An Explosive Way to Celebrate a Birthday

It was my birthday on Tuesday. As one gets older birthdays tend to be less celebratory. And past a certain age one wishes one could ignore them altogether.

So there would be no popping of champagne corks, and in these belt-tightening times, dinner 'a deux' in a local restaurant wasn't even mooted. A trip to the shops would have to provide my birthday treat. I could hardly wait. A mooch around Aldi and then to Lidls on the way home. But first we would call in on the doctor for our drug fix(atenolol, not amphetamines I hasten to add) So I was in for an action-packed day.

It began well. We had our usual banter with the doctor, and asked him to sign our forms for our free flu jabs. He was in a chatty mood as we were the only ones in the surgery and I reflected again on how fortunate we are to be in the French health system. I was even more cheered when I went into the pharmacy in Lannemezan and the lady who was serving me wished me (in nervous English) an 'Appy Birthday.

At Aldi Captain Sensible reversed the car carefully to take advantage of some shade (it has been really warm these last few days). We had already been across the road at another cheapo supermarket and although we had a cool box he's paranoid about food going off if the boot gets warm.

So we did our shopping, went out to the car and I stood at the back, with the trolley, ready to load it all in the boot. The Captain decides it's going to be better to move the car a foot or so forward to make it easier for me to get to the tailgate. So far, so good.

So he gets half in the car...ie he gets his left cheek on the seat and as his right leg is still outside he attempts to engage the clutch with his left. Unfortunately he hits the accelerator instead and covers me, the shopping trolley, and the tree under which we're parked,with a layer of oily soot as he accidentally performs what is known in some circles as an 'Italian Service.' When I could eventually see, and had stopped coughing, I attempted to see the funny side of it. It was difficult. As is the way with some men, Captain Sensible thought it was hilarious.

As the groceries were also covered in fine soot I managed to get it all over my hands as I packed them away. I had bought some cheap perfume in Aldi, and like a child I couldn't wait to try it, so I'd just sprayed my neck liberally with it seconds before the volcano erupted. So my neck was wet, and acted like a soot magnet.

Most people would have gone home at this point, but we still had another supermarket to blitz so if anyone saw a black and white minstrel shopping in the Lannemezan Lidls it was me.

Autunm Has Arrived

Well, autumn has arrived. I'm not that downhearted because this has to be the most spectacular time of the year here in the Haute Pyrenees. On a good year we can cock a snoot at New England, tho' we don't have coach loads of 'leaf-peepers' . We're pretty laid back about it here so it doesn't occur to us to advertise just how beautiful the countryside looks. I just wish the season would last longer. But, fingers crossed, we should enjoy the blaze of colour until the middle of November.
Depending on the dryness of the summer we have so many bramble hedges in the lanes around here that we can pick several kilos of wild blackberries to freeze for winter blackberry and apple puds. We've four fairly prolific apple trees in our garden, but we just lack the suet to make a really traditional steamed pudding. It's probably just as well, because steamed suet pudding has to be the most unhealthy dessert on the planet. But it is good !
Here's an article I wrote for ww.suite101.com last year.
There's some advice on harvesting your autumn bounty, together with a recipe for sloe gin and autumn fruit jellies.



The autumn hedgerows are full of wild fruits which can be made into jams, jellies and homemade wines to use during the winter.
Nature saves the best of her free gifts until the autumn, when the hedgerows become a treasure trove of edible goodies.
Walking in the countryside can be a pleasurable and rewarding experience in the autumn. After a warm summer the hedgerows are an abundant source of berries, many of which can be gathered to make jams, wines, jellies and liqueurs.
Before venturing out though, there are a few things to bear in mind.
Don’t pick anything from hedgerows at the side of busy roads. There are too many petrol and diesel fumes hanging about in the air which may settle on the fruit.
Make sure the trees or shrubs don’t obviously belong to anyone. Those juicy plums might be hanging temptingly over the public highway but if the tree or bush is on someone’s private property the fruit rightly belongs to them.
Take a longish walking stick with a curved handle, or something similar. Many of the best fruits are out of reach (the easily reached ones having been picked before you got there) so a stick comes in useful to pull the branches down.
Don’t damage the trees or bushes in your eagerness. They’ve probably been on the planet longer than you, so show them some respect.
Thick gloves are a useful addition to your equipment. Many hedgerows are full of thorny bushes.
Always check the lie of the land. In your enthusiasm for spotting a bush covered in fruit make sure there isn't a hidden ditch in your way before you launch yourself into the hedge. Getting a soaking can take the fun off the afternoon.
If your hunting takes you into a field, check for grazing cattle and remember to close all gates behind you …..and if you notice a bull in with a herd of cows, don’t go in the field at all.
Black berries and elderberries are the first fruits to ripen in the Northrn Hemisphere.

Autumn is the time to be watching the hedgerows for the arrival of the first sloes which, when soaked in gin for a few weeks, will provide a delicious Christmas liqueur.
Sloe gin is favourite winter warmer for colder climates
Its ruby-red colour and sweet flavour make it an ideal drink after a brisk walk in the depth of winter.
If you are not a gin lover it can be made with vodka, but gin imparts a richer flavour, and is undetectable in the finished product.
Sloes are the small purple-black fruit of the blackthorn. They are generally found in hedgerows from late August onwards, and can be a bit inaccessible as the bushes are thorny and the berries often high on the branch. A long walking stick with a curved handle is a useful aid to picking, and the resulting liqueur is well worth the effort.
Do not be tempted to pick the fruits too early as they will be bitter. September is a good time, although traditionally they are at their best after the first frost. In a mild winter this can mean leaving it too late for the finished product to be ready for Christmas drinking, so the ‘frosting’ can be faked by placing the picked fruit in the freezer for a day or two before preparing the liqueur. Some experienced sloe gin makers believe the freezing releases the juice and makes for an improved flavour
For 1 ltr. of sloe gin you will need:
· 450g sloes
· 225g castor sugar
· 1ltr. gin
Wash and dry the sloes and prick all over with a sharp needle. Place in a large screw top jar which will hold 1 ltr of liquid comfortably.
Add the castor sugar and top up with the gin. Seal tightly. Leave in a cool, dark environment for at least two months Try to give the jar a good shake every day if possible.
As with all homemade alcoholic drinks, the longer they’re left to soak the better the flavour will be.
At this point ideas differ. Some people prefer to leave the sloes in the gin; indeed many aficionados actually macerate the mixture in an empty gin bottle and serve the drink straight from there. Others strain the gin into bottles, or a decanter.
Whichever method you choose the dark ruby-red liqueur is an absolute winner on a chilly evening.
A dash of sloe gin in a glass of champagne also makes an elegant cocktail drink.
The sloes themselves are frequently thrown away, having served their purpose. But a delicious sweet can be made by coating the fruit in bitter chocolate.
Spread the used sloes in a single layer on a thick piece of absorbent kitchen paper. When they have dried dip each one in melted chocolate and place carefully on waxed paper to cool and become firm. Store in an air-tight container.
These rich chocolates are a perfect accompaniment to a glass of sloe gin, preferably enjoyed with good friends and a roaring log fire.
Traditionally elderberries have been used for country wine making, but together with sloes, crab apples, and rose hips they can also be used to make jellies.


A rule-of-thumb recipe for fruit jellies:
Clean the fruit thoroughly, checking for hidden insects
Whatever quantity of fruit you have, cover with water and bring to the boil.
Simmer until the fruit has softened.
Allow to cool and strain through a clean tea cloth or muslin jelly bag.
Measure cooled liquid and place in a thick bottomed saucepan.
Add 1 lb(500g) white sugar for each pint(550ml) of liquid.
Boil briskly until the setting point is reached
Skim off any scum that may have formed on the surface, allow to cool, then ladle into sterilised jars and seal tightly.
Rose hip jelly is delicious with pork or poultry as the flavour is similar to cranberries and the fruit is high in vitamin C. Rose hip syrup, a healthy drink for children, can be made by following the recipe for fruit jelly, but remove from the heat as soon as the liquid has achieved a syrupy appearance. Pour into sterilised bottles when the syrup has cooled and keep in the fridge.



This is just one of many recipes that can be made from hedgerow fruit.
The copyright of the article Mother Nature’s Autumn Bounty in Fall Recipes is owned by permission of the author.To republish Mother Nature’s Autumn Bounty in print or online must be granted by the author in writing.
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When the Rose-Tinted Glasses Fall Off

The other day I happened to come across a forum posting from an expat who was clearly having a bad day. The trouble was she had allowed a smallish matter to blow itself up into something that had completely sent her off on a rant. Against everything French.

The rose tinted glasses had well and truly come off, and de-railed her in the process.

I can understand how this could have come about. And it's not unusual. Especially in the present economic climate.

The pound sterling and the dollar are being squeezed to within an inch of their lives, belts are having to be tightened all round and M'sieu Sarkozy is not exactly making life easy for immigrants. And that is what we are, we Brits, Americans, Dutch, Germans Like it,or not.

So often we think the word applies just to Moroccans, or the Algerians we see on the markets selling cheap jewellery. But it's us too. So Sarko's ruling last year on health cover didn't go down well with those expats who had recently arrived, often with young families, to find they were not entitled to the same health cover as French nationals. Full private health cover came as a nasty shock to many, and that together with the general rises in the cost of living has brought on some severe cases of disillusionment.
When the dream looks like turning into a nightmare, something else coming along to hit them full in the face, or the wallet, is the very last straw.

For many women there's the added stress of being separated from their close family. Yes, you can explode, or whimper (depending on your personality) down the phone to mum, but it can never take the place of a good old-fashioned bawl on a sympathetic shoulder. And for men, in France there isn't the option of going down the pub for a pint and a moan to your mates. French bars may appear havens of warmth and friendliness ( an idea put about by the likes of Peter Mayle with a good dollop of literary license) but in actual fact your average Pierre propping up the bar with his pastis is not in the least interested in any one's marital or financial problems. Political discussion....ah that''s another matter. He'll talk politics all day.

Right now expat internet forums seem full of sob stories, but I wonder how many of them would resort to the cold anonymity of the web if they had a near neighbour who spoke the same language and who was probably in the same boat? Maybe someone should start up local support groups for those who think their dream has turned sour. I say 'think 'because I reckon if only some of these families who seem at the end of their tether could have a good old moan, over a glass or two of something, maybe they'd look at life in France in a more balanced way.

Yes, life here has got tougher over the past few months, but what are the alternatives? The grass isn't any greener anywhere else, especially right now.

So to those who are really fed-up and contemplating a move back I'd say..."Hang on in there. Don't make any hasty decisions you might regret later."

August is a Dangerous Month for the Liver

There just doesn't seem enough days in August to accommodate it all.

By 'all' I mean the fètes, 'animations' and foires that crop up in every village and town in France during August.

There just aren't enough weekends in the month to do them all, so it's a case of pick and choose.

The big one in our neck of the woods is the Folk Festival in Montrejeau.It's now in it's 49 th year which means it's been going since the days of the Cold War, which probably explains why it has been such a popular event with Eastern European countries.For decades the only way to get out of Eastern Bloc countries was to be part of a cultural visit. And folk music and dancing certainly fitted the bill. How many of the participants actually went home after such events is still a matter of conjecture!

We've also had the 'battages'...difficult to actually pin down with a title. They are a celebration of le moisson', or the harvest. Ancient tractors are greased and polished to within an inch of their lives, oxen are yoked to ploughs, steam engines puff away and burn yet another hole in the ozone layer ( bless them) and the Comminges Classsic Car Club chuff and putter up to the stubble field, all gleaming paintwork and shiny brass,and park up for the afternoon to await the admiration of we less fortunate souls who are stuck(through economic circumstances ) with a bog standard Peugeot 306, or similar. The French pronounce it as trois-cent-six and why not? They produced it. It's only us mono-lingual Brits who use the 'oh' instead of 100 ( three-oh-six etc..)

We have two annual battage within a 10 kilometre radius and both involve a very(and I do mean a very )large lunch which involves an inordinate amount of chicken, in various guises - starter ,soup, entree, main, you name it- the chuk is in there somewhere. All washed down with copious quantities of vin de pays of all colours, and a fire-water digestif. Well, chicken can be a bit on the dry side, so you need something to wash it down.And if you set three hours or four hours aside the alcohol consumption will have burnt off before one takes the road home, or so one imagines (erroneously!) I have formed instant and lasting friendships with my neighbours at battage lunches...the problem is I can't remember who they were with.

And there's always the entertainment to follow. This normally involves an accordionists, a comedian who goes down storm with everyone, and a singer who's songs are known and loved by the audience who join in with gusto.

It's at this point I feel like a rank outsider. As your average Frenchman(or woman would) in a Yorkshire social club on a Friday night.

France en Vacance

So, July has come and gone and we're now entering the home straight of the long summer holidays. There are more camper vans on the roads than lorries, and in this part of the country they are fighting the combine harvesters for road-space. At the moment it's forty - thirty to the combines. Add on the tractors and trailers teetering dangerously along over loaded with straw bales, and the wannabee 'Tour de France' candidates wobbling from side to side as they push up the one- in -eight gradients and it's the Highway to Hell on some routes.

Ah! 'Le Tour'. It has a strange effect on the French. They are by nature in love with the velo. It seems to be inherent in the male of the species. An urge to purchase a multi-geared monster, a flash helmet and appallingly fluorescent Lycra and take to the open road. Every week-end they flash by my window in a streak of yellow, orange or lime green come rain. hail or heatwave. A pelaton of cyclists have a peculiar sound as they swoop past. It's an eerie hum of skinny wheels on tarmac, and perhaps the muted chatter of conversation. Quite weird, like a ghostly daylight apparition. In technicolour.

This year Le Tour made an overnight stop in Lannemezan. I like Lannamezan. It's got a good range of shops, some cut-price supermarkets, and a big Wednesday market, so it's my kind of town. Each year towns all over France vie with each other to 'win' an overnight stop on one of the stages. It's quite a coup, and a financial boost into the bargain.

Thank goodness Lannemezan has a good selection of bars. I guess they'd all have been full of journos, and assorted Tour followers. Not the cyclists though . They're all too exhausted to do anything other than lie on the physio's couch and then turn in for the night, ready for the next day's punishment.

The Tour organisers must have a soft spot for Lannemezan, because they stopped there a couple of years ago, so cycling and the accompanying tourism seems to have replaced the production of mutton for which the town was famous in the last century.

This year the tour organisers declared there would be zero-tolerance towards drugs and their words must have been heeded, as there were only four disqualifications, which may be four too many, but it's an improvement on previous years. Performance enhancing drugs have always bedevilled the tour, and it had become so blatant that there was a danger that France's most famous contribution to the sporting summer was beginning to loose some of it's public support.

But this year the crowds along the route were a thick as ever with old-hands arriving four or five hours before the start, and pitching camp in the best places for seeing their heroes. You can always see which roads the tour has used over the years, as the names of previous overnight leaders are stencil-sprayed onto the tarmac, and sometimes on the walls of tunnel and bridges. There they remain long after the 'name' itself has retired - a reminder of past glories.

There was a bit of a niggle in the press that the whole carnival of Le Tour was becoming too much of a strain on local services. Certainly, the roads do seemed to be closed off for an inordinately long time before the race actually starts, and the route uses up an awful lot of policemen who could be otherwise occupied with speed cameras, but I can't imagine there will be any change in the plans. It's a festive occasion and too much a part of summer to be cut back.

We've watched a couple of stages over the years. The first time we were inadvertent spectators as we unwittingly strayed onto the route and were informed the road we wanted to take had been closed and would remain so until the whole shooting match had gone through. So there we were, in this little village, squashed against the wall in the narrowest of streets in a midday temperature of 30c + for over two hours.

But we weren't without entertainment. Long before the peleton appears we have the spectacle of the caravan of sponsors and back-up cars . This is the warm-up act and goes on for ages, a endless procession of trucks, trailers and pretty girls throwing out freebies to an eager crowd who risk death by hurling themselves into the road to retrieve a free sachet of coffee, a cheap baseball cap you wouldn't be seen dead in,a ballpoint pen that lasts all of five minutes or a keyring. Being British I refrained from such displays of avarice and contented myself watching grown men race to beat their neighbour to a children's puzzle book. As for the cyclist themselves they were there and gone in a rush of air which actually created a sort of wind-tunnel in the narrow street, leaving me to wonder what all the fuss was about.

The next time we watched it we were better prepared, with bottles of water and a camera for a start. We positioned ourselves on a wide bridge over the Garonne, where the crowds were thin which meant we had a ringside view ( and some where to sit as an added bonus). I surmised from the lack of spectators we weren't in the most exciting place, but we were quite happy. It was a distinct improvement on the previous occasion.So we waited...and waited. The freebie part of the morning arrived and drove slowly through, throwing out the booty to eager arms. The police, stationed on the roundabout at the junction were well up on the give-aways...they could spot a mineral water promo- van before it even arrived on the bridge and would be prominently positioned in readiness for half a dozen bottles to be handed over. They didn't bother with the pens, they'd probably got a whole storeful back at the station.

After about an hour and a half the clatter of helicopter blades announced the arrival of the media pack sent a frisson of excitement through the crowd. The peleton were on their way, and could be spotted on the other side of the river, flashing silver, green, blue through the trees lining the road.

David Bailey(on less exciting days, The Significant Other) made final adjustments to his camera and leaned expectantly into the road. I was watching his maneuverings with mounting alarm. The lens cap was swinging from the camera, he was precariously balanced with one foot on the road, and one on the verge and I could just visualise the carnage if he got himself tangled up with the lead riders. A couple of years before a woman with an uncontrollable handbag had a close encounter with Lance Armstrong's handlebars and he finished up in the gutter with several other riders on top of him. And only the year before I had seen a hilarious video of a golden retriever wandering across the road straight into one of the cyclists who crashed to the ground with a front wheel bent beyond redemption. The dog continued his amble across the road as if nothing had happened.

My squeak of "For God's sake get back" was lost in the crescendo of excitement as the riders, preceded by police outriders, wheeled right to the bridge and powered down towards us - a tsunami of alloy,lycra, bronzed thighs, and grim expressions. They sped down to the roundabout, then off and up, to the Col Ares for another masochistic day in the mountains.

And that was it, until next year when the route would be slightly different but the spectacle unchanging.The crowds drifted away and began the long walk back to their cars, the police cleared the barriers away and opened up the road and the Significant Other took a quick look at his photos. He was well satisfied and I was relieved. Man and camera had come through unscathed.

My Personal Battle with Francophobia

OK, so I'm biased. I'm a bit of a Francophile. For all her faults ,France is a bit like an elderly relative - prickly, impoverished( but in denial,) and definitely living in the past, but ancient aunts can be strangely lovable. And when some little ill-informed twit comes along and criticises her it really annoys me. If there's going to be any criticism I will be the one doing it.


Today's' Sunday 'Wail' really got me going. " British motorists face £100 fine for failing to wear fluorescent vests when driving in France".

What? Of course you don't have to wear a flourescent vest while driving ! You put the bloody thing on if you breakdown, for God's sake!

It's at times like this I wonder why on earth I bother to read British newspapers online. And as for buying one at the grossly inflated price that they're on sale for in French newsagents - forget it. I can buy a bottle of wine for less than that and get a good deal more satisfaction from it.

So. back to the article. What a load of Europhobic, badly researched journalism!

This quite acceptable law came in on July 1st, having been enforced in Spain for 2 years already. It's now law to carry a fluorescent vest together with a red triangle (which has been a legal requirement since God-knows-how-long). It's been widely discussed on ex-pat forums, and advertised on French telly for months. And I'm quite sure it's all out there in the UK via the AA or travel insurance sites...so where's the problem ?

Fluorescent vests are as cheap as chips (unless you're going to get Stella McCartney or Donatella Versace to design one for you) Go down to Halfords, or even cheaper probably, a garage forecourt, invest a couple of quid in a polyurethane vest in day-glo yellow and if you do have a breakdown and you happen to be on the Autoroute de Sud in driving rain you stand a chance of being seen by that artic that is thundering along a couple of yards from the hard shoulder that you're parked on. The law only requires you to have one per vehicle at the moment (as far as I understand it - but the jury appears to be out on that bit.)

The best way to avoid being stopped by 'le flic' is to display the vest in a prominent position in the car... hanging it from the back of the driver's seat seems to be the most popular choice . After all that's where it needs to be if you do have an accident or a breakdown. Not in the boot where you may have to risk life and limb to access it. If the gendarmes can see it, they're less likely to pull you over. I mean...we all know what that means (in any country). Full check of all your documents and maybe a look in the boot, a keen look at the tyre treads, and and a good deal of teeth sucking before they eventually wave you off. So unless you actually enjoy a bit of a run-in with the traffic police. and find it adds to the holiday excitement, buy a vest, keep it in the car and above all ,drive as if every other driver is a lunatic. Remember, France holds the dubious honour of being rated as having the worst drivers in Europe.

As long as you bear that in mind that lovely, stubbornly cantankerous old auntie can still provide you with a great holiday.

Pets Gallery

Just Lazin' Around

Sheba & Friend

Well, in Sheba's opinion more like an alien invader. She reluctantly shares her bed with a feline refugee, one of 3 kittens we found abandoned in a cardboard box whilst out walking. They were 'adopted' on the understanding they lived in the barn and kept the mice at bay. Unfortunately they didn't keep their side of the bargain, wormed their way into the house and took over. Sheba was not amused.

Rooney the Loony

In his best 'pharaoh dog' pose he looks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. It does, as has been proved when he nicks a packet from the work top.

photos of Rooney:http://www.katelevesleyphotography.co.uk