Canigou is visible clearly from the terrace this morning, (although not this clear, this shot was taken much closer to the mountain) and it made me remember something about an old tradition on this mountain, sacred to Catalans, at this time of year.

In fact this tradition happens in two days time on the night of St. John’s Eve, June 23rd, but I am quite sure it stretched back to a pre-Christian Mid-Summer ritual.
A large bonfire is lit on Canigou on this night and from this flame brands are carried down the mountain to light thousands of other bonfires throughout Catalonia.
I wonder if any of the flames will be visible from my terrace 150 klms away?

Just in case anyone has missed the significance of the new hanging sign.
It was an old (we think) sign which we bought in a brocante fair on which Caitríona has based her design for the logo on our cards.

We had some customers from Waterford staying for the last few days and they had a beautiful classic car, a Nissan Figaro.
It looked well outside the front door this morning, a perfect grey for the shutters.

Then the blessed Son-in-Law, Aonghus set about erecting our sign (with our brand new drill)

Voila !

(And Again) Voila !

By the front door in France yesterday.

“The only way I would ever support England would be if they were playing Kilkenny”

The Languedoc , for a hundred years the Wine Carafe of Europe and then, as she was overtaken by cheaper imports, the Wine Lake , is having to change to keep her head above the water.

This was all to observe as Síle and took a stroll around St. Genies yesterday.

There we saw a farmer ruthlessly ploughing up his old vines.
Probably because their grapes no longer are to the modern taste.

He may replant with new, more fashionable vines or go the way of his near neighbour.

And plant wheat.

Not as hugely untraditional a move as it first seems.

Cereal crops were the mainstay of the area until the vines took over in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries as witnessed by the many stubs of windmills which dot the Languedoc and by the origins of the name Beziers, which means, it is thought, “The Place of Two Harvests”.

Now that the Strawbs are going down in price (well they are here) and there is still some (not too green) Rhubarb about do try this marriage which does wonders for both the flavour and colour of the fruits. (or one fruit and one vegetable)
I won’t even insult you by giving you a recipe, just make with half and half chopped rhubarb and halved strawberries and just under their weight in jam sugar.
Boil for just under the time they say on the pack (and never more than a kilo of fruit at a time)
This may not give you the firmest set of all time but it does preserve the fresh flavours and intense redness of the fruits.

They take the whole business of service extremely seriously out here.
Waiters pride themselves on their competence rather than on their charm- a relief when one is accustomed to the opposite- in my grumpy old man hood I would take competence over charm any day.
Likewise in shops they pride themselves in being extremely familiar with their products and like nothing better than a long discussion with a customer on the merits and demerits of the product being purchased- often to the extreme annoyance of the grumpy old man who is next to be served.
I once spent a full ten minutes in a supermarket waiting in a queue while the lady in front of me discussed with the cashier which particular brand of incontinence pads she should buy for her mother.

Likewise when an appliance is delivered here, be it fridge or dishwasher, the appliance has always to be checked by the engineer who delivers it to make sure it performs correctly.

Once while a man who was delivering a fridge was waiting for it to cool correctly he heard my washing machine bouncing about as it span.
He went over to it, stopped the cycle, readjusted the legs, then re started it again, smiling as it ran smoothly.
There is something there in a pride of service which I find impressive.

As the Petit Fils, Fionn, is coming out for a week next week Síle and I went out to buy a few things for his arrival- principally a car seat and a gate to stop him falling down the stone steps from the terrace.

So we went in to the Autour du Bebe shop to make these purchases.

Perhaps at this stage I should admit that the grumpy old man thinks of himself as a decisive shopper, quick to make up his mind and, unlike his wife, he does not see any reason to discuss, evaluate, assess, weigh, feel and otherwise finger all 49 different brands of car seat before plumping for the one which we had seen first.

But Síle and the vendor were both of the one mind that this was the correct way to make a sale and after a little while they both ignored me totally.

Once the decision had finally been made (did I say that having picked a model they spent a further ten minutes picking an appropriate colour?) and Síle had been assured that “Yes it connected easily to the seat belt ” (unlike car seats in the seventies -pre-seat-belt- which had to be welded into the chassis)
She then smiled at Síle and said “Would you like me to fit it in your car for you ?”
And she did.
That is French service.