From the Tarn to Edinburgh: the Provincial Lady sets off

Looking down a wynd from Royal Mile across to Princes Street

Millions of internet fans will doubtless have been scratching their heads over the untypical silence emanating from deepest Tarn over the last few weeks. A bout of dysphonia? A fit of the sulks? The delivery of the latest series of ‘Game of Thrones’ by an Amazonian drone?

I can now reassure them. The Maître de Maison and I have been on holiday.

The trip, however, did not start well.

First stop, Blagnac, the airport of Toulouse, la ville rose, capital of Occitania. This ever-expanding gigantic aeronautical hub (9 million passengers in 2017) has changed since I first saw it, but I’m still pretty familiar with the place. Its control tower holds no secrets: have I not, over the years, taught generations of its controllers and technicians to say ‘Roger Over and Out’ in an impeccable Yorkshire accent? Have I not driven back and forth 923 times, ferrying aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbours, and other visiting dignitaries? Have I not flown in and out of it myself at least 482 of those 923 times, on one momentous occasion seated next to an ex-member of Wham? (Wake me up before you go-go. I have the T-shirt).

Blagnac airport. Photo copyright Michelle Feraud

In theory, I should be able to do the journey with eyes closed and, as they say locally, ze finger in ze nose. This is unnecessary, however, because the Maître de Maison has a top-notch hyper-smart GPS system in the car which, its finger in its nose, tells it exactly where to go. There’s just one problem: the seven dwarfs of Blagnac keep nipping out at night and moving parts of the infrastructure around without ringing the satellite and telling it. Old familiar bits get blocked off by giant pieces of LEGO; new, confusing bits get added on. And so it was that on a sunny April morning, the MDM and I, having waved goodbye to the farmhouse in the Tarn, swung on to yet another of the 372 roundabouts on the airport approach, preparatory to swinging off into one of the 101 car parks in plenty of time to park up, trudge 5 kilometres to the terminal, and catch our flight to the UK, destination Edinburgh.

The Reverend Robert Walker , minister of Canongate Kirk, having a skate.

Seconds later, guided by the trusty GPS, we found ourselves heading back to the Tarn, sucked into a mighty ocean of cars on the Toulouse Ring Road from Hell. Being one of the famous ‘Transport Strike’ days in my adoptive country, it all looked like the opening scene in ‘La La Land’. The only difference was nobody was dancing from bonnet to bonnet. As we were forced to crawl inch by inch back whence we had come, we contemplated with horror, across the solid concrete central reservation, the jam of hooting cars all trying to go the other way–that way being, of course, the one we had just left and needed to get back to in order to catch our plane. It was at this point that I started screaming hysterically that I would never get to Scotland to see the latest Great Nephew, born in January, never mind the Monet haystacks and the Reverend R. Walker in the Scottish National Gallery. (When we arrived, the Monets were on loan. Probably in France. )

The Gare Matabiau, railway station of la ville rose, was just hoving into sight when the MDM, who had been dreaming of haggis and single malts for weeks, wrenched the steering wheel violently to the left and in a daring Formula 1 manoeuvre (which I missed, having shut my eyes and stopped breathing) we veered across the Canal du Midi and several lanes of stalled lorries to find ourselves miraculously, if not moving, at least facing the right way.

Oh happy day. Two hours later we boarded our Flybe flight and let somebody else do the driving.

Looking down a graceful curve from the Royal Mile

Edinburgh. We had been there briefly, on flying visits. This time we had the leisure to get to know the place. First stop, Sainsbury’s, for a packet of chocolate digestives. We joined the checkout queue. No-one, alas, was wearing a kilt. But they were all wearing big smiles.

Checkout clerk: Good afternoon to you. Are you enjoying yourselves today?

Me: Good afternoon. Yes, thank you. We’ve just arrived.

Clerk: Where are you from?

Me: France.

Clerk: Really? I love France. Do you have any special plans for your visit?

Me: We’re going to visit Holyrood House.

The Abbey of Holyrood House

Clerk: That’s a grand place. You’ll enjoy it. Wish I was going with you.

Me: Ha ha. What time do you finish tonight?

By the time I’d paid for my packet of biscuits I’d learned the young man was a student at ‘Uni’, his exams were coming up, he was juggling bouts of revision with supermarket shifts, his girl-friend was called Mia, all his family had red hair, and life was grand and Edinburgh a fine place to live.

The queue of customers waiting behind wished us well as we departed.

View from the (very nice) café in John Lewis, Edinburgh

A similar scenario was repeated later at John Lewis where I was buying a pair of reading specs. This time it involved three assistants, one of whom gave the glasses a 15-minute polish while we exchanged life-histories and travel plans, then two others who scoured the place looking for different styles of glasses cases, whose relative merits were discussed for half an hour until we all reached a verdict on the red one and agreed how wonderful life was.

The next day the elderly gentleman queuing behind me for the toilets at The Royal Botanic Gardens informed me he was a regular visitor and wasn’t he lucky to live near such a marvel? Over the flushing of the loos we agreed the weather was perfect, not too cold, not too hot, just right, and the blossom trees were a wonder to behold, had I see the Japanese cherry by any chance?

Very small Great Nephew looking for squirrel in very tall tree. Royal Botanic Gardens

By now I had concluded that Edinburgh was the Mindfulness Capital of the world. Even the motorists just sigh and shake their heads gently when someone bumbles into their lane, doubtless distracted by the romantic skyline and the statue of Sir Walter Scott.

There was just one rub: we had been looking forward to making people mad with jealousy by posting on social media the 300 photos taken on the MDM’s brand-new, top-notch hyper-smart smart phone, bought specially to take superb photos liable to make people jealous. But the phone wouldn’t let us. Something about the ‘wrong codes’. The ‘right codes’, obviously, were back in the Tarn, on a post-it.

Still, at least the thing didn’t explode in mid-air on the flight back, so I can now share some of them on this blog.

Have a lovely day, wherever you may be, and don’t forget to take the time to look at the cherry trees.

PS The newest great nephew was adorable, just like his big three-year-old brother. Aw.

 

Bon appétit from the Tarn: The Perfect Easter Lunch

Navarin d’agneau, the perfect Easter lunch

A leg of lamb– gigot d’agneau–is a firmFrench favourite for Easter. Stick it full of garlic slivers and rosemary leaves, cover with butter (yes) and roast on high heat until pink in the middle. But this year I’ve gone for something more complicated, in honour of the tender new vegetables just coming on to the market– a navarin d’agneau,  lamb stew, but with class.

First, a trip to the market. Here are Claudie and Caroline at the wonderful market in Biarritz. They’re shopping for lamb to make a tagine, but the basic principle is the same. Forget your list and throw yourself on the mercy of He–or She–Who Knows Best…

Early morning at the marché de Biarritz

“In spite of the early hour there was a bustle. Caroline felt her spirits lift as they stepped indoors. The tiny bars with their zinc counters were doing a brisk trade in strong espressos. A din came from the produce stalls, where the market sellers, on raised platforms, vaunted the quality of their wares interspersed with rapid-fire banter with the customers in a mixture of languages, French, English and Spanish.

‘Deux kilos de saucisse pour la belle dame à la robe rouge!’

‘Et vous Monsieur, qu’est-ce qu’il vous faut? Un bon pied de porc pour ce midi?’

a selection of charcuterie Barritz market

A long queue had formed at one stall where three men in Basque berets were nimbly dodging and dancing past each other reaching for hams, duck legs and trays of charcuterie…

It took a good half hour for Claudie to drag Caroline to the stall which sold the lamb. Laid out behind the glass were different cuts of lamb chops, shoulders of lamb, gigots, racks of lamb, lamb sausages. Caroline tried to take it all in. Presiding over the proceedings was lady of a certain age with a regal bearing. Under her white apron she wore a fluffy angora top in Barbie pink. Rubies glittered in her ears, the same colour as her Chanel red lipstick. Her blonde hair was sprayed into an immaculate golden helmet.

Caroline nudged Claudie.

‘It’s Catherine Deneuve.’

Claudie giggled.

‘That is la patronne. The owner’s wife. She has to keep up appearances. Look at that diamond, you can see it through her plastic gloves. Le patron is doing well.’

Madame, on her raised platform, was playing the crowd. She spread her arms theatrically and apologised graciously to the steadily growing queue.

‘They are busy with the orders,’ she said, indicating her husband and a team of assistants who were cutting, sawing and packing meat into Styrofoam boxes.

The way she imparted this information indicated the customers should be honoured there was any meat left for them at all. They nodded respectfully, an eye on her flashing knives.

‘Oui Mesdames?’

Finally it was their turn.

Claudie began to order.

Madame paused.

‘What are you making?’

‘A tagine.’   (NB: Or, for today’s dish ‘un navarin’ -Ed)

Madame smiled.

‘I will choose the meat,’ she said, putting away the cuts that Claudie had asked for. Her manicured hands in their plastic gloves hovered over a tray of shoulders. She paused, dived on one piece of meat and held it up for Claudie’s inspection, turning it from side to side like a jeweller showing a rare gem.

‘Perfect,’ said Claudie.

They watched as Madame selected a long thin knife and deftly removed the bone, holding that up for inspection too.

‘This will be good. For the flavour.’

She made a neat wax paper package.

Her eyes travelled over the other trays. ‘The fat.’

She chose three pieces of neck and weighed them.

‘Perhaps one more?’ ventured Claudie.

Madame complied graciously.

Caroline looked behind her at the waiting customers. They all had solemn expressions on their faces. No one moved or complained.

Five minutes later they had a basket full of packages and Claudie had handed over a lot of money.

‘Bon appétit,’ said the patronne. ‘And give my regards to your mother.’

She tilted her head in a nod of acknowledgement.

‘She knows the family,’ said Claudie under her breath, adding ‘Merci Madame. Bonne journée.’

‘Merveilleux, truly merveilleux,’ said Caroline as they left.

(Biarritz Passion: French Summer Novel #1)

After the lamb, a visit to the veg stall to buy the tenderest baby carrots and turnips, tiny onions, dwarf green beans, spring potatoes (grenailles) and  peas. (OK, I cheated. The peas were frozen). All the vegetables must be lovingly prepared and added to the lamb for the last hour of cooking, then left overnight so that the flavours mingle.  NB don’t forget to treat yourself to bouquet of spring flowers along with the dwarf beans.

Add sugar to your lamb to get that perfect amber glaze

For the recipe*, I use a combination of Julia Child’s classic and the inspiration du jour , but an essential  thing to remember is that the lamb, as you are browning it, must be caramelised with sugar in order to acquire the beautiful amber colour typical of the dish.

 

Now, which olives for the aperitif…

For amateurs of the French Summer Novels, Caroline and Claudie will be at the market again, discussing life, love and the best olives in town in ‘Villa Julia’, the last book in the series, currently under, ahem, revision. Imagine a vast shapeless onesie with long arms and short legs being painstakingly unpicked, re-cut, tucked in here, let out there; add a few sequins, a flounce, a bow and with a bit of luck it might end up  as a haute couture ballgown on next season’s catwalk…But while ‘Villa Julia’ is being cut to ribbons in the atelier, you can always hop over to the beautiful Basque country for less than a fiver! Let yourself be carried away to the Atlantic rollers via Biarritz Passion and Hot Basque . Go on,  you’re worth it…   😉

Joyeuses Pâques!

*Julia Child’s recipe can be found here:

https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=112294915