Water of life
It started with a ring of the doorbell and ended up with eau de vie with macerated Reine Claude plums. Twice.
Seemingly apropos of nothing, Patrick, our farmer neighbour turned up at the gate. I went out and said hello, he introduced his father-in-law, and then we got chatting. He's very garrulous.
I wouldn’t put it past him to stop by merely to introduce his extended family, but this trip had another purpose. First up was the, to him, unthinkable news that Crédit Agricole nearby had reduced their opening hours.
Quel bordel, as he would say.
I sympathised, having read the email they sent about it, and joined in the complaints that we'd have to drive an extra five minutes or so to town. We then moved on to memories of times past, with P remembering fondly our hangar full of hay when he was a boy, and then the time he cut down a huge tree next to said hangar.
So far so good, but by this point I really was wondering why he was here; surely not just to shoot the breeze?
Lo and behold no. With deadly seriousness I was asked if I wanted to come up to the second of the two village halls the next evening and repaint some signs. I was assured that a few of us would turn out and it'd be good fun. My response in the affirmative elicited grandiose positive hand gestures on P’s part; shaking both hands loosely at the wrists whilst pursing his lips, which then burst out into a big grin.
At the appointed hour the next day, Friday, I arrive to find just Patrick. Everyone else was otherwise indisposed. I wondered how people could turn down such an enticing invitation.
Excuses, including those that I have just made up, included: last minute restaurant bookings made by a wife; a loose cow needing retrieval; a documentary on Antoine Dupont on the television, and rumours of an aligot shortage in the supermarket ready-meal section.
It would just be me and him for a few hours; what better way to improve my comprehension of the southern French accent?
The task at hand was thus: the signs for the village fête in August, the Fenaisons, needed sprucing up. We were to repaint the white background and then go over the letters again in black. When it comes to painting I am, without question, more of a broad-brush man, so the thought of tuning up my fine motor skills in tracing the outlines of letters just wasn't that appealing.
I dared to suggest whether it wouldn't be better to just paint the whole thing white first, then do the letters again afterwards. Such radical thinking was not met with universal approval; lettering was a special skill, an expert was needed. Which, given our efforts so far, we clearly were not.
We soldiered on at a snail’s pace and I was brought up to speed on all the latest village gossip. When this conversational seam was eventually mined out our efforts were deemed complete, and the evening’s highlight ensued: the aforementioned eau de vie. A few glasses later, appropriately imbibed in branded cups, and having eaten 3 or 4 macerated plums to boot, I rolled back down the hill home, reflecting on a job-not-very-well-done, as well as how unexpectedly palatable the undoubtedly high-strength liquor was.
Nor was this my last opportunity to try it, for a couple of weeks later I picked up a voicemail asking if I wanted to help the annual village pruning/weeding/tidying-up session on the upcoming Saturday. We’d start at 0900ish, then break for lunch, and then do as much as feasible in the afternoon.
My slight apprehension at the thought of being the only volunteer was outweighed by the offer of lunch.
I needn’t have worried as most of the village turned out. People arrived in ones and twos, many of them with at least a remorque trailing behind their car. A couple of tractors appeared, as well as a telescopic handler. I lost count of the number of chainsaws.
Our target was the car park and communal outdoor space of the salle des fêtes. Trees were pruned and a huge laurel hedge cut back. Prunings stacked in huge piles were swiftly removed by tractor into a huge trailer.
No instructions were given at any point, nor roles assigned; people just fell into tasks or were expected to. It was quite impressive in a slightly haphazard and mildy dangerous way.
I mostly just moved cut branches into piles for a few hours, whilst doing my best to avoid falling debris from the slightly maniacal chainsaw wielders above. After what seemed like an eternity, a halt was called and trestle tables set up outside for a quick apéro, to whet the appetite for lunch.
A rather outlandish selection of drinks were served, ranging from local apple juice from nearby Laguépie, classic syrups and soft drinks, to Martini Rosso, Ricard, and various blended malts.
This was accompanied by small squares of bakery-bought pizza, cooked sausage cut up into bitesize portions, and a saucisson sec, for which it was necessary to have brought one’s own pocket knife to cut. Despite knowing that such an accessory is vital to have at such moments I’d left mine at home, comme d’hab.
After we’d finished outside we gathered inside for the main event, all seated at a long table. Bread, cooked slices of poitrine, cake salé, a quiche, and a salad of endive were followed by a croustade aux pommes from a local bakery, as well a homemade pear and chocolate cake. As was deemed necessary at the time for strictly quality control reasons, I had two portions of each of the desserts.
Then to top things off, the eau de vie once more made an appearance.
Despite, or perhaps because of, my previous experience, I almost certainly had one too many macerated plums. This had the effect of making the afternoon’s job, clearing ivy from a wall, go slightly faster, though undoubtedly less efficiently, than perhaps it otherwise would have done.
By the time 5pm rolled around it was with a now firmly ingrained appreciation of moonshine that a kind soul drove me down the hill to home.
Needless to say - I’ll definitely be at the next village event.
Well done Sam. You certainly earned the drinks 😘🥂😘
I now wish my mother had not given away her home made still that made formidable slivovich( plum brandy) well done Sam, you are becoming a local!