Did someone say snow?

For once, the weather predictions were spot on.  Snow fell just as forecast, early given it is still November.

Now, if only it might snow again as predicted Wednesday, then disappear for Friday when we’re supposed to head to London. 

Please dear weather Gods, I love snow anytime, just not this week.

Urban

The urban side of Paris is just as remarkable as the cliché tourist traps.

Haunting, beautiful, magical

Whilst I love autumn dearly, I always find it so hauntingly sad.  Each year it brings something to an end, a season, a love. More moments gone that turn to memories never to be held again.

This year the heartache is there again, yet the colours are richer than I remember them being in the past nine years on the outskirts of Paris.  Strong, vibrant against blue skies, dancing in the breeze before they float to the ground.

Haunting, beautiful, magical.

Christmas air

 It’s hard to believe another year has slipped on by and Christmas is around the corner.  We’ve been working on some cards that will be in the shop later today,Christmas cards, gift tags and some bookmarks that make a perfect stocking filler.

Bliss

This morning was pure bliss.  

Crisp fresh air, a clear blue sky, a grand créme in hand, and in no other place than Versailles.  

To top it off, a couple of horses and their riders were returning to the Grande Ecurie after a morning walk in the grounds of the chateau.

Perfect way to induce some feel good energy and start the week.

On your bike

Recently seen cycling along the Quay Gesvres in Paris. 

I love looking at the photo and wondering where he was going, and who were the flowers for?

Hope you’re having a happy weekend.

Half

 

Half above water, half under.

It’s just how it is these days.

Sunday Love

 

I adore Sundays for all the cliché reasons you see on the cosy television ads.  I love sleeping late and waking up in crispy white sheets with the sun peeping through the windows, children coming in to snuggle under the covers before the bouncing and giggles start.  I love the coffee that slowly pulls me from the last of my dreams so that I can pull on some clothes.  I love that the Sunday market will cover the square in front of the buildings above, abundant in fresh fruits, cheeses, and crunchy warm baguettes that are ripped apart as we’ve barely taken possession.  I love the life and the energy that comes on that square before the buzz goes quiet and all retreat indoors for a lunch en famille.  Wrapped up on the sofa’s, newspapers will be read from front cover to back before an afternoon stroll or bike ride will complete the day. I could easily live a lifetime of Sundays.

Heavenly indulgence

Amongst the fall weather that has dominated Paris and the Yvelines throughout August, there have been jackpot days when golden sunshine has emerged, bright and warm.

This little guy soaked in it, as did we all. 

Diving head first into the centre of a wild flower, he drank away in her beautiful nectar before emerging covered in the fairy dust of pollen. So heavy was his binge, he had to take a minute to compose and prepare his wings before hiccupping off to the next flower.

A heavenly indulgence indeed.

Mille et Une Epices – Polaroid card set no.3

Strawberry Fields at the Ferme de Gally

Under the shade of the grey skies currently hovering over the Yvelines, is a farming land, full of colour, rich in flavor, and open the year long for harvesting by all who so desire.

With summer appearing to have decided on a premature exit this year, the last of the seasonal fruits are hanging in there, waiting to be plucked and quickly gobbled by the little fingers reaching up to pick them. 

On the edge of Versailles, and just a short twenty minute drive west of downtown Paris, lies the Ferme de Gally, a produce farm open to the public.  A wonderful example of community, the farm is an open picking ground where seasonal fruits, vegetables and flowers are grown and the gates are open year round to the public to harvest according to their needs, having tasted along the way.

We’ve long ago abandoned the purchasing of strawberries from countries that continue to fumigate with methyl bromide, so the arrival of strawberry season in the local fields is a time of indulgence chez nous. Elevated at chest height, row upon row of succulent Mara des bois strawberries grow, densely hanging, waiting for consumers to come along and pick direct from the producers.

Walking the fields, you’ll find yourself in the company of locals who come and select their weekly produce.  Retirees, wheelbarrows filled with hearty vegetables, share the fields with school groups on an exploration of nature.  Perhaps you’ll end up thick in the raspberry hedges, or as we found ourselves many times this summer, amongst the fields of strawberries where children reach high, grabbing at rich, juicy red fruit, smearing it on their cheeks as they gorge themselves on the luscious treats before they trundle off to the next.

With September drawing nearer, the days of the wonderful richness of the red summer fruits are numbered.  Soon, they’ll be long gone and replaced with pumpkins, squash and the vegetables of winter soups.  Heavy in flavour and warmth, but lacking the light happiness that comes with sweet summer fruits.

Despite the Beatles lyrics, the ‘strawberry fields’ will only linger for a few more weeks, not forever.  If you are after summer fruits and want to storm the fields like a revolutionary party after the likes of Marie Antoinette, time is running out. 

Take this as your official warning. 

NB: Before you set out, be sure to check the Gally website where you’ll find regularly updated information on the what produce is available any given week.

Reflections

It appears the gods are in battle over the control of the skies above Paris. 

Zeus seems to have cast a spell over the skies of Northern France and deemed summer 2010 to be cloudy and cooler than should be expected in August. With the cloud lingering long and heavy during the day, there have been only brief glimpses of the sun for many days now.

Then, as the evening arrives, Astraeus and his gentle winds have blown in and the clouds drift away allowing the stars come out, just in time from some last minute Perséides meteor watching. 

Whilst a little more warmth and sunshine would have been most welcome, the cloudy skies have made for a great canvas of reflections on the water during the day.  Then night arrives, and it’s time to just lay back, look up at the skies and wish upon falling stars. Silent moments to reflect on the world around us.

 Perhaps the weather is like this for a reason.  Perhaps it’s meant to be a summer of reflection.

Under the mist on tiptoe

 

When you’re in Paris, in love, and at the Paris plage, there is only way to cool off.  Yes, under the soft showers of mist by the side of the Seine. 

Happy weekend everyone.

Fruits of Summer – Memories of Long Ago

Long gone are the days when, with untamed braids, a scorched, freckled nose and rather un-fashionable pret-a-porter shorts becoming only of the 70’s, I’d spend afternoons hanging from the willows that rested on the edge of a nearby stream, dipping their tips into the trickle of water as it flowed past. 

It was a summer holiday routine, constant and stable. There was a forever-ness to the vacation, summers would always be full of this, or so I thought at the time.  They’d go on endlessly, never stopping.

Just as the sun would rise, and the cock would crow, each day in a field above the creek, a herd of cows would stand metres away from a kitchen door anticipating her arrival. Waiting in the bushes alongside the outhouse, swishing tails at bothersome flies, they knew with regularity that she’d soon be there.  Sure enough, eventually she was.

Mistress of a small acreage, my grandmother would arrive to her dutifully awaiting stock. Bucket in one hand, a stool in the other, her tiny grey haired figure, would exit the kitchen door. It was a cheap tinny door with a fly screen that clanked shut against a worn wooden frame, a frame that witnessed many openings, and bore the smacking shut, on much love and bickering. 

As the door slammed and echoed behind her, she’d descend the single step and pass through a gate adorned by her beloved apricot trees.  Each day her attire was no different to any other, standard floral dress, protected by an apron, and boots, to endure the cow pads that lay ahead. 

There, in that dry and dusty corner of town, each day with steady repetition, they’d run along beside her, her devoted Herefords, parallel but kept apart by wire, until she arrived near the barn.  Entering the first gate, metal with herringbone patterned wire, she’d cross a muddy, or otherwise dusty yard, open an old splintered gate and finally allow their smelly company into hers.  As per every other day, as done for some years previous, the stool would take its place, the bucket would go down and she’d assume her spot, crouched, aggravating an aching back, rubbing her already calloused fingers, milking away for another day.

Whilst I didn’t often wake to see her go out for the morning milk, there were many a time at the hour of the early evening session when along with my sisters, we’d stand peering, faces squashed through the divides of the wooden cattle yard.  Once relieved of their engorged udders, the cows would be returned to the paddock.  At which point we’d take it upon ourselves to be their chief tormentors, chasing them madly, possessed little devils having taken over our bodies, up and down the rocky hill. And, that was how days passed on those long summers spent in quiet, loving arms. 

On the mornings when she’d tiptoed gently out, that grandmother of mine, I’d continue to sleep on her heavenly pillow where dreams were made.  I’d miss the ritual sizzling of the pan fried breakfast, awakening long after it had been eaten, but just in time to soak in the last of the flavor of sausages and eggs that lingered in the air.  From the kitchen came the smoky smell of the grill that my grandfather and uncles would devour.  On the bread board were the remains of slices of bread, its blackened crust, a smell I can conjure up now, and a taste I’ve wished for again on so many occasions.

At other times when I’d been so lucky to have finished my dreams and woken before everyone had eaten, I’d sit alongside of them all.  In the middle of the table would be a jug of cream, strained through cheesecloth, full of the taste of farm freshness, straight from the cows that I’d tormented the days before.  With the cream, I’d indulge in apricots of summer in that little house on Petrie Street.  Grown, picked and preserved for longevity, they were enhanced with a flavor that can only come from something homegrown, loved and nurtured.

And that was the start of many of my early summer days.  Tart apricots, not quite ripe, yet nevertheless relished in their abundance, served with a fresh, rich cream, gave flavor to long summer holidays in a house full of the essence of a woman who’s influence runs deep so many years later.

A generation has now passed and thousands of miles stand between those memories and where I find my life happily settled in France.  Grandparents are long gone, the cows and the house too.  Yet each year, from the end of May, and until autumn arrives, French markets fill with the richness of tasty ripe apricots. They take me back to the paddock, the door, and those morning smells.  Once again, I dream of the magic taste that came only in the company of my grandmother,  her  cream,  her tart, but most deliciously full of love, apricots.

This summer, just as all others for the past nine years was no different.  On a recent outing to the Marché Notre Dame in Versailles, there they were, sitting amongst the cherries, waiting to be eaten and indulged, were the most beautiful apricots.  And there I was, a child swinging from a tree on the banks of a stream, waiting for the cows to come home. Wanting for the taste of some of that cream from so long ago that would go so deliciously with them.

—

The Marché Notre Dame is a lively, 300 year old market located on the Rue de la Paroisse in downtown Versailles.  The ‘halles’ (pavilions) are open Tues-Saturday 7am-19.30 and Sunday 7am-2pm.

The ‘Carrés’ Notre-Dame (external market) on the same market square is a bustle of activity each Tuesday, Friday and Sunday from 7am – 2 pm.

Summer loving