October 26th. The sun was shining. The trees were flirting with shades of lemon and gold, but resisting a total change to autumnal shades. The sky was blue. The distant hills hazy. Crisp white tablecloths covered the tables outside the Blanche Neige restaurant. Bottles of crémant basked in ice in a silver tureen.

“Bring raincoats and boots for outdoors and slippers to prevent mud trailing indoors” I’d e-mailed pessimistically earlier in October when the radio and newspapers had graphic accounts of local floods. The River Meurthe had swollen and covered bridges round St Dié. The firemen were busy pumping out cellars. The N83 linking St Dié to the routes from Calais had been closed at various points. “Maps might be useful” my e-mail also suggested, thinking of unexpected closures and diversions.

And here was this innocent sunshine, demanding shirt-sleeves, T-shirts and open toed sandals! The guests grouped and re-grouped around the outdoor tables, chatting to old friends and introducing themselves to new faces. The discreetly smart waiters (who had, unlike the many of the guests, retained their jackets and ties) circulated with flûtes of crémant. Continue reading →

A selection of photographs taken on 25-29 October 2006 showing some of the celebrations and also some of the excursions taken by some of our visitors. Click on the photograph to see the full selection.

The first sounds we heard on Sunday morning were Farmer Duhaut’s cows harrumphing mournfully as they grazed outside the bedroom window. The next sounds were shouts were from the hillside opposite. It was too early for Farmer Vozelle to be shouting at his cows (that doesn’t start till mid-day at the earliest). Perhaps someone had lost their dog?

In Nottingham, the first signs of the approach of autumn would be rows of parked cars outside our house as students young and old enrolled for courses at the nearby college. Here, the parked cars along the lanes are four by fours belonging to furtive looking men in hats. As the hillside shouting increased, it dawned on us that September 24th must be the opening day of the 2006 hunting season. The distant sound of a horn confirmed our suspicion, as did the appearance of a young deer bounding from the forest and across the field, skirting the cows and our orchard.

Later, as we were driving out of the village in quest of Sunday flea markets, we passed carloads of men in hats. John noticed that they were wearing red hat bands. As if on cue, our car radio informed us of the start of la chasse in the north of France and the need for extra caution in the forests, especially by people gathering mushrooms. As a safety measure, the newsreader continued, red arm bands (or hat bands, it would appear) should be worn by huntsmen. This measure is being credited for a decrease in accidents. Across France in 2004/5 accidents fell by 26% from the previous year to only 177 and the number of fatalities from 29 to 25. It’s a bit worrying to learn that among people in no way involved with the hunt, the number of accidents dropped from 23 to a mere 12 over 4 seasons. Maybe those poor mushroom hunters should be the ones adopting luminous waistcoats. Continue reading →

It is one of the laws of nature that strawberries should ripen in time for Wimbledon. But despite their slow start, due to late snow, ours peaked in time for the World Cup. So, as the world’s best footballers kicked and fouled and collected yellow cards by the handful (I blame the humidity and extreme heat), we have been gorging ourselves on strawberries, cherries and ice cream.

But the last two weeks of May and the first week of June were wet. Very wet. This was a shame as first Leila and then Toby and his girl friend Stella visited during this period. It even snowed on the day I took Leila back to the airport. And this was May 30th. Another record was broken, apparently, for the coldest first day of June.

So, much of Leila’s holiday here was spent a) helping us to track down a new TV (as figures and scenery on our old one were reduced to lurid pink and turquoise) and b) lying on the sofa reading and watching the French Open Tennis on the new TV. All those French players you never see at Wimbledon! Fortunately Paris was enjoying better weather than us. It was galling to hear the Eurosport commentators complaining about the cold weather there. For while all we could see outside our windows was rain, on our screens we could see shafts of Parisian sunlight. What were they moaning about? Continue reading →

St Joseph’s day came and went on 19th March without the winter snow responding to the old adage by vanishing. However this first week in May (which marks the end of our fourth year living in Entre-deux-Eaux) has also provided two rather more reliable indicators that the long winter is finally over. Firstly, Farmer Duhaut’s cows are out grazing. Secondly, this weekend the Gérardmer heavy equipment team are out clearing the Route des Crêtes, along the ridge of the Vosges mountains.

As far as the first indicator is concerned, it is the cows of Farmer Duhaut not those of Farmer Vozelle that you have to observe. Like most of the farmers locally, Duhaut watches the weather forecasts and plans systematically. As the snow in our valley melted, he and his partner Olivier were out spraying muck over all his pastures. Then when rain was forecast they were out spreading fertilizer, which would need to be watered in. However even his best friends could not call Farmer Vozelle systematic. We have long been amused by the sight of the Vozelle cows going out in the summer heat to graze at midday and returning just before midnight by the light of the tractor headlights. It was not so funny seeing the poor beasts out in the field behind their stable in this winter’s thick snow, with not a blade of grass in sight. One April night at 11 pm, after a good meal out, we were returning along the road past his farm. Fortunately we were driving slowly, as his chickens are often out on the road (free range!). So we spotted the blue string tied tautly across the road between his farmhouse and stable. Beyond the blue string, cows loomed out of the dark field, plodding back to their shed for midnight. Behind them, flourishing a big stick strode dumpy Mme Vozelle. She was wearing a long dressing gown and her hair was pulled tight into enormous rollers. It was like encountering Ena Sharples in a French country lane. Continue reading →