IT'S SPRING IN FRANCE 2026: SOME NEW STUFF AND SOME RECYCLED

It's been a somewhat grayer than usual, very much wetter than usual winter. Yes, the winters here can be cloudy and damp, and maybe our advancing age makes us anticipate the blue skies and warmth of spring with greater urgency, but I do believe that this winter colored outside the lines.

Our dreary winter has led to an interesting run up to summer. The leaves of the vines present every shade of green imaginable to the eye. Some of us, with no particular experience in such things, gravely discuss what that might mean for the fall harvest. Every once in a while, we question local elders. Unfortunately, the answers are often contradictory. Particularly impressive, at least to me, were the Judas Trees this year. Red bud trees to Americans. And the roses have been popping early with abundant blooms.

Days dawn crisp and chill but warm up quickly, though a refreshing breeze may linger. The sky turns a color that the word blue doesn't do justice to. The still snow-capped Pyrenees, 100 kilometers or so away, line up along a good portion of the distant skyline. As those who know me well are sick of hearing me say,"The light seems to radiate up from the landscape rather than reflecting off of it. The Impressionists painted here for a reason." Well, they painted close to our little village of Quarante. And their painting reflects the light that we love to be able to witness.

But it's not all puppy dogs and ice cream cones.

Persistent wet weather means standing water means mosquitos - mozzies to our English friends. And the warmth brings out ants and flies and snails and all manner of buzzing, crawling, and/or biting things that go dormant in the winter. Also dormant in the winter are the swarms of bicyclists who appear on our narrow, two-lane blacktops in their full spandex regalia as soon as the weather warms. They are ubiquitous, sometimes alone, sometimes in impressive packs. They are entitled to a full lane, though most do move to the side. Still, finding a proper place to pass on our winding, hilly roads can be a challenge. Also challenging can be the sight of all of that spandex heading into the local watering hole for a quick break. And while we are on the subject of the local roads, spring also means that the tractors of the vignerons have fired up and that the camper vans of the French equivalent of snow birds have migrated to our corner of the south of France. 

I hesitate to mention the camper vans as a problem. I did so in a blog post some years ago and was angrily confronted by a van driver who took umbrage. But just the other day, on our way to a Sunday morning market, we found ourselves behind a new, particularly wide rig whose driver seemed to consider the white lines on the road as a suggestion rather than a demarcation. 

Parking! 

It's hard to believe that parking emerged as an upfront issue in the recent mayoral election of a village of 1,800 or so souls. But when everybody's home, and when the second homes fill up as the weather cooperates, your regular parking space may disappear. You may have to cruise Quarante a time or two to spot an empty space within a reasonable walking distance from home. So in the years that we've lived here, several underutilized spaces have become lots, some paved and lined, some a bit less manicured but OK spaces.

Anyone discussing life in the south of France is obliged to comment on the food, French cuisine, in our case Mediterranean French cuisine, a world classic. Cook what's in season and fresh, Respect the ingredients. 

 You know that summer is on the horizon when the Spanish tomatoes are being practically given away in the stores. They are a particular shade of red. The shade is called RED! In the veggie markets, the fragrance of the strawberries is an almost physical presence. The asparagus is about done, but not quite. And North Africa is just a ferry ride away. 

We particularly appreciate that the stores are obliged to post the origin of the produce that they sell. You can buy fruit shipped from South America or you can wait for the local crop. Either way, you know what you are getting.

And of course, no one appreciates springtime more than our cats, our indoor cats, who are finally comfortable on the terrace. Well, maybe the purveyors of bedding plants are equally appreciative. But container gardening in a relatively small space with limited direct sun forms the basis for another post at another time.

OUR FRENCH VILLAGE'S MUNICIPAL ELECTION

 

 

Shortly after we arrived in our little French village of Quarante in the spring of 2014, we attended a ceremony in the town hall square. Maybe it was 14 July, what we would call Bastille Day. A wreath was laid. The volunteer fire and ambulance corps stood at attention as the Marseillaise was played. There was speechifying. And when it was over, Mayor Gilbert Rivayrand invited those assembled to share a glass of wine in an old chapel across the street. 

 

Being new to the village, I decided to introduce myself to Gilbert. I stepped up, held out my hand, and said in practiced French,"Bonjour. Je m'appel Mr. Faro. J'habite à..." (I live at...) At which point, still holding my hand, Gilbert looked me in the eye and said,"Je sais ou vous habitez." (I know where you live.) Very matter of fact. A bit startling. But I guess that knowing stuff about everyone who lives in a small town is a mayor's job.

 

For all of the 12 years that we've lived in Quarante, Gilbert has been the mayor. We greet each other on the street. He asked us our opinion of the new caterer at a village affair. We've met once or twice to discuss village business. He's the only mayor of Quarante that we've ever known. But he's retiring and, just a couple of weeks ago, a new mayor was elected. I thought that y'all might be interested in the process.

 

In villages of our size and nature, you don't vote for a mayor and a town council as individuals. You vote for a list, a group of 15 or 20 citizens who, as a group, would be responsible for the administration of the village going forward. The top six on the list become the town council and choose the mayor from among themselves. The list is put together and is led by a person who wants to be mayor and, if the list wins the majority of votes, the members of the list chosen to form the town council are expected to appoint that person mayor. In our village, voters had two lists to choose from.

 

One list was formed by Loic Dété. A well-dressed, calm and confident retired administrator who was not considered a village native, having lived in the village for only a decade or so. Dété's campaign characterized Quarante as a village stuck in the past, a village that progress had passed by, a forgotten village. Finances had been poorly managed. Staff costs were excessive. His young, enthusiastic list would renew and re-energize Quarante.

 

Serge Ortiz was the principal of the second list. Everyone knew Serge. He had led the village maintenance team for years. His sons were local businessmen. As expats on the outside looking in without the ability to vote, it seemed to us that Serge was the logical next in line. And Serge had the advantage of Dété's early entry, complete with a serious social media campaign and a glossy campaign handout, so Serge could pick and choose what topics seemed to resonate and what topics to avoid.

 

Beside the fact that Dété only had a slim chance in the first place, his assembly sealed his fate. Each candidate held a meeting in the village public hall to introduce themselves and their list. Dété went first, a couple of weeks before the election. His assembly was well attended by quiet, curious villagers, most of whom needed to be convinced. After going around the room to give each member of his list a chance to say hello, Dété projected a PowerPoint presentation and, with his back to his audience, read from the screen with occasional commentary. It couldn't have been more boring and less welcoming. Forgotten village. Needing competent management. The question period was not very friendly. 

 

Serge's assembly took place just two days before the election, same room, twice as many people, completely different atmosphere. Handshakes and cheek kissing and a friendly buzz. During the question period, an attempt to bring up the negatives was met with boos from the crowd and a forceful response from Serge's second.  Clearly, the election was already over.

 

Elections are held on Sundays, France being a purposefully secular country, one that encourages voting. Serge won 80% to 20%.

 

One more French election oddity to learn. Depending on the percentage of votes that the losing list receives, the losers are entitled to a voice in the government. Dété will take the place of one person on Serge's list and have a voice, minimal as it may be. A French way of honoring the advice: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

BAR LE 40: RESTAURANT UPDATE

Quarante has a takeout pizza joint, an upscale-wannabe restaurant just outside of town, and the Bar Le 40.

Tito's Pizza is OK. It offers thin-crust French pizza, if you like that sort of thing - or can at least get used to it. Christophe, the owner, also runs the local wine co-op. (Why is Christophe's place called Tito's? I've never asked.) Because it's the grape harvest now, Christophe is busy day and night. Tito's is closed. Pizza will have to wait for a few weeks.

The Terminus, as you might surmise if you have a bit of French, is in the old train station just outside of town. The owners have spent the past few years 'upgrading' the menu to the point that they have priced themselves out of our rotation.

And then there's the Bar Le 40, which most of us just call Bar 40 because who needs the extra syllable?

The management of Bar 40 has changed hands several times since we moved here more than seven years ago. The latest owner, Alex, is the son of a previous owner who has opened a restaurant in a neighboring town. Alex is a young guy, a rugby player, hooked into the local scene and well-liked by all. More importantly, he has upgraded the menu while keeping the price low. Lunch is the only meal that he serves, although he does do bar-appropriate tapas in the evening and takeout burgers on weekends. (Really fine takeout burgers, by the way.) 

Given the uptick in quality, we have taken to checking out the week's menu that Alex posts on Facebook and on a slate in front of the door on Monday mornings. This week, we took special note of the slow-roasted leg of lamb for lunch on Thursday. If you have read my scribbles, you know that I am of the opinion that lamb in France tastes the way that lamb is supposed to taste. If you like lamb, and I like lamb, you will love the lamb in France. I love the lamb in France. We booked for lunch on Thursday.

We began with a choice of starters, fresh melon wrapped with serrano ham or a mixed salad topped with little balls of deep-fried bleu cheese. Both were full plates, well presented, with fresh ingredients and appropriate dressings. The lamb that followed was superb. The French use a word that was fully appropriate in this case - impeccable. The thick slice of meat was roasted to perfection, soft but still firm, smothered in its own reduced juices. Some of us chose the French beans for the side, some had frites - fries. For dessert, a little lemon tart, more like a cookie, with a bit of salty caramel sauce. (One of us chose two scoops of ice cream instead.) The five of us finished a liter of wine between us and three of us had coffee at the finish.

Here's the kicker. The tab came to just over 16€ apiece. About $19. How can you beat that?

CHRISTMAS WALK TO VIEW OF THE PYRENEES: 2018

Cathey said that it was OK for me to take my usual Tuesday morning walk on Christmas Day. I could help set the table and perform other minor tasks necessary for a satisfactory Christmas dinner with friends after I returned. So off I went. Temperature 40℉ at the start near sunup. 50℉ at the finish a couple of hours later. No wind. Blue skies. This was the winter that I came to France for.

The walk can't really be called scenic. Just through the vines until you get to the headland opposite the village. But the closer that you get to the top, you begin to see the Pyrenees peeking through. And at the top, it's a 360° panorama.

As always, start at the church. There's just something about the color of the sky...

For some reason, French Santa seems to prefer climbing in through the windows than down the chimneys.

Like I said, through the vines. Headed for the little hilltop.

Lousy camera in my cheap tablet. Thems ain't clouds. Thems the Pyrenees.

And looking back the way that I came from Quarante.

Woods at the top, the only shade if you're walking here in summer.

CHÉ OLIVE / LE ZINC, CREISSAN: RESTAURANT REVIEW

No, it's not Chez Olive. It is indeed Ché complete with red star and black beret. I have no idea why and I wasn't about to ask. The French are the French and not to be analyzed too closely when it comes to politics, especially these days.

Creissan is the next town over from our village of Quarante. We pass through it often and Ché Olive is right there on the main road at the entrance to town. (One of the signs still says Le Zinc. Olive says he prefers Ché Olive though.) Olive opened it a couple of years ago after leaving the Bar 40, Quarante's basic local watering hole that's undergone a bit of a renaissance lately. We hadn't heard much about Ché Olive from our usual sources for dining recommendations. So we just kept passing by. For reasons not central to this review, we decided to stop in for lunch on a mid-week in late December.

The bar is cozy, the restaurant open and bright and modern. Newly renovated and perhaps a bit sterile. We were the first in and we weren't offered a menu, though I suppose that we could have asked for one. We tend to start at a new place with the plat du jour. If a kitchen can't properly prepare the featured dish of the day, what hope is there for the rest of the menu?

So, a choice of a charcuterie plate or a salad with chick peas for a start, slow-cooked beef for the main, and a mousse for dessert. All was quite satisfactory. The charcuterie was not the typical plate of smoked ham, paté, and saucisson. Frankly, I don't know the proper names of most of what we ate. I think that there was a bit of tongue, but I could be wrong. With a very nice, crusty roll and a bit of butter, an interesting and enjoyable mix. (We didn't try the salad but it looked ample and fresh.) The beef was falling-apart tender, swimming in a light gravy enhanced by red wine, with potatoes done just firm enough. Fresh parsley for color. A substantial portion for a chilly December day. Our server refreshed our basket of rolls, necessary to sop up the gravy. The smooth, creamy mousse for dessert came with crunchies on top and a bit of red fruit stirred in.

My café créme was positively tepid, almost cool. Too bad, but there's always something...

With a demi of wine, the tab came to 33€. Good food at a good price. And when we asked to see the dinner menu, the slate that was brought over looks the same.

Ché Olive doesn't have a website or a Facebook page. No one can accuse the French of intrusive marketing. No one can accuse the French of marketing at all. Open most weekdays for lunch and starting Thursday night for dinner...I think. You'll just have to call. 06.69.95.48.03

SOLO WALK TO LES FARGOUSSIERES: RESISTANCE!

I enjoy walking in groups but I also enjoy walking by myself. Setting my own pace. Trying new paths. Getting lost. The sorts of things that you can't do in a group, especially when you are in the lead. So when no one took up my offer to lead a walk the other day, I wasn't disappointed. All spring long, I'd been wanting to see what a walk to Le Fargoussieres would be like. I particularly wanted to check out a memorial to the French resistance that I'd visited a year or so ago on a walk sponsored by the local historical society.

I began on the path to the Croix de Juillet, a walk that our group has taken a time or two in the past. Then I broke off, took the paved road to the hamlet of Les Fargoussieres, visited the memorial, then found me way back to the return path of the Croix de Juillet walk. It all worked well. With the help of my GPS mapper, I didn't get lost. But the route was a few of kilometers longer that I thought that it would be. Shade was scarce as the day warmed up. My water ran out. I was on the cusp of sending up a flare. Add to that my disappointment that the memorial has not been well maintained - the weeds were waist high and the printed information sheets were not properly protected and were water stained - and I did not finish the day a happy hiker.

But here are the pics. I'll talk to the local historical society about fixing things up, maybe laminating some of the documents. You can find more of our walks and my takes on French life in general HERE and HERE.

Started in the church square as we so often do.

I could have taken the D184 all of the way to Les Fargoussieres, but that would have been too easy.

I have to remember to carry an apple or a pear or something.

It's been a good year for poppies. I'm headed up and over the hill in the upper left.

Three paths cross: the road, the greenway for walkers and bikes, and the path into the vines. Yes, I choose the path least traveled.

The path least traveled had a car at the top. Hunter? Working the vines? Walking the dog? Never saw whoever it was.

The storage tanks at the co-op make a good visual reference.

The yellow bastards have a picture of my nose imprinted on their DNA. As soon as they flower, they attack!

But they can't hide the lovely views...

And I walked to school and back every day, and it was uphill both ways.

It's been a good year for more than the poppies.

I don't remember seeing these before.

You can barely see the blue arrow on that rock but in life it's very prominent. Turn left at the T!

The blue X on the tree means that I'm going off the path to the Croix de Juillet.

The featureless D184. I never saw a car.

A small hamlet but an ancient one...

With well kept flower beds.

A roadside display for no apparent reason except to be pretty.

It's early spring but I would have thought that the weeds would have been mowed.

Water stained document telling the important story of young people risking their lives for their freedom.

This 'garden' is what's left of the hard work of the former Resistance fighter detailed above.

Leaving Les Fargoussieres and heading back into the vines.

Give me the words to describe views like this.

Not the Croix de Juillet. This is the Arab Cross.

Yes, the co-op can be seen in the distance. I can get home from here blindfolded.

LE DOLMEN, CEBAZAN: 9.6 KM WALK IN THE WOODS AND THE VINES

Our grey and chilly spring means that it's difficult to decide how to dress for one of our group jaunts. And so it was this past Monday, the last day of April, 2018. Grey and chilly as we headed out on a walk that most of us have taken before, starting in a little parking lot on the north side of Cebazan. Seven of us wore tees or polos, down or fleece, Pants or shorts. Layers of one type or another, certainly. Eventually, the day heated up and so did we.

But it's not about fashion. It's about the exercise and the views. And so, here are the pics. More walks and other observations on French life HERE.

Seven walkers. Two cars.

The 'official' walks generally have these signs at the start. And they are very well marked with color-coded dabs of paint along the trail for walkers, mountain bikers, and horses, fresh this year.

Through the alley is not a very promising start.

But things open up fairly quickly. On this walk, the Sleeping Lady was often in view. This is not her best profile.

Climb. Take a picture.

Climb. Take a picture. (Better profile.)

Climb...

Stop and talk...

...and point stuff out.

It seems that no matter where you go, you aren't far from the vines.

No, not a car in the ditch. Just a bumper complete with tag.

More climbing and more vines.

And more vines.

Entering the woods, now. Shedding layers. In the distance, the last of the climbs...of the first half of the walk.

After crossing the road that could have taken us back to Cebazan, we continue. Continuing means another climb, this time single file.

You see these ruined stone walls and building shells everywhere. I keep threatening to bring a shovel, find an old trash pile, and see what I can dig up. I'm not certain that it would be legal, though.

A long stretch of scree not good for weak ankles or poorly shod feet.

There's bound to be a trash pile somewhere near a ruin like this. At least, that's what I tell myself.

You don't usually see these sorts of signs but several trails intersect this one.

One day I WILL bring a shovel.

Ooops. More inadvertent art photography...

At the top of the second half of the walk. We are assured that it's all downhill from here...and it mostly is.

For all of my friends in eastern Pennsylvania, check out the old lime kiln...

...complete with picnic area...

...because there's another intersection right there.