10th September 2023.
The ferry had barely left St Peter Port harbour when a scroll of the missus’ phone revealed, at season’s ebb, Somerset’s cricketers had lost to Hampshire’s by the best part of a couple of hundred runs. So a poor trip beginning to destination Forsbach.
From St Malo, what should have been a nine hour night drive became a dehydrating, gout inducing, ten ‘cos Amiens chucked a curve ball. French E-road potholes didn’t improve matters. Blondie playing us through smooth asphalted Belgium helped the push-on-push-on-we-just-want-to-get-theres. ‘Doom or Destiny’ and all that.
Anyhow, the pair of us are now in Germany. Visiting the missus’ parents. In whose garden sweet tasting, purple wine grapes of Romanian origin that they call their ‘piglets’ plump in melty, early autumn heat. A heat to help fat containers of homemade watermelon pickle fast ferment.
Also, on the practical side, in the greenhouse, dead tomato plants moved aside, dusk’s thunderstorm prudent barbecue grills slip into the coolishness of night. When the tumble-clatter of hazelnuts upon the shed roof inflict a certain jumpiness but are too yum to waste. A proper distraction from my art pad. Though a lesser one than mum-in-law hunting slugs by torch beam, snipping them atwain with secateurs and binning each wrapped in a nasturtium leaf. “Respectfully buried in salad,” I observe, softly whistling ‘Aweem away’ as the safari continues.
That, however, is as may be.
“Hoop-la, about time,” comments the missus peering over my shoulder. “Those are meant to be Jean Franck’s cats, yes?”
“Those promised conniving ones. Yep.” I reply.
“Better late than never, then, hubby mine.”
My take on three cats was atonement. For having been in the doghouse in the moghouse…
The events I allude to arose back in June during a road trip solely through France. A call of joyous duty. Down in the deepest south. Past Toulouse. To the Pyreneean foothills a few kilometres beyond the pongy cheese and boiled snail market stalls of chocolate-boxy Mirepoix.
Shopless and stone-crumbly, boasting tower and church, Lafarge is a village where dwellings bear curious scorch marks, the library’s in the phone box, ticks party, midges cloud, weasels murder my offspring’s chickens, and the human departed far outnumber the living. It was also the place where I’d walk daughter number two ‘down the aisle’ to be wed.
The missus and me had concluded why rush and arrive hot, bothered and knackered. Very sensible to break up the journey. Best have an overnight stop. Er, make it a couple. Fickle we are. The missus trawled the options.
Of the first, in La Roche-sur-Yon, the least said the better. Artistic web photos had shmoozed ‘chic apartment’. Actuality revealed a garage reno flaunting a staircase so steep as to defy a goat-antelope. A short leap away from the bedroom many a train emblazoned with the white rampant beast of Nouvelle-Acquitaine drum-a-drummed past, their power lines sparking. Oh, how the scalp did tingle as we made do with the last rummagings from Guernsey bread basket and fridge.
Happily, next day, things saw improvement. Stopover, the Bordeaux Entre-Deux-Mers wine growing region. In what sounded like having had wolfish beginnings, Loupiac, close to Cadillac, served up Les Trois Tilleuls, the Three Lime Trees, an immaculately presented mansion offering posh B&B. So romantic!
Showing a preference for the pressed tropical print shirt, owner Jean Franck, an enigmatic, coffee cultured, bachelor gent, offered hazy geography and Gallic surprise.
“Enchanté,” he greeted our sweaty selves, quizzically eyeing the car number plate. “D’où venez-vous?”
“Guernsey,” I answered.
“C’est l’Écosse?”
“Scotland? Non! The English Channel.”
“Ah, La Manche!”
Our place of origin nit-picked and our grand boudoir directed to refreshment was shortly offered in his kitchen. “Oui, oui!” we chorused at a chilled bottle of the local tipple, Domaine de Peytoupin. Jean Franck duly poured the gold elixir. Cheered to gladness, the missus and me tinged together our glasses. Jean Franck’s panicked wince was worthy of Alain Delon. Gawd! Finest crystal. So easily shattered. We blushed our apologies. Then genteelly sipped at the rich, aromatic sweetness.
A wine buff may have banged on about four generations of family tradition and the floral notes of white flowers melding with fruity notes of citrus and candied fruits. The missus simply said “Delightful.” Me, an emphatic “Bloody gorgeous”.
Satisfied, Jean Franck then introduced us to his three ‘girls’ who’d pitched up to wish ‘Bonsoir’. And toward whom I was just a tad allergic. Iska and Pretty were exotic tufted-eared, fluffy, Maine Coon cats. Grey and white Isis, a bog standard ‘Européenne’.
“Vos colocataires – your roommates,” he said. Adding: “Unless… unless you follow my number ONE rule: Keep your room door closed at ALL times. Getting them out from under the four-poster bed is almost IMPOSSIBLE! They’ll be there until dawn. Which seems quieter than it used to be. Less birds.”
Then wasn’t the time to discuss the state of the planet. “Vos chats les mangent?” I jested. Best illustrate both a sense of humour and that I wasn’t a total monolingual Brit.
By way of reply Jean Franck made goluptious chomping noises. I considered us connected.
The feline trio having blinked total innocence, Isis took it upon herself to conquer me in a staring contest. A cue for Pretty to grab attention from the top platform of a rustic-looking, pussy play frame, upon which she’d jumped to sing ‘Merrowl-merrowl’ as a repetitive refrain. Maine Coon hakuna matata. Distractions, distractions. The vanished Iska niggled.
Nosy, the missus asked Jean Franck where he’d learned to speak English and whether Cadillac was pronounced like the American car. He revealed having visited Quebec thirty years ago and “non”, it was ”Cad-ee-ack” and was possibly where we could get fed that evening. “You like tapas?” he inquired.
The missus and me nodded. “I shall reserve you table at La Cave. Un bistrot intéressant. Adam and Claire run it. Both are English. Adam’s a killer.”
“You mean he’s quite jokey?” I interpreted.
Jean Franck shrugged. Puzzlingly. But wheels within wheels, I thought.
In truth, La Cave, an eatery cum eclectic wine shop cum rudimentary delicatessen, its entrance wreathed in flowering jasmine, took a bit of finding. But find it we did, tucked beneath the north of Cadillac’s medieval city walls, and, as a marker, in close spitting distance of the ornately spired church founded by the noble sounding Gaston the Third of Foix Candale yonks mists ago.
“Jean Franck sent us,” I said by way of explaining to Adam why we were suddenly stood in his presence at the till replacing an old French couple gushing gastronomic praises.
Lean, bearded and bespectacled, wearing shorts and sandals, a maroon apron over a wrinkled, grey, long-sleeved shirt, Adam had his cuffs rolled up. Claire, I guessed, was likely out the back somewhere, absorbed perhaps replying to varied Trip Advisor comments.
Briefly chatty in his mother tongue, Adam said he hadn’t seen Jean Franck in a goodly while and, to answer my unasked question, divulged that he himself originally hailed from Rugby but had left Blighty for France over thirty years ago and that, because of Brexit, was NEVER going back.
Weaving a circuitous path around busy tables he led the missus and me to one that was illuminated by the dazzling sun. Sociable mozzies whined and dined.
“Jean Franck described you as a killer,” I said.
“Jean Franck definitely needs to improve his English,” said Adam after momentary consideration.
Later, under starlight, Jean Franck, kind of hiding annoyance, enquired whether our evening had been enjoyable.
I reflected on the nicely presented, chewy, tentacled, umami lacking fare and my small itchy lumps. “It was fine, merci.” Diplomatic to a fault, me.
Our host’s response actually seemed slightly smug. “Tomorrow you will both enjoy my special petit-déjeuner. Meanwhile, I wish you bon nuit. If you want to walk around the garden please do not step on my hedgehogs. Like my cats I have three.” Matching the lime trees. Was that coincidence or intention?
Come morning, after a sleep interrupted by the odd sneeze, I fine-tuned my wedding speech. A task interrupted by breakfast’s arrival. The superlatives failed me: hot fresh ground coffee-chilled squeezed orange juice-perfectly boiled eggs-pain au chocolate-croissants-warm baguette-butter-date loaf-yoghurt-kiwi fruit-jams-olives-mozzarella-gerkins-Palma ham-lychees-apple puree was table-laid under a thoughtfully placed parasol. The citronella candle? Touching common sense.
On our departure Jean Franck handed the missus an au revoir gift: a bottle of Domaine de Peytoupin. “Enchanté,” he repeated. Then, locking eyes with me Isis fashion: “Iska says ‘merci beaucoup’. Naughty girl adored being your roommate.”
“All three cats were in on it!” I blurted.
Glad to say my wedding speech was better received…
The missus picks the plumpest of piglets. “When you finally get round to sending Jean Franck your drawing you’ll attach my best wishes won’t you, my love?”
“Course I will. You game for diving into the watermelon pickle?”
Illustration & text © 2023 Zum Beamer/Charles Wood.
Zum Beamer 