Dog Days in the Dordogne
Aug 10th, 2005, 08:51 PM
#23
Join Date: Apr 2005
Posts: 1,479
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
My room mate - many years ago - was then a geologist who did exploration in the winter in far northern Ontario. They would be dropped in with tent, supplies and snow shoes by helicopter and left there for some months. One her worst experiences was when a marten got into the tent and destroyed everything plus ate their food.
Aug 11th, 2005, 04:19 AM
#24
Join Date: Feb 2005
Posts: 1,034
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Thanks for sharing St.Cirq. Your posts are beautifully written and allow us to "share" in your visit. It is generous of you to allow us to travel along with you - a great break in our non-vacation days.
Aug 11th, 2005, 07:20 AM
#25
Join Date: Feb 2003
Posts: 1,327
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
I enjoyed your reports last year too, it is a nice read with my morning coffee.
Martens: I just finished reading Corelli's Mandoline and the doctor and daughter had a pet marten...they use to tell strangers that it was a cat. They also mention that it had a wonderful sweet smell, I'm assuming this was the "fiction" part of the story, does anyone know for a fact? Thanks for posting the picture, I was wondering about what it looked like...very cute.
Martens: I just finished reading Corelli's Mandoline and the doctor and daughter had a pet marten...they use to tell strangers that it was a cat. They also mention that it had a wonderful sweet smell, I'm assuming this was the "fiction" part of the story, does anyone know for a fact? Thanks for posting the picture, I was wondering about what it looked like...very cute.
Aug 12th, 2005, 01:05 AM
#28
Original Poster
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 49,560
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Monday, August 8 (I think - I'm beginning to lose all sense of time here, which is a good sign)
A frozen nose and streaks of light wake me at 8 am - how can it be this cold in August? I take the quickest shower I can manage, dress and go downstairs to rummage in the large chest where I keep winter clothes. And that's how I come to be driving into town at 8:30 with pink capris, a sleeveless white top, pink sandals, and a huge hooded red and green checked flannel shirt. Mkingdom would die if he saw me.
At Fauque I devour a pain au lait and grand cafe creme, pondering how all the Dutch tourists can sit outside in halter tops and shorts and not a goosebump apparent. On to the Bricomarche, where I must buy a new telephone, as the one in the house is broken; it emits little beeps every five seconds and then hangs up on callers.
Apparently it's not going to be my lucky day, because Jeannette, whom some of you may recall we affectionately refer to as the Bricob**ch, is the first to come forward when she spots me wandering around the aisle that normally has phones on it, but doesn't today. When I ask if they still sell phones, she says "mais bien sur, Madame." When I say "but there aren't any out here," she gives me that dismissive look of hers and says with a small sigh, "that's because we keep them in the warehouse, Madame." When I ask to see one, she sighs again and tells me I should follow her but NOT under any circustances to actually enter the warehouse. She comes back with a pile of little boxes wrapped in bubble wrap and shoves it at me. "Is there no box, no instructions?" I ask? "Non, madame," she says, implying any idiot could put together a phone. " It's the latest model from Sweden," she tells me, "the smallest cordless phone ever invented." I don't know why that's an advantage, but she tells me it's the only model they have and essentially says take it or leave it, I have other things to do.
So I go to the cash register with my pile of bubble wrap and fork over 85 euros. On to the Intermarache, where the only thing worthy of mentioning is that in parking on top of a small cement barrier overgrown with weeds, I manage to rip the front bumper off the car, causing a dozen people to gather round me and point and laugh and speculate on what should be done. Never one to be afraid of anything mechanical, I get on hands and knees and fold the bumper back into position and snap it back into place - it's really like playing with Leggos (in fact it's rather alarming how flimsy and toy-like this bumper actually is!). Several people clap when I'm done.
Then to the mairie to inquire about my house martens. A very intense young man hears me out and produces a document that confirms what I already know - I can't kill the house martens. I tell him I have no desire to kill them, which seems to relive him a bit. Then he tells me what I already know is the recommended procedure - fill the holes with rotten eggs, wait until the martens leave and then fill the holes up. I thought maybe the procedure had been updated since my last marten episode several years ago, but apparently not.
So now I must find someone or something tall enough to get to the holes on the roof............
more later as my computer battery needs a recharge
A frozen nose and streaks of light wake me at 8 am - how can it be this cold in August? I take the quickest shower I can manage, dress and go downstairs to rummage in the large chest where I keep winter clothes. And that's how I come to be driving into town at 8:30 with pink capris, a sleeveless white top, pink sandals, and a huge hooded red and green checked flannel shirt. Mkingdom would die if he saw me.
At Fauque I devour a pain au lait and grand cafe creme, pondering how all the Dutch tourists can sit outside in halter tops and shorts and not a goosebump apparent. On to the Bricomarche, where I must buy a new telephone, as the one in the house is broken; it emits little beeps every five seconds and then hangs up on callers.
Apparently it's not going to be my lucky day, because Jeannette, whom some of you may recall we affectionately refer to as the Bricob**ch, is the first to come forward when she spots me wandering around the aisle that normally has phones on it, but doesn't today. When I ask if they still sell phones, she says "mais bien sur, Madame." When I say "but there aren't any out here," she gives me that dismissive look of hers and says with a small sigh, "that's because we keep them in the warehouse, Madame." When I ask to see one, she sighs again and tells me I should follow her but NOT under any circustances to actually enter the warehouse. She comes back with a pile of little boxes wrapped in bubble wrap and shoves it at me. "Is there no box, no instructions?" I ask? "Non, madame," she says, implying any idiot could put together a phone. " It's the latest model from Sweden," she tells me, "the smallest cordless phone ever invented." I don't know why that's an advantage, but she tells me it's the only model they have and essentially says take it or leave it, I have other things to do.
So I go to the cash register with my pile of bubble wrap and fork over 85 euros. On to the Intermarache, where the only thing worthy of mentioning is that in parking on top of a small cement barrier overgrown with weeds, I manage to rip the front bumper off the car, causing a dozen people to gather round me and point and laugh and speculate on what should be done. Never one to be afraid of anything mechanical, I get on hands and knees and fold the bumper back into position and snap it back into place - it's really like playing with Leggos (in fact it's rather alarming how flimsy and toy-like this bumper actually is!). Several people clap when I'm done.
Then to the mairie to inquire about my house martens. A very intense young man hears me out and produces a document that confirms what I already know - I can't kill the house martens. I tell him I have no desire to kill them, which seems to relive him a bit. Then he tells me what I already know is the recommended procedure - fill the holes with rotten eggs, wait until the martens leave and then fill the holes up. I thought maybe the procedure had been updated since my last marten episode several years ago, but apparently not.
So now I must find someone or something tall enough to get to the holes on the roof............
more later as my computer battery needs a recharge
Aug 12th, 2005, 04:45 AM
#29
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 2,256
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
St.Cirq, it's beginning to sound like Mayle's "A Year in Provence", a wonderful read but probably slightly less wonderful to live through. What a cast of characters you meet each day.
Can't wait to hear more. Deborah
Can't wait to hear more. Deborah
Aug 12th, 2005, 05:52 AM
#30
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 6,793
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Why do you have to go to the mairie about your martens problem if they do not take care of it for you and you're just on your own when it comes to getting rid of them anyway, so long as you don't harm them? Is reporting to them a requirement, like reporting certain infectious diseases to some official health office in the US? Is there normally a naturalist/wildlife expert who works in the municipal office, as some counties in some states in the US may have wildlife officers and agriculture extension services that might answer questions on such things? I wonder why they don't recommend moth balls instead of rotten eggs. (It worked for getting rats to relocate.)
Just curious.... But I could ask elsewhere if answering wopuld disrupt the story too much.
Just curious.... But I could ask elsewhere if answering wopuld disrupt the story too much.
Aug 12th, 2005, 06:38 AM
#31
Loving your report! Even your irritation and frustration is a pleasure to read. The realities of dealing with the martens and the ineffectual mairie does help to contain my envy somewhat, but, sigh...., it's still France!
Paule
Paule
Aug 13th, 2005, 11:43 AM
#36
Original Poster
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 49,560
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Please come! There's plenty of room since I put M on the train to Paris this morning for her first ever solo sojourn in Paris for two days. I figure at 18 and having spent every summer in France since she was 5, she'll be OK, but I still asked her to call me on the (old) cell phone (more to come later about my new unlocked quad-band phone with Riing callback service that NO one can figure out how to use later) to let me know she arrived OK, and of course she did.
cmt: I don't HAVE to go the mairie about the house marten, but that's what's expected, because along with many other things the mairie is responsible for making sure that inhabitants of the commune respect the laws with regard to hunting and protection of wild animals. When I had an infestation of moles years ago I was told by neighbors to go to the mairie and report it, presumably because such an infestation could affect my neighbors, and a "commune" is just that, a place where people look out for one another. I don't know if house martens migrate from one house to another, but I suppose that's possible. In any event, when I had the moles, the mairie dispensed me arsenic, which they instructed me to put down every hole, then close the gates to my property when I left. I never had another mole. So I thought perhaps they might have a similar solution for house martens, which they didn't, but it was reassuring to know that they recommended the rotten egg solution, which I effected with the help of a neighbor with a tall ladder and some fine porceleine de Limoges egg cups delicately balanced on my gutters.
cmt: I don't HAVE to go the mairie about the house marten, but that's what's expected, because along with many other things the mairie is responsible for making sure that inhabitants of the commune respect the laws with regard to hunting and protection of wild animals. When I had an infestation of moles years ago I was told by neighbors to go to the mairie and report it, presumably because such an infestation could affect my neighbors, and a "commune" is just that, a place where people look out for one another. I don't know if house martens migrate from one house to another, but I suppose that's possible. In any event, when I had the moles, the mairie dispensed me arsenic, which they instructed me to put down every hole, then close the gates to my property when I left. I never had another mole. So I thought perhaps they might have a similar solution for house martens, which they didn't, but it was reassuring to know that they recommended the rotten egg solution, which I effected with the help of a neighbor with a tall ladder and some fine porceleine de Limoges egg cups delicately balanced on my gutters.
Aug 13th, 2005, 12:23 PM
#37
Original Poster
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 49,560
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Tuesday, August 9
It's market day in our town of Le Bugue, and I actually manage to haul two teenagers out of bed by 7:30, promising chocolat liegeois for breakfast. It is positively freezing this morning - 10 degrees Celsius - and we are shrouded in old sweaters and jackets dug out of the living room chest as we pull into town and, miraculously, into a parking space in front of the Credit Agricole, just steps from the beginning of the market.
While the kids order chocolats chauds from the Cafe de Paris (it's painfully obvious we aren't going to begin the day with ice cream), I run to the boulangerie for pains aux lait and chocolatines, which we munch with frozen fingers while our drinks steam behind the stall of the woman who makes vats of paella and sells exotic spices from North Africa and Madagascar.
M and T go off in search of their own market treasures, trinkets for friends and some cabecou, and I head to my favorite poulet roti man, for I have in mind a simple dinner of roast chicken, haricots verts, and a salad of wilted frisee, warm cabecou, and walnuts with a walnut vinaigrette.
I know I don't have to confess this, but it seems as though it might be a good tale for unsuspecting travelers to the Dordogne (or anywhere else in France) and maybe just a testament to how guileless I can be at times, but after buying my poulet fermier roti, I fall under the spell of a cheese vendor from Cantal and end up spending 98 euros on cheese (yes, 98 euros! - it was heavenly cheese, if I do say so).
I suppose this could only really happen if you speak pretty fluent French, and in hindsight I suppose any real French person would at some point have asked HOW MUCH PER KILO IS YOUR CHEESE, but I completely naively skipped that part of the conversation, and when le monsieur with the wheel of Gruyere the size of a 16-wheeler tire asked me if I wanted to sample a bit, said yes, of course. And into my mouth melted a sensation I can hardly describe - sweet, honeyed, soft, milky, fresh, airy - a cheese that literally took my breath away. As I oohed and aaahed, le monsieur told me in excruciating detail how the cheese was made, how it was the finest of the finest in the world, how it was paired in the finest restaurants of the Cantal with red berry confits and fig compotes. He told me it was absolutely SUPERIEUR with a compote de griottes. I remarked as how I had griottiers in my very own yard, and I never knew what to do with them, and most years the birds ate them before I could use them. I said I also had apricots. He said Oh non, Madame, ONLY the red fruits! So deep into culinary exhortations were we that I had no sense of, well, no sense at all. I told him we were here for only a week more and please to cut me the smallest slice possible, and please one of the delicious brebis as well. Not realizing that the smallest slice possible of a wheel of cheese the size of a 16-wheeler tire is still a MAMMOTH slice of cheese. All the while imagining the innumerable delectable gratins I will cook over the coming week, and all the delicious baguettes I will fill with this ambrosious substance.
So monsieur cuts me an admirably small slice from the colossal wheel, and then a relatively small slice of the brebis, and says "Ca serait quatre-vingt euros, Madame. Je peux le guarder pour vous pour qu'il soit frais, et vous pouver repasser apres que vous avez fait vos cours." I hear the bit about holding it for me until I've finished doing my market shopping, but the price goes right over my head. "Combien est-ce que vous avez dit, monsieur?" I aks. T, st my side, says "Mom, you're absolutely crazy. You just spent 120 dollars on CHEESE!" "Yes, son, I did," I say, and hand over 100 euros. We'll have Gruyere sandwiches and pommes de terres dauphinoises, and tartiflettes and whatever else it takes to use this wonderful cheese. Whatever it takes. And we'll cut a wedge for Madame L and take some to P in Provence when we visit her. And we'll wheel it onto the baggage cart at CDG if necessary! I have done stupider things than spend 100 euros on cheese.
After the air heats up and we end up with a glorious hot afternoon by the pool we feast on succulent poulet roti, tomato and mozzarella salad and potatoes dauphinoises, which fill the commune of St-Cirq with the heady smell of a beautiful Gruyere.
It's market day in our town of Le Bugue, and I actually manage to haul two teenagers out of bed by 7:30, promising chocolat liegeois for breakfast. It is positively freezing this morning - 10 degrees Celsius - and we are shrouded in old sweaters and jackets dug out of the living room chest as we pull into town and, miraculously, into a parking space in front of the Credit Agricole, just steps from the beginning of the market.
While the kids order chocolats chauds from the Cafe de Paris (it's painfully obvious we aren't going to begin the day with ice cream), I run to the boulangerie for pains aux lait and chocolatines, which we munch with frozen fingers while our drinks steam behind the stall of the woman who makes vats of paella and sells exotic spices from North Africa and Madagascar.
M and T go off in search of their own market treasures, trinkets for friends and some cabecou, and I head to my favorite poulet roti man, for I have in mind a simple dinner of roast chicken, haricots verts, and a salad of wilted frisee, warm cabecou, and walnuts with a walnut vinaigrette.
I know I don't have to confess this, but it seems as though it might be a good tale for unsuspecting travelers to the Dordogne (or anywhere else in France) and maybe just a testament to how guileless I can be at times, but after buying my poulet fermier roti, I fall under the spell of a cheese vendor from Cantal and end up spending 98 euros on cheese (yes, 98 euros! - it was heavenly cheese, if I do say so).
I suppose this could only really happen if you speak pretty fluent French, and in hindsight I suppose any real French person would at some point have asked HOW MUCH PER KILO IS YOUR CHEESE, but I completely naively skipped that part of the conversation, and when le monsieur with the wheel of Gruyere the size of a 16-wheeler tire asked me if I wanted to sample a bit, said yes, of course. And into my mouth melted a sensation I can hardly describe - sweet, honeyed, soft, milky, fresh, airy - a cheese that literally took my breath away. As I oohed and aaahed, le monsieur told me in excruciating detail how the cheese was made, how it was the finest of the finest in the world, how it was paired in the finest restaurants of the Cantal with red berry confits and fig compotes. He told me it was absolutely SUPERIEUR with a compote de griottes. I remarked as how I had griottiers in my very own yard, and I never knew what to do with them, and most years the birds ate them before I could use them. I said I also had apricots. He said Oh non, Madame, ONLY the red fruits! So deep into culinary exhortations were we that I had no sense of, well, no sense at all. I told him we were here for only a week more and please to cut me the smallest slice possible, and please one of the delicious brebis as well. Not realizing that the smallest slice possible of a wheel of cheese the size of a 16-wheeler tire is still a MAMMOTH slice of cheese. All the while imagining the innumerable delectable gratins I will cook over the coming week, and all the delicious baguettes I will fill with this ambrosious substance.
So monsieur cuts me an admirably small slice from the colossal wheel, and then a relatively small slice of the brebis, and says "Ca serait quatre-vingt euros, Madame. Je peux le guarder pour vous pour qu'il soit frais, et vous pouver repasser apres que vous avez fait vos cours." I hear the bit about holding it for me until I've finished doing my market shopping, but the price goes right over my head. "Combien est-ce que vous avez dit, monsieur?" I aks. T, st my side, says "Mom, you're absolutely crazy. You just spent 120 dollars on CHEESE!" "Yes, son, I did," I say, and hand over 100 euros. We'll have Gruyere sandwiches and pommes de terres dauphinoises, and tartiflettes and whatever else it takes to use this wonderful cheese. Whatever it takes. And we'll cut a wedge for Madame L and take some to P in Provence when we visit her. And we'll wheel it onto the baggage cart at CDG if necessary! I have done stupider things than spend 100 euros on cheese.
After the air heats up and we end up with a glorious hot afternoon by the pool we feast on succulent poulet roti, tomato and mozzarella salad and potatoes dauphinoises, which fill the commune of St-Cirq with the heady smell of a beautiful Gruyere.
Aug 13th, 2005, 01:05 PM
#39
Original Poster
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 49,560
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Wednesday, August 10
Today was a boring day, so I'll keep this brief. There has been no more noise from the fuines (house martens), so perhaps they responded to the eggs, or perhaps they just decided to sleep elsewhere.
We were planning to go kayaking today, but M's cold is bad and she's cranky, which doesn't augur well for a lazy day on the river, so instead I get up early and head to Fauque for a cafe creme and a chocolatine followed by a brief trip to the Intermarche where, thankfully, no bumpers are torn off. When I come home at 11 am, there's no sign of life from the teenagers, so I weed a bit in the garden, read by the pool, swim a bit, and change my clothes.
At 1 pm we head to Beynac and reserve three kayaks for tomorrow at Randonnees Beynac, not our usual kayak vendor but one who can guarantee the traditional kayaks that you insert yourself into, not the flat ones that are hard to control.
We have delicious sandwiches at the usual place right north of the pharmacy, then M gets grouchy with her cold and we buy French drugs for her at the pharmacy and head home, stopping at the Intermarche for the makings of spicy couscous with harissa and leftover poulet roti and vegetables.
While the kids lounge at the pool and play Pente, I make the couscous and watch and listen to big storms that are making their way down the valley. I love late summer storms here. They start off low-key and far away and work their way down the valley inch by inch. The sky turns alternately yellow and purple and the electrical current falters and sometimes quits completely. The wind picks up and birds scatter squealing. Chickens and ducks and geese holler over the valley. Roosters go mad. Lightening begins with small sparks miles away and progresses to valley-filling bolts. You can hear the low rumbles of thunder for hours before the storm hits, but when it does it is a full-jolt powerhouse of a storm, with winds whipping and whistling through the orchards and walnut groves, large-drop rain pelting the corn and tobacco crops, and utter blackness all around. It can last for hours, and I choose to nest in my bedroom under the eaves to sleep it out, knowing the dawn will bring a crystal clear awakening with lots of Gruyere left to eat.
Today was a boring day, so I'll keep this brief. There has been no more noise from the fuines (house martens), so perhaps they responded to the eggs, or perhaps they just decided to sleep elsewhere.
We were planning to go kayaking today, but M's cold is bad and she's cranky, which doesn't augur well for a lazy day on the river, so instead I get up early and head to Fauque for a cafe creme and a chocolatine followed by a brief trip to the Intermarche where, thankfully, no bumpers are torn off. When I come home at 11 am, there's no sign of life from the teenagers, so I weed a bit in the garden, read by the pool, swim a bit, and change my clothes.
At 1 pm we head to Beynac and reserve three kayaks for tomorrow at Randonnees Beynac, not our usual kayak vendor but one who can guarantee the traditional kayaks that you insert yourself into, not the flat ones that are hard to control.
We have delicious sandwiches at the usual place right north of the pharmacy, then M gets grouchy with her cold and we buy French drugs for her at the pharmacy and head home, stopping at the Intermarche for the makings of spicy couscous with harissa and leftover poulet roti and vegetables.
While the kids lounge at the pool and play Pente, I make the couscous and watch and listen to big storms that are making their way down the valley. I love late summer storms here. They start off low-key and far away and work their way down the valley inch by inch. The sky turns alternately yellow and purple and the electrical current falters and sometimes quits completely. The wind picks up and birds scatter squealing. Chickens and ducks and geese holler over the valley. Roosters go mad. Lightening begins with small sparks miles away and progresses to valley-filling bolts. You can hear the low rumbles of thunder for hours before the storm hits, but when it does it is a full-jolt powerhouse of a storm, with winds whipping and whistling through the orchards and walnut groves, large-drop rain pelting the corn and tobacco crops, and utter blackness all around. It can last for hours, and I choose to nest in my bedroom under the eaves to sleep it out, knowing the dawn will bring a crystal clear awakening with lots of Gruyere left to eat.
