I don’t think either of us had glanced at the inside of the front door before we bought Le Presbytere in 2006.
If we had this is what we would have seen.

It took the brother-in-law, Martin to do some painting to bring out the detail (I am always trying to persuade him to leave the day job- he has a future in painting)

Looking at the whole door again this morning I marvelled at the details in the making of it.

There is something of the stern patriarch in this detail, perhaps I am being fanciful.

This heart motif recurs in several details in the house, perhaps it was a local speciality.

I love the way it is both functional and beautiful-I mean no-one is going to break easily through that bolt.

And yet the other similar bolt has a different motif.

The makers must have been amazing craftsmen, and enjoyed their work.

This all started by my finding a tiny bud (I think) hopefully an embryonic Lemon on the tree Síle gave me for my birthday.
It had to me photographed and, to capture it, I had to switch on to Macro on the camera.
As I had it switched on I got a little snap-happy in the garden.

At the same time as Síle gave me the Lemon she gave me this White Peach.
Unfortunately this tiny speciman is as much as one is allowed because they say you should pull these off the first year.

This usually elegant lady (the Iris is, I think, a very feminine flower) seems to be hiding her eyes and sticking out her tongue at me.

Chaucer called this flower the Day’s Eye, so this must be the pupil.

This Lily was in the house as part of a bunch which we got last week. Up close I think the stamens look like they are wearing orange slippers.

This out of focus Lilac just looked so frothy I had to stick it in.

The first time I remember enjoying something “stir-fried” outside of a Chinese (where they had tasted uniformly the same) was in my friends Clive and Sue’s house.
There when we had arrived (I’m sure) unexpectedly and (over) stayed our welcome into supper they produced a delicious stir-fry.
It was, as I remember a concoction of cubes of pork fillet (pork steak in Ireland)
fried quickly and then finished with some brown sugar and vinegar.
That was all.
It was, now that I think about it, a middle ground between stir fried and sweet and sour.
This (stolen) became a classic in our home kitchen.
But then, I started to meddle with it.
I began to think that if you managed to incorporate the veg you would have only to boil up a bit of rice and the dinner would be complete.
So I began adding a bit of veg, onions, carrots, peppers, leeks, scallions- not all of these all the time, but some.
It began to be something a little heartier.
But then…. somehow… it needed something to blend all these bits together.
I started to add some slivers of root ginger and garlic to the mix, maybe also on occasion a (very) little slivered chilli..
And then also a little spice, perhaps a teaspoon of cumin or coriander on the pork.
And then I started to fiddle with the purity of the brown sugar/ vinegar mix.
I added a little Soy sauce and Worcester sauce to the blend and sweetened with honey rather than sugar and with Balsamic (later Sherry) vinegar other than just any old…..
Thereby I had of course totally destroyed the original dish, and , become addicted to the one it had evolved into.
Tonight supper had to be produced at some speed.
I was busy making Seville Orange Marmalade (from frozen Seville’s from Ireland) and Rhubarb and Ginger jam for the larder and Tomato Bread for the freezer, and Síle had to be out by eight for a concert practice for their recital next week ( of The Seven Last Words of Christ, in Beziers I’ll be at the door), so supper had to be made in haste.
Within 30 minutes I had produced this.
(There are no accurate measurements, cooking in haste gives one no time to fiddle about with scales)
Take one pork steak, trim of fat and skin, cut down into medallions and then cut these medallions into julienne strips.
Sprinkle these with a teaspoon of cumin and some black pepper.
Take one onion, peel and slice finely. peel and cut into slivers two thumbs of ginger, empty and slice one red pepper.
In one pan fry all these veg until soft and browning at the edges.
In another fry the pork until brown.
Combine the two pans, add four tablespoons of sherry vinegar (or balsamic) two tablespoons of soy sauce and one tablespoon of honey, plus plenty of black pepper and (only if necessary) a pinch of salt.
Simmer together for two minutes.
Serve with rice.
Alternatively.
Julienne the pork, fry for a few minutes, add a tablespoon of brown sugar and two tablespoons of white wine vinegar to the pan.
Simmer until syrupy.
Serve with rice.
As we used to say in Cork long ago
You pays your money and you takes your chice.

I was in Brussels at a food conference in the European Parliament (not the main chamber, a little one in the same building)

The conference was principally in French but we were being given spontaneous translation by a group of three translators in a glass booth.

At one stage I heard an English speaking delegate say that “We must always insist that our vegetables are served in season ”
The translation, in French (to which I was listening as an excercise to relieve boredom ) said that
” Nos légumes doivent toujours être bien assaisonneé”

This means that our vegetables should be always well seasoned with salt and pepper.

Then that same translator probably went down stairs to the main chamber and started an international crisis.

Now any one of my daughters may sing that song because :

Au jardin de mon père les lilas sont fleuris

And having thought this profound thought I then (nerd that I am) went searching for the rest of the words of the song.

They are not very politically correct, being, on the whole, a plea of young girls desperate to find a husband and being prepared to sacrifice anything, the church, the state and even their singing dove if by so doing would get them a man.

In the meantime the narrator seems to be having a rare old time with the blonde, even sleeping with her.

So daughters I would just restrict yourselves to the first two lines;

Au jardin de mon père les lilas sont fleuris
Tous les oiseaux du monde y viennent faire leurs nids.

Les tours de Notre Dame et les cloches de mon pays
Les tours de Notre Dame et les cloches de mon pays
Et ma jolie colombe qui chante jour et nuit.

Due to the wonders of modern technology I was able to listen to John Bowman do a programme about Aloys Fleischmann on RTE 1 this morning.
He would have been 100 about this time if he lived.

He was a fascinating character and as well as seeing him flying around Cork on his scooter (well into his seventies) I did meet him several times.

His wife Nancy was a cousin of both my mother and father(Cork was a small town then) and his daughter Maeve was a contemporary and friend of mine, so I was often up in their old, huge very ramshackle house in The Glen (called I think, Glen House)
I remember going there one day and Aloys was in the garden with a wheel barrow full of mud, wearing a dressing gown over his clothes.
He told us that he was clearing the stream which flowed under the house.
He wore the dressing gown, it turned out, to protect his clothes.

Nancy told a story on the radio this morning about a house ghost which they used to hear thumping about on the wooden floor of the hall, “But then”, she said with some pride, “when we got the fitted carpets we didn’t hear him any more”

Strangely I remember when they got those carpets, Maeve brought me in to show them off proudly !
I don’t think there was a lot of money spent on unnecessary décor on Glen House over the years.

I was a bit of an anomaly in those days being a teenage member of Cork Ballet Company.
Aloys, delighted to see that any of Nancy’s family was interested in the arts, made a particular effort to always come and talk to me when the Cork Symphony met up with the ballet company.
A kindly man.

On Wednesday our neighbours Serge and Dani invited us to go for a walk around Assignan with them and their son Pascal.

Our first find was an old WW 2 Citroen rusting beautifully in a hedge.

Dani, who is a bit of a naturalist, was invaluable. Here she showed us the wild Leeks, growing in abundance and terrrific for soup.

She was also able to differenciate between the flowering trees; the wild cherries, pears ,almonds and apples . (And we met all of those on our walk)

Without her we would certainly have missed the tiny rock daffodills.

And lunch was not forgotten, neither was the wine or cheese.

Just before we completed our circuit we passed through this perfect Olive Grove.

For any of you who are wondering how we find our way the French have a wonderful system of guidance.

They put Green Stripes (or Blue or Yellow) along the rocks, trees or indeed telegraph poles to reassure you that you are on the right path.

And they put a green cross on ways, down which one should not travel.

It all works excellently.

Anthropomorphic rocks spotted on our walk around Assiginan on Wednesday.

It was a small thing but it touched us both.
We were video calling via Skype to Caitriona and Fionn last night when Aonghus came home from work.

We had done the usual, I sang Patsy Fagin, he knew us.

The very animated Fionn turned to his Dad coming in the door and pointed enthusiastically at us, the computer screen,then back at his father.
He might as well have said, “ Hay Da, Look who’s here!”

Great being a Granda, even at a thousand miles distance.