One a penny, deux centime.... we have a garden or two...

The beginning of the story of the Jardin cache.

(Firstly apologies to all my loyal readers that I have not posted in a long while, a LOT has been happening but nothing I can really report on yet!)


A while back we asked the then Monsieur Mayor, if he knew of a potager jardin (allotment) we could rent or buy.  On our return from a trip to the UK there is a message from said Mayor giving us details of a lady who may be interested in helping us out.


I met up with G the owner of a garden, a local in her seventies or so, who married an Englishman (shock, horror!). She doesn’t want to sell as it belonged to her grandfather and father but we could ‘take care’ of it for her.  It is however fairly overgrown and there is an issue of water. She took me to the garden a little out of town down a little farm-like track, past an old chestnut horse that looked very quizzically at us.

We got to the garden and negotiated through the petite cabane (little hut) door and through the cobwebs and spiders and through the next door into the garden. As I stepped out into the garden G was not joking this was a jungle not just slightly overgrown.  I however had this weird sensation, the same as when I was watching the Secret Garden and they found the door, this was also something magical. However the comparisons stop there apart from the name we have given it, which the lovely E helped us choose.

When hubby returned from the UK I took him to see the garden and to see if he was up for the challenge.  I stood back to watch his reactions which went from horror, to intrigue and then to possibility; the garden magic was working on him too.

The following Saturday the whole family returned to start clearing and see just what we were dealing with.  This was not for the faint hearted this was a daunting task, there were brambles everywhere, and ivy had invaded all the mature trees and anything else it could find with vines thicker than most ropes I had ever seen. ‘Ma fille’ immediately climbed the biggest of the fig tree and started pulling ivy down.  She had good practice on holiday in the UK when she was helping clearing her grandparents’ new overgrown garden.

‘Le garcon’ and I started clearing around the cherry trees eventually finding ten in all after removing all the growth both under and over. By lunchtime we had managed to find a flattish surface virtually clear, to have our picnic.  The garden is a triangle shape with the rural track along one side with a deteriorating fence, a stone wall along the back and then an irrigation channel with a completely collapsed fence. 


As we wearily munched our sandwiches we realised how peaceful it all was, apart from two fisherman we saw in the morning there had been no human or vehicle traffic all morning and that continued for the rest of the day. With the birds singing merrily and the abundance of butterflies it was a real sanctuary.

As a family we have continue to work clearing the garden but it has to be said that S has done the lion’s share of the work.  We have found five large beautiful fig trees, the shapes they have made are stunning, an old apricot tree (which hopefully we have rescued in time) and a greengage and other yet unidentified fruit trees.  There is a possibility of more plums along the back wall but we are still making our way there.

The main problem for planting any veggies was the lack of water in spite of the river being only 50m away there is no practical way of getting large amounts into the garden.  S and I walked up the irrigation channel to find if there was a source further up the hill (I felt I was in my own edition of Jean de Florette), but unfortunately what once might have been a proper irrigation is now just an overflow storm water drain. We discussed many ways of getting water to the garden and eventually decided to clear a space and plant some low water veggies there and the rest in our garden at home in grow bags. (Part of our letting agreement was not to cultivate our owner’s garden).

The next thing we know J (one of our French grannies) comes a-calling. Are you looking for a potager? Yes, but we have the use of G garden, so we are good. But you haven’t seen my garden and what I can offer you, you must come and see. Ok, S dutifully went along to see said garden. Well, what a surprise and another little jewel. Right in the town not far from where we are living she has a garden with over 30 fruit trees and a large plot for growing vegetables with loads of water!! We could have this bit to cultivate, apologies it’s not very big (only about 50m²) more than enough for our needs.

So effectively we now have three gardens to look after, one at home with the swimming pool and grow bags, one to grow our lovely veggies in and one to hide away from the world.  With imminent homelessness in September at least we will be able to have somewhere to pitch a tent until the ‘real’ winter sets in. 

I am writing this under the old apricot tree in the jardin cache the wind is howling with huge gusts but we are protected from its effects and once again about to have a family picnic under its boughs. If we had been at the house we couldn’t have been outside as it would be too windy. I look around at our progress with clearing and anticipate great things to come, already designing things to suit all. A reading platform in  a tree for ‘ma fille’, a place to throw or kick a ball for ‘ma fils’, a quiet place to contemplate our next move and possibly bring the hammock down, and of course the prerequisite braai and eating area. Not forgetting the all important pétanque pitch for endless hours of fun and family rivalry. This is so much more this wonderful jardin cache has to offer, it probably needs it’s own blog... à bientôt.

Before

with some clearing

Getting social with the natives

Hubby and daughter come home from the Saturday market announcing we have been invited to party and we should go.  I now need to sit down as a) hubby would rather be at home with a good book than interact with strangers and b) with the enthusiasm that this announcement is delivered I know there is no objecting. 

Please supply details, well its next Saturday up in the hills at St Martin at the Salle de Fête.  St Martin is really up in the hills quite a windy road from St Paul but not too far and still part of the Fenouillèdes. It was made famous or (infamous depending who you talk to) by Chateau Monty written by Monty Waldin. I am still hesitant how did this invitation come about?  Well, we met K (lovely English Mum, bilingual daughter in son’s class) and she was with her friend E (French I think but spent at lot of time in the States), well she host's parties in the autumn/winter to get the community together.  Well we are not of the community of St Martin (according to the Marie website 55 residents!)  No it’s not exclusively for St Martin residents after all K doesn’t live there does she? Ok, what's the plan? Not really sure; a euro for the DJ and bring a plate for bring and share supper and of course drink. Still trying to digest this and all the enthusiasm it is delivered with but hey ho, it's probably time to get out there and bond.

On the last trip back from London hubby’s plane was diverted to Bezier as the visibility was rubbish, funny that the Paris plane could land but it probably was a smaller craft than the Ryanair plane.  So there I was dutifully waiting at Perpignan airport for him while he was 2 hours away.  Managed to get hold of him on the phone and agreed I needed to get back for the school run and we would make new collection plans later.

The school run had also changed, as we have formed a lift club in the road.  We realized three cars were going to the same schools at the same time virtually every day.  The primaire and college are next to each other, very handy for all.  So it was my weekly turn to do the school run and felt I couldn’t offload neighbour’s children onto the ever willing Gigi.  I had imagined we would not use the car for the school run but the fact is that even though the schools are only 5 mins away by car they are a 15 – 20 minute walk along the busiest road and the college school bags are really heavy; plus no one really seems to walk here if they can drive.

The drive back from Perpignan was full of water on the roads and the mist was rolling down the mountains all looking a bit gloomy.  I wasn’t too thrilled about the going back to the aéroport but at least Simon could drive the return trip; or maybe he could even try the €1 bus? The school run done and we now wait on tender hooks for the call of collection at least we know he is on the bus back to Perpignan. The call comes in, no worries he's met a man on the bus who lives in St Paul and will happily give him a lift back.  Great, time for that Friday glass of wine while the thunderstorms clap loudly around me, so pleased not to be driving.

Hubby is dutifully delivered home and numbers exchanged, ‘let’s get together’s’ cried and hearty thanks given, we settle in for a cosy family evening. That week we get a call from S (the angel of the lift) to come for aperitifs, hubby is all up for it again, this socialising thing is catching.  We as a family walk to the house and the lovely S and L are very hospitable and welcoming.  We have sundowners watching the sun slipping behind the mountains but it’s a school night we need to get home and the invite was for aperitifs not the evening.  Arrangements are made to meet on Saturday morning for hubby and la fille to climb the smaller Via Ferrata on Saturday. La fille has wanted to do this since she was six so is very excited.

(View of St Paul from the Large Via Ferrata)

So Saturday rolls around and they off to climb the face of the mountain, literally.  Le garcon and I hit the Saturday market and I try and decide on what plate to bring for our ‘bring and share’.  This is not a decision to be taken lightly this is my first social outing with food and we all know how the French are about their food.  I will never be able to take this first plate back it better be good or at least acceptable. I decide on, what is becoming, my signature anchovy salad. At sundown we head up the mountain to St Martin this road is windy, how are we going to get back down?  ‘I won’t drink and I’ll drive back’ I say to hubby, ‘on these roads I don’t think so’ comes the reply.  For a small place it was hard to find the ‘Salle de Fete’ but eventually we did and even though we were later than the appointed time we were early.  I put my best French forward but that was silly as the people that are there are English. E speaking perfect English is not, but somehow sounding like a native.  We help set up and more people arrive and the kids begin to get more rowdy.  Drinks are shared (sorry never in a plastic cup, I have my glass, thank you) and then it dawns on me we are in an English enclave everyone including the 5 French that arrive are speaking English!  What’s going on? Needless to say we met some lovely people the kids had a ball with their mates, nearly drinking wine instead of apple juice as someone had decanted white wine into a ‘ jus de pomme’ container!  

The mixture of people was quite diverse and all settled in France for differing reasons. I met a lady who is possibly even more passionate about rugby than me that was a revelation, an ex Marine who is now a Nordic skier, tired after harvest winemakers and a fellow South African.  So just your average Saturday night out then, could be in London.  It dawned on me that I was in the same hall that had been written about in Chateau Monty and that felt special as I had been dreaming of my NOW life while reading that book. 

Obviously we made it down the mountain in one piece, and were back to Perpignan on Sunday to drop hubby at the airport for his London run and for the kids and I to finally attend the Riverchurch (English speaking, non-denomination) where we met more very welcoming people.  Now to most that is not a lot of socialising in one week but it is more than I ever did in London for years, and all mainly instigated by hubby, is the French living changing him and us? I hope so.