Chevre-Rit, St. Lothain

Yesterday the hoof men came to trim the horses hooves, which was an interesting time. Jean-Claude and two of his girls came first to help and then they arrived, looking like a combination of cowboys and military men in their buzz haircuts and fatigue-green clothes covered with special chaps that protect their legs when they're gripping a horse hoof between their knees. Unfortunately I didn't get a photo of them working on the horses but I'll just say it's always a pleasure to see people doing a job like that, that takes strength and skill and a certain special touch too. The three adult horses stood patiently, waiting their turns, and it seemed that they were enjoying the process while it was underway. The younger horse was a little less patient but she did fine and she didn't phase them a bit. I didn't understand much of what Jean-Claude talked about with them but it seemed they did a lot of admiring of the young Aleesha, wondering if her father was a quarter horse. We also tried to explain that the Appaloosas come from our neck of the woods, and I think that we finally got that communicated. I suppose if I had done some charades it would have been easy to get across the concept of Indians but I didn't feel all that outgoing in the mid-day heat.

We've been buying goat cheese at the Bletterans market on Tuesdays from a youngish sort of intellectual looking guy. Each week we've communicated a bit more with him; the first week we explained about being WWOOFers, the next week he suggested we come visit his farm, the next week I said I'd like to visit his farm and could he draw a map for me? He did so, saying any day is fine at 18:00, and we visited two nights later, which was last Thursday.

We drove east to St. Lothain, discovering some absolutely gorgeous tiny villages along the way, including Monay. Bois de Gand is in a broad flat valley but the hills start immediately to the east of here, with villages built clinging to the hillsides or perched atop the peaks. Everything is built with the same warm yellow limestone or limestone rendering on the outside with tiled roofs, and the new buildings too, so the harmonious effect of that contrasted with the lush greenery (this region gets a lot of rain in the winter) is a feast for the eyes. My pasture-loving nature thinks, this is where we ought to live! But we know that the winter is too long and wet for our taste. But I'd love to vacation here again someday, staying in a gite and just walking down the country roads, like we're doing now.

When we found the goat farm owned by Mr. Richard Bruno and his wife we quickly discovered that the appointed time - 18:00 - is when visitors are always welcome to watch. We were among a small crowd of people milling around during the evening milking. Some of the younger kids were helping a bit. I was dumbfounded at the little tricks he employed to make milking go smoothly. I may not have explained how the goats are kept in place for milking at Fromentaux and probably every goat farm in the world: there are boards with V-shaped openings between them. The goats put their necks in the slots, bend down to eat their grain, and you drop a hinged board down over the wide part at the top so they can't pull their heads out. Well, Mr. Bruno's hinged board was operated by a pull-cord on a pulley that he could reach from where he is standing with the milking machine suction cups. So he gets about 6 goats at a time, they run up the ramp and jostle into their spaces for the big grain treat (he has 50 goats total), hooks them up, and when they're done he releases the board and the girls trot down a little ramp into their big indoor stall, with a door that is also operated with a pull-cord and a pulley. I was gaping and trying to find the words to compliment him on these effort-saving innovations, and he tapped his head and said something to the effect of, "I study."

He showed me the racks of cheeses that they make from 100 to 120 litres of milk each week, all of the milk raw, or "cru." It was all the same procedure as at Fromentaux - raw milk, added enzyme, held at a warmish temp for 24 hrs, then the fromage blanc is ladled into the molds to drain off the whey, salted after 24 hrs. and turned and salted again and turned out to cure - just with newer, nicer equipment and on a larger scale. This operation is just 2 years old; Mr. Bruno's family is from here, he said. My favorite part of seeing the fromagerie was the baby paraphernalia scattered around, as he and his wife obviously have a fairly youngish baby who accompanies his maman to the fromagerie for the cheese making and turning each day.

Fete Paysanne in the Jura

The weather has been blissfully warm and sunny for five days in a row and we've started taking our meals al fresco on the terrace. It's what we've been dreaming about since, oh, last November and it's incredible what fresh air does for the appetite and for my motivation to cook. I'm learning the art of fixing really good meals with a combination of fresh things from the farmers market, canned pre-prepared things, and stuff out of the freezer. Today's lunch, for intance, was a fresh lettuce salad with grated carrot with the dressing Isabella taught me (2 parts olive oil, 1 part balsamic vinegar, 1 big tablespoon Dijon mustard, and 1 part creme fraiche), bread from the boulangerie that I got on Saturday, herbed pork sausages from the freezer that I browned with some diced onion and then simmered all morning with half a can of canned lentils, water, and a sprinkling of dried veggie/herb mix, the cheese platter with a varied selection (Comte', two kinds we don't remember the names of, a fresh goat cheese that is gaining more character each day, and a Bresse bleu), and for dessert, some lemon cake that I baked from a Dr. Oetker's mix that Isabella had in the cupboard. We've adopted the farm and French custom of eating a bigger meal at lunch than at dinner; it seems to work nicely for our work schedule and also for digestion!

Yesterday we drove eastward, further up into the hilly country of the Jura, where the brown and white cows wear bells and clang harmoniously as they graze. The confederation paysanne fete was at a dairy farm just outside of Mignovillard, a very small town between here and Geneva. The architecture of the houses became more Swiss-like, with chalets and steep roofs with little pointy things on the roofs to break up the snow above doorways. The pastures were blazing green and many of them filled with dandelions, so big and beautiful it was almost as if they were cultivated on purpose. Certainly they're not in any danger of eradication; I wonder if the cows like to eat them? The pastures are edged with low gravelly lengths of what looks like collapsed walls but what are just ancient rock piles from cleaning out of the pastures, with trees and shrubs growing out of them.

The fete paysanne was fun and a challenge for our language skills, but we did the best we could, checking out the solar cooking demonstration, watching the horse spectac (a little show with 8 huge horses and their riders) and buying some gingerbread made with honey, some basil starts for the garden, and tickets for the repas paysanne - peasant meal. 10 Euros per adult and 6 for children got us a borscht-like soup, some boiled potatoes that had been cooked in a huge cast iron pot over a fire, tender roast beef, applesauce, a slice of bread and a large hunk of Comte' cheese, and some brioche and coffee for dessert. Thankfully there was plenty of shade and lots of tables set up in a tent (pictured above) and also in the cow barn, where some of the calves watched the crowds dine. We drank the water provided but others bought bottles of wine or fresh cider from some of the vendors present; the chatter was deafening, even when after we finished we headed up into a shady pasture for a rest, at least 300 yards away. Walt and I discussed whether or not the distant French chatter would sound the same if it was in English or any other language. I think it would sound the same, Walt thinks it would be different. Anyone done studies on this?

On the way home we stopped for an afternoon stroll in historic Nozeroy (pictured above), site of the ruins of a chateau built by some Prince and his ancestors whose last name was Chalon (as in Chateau Chalon, where we went last week) who used to rule this part of the world back in the 1400s and 1500s. These historically important villages are always up on top of hills, the better to see their enemies coming, and so the views are breathtaking (pictured above), especially now that the fields are so green and the trees are leafing out. I can see why people would put up with snowy winters here, if spring is this glorious all the time.

We've definitely got an owl and chicks living under the eaves, above the living room ceiling. We hear them in the evening and see the mama owl heading out on her hunting trips. And this morning, bits of moss and some sticks had fallen through the ceiling onto the stairs from an invisible crack between the ceiling boards. Walt and I sat outside as the sun set around 9:30 pm and watched the bats swoop silently around the yard eating bugs. I saw the owl for the first time too, just a light shadow that came out from under the overhang and was gone in a moment. Her wings don't make a sound. The chicks make plenty of noise in the evenings, though. They squeak and squabble and someone makes an eerie, long drawn out moaning cry that sounds almost alien.

Chateau Chalon

View from Voiteur up to Chateau Chalon
Budding out vineyards on way to Chateau Chalon
Street in Chateau Chalon
Lobelia in Chateau Chalon
Views from Chateau Chalon

I've made some feeble attempts to deflect jealousy by hinting at the hard work we do, complaining about cleaning out stables, hand-feeding giant schnauzers, mowing acres of lawn, turning cheese for hours on end, etc. but I can't keep up the charade - life is good on sabbatical. (Although we DO think constantly of Walt's brother Dave and his wife Linda in the hospital. I really miss her emails and hope her therapy goes well so she can write me again.) Our hosts here in the Jura stocked the cupboards and freezers well so we're dining on osso buco, sirloin steak, potatoes, leeks, and homemade spaetzle, brioche, Lindt chocolates, comte' cheese, and various kinds of homemade jams, homemade creme de cassis with champagne, etc. etc. Yesterday at a small grocery store we bought a charentais melon, a little round one, the kind I'd heard about in France but never had. We sliced it open for dessert at lunch today and I almost got knocked over by the aroma. Then I leaned over to lick the juice off the cutting board that had leaked out when I cut it open. That melon alone is enough of a reason to move to France, it was that good.

Weather dawned gorgeously sunny on Saturday, so after we dealt with veterinary/equine related issues with colt Alesha (I talked on the phone to the neighbor AND the vet's receptionist, in French! sort of...), ate lunch, showered, and dressed, we headed out in the car towards the SE, where I'd read something about some nice places called Chateau Chalon and Baume-les-Messieurs. We started on the motorway and as soon as possible turned off into a village to find the country road alternative. We got turned around in the village and as we headed back the other way an older gentleman flagged us down and asked where we wanted to go. We told him the name of the place and he started to point towards the motorway and I said, "Petite chemins!" (small roads) and he grinned broadly and pointed up the hill, showing off some English for us as he told us how many left and rights we needed to take. I tell you, I have yet to meet an unhelpful French person. We headed off into the hills and were rewarded immediately with long distance views and the discovery of a little village called Brery where I could happily live, at least on sunny days, and then we got closer to Chateau Chalon.

Well. You know you're in a nice place when other French people are visiting for the weekend. I've posted some photos of our afternoon above. Chateau Chalon was one of the most beautiful places I've ever been. We didn't have any money so we didn't stop for any Cote de Jura wine tastings while we were there, but in a few places as we strolled by we could smell it, and that was enough.

Cuckoos and Owls and Lizards Oh My

We're having fun discovering the new kinds of wildlife sharing our world here in the rural Jura region of France. Yesterday the sun came out and burned off the fog after several days of gray and we shed our long sleeves for the afternoon and evening, at the same time that the little lizards who live in between rocks and in the walls of the house came out to sunbathe. The sun lit up the trees at the bottom of the pastures, the fresh leaf buds the color of chartreuse.

In the mornings when we wake up and again in the evenings we hear cuckoos out in the woods, sounding for all the world like the clock in my grandparents house when I was a kid. I didn't realize until now that there are real birds that actually make that sound. We learned the insidious origin of the term "cuckold" as well - when Walt learned that cuckoos lay their eggs in a reed warbler's nest, and pushes one of the warbler's own eggs out, in a matter of about 10 seconds. The cuckoo chicks are so big they steal all the food that the poor warbler brings to it, not realizing that her own warbler offspring have been crowded out by these cuckoo imposters. Yikes. Nature isn't always benign, is it?

Something is living above the rafters above the office where I'm on the computer, scratching and squeaking. We are seeing little tufts of insulation floating down outside above this spot, and today when Walt tried to see what was happening he thinks he spotted a little bird face, perhaps an owl face. We'll keep an eye out on this.

The long evening sunlight induced us out on a long country walk last night down the road before a late dinner, where the only sound of civilization was the occasional fighter jet, obviously on training runs while the visibility was good. There were some cows who thought, both times they saw us, that we were coming to fetch them inside for the night. There were also a couple of muddy little ponds into which dozens of frogs jumped, bloop bloop bloop, as we walked by. Some hunting dogs in an outdoor pen bayed and barked, doing their job, and the river rushed under the road down at the bottom of the hill, all muddy and swollen from the spring rain. "Chasse gardee" the sign said, amidst a swampland of standing water in the wooded, shrubby river flats. Hunting preserve. You wouldn't want to hunt down there now.

Life sounds idyllic here and indeed it is, but there is always something more trying happening outside the pages of this blog: trying to get tenants to keep our rental house full at home, worrying about sister in law Linda in the hospital in Tacoma, paying the plumber to fix the sewer line on our house in Moscow, trying to make my career as a freelance writer pay a living wage, keeping the guy whose chickens our dog killed in her temporary home from suing us, trying to make sure Reed isn't the only 2nd grader next year who doesn't know how to sit still and listen to the teacher... the list goes on. These are the things that don't always get written about, but still they're there. We haven't escaped from real life, we're just living it in a different way, perhaps.

Bois de Gand, France

We've spent our week up to our ankles in straw and horsesh*t as we've learned the fine points of caring for and cleaning up after horses at the housesit where we'll be situated for the next month, in the Jura region of France. We arrived on Tuesday afternoon after two long days of bus/train/air travel from West Cork to Dublin to Grenoble to this tiny village situated in the countryside in the foothills of the mountains southeast of Dijon. We've been too busy taking notes about which horse gets which munchies and which giant schnauzer gets which pills to have begun appreciating being back in France but now we're getting the hang of it, and although today started out miserably drizzly, by lunchtime the sky had cleared and the afternoon was gloriously warm and sunny, lasting through the long evening. Within a few days we'll be settled, the dogs and horses will have relaxed too, and we can start enjoying field trips and going to the market in Bletterans on Tuesdays for our fresh salad greens and if we're lucky some farm produced cheeses.

Our generous hosts stocked the cupboards well so we shall eat like kings and queens, and tonight Walt did himself proud with the large carp that Alex and Tomas, the neighbor boys, caught in this house's pond the other day. They took home a creel full and brought us a large one, nicely cleaned. It was surprisingly delicious, fresh and tasty, baked with garlic and dill and lots of butter, the chef's secret weapon. The carp was accompanied by a delicately sweet pinot gris, and we thought Hugh Fearnsley-Whittingstall would have been proud, having been known to eat a carp or two himself. The bones were a pain but they helped us pace ourselves, otherwise we might have gobbled everything up much too quickly.

From this large house we mostly see pastures and woods, with one pasture leading down to a large pond. The nearby villages are undiscovered and a little rough around the edges, testimony to this region's slightly struggling economy. This isn't a place overun by Brits, which has its advantages and disadvantages both, apparently, depending on who you're talking to.