To download a printable PDF version (no pictures) click on this link
E2E2012no4.pdf (five A4 pages)

December 1st and the fields and trees outside are crisp and white with frost in the morning sunshine. Yesterday we had a light sprinkling of overnight snow (not the first end of the year, as there had also been flurries at the end of October). Cheered by the sunshine at the end of a grey week, we decided to go to Nancy. The hilly scenery soon opened out into flat fields of pasture, winter wheat or bare ploughed furrows, and a more distant horizon. A bird of prey hunched on the overhead cables, huge balls of mistletoe festooned the copses of bare trees, reed plumes and teazles along rivers, ponds and ditches glistened regally in the sunlight, and there were flashes of scarlet hips and lemon yellow birch leaves.

Nancy’s Place Stanislas was tarted up for its 250th anniversary seven years ago and still presents scrubbed white façades and flashy gold on the ornamental wrought ironwork. Having bought photo quality printing paper (for some of our Christmas cards), we parked near Place Stanislas and headed for a scruffy looking but well-recommended, tiny, unimposing on the outside, restaurant, Le Cosmopolitain, behind the covered market. Inside it was small but elegant and packed, mostly with young business people. It’s not often, these days, that you find a good two-course meal with coffee for 10.90€, which added to the pleasure.

After setting out in different directions to explore the shops, we later met up unexpectedly in the covered market and had another coffee. Outside the market, wooden cabins were being erected and Christmas trees planted ready for the Christmas market and tomorrow the main streets will be closed for the Saint Nicolas procession. We were glad to enjoy Nancy and its shops on a “normal” day and equally happy to see the distant whiteness of the mountains as we drove home. The last two and a half months feel as if they’ve been dominated by maintenance work — house, body and car. But there have been the usual autumn highlights like the patchwork festival and the geography festival and the pleasure of sharing some of them with visitors.

The patchwork festival brings to life the surprising number of old churches (also a former bank, the theatre and a mansion) in Sainte-Marie-aux-Mines and neighbouring villages in the Val d’Argent, trailing and draping colour from the organ lofts, pulpits, stage and counter as well as walls and windows. John came, rather reluctantly, for the first time (as we had visiting friends of his), and outside the first large church of the Madeleine spotted a stall with Moroccan leather slippers (no trace of patchwork!); the perfect birthday present to replace his old ones, which he’d bought in Marrakesh in 2004, through which a toe had bored a hole.

You always see things differently through the eyes of friends, with Julia’s focus on techniques, Graham’s scientific / mathematical approach and John’s photographic approach. The colours, as ever, were stunning. The former tobacco industrialist’s Villa Burrus in Sainte-Croix-aux-Mines displayed delicate Japanese quilts indoors and patchwork flowerbeds with eye-catching sculpted heads outside. From there we drove down the wine-route, with the vine leaves golden in the evening sun, to the mediaeval walled village of Riquewihr. Near the upper gateway we had an enjoyable dinner at one of our current favourite restaurants, Au Trotthus.

We had an equally good lunch there the following month when Leila, Stella and Jacob were with us. This time it was grey and drizzly outside, but we did sneak a quick walk round the cobbled streets and tiny shops. The food was as good as before, but we were very conscious of the Maitre d’s disapproval at our lowering the tone of his establishment with a CHILD. Jacob, at 18 months, had no such inhibitions and, when not eating the food we’d brought, relished dipping into Leila’s creamy mushroom amuse bouche, and munching pieces of chicken wakame, shrimps, mussels, toast and terrine, and apple tart, though considered the service rather slow, so got down and played by the table, which of course incommoded the bustling Maitre d’. However, chef kindly came several times and gave him great bear hugs.

We had brilliant sunshine for the Saint Dié braderie while Graham and Julia were with us. We headed through the food, clothes, linen, leather, balloon and boiled sweet stalls to the flea market at the centre and browsed among old books, furniture and knick-knacks, emerging after a couple of hours with the Little House on the Prairie series of books (in French) and some new tea towels. On the other hand, the weather was grey and miserable for the Ban-de-Laveline flea-market while Leila, Stella and Jacob were with us. Our car Bluto was reluctant to start, Jacob wasn’t feeling happy (probably still tired from their journey out the previous day), and everything seemed pricey, so it was not such a successful event!

It’s interesting how different even Entre-deux-Eaux looks through visitors’ eyes. Walking round with Shelagh, Melvyn and the excitable small Prinz (I’m not good on dogs, but think Prinz has Cavalier King Charles Spaniel pedigree), we encountered all the village dogs and cats. The Alsatian-cross, chained outside the “drug dealer’s” shack, struggled, as ever, to break his bonds and gobble up this small intruder. Ex-farmer Duhaut’s large aged golden dog lumbered up affably, telling us about his poorly leg. Behind him was the new pavilion (bungalow) Duhaut is having built, and behind that the new two rental apartments above old farm buildings (were they pig, cattle or machinery housing before?). Jacob was, of course equally interested in all these dogs, and specially liked the six that rushed out of the next farm, Vozelle’s, and licked him enthusiastically and accompanied us till we had left “their” section of the road. But we had to stop to look at the hens by their stream and the geese, who were fortunately involved in a loud and bitter dispute of their own. But the highlight, for Jacob, was being ushered into Madame Laine’s poultry enclosure and running around among her birds, then having some of the fat rabbits lifted out of their hutches and held firmly by the ears to be stroked. The little tricycle we’d bought for a euro in a flea market was great for these expeditions. Jacob was more cautious, however, about the ride-on tractor and contented himself with pushing Teddy round on it.

At first he insisted on being carried by Mummy in the field to see the cows, but he was soon following John, clutching the faithful Teddy, through the long grass on masculine tours of inspection of the orchard, drains and “arboretum”. The arboretum has suffered from deer chewing the bark and rodents chewing through the base of the slender trunks. So the new trees which his sister Ann and Derek gave John for his birthday have more substantial protection, including wire fencing and bright orange plastic tubing. (And with this years bulb plantings we’re trying net onion bags and cardboard egg boxes as anti-rodent protection!) But so much for small dogs and boys to look at (and sniff out) locally.

It was the night before Leila, Stella and Jacob’s flight out that we had our first snow, and it was still falling as we crossed le Bonhomme. The gritters, however had prepared well. Stella and I thought it would be good to take a walk through the snow and drove up one day towards le Hohneck. I was being cautious, as our smaller car, Snowy, does not have winter tyres. I was glad I stopped at the point I did as we later saw a car stuck on the road up to the café at the summit. “No winter tyres!” exclaimed a man in camouflage who had helped push them. But it was worth the leisurely walk up through the trees to the ridge and spectacular views. The sun was out, the snow glistering and scrunchy beneath our boots, and the orange lollipop poles marked the track out in the snow. The hot chocolate at the top was good too. Jacob had to content himself with pressing his nose to the living room window and watching the snowflakes on the balcony and the birds coming to feed. Long after they had left, I kept hearing little cries of “Birdy!” whenever a bird landed on the food.

Saint Dié’s International Geography Festival (known affectionately by locals as le FIG) had a cover-all theme this year : Les facettes du paysage, nature, culture, economie. Few of the geographical lectures appealed to me, apart from one on landscape in Tolkien. I don’t think the organisers realised quite what a large cult following Tokien has. They did move the talk to a larger area of the library than the advertised one, but by the time I discovered the change, the old reference library was crowded out and it was impossible to hear from outside. However, the invited country was Turkey, and the literary talks about Turkish authors were interesting. The first I went to was in a huge hall with an audience of eight (now why didn’t they use that for the Tolkien talk?), but so interesting that I ended up buying a novel by Sait Faik Abasiyanik and an autobiographical volume by his translator into French. There was another interesting talk on Pierre Loti and Turkey, and the opportunity to see the haunting film “Once upon a time in Anatolia”, (a film with a 15 certificate in the UK which had no classification in the programme and a teacher had brought a junior school class to see, the teacher finally ushered the children out a few minutes before the end when a graphic autopsy took place). John only went to one of the cookery demonstrations (alas, not Turkish food), as the others had little out of the ordinary. The Turkish food tent was busy though, and there was a lively Turkish street band with dancer.

In between these activities and visits, house improvements continued with the installation of photovoltaic panels on the south-facing roof. Fortunately there were no serious mishaps in the process. The man who measured up arrived on a wet day and scrambled around on the slippery roof with no safety helmet or other protection – and looked considerably paler-faced by the time he descended. The van bringing ladders and safety netting on the first day decided to turn on the field and got stuck in the mud; fortunately the milk tanker was just returning from the cattle shed at the end of the road and kindly pulled it out. The lorry delivering the panels and electrical boxes was more prudent and turned at the end of the road before unloading. While it was blocking our narrow road the impatient farmers in a car attempted a turn in the other field and also got stuck (it has been rather a wet autumn). But after that things proceeded smoothly, and we now await connection to the grid by EDF and possible inspection by the mysterious sounding Consuel. Their approval (they only physically visit about one-in-five installations of electricians they generally trust) and certificate is necessary before EDF will return and put the final fuse in. But when we went to change our house insurance, we learned of an unforeseen French hazard for solar panels: huntsmen firing at them when hunting (was the man joking?) Perhaps we shouldn’t risk cheering as the deer cunningly zig-zag up the side of the orchard away from the shots (we’ve seen that twice already this autumn). Autumn maintenance included a boiler check, a once-in-twelve years oil tank sludge clean-out and fresh oil delivery for the winter ahead. John is currently making enquiries about geothermal heating, and we are finally arranging to have the now muddy area at the front and side of the house tarmaced.

As for body maintenance: John had day surgery (in Saint Dié’s new hospital block) on his out-turning eyelid which had been causing scratching of the eye, redness and irritation. He was allocated his own room with bed, ensuite shower and loo. English patients must be a rarity (or else I was a very bad patient) as one of the nurses remembered me from five years ago. Work was still being done in parts of the new hospital block and some of the accommodation was temporary, so there were no signs up at that stage, just one very busy lady directing bewildered patients to different sections along multi-coloured but otherwise bare corridors. Arriving in the right place felt quite a triumph. There is a shortage currently of ophthalmologists and dentists in France, so perhaps it was fortunate that John was critical enough to be seen within a week at the hospital and operated on a fortnight later. I had to travel over an hour to Strasbourg to get a routine eye test. Then, clutching my new prescription, I toured the opticians in Sainte Marguerite and Saint Dié (no shortage of retail outlets) obtaining widely varying quotes for supplying lenses to my existing glasses. Ophthalmologists (eleven years of medical training and many now charging a lot more than the state will reimburse for an examination) and dispensing opticians are mostly separate businesses in France. More recently, opticians have been allowed to do simple eye tests just to check for minor variations from prescriptions up to three-years old, presumably to try to alleviate the shortage? Jacob seemed entranced by all the long mirrors in the optician I chose (the cheapest quote), and ran round looking in all the mirrors as I tried on my new glasses. As for my dentist, he was looking well-tanned when I got an appointment after his month away (more shortages and long waits). And his surgery has a lot of new paintings up (all his own work, presumably over his long break). However, he has had time to do some temporary work (so I can stop chewing the cloves), and proposes expensive work after Christmas.

Our main car, Bluto, however is in a less fortunate state. We were getting increasingly worried about problems starting and had booked a service and check in Epinal where there is a larger Toyota workshop. But the day before the service, Bluto refused point-blank to start. Unfortunately he was in the garage, and his insurance only covers break-downs over 25 km from home (no AA/RAC in France but most car insurance policies include it as an extra). Even the break-down driver was unable to elicit any signs of life and Bluto was towed out of the garage and taken ignominiously away to the Toyota garage in Saint Dié. Unfortunately there is only one mechanic/lad working there (who, incidentally, looks remarkably like Tintin) and they could give us no idea when Tintin could look at Bluto, who currently is now languishing forlornly in the car park. Our pleas that we wish to drive to England shortly fell on deaf ears. Since I started writing, snow has been falling. Will snow-covered Bluto recover in time for Christmas? Will Snowy have to be pressed back into long-distance service? Will we see you?

Next week the postman will call with his calendars, Saint Nicolas will visit the children in Entre-deux-Eaux and the neighbouring villages will turn on their Christmas lights. We hope you have all escaped the autumn floods and landslides and enjoy your December preparations. We hope to catch up with as many as possible of you over Christmas and New Year.

To download a printable PDF version click on this link E2E2012_issue_1-A.pdf (four A4 pages)

We thoroughly enjoyed the time we spent in the UK over Christmas with friends and family, watching Jacob’s latest achievement (look at me standing up without holding on!) and catching up on news and exhibitions. And thanks to our main hosts, Jessica and Mark, where we prolonged our stay in order to see everyone! The feasting and festivities, whether traditional English, Indian or Tunisian were wonderful.

But the festivities were not over when we returned to Entre-deux-Eaux. In fact group celebrations seemed just to be starting! First came Friday evening’s Cérémonie des Voeux at which the Mayor of Entre-deux-Eaux welcomed villagers with a glass of crémant (Alsace sparkling wine) or kir and nibbles and gave a speech about the year’s events and issues – mainly sewage and com-coms, both of which are unresolved.

There are so many layers of bureaucracy, the French government is trying to rationalise one of them by merging communes into groupings with populations of no less than 5,000 and hopefully more than 12,000 inhabitants. There are currently about 36,000 communes in France, each with their own mayor and council (including six where there are no longer any inhabitants so the departmental prefect appoints a mayor!). In the Vosges department (population about 380,000) there are 515 communes giving an average population of about 420 if the 160,000 in Epinal, Saint-Dié-des-Vosges and Remiremont are excluded.

Most communes are now considered to be too small to be efficient: what is needed are communities of communes (com-coms). Our mayor and council have no wish to be allied with other communes and to pay for their grandiose projects and follies. Whilst many of the communes around us have already grouped together (and built new headquarters which look unused most of the time), ours has tarried. No-one want to be be married to big-spending Saint Dié, which also hasn’t found partners. Nor do we want to be part of a belt of commuter communes encircling Saint Dié. We only want to be with other little rural communes which are happy logging and selling wood to keep down local taxes and are prudent spenders. Eventually the council decided that maybe we could just about face joining with two or three rural communes in the Fave valley. But then came the latest pronouncement from on high: we should be submerged in a group of twenty-three communes around the river Fave. Horror and protest all round. The uncertainty continues. Meanwhile the issue of providing a modern sewerage system for both sides of the hill is also still unresolved. Septic Tanks Rule OK!

And it’s not just the secular organisation. The local churches are also having to look at new ways of working. When we first came to the village, the church had its own curé or parish priest and held the usual masses on Sundays and feast days. In recent years the paroisses (parishes) had to join together and share the curé of Saint Leonard, and Entre-deux-Eaux had fewer than six services a year in its own church. Since the retirement last year of the two curés in the region (who seem to have been brothers – real, blood ones), the ten parishes in the valley of the Meurthe have had work together as a community of parishes (are they therefore a com-par?) to examine what can be done by the laity. Interestingly, the grouping of parishes is quite different geographically from the proposed secular grouping, favouring the side of the River Meurthe rather than the River Fave which could be the two eaux between which our village lies (if eaux wasn’t a mis-hearing of hauts when the communes were documented after the revolution).

The next crémant occasion was the next day, Saturday, when the pensioners of Sainte Marguerite celebrated with galette des rois (the frangipane tart of the three kings), crémant, and dancing. The dancing was as skilful as ever, including the nostalgic twist, the music was loud, and everyone howled the chorus of what was obviously an old favourite, “Ali Baba”, and joined in the conga as it spiralled, split and reformed.

And almost before one could recover from the excitement, there was the Entre-deux-Eaux mayor’s lunch for the over 65s on the Sunday, which of course started with a glass of kir. This was John’s first experience, as an over 65, of the leisurely drinking and eating, punctuated again with dancing. He was fortunately seated next to the husband of the president of the oldies club, who took it upon himself to gently exercise John’s French, by speaking slowly and clearly. My neighbour, on the other hand, was very difficult to understand. The Vosgian accent can sound thick and slurred, but this was impenetrable. It was a relief when his cousin opposite explained that he was deaf from birth and an embarrassment to realize that he was saying he remembered meeting me in our early days here (when I hadn’t understood what he’d come to our house for – we’d been asking around about accommodation for my mother as we weren’t sure the decoration of the downstairs bedroom would be finished). However, by the time we’d worked our way through the courses (provided by a restaurant in Fraize) and their accompanying glasses of wine, and were on to the extremely strong home-brewed pear or blueberry liqueurs, nobody was too bothered. The accordionist was playing and people were dancing and we were idly wondering why the fireman’s wife had a black eye. We walked home that night, but were a bit worried that everyone else seemed to be driving.

Four days later it was the AGM of the oldies group, which turns out not to be called the Club des Anciens, as Madame Laine refers to it, but the more elegant sounding Association La Vie du Bon Coté. The business was quickly dealt with and next year’s subscriptions extracted. A few extra people then turned up (mainly husbands like John, who’d been invited to join in) and we settled down for the lunch which seems to be a popular follow-up to many a local AGM. The meal for sixty people had been cooked this time by the fireman’s wife (her eye was looking much better by now) with the aid of the fireman. As the meal neared its end, John was introduced to the fun of the cheese song (below); it’s about maggots breeding in a Camembert and during each chorus the men stand up and sit down (first lines), the women stand up and sit down (next lines), the men stand up and sit down (following lines) and the women ditto (last lines). Does this help digestion of the Camembert? Lunch over, the visiting husbands all slunk home, whilst the club members settled down to the usual cards, gossip, and, on our table, a couple of convivial games of scrabble with a new member. And just in case anyone was still hungry, January’s three birthdays were celebrated a little later with crémant and galettes des rois.

The AGM of the Philomatique was a much more serious and detailed affair, as befits a learned society dealing with all aspects of local and regional history. The president was at great pains to emphasise the value of the work done by the society and the respect it has beyond Saint Dié, whilst, sadly, it continues to be cold-shouldered within Saint Dié by the mayor and council. We saw a short presentation on endangered buildings and features in Saint Dié where restoration proposals are usually ignored. There was an interesting presentation on the work done by the Temps de Guerre section to have the Vosges recognised in the forthcoming national and international commemorations of the 1914-18 war, with 1916 being the particular year dedicated to the mountain warfare here. In October some of you walked along a short section of the German lines at the col de Hermanpaire with Helen; a plan to fund several similar guided footpaths round other sections of the Vosgian front is taking shape, and it is hoped that the whole network of sentiers de mémoire will obtain UNESCO world heritage site status. At the end of the AGM a recently-made film was shown about the events at a farm at Viombois on 4th September 1944 when fifty seven of the maquis, who had been waiting for a parachute drop by the English (which didn’t take place) were surrounded and killed in a battle lasting all day. It was based on the memories of survivors, one of whom was there to join in the discussions afterwards.

One of the festivities that we forgot to celebrate this year was Chandeleur, or Candlemas on February 2nd. That morning, on the car radio, I’d heard snatches of spoof interviews with prominent political figures, – a bellowing Jean-Marie Le Pen, a sexy-voiced Dominique Strauss-Kahn, a prissy-sounding François Hollande, – giving their recipes for crêpes (pancakes) to the giggling presenters. John stocked up on eggs. But by evening it had slipped from our minds (must be old age) and John made a large pizza. We’ll just have to be thoroughly English and have our crêpes on Shrove Tuesday instead of beignets (doughnuts).

Since then, temperatures have dropped here (we’ve had a week of temperatures down as low as -17ºC at night not rising above zero during the day), though, unlike parts of the UK, we have had only a sprinkling of snow. The wood stove has been lit all-day every day, and we’ve enjoyed its comfortable glow. Downstairs the water froze in the washing machine pump, for the first time, and trickles of water from the defrosting (deliberately, this time!) freezer have frozen on the tiled floor, making a treacherous surface. (But at least we had no need to find a temporary cold storage area for the freezer contents). Inside the farmhouse a layer of ice has formed in the hall in front of the front door, where the condensation on the glass has run down in the daytime sunshine and then frozen. And John has found it very cold out in his workshop, where he has been making a splendid low table for the television, and a nest of side tables. We’ve just ordered some roller shutters (electrically operated!), to replace the rotting wooden shutters, which should aid with insulation – winter warmth and summer shade. They’ll have to wait for warmer weather to be installed, though. In quieter moments we have been working our way steadily through books and DVDs acquired over Christmas (we’re in the midst of a Danish “Killing” spree at the moment, with the first series). During the cold spell there has also been the annual amateur theatre performance preceded by hearty meal at Saulxures, a pleasant walk on the wooded slopes at Taintrux, and an extremely disappointing meal at a Michelin-recommended restaurant in Turckheim. But now it feels time to sit back for a while and relish the rural tranquillity before our next trip to the UK.

A bientôt!
[wpcol_1half id=”” class=”” style=””] La chanson du fromage
(sur l’air de Étoile des neiges)

Dans un coin perdu de fromage
Un tout petit asticot
Faisait de la barre fix’ en s’tordant les boyaux
Sur une vieille lame de couteau

REFRAIN
Étoile des crèmes
Mon beau camembert
C’est toi que j’aime
Comme dessert
Après le potage
Après les faillots
Roi des fromages
De tous les mets
T’es bien l’plus beau
[/wpcol_1half][wpcol_1half_end id=”” class=”” style=””]

Il se disait dans son langage
Il me faudrait un jumeau
Nous pourrions vivre dans le livarot
Près de la vieille lame de couteau

REFRAIN

Le ciel entendit sa prière
Et l’on put voir aussitôt
Sortir un à un et au triple galop
Toute une confrérie d’asticots

REFRAIN

Depuis ce jour dans l’fromage
Plusieurs centaines d’asticots
Font de la barre fixe en s’tordant les boyaux
Autour d’une vieille lame de couteau. [/wpcol_1half_end]

To download a printable Adobe Acrobat version click on this link E2E2011_issue_2-Festivities and feasting.pdf (two A4 pages)

Once both the village volunteer firemen and our village postman had called with their Christmas Calendars, we knew that December was nearly here and it was time to get out the decorations. With the star lights illuminating the windows, Peruvian papier-mâché angels grouped round the crèche on the window sill, and candles, pine cones and silver balls decorating the low table, we were in the mood for the traditional festivities.

However, when Roger and Dorinda returned for a short stay in their résidence secondaire and we discussed one of our favourite Christmas Markets held in the illuminated barns of a small village, it was pouring with rain and Dorinda, having broken a toe, was fearful of crowds, so we didn’t go. Then, when Nicola, who used to live here, drove up from the south to visit friends and experience again the St Nicholas parade through Saint-Dié-des-Vosges, it was cold and wet again, so none of us went to watch the bands, floats and the good bishop disappearing in a cloud of fireworks though the cathedral portals.

We did, however, share Dorinda’s end of November birthday meal at one of her favourite restaurants in Rouffach who’d offered to throw in two bottles of champagne and a birthday cake; and very festive it was. It was a sunny day and we popped into Kaysersberg first for a little Christmas shopping amid its decorations, and afterwards (fuelled by champagne and good food) went into Colmar to look at the work of craftsmen who during Advent show their wares in the old Customs House, with Christmas market stalls outside. And on the day after the unvisited St Nicholas parade, we met up for Sunday lunch with Nicola, a friend of hers from the south, Roger and Dorinda at Nicola’s former favourite restaurant up in the hills at Labaroche (la Rochette, not our former favourite, the abandoned Blanche Neige, which appears unchanged inside except for the lack of tables and chairs and still has many road signs to it). Nicola’s restaurant had been completely revamped since we all last met there, and was very stylish, but the welcome was as warm as ever, and their speciality baeckeoffa d’escargots (a sizzling casserole of snails in a white sauce with vegetables) was still among the starters. Having followed it with a hearty Alsace venison and noodles main course we were oblivious to the low cloud enveloping the hills and the rain lashing against the windows, and we didn’t even feel a pang at missing the visit of St Nicholas to the children of Entre-deux-Eaux (in the past a rather noisy, undisciplined event). And as an evocation of the warmer south, Nicola gave us some lemons from her garden and some locally produced nougat.

However, we hoped to catch a bit of Christmas wonder in the cathedral, streets and Christmas markets in Metz this week. We’d never explored Metz apart from short stop on one of our journeys so we booked an overnight stay in the Hotel de la Cathédrale, which sounded traditional and comfortable and handy for the famous Chagall cathedral windows and the new Pompidou Centre there. However, yet again we had driving rain allied with an icy wind that wrenched umbrellas inside out. The cathedral was cold and its windows drab against the dull sky outside (including the Chagall Creation window which could have glowed golden) and the Christmas market stalls were distributed among windswept squares, and we got blown, heads down under umbrellas, past their gaudy, tacky wares.

An unexpected delight in the back streets was the church of St Maximim (who was he?) with its strange windows by Cocteau, evoking lush jungles and totem poles rather than Bible stories. As we walked from there to the station, an apple-faced lady opened a gate through which I was peering, and offered to show us one of her favourite haunts, the quiet seminary garden, but John had beaten a hasty retreat even before she mentioned the stylish, panelled restaurant in the seminary. Outside the railway station (built in a German imperial style in 1905-8 when Metz was part of Germany) we were momentarily diverted from its baronial splendour by the colourful Christmas market in recreations of railway carriages. Inside, neo-Romanesque halls and corridors stretched in splendour into the distance. As for the station bookshop, vast as a Carnegie library with alluring local history displays … it was sumptuous (and very warm!), and I totally overlooked the stained glass window of Charlemagne enthroned in glory in the great hall not to mention Kaiser Wilhelm’s apartments and the platforms designed to receive troops on horseback. That night we dined not in the splendour of the Grand Seminaire but enjoyed the menu du pacha in an excellent little Lebanese restaurant tucked into a side street. The following morning was, if anything, even wetter and colder and we headed for the museums, and spent a wonderful morning in a maze of rooms celebrating the Gallo-Roman finds and mediaeval architectural splendours; the paintings were off-limits that day, but we had seen such riches already. We also decided to save the Pompidou Centre for another day – preferably when it had some interesting exhibitions, rather than a third of its galleries shut.

As for the intervening months since the previous newsletter, in July we spent an enjoyable week in Antibes with Toby, Stella and Jacob. (It was fun to watch Jacob examining the Picasso sculptures at the Château Grimaldi and revelling in the noise and sights of the food market and fountains, and we enjoyed the Chagall Museum in Nice). I spent August making a large marriage patchwork quilt, while John slaved away on the floor tiles and walls of the barn, which now gleam pale grey and white, so practical and elegant for storage, laundry and freezers (apart from the floor showing all muddy footprints). In September we enjoyed a week in the Lake District with all the family following the lovely wedding of John’s nephew Steven to Helen (another in the family now!). In October we had some pleasant weather for walks, as well as good meals during the week of John’s birthday. November seems to have disappeared in a haze of heavy colds, autumnal garden clearing, interesting books, TV crime series and some good football matches, the latter thanks to our newish French satellite box and motorised dish, which allows us to access satellites transmitting channels from Mali, the Gambia and Senegal which show various European paying channels for free.

Hope this has been a good year for you! Joyeux Noel!

Some of you will know the second barn as the main entrance to the west wing (the alternative being the ramp!) and the route to the terrace and fields.

As part of the work projects this year the second barn is undergoing a major refit to make it safer for us as we get older and for our visitors. So the uneven floor with drainage channel from the days when it used to house cattle is no more. Instead will be a tiled floor and plaster-boarded walls, revised lighting with more convenient switches and (hopefully) no more clutter. Without Alistair doing most of the hard work levelling the ready-mix concrete the rest would not have been possible!

I’ve been photographing some of the progress and updating this web site occasionally https://www.blackmores-online.info/Second_barn/index.html

To download a printable Adobe Acrobat version click on this link E2E2011_issue_1-Hot and cold.pdf (four A4 pages).
Clicking on a photo will take you to a larger image.

The most exciting event of 2011 for us took place in London rather than in Entre-deux-Eaux.
It was the birth on March 11^th of Toby and Stella’s son Jacob Toby. He is, of course, absolutely gorgeous, and we enjoyed sharing his early days. We’re looking forward to meeting up with them at the end of July in Antibes and seeing all the changes. The rest of the year seems mundane in comparison, but here’s a summary:

The cold winter did not cause as many problems here as it did in the UK as people are prepared for it. John had bought winter tyres, which many people use here, – but he had the UK problems in mind. Madame Laine had to think quite hard about the weather when we returned in early January from Christmas and the New Year in the UK, but then recalled that there had been snow up to her knees over Christmas, which was a bit of a nuisance when going out to feed the hens. The roads had suffered in the cold weather, and on our return journey there were plenty of notices announcing “trous en formation”, which always (quite irrelevantly) conjure up images for me of the trous/holes lining up solemnly for a bit of formation dancing – or even a can-can. Unfortunately our fridge freezer had given up hope while we were away; with minimal heating left on, the room temperature went below the climate class rating, so we came back to the freezer contents in a sticky pool on the kitchen floor.

The dull January days outside passed quickly indoors thanks to a Christmas present of a huge jigsaw puzzle, John’s ongoing project of scanning all his negatives and transparencies, and Helen’s attendance at AGMs, which can include protracted lunches (the oldies of E2E) or interesting old films (the local history group). We had toyed with the idea of travelling to Tunisia where Jessica’s sister and brother-in-law were over-wintering on their sailing boat (another retirement lifestyle). But as we listened to January news bulletins, February seemed a very bad time to visit (though Jessica and Mark had a good time there in March, when things were settling down).

However, February was put to good use when John finally cleared his wardrobe of old shirts which I dismembered and turned into a patchwork quilt for Jacob with other bits of hoarded fabric. There was an amusing trip to the amateur theatre group over the mountains in Saulxures. After a large lunch, the audience, drinks in hand, settled back from the long tables to watch a play about a local council election. If that sounds boring, the plot was sheer French farce, – with one of the mayoral candidates desperate to maintain his respectable reputation after having sex in a ‘plane toilet with his long-lost brother (who had undergone a sex change operation). The audience found it hilarious, though my A-level French didn’t quite cover all the vocabulary! February was also notable for a trip to the Auberge de la Ferme Hueb restaurant, one of our favourites. The night before had been a special St Valentine’s meal, and I think we were the beneficiaries of their left-overs. The meringue swans were exquisite. The muscat aperitif was so good that we drove home via the producer in the small village of Hunawihr. On learning that we lived over in the Vosges department, he regaled us with Alsatian jokes about Vosgiens, and their poorer climate, such as, “Why do Vosgiens have big ears?” “I don’t know, why do Vosgiens have big ears?” “Because when they are small, their parents lift them up by their ears to show them how much nicer it is over here on the other side of the mountains in Alsace.” Maybe he was bored and we were his only clients that day. Out in the yard a mobile bottling machine was clanking away, – presumably rented for a day or two. We tasted a few more wines (he was anxious that we should try his medal-winning crémant) and departed with boxes of his pinot gris and gewurtztraminer as well as muscat.

We also had a trip in early March to a Colmar restaurant, L’Atelier du Peintre, which is fast joining our list of favourites. It was harder to book than previously, as it had just been awarded a Michelin star, and everyone wanted to be there. The two portly men at the neighbouring table, who were working their way through some expensive-looking wines, sounded as if they had been local politicians. I ironically asked Madame if Gordon Ramsay had congratulated them on their star, having once featured them on his Kitchen Nightmares when they were running a restaurant in Inverness; Loïc and Caroline had been plucked from the south of France by a Scottish tycoon to create a restaurant capable of getting a Michelin star. Ramsay hadn’t.

Any trip to the UK, even one for the birth of a grandson, involves stocking up with wine from France for family and friends and then, on the return trip, with a weird assortment of goods that are cheaper or easier to purchase in the UK. This time, on our return, the back of the car contained an upright Dyson vacuum cleaner (the French don’t seem to do upright ones), garden netting (woven for a very reasonable price in an industrial estate in Huddersfield very close to where distant ancestors had once owned weaving mills), pesticides, fertiliser, seeds (all very expensive in France), second-hand books, and a wedding hat (no, not for the royal event). It was beautifully sunny as we crossed France and the white blossom of blackthorns and damsons was splashed across the fields south of the champagne slopes. Back home we found fritillaries in flower under the plum tree and the peonies bursting out of their winter wrappings.

April was notable for the glorious sunshine, so it was tempting to start sowing seeds a bit earlier than usual, whilst John got busy constructing a large (12m x 4m) walk-in fruit cage from posts, wire and the above netting. As so often here, even visitors got involved in a bit of gardening. Jessica brought various plants from their Putney garden when they stayed at the end of April, and Mark christened us Natasha (Jessica in her scarlet patterned headscarf wheel-barrowing compost) and Vanessa (Helen in her floppy straw-like hat bending over weeds and seeds). While they were here we also got in some good walking on the mountain ridge (spectacular views down into Alsace without our ears being stretched), a trip to see le Corbusier’s lovely church at Ronchamp, a birthday lunch in Saulxures, a rhododendron garden, and the royal wedding (on TV). The French, despite their vehement denials, remain strangely interested in other countries’ royals. Throughout April we had been asked jokingly if we had been invited to the wedding. At Ronchamp the baker had treated us to a half hour discourse about Le Corbusier, the royal wedding, strikes and the superiority of the republic over the monarchy. At a book-sale, the secretary of the local history group and her assistant had a long discussion with me about the wedding outfits and the hats, – “such a disgrace, that princess Beatrice and that Eugenie. How could the couturier have permitted it?” Even the mayor of Entre-deux-Eaux had joked, as he led a walk along local footpaths, about whether we’d be attending the wedding!

The mayor’s walk was as a result of one of the January AGMs, that of the Entre-deux-Eaux oldies. Before lunch various radical proposals had been made including adding walking to the more sedentary monthly activities of cards, gossip, cakes and crémant (a proposed trip round a brewery in Alsace had also gained vociferous support from the men). The mayor’s walk was idiosyncratic, with throw-away comments about residents past and present. He inspected the dustbins of some German week-enders – “he’s an advocate, but thinks he can do what he likes over the border. But all I have to do is threaten to call the gendarmes (not that they’d come) – that always stops a German.” As we climbed up to an isolated farm two km from the village shop and café, – “the old man was a drunkard; he walked down every night to the bar, and faced an uphill struggle back!” Outside a picturesquely ramshackle farm, – “no running water – see the hose pipe coming down from the spring in the fields, across the road and into the house – no legal sewerage and that muck heap’s now illegal under EU regulations.” EU rulings lead to great expense for the commune too; a whole area round the pipes leading from a spring to one of the village reservoirs has had to be cleared of forest and fenced off to prevent contamination by deer and other animals. Then he led us past a World War I defensive bunker (the Germans had occupied the village below for a while) to a house buried in the forest, so we could see the finest stone carving in the commune (ironically it is now occupied by Germans). In the middle of the forest peace, a fellow-walker’s mobile phone rang. “Reception is usually impossibly in the forest. Have you been contacted about the new mast? Someone near you is organising a protest. I don’t understand them. People here want all the modern technology like mobile phones, but not the consequences.” Later we heard that the protesters had organised a meeting and succeeded in convincing the mayor not to allow a mast.

April was also when the flea markets started. We still go as an enjoyable Sunday outing but buy fewer things these days (we have enough already). However, occasionally we can’t resist. At the St Remy Foire au Lard, which has a lot of stalls selling chunks of smoked pork, we spotted (in a separate section from the lard) a pile of Art Nouveau magazines in English. They were issues of Studio from 1902-1905 with fascinating illustrations of houses and paintings; even the advertisements were beautifully lettered and designed. You wouldn’t have thought there was a big potential readership at a Foire au Lard, and indeed the price was reasonable. We bought the whole pile. The bare walls of our small flower garden have long been in need of some ornamentation. Old farm implements or wrought iron deer are the usual local wall decorations. However in another small village fair, John spotted a box of corroded brass instruments, – fragments of trumpets and trombones which looked as if they had festered in a damp outbuilding after the members of some long ago village band had died. A musical garden will be a bit different. At the same village we also saw rusted weapons of the WWI found with a metal detector (presumably illegally) in the hills above. At the Entre-deux-Eaux flea market I bought some plants, including geraniums. And at nearby Corcieux, Alistair spotted a replacement blade for a nine-inch angle grinder which he was sure John would need.

Alistair came over in May (it is becoming an annual event) to help John with various large projects. He laid paving slabs over the whole area that they’d cemented last year (panorama of the completed new terrace). The slabs proved difficult to cut and Alistair finally persuaded John to invest in a nine-inch angle grinder. So the cheap (but brand new) replacement spare blade was a good purchase! One day the ready-mix cement lorry blocked the road outside our house (we had warned the neighbours the night before) and as the wet mix was hosed into the barn, Alistair and John spread and levelled nearly eight tonnes of it until we had a smooth new floor. They also created ramps and steps down to the terrace and garden. That was an impressive day’s labour. John is currently re-wiring the barn, tiling the floor and putting plasterboard on the old stone walls. In the end the barn that used to have the cattle stalls (and still has a water trough) should make a more elegant entrance area for the “West Wing”. It should also be a lot safer with a level floor, without cracks and without gulleys for swilling out the stalls and pens. In some ways it’s sad to change things, and it doesn’t comply with energy-inefficient heritage conservation ideas, but will be more practical (as local farmers always were).

After the hot dry days of April and May people here, as in England, were fearing for farms and gardens. But June is making up for it with its heavy showers and thunder storms. Our underground water tanks have filled again. But the gardeners’ good news was bad news for all the barbecues, Bastille Day fireworks, St Jean bonfires, school fêtes and open air craft fairs traditionally held before the long school holidays start on 1^st July. Men with marquees have been kept busy. On Sunday it was the Fête du Pain with a barbecue at the farm museum at Sainte Marguerite. Everyone arrived in anoraks and warm pullovers, to find the sturdy trio of old fashioned marquees well tethered (after one had landed in a neighbouring garden in a previous year). At the back of the old farm the lamb gigot was being grilled over a barbecue whilst in the tents the mayor of Entre-deux-Eaux was presiding over the bar and a young accordionist was playing as the aperitifs and then the home made foie gras paté were served. Later Mme Presidente and a group of friends brought out some old musical instruments and played before we were served cherry clafoutis cooked in a wood burning oven. Later, in the tombola, the agreeable Dutch couple at our table won a miniature sledge wine bottle holder carved by an old man at the next table. And the rain miraculously held off between 11 and a couple of minutes after we got home. We were equally fortunate with the Sainte Marguerite pensioners’ barbecue by the pond of Monsieur Nicolas. The men had put up the more lightweight and modern marquees that morning and were barbecuing the pork slices and sausages, whilst the women served the sangria, the salads and the desserts. For some reason the usual accordionist was not there, but that didn’t stop the dancing to taped music and the very jolly conga I got swept up into. We beat a strategic retreat as the skies darkened and were home just before the rain heavy rain started.

And to end where we started, – with a baby, this time a furry one. From our window we have in the past seen deer, buzzards and a stray stork. A few days ago we saw two shapes in the field, the usual cat hunting and something with longer ears, – a cat-sized hare.

A bit later, as John was walking to the back door to his workshop the hare shot out of the flowerbed. As John was showing me its footprints, he spotted its baby, eyes wide open, fearless and adorable. Sadly, shortly after he took its picture it must have been removed to a place which felt safer and we haven’t seen parent or baby since.

Au revoir!