Keep the home fires....

I have something in common with meteorologists everywhere; I don't understand weather either!

Just a couple of weeks ago we were basking in temperatures of 28 degrees C, and it looked as if the worst of winter had passed. Two days ago we woke to 6 degrees C; then we suffered strong winds, drizzly rain, and in the afternoon even some thin snow.

Here in France we now look forward to the arrival of 'The Ice Saints' (Les Saints de Glace). This is a period of three days in mid-May, after which there will be no more risk of frost. They consist of St Mamert on May 11th, St Pancrace on May 12th, and St Servais on May 13th.

However, in their great wisdom, the hierarchy of the Roman church saw our 'Ice Saints' as stinking of Paganism, so back in 1960 they cast Mamert, Pancrace, and Servais into the dustbin of un-saintly-ness, and replaced them with the much more respectable St Estelle, St Achille, and St Rolande.

Of course country people (like myself) take no notice of Rome, and we continue in our nasty Pagan ways. Who the hell do they think they are, anyway? So, roll on you 'Ice Saints'. I've had enough of cold weather, and I don't want to light another fire until November.

Making do.

This belonged to a neighbour, and I just love it. In French peasant culture, one uses everything and throws away nothing.

It's quite common to see Geraniums (the favourite flower of the French 'paysanne') planted in baked bean tins, old yoghurt pots, or even old shoes.

I think these look every bit as good as if they were in a beautiful terracotta pot; and it doesn't crack in the frost....

The way to a man's heart...

I first met Lady Magnon when I was an art student, living off beer and take-away chicken & chips. We students were not known for refined living, and usually the only decent meal I ate was when I visited my parents for the weekend.

I'd been 'making eyes' at Lady M for a while, when she asked my if I'd like to join her for dinner; I accepted at once.

She'd made Elizabeth David's recipe for 'Estofat de Beouf', which she served with Tagliatelle. It was delicious.

Then she served a perfect Tarte Tatin; I was extremely impressed.

Lady Magnon still occasionally makes a Tarte Tatin, but I haven't seen ED's beef stew for a while. It's true what they say about men, hearts, and stomachs. I recommend to any young woman (or man) to have a couple of really good guns in their holsters; ready to be drawn at any moment.

Why not the two above? I may not have been the best target on the range, but.....

What the.....

I found this wonderful marbling effect on the top of our black pool cover. It's made by the pollen from the pines trees falling into small patches of water, and being swirled about by drops of rain.

Isn't that amazing!

Mayflower. Ne'er cast....

I don't know of any other tree that changes it's name for just one month of the year. But the Hawthorn becomes the May tree in May, then reverts to being a Hawthorn again for another eleven months.

Everyone (probably) knows the old adage 'Ne'er cast a clout 'till May is out'. Many take it to mean that one shouldn't begin to pack away one's wooly vests until THE END of May.

In fact it refers to May FLOWER. So, keep those 'thermals' on until the May FLOWER is out. As above for the last week, in our drive.

Nota Bene: There once was a ship named 'The Mayflower'. Back in 1620 a bunch of our lads sailed from Plymouth to settle in some barren land across the pond. No-one knows what happened to them, but no doubt they landed somewhere and made a reasonable go of it. Maybe we should send out a search-party; their descendants (if there are any) are probably trying to get back!

The Sunday Story: May Day Frolics.

I re-print this shortened tale from my 2008 blog (Périgordlife/Je t'adore 24).


37 years ago, at approximately 2am on May 1st 1973, we were rudely awoken by the sound of a thousand hooligans blowing trumpets, beating drums, and singing 'God save the Queen' outside our bedroom window. We trembled in our night-gowns for about half an hour or so, until whatever mob was out there moved away. Later that morning I managed to ask my new neighbour, Madame D (in my then rudimentary French), what the hell had been going on.

It seems that since time began, the spotty youths of our village have assembled, annually, at a pre-ordained location on the last evening of April, swallowed considerably more than was good for them, then set off in the early hours of May 1st on an inebriated, noisy, egg and alcohol search; taking in as many homes within the commune as the hours of darkness would allow.

Outside each house they would make an un-earthly racket until some poor soul would let them in, offer gifts of eggs, and ply them with even more wine. Some of the kindlier housewives would even cook them omelettes; possibly in the hope that a full stomach might soak up some of the booze and keep them on their feet until dawn.

Drunken youths? Yes! But pleasantly boisterous and considerate. No smashing of windows, no destruction of flower beds, and no urinating in the dog's water bowl. These 'children of the plough' were even thoughtful enough, on our first experience of these May Day Frolics, to sing our National Anthem (to which they knew ALL the words), then depart in the knowledge that there must have been a house-full of terrified and/or bemused foreigners quaking in their well-barricaded beds.

Sadly this tradition is all but over. The kids just aren't there. Even back in 1973, those 'thousand trumpet-tongued hooligans' were, to be perfectly honest, just a dozen pleasant fourteen-year-olds.

In some ways I don't miss it. Being woken by a bunch of kids in the dead of night is no fun. But as long as they make a detour away from 'chez nous'.....

Jock's May day ode.

I've posted this drawing of my old friend, Jock, once before. But no May day can pass without everyone who knew him thinking of his little ode, and my drawing of him just has to accompany it.

Hooray, hooray,
The first of May,
Outdoor f***ing
Starts today.