As I sit on the terrace with my morning coffee I wonder why on some blue sky mornings there are so many sparrows in the sky and on others there are hardly any at all. Today the sky is filled with their little wings as they dart and dash all over. They tweet and twitter and I am sure if they could they would let out loud whoops of joy.
I cannot stay for long on my terrace this morning, surrounded by next door’s terracotta roof, the olive trees after that, and beyond, the rolling hills. Today is harvest day at Domaine Rocheville, the last family run, independent winery in Nyons, our neighbouring town. We arrived at 9am as arranged and there was not a soul in sight. We drove the steep slopes of the property, lucky we had walked the tracks a few days ago so the lay of the land was like an old friend and we knew where to look for the plots of laden vines. Even so, there was nothing but vines, olive trees and orchards. An hour had passed and by this time the shop at the Domain was open so we returned to ask where the pickers were. A quick call to the bosses mobile and all was sorted, they were just in the next field, the landscape is so undulating and complicated they were hard to see even with their two tractors, one in orangey red and the other in a sky blue but much darker.
There were nine pickers today, industriously working, snipping heavy bunches of swollen grapes from the vines, putting them into big black buckets, and when full, heaving them into the back of the trailers attached to the tractors. One of the tractors was manned by Grandad who is 80 and still takes part in the excitement of the grape harvest. Today there were three generations working the vines. They are a lovely family, the son, now at the helm, eats lunch with his Grandparents every day at the Domain. Today he begins with a carrot salad and diced, purple beetroot. Grandma opens the oven and fusses over her Grandson, serving him a dish of fennel and onion, and a hot tomato relish with golden quenelles which brings back fond memories from Lyon where quenelles are a speciality. We enjoy a quick aperitif, a red wine bottled from the family vat, just for their own use, Grandad offers around a jar of sweet almonds before dolling out his medication at the table, pouring his glass full of the red wine to wash it all down. We leave them to eat in peace.
We return home to eat too and all go back to the Domain at 5pm to catch the end of harvest for the day, it will finish in about fourteen days if there are no problems and no rain. On our return the sun was low and the workers were not as fast as they had been with the freshness of a new work day. It must be hard on their bodies, stooping, lifting all day, they are all happy though.
The tractors pull out of the field at 6.20 pm, filled with purple syrah grapes. The day is far from over, now the wine will be made. Back at the winery, each tractor is backed up to the ‘reception’ with a turning blade in the bottom. The fruit slides from the back of the truck and in swept into the shining blade; AJ finds this part most interesting and keeps wanting to be closer and in between the happenings. We are each given a glass of pure grape juice, “The 2009 vintage!” we are told. It is so pure and sweet you could taste the day’s sunshine within it, its pinky-purple colour was cloudy with just juiced character. From here the juice, skins and all are pumped into a huge vat, the juice is drained from the bottom of this and immediately pumped into another vat. It is blushed with a little red but is separated from the grape skins quickly as tonight we are making rose wine. This wine will be sold in spring 2010.
We thank father and son, Grandad has retired hours ago, his bones will be tired tonight. It’s about 7.30 and they will not be finished until about 9pm or so. It is a long day considering they began at 7am this morning. Such is life on the land. It is not just harvest time that is busy, because this farm produces all sorts of yummies, olives, grapes, cherries, apricots; it is always the season for harvesting, planting, pruning, maintenance, etc, so the work day is always 7am to 7pm.
JR is so happy he has been able to catch the grape harvest in Provence, AJ didn’t think much of the harvest process but enjoyed seeing the start of the wine production, he was allowed to climb the long ladder leading to the tops of the vats so he got to see it all and was right in the thick of things up there.
We sipped red wine from the Domain with our dinner tonight, two varieties of red which JR chose. AJ had a sip or two of both, comparing their nuances and discovering the force of red wine on his young palate. After dinner we sliced some aged Comte fromage for him to discover how it changed the taste of the wine. I think he will grow to appreciate good red wines just like his Dad.
Showing posts with label almonds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label almonds. Show all posts
Monday, September 28, 2009
Montelimar Nougat. Tuesday 8th September, 2009.
What a delicious interview I had at Musee du Nougat Arnaud Soubeyran in Montelimar this morning. We all sat at a round table sipping coffee, AJ was treated to a sublimely rich hot chocolate telling Eric who made it that it was ‘Tres bon, the best hot chocolate he had ever enjoyed’. We were given a tasting plate, a degustation of all the different products that Arnaud Soubeyran makes. Their nougat comes in all different guises; my favourite was the traditional Montelimar nougat which must adhere to strict guidelines to be named as such, and the walnut and fig nougat. Eric showed us through all of the manufacturing rooms. We saw how the Provencal speciality of callisons are made as well as traditional marshmallow in the softest range of colours – violet, pale lemon, pinks, white, mint green etc; there was something fun and childlike about the colours and each mouthful of marshmallow melted on the palate leaving a flavour filled puff of yumminess.
Seeing the production of nougat was lovely. We saw the sugar boiling in big, copper pots, the honey mixing, the nuts roasting, and the mix of all the final ingredients before it was transferred into a slab mould with old wooden paddles, and rolled with a 20kg rolling pin to expel the air and distribute the load of almonds and pistachios evenly. The end product was white as snow and was as shiny as white porcelain before the last layer of azyme paper was placed on top. We were each given a bag of goodies to enjoy. On the way home we dropped some, long mango flavoured marshmallow sticks into Julie and Charles's children.
After Montelimar we ventured off in the direction of a few of the Beau Villages of France. We passed through a village called Les Tourrettes which we thought was a hilarious name. Our first stop was Mirmande, a village of sculptors and painters. We sat at the edge of a pine forest where AJ climbed a pine tree and we enjoyed a beautiful picnic finishing with calissons and nougat which was a lovely sweet treat. Mirmande was beautiful, but lacking a bit of soul. There was a small exhibition of a local artist showing at Church Sainte-Foy which was nice. Butterflies flitted across our path at every turn, trees dangled with almost ripe apples, vegetable patches grew their seasonal bounty, and bunches of dark grapes hung enticingly from vines draped over doorways which overlooked surrounding hills and mountains. There were two neat rows of three hills which looked like perfect miniature pyramids covered in a solemn green blanket of forest.
We were heading back to the car; the boys were a few bends in the path behind me, I decided to play a little trick on AJ in relation to the masses of bees we had noticed hanging around Mirmande. I walked back towards them holding out the hair net I had been given to wear while watching the nougat fabrication this morning, saying, ‘Here guys, a lady is handing out these hair nets to protect us from the bees in the village and to stop them getting caught in our hair.’ JR twigged on and I pretended to pass him a hair net while he discreetly fished this morning’s hair net out of his bag, putting it immediately on his head. I passed AJ my hair net, looking on the ground around me pretending I had lost one. ‘Never mind’, I said, ‘I will catch the lady up the road and get another one off her for me to wear, she must have only given me two’. AJ took his time and diligently tucked his mane of long, golden locks under the elastic and proceeded to walk through the village looking the fool right beside his Dad. I was walking in front of them, head down and laughing my head off. I turned to snap a quick photo before laughing out loud and telling AJ it was all a joke. He agreed it was the best gotcha of all time.
Mirmande behind us, we meandered through the Foret de Marsanne. Gone were the rocky outcrops for a little while. After passing through the village of Marsanne the landscape gave way to a wide open plane with a backdrop of distant hills. The planes between Marsanne and the next village of Cleon-d’Andran were filled with crops, ripe tomatoes lay on the bare earth waiting to be gathered for market, the hum of a nearby tractor assured me they would not lie subject to the elements for long. Fields were coloured with a rust coloured crop, standing tall like corn. This was Sargo which is grown for animal feed.
Our final destination today was the medieval village of Le-Poet-Laval and it took my breath away. The rampart walls grew wild with ivy; the stone walls were its host to reach further and higher. Ripe figs hung from random trees waiting to be plucked, you would never have left them there Manuela! Upwards we trecked, investigating the wild nooks and crannies at every turn until we reached the stone chateau. Sometimes it is not just the village itself that woos you, but the happenings while you are there. We were given permission to visit the 12th century chateau and climb to the very top. We were voyeurs to the happenings of the village below, blanketed in the subtle scent of pine from the nearby forests, underneath us couples kissed while others sat enjoying an aperitif in the shade. The village was surrounded by orchards, forests, undulating hills, and terracotta rooftops, it was truly blissful. Local artist, Bernard Merle had an exhibition on display on the first two floors of the chateau. His work was so beautiful, it captured me, commanded my attention and I can honestly say I loved his paintings and would have loved to take one home. Our situation is such that we don’t have room enough for a spare pair of undies, so the purchase of a painting was out of the question. I will keep his card and the details of my favourite pieces and hope that one day, on return to our less ordinary lives, I may order one as a memento of a special place in time. The sweet notes of Bach and Mozart drifted on the air as the Orchestre de Chambre played in a tiny courtyard. The notes were heavenly and they transcended the village and into our hearts.
After diner eaten on the terrace back at home, I was looking through my photos and reliving the last few days, the special moments I hope never to forget. I was showing AJ a photo of him looking up at his Dad adoringly. AJ said, ‘I love having a Dad like him’. And that my friends, is what this year is all about, the simple life where seven words spoken from a child is more beautiful and wondrous than anything else on earth.
Seeing the production of nougat was lovely. We saw the sugar boiling in big, copper pots, the honey mixing, the nuts roasting, and the mix of all the final ingredients before it was transferred into a slab mould with old wooden paddles, and rolled with a 20kg rolling pin to expel the air and distribute the load of almonds and pistachios evenly. The end product was white as snow and was as shiny as white porcelain before the last layer of azyme paper was placed on top. We were each given a bag of goodies to enjoy. On the way home we dropped some, long mango flavoured marshmallow sticks into Julie and Charles's children.
After Montelimar we ventured off in the direction of a few of the Beau Villages of France. We passed through a village called Les Tourrettes which we thought was a hilarious name. Our first stop was Mirmande, a village of sculptors and painters. We sat at the edge of a pine forest where AJ climbed a pine tree and we enjoyed a beautiful picnic finishing with calissons and nougat which was a lovely sweet treat. Mirmande was beautiful, but lacking a bit of soul. There was a small exhibition of a local artist showing at Church Sainte-Foy which was nice. Butterflies flitted across our path at every turn, trees dangled with almost ripe apples, vegetable patches grew their seasonal bounty, and bunches of dark grapes hung enticingly from vines draped over doorways which overlooked surrounding hills and mountains. There were two neat rows of three hills which looked like perfect miniature pyramids covered in a solemn green blanket of forest.
We were heading back to the car; the boys were a few bends in the path behind me, I decided to play a little trick on AJ in relation to the masses of bees we had noticed hanging around Mirmande. I walked back towards them holding out the hair net I had been given to wear while watching the nougat fabrication this morning, saying, ‘Here guys, a lady is handing out these hair nets to protect us from the bees in the village and to stop them getting caught in our hair.’ JR twigged on and I pretended to pass him a hair net while he discreetly fished this morning’s hair net out of his bag, putting it immediately on his head. I passed AJ my hair net, looking on the ground around me pretending I had lost one. ‘Never mind’, I said, ‘I will catch the lady up the road and get another one off her for me to wear, she must have only given me two’. AJ took his time and diligently tucked his mane of long, golden locks under the elastic and proceeded to walk through the village looking the fool right beside his Dad. I was walking in front of them, head down and laughing my head off. I turned to snap a quick photo before laughing out loud and telling AJ it was all a joke. He agreed it was the best gotcha of all time.
Mirmande behind us, we meandered through the Foret de Marsanne. Gone were the rocky outcrops for a little while. After passing through the village of Marsanne the landscape gave way to a wide open plane with a backdrop of distant hills. The planes between Marsanne and the next village of Cleon-d’Andran were filled with crops, ripe tomatoes lay on the bare earth waiting to be gathered for market, the hum of a nearby tractor assured me they would not lie subject to the elements for long. Fields were coloured with a rust coloured crop, standing tall like corn. This was Sargo which is grown for animal feed.
Our final destination today was the medieval village of Le-Poet-Laval and it took my breath away. The rampart walls grew wild with ivy; the stone walls were its host to reach further and higher. Ripe figs hung from random trees waiting to be plucked, you would never have left them there Manuela! Upwards we trecked, investigating the wild nooks and crannies at every turn until we reached the stone chateau. Sometimes it is not just the village itself that woos you, but the happenings while you are there. We were given permission to visit the 12th century chateau and climb to the very top. We were voyeurs to the happenings of the village below, blanketed in the subtle scent of pine from the nearby forests, underneath us couples kissed while others sat enjoying an aperitif in the shade. The village was surrounded by orchards, forests, undulating hills, and terracotta rooftops, it was truly blissful. Local artist, Bernard Merle had an exhibition on display on the first two floors of the chateau. His work was so beautiful, it captured me, commanded my attention and I can honestly say I loved his paintings and would have loved to take one home. Our situation is such that we don’t have room enough for a spare pair of undies, so the purchase of a painting was out of the question. I will keep his card and the details of my favourite pieces and hope that one day, on return to our less ordinary lives, I may order one as a memento of a special place in time. The sweet notes of Bach and Mozart drifted on the air as the Orchestre de Chambre played in a tiny courtyard. The notes were heavenly and they transcended the village and into our hearts.
After diner eaten on the terrace back at home, I was looking through my photos and reliving the last few days, the special moments I hope never to forget. I was showing AJ a photo of him looking up at his Dad adoringly. AJ said, ‘I love having a Dad like him’. And that my friends, is what this year is all about, the simple life where seven words spoken from a child is more beautiful and wondrous than anything else on earth.
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