The first time we came to France in the summer we were enchanted by the banks of Oleander everywhere.
That which we regarded as a rare and exotic plant seems to grow like a weed here.
All attempts to nurture one to life in Ireland failed, the bud would form but fall off just before it flowered.

Here in Le Presbytere we are surrounded by Oleanders in flower at this time of the year.

These three are all grown by the town council in a bed which curls around the churchyard directly to the front of our house and they completely dominate the view out our front window.

This one is a relic from the nuns who lived here and is in our back garden.
This year it is struggling back to life after a bad attack of Black Scab.

This is my White Oleander which was part of my birthday present in March, it is struggling too but I think it will make it.

Strange how things come back to haunt me.

Clives Nunn’s recent blogs have been about a group of artists who arrived out of the blue last week, to paint their beautiful cottage home in Ballyduff.

One of these, Jack O Hare, was our next door neighbour in Kilmacleague.

We lived for ten years or so in a bungalow in Kilmacleague, by the estuary of the back strand between Tramore and Dunmore East.

Our next door neighbour was Jack O Hare, one time disciple of Frank Lloyd Wright and then head of the department of Building Studies in WIT.
His house, self designed, was a most unusual shape and, to our shame it was always called the train crash by the Dwyers.

Now I am not so sure.
I went rooting in the internet for a picture and found this in the archives of the Dyehouse Lane Gallery where he had had an exhibition.

He is a particularly fine watercolour artist, as the above picture of the house shows.
I have to agree with Clive and recognise that maybe the house should also be looked at again.

The wall at the bottom of our garden was, we have been told, one time part of the wall of the town of Thezan, the second one, which would date it roughly to the sixteenth century.

This year when we were here for the first time when the Lilac blossomed, and the flowers pulled the branches down, we noticed a little shard of pottery in the wall.

Now within the walls of our little garden there are many oddities, broken tiles and other pieces of pottery.
I have no idea why they are there but suspect it was just a handy way of disposing of brocken crocks.

This one was distinctive though in that you could still make out a decoration, a yellow stripe on the brown earthenware glaze.

Last Wednesday we did a tour of the Castle in Fayet, (which I will get back to) and there in the kitchen I saw a ewer or oil, wine or water jug with just the same decoration and colours.

In 2003 Biddy White Lennon (Maggie in “The Riordans” for all you over fifties) asked me could I get my hands on a recipe for the Waterford Blaa for a book she was doing for O Brien Press on Irish Home Baking.

With some difficulty and subterfuge I managed to get a recipe from one of the bakeries in Waterford who still made Blaas.
This Biddy and I reduced from wholesale quantities to managable household measurements, and she tried it out in her kitchen and then this was how it appeared in this book in 2003 :

I really had forgotten all about this when an ex- Waterfordman living in the USA asked me for the recipe in the spring of this year.
Even though I know I have the book somewhere (In France or Ireland) I couldn’t lay my hands on it and so had to appeal to Biddy who kindly sent me the above facsimile.

Then Oscar, another ex-Waterfordman, this time from Canada, asked me for the same recipe last week.

Oscar had the kindness to send me the results of his efforts from his Canadian Blog here

He also sent me a picture of his Blaas which look I think, remarkably authentic.

He claims that they were a little doughy in the centre, a fault easily remedied with a little longer in the oven, I am very impressed.
Despite having acted as a (secret) agent to secure the recipe I have yet to make them myself.
Given Biddy’s interpretation of the origin of the word Blaa (which she got from me) as originally coming from the French Blé, perhaps I should be offering them for Petit Déjuner as an alternative to the Croissant ?

Yesterday Síle and I went up the Orb on a day out.

This stream feeds into the Orb near the village of Dio et Valquieres (whose intriguing name is the largest thing about it)

We stopped in Lunas for lunch, one of the prettiest villages on the river where we ate in the Restaurant Gourmand (for about half the price of the restaurant in the Chateau across the river.-we are getting as careful as the French)

Here for the princely sum of €12 per head we had a fine if uninspiring lunch (Hors d’Oeuvres, Steak and Cheese) while being entertained by the river.

By the Artist painting across the river. (We thought he had too much pink in his trees)

And the Dragonfly who joined us for dessert.

Then a post prandial stroll in the town, being impressed by this wonderful display of Geraniums.

And Madame, sitting on a bridge.

Hazelnuts.

The French, strangely, have no generic name for Nuts.
I know we all were told that Noix was the French for nuts but I am afraid I must tell you it is not.
Despite all those affirmations given us in school there is no French word for a nut.

They have Noix for Walnuts, Noisettes for Hazelnuts, Amandes for Almonds, Cacahuette for Peanuts (or Arachides –confusingly- when made into oil)- none of which would they understand as being nuts.

But it is the versatility of the word Noisette which I want to talk about.

Today in a restaurant in Lunas, Sile asked for a Café with “just a tiny dash of milk”.
“Ah!” Said our waiter- “Une Noisette”
This arrived in perfect order (One should have known that the French would have a word for it)
But this in turn reminded me of the other uses of the word Noisette in cookery.

A dish in which the butter is gently browned is cooked with “Beurre Noisette.”

A dish of Lamb in which the cutlet is boned and bound around itself like a nut is calles a “Noisette d’Agneau”
That makes three terms named after it, not bad for a word which is only granted the distinction in French of being called a “ Little Walnut.”

Just over 20 years ago I did my first “Food Matters” piece with Billy Mc Carthy on WLRFM.

Here is a piece I wrote about the first eighteen years of doing the piece which I wrote two years ago.

It was in June, the Tuesday after the bank holiday, in 1990 that I did my first bit of broadcasting for Waterford Local Radio.
The studio was at that stage on Georges Street, a handy stroll from the restaurant on Mary Street, and I have a happy memory of going down the first day and being amazed at how easy it all was.
There is no doubt that most of that was the great luck in finding a pleasant host in Billy Mc.Carthy who was and is the morning anchorman on WLR.
Right from the beginning I directed all my talk to Billy, who is as interested in food as I am, and depended on the easy conversational nature of our rapport to deliver my recipes and general chat about food. WlR soon realised that radio held few fears for me so I would often be called to give opinions about other subjects.
Live radio does have its drawbacks, there was a time in the old studio when I decided to tidy up some CDs balancing on a console, knocked them instead down on a control slide and knocked the station off the air for a long sixty seconds.

On an even worse occasion I gave out a recipe for a tomato and yoghurt salad which I had been serving for years. This time my tongue let me down and I announced to the startled people of Waterford that this salad from the Lebanon was called Lesbian Salad (instead-of course- of Lebanese Salad)
Billy laughed so much on that occasion (because, he said, of my immediate schoolgirl blush when I heard what I had said) that I had to extemporise for several minutes until he was able to talk again.

The original impetus to appear on the radio came from fear of poverty.
We had started the restaurant in October of 1989 and, after a lively start, we were by the spring of 1990 frighteningly quiet.
We were buried in a back street of Waterford (it was all we could afford) and not enough people knew of our existence to fill the premises.
We badly needed to advertise and the new radio station was an obvious outlet for us.
Advertising would have been very expensive of course, it was then that I got the notion of offering my services as a radio chef free gratis and, had no sooner contacted them, than I was down for a go.
Eighteen years later I am still having a go.

The effect on the restaurant was quite immediate.
The people started to trickle steadily in.

Waterford was a town without a tradition of eating out and my restaurant was one of the first non-ethnic in the town. People were not really sure what it would be like.
My entrance on to the local media and via radio into their kitchens made the whole prospect much less intimidating and when I went to see each table at the end of the night tended to be greeted like an old friend.

A little exposure in a small city has fascinating consequences.
The minute I open my mouth in Waterford I was-and still am- greeted with a recognising grin and the sentence; “I know that voice”!
This even happened when I rang Irish Rail enquiries and got a Waterford man on the line. I was once recognised by my voice in an airport in Brussels, to the astonishment of the Irish chefs who were travelling with me.
The initial radio exposure led to some television appearances, one of my great memories was during a series I did for RTE called Pot Luck, a short lived copy of Ready Steady Cook.
My luck was obviously not in for this series as I had an embarrassing run of losses on air.
After one of these I was walking down town from the restaurant when a lorry with a Dublin registration stopped in the middle of a flow of traffic.
The driver pulled up his handbrake and brought Waterford to a standstill as he put down his window and shouted at me; “You should have won that thing last night, you were much better than that other shagging eejit”!
(the other “shagging eejit” was Derry Clarke of l’Ecrivan, now holder of a Michelin Star)

But really it has been radio which has been my lifeline and it certainly played a great part in the success of the restaurant.

Just before I sold “Dwyers” the Ardkeen Stores (for whom I am a consultant) decided to start sponsoring the food piece (which we call “Food Matters”) and so I was granted continuity even after my raison d’etre was gone.

And my great hope is that as I now swing back and forth between Waterford and France the piece will continue.
We did several pieces from my sunny Languedoc terrace last summer and on the whole the good people of Waterford were pleased with a little vicarious sunshine in one of Irelands worst summers.

Long may they continue to be.

Nearly five years ago, just a year after Síle and I had sold the restaurant and when I had been blogging for about six months I wrote a piece about the ten reasons why I wanted to retire to France.

Under each reason I will give in italics my modern judgement on the dream of five years ago.

1. The Weather

We have spent time in France now during nearly every month of the calendar and often in very different parts.
This includes November in the Cote d’Azure and in the Loire.
Time spent by the Loire during January.
Countless Julys spent everywhere from Brittany, down through Poiteau, Charante, the Lot, The Gard, Languedoc, the Auvergne, Provence etc etc.
August in the Tarn and Roussillon, Burgundy and again the Loire.
An excellent Easter in Alsace, and on every occasion –bar one fairly miserable Easter in Normandy- we have always had better weather than we would have had in Ireland.

The evidence is clear:
The Weather is Better in France.

Mainly yes, but with reservations. The post Christmas winter had some bitter weather, so cold that we are seriously thinking of getting in some form of central heating for next year. Also the spring was wet, wetter that recent years according to records.
All this I can forgive however because of the beautiful warm and sunny Autumn and the glorious (and not too hot) summer of last year.

2. The Food

Yes I know we are getting better here and our markets are becoming much more impressive but we still have a long way to go before we reach the heady standards of the French village market.
The fact that more sun gets their fruits to optimum ripeness there is one factor, but, probably even more important, is the highly discriminatory, not to mention thrifty, French housewife who wouldn’t dream of buying any product if even the slightest bit sub standard, or overpriced.
Observe the queues outside those stalls selling the choicest fruit in the markets, then join them.
This ultimately insures the high quality and cheapness of food there.

Again some reservations on this earlier judgement.
Early spring can be as barren of vegetables in the south of France and only the proximity of Spain saves us from the possibility of living solely on root vegetables. Also , with some exceptions, the Med does seem to have been very overfished so often we are getting Atlantic fish brought over from the fish auctions in the South West of France, at, inevitably, higher cost than the same fish in Ireland.
Our local village butcher kills and hangs his meat to perfection. A lucky plus.

3. The Wine

This is one of price pure and simple.
We can buy wine in France for at least half the cost of wine here, and with a little travelling and ferreting out we can spend about a quarter.
( we were buying excellent red from a local cave last summer for €1 a litre)
Add (subtract!) the consequences of that from your weekly shopping bill!

Add to this the delights of shopping around the caves for the best bargains of the moment and it is all pure enjoyment. (A possible downsider might be the condition of my liver)

4. The People

This is not I know a popular notion in Ireland of the Welcomes but we have come across more genuine kindness and hospitality in France than we ever have else where.
I promise you that the lunettes rose are doffed, I too have come across the proverbial arrogance of Frenchmen and women but find that far outweighed by French kindness.

Hear Hear

5. Politeness

A bit akin to the previous I know but subtly different.
The French are still trained in politeness.
In Campsites this year we noticed that children don’t pass one without a simple “Bon Jour” or “Bon Soir”or a “Bon Appetite” if one is eating.
As one enters every small shop one is greeted by choruses of “Bon Jour Monsieur/Madame”s
A small thing, but one my sister noticed in supermarkets.
The check out girls always greet you as they put your purchases through, never talk to other people in the queue when you are with them and always say “Au Revoir” as you go. Such old style manners seem to be long forgotten here.

Again Hear Hear

6. The Buildings

This one is a lot to do with France’s comparative affluence during the last few centuries and also the French great respect and conservation of their history. So often we have, when ambling through side roads on moments of off motorway leisure, come across wonderful villages, unheralded by the guides, which have houses and churches untouched it seems since the 17th century.
Mind blowing stuff.

This has proved to be even more of a mind blower than expected, I think what I hadn’t noticed before we moved here was the details of street architecture.

7. The Language

I just love it, from the poems I learned in my Inter cert to the songs of Françoise Hardy, the rippling “Rs” of Piaf to my current obsession Jacques Brel.
I could listen to French all day (and hope to.)

Of course not quite a complete joy as expected and my lack of skill can often be extremely frustrating.
I do improve and thank the heavens for my brass neck.

8. The Chic” ness

Men and women alike just tend to dress, and look better.
Yes I know there are exceptions to this, the women’s peculiar attachment to gold shoes and orange hair, and the mens’ even more peculiar idea that a waxed moustache is flattering not to mention their uniform when cycling, but, on the whole both sexes are a pleasure to look at.

This one I think I got wrong, having studied the dress sense of the village for the last year I think we do as well in Ireland.
Now Spain…., they do dress well there.

9. The Brocantes
(for their second hand glasses)

I know my family will be amazed to see this, my well known penchant, coming in at a mere ninth but, since I no longer have a restaurant to decorate with glasses and now have about 20 boxes of glasses in storage I fell I can no longer buy with the enthusiasm I used.
I haven’t completely given up though!

I have I confess had to abandon the collection of glasses, bar ones that have a high practical use. Nothing can persuade me that to add to those in storage would be a good idea. However I am still open to ceramics, old linens, garden furniture but have downgraded from Brocantes to Vide Greniers (Car boot sales)

10 The Culture

There are many things that make up the great charm of this country which I am now going to list under this vague heading.
In no particular order they are:

The enormous importance of food in their culture ( and the status of chefs) is music to my eyes, ears and taste buds.

The fact that old people are seen on the streets doing their own shopping (and that they trustingly hand their purses to the shopkeeper to pay)

That children are not only seen and heard but also welcomed into homes and even restaurants (and rise to the occasion when they are there)
(Obverse side of this coin is that the same applies to dogs but, what the hell, no body’s perfect!)

The great literature, and that I have yet to read most of it!

Bakeries (heavily and correctly subsidised) in nearly every village.

Savon d’Alep, that most natural soap, made from olive oil and bay leaves which never aggravates my eczema.

White peaches, freely available even in the hypermarkets.
The taste of heaven!

Just to pick out one thing which has disappointed, bread is perhaps not as magical as expected and the ephemeral baguette (crisp for about an hour) I now buy only for visitors. I have reverted to making my own.

No.

Search the picture carefully for the dot in the centre.

Okay you may laugh, but how else would you expect a photograph of a bonfire on a mountain 150 klms away to appear.

(of course as it was pitch black it may well have been not on Canigou but on a nearer hill, but it did flicker and was a large fire.)

And so today is St. John’s Eve, not something I ever remember celebrating in Cork city when I was growing up.
I am very greatful to Brena for the comment on my last entry.
This drove me to the usual internet sources and there discovering that nearly every European country has a strong tradition of celebrating the Summer Solstice with a bonfire.
The only trace of a memory that I have of the tradition is from a childrens story by Patricia Lynch called “Fiona Leaps the Bonfire” but that may well have referred to a bonfire at Halloween.

What is absolutely sure is that this was another instance of the church taking over another a pre-christian tradition as they did with All Souls, Christmas and Easter.
What is amazing to me, especially in Brena’s comment ;

“When my parents were young in the 30’s and 40’s they would light bonfires on St Johns eve and drive the stock (cattle) through the smoke. Also they would get smoke across any vegetable crops.
This would have been on the Beara peninsula.”

is that the purification by fire element in the tradition is surely nothing whatsoever to do with John the Baptist and is strong evidence of an ancient ritual still carried on at least until recent times in Ireland and (possibly) still in Catalonia.

If the night is at all clear tonight I will be watching the southern horizon for signs of fire.