Hunting is assumed to be an inalienable right for French people ever since the revolution of 1789 set them free to hunt – rather than poach. And wild boar makes better eating than a handful of roast chestnuts… (read Jacquou le Croquant by Eugene le Roy). Let...
There exists a serious end of summer; invasive flying pests, small, numerous and almost impossible to destroy or prevent. It is one of science’s favourite insects: please welcome the drosophilidae, more commonly called the ‘fruit flies’. You will...
The winter solstice, September 23rd, is when the tomatoes get sick. They refuse to ripen wholly and get rot, perhaps due to the wild variation of temperature during the day. The morning is cold enough to need an electric fan heater and a cardigan; at mid-day the...
Every self-respecting country-woman has a little black book with the contact details of ‘useful-little-men-who-do-‘things’. These people are not found in the yellow pages. They are former salesmen from failed D.I.Y. stores, desperate...
This summer, the black Muscat grapes hanging over the terrace have been very successful. The bunches are big and most of the individual grapes have ripened. There seems to be no single reason why they should be better this summer than in any previous, no reason to...
People who live in the country should not go on holiday at the end of summer, especially not after such an erratic summer as we have just had in South-West France. All July and August the tomatoes have sulked, hanging greenly on their vines, grudgingly offering the...
Had summer been normal this year, the compost heap would have been quietly hiccupping as rejected fruits fermented in the warmth of the sun. Niffle the Rabbit once got drunk on rotten fruit, his eyes were crossed and he could not move; made him easier to catch. Only...
There was a rather smart Renault saloon half parked in the ditch that fed our woodland pond. I gave it a desultory glance and thought no more – until I went to my favourite champignon spot, under the great oak, above the pond. Neatly aligned were several stalks that...
As we were coming home from Bordeaux airport, along Autoroute 89, direction Perigueux, late last Saturday, I saw a hen carefully shepherding a single chick along the near-side grass verge. I drew my husband’s attention to the bird. Perhaps the fact of taking... 