France."
Sego gives a curtsy and sweet smile "Oh Lord, I tried to make every Frenchman happy."
God thinks again and then says, "very well come and sit on my left hand side." He turns to Sarkozy. "Now then my little Nico where shall I put you?"
Nico looks at Sego and Le Pen and replies "Oh Lord, I think you'll find you're in my place."
"Monsieur Le Pen - what did you do for France."
Le Pen replies with a salute: "Oh Lord I tried to save her."
God thinks for a bit and then says: "Very well come and sit on my right hand side. Now Sego what did you do for France."
Sego gives a curtsy and sweet smile "Oh Lord, I tried to make every Frenchman happy."
God thinks again and then says, "very well come and sit on my left hand side." He turns to Sarkozy. "Now then my little Nico where shall I put you?"
Nico looks at Sego and Le Pen and replies "Oh Lord, I think you'll find you're in my place."
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
A trip to the coast
This weekend we were in Cannes for the Concours Mondial du Vin Rosé , the biggest rosé tasting in the world.
But first we had to get over the culture shock - on the Croisette people’s sun glasses looked like they’d had an optical version of baby bio sprinkled all over them. Triffid frames engulfed tanned faces barely affording their wearers an opportunity to breath. Men draped themselves in white linen suits looking like modern day Don Johnsons, ageing women ignored the effect of gravity on their cleavage and wore plunging tops and heavy jewellery which counted time as they tottered along. There were sofas on beaches, cocktails sprouting tropical fruits and queues outside nightclubs. It may only have been April but we saw more marcha in an afternoon on the Cote d’Azur, than the whole winter in the Luberon.
At the Concours things were very serious. In a backroom over 1,400 wine bottles had been wrapped in little black plastic body bags and a great sheet of plastic tarpaulin had been spread across the carpet. It reminded me of a crime scene.
Out front teams of tasters were methodically working their way through all of the wine. Now you would have thought that being a taster at a Concours would be one of the great jobs in the world, on par with being the swimwear correspondent for Sports Illustrated. And when we arrived late morning after the tasters had already evaluated over thirty bottles, I’d expected the chatty conviviality of a pub before closing time. Not a bit of it.
Instead everybody sat hunched over a small handheld personal computer from which their tasting notes were immediately uploaded to the central server. Tanya commented that it could have been a conference of engineers. Nobody seemed to be taking any sneaky sips to relieve the monotony of all the spitting and the lunch that followed was as dry as the Sahara, with the professional oenologues no doubt preserving their palates for an afternoon of data input.
On our return to the Luberon, things had changed. Spring had arrived. Just a week ago one of our vigneron friends, Rupert Birch, (http://www.labrillane.com) confided that he was worried he’d killed his vines. Then the fields around his domaine had been full of rows of inert skeletal fists but in the space of a weekend they’d sprouted long green fingers. The plane trees, lifeless for so long, have finally started to provide shade. It’s as if God finally decided to put up the parasols for the summer. Our house is now surrounded by yellow fields of rape, wild poppies grow in red swathes, and the whole thing looks a bit like an impressionist painting.
You can find the results of the Concours at: http://www.mondial-du-rose.fr/fr/resultats,mondial-du-rose.php?langue=fr
But first we had to get over the culture shock - on the Croisette people’s sun glasses looked like they’d had an optical version of baby bio sprinkled all over them. Triffid frames engulfed tanned faces barely affording their wearers an opportunity to breath. Men draped themselves in white linen suits looking like modern day Don Johnsons, ageing women ignored the effect of gravity on their cleavage and wore plunging tops and heavy jewellery which counted time as they tottered along. There were sofas on beaches, cocktails sprouting tropical fruits and queues outside nightclubs. It may only have been April but we saw more marcha in an afternoon on the Cote d’Azur, than the whole winter in the Luberon.
At the Concours things were very serious. In a backroom over 1,400 wine bottles had been wrapped in little black plastic body bags and a great sheet of plastic tarpaulin had been spread across the carpet. It reminded me of a crime scene.
Out front teams of tasters were methodically working their way through all of the wine. Now you would have thought that being a taster at a Concours would be one of the great jobs in the world, on par with being the swimwear correspondent for Sports Illustrated. And when we arrived late morning after the tasters had already evaluated over thirty bottles, I’d expected the chatty conviviality of a pub before closing time. Not a bit of it.
Instead everybody sat hunched over a small handheld personal computer from which their tasting notes were immediately uploaded to the central server. Tanya commented that it could have been a conference of engineers. Nobody seemed to be taking any sneaky sips to relieve the monotony of all the spitting and the lunch that followed was as dry as the Sahara, with the professional oenologues no doubt preserving their palates for an afternoon of data input.
On our return to the Luberon, things had changed. Spring had arrived. Just a week ago one of our vigneron friends, Rupert Birch, (http://www.labrillane.com) confided that he was worried he’d killed his vines. Then the fields around his domaine had been full of rows of inert skeletal fists but in the space of a weekend they’d sprouted long green fingers. The plane trees, lifeless for so long, have finally started to provide shade. It’s as if God finally decided to put up the parasols for the summer. Our house is now surrounded by yellow fields of rape, wild poppies grow in red swathes, and the whole thing looks a bit like an impressionist painting.
You can find the results of the Concours at: http://www.mondial-du-rose.fr/fr/resultats,mondial-du-rose.php?langue=fr
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Welcome to the all new Extremely Pale Rosé website.
Just to update those who have read Extremely Pale Rosé, Tanya and I are now running our own wine business in the south of France. We live near the village of Lourmarin and our shop front is the local markets. When we started trading in October last year one of the locals observed that we would be "living on love and cold water." They were right. We survived a long cold winter and sold practically no wine. But we made friends with the other market traders and secured our pitches in three local villages for the summer and now at last the tourists and the sun have arrived.
As I write this I am just back from the market in Cuceron, where I was approached - or should I say interogated by a middle-aged English lady. As well as wine we sell my book on the stand. The lady flicked through it and looked up. I prepared to explain the story. Instead of asking a polite question she pointed the spine into my face: "Why isn't it translated into French?"
I replied that we had recently found a Dutch publisher and that we were searching for a French one.
"People like you are wrecking this place. It's an English invasion," she said and stalked off.
I wish I'd had the opportunity to continue the conversation. I sat there thinking over her (un) righteous indignation. The honey lady next to us makes her own honey and the potter his own pottery and they both sell it. But for some reason a writer is unable to sell his own books. Had she been French I could have understood her ire, but from a Brit it was the worse kind of snobbery - for some reason she believed she had a right to live here and yet none of her fellow country men did.
Where was she in January when the fountains in the village were frozen and our clients were just the locals? Back in England?
Just to update those who have read Extremely Pale Rosé, Tanya and I are now running our own wine business in the south of France. We live near the village of Lourmarin and our shop front is the local markets. When we started trading in October last year one of the locals observed that we would be "living on love and cold water." They were right. We survived a long cold winter and sold practically no wine. But we made friends with the other market traders and secured our pitches in three local villages for the summer and now at last the tourists and the sun have arrived.
As I write this I am just back from the market in Cuceron, where I was approached - or should I say interogated by a middle-aged English lady. As well as wine we sell my book on the stand. The lady flicked through it and looked up. I prepared to explain the story. Instead of asking a polite question she pointed the spine into my face: "Why isn't it translated into French?"
I replied that we had recently found a Dutch publisher and that we were searching for a French one.
"People like you are wrecking this place. It's an English invasion," she said and stalked off.
I wish I'd had the opportunity to continue the conversation. I sat there thinking over her (un) righteous indignation. The honey lady next to us makes her own honey and the potter his own pottery and they both sell it. But for some reason a writer is unable to sell his own books. Had she been French I could have understood her ire, but from a Brit it was the worse kind of snobbery - for some reason she believed she had a right to live here and yet none of her fellow country men did.
Where was she in January when the fountains in the village were frozen and our clients were just the locals? Back in England?
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