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.

SPRING IN FRANCE, STEVE MARTIN, DICKEY BETTS AND MORE - #20

SPRING

It's spring in France and the sky is that special shade of blue. Close your eyes. Say that quietly to yourself. It's spring in France...in the southwest of France...not far from the Mediterranean and the Pyrenees and Spain. The color of the sky? Special. Indescribable. Cobalt doesn’t quite catch it. And with the way that sunlight pops off the landscape directly to your soul, it's no wonder that the Impressionists painted here.

Where else would I rather be? To use a phrase that makes my brain itch every time I hear people use it, I'm in my happy place. And because folks are traveling again now, I get to share that place. We've got a house with three spare bedrooms and it won't be enough. Three generations of family are preparing to bounce in and out. A dear old friend in the mix as well.

Have I told you the story of our first visit to the neighborhood? Recon expedition. Stayed in a traveler's hotel in a small town close by our eventual landing pad, the village of Quarante. We sat next to a pair of European couples in the breakfast room and talked about our decision to look for a little two-bedroom place somewhere in the region. We'd use the second bedroom as my office most of the time. No, they insisted, wagging their fingers. No. That won't do. Once your friends and family know that you are set and settled in the south of France, They will visit. They will all visit. Two spare bedrooms is the very minimum. You'll see.

It was good advice.

COST OF LIVING - PART 2 coming next week.

ANOTHER CONCERT STORY

Imagine that it's the early 1970s. You are attending a concert in the Great Southeast Music Emporium. (See #19) Given that the headliner is The Incredible String Band, your attitude has been thoroughly and completely chemically altered. But before that quirky, spacey folk band takes that stage, out trots the guy pictured above and yes, complete with arrow through his head. What do you think happened?

It wasn't Steve's fault that he got booed off the stage. He was just starting out. His shtick was not widely known - not really known at all. Years later, after the Smothers Brothers and SNL and the rest, he might have been welcomed with open arms. But not in Atlanta that night as an unknown. Way too unexpected for a crowd waiting to hear The Incredible String Band's The First Girl I Loved. (I just streamed the remastered version. The very essence of psychedelic folk. Take a listen.) Martin's humor was just jarring in that setting.

Oddly, I don’t remember The Incredible String Band's performance at all, but I certainly do remember Steve Martin’s disastrous few minutes. Funny that.

 

ASPARAGUS

 

It's asparagus season in the south of France. Since we enjoy eating seasonally, only those veggies and fruits that are in season in our corner of the Mediterranean make it to our table most nights. So we've been eating a lot of those tasty green spears lately. There's a farm just down the road that we visit. You can buy them by the kilo as they sort the fresh-picked ones by size. If you can't make it to the farm, the local super handles it after they've been sorted. 3 or 4USD a pound at the farm, a bit more in the stores.

 

After a year off the menu, the smell is always a surprise the first time that I pee after eating asparagus. It's the sort of thing that I notice with delight, much to Cathey's chagrin. Well, as they say, women marry men thinking that they can change them. They can't. Of course, the inverse is true as well. Men marry women thinking that they will stay the same. They don't.

 

 BIEWER TERRIER

 

Cute little thing, isn't it? New breed. Stands a few inches tall and weighs only a kilo or two. Affectionate. Loyal. And very importantly, not a yappie little thing. Lots of energy, but not a lot of yapping. New pet brought over from the Colonies by our good friends down the way. They named her Valentina. (I don't know the name of the dog in the picture, but could be Valentina's brother.) I'm a cat person, but these are dogs that I can like.

DICKEY BETTS

After meeting Cathey and spending time in the South, I learned to get into what some call Southern Rhythm and Rock. Blues-based, jazz-infused, and nothing like the Philly street-corner doo wop that I grew up with, I dove into the genre head first. One of the great regrets of my life is that, when I had the opportunity, I failed to see either Little Feat or the Allman Brothers Band live. I feel particularly stupid when, after leaving an all-night Grateful Dead concert at the Fillmore East in 1970, I looked up at the marquee, saw that the Allman Brothers were due in town and, not knowing any better, decided that I didn't need to see that Southern ricky-ticky band. I was that stupid. If it had been the booking in which they had recorded At the Fillmore, I just might have shot myself. But that night came a year later. Probably the best live recording ever produced. Even though Tom Dowd monkeyed with the solos on In Memory of Elizabeth Reed, taking Duane's from one night and Dickey's from another, it's 13 minutes of music that I listen to again and again and played more often than I should have in my radio days. 

Legend has it that, in setting the lineup for the Fillmore's final, invitation-only concert, Brian Wilson told Bill Graham that the Beach Boys wouldn't play if they didn't close the show. Graham had scheduled the Allman Brothers to close. "It's too bad that you won't be playing," Graham is purported to have said. The Beach Boys did play, but the Allmans closed.

R.I.P. Dickey.

SPRING BLOOMS ON THE TERRACE: MAY, 2019

While hunting for our retirement home in France, we knew that we wanted to be in a village, a village with a bakery, with a place to buy milk and eggs. Maybe a butcher. Bread trucks are fine for some. Not for us. And we didn't want to have to climb into a car just because we ran out of butter. Restaurant? Nice but not necessary. Cash point?  Petrol station? Nice but...

The house itself needed to have a place for me to hide...I mean, to work. And separate living and dining spaces so that Cathey could cook without having to entertain at the same time. In other words, no 'open plan' combination living/dining room with a kitchen corner.

Finally, there needed to be outside space. Not a communal courtyard or a piece of sidewalk commandeered for personal use. A private garden or a terrace, thank you. Attached. The idea of a plot on the edge of town on which to grow veggies is an interesting European concept but not sufficient to our needs.

In the end, we found exactly what we wanted. A house on a pedestrian walkway with no through auto traffic. A baker and two butchers and shops and a bar/restaurant all just a few meters away. Cathey has a nice salon on a different floor than the kitchen. I have an 'office' on the top floor and out of the way. No cash point and no petrol station, but so what?

And a terrace. Cathey says that she's only just begun to configure it to her liking. I like it just fine but then, I'm a guy.

Spring cleaning in progress. Not our house but caught my eye on one of my walks around town as did the following.

#CATS #SPRING

Because cats...

Because Spring...

 

And here are some older ones just to fill in...

TERRACE BLOOMS TWO WEEKS LATER

We had an African Grey Parrot who was quite the talker. Named Pushkin. He could recite Blake:  

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies, Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, Dare seize the fire?

No foolin'. Perfectly understandable. And on bright, sunny days such as we've had recently in the south of France, he was known to say:

The sun is shining. The birds are singing. And Pushkin-bird is happy as a clam.

No foolin'.

We gifted Pushkin to a friend when we moved across the Pond but we get regular updates. Meanwhile, the sun is indeed shining. The birds are indeed singing. And the plants on the terrace are happy as clams.

The late freeze really energized the succulents.

I mean, really energized the succulents.

I mean...

...scared the living daylights out of the succulents.

All of our mandevilla froze out,, so we're starting anew.

Our little olive trying desperately to fruit but we figure it's just too young.

When Cathey told me that she wanted a plumbago, I wondered what we would do with a colorful camper van.

The orange threw hundreds of blooms. We'll be satisfied with a handful of fruit.

And yes, orange blossoms do smell wonderful...

I had to lop a good bit off of the lemon. Can you see all of the new sprouts?

The roses are getting ready to explode.

Buds throughout the foliage.

The freeze took our bouganvila so we're starting fresh. Check out Sylvie hiding in the background.

Lavendar...

 

And a carefully posed Siamese in the sun...