copy of an e-mail sent 10 May 2009

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As we set out on the next stage of our great train journey, the section from Istanbul to the eastern borders of Turkey with Iran and then Armenia, I was still hoping to experience the glamour of the Orient Express. But the day started inauspiciously with pouring rain. Both John and I slipped on the wet cobbles near the quay, John hurting his wrist again and me my knee. As for our last morning of tourism, the Pera Palace Hotel, where Agatha Christie used to stay, is closed during renovations, and an art nouveau patisserie has turned into a fast food joint. Alas for former glories. The rain was cascading through the awning of the ferry boat which took us over to the landing stage (1) at Haydarpasa, the railway terminal on the Asian side of the Bosphorus. And to add insult to injury, the sleeping car conductor announced that the restaurant car on our train, the twice-a-week Vangolu Express, was not part of the train. Another dream (of elegant train dining) shattered! So as the train pulled slowly out of the station, we watched the sun set over the water, and then retired to our shabby bunk beds, as the “express” rattled slowly through the countryside all night, loosing time.

The following afternoon, we got off the train at Kayseri, in the beautiful central region of Cappadocia, and headed for the small village of Uchisar. We had reserved a room at the charming pension of Sisik (a burly man, much like Farmer Duhaut) and his father (who did some of the cooking). It was a traditional house, with a sitting area with low floor cushions, but the nine rooms all had modern bathrooms to suit today’s (discerning French) traveller. From the rooftop there were great views across the strange rock formations. A popular way of seeing the amazing volcanic rocks which have been eroded into strange mushroom shapes is from hot air balloons. But we miserable penny-pinchers put on our walking boots and set off down Pigeon Valley (2). The narrow footpath wound down between escarpments pitted with special holes to attract pigeons and their prized droppings. It was a pretty walk down, through the wild flowers. At the bottom of the valley lay Goreme, with all its old orthodox churches which had been cut into the rocks and covered in beautiful paintings of Bible stories and the lives of Orthodox saints. The tiny churches got pretty crowded with visitors (3), especially as the rain had started again, but over lunch time it was much easier to to spend time gazing at the details of the scenes and taking photographs (4).

As the Vangolu Express from Istanbul to Van only runs twice a week, we had timed our visit to the rock churches so that we could get on the next train, two days later. Again it was a sleeper with no restaurant car. Somehow it was 90 minutes late arriving at Kayseri, and got later and later as it followed one of the tributaries of the Euphrates (5), and reached the high fields with their scarlet tulips and deep blue grape hyacinths. It should have arrived at the rail terminus on the edge of Lake Van the following day at 13.41, leaving ample time for the 4 hour ferry trip across the lake to the town of Van. As it was, we got on the rusting old railway ferry (for container trucks and stray passengers) just as the sun was setting, and crossed the huge lake in the dark (6). It was nearly midnight before we reached the deserted docks at Van, and we were glad of a (paying) lift into town from some passing musicians..

However, the next day we saw the lake in its full glory when we took a small boat out to an island to see an old Armenian monastery church (8). As well as frescoes on the inside of New Testament stories, it had attractive friezes on the outside telling Old Testament stories like David (with his sling) confronting Goliath (8).

Back in Van, we enjoyed a coffee and sticky baklava, the archaeological museum showing all the finds from the Urartian (Ararat area) kingdom, and wandering round the streets. The cafés and parks seemed full of men sipping glasses of tea and passing the time of day (9).

From Van, the railway line (and no doubt the unloaded container wagons) headed on eastwards to the Iranian border. But that’s another journey and we abandoned the train for a bus north-eastwards to Kars. The buses are in fact the more modern and efficient way to travel, despite the roads that are badly potholed after the severe winter. The railways seem neglected and dingy by comparison. All along the route, we were aware of large army bases and army checkpoints (though our bus was never stopped). We also talked to a couple visiting their son stationed on the border with Armenia, and to a young man doing his national service on the border (and finding his first month very tough).

In Kars there is a huge army base, much of the architecture is Russian (from their period in power here till after the first world war) and there are bitter memories of whole villages wiped out by the retreating Armenians in 1918 (but no mention of reverse atrocities). You no longer need to get military permission to visit the remote ruins of Ani, right on the Armenian border, but it is guarded by soldiers and parts of it are out of bounds. Massive walls (10) protect this old town on the Silk Route. Entering through the Lion Gate, a vast ruined site spreads out before your eyes, with isolated churches, piles of rubble from unexcavated buildings, a mosque, the bases of rows of shops, 4 columns possibly from a Zoroastrian fire temple, a church which was converted into a caravanserai… It’s an amazing site to explore (11), huge, desolate, rain clouds and mist threatening in a rather Scottish way. And dominating the scene, the snow capped mountains. It is situated immediately above the river which now divides Turkey and Armenia at this point. You can see the old Silk Route bridge below (12) which has long been in ruins, but you cannot approach it or the nearby church/monastery of the maidens.

And after this desolate grandeur we felt the need of coffee and baklava back in Kars. The patisserie we chose also seemed to do rather magnificent cakes (13). I suppose we could have bought one for my birthday, but I had already decided to celebrate it in Erzurum.

Erzurum represented the turning point from the border area of Kars, – a return from the turf-roofed homesteads on the high plain, with their cows and small black-soiled fields, towards the imperial splendours of Istanbul. From Kars we caught the Erzurum Express. My heart lifted, as here at last was a proper restaurant car, with white tablecloths and a fat chef in white jacket and chef’s tall hat. We strolled down for morning coffee, and surveyed the lunch-time menu. Outside we were climbing up a dramatic river valley, and fresh snow had fallen all around since we had made the bus journey down the valley two days earlier. It was the most dramatic scenery so far. But alas, lunch was not to be. We had noticed two armed uniformed railway officials conferring with the conductor. Then a loud Turkish announcement, led to us all dismounting from the train at a small station near (14) and piling into a small bus for the remainder of the journey to Erzurum. We never found out whether it was just a problem on the single-track line or something more sinister.

In Erzurum we joined the Sunday afternoon crowds strolling through the streets, shopping, buying ice creams, gazing at the old Seljuk seminaries (15) and the massive 5th century citadel. Noisy processions (possibly political) with much hooting of cars and drumming were being largely ignored. As the army and police weren’t in evidence, it couldn’t have been as incendiary as it sounded, or related to the mysterious train incident (which could have just been Sunday works on the line, after all). The highly recommended restaurant in the evening was a dismal one with a soviet-era feel lingering, so that didn’t feel like an early birthday celebration. It will have to be something pretty special (like egg and chips) in the restaurant car on tomorrow’s 2 day journey from Erzurum to Istanbul!

copy of an e-mail sent May 2nd 2009

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1. The Tintin in Istanbul T-shirt stared out cheerfully at us in the Grand Bazaar, one of the symbols of adventure, crime, (some good crime novels centred on Istanbul) and the exotic. The Grand Bazaar is great fun, with its carpets, fabrics, lamps, “antiques”, slippers etc. till it suddenly becomes overwhelmingly hot and claustrophobic, and you wonder which gate you are at..

2. We arrived at Sirkeci railway station on the European side, with all its Orient Express nostalgia, and we leave from the Asian side of the Bosphorus from Haydarpasa Station, the magnificent building “given” by the Kaiser, and standing right on the edge of the water. We take a ferry to there later today, and start our travels eastwards almost to the Iraq border. One of the most exciting things yesterday at the archaeological museum, surpassing even the Assyrian, Hittite, Greek and Roman monumental items amassed in the past, were the exhibits from the excavations which are slowing down the new underground and under water railway link between the European and Asian sides of Istanbul. For they were about to dig down through what turned out to be the old harbour of Constantinople, with old wrecked and sunken boats full of pots and other trade goods.

3. Before breakfast one morning we walked down to an old Byzantine church near our Alp Hotel, dedicated to two little known saints (Roman centurions martyred after converting), and known more affectionately as the Little Haghia Sofia. Like most of the churches, it became a mosque, and when we arrived the old man tending it was chanting his morning prayers serenely and beautifully in the doorway. It has recently been renovated and is a lovely peaceful place.

4. The real Haghia Sofia, is a dusty unkempt wreck of its former glory, with scaffolding up the centre of its allegedly light and airy space. I only hope they do a good job of restoration. In the meantime a bit of polish might help the ailing woodwork.

5. One afternoon we walked round the back of the university and traced the line of an old aqueduct, which turned form a ruined wall into a magnificent span over a four-lane carriageway.
5b) We sat with others in a park and admired its grandeur. The next day, when we went in search of the Byzantine Church of Chora, near the old walls, our bus from the harbour trundled under the aqueduct, which towered above us.

6. The mosaics and frescoes at the church at Chora were merely covered over when it became a mosque, so careful restoration has meant there are far more beautiful golden mosaics to be seen than the few traces at Haghia Sofia. It was interesting to see all these telling of Bible stories, many from Gospels from the Apocrypha like that of James which we are no longer familiar with in the west, especially after seeing the painted Bible stories in the Orthodox monasteries and churches of Romania. We spent the whole morning there.

7. After and elegant “Ottoman” style lunch near the church, we walked up to the wall, then down towards the sea and up hill again till we came (accidentally) upon another church we had wanted to see. The main part is still used as a mosque, but the remains of the Christian mosaics in the side chapel have been restored. By then we were footsore and glad to take the ferry back to the main harbour.

8. The tile work everywhere is so lovely. After the archaeology museum, we walked among the tulips below the Topkapi Palace, and looking up saw these.

9. It was a hot and sunny morning and the café on the headland overlooking the Bosphorus (and near the Sirkeci excavations, with trains rumbling below) was most welcome.

10. And some more beautiful tiles at a small mosque (Rustem Pasa) near the harbour and the spice market, perched on the first floor over the tiny shops. Although we’d waited till after prayer time, men were still popping in to perform their prayers. And then the threatened thunderstorm broke.

11 and 12 So we lingered in the Spice Market on the way back. Our current hotel (for the past 2 days) is standard international grotty – lime green walls and orange lampshades, a great come-down after our “Ottoman boutique” style Alp Hotel, but alas that was fully booked over the long weekend. However, after an overnight train journey we should arrive tomorrow afternoon at Kayseri, take the bus on to Uchisar and stay in Sisik’s tiny pension, before exploring the Goreme volcanic and eroded rock formations and houses. Sadly rain is forecast. Still we have our mac capes and walking boots. (And in answer to concerned enquiries, John is making do with his old sandals and his walking boots, having ditched the defective shoes). And then on ever eastwards, with nothing booked.

More anon

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Spring, according to our postman’s calendar, officially arrived a few days ago. And in brief recognition of this, the sun shone brightly, the cowslips and daffodils in the orchard came into bud, and the Venetian carnival came to Remiremont.

Remirement is a pleasant old abbey town on the Moselle, on the far side of the ski resort of Gérardmer. When we arrived, the main arcaded street was closed to traffic, for the elaborately costumed masked lords and ladies of yesteryear to saunter and pose for photographs. Plumes, chiffon, lace, sequins, satins, brocades, paste jewellery flaunted in a riot of scarlet, snow white, lime green, gold, silver, velvety black, Chelsea blue, dove grey and flaming orange. Behind the elaborate, bejewelled masks, dark, mysterious eyes gazed soulfully as ladies inclined their heads gracefully to the cameras and gentlemen bowed and kissed the spectators’ hands. There were a few cats with long claws and a sinister beaked bird, but it was the elegant Venetian aristocracy who were the main attraction, and the crowds pressed in on them so that they could hardly pass.

But it was no more than a colourful interlude. The day after the Venetians came to Remiremont, the gales returned and now the driving snow, hail and rain have obscured the hills. This was the kind of weather we had back in February, when I joined the Ste Marguerite pensioners’ outing to the appropriate sounding production of “Venise sous neige”. An amateur theatre group over the hills in Alsace have a cunning way of raking in an audience. They provide a three-course lunch in the village hall beforehand, complete with aperitif, wine and coffee, then their audience sit back in a receptive frame of mind, ready to laugh at the silliest of farces. John had assumed it would be a mainly ladies’ outing, but of course, with Sunday lunch provided, the men were all there too. But, alas, there were no masked Venetian ladies to be seen. The plot involved a young French couple, who have just had an argument, dining with a couple of lovey-dovey friends of the man. As the visiting woman refuses to talk after the argument, the hosts assume she is foreign and she maliciously builds on this misunderstanding till they end up giving her all their favourite possessions for the poor deprived country she is assumed to have fled from, including one of those glass domes you shake to produce a snow scene – Venice under snow. Not exactly great art, but much appreciated by the audience!

We seem to have had snow for much of the last three months, but it hasn’t been deep, and certainly doesn’t bring the country to a standstill here. Most roads are cleared on a regular basis, the only exception being the forest roads with no houses. So when John noticed that, according again to the postman’s calendar, it was St Alexis’ day, we thought we’d ring up the remote St Alexis auberge to see if they were open for a hearty celebratory late lunch. We were glad we’d telephoned at midday, as they replied that yes, indeed they were open, but they weren’t sure how accessible the winding hilly roads were as no-one had arrived yet! So we decided to wait for better weather. That was the afternoon we went for a walk instead and John skidded on some ice on a narrow country lane, then nearly got run over by a car speeding round the bend as he lay spread-eagled at the side of the road.

Other snowy walks have been less dramatic, though we have come across interesting scenes and monuments as we’ve tried new paths and tracks. The young deer with their white bottoms looked as if they were enjoying the snowy woods behind the church. But the cattle have looked very mournful in the trampled icy fields. Perhaps they’d read the sign on a nearby track which mysteriously imitated a no entry sign bearing the words “Mort aux vaches”. Some local feud? Another day, the school inspector’s two goats came bounding up to the fence anticipating a change of diet from snow and frozen grass, while Vozelle’s dog seemed to be trying to marshal his geese into noisily honking military formations. One walk brought us out by a small riding school with an unexpected life-sized figure of a horse beautifully fashioned out of horseshoes.
A bit further afield we came across a newly cleaned tombstone on the edge of the woods to a villager who’d died up there in 1869, and then followed a small arrow pointing downhill to an old copper mine which had been recently re-excavated. It wasn’t on our map, so must have been forgotten since its initial excavation in the seventeenth century. And on another day we headed up a valley to a hillside with a gravestone that was marked on the map – that of the splendidly named Claude Theophile Funck-Brentano who died there in February 1916.

It was rather nice one sunny day to have a change of walking landscape from pine forests and snow to vineyards. Roger and Dorinda had asked if we’d like to join them in trying out Virginie’s winstub in Colmar. (Virginie was the waitress who’d left the Blanche Neige before Christmas to take on a traditional winstub in the Petite Venise canal area of Colmar.) It was a tiny downstairs room with about 9 tables, a bar, a couple of old stoves to keep food hot, and sepia photographs on the walls. She showed us the upstairs room that she and her partner had converted from the old proprietors’ sitting room to an additional dining area. She remembered us as soon as we walked in and made quite a fuss of us. We got funny looks from the other diners when we got extra delicacies at the beginning and end. And all the portions were generous – a single course would be quite sufficient another time! Anyway after our two courses and extra bits, we definitely needed a walk, and stopped by a track through the vineyards above Sigolsheim. Below us lay the winemakers where we had bought Christmas wine, and above us lay the Vogelgarten where the grapes for that particular pinot gris were grown. In all the small plots, men were busy pruning and weeding in the sunshine as we ambled up the hill.

And the champagne? That has come out on quite a few occasions. First there was Epiphany, celebrated here by the whirling pensioners of Ste Marguerite with much dancing, champagne, brioche and finally galette des rois. Most of the dancing was elegantly accomplished, but a couple from my table cleared the floor with their extraordinary jive which involved wild leg and arm movements and stiff, angry crouching. The rest of my table were murmuring in horror at this very unchic demonstration. “He looks like a bear” whispered one lady. “Did I dance well?” asked the lady, heavily perspiring, makeup running, as she returned to our table and leaned over me. I hesitated for words. Thinking she hadn’t made herself understood, she repeated her question insistently. “Quite extraordinary!” was the best I could manage.

Following the lotto (bingo), and Mme Laine’s triumphant win, I didn’t make it back to the monthly gathering of the anciens of Entre-deux-Eaux until February. I settled down to try and follow the intricacies of the game of tarot, with all its extra cards. Then one of our neighbours bore me off to indulge me in a game of Scrabble, and we were soon joined by others. It was surprisingly successful and sociable, interrupted only by coffee and brioche, then some beignets for Lent, and later still, ignoring Lent, by gateaux and champagne. A man with a clarinet who seems to know two basic tunes, “Michael row the boat ashore” and “Happy birthday” struck up the latter three times as the three cream-rich cakes were cut for three birthdays. It was such fun that I went back yesterday. Two birthdays this month, so more cake and champagne. But the Scrabble got serious, arguments ensued, a dictionary was demanded and the mayor’s office raided for one. Mme Laine looked bewildered by the passion for mere words and I felt quite exhausted by the scoring!

Roger and Dorinda continue to come and go between the Vosges and Surrey, and John often cooks a meal to welcome them back. On the last such occasion, he emerged from inspecting the wine racks down in one of the barns to announce that he’d noticed some bottles of champagne that we must have forgotten about, – some from his sixtieth birthday and some that could only have come from my fiftieth birthday all those years ago. Since Roger was about to celebrate his 65th birthday a couple of days later, we opened the 15-year old bottle, hoping it was a good keeper, and toasted all these landmarks, past and present. It was lovely still. Ageing obviously suited it!

We celebrated Roger’s actual birthday at the purple restaurant in Epinal. Then a week later, on a misty dull morning, Dorinda rang to say they’d decided to drive up to a restaurant near Sarrebourg for lunch and would we like to join them there? John consulted the internet and discovered that it had, that very day, been awarded a Michelin star. So he was easily convinced. We drove north to Baccarat, then branched off on a rolling cross-country road. On either side, strange white poles emerged from the ground only to be enveloped by mist. When the mist lifter later we realised that we were surrounded by wind turbines. Then the scenery changed and we were in a flat wet landscape of scrubby forests, lakes, streams and canals with all kinds of water fowl. In summer, with a few cafés opening up by the waterside it must be very picturesque.

Chez Michele was on the main street of the very small village of Languimberg, opposite the church, and apart from its fresh coat of paint looked much like any other village house. But as we walked in through the bar to join Roger and Dorinda, we were ushered into a large conservatory at the rear. Surrounded by green bamboo outside and decorated entirely in white – tablecloth, napkins, flowers,- it looked unexpectedly bridal and lush. Dorinda’s glass provided the only hint of golden colour. It looked tempting, so I ordered one too – champagne and mirabelle (the yellow plum of Lorraine). We all enjoyed the change of scene, though the food was nothing special and the Blanche Neige and the Frankenbourg still remain firm favourites (and sadly the Blanche Neige still hasn’t received a Michelin star). At the end of our leisurely lunch John and I set out to see the fabulous sounding Chagall Tree of Life window in Sarrebourg. But of course, being March the chapel was firmly closed for renovation works. Shame.

Meanwhile, back in Entre-deux-Eaux, winter life continues as usual. Farmer Duhaut and Olivier have been spraying the fields liberally with liquid cow manure each time rain or snow is expected. In the same period, all the human sewage arrangements have been officially inspected by a charming young lady in wellington boots. Apparently she got a hostile reception from many villagers, as not only did certificates of emptying have to be provided, but to add insult to injury, around £60 would be charged for an inspection no-one wanted. And at least we knew where ours was. We were fortunate that we had good plans of the more recent parts of our system, and were able to clear and lift most of the lids from the inspection points before the heavy frosts. Only one was too frozen to inspect. Our official report wasn’t too bad.

On the pest and blight front, outside John was anxious to get the sawn off branches from fireblighted apple trees burnt, but the wood was still too damp. And indoors we had processions of small white caterpillars wiggling across the ceiling. It took over a week to track them back to a bowl of walnuts and decide that they would soon be turning into codling moths. But fear not, if we gave you walnuts at Christmas – they were a more recent vintage!

And finally, at some stage between snow, rain, and attempted bonfires, when gales were particularly strong, our golden (well, bronze-ish) weather vane cock keeled over at a drunken angle, and John feared it would snap off and crash down on some passing car or tractor. But the workshop roof was too slippery with either snow or frost for John to rescue it. It was a couple of weeks before it was safe enough for him to climb up and restore the fowl to a proud upright. Its arrow is, at this very moment, pointing to the south.

So cocorico (sounds more convincing than cock-a-doodle-do) and au revoir as winter continues (unofficially) here.

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Everyone’s far too busy in December to read a long newsletter, so just a few Vosgian vignettes to wish you all a peaceful and happy Christmas.

Fruity white wine Friday, dusk, snow on the hills, a deserted village wine co-operative, the name Vogelgarten on a list. We are questing for Christmas wine for friends and family. A lady emerges from the colder cellar regions, pulling off her anorak, and launches into her introduction to the wines of Alsace, assuming we are new visitors to the region. We pin her down to Vogelgarten, and as we sip the pinot gris, she explains that the grand crus come from the upper slopes which get the sun all day, and the Vogelgarten vines lie just below. We have often driven through the upper slopes to the hilltop area set aside at the end of the war for a military cemetery for all those who fell in the protracted battle to liberate Colmar; the moving last scene of Indigenes (a.k.a. Days of Glory) was shot there. At the foot of that road is the house and courtyard of Clarisse, where in May she sells the white, mauve and green asparagus she grows on the plain beyond the vineyards. And now, at the Sigolsheim cave, as an afterthought, purely for our own pleasure, we also try the gewürztraminer Vieilles Vignes. Irresistible. The 18 bottles clink gently as we drive home over the snowy Bonhomme pass.

Pointy shoes If you have ever dreamt of being a young head-waiter, the essential kit these days involves shoes (shiny patent leather optional) with much longer points than winkle-pickers ever had – more like those mediaeval ones whose long tips you could almost tie up round your calves. Thomas at the Blanche Neige has the kit, and regrettably, as the Blanche Neige has still not achieved Michelin stars, he is now taking his shoes and skills to a more prestigious two star restaurant in Obernai (whose prices, sadly, are beyond our everyday budget!). His assistant/somelier (who some of you may also remember from John’s birthday) has already moved to a prestigious Swiss restaurant and Virginie, the waitress and flower arranger, now runs a winstub in Colmar. Of course, accessibility may be another motive. The Blanche Neige is well named, as most of our winter trips there have involved snow and drama. Last Friday was no exception. Surprisingly the little road leading to it hadn’t even been gritted at their end. Less surprisingly, we were the only diners there that lunch time. Nevertheless, all the candles were lit and glittering in their glass containers and we were greeted like old friends. Thomas told us the previous weekend had been fully booked, especially for Sunday lunch. The first snow had fallen during Friday night, and the village council did not get the snow plough out at the weekend. The weekend diners had to walk from the main road and Thomas himself was unable to get back down the road in his own car that night, and had to get a friend with a 4×4 to pick him up. Incidentally, I wonder if you can drive (or walk easily in snow) in those pointy shoes?

Sorbet Fortunately the chef is not leaving the Blanche Neige. Though this time his Fragrance menu seemed to have a powerful dose of salt in every course. It might have been the assistant chefs going mad with the salt cellar on his day off. They’d have been better employed sprinkling it on the snowy road. The soup then guinea fowl were followed by a dessert with sweet chestnut mousse, quince, caramel, and the most delicious mulled wine sorbet. But maybe the secret was more salt in the sorbet. Nevertheless, Christmas may never be the same again in the Blackmore household if we can find the ice-cream maker. It might just be in the attic.

Dusty attic There are still a few cardboard boxes in the unconverted section of out hayloft attic. Boxes dating from our move here. I was last in there looking for the long neglected box of camping equipment for a floor mat for John to use when doing the floor exercises prescribed after his latest and worst back problem. (The local doctors can’t have seen many miners, as silver mining here has long since ceased and coal mining was much further north in Lorraine. Nevertheless our doctor, surveying the X-ray, said in surprise that John had the back of a man after a life of carrying sacks of coal). The Christmas decorations box is the next one to be opened. Last year it was covered with owl pellets, but no trace of owl this year. Perhaps the stone marten frightened him off. Which reminds me: the marten trap needs a fresh egg before we leave for England

Deer Alas, no deer grazing in our meadow since the hunting season started. But as the Christmas lights are put up, grazing deer are a popular illumination this year. Last night the pretty little village of Méménil opened its stables and barns for the annual Christmas market. Wine producers, water colourists, snail farmers, bee-keepers, chocolate makers, hat, cape and scarf makers, a knife smith, teddy-bear makers, basket weavers, bakers, cross-stitchers and olive vendors all crowd in for that one night with their wares. The prettiest barns are candle lit. And outside the gardens, doorways and even mail boxes are bright with lights, including fearless Christmas deer.

Happy Christmas everyone!

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“Ah! Entre-deux-Eaux”. You have an excellent mayor!” a member of the Saint Dié walking group announced in the middle of the countryside. “Chaxel. He used to be a teacher, and he knows everyone.”

It was a surprise to hear that our commune of some 450 inhabitants was known in the big world of urban Saint Dié. There the mayor, Pierret, is known by everyone, having shaken hands with everyone (and promptly forgotten them) and having ensured his photograph is inserted at least once on every page of the town’s monthly newsletter, showing him standing prominently in front of each local group, road improvement, statue and municipal flowerbed. “How are you?” he once breathlessly asked me, pumping my hand, while pounding along the corridor of the high-speed train. The train was, at the time, stationary in Saint Dié station where he was publicising to the supposedly-awed citizens his role in enabling the TGV service to be extended to “his” town. He was at the far end of the carriage by the end of his three-word query as to my well-being.

We recently ran into our own mayor in the middle of the forest. He’d been surveying some of his (personal not commune) softwood trees and gloomily assessing how many it would be worth cutting for sale this year. We discussed the economic situation and its disastrous effect on the building trade and timber industry. He told us that the farm we had passed had changed hands recently and that the pretty grey donkeys which had come rushing up in their grey hoods (fly protectors for the eyes) belonged to the new owner. We checked that the forest track we were following still led to some lakes we had seen on the map (as tracks can change with logging requirements). “Ponds”, he corrected gently, and assured us that the track did indeed lead to them and beyond to the next village. He also warned us that the next day would be a bad day to stroll in the forest as it would be the first day of the hunting season, and we discussed the number of boar and game and the fact that there are now only eight (authorised) huntsmen in the village due to the expense involved. As we walked on, we were sorry to find that we couldn’t get near the ponds as they were enclosed by a fence, and the track veered away. And then we spotted some huge wrought iron gates through the trees, – the kind that would usually open onto the drive of an Edwardian mansion. But there was no drive on either side or fine house beyond. What a shame our mayor wasn’t still with us to provide information about the mystery gates in the forest.

I doubt if the Mayor of Saint Dié is ever to be seen in the forests around Saint Dié. Presumably he spends most of the week in Paris where he is a lawyer. And after all Saint Dié is rather a small pond for a former Secretary State for Industry. However he was back at the beginning of October with all his academic pals for the International Geography Festival which he has instituted to put Saint Dié (like America) on the map. This was the 19^th festival, and its theme was (literally and wordily) “Between wars and conflicts: the planet under tension”. The invited country of honour was Japan. Any connection?

As well as all the worthy visiting academics, the cookery demonstrations predictably included rice (a whole session) and sushi, and the street events included a tea ceremony and a dragon. Japanese drumming in the cloisters was pretty impressive and John enjoyed the koto player in the old church. Meanwhile the local history group recreated a forest trench from World War One beneath the war memorial, and their lectures interpreted the theme broadly, including the conflict between a small village and an encroaching big town (Saint Dié, of course, but the mayor was not there to hear it – he was probably swanning around with the Japanese Consul General and the Japanese Ambassador).

I wonder if there will ever be a 20^th International Festival of Geography. Mayor Pierret is no doubt a political cousin of Peter Mandelson, having surfaced from previous corruption scandals (the last being the Lyonnaise des Eaux contract bribery allegations). But two days after the Geography Festival closed, the Tribunal Administratif declared the Saint Dié election to have been what 1066 and all that would have called “dull and void”. This was due to “une irrégularité”. Several days before the first round of the elections, the municipality had sent a letter to 600 inhabitants of the social housing in the Kellerman area, promising a repayment of excess rental charges following a successful renegotiation of the heating maintenance contract (and before the company managing the area knew of the decision). In the second round of voting Pierret scraped through by 156 votes. It remains to be seen what happens after an appeal. Meanwhile one of the main items on the Mayor’s website (above even the Geography Festival, but below “My life as a Minister”) remains a video on how to live as both a Christian and a freemason.

Here in Entre-deux-Eaux life continues more quietly. Indeed it has been so peaceful that, for several days in the early evening, young deer were coming out of the forest to graze in the meadow by the stream. We haven’t seen them since the hunting season opened, but hope that’s due to prudence rather than extinction. The hot air balloon from Saulcy has been able to fly in the pleasant September evenings, and has made a colourful landing in the same meadow. With the better weather, the meadows have had their second cut and all is safely baled and wrapped in pale green plastic and the cows are back grazing the field above the farmhouse. The more distant maize fields have also been cut to provide winter fodder, bringing heavy tractor trailers lumbering up and down our lane to Farmer Duhaut’s big new maize store. Our own colourful harvest adorns the windowsills – pumpkins and squash, ready for seasonal soup-making. In the orchard the crows seem to have developed a liking for a walnuts, and deadly fireblight has struck the quince, pear, medlar and some apple trees.

We had a further update on E2E current affairs when the senior commune employee came round, as he always does in September, to read the water meter. We admired the way the one of the village crosses (the one which had allegedly been knocked down by a passing lorry) had been restored with a new bronze statue on its stonework. He also assured us that the cross that had been absent for a number of years from the end of our road would soon be restored again, but said that another one was in store awaiting a decision about what to do with that road junction. So some of our mayor’s pre-election promises are being fulfilled. But the commune employee gave us a very funny look when we asked when our part of the road would, as the mayor had promised, be resurfaced. That had obviously been a vain promise! We should have asked what was happening abut the great sewerage debate, as a questionnaire was issued soon after the almost unanimous re-election of our mayor and council.

September has been a fine month, sunny but not too hot, for finding new walks around the commune. First there was the annual village walk (and I still enjoy coming across the refreshment tables along the way. This time the first pit stop was along the track at the top of the field above our house!). Another still day, we came across a young man trying in vain to get his paraglider airborne among the hay bales on a small hill behind the football ground. Across a road and past a farm with a barking dog we came across Bluebeard’s mobile clothing and household linen shop parked outside another farm. What a name! It conjured up pictures of a plump farmer’s wife opening up the wardrobe within Barbe Bleue’s colourful van, never to be seen again.

This year I (but not John, as he is keen to point out) became eligible for the club of the Ancients of E2E. So on the third Thursday of September I went with Danielle Laine and her sister Giselle (the mother of Farmer Duhaut) and got scrutinised by all my fellow-ancients. Our mayor came round to chat with every one, as if he was really pleased to see them all enjoying the gossip and cards together again. The highlight of the afternoon was the birthday cake – or cakes, as there were 4 birthdays. But Danielle was definitely the winner of the best cake accolade. Normally everything in her household has been grown or reared on the premises. So everyone was amazed that this time she had made an exception. She tartly said it was because you only have a 70^th birthday once. She had commissioned a cake from her favourite baker over in Anould – a glorious eclair and cream confection.

Madame la presidente also encouraged me to join the inter-communal bingo being hosted by the E2E Ancients in October, – only four cards, she decided, as I would struggle with the numbers in French. Alas, with my four cards I failed to stagger home with one of the big prizes – no tumble drier, panel radiator, vacuum cleaner, raclette, TV or hideous bouquet of flowers. And not even a more portable trophy like shopping vouchers, restaurant vouchers, chocolates or a lethal-looking bottle of home-made colourless fruit liqueur. But the prize which had been saved until the end sounded the best: two travel vouchers for 250 euros each for anywhere, anytime. The concentration was intense, punctuated only by a querulous “What did she say? Twenty six?” “No thirty six” “That’s what I said, twenty six!” and much irritated shushing. Suddenly there was a squeak right next to me, and Danielle’s hand shot up. Entre-deux-Eaux’s very own Mme Laine had won the two travel vouchers! She was stunned, and unable to say a word all the way home. I would have loved to have heard Pierre’s comments. Having been born in the next village and driven a lorry (probably locally) for the nearby builders’ merchants, he has seen quite enough of the world, – and he didn’t like Algeria and all its foreigners when he had to do his national service there. I can imagine him suggesting a swap with the tumble drier! Danielle, however, has travelled with Giselle to the Atlantic coast beyond Bordeaux – nearly Spain, in fact – to visit Giselle’s married daughter. So who knows?

Ever since our mayor organised the gros objets collection (last newsletter) and John had a major clear-out of his workshop, he has been busy building shelves and fixing storage units and drawers. Finally when John and Wendy were over at the end of August, the two Johns disappeared into the workshop, for John2 (whose own workshop is devoted largely to wood-turning projects) to practice joints with the impressive machinery and for John1 to start work on a bedside cabinet for Leila and a bathroom cabinet for us. Since then he has made another bedside table for the farmhouse, which was christened when Shelagh and Melvin stayed this week.

We did manage to drag the two Johns out for some wet walks and some good meals, a hearty one at the Saint Alexis (with a large party of huntsmen sitting under the awnings outside – wild boar are endemic there and hunting is allowed year-round) and a gourmet one at the Frankenbourg. And we also had some sunshine for the Sunday flea-markets, where the two Johns examined all the old wood-working tools in sight.

In fact the end-of-season flea-markets have been fun this year. Beneath rain-laden skies above the abbey cloisters at Senones, our next visitors, Viv and Paul scooped up various one euro bargains (fish casserole, apron, serviette holder) before we retired to the village bar for coffee. We also managed a picnic outside the abbey at Moyenmoutier and a short walk before it rained. Viv pointed out the disparity between the small plaque outside the mairie to the large number of deportees who never returned at the end of the war, and the considerably larger plaque to the American who set up a canteen for the troops. John and I passed another war-time tribute after we’d enjoyed a flea market at Bertrimoutier and taken a picturesque route back: a ruined farmhouse and memorial in the fields where 52 members of the local resistance were attacked and killed.

Etival-Clairfontaine’s first-ever flea market was held around the old abbey church and the surrounding picturesque houses. Above the stalls against the abbey wall we could see some interesting looking stained glass. So afterwards we looked in the church, with its romanesque columns, baroque frontage and modern glass, all reconstructed after the dynamiting of the old church in 1944. And at one of the last flea markets of the year, last Sunday, we made the most of the autumn sunshine, sitting outside one of the barns, eating our chips and surveying the bric-a-brac, antiques, pumpkin displays, and vivid autumn leaves.

Autumn has really arrived now. The trees are beautiful. Lunching this week with Shelagh and Melvin at Senones, the menu included pumpkin soup, venison and apple dessert. And back here, in the evenings, the log stove is lit and we watch the flames … And that reminds me. Perhaps, now we’ve brought in the logs from the ill-fated apple tree to dry off, we should ask Mayor Chaxel for a delivery of hardwood logs. Now you couldn’t expect the deposed Mayor Pierret to come round delivering from his log-trailer!

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It was a perfect sunny afternoon after a week of muggy heat punctuated by thunderstorms. Under the trees next door, two immaculately groomed horses waited patiently with their calèche, as cars hurtled up the road and parked along the edge of our field. It was Cécile and Cédric’s wedding day. We scanned the guests from our attic window, as we were uncertain of French dress code, and promptly changed out of our colourful summery clothes into more formal black and white. As the calèche set out we dashed downstairs, John to take photos from the first floor window and me to wave. It was an idyllic picture: the calèche driver and his boy in black suits and slouch hats, the cart horses with their mauve and cream posies, Cécile in an elegant white sheath dress and their little daughter in a matching dress and sun hat, her sister Carole’s two children and papa Gerard (who’d changed out of his shorts and T-shirt into a suave dove-grey suit). The cars turned and followed slowly behind, hooting, as is the custom, and we joined the rear of the procession down our road to the village centre.

The first ceremony, the obligatory legal one, was held in the mayor’s parlour with family and close friends. Parked prominently outside was Cédric’s old white van, with a life size dummy suspended from gallows on the back. We were amused to see that it was dressed in a blue and yellow post office uniform, and held together with post office tape, Cédric being an employee of la Poste. The hanged man traditionally represents the end of the groom’s life of freedom.

Through the open windows we could hear Farmer Duhaut (who is also one of our two deputy mayors) reciting the obligatory clauses of the constitution relating to marriage duties and obligations. The civil ceremony completed, it was only a short step up past the war memorial and into the village church for the (optional) mass.

The Entre-deux-Eaux church is now only used for four sparsely attended services a year, plus funerals and weddings. So it was good to see it well-maintained inside and packed. The older members looked a bit shocked as the three professional singers from Alsace launched into rhythmical gospel songs (in impeccable English), with everyone clapping and swaying in time, followed by applause. We were amused that the song after they’d exchanged their wedding vows was “Let my people go!” as it was a bit late for a bid for freedom. Sadly, few of the congregation could have been in a state of grace, including us, for only a handful of old ladies responded to the invitation to altar so the priest had a lot of wine to finish off before he could conclude the service. As the couple came out of the church, ephemeral rainbow bubbles were blown, rice was tossed (noisier than confetti), and a lot more photos were taken.

The vin d’honneur (with accompanying nibbles) was held on St Léonard, four and a half kilometres from here, so the horses set off with the bride, groom and small children in the calèche, and a long procession of cars followed slowly behind, more hooting. It was all very picturesque, thanks to the sunshine. And fortunately we didn’t meet any cars coming in the other direction along the narrowest stretch of the route. The tables were decorated with buttercup yellow cloths, and spread with delicacies and slim glasses of sweet wine. Large cottage loaves had been scooped out and filled with sandwiches, and more warm tasty canapés and patisseries were brought round as people chatted. Our drive home was faster than our drive there! But at some stage the family and friends would have returned, hooting, to the village hall at Entre-deux-Eaux for the wedding feast and dancing.

Traditionally the bride and bridegroom slip away from the festivities, but their friends go in search of them, bearing champagne or wine and hammer on the door and bang dustbin lids until the groom is forced to get up and invite them in. When Cécile’s sister Carole got married, some of the inebriated wedding guests stopped one house early and banged with great urgency on our farmhouse door. We weren’t there, and our visitors were very bewildered when they opened the door to these revellers who refused to go away. The fact that the “bride” had turned into a different woman, and was suddenly eight months pregnant seemed to make no difference to their clamour! However, this time, we slept soundly through it all the nocturnal comings and goings.

Our road hasn’t seen so many cars up and down it since the annual gros objets collection. Now our mayor’s aim is for no one in the commune to produce any rubbish which can’t be personally burned, composted, buried or recycled via the paper and glass bins outside the village shop. For if everyone was efficient, as in the old days, it would save the commune any rubbish collection fees. However most people manage to produce at least one full plastic bag each week, though Mme Laine would always win our road’s prize for the smallest bag. And there are always those categories of rubbish that the dustmen won’t take. So once a year there is the special collection.

We’d cleared a few things from the storage section of the attic when laying traps for and clearing up after Fluffy the fouine. So the day before the collection, John put out a cumbersome reclining long-unused TV aerial. Then as the collection coincided with his desire to re-organise his workshop atelier, he started clearing and putting out boxes of old nails and rusty files, tractor tyres, a tangle of ancient electrical switches and wires from our predecessor, the village electrician, and, after some debate, some of the small-holding’s historical items like the heavy chains for the oxen. Whilst doing so he noticed the steady drive-past of assorted vans and lorries, all appraising the scrap. Some asked permission to pick over what they saw, and others just took what they fancied.

One battered white lorry had already taken parts of the old cars that Ludo, the Laines’ grandson, had been gutting for his illicit car repair business (which I hasten to add has been recently registered and legitimised). So John took the two men (one small dark and plump in dungarees, and the other younger and presumably his son) round the back and showed them the heavy metal axle under the hazel tree. They agreed to come back the next day for it, as they hadn’t room at present. I was a little worried by the way the younger of the two kept eyeing up the old tractor. Not for disposal, I repeated firmly. All afternoon the cars and trailers cruised past. More people must have rummaged after dark, as by morning, we had only one small box remaining for the official collectors. The white lorry duly returned (loaded with more of Ludo’s car bodies), and the younger man looked wistfully at the tractor again, before doing most of the sawing up and loading of the axle. When I referred afterwards to the two men, John looked surprised. “The older one was a woman.”

From time to time we need to take either Bluto or Snowy over to Epinal to be serviced, and usually take advantage of the expedition to go to BricoDepot (the cheapest of the DIY warehouses), the Ducs de Lorraine restaurant, and an exhibition. This time we also inspected Nicola and John’s boat, which is temporarily moored there on its journey from Holland to the Aude where they now live, and, after a leisurely lunch, we went into the tourist office for a town plan (as we haven’t quite linked up different parts of the town). By chance a town tour was about to set out and the guide was able to answer a couple of points which had cropped up during my researches into Indian soldiers in the area in the last war. No, he didn’t know where the liberating Americans were quartered, but he did know the location of the old POW camp. I’d read that a large number of captured Indian soldiers had been held there by the Germans until the camp was accidentally bombed by the Americans on 11^th May 1944, leaving 64 casualties. Others had escaped and roamed the countryside until reaching safety or being rounded up by the advancing allies a few months later. He showed me on our newly acquired map the site of the barracks where they’d been held, and then asked if I’d like to know where they were buried. John is becoming resigned to being dragged round and photographing graveyards, so, as there were no exhibitions of interest, we spent the next hour in the municipal cemetery on the outskirts of Epinal.

Epinal is the capital of our département, so you would think its cemetery would be large and well tended. It was certainly large, but on that hot dusty day it had a run-down and disorganised air. The guide had said that the war graves were at the back, so we walked right up to the end wall and along the top, finding only the normal monumental family graves and a disreputable area with rusting lids which looked like mass paupers’ graves. We walked back down and found a separated walled Jewish area at the bottom. Going through another wall there was an area of French war graves, with their cement crosses, which John deduced were support staff from the local garrisons. But the whole place seemed deserted, with no one to ask. Finally I found a discreet green gate in a hedge, with a path which wound through bushes and behind a gardeners’ building to an immaculately mown area with neat rows of crosses of French soldiers. Then right at the end under the shade of tall trees, was a line of elegantly sculpted Commonwealth War Graves headstones commemorating Sikhs, Hindus, Muslims and a Christian; cooks, sweepers and a water carrier, as well as frontline fighters. And there were three from the regiment I was particularly interested in, King George V’s own Bengal Sappers and Miners. I had to shout over the high wall to guide John from the garrison graves to this very secret enclosure. We realised later, that if the tricoleur had not been drooping limply in the heat between the trees, we might have located the area sooner.

The Sunday flea markets continue as usual, with occasional ones on other festive days. One of our favourite ones was on Bastille Day, July 14^th at Ban-de-Laveline. It always has a few special touches, like a local history stall, the fire station’s ancient fire-fighting equipment on display, and a brass band. Although we haven’t bought much this year (there’s a limit to the amount of bric-a-brac we can house), I was delighted to find a framed print of “The Muses” by Nabis painter Maurice Denis. It was an advertisement for the Musée d’Orsay, which we’d really enjoyed on our Paris trip a few years ago. So now if you come to stay, you will be greeted in the farmhouse hallway by no lesser personages than the muses. That evening, the weather was uncertain, so we didn’t go to any of the firework displays. But late on the sky was suddenly illuminated, and from the attic window we got a perfect view of St Leonard’s fireworks rising and cascading – the same window from which, at the beginning of this newsletter, we were watching Cécile’s wedding cortège organising itself.

And thinking of weddings reminded me that this weekend must have been our wedding anniversary, though as usual it had slipped our minds. At John’s 60^th birthday party it was suggested that we ought to repeat the house party in a couple of years. We haven’t quite got round to organising that … but how about a house party at the beginning of August next year? We could start a trend for 35^th anniversaries! Are you free then? Or does May or October appeal more? Let us know your thoughts.

Au revoir!

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Easter hares, sun-drenched flea-markets and canopied terraces of diners outside the Saint Alexis are my memories of Easter 2007. We were looking forward to an equally festive Easter 2008. My old school-friend Jessica flew over before Easter, and we planned to pick up her husband, Mark, on Good Friday from his mathematical conference in the Black Forest. We envisaged driving through the vineyards on either side of the Rhine, perhaps stopping for a riverside lunch, crossing the Rhine on a small ferry boat and exploring a bit of the Black Forest. We’d had some light snow, so had taken some pretty walks in the hills on the Wednesday and Thursday. But throughout Thursday the predictions of high winds and more snow became increasingly worrying. During that night, as the winds strengthened, we could hear the trees tossing violently. We awoke to find more snow falling and very poor visibility. Over the hot cross buns which John had made the day before (not a local tradition) we decided that the roads would be hazardous, the countryside views shrouded in cloud, and any exploration damp and windswept. So Mark was consigned to the “safe, comfortable and reasonable” Deutsch Bahn/SNCF via Strasbourg to Saint-Dié.

On Easter Sunday, we’d planned to lunch at the restaurant Belle Vue in Saulxures. By then the wind had dropped and the snowscapes were inviting. We hadn’t been there for a while, so hoped it would come up to standard, as our visitors had recently been wined and dined at top London restaurants. We had a patchwork of memories of the Belle Vue with different friends and family, including a leisurely sunny summer meal out on the decking with a huge French family table next to us, presided over by grandfather, with children chasing round afterwards. This time, with the snow all round, and Easter Sunday being a popular day for family meals out, all available downstairs rooms were packed with tables, and lots of well trained extra young waiters and waitresses had been drafted in. They still managed to keep the air of an elegant but friendly family hotel (perhaps it was aided by the new décor, with paintings based on old hotel and staff photographs, bills and publicity). The special Easter Day menu was a five course one, with a choice of two dishes for each course. Just to make your mouth water, after a mackerel pate pre-starter, we all had the foie gras with apple and endive starter, then I had some delicious black tiger prawn kebabs with pastrami and ginger vinaigrette and the others had scallops. The main course was veal with broad beans or stuffed lamb and white beans and then came some tasty goats’ cheese. The desert was a chocolate and almond slice with caramel ice-cream or a pineapple strudel with yoghurt sorbet. The coffee came on their trade-mark wooden tray with two different coffees (arabica and arabica-robusta) each. As you can imagine, it was a delightfully leisurely affair.

On the way back we stopped in the old but run-down village of Senones for a short post-prandial stroll and then drove back through beautiful rolling snowscapes in the late afternoon sunshine. In fact the snow at that height was so beautiful, that on Easter Monday Mark and Jessica set off on a 10km walk up to the blanketing snow around the forest chapel of Sainte Claire and the old fortress at Spitzemberg.

It was a good thing that we had not accompanied them, because that was the morning that my mother’s Care Home in Nottingham phoned to say, with great sadness, that my mother had very peacefully died that morning, having chatted to her favourite staff and said that she was feeling better. She had a long and full life (she was 96), and her funeral evoked many happy memories and stories.

As I always think of her recent years being Nottingham based, I was surprised at how many people who phoned, wrote or came to the funeral, remembered her mainly from the twelve summers she spent with us in Entre-deux-Eaux. And, since we’ve been back here, there have been so many unexpected reminders of the little things she enjoyed in and around Entre-deux-Eaux.

Shortly after we got back, we went to one of our favourite flea markets at the Foire au Lard (smoked bacon) at Saint-Rémy. It was the first really hot day of the year, and we hadn’t thought to bring sun hats. We didn’t have any interesting “finds”, but as we were strolling back, the brass band struck up a rousing tune, and I had a vivid flash-back to my mother sitting happily in the beer tent of another vide-grenier, listening to their brass band. She surprised me by saying she’d always loved brass bands, and recalled “The Sing” – a big choral event in the field next to her childhood home in Yorkshire.

Chatting with friends, they also recalled how in our early days here, we used to try and persuade Toby and Leila (and any visiting children) to go down to the village shop to get the bread each morning, to practise their French. Like most teenagers they were amazingly resistant to the idea of a) practising a foreign language and b) getting up early. And anyway it was always my mother who was up and showered before anyone else and had set off for the day’s supply of baguettes, and a chat with the shopkeeper. And of course my mother had a great air of confidence and no hesitation at all as to the quality of her French. She would have been mortified by our neighbour Danielle Laine’s opinion that she couldn’t speak French. This opinion arose from a linguistic misunderstanding (which I must have recounted many times since, so apologies for the repetition), when instead of asking if M. Laine and his hunting posse had killed a boar (tué un sanglier), they thought that she had implied that he had been out hunting down the Englishman (tué un anglais).

Danielle had other equally down to earth judgements, and was never intimidated by my mother’s occasionally headmistressly air (which probably didn’t translate itself into French). Every holiday my mother would set up her easel and painting stool in some corner of the village and sketch the old houses, farms, village crosses, water troughs, church and school. And most years she would make a Christmas card from one of her drawings or paintings. One Christmas I was greeted by a very indignant neighbour. “That’s not Entre-deux-Eaux”, she accused. I’ve walked Pierre all round, and at no point do the houses look like that. It’s just not true!” And indeed, my mother had made various artistic adjustments to the perspective and layout.

On another occasion, after she’d painted the Vozelle’s farm, and Mme Vozelle had peered with interest over her shoulder, she thoughtfully arranged for the picture to be framed for them. With the true country instinct that you don’t accept something for nothing, Mme Vozelle asked if we’d like some eggs in return. As it happened, we were more in need of some manure for the garden, and they had an enormous muck heap. I’m not quite sure what my mother thought of our receiving a generous pile of muck in return for her artistry.

Leila came over a few weeks ago, along with friends Ann and David (the Harts) who’ve also been coming here ever since we bought the farmhouse, so of course that was a time of looking back and getting out the photograph albums, to settle such questions as, “Which year was the total eclipse and our trip to the Le Corbusier church?” “Was that the same year as that we had so many people at dinner that we had to set up the trestle tables in the barn?” So out came the photo albums.

There indeed were the photos of the Le Corbusier church at Ronchamps, whose calm atmosphere and Bible open at the Ecclesiastes passage about there being a time for everything, inspired her to talk for the only time about what kind of funeral she would like when her time came.

There, too, were numerous photos of large meals on the terrace, or in the shade of the old (converted) wash-house or the big barn or, more recently on the new balcony. We’ve got so used to the grey tiles John laid on the balcony and the grey railings which M. Hollard erected round it (not to mention the heavy sun blind which John, Derek, Roger and Ann installed) that I’d forgotten the summer of 2003, when my mother was here in glorious weather. By then the new upstairs kitchen was in full use, but the balcony was bare and precipitous. We had to hastily amass all our pots of plants and arrange them round the edge of the balcony, to stop my mother from accidentally approaching the edge as we dined al fresco and plunging off into the rubble below.

However there was one nasty fall which we were also reminded of while Leila, Ann and David were here. As rain was forecast, we arranged to visit one of the old silver mines outside Sainte Marie-aux-Mines (the town where the Patchwork festival is held). Many years ago we’d visited one of the mines near the town centre. The photo album shows us all (except my mother) togged up in hard hats and waterproofs. Another memorable shot shows my mother taking a photo nearby. It must have been only seconds before she stepped backwards, tripped over a protruding stone behind her, and hit her head, which of course bled spectacularly. Fortunately she didn’t roll into the fast-flowing stream just behind and I think our friend Margrit, who was with us on that visit, thought we were all very callous, as we cleaned up the blood, set her on her feet again and continued our visit.

On that occasion we had all been shocked by the cramped condition in which the miners worked in the sixteenth century and the slow progress they made with hand-tools. So this time we chose to visit the Gabe Gottes mine which had also been started in the sixteenth century, but enlarged by explosives in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries when not just silver, but also arsenic was sought. We drove behind our guide’s car much further up the wooded hillside to this mine (the whole mountainside must riddled with pits and holes and tunnels from successful and unsuccessful searches). It would have been a really long walk to and from the workings each day. Indeed our guide insisted that more accidents occurred on the way to and from the mines than within them. In a wooden hut, we togged up, and were really glad of the wellingtons, as the tunnels were running with water, and even in these widened tunnels the hard hats and waterproofs were welcome. After threading our way through tunnels, we could see some strange illuminated shapes ahead. A bizarre installation had recently been created by two artists in the deep arsenic pit, entitled “moon garden.” – a creative use of plastic bottles, tubes, bones, metal springs etc.

We had also witnessed a creative use of plastic bottles the previous day, Sunday, vide-grenier day. We’d been to three flea markets. At the first small one Dave had bought a magnificent old mechanical calculator from a defunct Saint Dié firm, Leila had bought a Paddington Bear book in French and I’d backed rapidly away from a stall with a snake. At the second fair at Senones we’d looked at old cars, line-dancing and the presentation of wine awards (as well as the remains of the old palaces and monastery), had sampled some pies and wines and Ann had bought some delicious elderflower wine, and I had bought a rhubarb plant. We took the small road over the hills from Senones (which had been so beautiful in the snow two months earlier), to the hamlet of Denipaire, which always includes children’s projects in their flea market. As we settled down to lunchtime chips and sausages, we noticed the rocket stall. Now David is a rocket enthusiast who has built many innovative rockets over the years to launch at an annual Scottish gathering of enthusiasts. So we all went over to inspect and photograph the boys who were launching their plastic-bottle rockets. It all looked much more fun that the hook-a-duck type attractions more usually provided for children at fairs. And we gather that David is now preparing a short article on the Denipaire rockets.

As we looked back through the photo albums, we realised how many activities my mother had participated in, with her camera at the ready to record events like the drainage excavations, the new bath being carried up the ramp, Toby and John installing the new garage door, the Laines sawing up logs for us, the cows ambling between cowshed and pasture, bulbs being planted, trees being felled, games of boules and Toby, Leila and friends on bicycles. There were also lazy-looking lake-side scenes, featuring Alistair’s or John’s canoe, people with books and my mother at her easel. So it seemed very appropriate when Ann and David spent their last day canoeing on lac Gérardmer.

Another tradition was revived the following week when Toby and his girl friend Stella were with us, and got the bikes down from their hooks in the barn, and, punctures repaired, cycled round the villages between rain showers. Toby also remembered the wood fired oven-baked bread we used to get (before dentists’ bills halted our consumption of baguettes), so we made a special stop at that bakery, but alas it was not as good as he remembered. On their first day, Stella’s birthday, we went to the elegant Ducs de Lorraine restaurant in Epinal, but after a rather wet week we thought another meal out would be fun, and we got the last table at the busy Frankenbourg, which is fast becoming a tradition with them, and was pronounced their favourite still.

Last Thursday, after all our visitors had left, it was the day of the Sainte Marguerite pensioners’ barbecue, which we’d almost forgotten about. The president of the association owns a wooded family plot beside a small fishing lake, which is ideal for barbecues. Every year the group seem to acquire a new length of tenting, so this year there was enough to shelter tables for 80 guests, and the cold food preparation area, while the aperitif table and smoking barbecue remained outside. There was much discussion of the weather, as rain was forecast for the afternoon. These meals are a great occasion for memories and reminiscence as former neighbours get together, and between the courses we heard about garden crops, wood prices v. oil prices, camping holidays of yesteryear and more recent trips to Tunisia (where the French singing shocked the guide). Pudding must have been served around 3.30 or 4 (one looses track on such occasions) when it was getting cooler, and the first of the rain started. Soon after coffee, the accordion player arrived and the singing started (led by the singer who’d disgraced himself in Tunisia). “I think it’s time to go”, whispered John as a few other people left. We were safely in the car on the way home when the next rain shower hit – but maybe by then everyone back at the lakeside was sufficiently insulated by anoraks, wine and the tent (and perhaps the president’s bottle of potent home-distilled pear liqueur had done the rounds by then), so no longer cared about the weather.

Finally, one of those moving vignettes of county life here. Yesterday we walked with many of the same pensioners (clearly fully recovered from their bucolic fête champêtre) above Corcieux. That area is nostalgic for us, as it is where we were camping that hot summer when we saw our Entre-deux-Eaux house in the estate agent’s window. After about an hour of leisurely walking we approached an isolated abandoned farmhouse, surrounded by a meadow of mauve bistort and white (lesser butterfly?) orchids. And then a white-haired, smiling, gentle old man appeared, clutching a lamp. Despite the shuttered windows the house was not deserted. Now in his eighties, he’d lived there all his life, solitary since the death of his parents, and, more recently, the sale of his cows to neighbours. He seemed delighted to have company passing along the footpath, and chatted about various farms, before waving us on our way. Later we caught up with him taking a box of cat food in his old red car to a neighbouring farm, as his own cat had just died and he wouldn’t be getting another.

Oh, just one more rural thought, for those of you who’ve been following the stone marten story with bated breath. The smell in our bedroom was so appalling when we returned after my mother’s funeral, that we just knew that the beast had been very active whilst we were away. In fact we thought a whole family must have been enjoying our hospitality, as the attic was badly soiled as well. So John set to, cut another hole in the bedroom ceiling, scraped out the mess, disinfected, and, when the weather permitted, got out the ladders and blocked up all the accessible gaps under the eaves with bricks, chicken wire and cement, and … ordered a trap. We left the mess in the attic, to preserve the marten’s favourite scent, and when the trap arrived, John baited it with an egg and put it in the attic. The first night the egg vanished, but there was no occupant in the trap. After the second night, however, the trap contained a small hissing and shrieking furry animal. It would have looked quite sweet, were it not for the sharp teeth with which it snapped viciously at anything that approached. We didn’t think that any farmers or hen-keepers would be happy if we released it some distance away from us. And indeed Farmer Duhaut had no questions in mind about its fate when he turned up with his rifle. Despite my vegetarian upbringing, I could feel no regrets, as I set to with scraper, scrubbing brush and disinfectant to clean up its attic legacy. But that may not be the end of the story as our invader (variously christened “Fluffy”, “Cuddles” or “Cyril”) no doubt has siblings and parents out there somewhere.

Click on this link to download an Adobe Acrobat version which you can print out E2EYear6Weeks32-45.pdf

Winter here is a time for village hibernation, hospital operations, logging and muck-spreading. There has been very little snow this year, the sunny days have enticed us out on walks, but the dull grey days in between have just encouraged the withdrawn life of reading, computers, meals, TV and wood fires. So not much news!

However, today, 9th March, is an important day for the future of Entre-deux-Eaux. It is election day for the commune’s council and mayor. The last municipal election was six years ago, a couple of months before we moved here. So we decided to take our new democratic responsibilities seriously, for we can vote in municipal and European elections, though not cantonal and certainly not national ones (we’re not responsible for Sarko).

The election boards in most communes are plastered with the photos of rival party leaders, each of whom has a proposed list of candidates. However there is no such political rivalry in Entre-deux-Eaux. We just got a single hand-delivered letter in our post box inviting us to a meeting with the present mayor and council, all of whom (apart from one) are standing for re-election on a united front, whatever their personal politics. We received no rival communications, and later heard that no opposition had dared to present itself for election.

So on Wednesday night, when most good farmers are going to bed, we ventured out into the frosty night to hear the achievements, manifesto and debate. The turn-out was limited, and the mayor lamented the fact that new-comers hadn’t come to find out more about their decision-makers. He regarded his two Brits with some uncertainty initially (there are communes, after all, where the English have taken over the council and even the mayoral position and John did shout at him once when he was digging up trees on the edge of our land without explanation!). But in the end, when we had held our tongues and made no criticisms, he permitted himself to introduce us to the rest of the audience and even to promise that our road was on the programme for repairs this year.

The mayor, flanked by his faithful councillors (had Farmer Duhaut, one of his two deputies, had a neat haircut and shave for the occasion?) first outlined the virtues of the outgoing council. Firstly independence: Entre-deux-Eaux has remained fiercely independent, refusing to join with surrounding communes to form a canton or community of communes, in which Entre-deux-Eaux’s interests would be submerged and we’d be paying out for other communes’ ambitious follies. [Others might deduce that Entre-deux-Eaux has its head firmly buried in the sand and will never make progress!]. Secondly stability: Entre-deux-Eaux had been successfully steered for the last twenty five years, after the overthrow of the previous disastrous mayor, by many of the present council. [Could be seen as a lack of new ideas]. Thirdly prudence: local taxes had remained the lowest of all the surrounding communes [Some might say there is a corresponding lack of new facilities and some huge increases when imposed changes have to be implemented]. And finally it is a welcoming community. Most of his audience looked surprised when he mentioned the welcome extended to newcomers and the invitation to join in all the activities. “What activities?” asked a lady in the front row. “The club of the third age is very lively and there is always cake”, replied the mayor. As most of the incomers are young couples and families, this was not over-convincing.

After outlining the future programme of road repairs and obligatory sewerage the mayor asked, rather nervously if there were any questions. I’m not sure what you’d expect to be the big issues for Entre-deux-Eaux. But they turned out to be: Sewerage, Teenagers and Crosses.

Being a rural community, everyone is perfectly accustomed to having a fosse septique for their sewage, even if they don’t comply with recent regulations about having them emptied every four years by a qualified firm. So the idea of Europe imposing an expensive system of piping and centralised treatment is not popular. Entre-deux-Eaux’s 450 residents are insufficient to merit their own sewage treatment plant. And since the commune occupies two sides of a hill, its sewage would have to flow in two directions or involve expensive pumping. The nearest treatment facility on our side of the hill is in Saulcy-sur- Meurthe, which already has more than it can cope with (and Mandray also wants to use the facility). An earnest lecture then followed from the councillor who works at the Saulcy facility. Sadly there are incomers there who don’t like the fields round them being sprayed with treated sewage, and other disposal options are very expensive. It was suggested from the floor that if the mayor wants a well-attended meeting, the topic of sewerage would attract a large audience.

A man at the back started to raise an issue dear to his heart, whereupon a furious onslaught from the councillors’ table at the front was unleashed. It turned out that the man had been foolish enough to try and speak at a Council Meeting, and everyone knows that you can’t do that, – you are only allowed to observe the wisdom of the elders. So they had all decided that they would not listen to him at all as he was an extremely rude and abusive man. However, in perfectly reasonable tones, the man proceeded to say that if he didn’t speak up for the young people of the village, who would? All they wanted was some kind of facility (even a bus shelter to congregate in appeared to be an issue – it would attract the vandalising riff-raff of other communes).

When he had been shouted down on that issue, he, again in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice, mentioned the disappearing calvaires of Entre-deux-Eaux. Over the ages carved stone crosses have been erected at several road junctions in the village and the French language entry for Entre-deux-Eaux on Wikipedia mentions its Promenade des Calvaires (along with the 18th century church, the ruins of the mines and the characteristic architectural style with double doors for the hay-wains). We too had been saddened by the vanishing heritage. The cross at the bottom of our road was the first disappearance we registered. It was in fact a wooden one with a rather fine bronze sculpted figure of Jesus. John used his photo of a bicycle leaning against it for a long-ago Christmas card. But the commune employee dug it up when a large cistern (containing a pump providing water from Saint Leonard to the village) was installed, and for several years, on the pretext that the wood was rotting, he has been reluctant to replace the cross. Another calvaire has either disappeared beneath or been demolished by a large pile of gravel at a crossroads opposite the famous cherry tree. This was probably the cross to which the mayor referred when he answered that its re-installation was being delayed until it was decided whether to construct a roundabout on the site. Then recently we noticed the stone cross beyond Vozelle’s farm lying in sections on the ground, looking as if a large lorry or muck-spreader had toppled it. What pertinent questions the dissident was asking, we thought.

Another bit of local history then surfaced. The above-mentioned cherry tree. During the last war two unfortunate young resistance workers from Plainfaing had been hanged from the tree after they were captured by the Germans following an allied parachute drop of guns and equipment. Sadly the tree had been chopped down after Christmas. The mayor replied that he had notified Plainfaing’s mayor that it was rotten and unsafe, and it was they, as those responsible for the memorial and the tree, who had cut it down. (One of our two cherry trees blew down this winter, after becoming dead and rotten, so we understood the problem). However, he said, there were no plans to replace the tree. Our parsimonious council seems to have no feeling for history or landscape. Who would think that our mayor used to be a teacher!

Unlike Entre-deux-Eaux, Saint Dié has four rival lists of election candidates: The present ruling Socialists, the Right, the Left, and the Communists. So their mayor has to be out publicising himself at every opportunity. He draws attention, in the monthly newsletter to Saint Dié residents, to his vast program for reform, civic improvements and culture, and is photographed with his team in front of each road widening, new roundabout, local meeting and cultural event. So it was not surprising to see him at February’s AGM of the Saint Dié Walking Group. That might seem a non-political venue, but he shrewdly promised the group new headquarters, and it was a well attended meeting, thanks to the practise of offering champagne and holding a three-course lunch after the AGM. After the shambles of the Walking Group AGM a couple of years ago, it was a relief to see that the new committee seemed to have got affairs back onto an even keel. The meeting ran to time, the elections were undisputed, and concerns were noted and action promised. We also stood in a minute’s silence for a delightful nonagenarian Auguste who had died during the course of the year (apparently his coffin had been borne into the packed church with his walking poles and cap on top.) Proceedings were only disrupted when the ex-President arrived half way through and insisted on walking round shaking hands with people and talking very loudly to them!

The museum curator was more firm about electioneering when the Mayor of Saint Dié turned up to the opening of the water-colour exhibition at the museum. He said that the mayor was there as a fellow-artist and exhibitor, and so could not address the throng. However, the mayor networked efficiently after the speeches, and I was nearly presented to him, on the assumption that I was Nicola (who’d been invited to exhibit two paintings).

However, we didn’t see Saint Dié’s mayor at the annual Amnesty Book Fair yesterday. No doubt he had more pressing pre-occupations. Although he could well have set up a photo-opportunity earlier in the day. In the foreign language section we found plenty of English books to rummage through, to supplement our reading matter. John idly fingered an account of our queen’s coronation and a lavishly illustrated 1940s children’s book on Red Indians, and I bought some Arnold Bennett.

Mention of Nicola leads me on to doctors. For it was on her recommendation that we’d first gone to Dr T in Saint Dié (when I needed a repeat prescription). Nicola felt his heavy bookshelves, bound medical volumes, and enormous leather-topped desk were reassuring. And I found that he was perfectly OK at doling out repeat prescriptions, though his appointment system seemed a little old fashioned. You just turn up at the surgery waiting room, count the number of people already there, and calculate whether the doctor can fit you in before lunch, at a work-rate of 15 mins per patient. (Patient etiquette also requires that you simultaneously greet the entire waiting room, and later bid them farewell when your turn arrives). Each appointment costs 22 euro, payable across the leather-topped desk directly to the doctor. Home visits cost more, so locums have found that Dr T seemed quite happy to fit home visits in between patients’ hair appointments, instead of making them come into the surgery. I began to be aware that Dr T felt that it was uneconomic therefore for him to deal with two matters in one consultation. He even said that writing a repeat prescription and also filling in three boxes in an necessary official form were too much for one 15 minute appointment. I’d also found him completely unhelpful recently over the skin cancer, merely saying that having referred me to a dermatologist, it was no longer his concern.

John had never felt that Dr T was concerned with the whole patient, and had long since stopped going to him, although under the new health regulations, you are meant to declare your doctor. So when he wanted a flu injection this winter he decided to try the practice of the two doctors in the next village, Saulcy-sur-Meurthe. We were impressed, when we went through the door, to discover that the doctors shared a secretary and had an appointment system. Also small children were not expected to wait in silence on adult wooden chairs, but were provided with toys. So John booked in, and I accompanied him.

We were further impressed when the new doctor explained that they were a community based practice, limiting numbers so as to serve their community better, but as Entre-deux-Eaux has no doctor, he was prepared to accept John. Whereupon he took a full medical history, and decided to tackle John’s blood pressure, cholesterol and painful knees as a first priority in improving his general fitness and health. So John walked out with prescriptions for blood tests, X-rays and MRI scans – as well as having had his flu injection. We did observe that the appointments system was in fact no more efficient than Dr T’s, as the new doctor spends so much time on each patient that you always wait at least half an hour, even if the waiting room is empty! That first appointment lasted over an hour and the next wasn’t much shorter.
Following the knee scans, Dr P wrote John a prescription for the consultant of his choice. It is a bit difficult to choose when you don’t know the consultants. Though as Madame Laine was in pain from knee surgery at Saint Dié, and Madame Georgeon (further along our road) was about to have a knee operation in Epinal, there were some satisfaction ratings available. When pressed, Dr P recommended another Epinal surgeon.

We had an early morning appointment in Epinal. The surgeon decided not to operate as he thought that what John needed was more exercise to build up the muscles above his knees. So he recommended swimming, cycling and walking with air-cushioned shoes, and he wrote a prescription for twenty sessions of physiotherapy. So then John had to choose a physiotherapist. None of this waiting around for an appointment to be sent to you. You just make your own appointment with the person of your choice. A new practice has just opened between Saulcy and Sainte Marguerite, so John presented himself there, but so far he doesn’t seem too impressed with actions. And treatment has been halted during a debilitating cold. Meanwhile I have transferred my affections to Dr P as well – though have not managed to get my notes transferred from Dr T (fortunately, in France the patient gets copies of all tests and consultants’ reports and retains x-rays etc., so it is only the doctor’s own notes which need to be transferred – and from what we have seen Dr T’s notes seem rather skimpy).

I can’t remember if John used his dodgy knees as an excuse for not attending the Sainte Marguerite pensioners galette des rois in January. He certainly found it extremely boring in previous years. But then he’s not a great one for dancing! The festivities started with everyone sitting at tables sipping champagne in a decorous manner. But soon the dancing started, with much whirling and twirling and complicated steps (no one just shuffles uncomfortably). Then there was a slight pause for the eating of the almond-flavoured epiphany tart. Each galette contained a charm, and one lucky finder had to put on a gold cardboard crown and be “Queen” and dance with another who was “King”, which occasioned much hilarity. After more dancing, a chunk of brioche was served, and later still some coffee. By this time things were getting really animated, with whole tables performing a stand-up, sit-down, clap-hands routine, and the ever-popular line-dancing. With the pace getting too hot, the oldest Scrabble player and I beat a retreat at that point.

The next dance in Entre-deux-Eaux seems to be that of the Shooting Club. Ah yes, now there’s another welcoming new activity for newcomers to our village – shooting. I can’t imagine the dance being as much fun as the November Firemen’s Ball, though.

We can’t finish this, leaving you in suspense about the election results. So here they are: unsurprisingly, after 279 of the 392 potential voters exercised their rights, all the councillors in Entre-deux-Eaux have been re-elected without need for a further round of voting next Sunday (though Farmer Duhaut appears to have made a few enemies as he had fewer votes than the others). In Saint Dié, the Communists received insufficient votes (8.08%) to proceed to the next round, the Mayor’s party list are currently in the lead with 42.87% of the votes, while the right has 32.5%, but the second round could overturn that lead. Will the Mayor of Saint Dié survive? Watch this space.

A la prochaine!

Below, for those interested in the fine detail of the electoral system, John has produced a short guide, as French local elections are very different from those we have come to accept as the norm. Basically there are separate rules for communes with more than 3,500 electors and those with less than 3,500 (and for Lyon, Marseilles and Paris there are different rules again).

For those villages and small towns of under 3,500, every group/party has the right to produce a list of candidates, and voters can select candidates from one or more of those lists, crossing out those the voter doesn’t want – more a case of voting against than voting for. The votes for each candidate are counted separately. Candidates getting an absolute majority and the support of over a quarter of the registered electors are elected. If there are still places to fill a further election is held a week later and the top-scoring candidates are elected.

For communes with 3,500 or more inhabitants a two-ballot list system is used to elect councillors. Voters are given ballot papers with complete lists of candidates representing the different parties and have to vote for a single list; they cannot delete or add names or change the order of candidates on a list. If a list obtains the absolute majority in the first round, it is awarded a number of seats equal to half the seats to be filled. The other seats are distributed between all the lists by a system of the highest averages system of proportional representation. Otherwise a second round of elections is held the following Sunday. Only lists which have obtained 10% of the votes cast may go forward to the second round. The list which obtains the most votes is awarded a number of seats equal to half the seats to be filled. The other seats are distributed among all the lists by the highest averages system (Distribution “by the highest averages” means calculating for each list what would be the average of votes obtained per seat allocated if each one were hypothetically granted an extra seat. The list which obtains the highest average gets a seat. The operation is repeated as many times as there are still seats to be filled. Once the number of seats allocated to each list is known, the next step is to determine which candidates will get them. The general procedure is to follow the order in which they appear on the list).

The mayor is elected by the new council. To be elected mayor, a candidate must have obtained the absolute majority of votes cast in the first or second round. If after two rounds no candidate has obtained this, a third round of elections takes place and the candidate with the most votes is elected.

We were sent a voting card a few days before the election date. On presenting it at the polling station (the scrutineers were all retiring councillors on the list!) we were given a small blue envelope and told to pick up a copy of the list. In the booth there was no pen or pencil! The list is put in envelope and that goes into the ballot box unless you decide to abstain when an empty envelope goes into the box.