The Really Big Dream Blog

Welcome to the Party Village

2012-02-10T07:44:00.000-08:00

The first big social event of 2012 here in Montmelard is now behind us and what an event it was. The Poule au Riz evening (pronounced pooloree) - chicken and rice to you and me, was a huge success and shall no doubt be talked about for generations to come. I am all the more chuffed that it was such a triumph as it was the first Soirée that I had been involved in. The aim of the evening was to raise funds to buy hats for the class of 2 (see previous blogs) Jour des Conscrits as well as to provide some light relief from the cold days of winter. So, having spent the day setting up trestle tables, laying place settings for 160 people, slicing tomatos for the same number and generally lending a hand, 7pm found me sitting down to an early supper with my co-organisers - the lull before the storm.
Someone raised a valuable point - we needed to make sure that all attendees produced their tickets on arrival. We didn't want any opportunists, who just happened to be cruising by, gate crashing our evening and having a supper for free. I thought this was a joke until I saw the solemn faces nodding agreement. 'Is this likely to happen?' I asked pointing out that we were a small community in the middle of nowhere and the temperature was hovering around the -8 mark. 'We are on a hill and for miles around you can see the lights and hear the music.' Montmelard would become a beacon for any good time folk from Charolles to Macon.

The maximum number of entrants for the village hall is around 140, 120 to be on the safe side so it was no surprise that we had managed to sell 160 eat in tickets and 40 odd take aways. 4 of us serving wenches were to feed the hoards as another team dished up in the kitchen, a couple sold bottles of wine and the rest manned the bar. I can't remember the last time I worked so hard or removed my cardigan in January. Shimmying between the close aisles of happy eaters I kept my smile but lost the contents of my tray twice into the same young mans lap. He was a forgiving type and said there were no hard feelings. The atmosphere was certainly one of Bon Hommie and my designated table guests were happy to help with gathering up the debris and ensuring that I had a slurp or two of wine to keep my strength up.

As before, I encountered a number of people who were born, raised and are happy to see out their days in Montmelard among their friends and loved ones who have similarly spent their lives in this beautiful region. There is a strange (to me who has always been something of a nomad) sense of peace and belonging here and as I took to the dance floor, inbetween serving cheese and tarte au pommes, I felt strongly that I was exactly where I should be.
You've got to love a place where the bar prices show wine and beer as 1 euro a glass and Coca Cola at 1.50 euro, doing our bit for stamping out artificial additives. My turn as bar maid came exactly two minutes before we ran out of beer (2.30am). After auctioning off the final bottle, the beer drinkers effortlessly made the transition to wine.
It was lovely to see the coming together of all ages and both sexes on the dance floor. Young and old alike jived to 60s beats, trotted round to folk songs and then bounced about to modern pop. One dance struck me as the French equivalent of Oranges and Lemons, it involved having a partner, holding hands and promenading under the arches made by other dancers. The only difference in the French version was that as you made the rounds you were frequently tickled and had your bottom smacked!!

At 04.20hrs I knew it was time to go home - I needed to be back at 9am to clear up and I would have to grab some sleep, feed Eddie cat and my chickens plus tidy the house (Mark had been away) before then. As I left the party was going strong but the sounds were soon muffled by the snow that had begun to fall silently outside.

See amid the winter snow...

2011-12-19T09:41:00.000-08:00

Well, winter has finally got us and that is OK with me being as it's Christmas next weekend. I must admit though, it has rather caught us out. We've had the longest of summers and mildest of springs and autumns and I was beginning to forget what cold was. Then - wham, a dump of snow and we're plunged onto the set of a Christmas card.

Nature seems to have been a little taken by surprise as well. My roses, fuscias, lobellia and marigolds were all happily continuing to bloom. Time to make way for the holly and mistletoe - which, by the way, grows here in abundance and is free!

I love popping round to friends' houses to see their preparations in full swing. Lovely Linda is making chutneys and pie fillings (thanks for the mincemeat and apple and cranberry chutney): S has a half decorated tree as her children aren't as yet tall enough to decorate the top section and INSISTED they trimmed it alone; and B dried her marzipan with a hair dryer after her husband added too much egg!

We visited our local patisserie this week to order our yule log (buche) which is the French Christmas cake. We were assaulted by the smell of gingerbread as we entered the shop and left with a chocolate log, three ginger bread men, a chestnut macaron, chocolate fancy and a partridge in a pear tree.

So, Christmas tree up, presents wrapped, Eddie cat slumped in front of log fire, food bought. I think we're there!!

I never tire of walking the lanes close to my home and did so this afternoon to catch a bit of freshair whilst walking off fruit cake, mince pies and fudge picked up on a recent trip back to the UK. In all the excitement that is Christmas, it's nice to take a bit of a breather. My tip for staying calm is to find a lovely location, stop still, close your eyes and don't move again until you've identified ten sounds. In no particular order I heard cows mooing (this is the Charolles); Bon bon my neighbours (not so) baby donkey braying in anticipation of his first Christmas; something, probably a mouse or bird, scurrying around under the hedgerow; a car - yes, two or three do pass our house each day; a pigeon calling from the wood; children screaming (in a good way) as they came down a field slope on a sledge; a womans voice directing her husband as he strung fairy lights over an ancient barn; my neighbours dog, Vanille, barking as someone must have come up to the front door; the village church bell striking 20 minutes past the hour and the dripping of snow as it melted from the holly bush where I had stopped. Deep breath - aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Hope you have a very merry, joy filled, fun and magical Christmas.

The joy of knitting

2011-11-15T08:46:00.000-08:00

My capacity to continually surprise myself, well - quite simply, it surprises me. This week was no exception. I admit it, I am now a knitter. I own three sets of knitting needles, have the first two pattern books in my knitting library and a bag dedicated to carrying my 'in progress' projects around with me just in case I find a spare minute or two to slip a couple of stitches in. What a fascinating world I have stumbled into. It all began after a friend who is keen on this art asked me whether I could take her to the Plassard factory shop. Plassard is one of the main knitting companies in France and they have their sheep, museum and factory just a few miles away. I was going to drop my friend at the door and pick her up later, not wanting anyone to spot me in an establishment reserved for old ladies and spinsters with cats. But curiosity got the better of me and I thought I'd just take a peek - just for information you understand, some of our guests may want to know about the place. Kid in a candy shop - the colours, textures, and funkiness of the place sucked me in and when we left over an hour later, I had balls of wool in my possession that I hadn't the faintest idea what I was going to do with. I found myself being drawn back to the place time and again over the next few months, each time leaving with another ball of glittery ribbonned wool, fleecy shaggy wool, bobbly mad wool.... and so it might have continued if my friend B hadn't stopped me in my tracks with a poignant and relevent question 'Can you knit'? No, I couldn't. 'Why don't you learn?'

Why don't I indeed. So, B and I signed up for an afternoon introduction to knitting. B drew up a list of vocabulary which we studied and tested each other on, we chose patterns for very simple jumpers (all knit no purl and created in one piece - no sleeves) and off we went. I loved it. I couldn't put my knitting down and took it to friends houses, on a plane ride to the UK, to visit relatives and even to bed with me! I tell myself that this is good finger exercise staving off arthritis, that having a wooly something on my knees will keep me warm in winter but the truth is I just enjoy the repetition, the watching something grow that will serve a purpose and make someone smile, the using my time creativley. The joy of spending the afternoon course with other women sharing time and stories whilst learning tips taught to them by their grandmothers. I'm now working on a jumper for Mark and looking forward to my next afternoon amongst the knits.

Literally Yours

2011-10-09T10:59:00.000-07:00

This week saw us host the last of this years week long events and what a wonderful week it was! A group of writers, from six different countries, descended on Les Cerisiers to be guided through six days of embodied writing with the multi-talented Mandoline Whittlesey and poet-singer Sarah E Green. The event exceeded the expectations of all who attended and Mark and I were privileged to attend a beautiful evening of song and poetry. Mandoline kindly dedicated a poem to Les Cerisiers which I'd like to share with you here:

Les Cerisiers

five-leafed green

like an unsaying lip

the tip

of a horses' tail

courting flies under trees
the breeze
just touching
the water's skin
the soon-coming snow
it'll all rest in.

To keep with the literary theme I was fortunate enough to cross paths with Alastair Vere Nicoll, author of Riding the Ice Winds, earlier this year. Alastair truly exemplifies where following your dreams - in his case across Antartica with sledges and kites, can lead. His book is both adventure story and a more personal journey as he is driven to cross this vast continent in time to be present at the birth of his first child. Honest and moving, both Mark and I enjoyed the book for different reasons, read it and let us know your responses. Alastair kindly agreed to an interview which I hope you'll enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed conducting.
the really big dream company: At the beginning of ‘Riding the Ice Wind’ you quote George Bernard Shaw
‘Life is not about finding yourself: it is about creating yourself’ Who, as a result of this adventure, is AVN?

Alastair Vere Nicoll: I think and hope that I’m still in construction. One of themes of the book is that once an undertaking is accomplished, life continues and the same challenges are still faced - in different ways - and so you have to continue working at becoming the person that you want to be. In that sense life is a journey – a journey to becoming you (and sometimes in the other direction). The evolution is scary but it’s also exciting as it means there’s always something ahead.

trbdc: One of life’s eternal struggles, and one that you faced frequently throughout your book, seems to be between the ‘shoulds’ and the ‘wants’. What words of wisdom would you offer to anyone who knew what they wanted to do but were constrained by doing what they felt they should do?

AVN: I always struggle to give advice. All I can say is what I experienced and allow people to decide if it resonates as everyone’s circumstances are different. I certainly don’t have it right.

The platitude is that you ‘should’ enact your dreams to make them real but the reality is much more complicated. Certain responsibilities can’t be shirked. We make promises in life and some of the richest decisions we make come from self-sacrifice and patience – particularly around rewarding relationships – and to do what you want without considering the consequences may actually be self-defeating. Having said that, to continually sublimate your deepest desires is a form of martyrdom that is equally unsatisfying. The best thing for me is to confront, articulate and share what I ‘want’ and then strategise to achieve it to try to have the minimum effect on the ‘shoulds’. I’m not afraid of a circuitous route. Long term goals and plans, provided they are being actioned a step at a time - and not held as a mere pipe dream – are ok. It sounds abit trite but I’m a fan of writing down and sharing your 5yr, 10yr and whole of life plans with the key impacted parties.

trbdc: There is a marvellous moment where you describe an ‘instant(s) of magical intensity that make life worthwhile (and) wondered if I’d invoke this memory to inspire me at times in the future when I needed to draw strength from the memory of an uplifting experience’. Have you recalled this moment since? Does it work?

AVN: You asking the question has made me recall it - which I’ve enjoyed.

I’m afraid the response is a little like a sequence of Russian dolls, as the key difficulty is having the mental dexterity and the space and time in your life to remember to remember those moments! I’m not a meditator but I suspect that some of the benefits derived from meditating is to give yourself space to focus and recall these incredible moments that life has to offer which can be too rare among the drudgery.

A legitimate goal is to seek to populate one’s life with as many of those uplifting moments as you can, however the irony is that when you look you don’t find – the moments just arrive unexpectedly, like a flower out of waste.

Trbdc: You talk about getting out of a rut by feeling ‘compelled to dangle every so often by a thin chord above a raging torrent – literally and metaphorically’.
Are you dangling by ‘a thin chord above any raging torrents – literally (or) metaphorically’ at the moment or do you plan to do so in the near future?

AVN: Yes! But not in a way that I had anticipated. I started a business nearly four years ago (and the last few years has been an interesting time for a start up....) building renewable energy plants in emerging markets (– including small run-of-river hydros in the Himalayas, so I guess you could say I’m literally chasing the raging torrent) but it has thrown up, and continues to throw up, some moments when I have to check the chord is properly fastened....

Trbdc: Through the book you explore notions of reality and finding our true selves rather than living in a world where ‘we are being increasingly alienated from our original selves’. Have you any tips for living a more authentic life?

AVN: I’m not there yet – I should be getting tips rather than giving.

I struggle with getting balance as I can get too tied up in new projects which means I’m living in the ‘never-never’, the ‘one-day-maybe’ world too much rather than actually living: another theme of my book. I think projects and plans are utterly essential and unless you really commit to them they don’t happen but John Lennon’s position on life and plans is wholly true and you have to remember to spare some time for just being and that generally means simplifying and deriving enjoyment from the little interactions. I remember recently being impressed by a Barista who served coffee with a huge smile on his face and it was infectious and it made me want to smile more. Doing anything calmly, with friendliness and stopping to engage and observe delivers an authentic life without being defined by physical achievement.

Trbdc: What does the phrase ‘follow your dream’ mean to you?

AVN: A dream needn’t be one thing, it can be just be being who and what you want to be rather than achieving a particular goal. Achieving a goal leaves an emptiness after it. You’re continually pursuing and never in possession. Even the phrase ‘follow your dream’ suggests perpetual unfulfillment, like a hare chasing a stuffed rabbit that it never catches. Perhaps it should be ‘leading your dream’: positively inventing what you want to do (and that’s yours not someone else’s for you), creating yourself in a way that means you can fulfil it and then actively taking it on and making it happen, like a leader not a passive follower. As I’m motivated by challenges, the truest challenge for me is enjoying the journey and all the little moments along the way not just the instant, the ‘orgasm’, of accomplishment.... and of course the dreaming itself can be fun.

Trbdc: What are the elements of your perfect day?

AVN: I could get truly absurd for the really perfect day so I’ll restrict to the perfect normal day; it would be made up of each of the following in no particular order. It all sounds a bit twee but I think right (for me)...;

• Some exercise – it makes me feel alive, healthy and unstressed and allows me to truly indulge the bullet below
• Incredible but simple food – I’m an unashamed glutton and love meal times both for the food for the conviviality and it’s a time I most associate with family
• A moment of nature – for me an incredible, sparse immense panorama is the most uplifting – but it could be as simple as five minutes in a nook in the garden with a coffee just seeing something beautiful
• A moment of love or fellowship – a greeting from a child that’s missed you, a hug, a shared moment
• Indulging the mind – reading a book, watching a good film, reading an interesting article, having an original thought that strikes a chord, accomplishing some difficult work satisfactorily.

If you would like to find out more, visit http://www.ridingtheicewind.com/

Spurred on by Alastairs words, I think I'll take my coffee into the garden and immerse myself in the immense panorama of my setting.

Quilts, pots and funky nests

2011-09-17T23:41:00.000-07:00

The summer holidays are over (boo) and we're now back into running creative holidays and retreats (hurray) here at les Cerisiers. We had a smashing group of ladies staying here last week who had come to celebrate 5 years of walking together. Before them, another group, tutored by the brilliant Christine Porter, came to quilt. From beginners to seasoned quilters, they all found something to inspire them and the skill and colour were simply amazing.

This week sees Malcolm Jarvis sharing his talents with enthusiastic pastel artists. We'll be out and about, weather permitting, taking in the views in this workshop entitled 'From Village to Vineyard'. I'll post some of the emerging art later in the week.

I actually had a weekend off last week so headed down to Lyon for the annual Potters Fair. 140 stalls displayed some quite extraordinary work mostly from France but also from further afield. I treated myself to a little crystal glazed piece and picked up a couple of early Christmas pressies. Thankfully I travelled by train and was restricted by what I could carry, otherwise I think the bank balance may have taken a real bashing.

On Sunday I was reminded (as if I could ever forget) how skilled and artistic nature can be too. Whilst hacking back one of our vines that threatened to completely engulf one of the out-buildings, I found a small birds nest that had incorporated a grape within its walls. Beautiful - or perhaps the birds were just hoping to have wine on tap!

Our feathered friends

2011-08-22T12:37:00.000-07:00

Oh I've been waiting for this for such a long time - we've finally got chickens. We've read the books, surfed the net, visited chicken chat rooms (yes, they do exist), spoken to breeders, even made a film (see below) and collected birthday money to fund the project.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UZu-OVa1VFU&feature=channel_video_title

Thanks to my lovely niece Sophie, who is going to be an amazingly succesful film producer one day and to Adam, who plans to be a cameraman after being an olympic athlete, for this wonderful documentary.

The six new arrivals were bought at Marcigny market this morning and after much deliberation and debate we decided to name them Arizona, Zaphyra, Daisy, Plum, Maddie and Lou (don't ask!).

Although I'd promised Mark's son that there would be a fresh egg for his breakfast tomorrow, I also knew that it usually takes chickens a couple of days (or weeks) to settle into their new home and start laying. So, imagine my joy when one of the girls had laid an egg before they even got home.

Within an hour or two we had two more beautifully formed eggs waiting for collection. We introduced Eddie cat to our new familly members and everyone seemed to get along just fine. We sat, supping wine, as the sun melted into a sea of gold behind the chicken coop, and then, one by one with just a little jostling, the girls took themselves off to bed.

Yay, poached egg on toast for breakfast tomorrow.

In the garden (and slightly beyond)

2011-08-02T03:33:00.000-07:00

It's been quite a challenge trying to manage the garden this year. We had amazing hot weather from almost the end of february which resulted in a hose pipe ban. Whilst we ensured that every last drip from the washing up bowl was poured onto the veggie patch or garden pots, our normally green space started to look positively Mediteranean. Then - rain!! Tons of the stuff and our parched landscape turned into a water park. I'm happy to say that the garden is back under (loose) control and the plants are really thriving. Today I'd like to share some photos of our hanging baskets, flowers and fruit trees:

Our neighbour's donkey has just had a baby that they've named Bonbon. I went over to visit with my niece and Marks son.
At the end of the day we enjoy having supper al fresco. Eddie cat is never far away waiting for his share of tasty treats.

Heart Felt Fruits

2011-07-24T04:36:00.000-07:00

I've been truly amazed and impressed by the amount of creative talent in this region and we've been fortunate to become friends with some of the most gifted (Jean-charles Doyen and his glass insects, Pascale Grissard and her farmyard paintings, author Corine Pourtau).

We're regular attendees at the craft fairs - which are frequent, well attended and of exceptionally high standards, and was surprised and delighted to discover a craftswoman I hadn't met before.

Cecile Kifee (http://cecilekifee.over-blog.com/) makes fruit, veg and other treats from felt.

These colourful creations were grouped beautifully on her stall and although I couldn't initially think of why I needed to buy her wares, I was drawn back time and time again.

Then it struck me, her Camemberts would make excellent pin cushions for all my sewing friends and guests attending one of our quilting or stitching events.

I have not as yet worked out a use for the felt fried egg I bought but I'm sure it's only a matter of time. I'm open to suggestions!

Thanks to Naomi Haigh for the photos at Matour night market.

Our friends from across the pond (and those more local to us)

2011-07-13T10:38:00.000-07:00

Every now and then you have a REALLY special week and last week was certainly one of those. We welcomed back Karen Ely from A Womans Way and 8 amazing women from North America who had ventured here for a spot of 'Joie de Vivre'.

The aim was to combine valuable 'me time' and reflection with a huge slice of French life. As always, the friends we have made here rallied to the call and we had some rather splendid moments. Mike H teamed up with Roger Bonjour to host an evening of wine enlightenment and tasting.

My yoga teacher Alexia Fachon, led a day of yoga and holistic massage whilst good friends Mike C and Roland created a magical evening of music.

In between times, the ladies visited Cluny and the beautiful Chateau de Dree and we all made lavender wands together!! (Yet another 'things I never thought I'd do' activity to add to the list). Time for a spot of R&R now before the courses kick off again in September.

Chickens, Harleys and Cherry Pips

2011-06-13T14:11:00.000-07:00

How often do I stop and reflect and think to myself, 'well, that was a funny old week?'

We've just completed two back to back art courses here with amazing tutor Nicola Slattery (who will be back in 2012 so watch this space). What better way to unwind than to attend a bikers party at our new neighbours farm. Our neighbours love motor bikes and their friends seem to be, for the most part, Hell's Angels (or at least lookalikes) but we had our invitation and we wanted to welcome them properly to this special part of the world. We took along friends who are visiting from the UK (safety in numbers) and as we strolled the half mile down the road, bikes roared past reminiscent of early shots in The Rocky Horror Show.

A nicer bunch of people you couldn't hope to meet. As the evening wore on more and more people wanted to try out their English on us and we were soon making friends left, right and centre. Pit Bull, a 'non standard' Harley rider from the Alsace, regaled us with tales of derring do which often concluded with the phrase 'kiss my wheel'. As the hostess fretted about the lack of salad, Mark turned to me and whispered that everyone seemed to be doing very well thank you, on the great platters of meat that weighed down the trestle tables.

Then the gauntlet was thrown down, a challenge - England v France, cherry stone spitting. well, I know I shouldn't get involved but I find it almost impossible to resist a challenge. To the utter dismay of my friend we stepped up to the mark and popped the first of our cherries into our mouths. A platter had been set about 4ft away and the aim was to land your pip on target. The first round saw everyone spitting wide. Round three saw me hit my rhythm and my pip landed smack in the middle of the plate before bouncing out agai. Valerie, a petite biker from Alsace saw her chance and landed a pip on point. Pipped at the post, I felt gutted but offered my congratulations before heading for home.

We needed to be up early the next day to check out the chickens at louhans market. Mark has built the best chicken house in the world and now the search for it's lucky inhabitants begins. Confronted by thousands of feathered friends, hundreds of breeders and hoards of crowds, we felt quite overwhelmed. I was distracted by the rabbits and goats and by a stall with a variety of animals, all in miniature. We soon got into the swing of asking about egg production, laying life expectancy, food and preferred conditions and found we agreed on what makes a good looking chicken. we've narrowed our list of potential new family members down to 6 breeds and will make our final selection in August.

On our return home we were pleased to welcome a couple of the bikers from the night before who wanted to stop by to say hello before heading off, a great photo opportunity for our Burgundy Bike Breaks.

Elderflower Heaven

2011-05-19T22:25:00.000-07:00

My kitchen smells glorious today! Next week sees the arrival of guests for two weeks of painting bliss with celebrated artist Nicola Slattery so I'm busy in the kitchen and garden preparing treats for their stay. I love foraging in the hedgerows around here, particularly the ones at 'Les Cerisiers' and right now they are dominated by the splendour of Elderflowers. I love the creamy mass of brightness, the sweet scent they produce and their promise of Elderflower cordial and, later on in the year, elderbery jam and wine. Today I thought I'd share my recipe for the cordial with you:

You will need-

1.5 litres water

1.5 kilos of white sugar

2 oranges thinly sliced

2 lemons thinly sliced

Thinly sliced ginger to taste

40 grammes citric acid (available from chemists)

20 Elderflower heads

What to do-

On a warm afternoon or evening (and we're having quite a few of these at the moment) harvest your flower heads. Just snip across the stalk to keep the flower heads whole. Fresh flower heads will be light and creamy with plenty of pollen and are heavily fragranced. If they smell like old socks or cats pee, they are passed their best (or your cat has widdled on them) so don't use them. As you harvest the flower heads, lie them flower down, stalk up, on a flat surface giving any unwanted visitors the opportunity to escape. There are no strict rules regarding numbers of flower heads, I was making a double batch and lost count after 27, it doesn't matter.

Warm the sugar and water in a large pan until the sugar has dissolved, then bring to the boil. Add the flower heads and bring to the boil again then remove from the heat. Stir in your remaining ingredients and leave this mixture to steep for 24 hours in a cool place whilst you enjoy yourself doing something that makes you feel glad to be alive.

Strain the liquid into bottles or jars that can be well sealed. The cordial will keep for up to a year if placed in the freezer or 2 months in the fridge.

To serve, blend with mineral water or lemonde then share with a friend.

NB Harry Cat has agreed to his photo being published on the understanding that I point out he has in no way interfered with the Elderflowers featured in a negative way!

Catch up

2011-05-15T08:15:00.000-07:00

Gosh! Where did March and April go? We've been having a lovely, albeit busy, time since I last blogged so I thought I'd better update with what we've been up to. This time of year is usually the calm before the (welcome) storm of guests who come to attend one of our courses, join one of our retreats, simply rent the space or pass through on motorbikes: details of all of these can be found http://www.thereallybigdreamcompany.com/

However, we've been fortunate to have our families and friends staying here on and off for several weeks (March, April) so have been dividing our time between catching up on all those out doors jobs (preparing the veggie patch, laying concrete, building a hen house, painting fences, harvesting nettles - more of this later) and having a thoroughly excellent time being site see-ers.
It's true of a lot of us that when you live somewhere amazing, you rarely actually go and visit all that the area has to offer. Two of our first time visits I'll share with you now. Not 15 minutes from our front door is the lovely Chateau de Dree. We pitched up on a gorgeous, sunny afternoon and whilst the Mums sat in the rose garden soaking up the rays, Mark, his Dad, Adam and I explored the 17th century house. A picture of Queen victoria adorned the entrance hall so we felt right at home and we marvelled at the collection of chamber pots, bathroom (complete with six baths of varying size) and views from the windows.

A little further from home are the Cascades d'herrison, dramatic waterfalls during the winter and breathtaking iced stalagtites when it's really cold, we only got to see a trickle (we've had a heat wave for two months) so had to draw on our imaginations to fill in the gaps where the water should have been. The ride over, we took our motor bike, was great though and we will certainly go back after the rain.

The other event in April that made me smile was the royal wedding. The Brits do ceremony well and I say any excuse to have a party. There was one potential hitch, accoring to French law, the flying of any national flags other than the tricoleur is forbidden without permission from the mayor. Not wishing to miss out on flying some bunting, I hastily scrawled a note to our leader and received a charming responce not only giving permission for us to fly our Union Jacks with vigour, but also wishing Wills and Kate a long and happy life together - I'll pass the sentiments on.

Back to the nettle harvest, living in the country fills me with joy and discovering new recipes from the produce around the house gives me a great deal of fulfilment. Last years Lavender lemonade went down a storm and I hope to eclipse this with my Elderflower cordial. But the surprise for me was finding out just how tasty (and nutrious) nettles are. In my previous life as a city girl, I would have bet against the chances of me ever picking, cooking and eating nettles in this life time. Never say Never!

The last photo is of my irises - much more pretty than nettles (though not as flavoursome!)

Looks like Spring, smells like Spring...

2011-02-27T00:46:00.000-08:00

Around about this time last year I boldly proclaimed that Spring had returned and then found myself, less than a week later, under a blanket of snow and ice in sub zero conditions. This year I shall be a little more cautious. That said, I have been able to spend a number of pleasant hours digging in my veggie patch and cutting back dead branches and the like.

I received a beautiful quote from my friend Bren (http://www.ladieswhodo.net/) that I'd like to share:

"my garden of flowers is also my garden of thoughts and dreams. The thoughts grow as freely as the flowers, and the dreams are as beautiful"Abram L Urban

Gardening is an often used metaphor when carrying out projects or realising dreams and I don't want to live a cliched life, yet, when I am outside in this wonderful place, tending my garden and growing my business merge seemlessly into one another.

Recently I have got to know Mark Rendell who provides gardening and garden design services. What I love most are his designs for therapeutic gardens, often for hospitals but also for private gardens. Here is a man that truly understands the links between life and gardening. I'll give you two examples of his approach from his site http://www.thegrowingcompany.co.uk/

Winter is Wonderful – embrace this time of stillness in the garden. See the opportunity it gives for quiet reflection on the ‘bones’ of the garden – its shape, its size, its underlying structure.

and-

The Sun and its life-giving trail – follow the shadows and plot the way the sunblazes a trail through your garden. This gives your garden its opportunities and also influences your behaviour.

As well as being a gardener, Mark is also a freelance project manager and trainer and uses the insights and inspirations from working outdoors in his training work. He'll be visiting us here next month and I'm hopeful we'll be setting up some exciting workshops soon.

Well, the sun is peeking from behind a cloud which is my cue to pull on my wellies and plant my first seeds. I hope to bring you photos of my produce fresh from the garden in a few months time.

Photos: Our first daffodils, we know Spring is around the corner when the violettes appear on the lawn, primroses poking through the fallen leaves

Wants and don't wants

2011-01-18T12:18:00.001-08:00

There is certainly balance in my life right now and this was demonstrated by two short episodes this week that I shall relay to you now. I contacted my dear neighbour earlier in the week to see if she was free for a coffee and a chat now that the hectic holiday season was over. It turned out that the only time I was free, she had already planned to go and give blood at the local community centre. She wondered whether I'd like to join her. To give a bit of personal background, I was born via caesarian section and my mum had a transfusion of 8 pints of blood to ensure we both made it through. I've always wanted to repay this amount (despite being incredibly squeamish) but have only managed to donate 5 pints to date. Having someone to go with and wanting to play my part, I decided to go along and duly turned up on the Friday morning. My neighbour handed over her donor card (32 donations so far!!) and then introduced her 'English neighbour' who had come along to give. There was a slightly awkward moment before I was asked whether I had lived in the UK between 1980 and 1996, I had. In that case I couldn't give blood due to the risk of BSE, mad cow disease. I was shocked. By way of consolation I was invited to have lunch (the French receive a full meal after their donation, not just a couple of rich tea biscuits and a glass of squash) but I was too put out to eat. As soon as I got home I Googled UK blood donations to see if this was just some bizarre joke but no, it was for real. In fact there are some quite heated forums on the topic should you be interested in the politics, conspiracy theories and bloody (or not) mindedness of it all. I hoped for a dramatic blood red sun set to illustrate this ditty but the sun was golden that evening (see above) so I channeled the emotion into my entry for a competition my writing group are taking part in. The challenge is to write a story in exactly 100 words, here is my entry:

Blood Quest France

Fear gripped her, though she remained resolute. Premeditated blood letting was not her thing. The seed had been planted, had germinated over thirty six hours and the harvest was fast approaching.

Too late to back out. the door gaped open sucking her in.

'Master your breathing. Conquer your fear'.

Deliverance served up without ritual sacrifice- YOU CANNOT GIVE BLOOD IF YOU HAVE LIVED IN THE UNITED KINGDOM BETWEEN 1980 AND 1986.

Saved by the deathly shadow of mad cow disease.

(The cow pictured does not have, nor has she ever had, BSE).

Two days later though and now we're potentially in demand. I receive an email from someone claiming to be 'a film production designer' looking to shoot his graduation film in France.
The film was to be a wonderful coming of age story about an English kid spending a day with his chic and sexy teacher on a french exchange trip. He finds himself at a heated family lunch with helpings of comedy and tragedy and a need to impress. With his mum constantly phoning to check up, this is not going to be an easy day but he'll certainly learn a few things about life, love and language... To cut a long email short, the production team fancied the look of this place and wondered whether we'd be interested in being part of the operation. Call me suspicious but my initial reaction was 'you're not using my home to shoot soft porn movies!!' The more rational part of me then decided to do a spot of research and discovered that the whole thing was quite legitimate. The next day i received a phone call from the producer and then began my bid to create a thriving film industry here in Montmelard. Friends offered rooms to put up film crew and stars and I waxed lyrical about what this area has to offer. we waited on tenter hooks until yesterday when we were informed that financial constraints had knocked us out of the running. Dissapointed but not discouraged we took solace from the director's words - 'I will save your contact and maybe I'll call when the next film with a bigger budget comes around'. we'll be ready and waiting!!

Funny old world, funny new year

2010-12-18T10:08:00.000-08:00

As we move into 2011 (Happy New Year by the way) I pause and take stock of my life here. A couple of odd little things have happened over the last week or so and I'll share them with you now for no particular reason other than they made me think. When I started my little blog it was primarily to share my adventures, in words and pictures, with friends and family. It's great to see a following and I'd like to say a big THANK YOU for caring enough to read, follow and comment. Yet my little blog has also caused a bit of a stir and I was brought to account twice recently. I'd been spotted whilst taking photos for the remembrance day service by a local dignatory who enquired after my motives to my neighbour. My blog was explained and the said official then used a translation tool to uncover my comments and thoughts. I give a frank and, humourous (well it makes me laugh) account of things here and I spent several days fretting over what would be made of my scribblings. I was eventually summoned to put my case forward (having told Mark to bag our bags as we'd probably be drummed out of the village) and explain some of the terminology that google,translate hadn't been able to offer an intelligible interpretation of. I came away from the meeting unsure of my future - did they prosecute in France for libel? Much to my amazement (and huge relief) I was contacted a few days later with a request to become a contributer to next years village magazine!

My next surprise was to come across a blog dedicated to reviewing other peoples blogs (I wonder whether there is a blog that reviews blogs of people that review blogs - could be an opportunity here). There, for all to see, was a review of mine. Whilst the final message the audience was left with was that mine was a nice little blog, the word 'dissapoinment' in the first para left me feeling a bit empty. The reviewer was anticipating great recipes for snail and rabbits (the latter was mentioned a few too many times in my humble opinion) and, failing to receive these, felt let down. Always one to please, I was going to include a recipe here but decided to wait until my cook book comes out.

As things happen in threes, another odd thing happened to us recently. we'd been having a spot of bother with the front door lock. Although most people round here don't lock their front doors, for some reason we have a bolting device on our door that would rival Fort Knox, until it refused to lock that is. So, having looked up the word for locksmith 'serrurier' I duly made an appointmen and the gentleman came round to size up the problem. Having removed the five bolt locking mechanism, he explained that he would need to order a new one and this could take three or four days. Not a problem said I. It was some time later that I noticed he'd taken away the old locking system with him leaving the door not only unlockable but also unshutable. Our solution was to fill two suitcases with heavy clothing and baricade ourselves in each night. Bizarre.

Anyway, here's looking forward to another year filled with lifes little mysteries, rich wonders, joy and laughter.

New list of events now available at www.thereallybigdreamcompany.com

A time for reflection

2010-11-14T05:54:00.000-08:00

Today is Remembrance Sunday and across the world, people are gathering in cities, towns and, in my case, small villages, to remember those who died during wars. There are two monuments in Montmelard and, as a consequence, there were two services of remembrance today. The anticipated rain held off and the first gathering took place as the bell from the village church struck 11. A few kilometres outside the village is the memorial at Combrenot. Here on the 11th September 1943, the first exchange took place between the resistance fighters and the germans. Four yound villagers lost their lives and there were further reprisals when the germans burned a number of homes and deported Jean and Jeanne Labrosse to concentration camps from which they never returned. I was able to speak to their daughter in law, an elderly lady now, who keeps their memory alive by posting the story of what happened to them on the monument every armistice. Her father in law was almost 70 years old, a frail man, who had moved to the farmhouse, just a few hundred yards from this monument, some 10 days before the nazi soldiers arrived. After killing all the farm animals (even the cats and dogs) Jean was sent off to Mauthausen in Austria whilst his wife ended her days in Ravensbruck, Germany. Both were dead within the year.

But as we stood by the roadside, listening first to a local band and then to the mayor before accompanying an elderly 'combatant' to lay a wreath, there was an air of quiet and peace about the gathering, a feeling of camaraderie and closeness.

Once the fallen from the second world war had been honoured, we returned to the Place des morts in the village centre. A repeat performance was given before a slightly larger crowd before, in time honoured tradition, we moved into the village hall for wine and chocolate biscuits. A lady moved among us collecting for the French equivalent of the British Poppy appeal, here known as Le bleuet - cornflower. Instead of a flower, we were given a small sticker to display with a picture of a cornflower on it and the words: La memire se transmet, l'espoir se donne - Memory is handed down and hope is given.

I don't have any great words of wisdom to offer on all this, I just know that as I walked back down the lane to my home, it was hard to imagine mans inhumanity to man, great suffering and great heartache. I feel for the lady who lost her in laws and for anyone who has lost someone they love. I am just grateful that, whilst conflict rages in many parts of the world, here we are safe and protected. I am also glad that so many children and joung people were present today, I hope this acts as a reminder to us that we have a lot to be grateful for.

In remembrance of times gone by

2010-11-08T23:07:00.000-08:00

Whilst life here comes as close to perfect as it gets, there are those odd moments when things get a little shaky and this week I was confronted with a bit of a dilema. One of the French institutions that I find unfathomable but intriguing all the same, is the village dispute. Passions run deep over here and fence sitting is not one of the french strong points. Our village has a population of around 300 and we are deeply divided along the lines of 'For the mayor' or 'Against the mayor'. To some our mayor is a jumped up oportunist with ideas above his station. He is more interested in a quick deal and personal glorification than the welfare of the village. To others he is seen as progressive, outward looking, seeking to place Montmelard on a wider platform than the village boundary lines. To me, he gave permission for us to put up some signs highlighting where we are, gave his blessing to the barn conversion and seemed genuinely happy to conduct our wedding service as and when we get around to naming the date. So, my dilema- Last weekend a flyer arrived in the post box announcing an afternoon of cine film up in the village hall depicting village life from 1973-1980. I enjoy history, particularly local history, so this seemed a great opportunity to take a look at the village pre my arrival. I called my neighbour, full of enthusiasm, to see whether she wanted to come with me. 'Non!!' It appeared that the film had been put together by a group that were 'against the mayor' and as such we should boycot. My neighbour has been a good friend and so I decided that, on this occasion, I would stay home. Two days later I was visiting Cote Pain, an exceptional baker just at the top of our road, who specialise in rustic 'artisanal' breads. Their chocolate and nut bread really is to die for and it is one of our little treats we indulge ourselves with. The lady who runs Cote Pain had said she was happy to display some of our leaflets so I had taken a batch up to her and these had been lovingly displayed on a small table next to the 5 grain loaves. As I was leaving, a sheet of paper was pressed into my hand. I recognised it as the advert for the film show. 'Please will you come and support us at this show, it would mean a lot?' I mumbled that I would love to and left, blushing. So, support the show to support my breadmaking friends (who were supporting my business) but be labeled as 'against the mayor' or stay at home, please my neighbour and be labeled as a mayor follower. How did this happen? In the end, interest in the film won the day and, dragging Mark with me, we spent a very enjoyable couple of hours watching footage from 35 years ago. We spotted people we now know, all well into middle age, as youngsters and tried to recognise places that have since been renovated. At the interval there was home made cake (we took 5 pieces to save the young lady serving having to find some change) and a raffle. By the time I got home there was an email waiting for me from my neighbour. her mother in law had spotted me in the audience. I owned up and emphasised that I was there purely in a research capacity and in no way did it reflect my politics. I think I've been let off.

So, onto one other great french institution - Jean Michel Jarre. Mark and I have quite different music tastes and when we first moved in together were astounded when we could only find one album we had in common (The Pussycat Dolls!)Yet we both like JMJ, although I confess I probably haven't listened to any of his music since the 80s. In need of a night out we headed down to Lyon to watch this legend in concert. What a showman, what a show. The celebrated laser show was jaw droppingly impressive and JMJ, although he must be into his 50s, moved with the energy and suppleness of someone half his age. Excellent. We've now been humming Oygene IV and Equinox for a week so probably need to get out again soon!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zHFpST_5tp0&feature=related

By the way, the postcards of Montmelard are from the turn of the last century, we're a little behind the times here but had moved on from horse and carts by 1976!!

Seasons of mist...

2010-11-01T11:48:00.000-07:00

John Keats, 'To Autumn'

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the ground, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

I was wandering back along the lane from my neighbours house this evening trying to summon up the words that would do justice to the world around me. Suddenly I was struck by the realisation that I had stumbled into John Keats’s poem ‘To Autumn’. Now it’s been a good 35 years since I studied this poem at school, and as I tried to draw long forgotten stanzas from the depths of ‘o’ level memories, fleeting words reappeared whilst whole lines played just outside by consciousness. I remembered the embarrassment at having to read the word ‘bosom’ out loud and a faint nausea at the thought of the ground swelling. I also know that the poet was describing early September and not the first of November but somehow so much of this verse describes this valley this evening so perfectly. I am used to seeing the dips in the landscape filled with mist (or more accurately for this time of year - fog) in the early morning. But as the sun was setting it reflected on pockets of low lying cloud in the lower valleys beyond our own. The vines around our living room window are heavy with fruit that I really should have harvested several weeks back. Now they have swollen to the point of bursting and, departing from a poetic vision for just a moment, I will have to get the Windolene out soon to wipe off the smears of exploded grape from the French windows. We have ‘moss’d cottage trees’ a plenty here and as I drive 100 metres in any direction I am bound to leave a trail of apple juice as my tyres mulch the wind falls – not long until the smell of cider permeates the morning air. Unfortunately the quinces have been filled with ripeness to beyond their core (again, an oversight on my part had left them a tad too long before collection) and are now brightening the lawn in the orchard with their yellow, decaying bulk. The raspberries have decided to have one last bash at fruiting before winter arrives and provided me with little snacks as I transplanted black currants and gooseberries in the potager. This is the land of plenty!

Just re-reading the poem and picking up on some pertinent words – ‘swell’, ‘plump’ and yes, ‘bosom’, makes me think of a picture that I was given by one of the artists here two weeks ago. Christine Angell painted ‘The lady of the cake’ – a play on Tennysons ‘The lady of the lake’. I love this painting, this is a woman who, to my mind, has had too much of everything good in life. She positively bursts with energy and exudes joie de vivre. She has certainly been blessed, and, I feel I have too.

Authenticity

2010-10-20T14:40:00.000-07:00

I drove home from the supermarket the other day pondering what I wanted to blog about this week. The trees were turning gold and fiery- that would provide some great photos, the mushrooms were pushing through the damp grass – a recipe for risotto perhaps? It was then that I was suddenly struck by a huge sense of déjà vu; I’ve been writing my blog a year and am in danger of repeating myself!

This week we’re hosting ‘Art from Imagination’ with Nicola Slattery here at Les Cerisiers but one of the guests, the hugely talented and generous mixed media artist Milliande Demetriou http://www.milliande.com/ has been here a few days already. We’ve been chatting about our desires to live authentic lives – lives that reflect who we are and what we want to get out of our time here. Having been discouraged from pursuing an artistic career at an early age, she trained in the sciences. It has taken a while (but she got there in the end) to reconnect with her creative self and live the life she chooses for herself. Milliande has got me thinking of how authentic a life I am now living.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that I stood in the barn alongside a group of wonderful North American women belting out the lyrics from Edith Piaf’s ‘Je ne regretted rien’. What a powerful song. As I understand it, the message is that everything that has gone before, the good, the bad, the painful and the joyous, all combine to create where and who, we are now. There have certainly been a few painful moments along the path to setting up the really big dream company – most of these connected with France Telecom and plumbing (the house’s, not mine!!) but some connected to self doubt, fear of failure, being overwhelmed by the amount to do and fatigue. There have been a number of times when I have had to take myself outside into the orchard and give myself a stern talking to –
‘OK, if you think it’s too much effort just pack your bag, put the house on the market, go back to the UK and get yourself a 9-5 office job’.
I come back at myself with –
‘But I love it here. It feels right. I’ll just concentrate on one or two things for a day or two and see how it goes’. I then come back inside ready to get on with things. The ‘being authentic’ for me, is simply knowing that being here, surrounded by this beautiful valley, living in this inspirational space, feels exactly right.

In all the running around, setting up events, marketing, publicising, cooking, cleaning, organising – I do sometimes forget to ask myself what I’d like to be doing for me (why is it we so often put our own pleasures, hobbies, indulgences to one side?). To remedy this I’ve set up a writing group with a couple of friends and our first assignment is to enter a writing competition with the theme of ‘Paris’. I’ll be taking as my subject another woman who lived an unconventional yet ‘authentic’ life Colette. As well as writing about Colette, I’m also planning on spending a bit more time ‘in the moment’. It is easy to spend time analysing what has gone before. It is also a habit of mine to focus on the future, what I want to do, whom I need to contact, etc. But amazing things happen when you are completely in the present. I went and sat in the barn the other morning – carefully selected the chair I wanted to sit in and then closed my eyes. After a moment or two I heard a scuffling and opened my eyes to see that a coal tit had somehow flown in. I watched as it flew from one end of the barn to the other, clutching to the stone interior walls to reassess the situation from time to time. Despite opening a window, the bird flew into a pane of glass, stunning itself. I picked it up and cradled it in my hands gently stroking its head. We sat, both of us surprised by the close presence of the other, for several minutes before the bird flew off. Before it left in pooped on my hand – my mum says that’s lucky!

Sketch by Milliande Demetriou

Let's perfect perfection

2010-09-28T14:20:00.000-07:00

Following on from last weeks ‘perfect’ retreat here at Les Cerisiers (and I use the word ‘perfect’ advisedly) there has been much reflection and sharing of thoughts between Mark and I and our wonderful new friends across the Atlantic.

Today an interesting blog was forwarded to me penned by Brené Brown http://www.ordinarycourage.com/ on the subject of perfection.

To quote a little of the text:
‘For many years I believed that being my best self meant trying to be perfect. After studying shame, authenticity, and courage for ten years, I realized that I was wrong. Yes, it took that long. I'm hardheaded and I was very invested in being right. Here's what I learned:
Being our best selves is about cultivating the courage to be vulnerable, authentic, and imperfect. Perfectionism, on the other hand, is the belief that if we live perfect, look perfect, and act perfect, we can minimize or avoid the pain of blame, judgment, and shame. It's that simple. Perfection is not about healthy striving or being our best, it's how we protect ourselves’.

Brené ends with a rally cry for a protest against perfection: ‘A protest might sound a little dramatic, but in this world, choosing worthiness is an absolute act of resistance! My new battle cry: Authentic and messy is the new perfect!’

As I stirred pumpkin soup in my kitchen, I mulled over the definitions I hold on what perfection is. Perfect- is it something to strive for knowing, as all of us do, that it is something we shall never attain or is ‘perfect’ much simpler than that? Does perfection mean ‘without flaws or faults’ or does it mean (or do we choose it to mean) complete and whole? Perhaps it is more a question of semantics. Without perfection how can we ever be perfectly happy?

I have recently started a series of three minute interviews with tutors and facilitators who come to Les Cerisiers (Karen Ely will be our next star respondent). One of the questions asks for them to describe the elements of a perfect day. No-one has come up with wanting to get out of bed with perfect hair and make up, slip into a size 0 dress then step out onto a perfectly manicured lawn. Ironically, most peoples ‘perfect’ day does not include any element of idealised perfection.

It strikes me that when people (women) talk about wanting to be perfect, they are talking about living up to other people’s ideals and not their own. Learning to be true to yourself, to living an authentic life is, in my humble opinion, what it’s all about. To turn
Brenés first sentence around ‘being perfect means being my best self’ and understanding that we are enough, whole, complete. Perhaps we could have a campaign to proclaim that we’re perfect just as we are?

Here are some perfect friends enjoying the perfect end to the perfect evening in my idea of the perfect venue- just for good measure.

WOW!

2010-09-13T06:46:00.000-07:00

Do you have those moments when time stands still and you know that in a few moments time, things will never be the same again? Well, I had one of those recently. For 5 years I have followed my dream to establish an activity centre here in Southern Burgundy. Marketing campaigns have been launched, interviews have been conducted, phone calls (seemingly by the thousand) have been made, friends and family have rallied to the call and arrived with paint brushes and mops. Holiday makers have come and spent their holidays here enjoying the space, generosity of the locals, views and the house itself, I've listened to their thoughts of how to make this place even better and implemented some of their suggestions, and throughout all this time, Mark has worked away in the barn turning it from a ruin (see photo on first ever blog) to a usable environment where people can come and do what they love to do - writing, painting, music or, as is the case right now, taking time out in a group to reflect on life and plan the way ahead.

So, there I stood on Macon Loche TGV station platform as the train from Paris pulled in. On board was leading retreat organiser and facilitator Karen Ely and a group of women from North America. This was the moment when I moved from being someone who really wanted to own and run an activity centre to being someone who does own and run an activity centre. And the barn (or 'Atelier' - workshop as it has been renamed) has certainly seen some activity this week. To start the week off on the right note, friend and wine buff Mike Harper hosted a wine tasting event breathing life and colour into the rich history and characters that makes the wines from this region known the world over. Next up Alexia Fachon, yoga teacher and all round health and vitality motivator, came to run a yoga session that left everyone feeling rejuvenated and ready to face the day ahead. Two local musicians, Michael Carver and Roland Walrawens, rounded off the week by entertaining and teaching our American guests with a medley of much loved french folk songs - the acoustics were put to the test and passed with flying colours.

As I sit here in my office typing this, I hear laughter coming from the open windows of the barn. The air is warm and the last faint scent of lavender hangs in the air. Having an activity centre was a dream, an experiment to see how far I could follow my aspirations before 'reality' kicked in and I hit the barriers, real and imaginary, that are so common in the human condition - no-one will come, I won't find the support, well known tutors won't be interested. Well, I now know that you can leave the job you no-longer love, buy the house in the foreign country, renovate a barn to create a beautiful space, ring up people who are leading lights in their field and invite them over to run events- and they will come. I now know, beyond any doubt, that it is possible to achieve anything you put your mind to.

The barn, Atelier, feels different now. It's not just me who has noticed. It has a warmth, a sense of purpose about it now. Talking to my best friend Brenda yesterday, I mentioned that it felt as though all these special people had left something of themselves behind. She corrected me -'It's not about leaving anything behind, it's about adding something special to make the place even better'. The people who came and supported this first event as either guests or as participants have made this such a success. Karen will be back next July with a new group of retreaters (or is that retreatees?), Nicola Slattery arrives in just a few weeks to bring art to Les Cerisiers and courses for the following months are filling up nicely.

A small thank you

2010-08-16T23:13:00.000-07:00

We're so fortunate to have met some extraordinary gifted people who have played a part in making the really big dream company, not only a reality but something incredibly special. Today I'd like to tell you about three of them who have offered insights and ideas and have brought laughter and fun to our world.

Alan Stevens, who came to visit us here at Les Cerisiers with his wife Heather Waring, (walkers coach) has written a fantastically useful book PING. The theme of the book is how to make social media work for you and your business. Anything that sounds like it will save me money gets my vote and this book has become invaluable. Many people starting new businesses, myself included, may, from time to time, lose their way a bit. With PING in one hand I set about (re)defining exactly what the really big dream company was all about. There may be some tweaking (as opposed to tweeting which I've yet to get to grips with) still to be done but here's a brief preview of the message I want to broadcast: Stop day dreaming and get off your backside and come to Burgundy where you can do something that makes you feel great and happy to be alive! Feedback welcomed. PING is packed with all sorts of tips on how to market your business, write half decent news letters, use Twitter and face book to optomise your visibility and a host of other practical ideas - the book has led me by the hand along a path I had a fear of treading and encouraged me to enjoy the experience. You can get your own copy of PING by following this link: http://www.mediacoach.co.uk/ping.htm Thanks Alan.

Helen Pointer is a wonderful, warm and generous friend who certainly seems to be making the most of her life. Helen left a hugely successful career in senior management within the medical profession to follow her dream of becoming a sought after caricaturist.
As a freelance trainer, Helen embodies the spirit of being the best you can be and works with others, in the most entertaining way, to tackle areas such as: Self-esteem and Leadership, Presentation and Communication Skills and personal impact and interpersonal skill areas. All of this whilst sketching humorous caricatures.

Helen was with us recently so we decided to ask her a couple of questions (sketching some wonderful cartoons of her time at Les Cerisiers):

Q: What does 'Follow your dreams' mean to you?
H: To maintain high levels of optimism, courage, flexibility, fortitude, humour and phlegm!

Q: What does 'Burgundy' conjure up for you?
H: The smell of lavender, pasta bake, good wine and shameless women!

Q: What are the elements of your perfect day?
H: A perfect day – the certainty of good health, the opportunity to DO what you love doing and the expression of appreciation when you achieve it.

To find out more, or to contact Helen (who is available for public speaking, training, personal commissions, weddings and just about any other event you could imagine), please feel free to visit her website http://www.drawnbyhelen.co.uk/

The third person I wanted to mention today is Adam, Marks son. A constant source of energy and enthusiasm (not to mention a great help with some rather dullish jobs), Adam has recently discovered the joys of home movies. Hours have been spent over the past couple of weeks detailing, with the aid of his mobile phone video facility, every aspect of life here at Les Cerisiers. The use of videos in Blogs as promotional clips should really be kept to around a minute max. apparently, so Adam edited his magnum opus to exactly 60 seconds to have it included here. You're now witnessing the first steps towards realising Adam's dream of becoming a camera man (once he's retired from his international running career of course). I hope you enjoy it.

An Australian in Burgundy

2010-07-17T14:24:00.000-07:00

This blog is dedicated to the memory of someone I have never met, indeed someone who’s been dead almost 100 years and, before today, I had never heard of, William Edwin Gravell.

Mireille, my lovely neighbour, after hearing about my recent trip to the Millau viaduct, wanted to show me the bridge at Mussy, our very own viaduct right here on our doorsteps. So, at 9 o’clock she picked me up and we drove the short distance to the pretty village of Mussy sous Dun. When we turned the corner of the road and I saw the enormous span of the viaduct before me, I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t discovered this wonderful feat of engineering before. The viaduct soared above us as we parked the car in the shade below and began our ascent to the village centre. The facts and figures are impressive:

We chose a relatively short walk to follow as the temperature was already beginning to rise, it was nearing midday and I was going out later that afternoon to a night market in St Gengoux le National, some 50 kms north of where we live. The walk promised to take us above the town giving an excellent view of the viaduct and the valley it spans. The tree lined track that lead us upwards, provided little shelter from the sun and we were soon glowing with the exertion of it all.

'Nous sommes jeunes et dans bon forme' (We're young and fit) became our mantra as we climbed. We emerged into a clearing to find a group of cows clustered in a field close to a statue of Mary that positively shone as the sun reflected from its white stone. Mireille suggested that maybe we shouldn't disturb the cattle that had so obviously come to pray. There ensued a brief discussion as to what cows would likely pray for given half the chance: enough grass to eat; a little shade from the elements and; their calves not to be taken away from them.

The Madonna had been erected at roughly the same time as the viaduct, presumably to watch over it, but narrowly missed destruction during an incredible storm - a mighty tree, struck down by lightening, missed it by inches. A miracle!

We descended by a steep path to a crossroad named the crossroads of the fabricators (Le carrefour de Fabrique). We assumed they must have fabricated roof tiles as our progress on the way down had been hindered by walking on a shale of broken tiles. From the road we now had a magnificent view of the viaduct. It would certainly give Millau a run for it's money.

The road wound back towards the village past the local cemetery and as we passed I happened to notice a Commonwealth War Graves Commission placard at the gate. Thinking that there was possibly

'some corner of a Mussy field
That is for ever England'

I hurried in to pay my respects. After searching for the better part of half an hour with no joy, I conceded defeat and determined to seach on the internet when I got home. So, onto Mr William Edwin Gravell. The internet is an amazing tool, the details you can uncover with just a couple of clicks. This is a sad tale to tell, of a young man signing up to fight a war on the other side of the world. Gravell left his native Australia on board HMAT A38 Ulysses on 27 October 1915 bound for Egypt but was then transferred to join the British Expeditionay Force in France. He arrived in Marseilles on 29 June 1916 but was accidentally killed, near La Clayette Station the following day.

'A Court of Enquiry, 1 July 1916, found that (a) No 2856 Pte. W. Gravelle met his death by misadventure. He fell from the train near La Clayette Station while attempting to urinate through the open window of the carriage door. (b) That no blame whatever can be attached to any Officer, NCO or man of 60th Bn, as on account of the lack of sanitary conveniences on the train and the small number of haltes repas, men were compelled to urinate through the windows'.

For reasons that are unclear from the records, he was originally listed as 'No known grave', and his name inscribed on the Australian National Memorial, Villers-Bretonneux, even though details of the accident and the post-mortem were communicated to the Australian authorities. People from Mussy-sous-Dun notified the CWGC in 2005 that his body had been recovered shortly after the accident and buried according to Catholic rites in the local cemetery.

I shall go back to Mussy again and this time I'll find the grave of this poor man who wasn't able to enjoy the beauty and peace of this place in his lifetime.

Post card courtesy of Mireille Jugnon - thanks.

Un Australien en Bourgogne

Ce blog est dédié à la mémoire de quelqu'un que je n'ai jamais rencontré, en fait quelqu'un qui est mort depuis près de cent ans et dont, avant aujourd'hui, je n'avais jamais entendu parler: William Edwin Gravell.

Après avoir écouté le récit de mon récent voyage au viaduc de Millau, Mireille, mon aimable voisine, voulait me montrer que nous avons notre propre viaduc ici, à nos portes. Ainsi, à 9 heures, elle est venue me chercher et nous a conduits à une courte distance du joli village de Mussy sous Dun.

Lorsque nous avons tourné le coin de la route et que j'ai vu la longueur de l'énorme viaduc énorme devant moi, je ne pouvais pas croire que je n'avais pas encore découvert ce merveilleux exploit d'ingénierie d'autrefois. Le viaduc semblait planer au-dessus de nous quand nous avons garé la voiture à l'ombre de ses arches et commencé notre ascension vers le centre du village.
Les faits et les chiffres sont impressionnants- voir photo audessus.

Nous avons choisi un chemin relativement court tandis que la température commençait déjà à s'élever. Il était presque midi et dans l'après-midi, j'allais me rendre à un marché de nuit à St Gengoux le National, à quelques 50 km au nord de l'endroit où nous vivons. La promenade allait nous emmener au-dessus de la ville, offrant une vue imprenable sur le viaduc et la vallée qui s'entend en dessous. Bordée d'arbres, la piste qui nous amenait vers le haut offrait peu d'abri contre le soleil et nous fûmes bientôt ruisselants de sueur.

‘Nous sommes jeunes et en forme’ est devenu notre mantra pendant notre ascension! Arrivant dans une clairière, nous sommes tombés sur un groupe de vaches rassemblées dans un champ près d'une statue de la Madone qui brillait comme le soleil réfléchi par la pierre blanche. Mireille a suggéré que nous ne devrions ne pas déranger les bestiaux qui, à l'évidence, étaient venus prier. Il s'ensuivit une brève discussion sur ce que les vaches demandaient dans leurs prières: assez d'herbe à manger, un peu d'ombre contre les éléments et qu'on ne leur enlève pas leurs veaux.

La statue de la Vierge a été érigée à peu près en même temps que le viaduc, sans doute pour veiller sur lui, mais a manqué de peu d'être détruite pendant un orage incroyable car, tout près, un grand arbre fut frappé par la foudre. Un vrai miracle!Nous descendîmes par un sentier escarpé jusqu'à un carrefour appelé Le Carrefour de la Fabrique. Nous avons supposé qu'on devait y fabriquer des tuiles car notre descente sur le chemin vers le bas était entravée par des amas de tuiles brisées. De la route, nous avions maintenant une vue magnifique sur le viaduc de Mussy-sous-Dun: cet ouvrage n'a certainement rien à envier à celui de Millau.

La route serpente vers le village et, tandis que nous étions devant le cimetière du lieu, j'ai soudain remarqué, sur la porte, une plaque commémorative de la Commonwealth War Graves Commission. Pensant qu'il y avait peut-être:
«Un coin d'un champ de Mussyqui à jamais sera l'Angleterre ' [un poème anglais],
Je me suis hâtée d'entrer dans le cimétière pour rendre hommage à cet homme. Après avoir cherché en vain la tombe pendant une demi-heure, j'ai concédé la défaite, déterminée cependant, une fois rentrée, à effectuer une recherche sur Internet sur M. William Edwin Gravell. L'Internet est un outil extraordinaire: on y trouve des détails en quelques clics de souris.

C'est une triste histoire à raconter, celle d'un jeune homme qui s'était engagé pour faire la guerre à l'autre bout du monde. Gravell a quitté son Australie natale à bord du HMAT A38 Ulysse le 27 octobre 1915 à destination de l'Égypte, mais a ensuite été transféré pour rejoindre le Corps expéditionnaire britannique en France. Il est arrivé à Marseille le 29 Juin 1916, mais a été tué accidentellement, près de la gare de La Clayette le jour suivant.

"Un tribunal d'enquête, 1 Juillet 1916, a constaté que:
(a) n Pte 2856. W. Gravelle a trouvé la mort par accident. Il est tombé du train près de la gare de La Clayette en tentant d'uriner par la fenêtre ouverte la portière.
(b) on ne pouvait incriminer ni un officier, sous-officier ou homme du 60e Bn car, à cause de l'absence de commodités sanitaires dans le train et du petit nombre de haltes repas, les hommes étaient obligés d'uriner par la fenêtre».

Pour des raisons qui ne sont pas claires dans le dossier, il est indiqué qu'il n'y a «pas de tombe connue >> et son nom est gravé sur le monument commémoratif australien à Villers-Bretonneux, même si les détails de l'accident et le post-mortem ont été communiqués aux autorités australiennes. En 2005, les habitants de Mussy-sous-Dun ont informé la CWGC que son corps avait été retrouvé peu après l'accident et enterré selon les rites catholiques dans le cimetière local.Je vais retourner à Mussy et, cette fois, je vais retrouver la tombe de ce pauvre homme qui, de son vivant, n'a pas été en mesure de profiter de la beauté et la paix de ce lieu.

Tour de France

2010-07-10T12:57:00.000-07:00

Yay! My first tour de France. Two of our loveliest friends, Jonquil and Franck, live in the village of Ratanelle just outside Tournus and today the Tour de France was passing their front door. We were invited over to share in the excitement - what could be more French? We got there early as we'd been told that the roads would be closed and Franck had very kindly provided us with a circuitous route that would bring us into the village via farm tracks and hidden turnings thus avoiding having to park miles away.

Although we'd arrived some 4 hours before the cyclists were due to leave Tournus (some half an hour away if you pedal at the speed of light), the main drag of Ratanelle was already peppered with representative inhabitants, well wishers and the local gendarmes. I asked one of these young police folk, in my best French, what time the proceedings were due to start. He replied, in equally splendid English, '58'. Well, that told us.

The warm up acts were quite something. Sponsors, with imaginative and often bizarre, floats drove along distributing promotional material in such a way as to leave the casualty wards of Southern Burgundian hospital casualty units busy for weeks. Key rings were tossed death star like into the crowds. Haribo sweets were hurled at babies in prams. Mark, having been too slow to dodge a rolled up local newspaper that caught him just above his heart, sprung into action to ensure he wasn't knocked from his perch on a safety barrier as a second paper careered toward him.

Once our adrenalin levels had been pumped up to near explosive levels, the TV cameras and overhead security helicopters heralded the arrival of the stars of the day. Five cyclists had already broken away from the rest of the pack and came hurtling through the village. We were amazed at the whoosh of cool air their passing produced. I was also surprised at the casual way in which they seemed to be chatting and sharing a joke with each other along the way. mark assured me that the killer, competitive edge only kicked in for the final 100 metres or so.

Soon all that remained to remind us that the Tour de france had just passed was a handfull of dust whipped up in breeze. The street emptied and ratanelle returned once more to the sleepy village that it is. Mark climbed down from his barrier and we moved inside to watch the replay of what we'd witnessed live on the telly. Thankfully, as Jonquils Mum had been sporting a dashing cerise parasol and her Dad a pirates outfit (?), we were able to recognise our party from the blur that was the crowd.

We wound our way home cross-country, and stopped to admire the view. For no reason other than I love this photo, I thought you may enjoy seeing that, as well as vineyards and Charollais cattle, we also have fields of glorious sun flowers here. Happy days indeed.

Trees a crowd

2010-07-04T03:54:00.000-07:00

Let's start with an exerpt from a poem by Wilhelm Müller today:

The Linden Tree

At wellside, past the ramparts,

There stands a linden tree.

While sleeping in its shadow,

Sweet dreams are sent to me.

The reason I wanted to mention this gorgeous tree is that mine (and all the others in the area) has just come into flower. I remember when I first came here sitting in the garden with my Mum and smelling a scent similar to orange blossom. We hunted through the flower beds, sniffing as we went, but it was only when i stood up that I realised the aroma was wafting from above me. The avenues in Macon are lined with linden and the scent pervades the streets, squares and gardens. I can't wait til we get scatch and sniff blogs!

In the spirit of the poem, Harry Cat enjoys the sweetest of dreams in the shade of this tree (and others in the garden) and I caught him cat napping this morning. As I pointed the camera at him he shifted his position to a pose that showed him in a better light (this cat is vain) turning his tummy towards the warming sun.

Whilst I'm still on the subject of trees, let me tell you how lovely and tasty our cherries are this year. Not quite the bumper crop we had in 2009 but not bad. I was going to pick a dishful to photograph but somehow my hands decided to cut out the middle-man and send the cherries directly from the tree to my mouth. I'm hoping to try out a number of cherry themed recipes this coming week and will share some with you later on.

And finally, I'm really excited to announce that pastel artist, Malcolm Jarvis, will be running a workshop here in 2011 (18-24 September so put the dates in your diary) 'From Village to Vineyard Exploring Southern Burgundy in Pastels'. Malcolm specialises in 'plein air' landscape art and loves trees (as can be seen in the beautiful painting). I'm really hoping that he, and our group of art students, will be inspired by the scenery around Les Cerisiers. Who wouldn't be?

To find out more about Malcolm, please visit http://www.malcolmjarvisart.co.uk/

Words, Music and Mosaics

2010-07-01T04:22:00.000-07:00

This has been an amazing week thanks to three immensley talented people whom I am delighted to have welcomed to Les Cerisiers - writer Miriam Halahmy, mosaicist (if that is the right term for someone who makes mosaics) Brenda Hazeldine and musician Roland Walravens.

I had only spoken to Miriam, who will be running a creative writing event here next year (watch this space for more details), on the phone before so to meet this warm, energetic and thought provoking woman face to face was brilliant. Having finished reading her novel 'Secret Territory' (see below) the week before it was great to be able to ask questions (interrogate) and learn more about the process of writing.

By way of introduction to this very special region we drove out into the hills around Macon and, after a freak down pour of rain, took photos in the vineyards at the foot of Solutre, our legs being cooled by the damp grass. Miriam managed to find a gift for her husband, who loves bread, at Cote Pain, a traditional 'rustic' bread manufacturing enterprise at the top of our road and has learned to appreciate Cremant - the regions sparkling wine and a convincing alternative to Champagne.

Brenda has been a friend of mine for longer than either of us care to remember and I was thrilled when she agreed to design one of her stunning mosaics for the entrance to the barn. I am all the more grateful as she spent 5 days of 'holiday' lying on a stone floor to produce her colourful work. The reception area for our activity centre has been given a vibrancy boost as a consequence. I have already started muttering things about the pool side terrace needing a bit of an overhaul - we shall see...

Finally I'd like to mention Roland. My idea of the perfect evening is a group of friends gathered in the garden sharing good food (courtesy of Mark and his BBQ), good wine (courtesy of the vignerons of burgundy), good conversation and Rolands music. The ambiance he creates is wonderful and his playing is equally marvellous. The singing may need a little fine tuning but the atmosphere is warm and filled with bonhomie.

From Miriam Halahmy's website: http://www.miriamhalahmy.com/
SECRET TERRITORY ( Citron Press 1999)

A journey to the Promised Land – a circular journey, across generations, charting dreams and aspirations of father and daughter. Feeling she should have been born in the homeland, Eve travels to Israel in search of an identity, unaware that her quest will painfully expose her family’s hidden history. Her father, Jack’s story, is of London in the ‘40s –
a time of idealism, political terrorism and conflicting values.
In their separate ways both confront the discord between collective ideals and personal needs; both must make their choices and live with them. This is their story – an honest and evocative account of what it means and feels to be Jewish in the modern world.
Miriam Halahmy’s sharp, concise style helps to sum up contemporary Jewish dilemmas. Jewish Chronicle.

Creating an impression

2010-06-24T02:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-09T01:03:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-04-25T14:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-18T01:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-11T22:32:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-12T07:20:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-04T03:29:00.000-08:00

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.

Les vœux du maire (the Mayor's wishes)

2010-01-18T05:20:00.000-08:00

My boots were laced and I was wrapping my scarf around my neck in preparation to walk home from my neighbours house when Mireille (my neighbour) casually mentioned that she'd see me and Mark in the morning at 'Les voeux du maire'. Although I understood the words 'the mayor's wishes' I still couldn't compute what this meant in real terms so asked for an explanation. 'Oh, it happens every January, we (the villagers of Montmelard) all congregate at the village hall and eat cake and drink wine'. Well, this got my vote and I agreed to pick Mireille up the following day. It therefore came to pass that at 10am on Sunday morning Mark and I found ourselves, along with 100 or so other Montmelardies decked out in our Sunday best listening to a speech on taxation, sanitation 'affaires', mobile phone reception blackspots and various other news bites that either had, or were about to affect our lives and the lives of those around us. Mireille hadn't mentioned the hour long speech from the Mayor nor the shorter speech that followed from the Prefect General who had made a special trip up from Macon to be with us. Still, it was good for the language learning. Once the formalities were over the chairs were cleared away and the feasting began. There were gougeres- light cheese flavoured choux pastries (Mark calls them 'hot air balls'), bacon wrapped prunes, pate on small rounds of toasted bread and, of course, local wine. We greeted the neighbours we had already met and then were introduced to hordes of people we had never seen before (how could so many people live in so few houses?). Invitations to meet up and join associations were proffered and we swapped details with young and old. One little old lady who barely came up to my knees shared with me the secret of surviving winter here, drinking wine and knitting in front of a log fire. It struck me that her survival techniques may have started a little early that day. Feeling well and truly part of the community we returned home wondering when we would see our new friends again. We didn't have long to wait. This morning, a little after 8am Mark spotted a little old lady crossing our lawn. My new 'amie' was so please to have met me and wondered whether I'd be interested in buying some raffle tickets. I bought three and will now have to wait until February to see whether I've won return tickets to Lourdes!

Wishing you love

2010-01-06T06:42:00.000-08:00

Firstly let me wish each and everyone of you a very happy 2010, I hope you've had a smashing Christmas and are ready to throw yourselves into 2010 with gusto. Today is 12th night so with just a small hint of resistance, I have taken down the decorations, said goodbye to them for another year and laid them to rest in their bubble wrap beds. We still have a few remnants of the festive season left - large jugs of holly and ivy still adorn the mantle piece and I am supplementing the builders lunches (work on the barn has recommenced) with chocolate tree decorations. We're working our way through the remaining mince pies and Christmas cake and Eddie (my cat pictured with Mark) has helped by cleaning the plates of brandy cream. So, what of our first Christmas and New year in France? The simplicity and sincerity of the village decorations touched me. The warmth and hospitality of our friends and neighbours was all we could ever ask for. We noticed that the French are not big on sending Christmas cards but make up for this by sending New Year wishes. Their cards are still sitting next to the holly above the fire and are filled with wishes for our good health, dreams come true and happiness. Our elderly neighbour M. Guillot went one further and wished us 'love'. I have never been wished love before and, after a moments reflection, Mark confirmed that he hadn't either. What a lovely thing to wish upon someone else. So, to friends, family, blog readers and strangers - I wish you all you wish for yourself and, above all else, I wish you much love.

Cold steel and hot snails

2009-12-31T07:14:00.000-08:00

Food is rarely far from the hearts, thoughts and dinner tables of the French and those ex-pats, like myself, who have chosen to make the culinary centre of the universe their home. During this season of festivities, the spotlight shines even more brightly on all things gastronomic with supermarkets, marche de noel and the humble kitchens of all and sundry, churning out amazing offerings: pate de foie gras; huitres by the bucket load; tantalising delicacies; wild boar; deer; duck and, surprisingly, kangaroo! The French have been unfairly criticised, I believe, for food which can seem too exclusive - not fare for the common man. Take tackling a snail for instance, a task that is not as easy as one would assume. Whilst dining with friends recently, Mark and I were warned of the dangers that could be faced when approaching 'les escargots'. If, we were cautioned, we didn't take sufficient care to warm our cold steel forks before plunging them into the hearts (do snails have hearts?) of our snails whilst they languished in their sizzling butter baths, the snail could very well explode, spraying us with molten garlic oil and scarring us for life!! Forewarned is fore armed or, as we say here 'un homme averti en vaut deux' (literally: one forwarned arm is worth two men). Anyway, to prove French food is quite inclusive, we found snails that would appeal to the most fussy of eaters - chocolate ones of course!!

see amid the winter snow

2009-12-14T01:03:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was my favourite day of the year. I love most days, especially those that involve friends and presents, fireworks or dancing, but the day I get to decorate the Christmas tree is the one I most enjoy. This will be our first Christmas in France and, as we're still novices in the art of tracking down our own tree, we joined a group of friends, tooled up with saws and axes, and headed up a snowy, rutted track, determination written across our faces. Wrapped in scarves, boots and wooly hats (Mark had carefully selected his lumber jack shirt for the occassion), breath pluming in the chill air, we tramped into the woods in search of 'the one'. Our friends Lou and Billy, seasoned Christmas tree hunters, gave us an insider tip - find a really tall tree, fell it then cut off the top 6ft. Once we'd reached the location where past experience had taught our friends that the right calibre of trees were to be found, we spread out, each of us with a mental picture of our quarry in our mind. Our friend Sally struck lucky first - a 5 footer for the living room and a pot plant size specimen for her 2 year old grand daughter to decorate. Billy and Lou were next with a magnificent 20 foot tree that was brought to ground and trimmed to size before having it's lower boughs hewn off to decorate the mantel piece and hearth. Having watched our friends in action we felt it was time to strike. Mark had found a beautiful tree - branches evenly spaced and a sturdy trunk. With a little help it was only a matter of minutes before the tree had succumbed and was being dragged through the forest back to our car. How is it that Christmas trees, whether felled in a forest or picked out at the local supermarket, always seem twice as big when you try and force them into your living room? Just another life mystery I suspect. Mark draped the lights across the tree before letting me loose with the decorations. Harry cat helped selected the baubles whilst I scrutinised the tree for spare twigs to dangle them from. After only 3 hours we were finished and stepped back to admire our work. After a day of Christmas tree-centric activity, the stillness that surrounded us as we stood regarding our tree was pure peace on earth.

What you see is what you get

2009-12-05T01:22:00.000-08:00

I keep a vision board on my office wall directly in front of me. For those of you who may not know what one of these is, put simply it is a board where you stick pictures , articles, ‘things’ that depict the life you wish to lead. Viewing these images on a daily basis keeps them at the forefront of your mind acting as a constant focus tool. Works for me. One of my prize purchases on my recent trip to the UK was an advent calendar – not one of those cartoon (non-Christmassy) affairs with chocolate but a ‘proper’ Victorian scene with lots of glitter, snow topped fir trees and little openings that act as stained glass windows once you’ve removed the dated cover. This scene has taken pride of place over my vision board since the 1st and, to prove the power of ‘what you focus on is what you get’ I woke up yesterday to find we had had our first snow. This caught us all by surprise (showers were forecast) so I pulled on my wellies, wrapped my scarf round my neck and let the 7 year old in me run riot in the garden. There is something quite magical about snow. On the one hand it is exhilarating making faces glow and fingers tingle. The desire to play is strong – snow angels, building snow men, pulling on branches and then letting go to release great snow showers. And then, by contrast there is the silence- muffled, creaking steps, the clarity of sound subdued, light filtered through a blue haze. For a confirmed Summer girl, the occasional snow shower is still a delight.

Up, up and away

2009-11-23T06:19:00.000-08:00

One of the many wonderful things about this place is the sky. When it is stormy the drama of the leaden sky and lightening against the silhouette of Mont St Cyr is pure spectacle. When it is clear, you can see forever. We have no street lights and no pollution and if the moon is less than half full the stars, planets and Milky Way come into their own. And last week, thanks to Roy one of our house guests, we were introduced to another nocturnal wonder – the international space station. Roy tracks this manned satelite (the size of a football pitch) that is clearly visible to the naked eye and thought that we may all enjoy sharing this wonder with him. What you have to do is follow this link http://spaceflight1.nasa.gov/realdata/sightings/ enter the city nearest to where you are and then refer to a list telling you the time the station is due to appear and where in the sky to look. Simple. Last Thursday saw a crowd of us (word soon spreads here and space station spotting is something of an event) standing in the orchard, all eyes trained on 33 degrees to the north, north west. And lo, we saw a brilliant light moving steadily across the sky (no flashings) as we all stood slack jawed in awe. So, what else could we spot if we turned our attention skywards? Roy to the rescue once again but this time nearer to Earth. As I mentioned in an earlier blog Roy is a keen ornothologist and he has kindly provided a list of birds seen within a five mile radius of Les Cerisiers. So, in no particular order, I'd like to share Roys list with you (please bear in mind this is not a great time of year for birds so I think we've done pretty well with this lot): House Sparrow; Chaffinch; Robin; Jay; Crow; Jackdaw; Magpie; Kestrel; Buzzard; Coot; Mallard; Great Crested Grebe; Feral Pigeon; Little Egret; Blue Tit; Starling; Long Tailed Tit; Cormorant; Mute Swan; Heron; Black-headed Gull; Black bird; Missel thrush; Sparrowhawk; Black Redstart; Moorhen; Great White Egret; Goldfinch; Black Woodpecker; Marsh/Willow Tit; Wren; Great Tit. Unfortunately I don't have photos of either the ISS or any of the birds mentioned so I scrambled around for a bit thinking what photo would be appropriate to accompany todays offering. And then it dawned on me that we did have one more sky bound activity that I failed to mention thus far - archery. Mark is a keen archer and we offer archery lessons to our guests. So, please enjoy the picture of a bunch of happy holiday makers receiving archery instruction from mark in the November sunshine (Roy third from left in cap!-thanks).

We'll weather the weather whatever the weather

2009-11-17T22:55:00.000-08:00

You can take the girl out of Britain but you can't take being British out of the girl and the weather remains an ongoing fascination. Like much of Europe it's been a bit blowy here over the past week or so and the winds have had quite an impact on both the scenery and cycle of life here. Having talked about my intention to sweep up the fallen leaves for a couple of weeks, I was thrilled to discover they had been lifted, whisked around and then deposited in neat little piles by the breezy gusts. I was even more impressed to discover that the size of each leaf pile was such that they fitted neatly into a bin liner - remarkable. We have a maple tree at the end of the garden (the most beautiful tree in the valley at this time of year to my mind) and I tirelessly watch it's fallen leaves frog hopping over each other as they chase around the lawn. What a show of colour and energy! The wind has shaken the remaining apples and quinces from our trees which were then washed by the rain before finding their way into a glut of pies and crumbles. The pods from the wisteria have shaken their black button seeds onto the ground (Warning: these closely resemble chocolate Minstrels and should not be eaten) some of which will find a suitable nook to start the process of becoming new plants. As the trees shake off their coats of leaves and prepare to face the winter months, previously shielded views open up around us, I can see the hedgerows dividing the fields, I see more cattle grazing, birds are more easy to spot (I have guests staying at the moment who are keen twitchers - I hope this is the right term, and they're preparing a list that I will share shortly) and sound travels unhindered. We hear our neighbours donkey, the cows calling to each other when the farmer deposits some hay or a salt block, the chug of tractors returning home at the end of the day and me letting Mark know that his tea is ready.

taking it easy

2009-11-10T01:27:00.000-08:00

I thought one of the advantages of living in the French countryside would be the more relaxed pace of life here: waking up naturally when the daylight finally managed to penetrate the thickly lined bedroom curtains; leisurely breakfasts as we discussed plans for the day; a saunter across the court yard to the barn (the nerve centre of our operations); long, drawn out lunches; maybe a nap in the early afternoon... you get the picture. Whilst my cats have made a seamless transition to this way of living (as demonstrated by Harry in the accompanying photo), I find with so much going on there is little time for slumping on the sofa, coffe mug in hand. Here there seems to be at least one festival every week, sometimes two or more. Take this coming weekend - I am torn between celebrating chestnuts in Tramayes, leeks in St Christophe en Brionnais or pears in La Clayette. How do you even begin to choose between them? This got me thinking as to whether things like this exist in the UK and I just missed them (the result of tunnel vision) or whether I am truly living in a unique environment. I can remember my mother mentioning a festival to celebrate some fruit or vegetable in the UK (I thought it may have been beetroots as I grow a lot of these) but when I phoned she had no recollection. I searched on google but short of a garlic fair on the Isle of Wight, nothing. Are the Brits reluctant to celebrate the ordinary and the small wonders? Next June celebrated poet (at least we can celebrate our creative stars) Valeria Melchioretto will be running a workshop here 'Inspired by the senses' where reality will be addressed through what can be seen, heard, smelt, tasted, and touched. I have no doubts that this corner of France will afford plenty of raw material for her and her writers.

Remember, remember the 5th of November...

2009-11-06T02:34:00.001-08:00

Bonfire night has long been one of my favourite festivals. Fire, loud bangs, hotdogs, wonder - brill, bring it on. If I ever decided to become a criminal (which is unlikely) I just know I'd want to be an arsonist. I just adore the drama of it all. Well, November 5th is with us again and we gathered for a spot of gunpowder, treason and plot at my friend Sallys house. The term 'changeable' hardly did justice to the weather during the day - blue skies, thick fog, torrential rain, light showers and high winds. But us Brits are made of stern stuff so we stiffened our upper lips and determined to have a good time. After a bit of friendly deliberation ('it's you turn', ' no I did it last year', 'but you'll enjoy it') it was democratically decided that Mark would be in charge of standing in the drizzle to light the touch papers. As the Brits danced around writing their names with sparklers and a rain sodden Mark battled with soaked fuses that fizzled and sputtered, our French friends looked on bemused. We'd tried to explain the background to Bonfire Night to them last year chez nous but it all got a bit tense - 'so, you are burning ze naughty catholics?' Things could have been worse, Marks sister had provided some childrens clothing so we could make 'little guys'. If our neighbours weren't impressed by our burning of catholics, they would have been outraged by throwing effigies of toddlers onto the blaze. As it was, the event (both last night and last year) went off well - no injuries, lots of laughter and wooly hats soon dry from being draped over radiators. Mulled wine anyone?

Gifts

2009-10-28T10:11:00.000-07:00

I love it when the postman arrives. I love to see my name connected with this address in black and white. I also love unwrapping packages and today two arrived for me. The first was a belated birthday present from my best friend Brenda - my birthday was back in August but the choice of gift more than made up for the tardiness: a hot toddy scented candle (this girl knows me well). The second was some promotional material from wonderful artist Nicola Slattery (http://www.nicolaslattery.com/) who will be running a course here next October. Her paintings are so dreamy and the colours a real treat. I lingered over the pictures and visualised her and her group being inspired here next autumn. It's not just the postman who brings gifts, nature provided for me as well today when I spotted some parasol mushrooms in the field behind the house. These are marvellous creations. They start life just as a folded umbrella with a little collar to keep them tight against the stalks. At some hidden signal, the collar drops down and the mushroom canopy opens up revealing a delicious creamy underside. I braved a field of cows (normally very friendly but currently nursing some new born calves) and a horse to reach my quarry and was rewarded with a sack of these giants of the European mushroom world. Next task - toss them in butter and then freeze them ready for risotto and soup in the months to come.

Sunshine on a rainy day

2009-10-27T08:56:00.000-07:00

So, here we are just a week away from November, the evenings are drawing in and the leaves are starting to fall. We drained and covered the swimming pool last weekend and it seemed as good a time as any to put my summer clothes away and bring out the woolies. Needless to say, when I received my daily message from the Meteo (weather) office, the temperature for this week is predicted to rise to 20 if not more. Too busy (or lazy) to unpack my trunk, I sweltered during the car ride to La Clayette to do a spot of grocery shopping. The youths hanging outside the store grinned patronisingly at me, they dressed in skimpy T shirts and ripped denim, me swathed in Marks cable knit jumper, combat trousers and boots (at least I left my scarf in the car). I spent longer than usual in the frozen food aisle, ostensibly searching for something for supper but in reality trying to bring my body temperature down to under 50! As I drove home (windows open, cool air fan at maximum output) I realised that I didn't know the term for Murphy's Law. As soon as I reached home I skyped my french language guru and dear friend JP. The french language is wonderful and they have a term for everything so I wasn't surprised when a few minutes later the term 'la loi de l'emmerdement maximum' appeared on my screen accompanied by a warning that this was 'not polite'. More polite, I was told, would be "C'est bien ma chance!" said with a pfff, raising of the eyebrows and shaking of the right-fist (if you are right-handed). I thought I'd go and try out this new phrase in the barn where Billy and Mark are currently laying floorboards. The phrase seemed appropriate as (if you remember) we bought windows yesterday to keep out the wind and cold which were fitted first thing this morning. These have now been opened to full capacity to allow the warm air outside to circulate in the barn building. Stepping out from the barn into the late afternoon sunshine made me smile, what a truly magical place this is.

How green is my valley

2009-10-26T04:10:00.000-07:00

Just incase you think I live a complete Utopian existance, I'll let you into a secret, I was up really early this morning to ensure I'd be at the DIY shop when the doors opened at 07.00 hours. As autumn draws in we've decided that windows, rather than holes, are required in the barn and we'd seen some lovely wooden, double glazed, two paned ones in the Brico Depot catalogue. As we left home our vision was somewhat impaired by the low cloud level - the hills looked as though they were wearing a fur lined trim (similar to the one my soon to be mother in law has on her new coat) to protect them from the chill morning air above. However, as we descended from our lofty location the sun was doing it's best to burn off the early morning mists and pockets of greenery began to emerge. I asked Mark whether he had ever watched 'Brigadoon' but he hadn't. If he had, he'd have known exactly where I was coming from. It's been a week since I last went to Macon and the changes in the landscape are startling. The Val Lamartinien has transformed with the introduction of browns from the ploughed fields and golds from the turning leaves slipping into the palette of colour from which this land is painted. But it was the greens that took my breath away. How many shades of green are there? With poets, creative writers and artists poised to descend on Les Cerisiers I got to thinking how they would paint or describe such a scene. I was completely lost for words and overwhelmed by the green before me. Green or more precisely descriptions of green is big business. as I perused the shelves of green paint in Brico I wondered whether there is a team of folk somewhere whose job it is to come up with new names for obscure shades: Peppermint Beach, Crushed Pine, Moorland Magic. If there is job out there for someone with a flare for making up names for new colours I think I'd like a go at it. Job offers to this site please.

Jammin in Burgundy

2009-10-23T12:56:00.000-07:00

One of the things that's most surprised me and is a complete departure from my BB (Before Burgundy) self, is the overwhelming desire I now have to grow and make things. This week I've had my future inlaws staying and Barbara (future mother in law) and Adam (future son in law) have both expressed a desire to make jam. There is something amazingly satisfying about creating food from your own produce or items that you 'find' lying around the place. Despite the seemingly endless hours and effort that I put into cooking and shelling sweet chestnuts (DO NOT DO THIS IF YOU ARE FEELING FRAUGHT) I suspect that when I am tucking into chestnut stuffing on Christmas day, a certain smugness will overwhelme me. Anyway, I will devote todays blog to two of my favourite recipes 'Down the lane jam' and 'Quirky quince and orange marmalade'. Visitors to Les Cerisiers will be feasting on these during their stay.

Down the lane jam

Ingredients:

Whatever you can find in the hedgerows down your lane

Sugar

Method:

Find a child who is willing to help you gather hedgrow treasures and several large tupperware containers. I was lucky enough to have Adam staying here in August when we harvested several ton of blackberries and elder berries (which we froze), and again in October when we picked rose hips, hawes (frow the hawthorn bushes) sloes, rosehips, hazelnuts and crab apples.

Place all the hard fruits and nuts (chopped into small pieces) into a preserving pan with just enough water to cover the fruit. Simmer for approximately 15 minutes until the fruit is soft and the crab apples fluffy. Sieve the juice and pureed fruit then add the soft fruits and simmer for a further 15 minutes. Weigh this mixture and add the same weight in sugar. Heat over a low heat until the sugar has disolved then boil rapidly until setting point is reached (email info@cherrytrees.fr for details). Pour into prepared jars and seal

Quirky Quince and orange marmalade (did you know that Quince is 'marmelo' in Portuguese and this is where the word marmelade originated? I didn't!)

Ingredients:

2lb quince

3 oranges

sugar

Method:

Place the fruits in a casserole dish, cover with water til they float and then cook on a low heat for six hours (your kitchen will attain the scent of Heaven)

Strain the liquid then add the skin and cores from the quinces and the pith and innards from the oranges). Bring this mixture to the boil and reduce by 1/3.

Sieve the above

Add the chopped quince flesh and the sliced orange rind, weigh and add the same weight in sugar.

Bring to the boil and keep boiling until setting point is reached.

Pour into prepared jars and seal

Both these recipes will provide you with marvelous preserves. I have had to pay out for a couple of bags of sugar and now have a number of jars of mouth watering treats. Ah Bliss!

Finding your way in Burgundy

2009-10-19T06:56:00.001-07:00

Today, driving back from the supermarket got me thinking about the way we navigate through different parts of the world. Having lived in the UK for most of my life I have grown accostomed to navigation that follows a pattern along the lines of 'keep going til you see the Red Lion on your left, take the next right, at the BP station hang another right then left at the White Hart'. Without pubs and petrol stations we'd be quite lost. When I moved to Dubai there was a distinct lack of pubs but an abundance of mosques and hotels: 'You need to go past the Jumeirah Beach Hotel, left at the white mosque, you'll pass the Crowne Plaza, the Hilton and the Radisson before turning left at the blue mosque'. Here in rural Burgundy, our riches are many but these do not extend to multiple hotels, mosques, pubs or petrol stations. Here, instead, we choose to pepper our descriptive prose with stone crosses and gates. So, for those of you travelling in this direction, 'once you've passed the lumber yard keep going til you see the stone cross on your left, take the next right and my house is the one with the big green gates after the house with the chicken wire entrance'.

Going back to my drive to the supermarket - when I left home I could bearly see the afore mentioned green gates. We're pretty high up here at 560 metres and sometimes we wake to find ourselves in the clouds (some would say my head never leaves them). Today was such a day. As we took the road to the shops we have to climb and found ourselves, as in an aircraft, through the clouds with glorious blue skies overhead. As we looked back to where our house should be we saw it had been swaddled in cotton wool. The photo will give you some idea of the scene. The cloud has since burned off and we're enjoying a marvellous afternoon here.

Housework and bunnies in Burgundy

2009-10-18T09:12:00.000-07:00

I never thought I'd hear myself say this (let alone write it) but housework can be fun. The key elements are as follows: Find some music that makes you want to dance (Paul Simons Gracelands, which I haven't listened to in 20 years, seems to do the trick), turn the volume up, find someone who makes you smile and then dance around whatever space you have available (the living room in the house was my room of preference). Once you stop dancing the world seems an even more marvellous place and, like Snow White with all her little helpers, you can continue with the housework whistling (or in my case la la-ing) as you go. Thinking about Snow White and the forest animals that helped her makes me think that this could be a good time to introduce Jeff. Most of the locals round here keep a number of hatches with rabbits as part of their food staple. One of these rabbits managed to re-enact the great escape and turned up in our garden one July evening. Almost three months later, Jeff has become a firm favourite amongst guests and friends alike. He loves the company of anyone who'll pass the time of day with him and comes to see the guests off as they leave. This morning I found him conducting an inventory on the breeze blocks and wood we'd had delivered this week (the former for the barn renovation and the latter for fuel). Apparently everything was accounted for. He has been a great help to Mark and Billy offering free advice on the best way to put up beams, positioning of scaffolding and when to have tea breaks. Jeff has become the natural choice for client relations manager and has accepted the role with immediate effect.

Love these days

2009-10-15T04:08:00.001-07:00

I really don't know what time of day I love the most. The mornings are crisp and clear and the light has a quality about it that really is hard to put into words (just wait until I've attended a couple of the creative writing events!). By lunch time the early mists have burned off and everything is tinged with a golden light that raises the spirits. Birds sit on telegraph wires and soak up the sun as do Harry and Eddie my two cats who have a special talent for finding the sunniest spots. As the evenings draw in, wood spoke plumes wend their way skywards as people return home and light their fires. There is a faint scent of woodsmoke throughout the valley and as I look up the first star appears. The sunsets this time of year are dramatic. I was reminded (loosely) of a description I read of a sunset recently which went something like: A smear of deep red oil paint across a blackened canvas. See what you think.

The first Burgundy Blog!

2009-10-14T01:25:00.000-07:00

Today marks the day I join the 21st century, I am now a blogger! The reason I decided to bite the bullet and start this was to capture for myself, my friends and for posterity my journey. Once upon a time there was a girl (sorry, still can't always see myself as a woman) and a dream. the dream was to live in Burgundy in a beautiful house in a beautiful location and run an activity centre surrounded by enthusiastic and happy people. Well, the house and location chose me in 2007 and the rest of it is beginning to take shape now. As I type this my wonderful boyfriend Mark and friend Billy are out in the barn laying floors in what will one day become the activity centre. Already the place is taking shape, the huge windows have been unboarded letting light flood the space. The stone walls are revealing their beauty and the timber beams...oh, magnifique!! I have to keep pinching myself to make sure that this is all real. Life is good.