Dany and I do the (very complicated) Almond Tree Dance.

No certainly not. A cruise ship leaves Cork for the high seas passing Bunnyconnellan.

This is the last few days for these grapes, white and red, as the vendange is now under way.
They were growing together in a field just north of the village.
I tasted some and they were intensely sweet and hot from the sun.
Might be a good year.

Canigou, the mountain sacred to the Catalans, photographed from our terrace at dusk last night.

Yesterday we had a clear day with no bookings so we decided to head for Ikea in Montpellier to buy some long awaited bookcases so that we could at last take some of our books out of the piles they rested on the attic floor.

We got back to Le Presbytere at about 6 only to see two puzzled people, a couple about our age, standing outside our door.

They produced a print out from our web site which gave my directions to our chambre d’hote and a letter accepting their reservation.

I had a moment of terror when it struck me that I might have taken the booking at a weak moment and then forgotten but was very relieved to see that the acceptance was signed “Marie.”

I explained to them that they had come to the wrong Presbytere.
This actually threw them into distress and they asked could we not put them up anyway.
Their presbytere, an internet search revealed, was in Provence near Les Baux and about 200 klms away.
Having booked it they then googled in directions to, and that was when ours came up.

We decided to take them out of their misery and Sile agreed to get a room ready while I gave the couple wine on the terrace- certainly a case of pulling the long straw and we sent an email to the other presbytere, explaining what had happened.
They were from Los Angeles and a lovely couple, him American and she from Lithuania originally.
We sent them forth for a meal, no-way that could be pulled together at the last moment,and plied them with more drink when they returned well satisfied.

They left after their breakfast, delighted with their mistake and full of invitations for us to stay with them when next in America.

The ubiquitous dessert in every chic French restaurant at the moment is Le Crumble.

For once the English Cuisine reigns supreme, who would have thought that the simple expedient of leaving the water out of the pastry in Apple Pie (or Tarte aux Pommes) would have created the must-have desert for the twenty first century.

The other borrowing from English Cooking which is begining to creep onto French menus is Le Chutney.

Unfortunately it hasn’t yet managed to make its way onto the shop floor (Hey the lads in Ballymaloe Relish. There’s an opportunity for you here !) and the only relish available in the “English Products” section of our Hyper U is Branston Pickle, which is so full of vinegar it dissolves teeth.

This isn’t really a problem with me as I have always made my own chutney anyhow but, as I now live in France I feel obliged to make it (as I always have) from the natural surpluses available in this neck of the vines.

I don’t know a tomato grower well enough to beg green tomatoes from him and to put in expensive apples imported from god knows where seems totally against the spirit of chutney.

Le Chutney.

1 1/2 Kg Tomatoes (whichever is cheapest)
1 Kg Courgettes
250g Red Peppers
1 Kg Onions

200g Root Ginger
Two tablespoons Black Peppercorns
Two Tablespoons Coriander Seeds

1 Ltr Red Wine Vinegar
1 Kg Granulated Sugar

There isn’t much cooking involved in making this but the one thing I enjoy in a chutney is a bit of texture and so I am a little fussy about how I chop them up.

Cut the courgettes and the peppers into little half inch dice.
Peel and then halve the onions and then slice them thinly.

Put the tomatoes into the food processor and reduce to mush.

Grate the ginger, skin and all, on the coarsest blade of the grater.

Now throw the whole lot with the peppercorns and the coriander ( I leave these whole for the crunch of flavour but you could crush them) and the vinegar and the sugar into a large pot and bring to a gentle boil.

After a couple of hours they will all have started to amalgamate nicely.
Keep boioling now, but also watch and stir.
The mixture should be thick enough that a spoon drawn through it will leave a trail- but at this moment it is also likely to stick to the bottom of the pot.

Then Bottle as you would jam

Voila, Le Chutney.

I paid a flying visit to Ireland last week and while passing through Cork my sister D (who has inherited my Mother’s sense of the importance of Family Solidarity) had managed to gather together all seven of us siblings and their respective spouses for dinner in Bunnyconnellan in Myrtleville.

La Voila !

From left clockwise:

Sister D, Sister-in-Law Mary, Brothers David and George, Sister-in Law Esmé, Brother Ted, Sister-in-Law Mary, Martin and Síle, Sister Fifi, Virtual Brother-in-Law Jim, Sister Val and Brothers-in-Law Demmy and Milo.

Just back from a very quick trip back to Ireland to see (among others) the Grandson Fionn now approaching 20 months old.

Today in The Irish Times Fergus Finlay says of his grandson Ross ;

“Ross is now two-and-a-half and uniquely talented.
He’s probably the most talented, handsome two-and-a-half-year-old in Ireland.
He’s full of personality and full of fun.”

It is obvious that Fergus hasn’t met Fionn.

Deirdre and Fionn playing with balls in his Grannie’s garden in Blackrock.

We had been told that water rates in the south of France were high but had thought that was just the usual pessimism of the ex-pat.
We seemed to be paying just a nominal amount until, in Spring, we had a visit from the water meter reader.
He read our meter for, it turned, out the first time since we had bought the house.
The nominal rate we were paying had been worked out, over many years of use by small group of frugal nuns living here.
When the meter man read the dial he gave us the classic French exclamation of shock/ horror by saying; O la la la la la la !
We kinda knew we were in for trouble but the bill, when it arrived for €900 odd took some of the wind out of our sails.
It has been a dry summer and there is a directive in Herault to be careful with water and a suggestion that a hosepipe ban may be brought in.

That would be the kiss of death for the few plants which we have managed to nurse through the summer.

It was time certainly for plan B.

In our cellar, we discovered after we had bought the house, there is a well.
A board covers a hole in the ground and over it is a chain from which it is obvious a bucket was lowered.
It seemed to have water in it but our expertise was a little limited and (having had previous experience of living with a well which dried out at inconvenient moments) so we put the well, and the pumping out of water from same on the long finger. It became plan B.

For the last week we have had the good fortune of having Eileen and her copain staying with us.
Phil is half human, half plumber.
Very much an occasion of being the right person at the right place at the right time.

Himself and meself visited Castorama yesterday and for the princely sum of €24.95 we bought a garden pump.

Phil installed the machine down the well yesterday and so far I have managed to give the garden two severe soakings – without any noticable drop in levels in the well- and this at the end of a long hot summer.

Thank you Phil ,we just may have cracked it.