London and Languedoc

Although to quote an oldie (song that is) "I enjoy being a girl", there are certainly times when I wish that testosterone was a little more evenly distributed between the sexes. Muscles are really useful for hefting heavy suitcases. Although I arrived with my unexpanded suitcase and really minimal clothes, thanks to some irresistible market temptations (brightly coloured provencal plates and tablecloths, and an incredible passion fruit vinegar among other things) my bag is expanded and heavy.

But each time on my journey from Leran to Pamiers to Toulouse and then to Gatwick, Heathrow and my Heathrow hotel, just as I thought there is no way I can get this bag down stairs, up onto racks, on or off buses etc., someone would say "let me help you with that, luv" or just smile and hold out a hand, and bingo, the bag would be where it needed to be.

So the last leg of the trip today. and back to Vancouver.

This is Jill, signing off from the travelblogue.

Join me next time on another fun journey - to where? don't know yet

Six years of high school French and a “Learn to Speak French in only One Hour a Day” course on compact disc have not prepared me for the verbal challenge of investigating the booths set up at the Hazelnut Festival in the village of Lavelanet in the Midi-Pyrenees Region of southern France.

While my friends are watching new postulants being inducted into the Confrerie du Noisette, by confrerie members dressed as hazelnuts, in long brown robes with green caps and capes, I wander off to find out what burning issues stir the people of this area to action.

The first booth I encounter is the Association de Défense de la Pomme de Terre du Pays de Sault. I can translate that sign accurately but why, I wonder is it necessary to have an Association to defend potatoes? It turns out that there is a 300 year history of cultivating these special potatoes by traditional methods at high altitude on the plateaus of the Pyrenees. However tradition comes at a high price and the modern industrial methods of potato farming produce cheaper potatoes. So as I understand it, this association is a sort of marketing board to convince consumers to pay the extra cost to preserve the traditional industry and the high quality potatoes they produce. Unfortunately there are no test samples to conduct a blinded potato taste testing - so I move on to the next booth.

I wake this morning to a sky that is grey with the promise of rain. Before breakfast I walk outside and round the block to check if the café/bar is open yet. It is not. Today is a “day off” from the travel part of the course and time for us to focus on our writing. Sydney and Stephanie decide to go for a long hike. I decide to write.

I come up to my room to begin work. I sit at the desk with the pastel blue wooden shutters back against the wall of the building and the windows wide open. The air is cool and fresh. I boot up my computer and begin to write. My journal contains the details of each day and from it I extract pieces for the travelogue. At least that was the theory but I really am only catching up on the journal today. And somehow this is one of those times when the words just flow. I write steadily until lunch time.

Later, at lunch time, I go into the dining room to find the table set for one. The aural beauty of Mozart, Schubert and Bach, playing softly in the background, counterpoints the vista of stone walls, pastel wooden shutters and iron grilles seen through the window. On a wooden board rests a small white bowl of tiny perfect cherry tomatoes and creamy feta cheese squares in olive oil, a coiled loaf of bread, saucisse de foie (typical sausage of the ariegepyrenee region) and a triangle of blue cheese ripened to perfection. My novel lies unopened on the table. I savour the moment through every sense; flavour, aroma, texture, sight and sound meld into a surreal sense of pleasure. The tart sweetness of a juice laden nectarine completes the meal. I fold my napkin, and just as I am about to rise from the table the CD changes and Verdi fills the room.

The sudden banging of a wooden shutter somewhere in the house wakes me at 4 am. The branches of the tall palm tree outside my window scratch at the surface of the glass as the wind drives them wildly up and down. The weather is changing. Wind and rain will punctuate our visit to le marche in Limoux today,in contrast to the sun that beat down on the dry soil of the vineyards at Brugairolles.

I sit propped up in my warm comfortable bed, laptop resting on my knees listening to the wind prowl around the walls of my corner room. Suddenly I am eight years old again, curled up under the blankets in my grandparent’s home in Camps Bay, Cape Town, hearing the south wester howl through the trees while I waited to hear about my new baby brother. Each room in the house is as vivid in my mind as it was then. Strange. I can’t remember when last I thought about that house. I wonder whether this concentrated writing time is attracting old buried memories to the surface; a metaphorical divining rod. I need to write down everything I can remember about that time before the images sink back below the surface.

We set off to Limoux, which is approximately 29 K from Leran in a N-E direction. The objective of today’s visit is to visit a different French market, and for Angela to buy foods for our dinner tonight, which is to be at the home which she and Peter have, about four streets away in the village.

Today’s agenda was to visit two wineries at Brugairolles, 26 km from Carcassone, capital of the Languedoc-Rousillon region. We drove through Fanjeaux, a hilltop village, pausing briefly outside a Benedictine church to survey the surroundings. The Benedictines were the Catholic order that slaughtered the Cathars.

The first vineyard and winery was Domaine Gayda. The grape varieties here are Syrah, Grenache, Sauvignon Blanc, Carignan, and Cinsault. They do a Chardonnay Viognier blend. This winery is either new or under relatively new management. They have built a modern stainless steel winery, following Australian standards. We were fortunate to arrive at the time of the harvest or . We watched grapes being poured into the de-stemmer, and then passed along a conveyor where they were checked and remnants of stems manually removed before going to be crushed. They have a new and rather attractive restaurant there, open for lunch.

From there we drove a short distance to an older vineyard and winery. Château Guilhem. Here we were shown around by the young owner, Bertrand Gourdou Guilhem. The property has belonged to the Guilhem family for 5 generations. For much of the time they grew grapes but were not really winemakers. Bernard who originally studied medicine for two years, took over the business in 2003. His father was a surgeon inToulouse and Bernard would have been the 7th generation of surgeons… but now he loves making wine and his passion showed in every word.

As comfortable as my bed at home: I don't even hear the alarm ring.

Impass Wineries


Lee-anne, our gracious hostess and wonderful chef, in the old temple area.

 

 

 

John, genial host,driver, local expert, in the entry to l'impasse du temple.

 

 

My working area: note the open computer and word document.

Impass Wineries

MirepoixWe are based in the tiny village of Leran which is located roughly midway between the larger towns of Mirepoix and Lavelanet, in the Ariège department of the Pyrénnées-Orientale region of France. It borders on the Languedoc Roussillon region and our food related adventures encompass travel in both these regions.

As an introductory exercise today we visiting a traditional French market to observe le cuisine du marché. And Monday is market day in Mirepoix. The cooking term, mirepoix, a mixture of diced carrots, onions, and herbs used to flavour sauces or for braising meats, was named after the 18th century Duke of this area, whose cook is apparently credited with this technique.

Our instructions are to take notes on everything in this preliminary foray into the market so I have my spiral notebook and click ballpoint pen, as well as my digital camera tucked into the large purse slung over my shoulder.

We had lunch at a sidewalk café on the square: the plat du jour was confit de canard avec fennel au gratin- the duck meat melted off the bone and the combination with the fennel and cheese was truly delicious.

I am going to try to upload some images.

The Midi Canal
Although I love most foods there are a few that are on my hit list and I shudder at the thought of them. One is cilantro. Another is half of the entire group of legumes. Since accuracy is important to a nonfiction writer, I looked up legumes in the on line “Cook’s Thesaurus”, (http://www.foodsubs.com/FGLegumes.html). There a legume is defined as “plants that have pods with tidy rows of seeds inside. This category includes beans, peas, lentils, and peanuts”. For some bizarre reason, nature or nurture – don’t know, while I love peanuts and peas, beans and lentils are among my least favorite foods. Actually pea soup is also something I dislike. It’s something to do with texture, I suspect.

Or maybe it has something to do with another traumatic event in my early childhood when I was told to sit at the dinner table until I finished my plate of green pea soup. Being determined and very obstinate even at six years of age, I sat there sulking for at least an hour while my mother came in and out to see if I had given in. Finally I got bored so after my mother had come in, shaken her head and gone out I tiptoed to the window and emptied out the by then cold slimy liquid onto the ground. Pleased that the discipline technique had obviously worked, on her next appearance in the dining room, my mother smiled approvingly and released me to play for a while before bed. It was only the next day that my evil deed was discovered. Fortunately my parents had a sense of humour and realizing that their 6 year old had got the better of them, they only reprimanded me. However I was never forced to eat pea soup again.

Anyway since cassoulet is basically a “white bean stew” or a meat and bean casserole. According to the web site, (http://www.ffcook.com/pages/Wrecipearch47.htm),

Today we visited the Chateau Abbey at Camon where Peter and Katie Lawton have created a welcoming environment and exquisitely decorated bedrooms in a restored 16th century Benedictine Abbey. Parts of the building date back to the 9th century. From a terrace there is a panoramic view of the green fields and trees of the surrounding valley.

We walked up winding stairs, wide enough to allow a donkey laden with panniers to climb up to the Abbott’s quarters, to bring him dinner. I wondered whether he had grown too large to make his own way down the stairs. No one knew if that was the reason.

After we toured the Chateau we all sat around a table on the verandah and listened as Angela interviewed Thomas Sleigh, the chef. He lives in Chalabre and cycles in to work. He moved here in May with his wife who sometimes assists him in the kitchen. He commented on the progression of ingredients by the seasons and the profusion of foods. Although trained in the classical style of cooking his style today is driven by ingredient and weather; as he puts it he cooks “what the day brings”.

I leave with an idea for a story. To add to the ideas I have already come up with. But which one to focus on.

After my somewhat traumatic day of travel yesterday I slept like a Jill-in-her-great-bed in Vancouver. In other words I was in bed by just before midnight, read for about half an hour and then I finally realized why people say out like a light. It was a toss-up whether I or the bedside light were out first. I had carefully set my alarm for 7 am to give myself time for a leisurely breakfast and to repack my disordered luggage before meeting my new friends at 10 am.

I was jolted awake by some incredibly noisy people in the room next door and just when I was thinking how inconsiderate they were I opened my eyes and squinted at the clock beside my bed. It blinked at me in bright red letters: 9:15 am.

“Oh-my-gosh” I thought-“ never mind a leisurely breakfast, I am going to be LATE.” And anyone who knows me well knows that punctuality is one of my few… ok many…obsessions. I sprang out of bed, showered, washed my hair and dressed in 20 minutes and dashed down to the breakfast buffet for coffee and breakfast. What a pity that I did not have time to appreciate the luxurious shower with perfect temperature controls, and the extraordinary good and free buffet in contrast to the mediocre and very expensive breakfast in the previous hotel.

Just after 10, Sydney and Stephanie arrived and left their luggage with the hotel concierge so we could get some sight-seeing done. We headed off to the tourist bureau where I picked up a postcard to send to my Luddite friend who does not have a computer with internet access (you know who you are!) and then we split off, Sydney headed in one direction to look for bicycles while Stephanie and wandered round the old town.