Our Rain Soaked Village. Sunday 20th September, 2009.

The piazza below our shuttered windows came to life before we did this morning. The rain was constant although at times it waned to a light shower before returning back to heavy downpours. The sky was a solemn and steely grey and it rumbled with thunder as AJ slept and JR and I put on a pot of coffee. Our lounge room overlooks terracotta tiled roofs and they became deeper in colour and shone, taking on a reflective surface that would disappear when the rain was over and the sun returned to Tuscany.

Every so often I would wander to our bedroom, open the window and watch the umbrellas passing below. Welcoming smells of pizzas and sauces wafted up from the restaurant lined streets, I was getting hungry. Italian radio played somewhere outside and drifted into our room, James Blunt sang his familiar songs and it was so nice to hear an English song after so long.

I can’t remember if I mentioned that my computer was fixed in Provence by the lovely Frank at Cie and Co in Nyons. My emails have been downloaded but not all of them and it is only now I am realising the implications of the loss of some of my data. I have to find a way to retrieve the email address for our Venice exchange in October; it has been a while since our last contact. I have an empty contact list and only have email addresses from my most recent emails. I am sure we will find a solution; I think JR worries a little more than I, I remain optimistic that it will work out fine using a little nouse.

It was well into siesta time when we left the house, still with the rain falling around us. Dal Buchaniere, the restaurant where JR and I ate last night was still open so the three of us wandered in and before long we were sharing an authentic pizza with a floury crust, topped with a rich tomato sauce, mozzarella and spicy salami, simple and beautiful. I followed with a risotto of gamberi and funghi, mama mia life is good.

I am sure you are all wondering if and when we will make our mark on Casteglioni to ensure the town will never forget us. The incident happened today during lunch. Our pitcher of red wine arrived along with a jug of water. I filled our water glasses while the waiter fluffed around us taking away things from the table that three diners would not need. He went to take AJ’s very fancy, goblet style water glass away. He lifted it, looked inside, shrugged his shoulders, smiled and off he went. We ate our delicious lunch and lingered for ages, chatting about AJ returning home to high school and all about the fun he had with the local kids last night. He went to take a sip of his water and said, “Why have I got a candle in my drink?” I immediately went into fits of laughter as I realised what I had done to him. I had filled the candle holder with water which AJ had been sipping from during the course of our lunch, he only realised there was a tea light in it just before we were ready to leave; gosh it was funny. The staff all laughed along, I suspect the waiter had told the others and they were waiting to see when our faux pas would be noticed. I am so glad we are able to provide entertainment to the locals wherever we go.

We spent the afternoon exploring the Centro Storico area of Castiglione taking advantage of a break in the rain. AJ had been up to the highest part of the village belonging to a castle and a maze of cobbled streets lined with atmospheric restaurants, so he was our guide. Along the way he shared with us the stories of mischief he and the kids got up to on Saturday night, it took me back a few years that’s for sure. We found bushes of wild rosemary and noted where they were for the nights we cook JR’s rosemary potatoes. Coming back down into the main street of the village we all devoured our first Italian gelato, my mint and strachiatello was the perfect combination and the girl behind the counter was a doll. Come to think of it, all of the locals so far have been wonderful, warm and welcoming.

We cooked Claudia’s pasta dish for dinner, crescents of al dente pasta tossed with olive oil, salt, blushing tomatoes that tasted so wonderful and juicy, teardrops of snow white boconccini and olives that AJ depipped that were as black as night.

The Harvest. Monday 14th Septtember, 2009.

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.

A Walk To Remember. Wednesday 9th September, 2009.

The afternoon came quickly. We arrived at Domaine Rocheville at 5.30pm to take the thematic walk around the farm which grows grape vines, fruit trees and olives. Magic hour was the perfect time to walk the hills of the farm and to learn all about the nurturing and harvesting of the many things Domaine Rocheville grows. At each numbered point we stopped, and AJ read the information, we began at the cherry trees, then the olives and soon after the vines which were heavy with ripe grapes awaiting the beginning of harvest on Monday – how exciting. The walk lasted two glorious hours, uphill and down dale and we loved every moment of it. We arrived back at the car as the sun disappeared behind the surrounding hills.

AJ’s ‘Concentration de Vehicles’ was to be on again at 8 in Nyons so off we headed. Remember last Wednesday when we arrived to see it and there was nothing there? Well, same scenario this week, what a shame for AJ who was keen to see what it was all about. We returned home for dinner before settling down on the couch for a movie, ‘Gran Torino’ – I would highly recommend it!

Honey On My Tongue. Wednesday 2nd September 2009.

I don’t remember if I had told you that I had met a local honey producer at the small market in Venterol on our first day in the village. She called yesterday to tell us that she and husband Charles would be tending the bee hives at 2pm today if we would like to come and photograph the process.

The road up to their property was pretty as a picture. The landscape was of tall Cyprus, pine, and oak trees, the later with yellowing leaves, ready to hibernate, to shed their leaves and conserve strength to enable them to endure the lack of rain. They can do this for a few years to get through a dry spell, and then, when the conditions are right they will spring back to life, such is the miracle of nature.

JR donned a protective bee suit and ventured off with Charles to visit the hives, Julie and I looked on from a distance, only moving when an angry bee came to investigate us. Julie could tell by the tone of its buzz that it would not tolerate us, a previous visitor had proved no threat at all; I was at her mercy.

They live an uncomplicated life, two kids, no TV, mobile phones or MP3’s. They use an outdoor dry toilet in the summer as water is precious and it takes 8 litres of water to flush a toilet, they prefer not to waste the resources from their underground spring, ‘Les Moulieres’, after which their farm is named. They are 9th generation on this farm and live an almost self-sufficient existence. They have chickens for eggs and occasionally for meat, the goat gives them two babies to eat every season, also milk daily, some of this is transformed into cheese. The fruit trees of course give their fresh fruit to be enjoyed; these fruits are also made into confiture to be enjoyed all year round. The fruit varieties they have are apricots, apples, pears, peaches, figs, cherries, black currant, red currant, quince, plums, and two I will have to investigate further; kaki and nefle. They grow olives by the truck load which I can vouch for whole heartedly; these of course give both fruit and precious oil. The bees give honey (lavender and spring flower) and other by-products, and the prolific veggie patch supplies three families with basil, parsley, tomatoes, pumpkins, capsicum of red and green, French beans, salad leaves, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, leeks, melon, onions, and spinach. “When we harvest we share”, says Julie. A healthy rosemary bush is covered in a spray of pink flowers by the front door.

The north side of the house is protected by an enormous line of Cyprus trees, planted by Julie's Great, Great Grandfather to give protection from the Mistral winds, and the garden is littered with waist height earthenware jugs, the storage for olive oil hundreds of years ago. The farm of ‘Les Moulieres’ is a special place, Julie’s family are part of its terroir.

There was a get together in our village beginning at 6pm so we arrived home just in time to go straight out again. It was called ‘Musique Dans le Jardin’. We followed the yellow arrows that directed us down the narrow alleyway after our house. Inside a timber door was a garden paradise and by chance it was the garden we overlook from our terrace, the garden where we heard the sweet notes of song only days before. A central fountain tricked its own melody; its surface was decorated with softly coloured flowers bobbing and floating. Our friends Julie and Charles arrived soon after us; it was nice to see a few familiar faces. We had expected something a little less intimate held in a public park, AJ looked terrified at the prospect of staying so we slipped him the key and he made a discreet exit before the entertainment commenced.

An older couple held the stage, as we, the audience sat under a rough-cut stone garden house which had an open end allowing the view of the performance, a central olive tree too young to have fruit, a laden apple tree and a pomegranate tree in full splendour, its fruit up high showing the colours of ripeness but the lower branches held only green, inhospitable fruit. Its admirers will have to be patient if they want to receive its glistening red jewels, only after it has been kissed by the Provencal sun for days to come. The silvery haired lady played a traditional Moroccan instrument and sung with Oriental tones and high pitched whines and inbetween her songs, her partner, a poet, would recite the words he had penned. “la lune, la lune”, he began. He was animated and put all of himself into his performance, they looked at each other adoringly as often as they could, and he recited his poems directly to her as the content suited. They poured tea from a brass kettle and drank from Moroccan glasses. The more the performance continued, the more dramatic it became. He took her hands and they walked around the central garden in slow motion, ending in rapturous applause. It was quite a special moment to witness. I am not saying it was particularly my cup of tea, it was a little off beat that is for sure, but it was delivered with a special small village uniqueness and with undeniable passion. The worst thing was, actually two things come to mind... the first one was when I looked over and saw JR with his eyes closed, it is hard to sleep and be discrete in a crowd of only 25. And the second thing was that I am sure the lady was the lady we heard in the throes of passion from our terrace a few nights ago, I could hardly stop myself from giggling out loud every time I thought of it. Doesn’t life throw us unexpected and funny moments sometimes?

We returned home to AJ, happy he had not stayed for the performance. We sat on our terrace enjoying local olives, comte fromage and chevre – and yes, we did recite some poetry to each other employing the dramatics of the performance we had witnessed. We threw together a quick pasta sauce of onions, garlic, lardons and tomatoes, it was yummy, the best ever according to AJ.