Busy Weekend in a Small Village

I love the blues and the forms of penstemons

Last summer a young, attractive couple rang our bell just after we had checked out a house full of clients. We were in the process of stripping beds and laundry lay in towering piles in the hallway. Their names were Gregoire and Morgane and they had come to book our entire house for their wedding day, which was planned for this past weekend. Gregoire is the nephew of Catherine, the châtelaine (the woman who owns our local castle).

When the day for the big event finally arrived, the weather was overcast and rainy. Morgane was discouraged. At breakfast she characterized it as "pas terrible" which literally means "not terrible" but in usage means "absolutely terrible". She, her mother and grandfather had spent two days with us as they fluttered around the village preparing for the events of Saturday afternoon. The wedding was planned for 4PM.

At noon the house came alive with activity. A hair dresser, manicurist and make-up artist and various friends arrived. Furniture was moved around to turn our yellow room into a beauty salon. Pizzas were delivered and consumed in the kitchen downstairs and the gate stayed constantly open as various people came and went in fevered activity. The weather slowly improved as the day went ahead. The rain stopped and from time to time the clouds would disperse, allowing here and there a small patch of blue to appear.

 the hair dresser, looking charming in his yellow plaid pants and chic fedora

As the hour approached, the excitement mounted. Flowers arrived and guests began to gather outside the church on the Place in front of our house. We mostly tried to stay out of the way but were called upon to direct people here and there, lend out our stapler or various other items as requested. A Dominican priest arrived all the way from Paris to perform the ceremony, dressed in ornate cream-colored robes. He found us in our studio and asked for a glass of water. Our sink, which has an energetic sprayer, splashed all over the front of his beautiful vestments, causing some consternation and concern!

the bride's bouquet arrives

Several adorable little girls with huge flower wreaths on their heads took their places. Many of the women guests had elaborate hats and brightly colored shawls.

guests and flower girls await the moment

Morgane's father awaited her on our terrace, and when she arrived promptly at 4, he led her, camera's flashing, to the church and the ceremony was underway.

Morgane on the arm of her father

The church bells began to ring joyously at the end of the wedding. At the very moment the young married couple stepped to the threshold of the church doors to walk out onto the Place, the sun came out from behind the clouds and bathed them in light. The entire crowd cheered. A dixieland quartet struck up a lively tune.

on the way to the reception

Gregoire's father owns a property in town and the reception was held there. Rick heard the happy couple, the parents, grandparents and friends arrive back to our place at 4AM. A 12 hour party!

We expected everyone to sleep in late, but in fact when we went to set up for breakfast a little before 9 on Sunday morning, the grandfather was awaiting us. He was anxious to get back on the road for his home, close to Orleans, a couple of hours away. It was voting day for the legislative seats in France. The country would decide if the new socialist president would get a mandate or not (as it turned out, he got a resounding one.)

Papi, as Morgane called her grandfather, is a very distinguished white haired gentleman, a little hard of hearing, but elegant and friendly. He complimented us for our house, as most French people do. It pleases us so much how appreciative the French are of what we have done with Maison Conti. He was dressed smartly for his drive home. He wore a crisp starched white shirt with blue stripes, a thin black wool cravat, impeccably tied and a beautiful moss green plaid jacket.

The others arrived more slowly, but by noon the house was empty again and all the activity of the past day was a memory. Early in the afternoon, just as I was settling down to a quiet moment, the church bells began to chime again announcing some new event. When I looked out the window, I saw that a child had just been christened. The bells told the tale.

As quiet as our little village can sometimes be, it is never dull. There is always some important life event being celebrated.

family and friends gather for a baptism

***

Although it has been a very discouraging spring weather-wise, there are some advantages to living in a corner of the world where there is plentiful rain. The emerald green landscape never ceases to enchant my eyes, and when the sun does come out, it is revelatory.

rolling green hills below the fortified walls of the town

On Sunday afternoon we went to the garden. The day was extremely fine, warm and sunny with the occasional puffy white clouds. On our walk we pass all the vegetable potagers of the locals. Their gardens are neat and tidy.

our village garden plots

Garden man and his wife were out picking strawberries. Believe it or not, the large basket that the wife is holding and the large white plastic container that Roland is holding, are filled with strawberries, all from just two rows of plants. I asked if they were going to be making jam and Roland answered that he preferred his strawberries at the bottom of a full glass of red wine!

picking strawberries

Our flower garden is an anomaly, but we gets lots of compliments on it. It is looking particularly pretty at the moment.

our flower garden

Probably our favorite rose is this apricot David Austin, which I believe is named Grace. It is such a generous plant, during the season continuously offering its perfect and very fragrant blossoms.

David Austin rose

It is not a long stemmed rose, so we generally float the blooms in a bowl of water.

crystal bowl holding our garden roses

I rather love the fact that the wall that borders one end of the garden still has holes where archers could shoot their arrows to defend the town. These walls were built long before our house, which was a structure of the renaissance, after siege warfare had been abandoned.

a hole in the defensive wall that borders the garden

Even if our garden is mainly dedicated to flowers, we do have a few salad supplies growing — lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, and some herbs. These heads are perfect and they tasted delicious. I don't even like lettuce, but these were an exception. I might yet come around.

two delicious varieties of lettuce we've grown this year

Late Sunday afternoon we walked back home from our garden, stopping to share greetings with Anne, Christine and Monique. The Place was quiet after a very energetic weekend.

***

Since I've been a bit tardy in my blog posting, I haven't yet reported on our visit from James and Adric, which happened the weekend before. It was not brilliant weather, but a particularly wonderful time despite that. We had a lot of fun cooking, eating, watching the finals of Roland Garros and results of the preliminary French legislative elections.

We also took a kayaking trip together which I could not photograph as the camera would have been destroyed in the effort. It turns out that our area has quite a few well-defined and exciting river kayaking possibilities. We got a map of the routes and took one of them with the boys. This one has you descending over two small waterfalls in the process of navigating the route. We were all soaking wet by the end of the ride, as it also poured rain during part of the adventure. Still, I can't wait to go again.

James sewed a tablecloth and Adric figured out how to play Mahjong, an activity I enjoyed with my brother in my youth. I own a beautiful old set, but we hardly ever get it out, as it requires four players. Adric read the old rule book and taught us the details of set up and scoring, which I had forgotten.

 

We all became addicts of this really wonderful and very sensual game. Rick, who often gets restless with these kinds of activities, won most of the rounds, so even he kept repeating "what great fun!"

Week 50: Storms, Gardens and Shops

One evening this week we had a wonderfully dramatic storm with rain beating down furiously, thunder ringing all around and great cracks of lightening illuminating the sky in sudden flashes. It was of Biblical proportions making one feel as if the end of the world was nigh.  Of course the next morning the sun was shining and the earth was sweet and calm again. I find the weather here so perfect. Storms almost always seem to come when we're tucked into our cozy apartment and we have a front row view across the valley as all the drama unfolds.

I have been enjoying our terrace this week, soaking up the sun and feeling as if I'm in a magical world. The fountain gurgles, everything is in bloom, the scent of iris and rose wafts through the air and the vines climb the walls creating a verdant secret garden. It makes it hard to concentrate on any kind of work. I feel like I'm greeting old friends when one by one the roses come into bloom. My favorite is the old fashioned pink climber on the trellis:

 She grows in and between this little purple bohemian:

Then there's Ghislaine de Feligonde, a very sweet smelling demur beauty:

And the extravagant and generous mutabilis:

We have four white blush tree roses arranged symmetrically on either side of the planters:

And the rather gaudy yellow climber adorns the front of the house almost all summer long:

It's a lot of roses for a small  terrace.

Our garden up above has many more rose varieties, mostly standard teas. They are just beginning to bloom. Rick just came in to show me the big bouquet he collected there. The bare spots will soon have huge dahlia plants which faithfully produce flowers for continuous cutting all through the season.

***

This week I officially opened up our boutique, by arranging cards, prints and small paintings. Visitors are beginning to frequent the village, especially on weekends. The castle is open for the season and Sunday drivers park outside the house and stroll through town to enjoy the calm and quiet charm.

For my blogger friend Janet, I took a photo of this found heart; left over ink in my mixing dish. She published one she noticed a few weeks ago. When I spied this, I was thrilled. I love the idea of finding random hearts here and there as one walks through the world. I'm all for happy signs and secret messages.

We also rearranged the downstairs sitting room for summer. During winter the chairs focus on the fireplace. There is nothing like a big roaring fire in our large fireplace when it's cold outside. But once the fire season is over, it's time to change the furniture around into a more communal arrangement.

We took a walk every day this week. Just below the village is an incredible field of poppies. It reminds me so much of Italy.

In the Garden, Part II

If you walk out our front gate, pass in front of the church and follow the small route to the left, you come to the Bar/Tabac. From there, you will mount the little street to the left that leads steeply up a narrow route with small cottages on either side. Francis, the former mayor and his wife Catherine are just to the left. When he was a younger man, his butcher shop was there too, but now the store front has become their living room windows. The cat lady, the one without teeth, lives on the right. Soon enough you will pass Mr. Theil's house. It's the one with the stone wall around it, enclosing a large garden and three-story house. As you pass, you'll notice the locked wooden door just below the level of the road; It leads into Mr. Theil's wine cave, reputed to be the best for miles around. One can only dream about what it holds! On the right is the big vine covered house which belongs to the Parisian family. They come during the summer. They set up a big table on the large lawn in front and eat their mid day meals, looking out across the old walls to the valley below, verdant the year through. After you've passed their house you're at the top of the hill and there the jardins ouvriers begin, the workmen's gardens. There are several of them lined up on the right, bounded by the ancient walls of the city on the downhill side and by the road and castle walls on the uphill side. One of the first belongs to the very nice man who gives us gardening advice. He warns against planting during the wrong phase of the moon and tells us that we must respect the Sts. Glaces, the saints of the frost. They don't pass until mid-May, so don't be tempted to plant your tomatoes before then, never mind if the weather is warm and the sky is clear. His garden is absolutely weed-free. When I comment about it, he shrugs it off. "You just remove them when they're still small" he says. It sounds so easy. The next garden belongs to Mr. Villette. His daughter lives half time in Paris and half time in New Jersey, but she visits her parents in Montmirail several times a year. Her friend Gerard is often a guest at Maison Conti. He lives in Singapore. When he visit's Martine's family, there's no room for him to stay, so we've had the fun of getting to know him. Mr. Villette represents what I think of as the miracle of French genetics. I am always so bemused when I meet the children of some of the simple French country folk. Mr. Villette and his wife are short and stout, part of the hearty rural stock who have worked the land for generations. Their daughter, who is a sophisticated and very well-educated business woman, towers above them and is willowy like many Parisian women. How can the one generation produce the other? It remains one of the deep mysteries of la vie française! Mr. Theil, even though he has his house and walled garden just a few steps away, has the next jardin ouvrier. Patrice works for him, creating new structures for the beans to grow up on or designing new methods of watering. A little road between Mr Theil's garden and the librarian's garden leads downhill to the village's medieval medicinal herb garden. It's next to the cemetery. The librarian has a flower garden. Her father-in-law once ripped all her plants out and replaced them with rows of radishes, beans, potatoes and lettuce. He couldn't understand the point of growing flowers. After all, you can't eat them! Patiently she explained to him that she liked flowers and anyway it was her garden! Back came the flowers and meandering little pathways, even some garden sculpture. What a rebellion! Jonathan's small garden comes next. His rows of vegetables are perfectly straight and maintained to perfection. Finally, the last garden along the road, is ours. We share it with Michel. He had been using it when it was owned by Jean-François and Marc before us and we didn't need to have the whole thing, so we offered to let him keep the one half while we redesigned the other to our own purposes. Like the librarian, we wanted flowers and straight utilitarian rows were not what we had in mind. In March we dug up everything and laid out a rectangle, bisected it with paths running from corner to corner and sowed them with grass seed. We defined each of the four quarters to be one color family: red, orange and yellow in the back, blue on the side next to the shed, rose and purple on the street quadrant and white on the part facing Michel's vegetable plot. We've been planting this and that for the last two months and things are beginning to grow up. Next year will be better, of course, but even this year it has a lot of charm. We have a secret understanding with the librarian. She knows we're her kind of people. And the other villagers, they wouldn't expect anything else from us étrangers! They can appreciate us, even as they find it a bit mad to be using perfectly good earth to grow flowers. The boulanger said our garden was "trop beau", which is a very high compliment. Gil said it was "super chouette", and he's the village gardener, so who wouldn't feel proud? One of the tourists passing by remarked that we had a "jardin model!" Merci beaucoup!