Perigord Padawan

Ernesto knows George Lucas, or more likely, George Lucas knows Ernesto. Otherwise how would you explain the uncanny resemblance between my boss Ernesto and a Jedi cutting the wall to an impenetrable fortress with his laser saber?
Therefore, I have concluded that Ernesto is a Jedi, which makes me his Padawan. Some may think that, actually, I was assisting him with a sanding machine this afternoon, but they are mistaken. It was proper Star Wars in there, with dust flying everywhere, light shining in eerie ways and deafening sound all around.
Also I have another proof that my Master is a real Jedi. He was once tempted by the Dark Side. From a recent conversation with a friend I have learned that he is on a five years probation for hitting his former business partner in the head with a shovel. The guy nearly lost an ear, but sort of deserved it, as he was stealing from Ernesto. Now, the Force is with him again, and I'm an obedient learner, I also keep my head down when he grabs anything sharp.

Career Moves (or the Giant behind the back door)

It’s been over a week since the previous post. The rainy days should have enabled me to be more thorough with my writing. But things happen so fast at the moment, they change so quickly I don’t know how to keep up. It seems that everything is on the move in Dordogne.

Career Moves

The first time I met him, I nearly poured my coffee over his expensive jacket.

The first time I met him, he bought me a beer, and then another.

The first time I met him, he was my boss.

The first time I met him, he was about to become my boss.

The first time I talked to him, he was the Mayor of New York, and had been my boss for ten years.

The first time I talked to him was last Sunday, and he bought me a beer, and then another, because he'd hired me.

I don't work for Mike anymore, now that I've learned a lot about traders.

I work for Ernesto Goncalvez, Portuguese builder, and I'm learning the trade.

New Work-place

This little poem to let you know that I have become an apprentice builder (‘apprentice’, therefore I only dabble in exposing some flesh when leaning forward, but I’m working on the crack, indeed). My job consists mostly in mixing mortar, carrying buckets and tools around, breaking stuff with a sledgehammer and dumping it far away with a wheelbarrow. But in between, I learn a lot from Ernesto about restoring old stone houses, which will become handy in the near future.

I also learn a lot about my neighbors, like Denis, the giant farmer who lives on the top of the hill.  

He is the sole remaining farmer in our area and he cuts our field in summer in exchange for the bails of hay. That deal was brokered by Christian, whom we bought the house from. Christian runs a strawberry business in another village and was too busy to cut our hay last summer. So he kindly organized for Denis to come and do it. At least, that’s what I was told, when we were still living in Dulwich. 

At the end of last June, I moved a first load of furniture from the UK with my friend Rob and expected to find the field all neat and tidy, like everybody else’s. That was not the case.

Tall Grass in the Field

The grass was waste-high, Rob’s allergies couldn’t believe their luck. So, the next day I drove to the top of the hill to try and find Denis and ask when he would commit to his part of the deal.

We were met by an elderly woman, her arms resting on the window of a very dark kitchen. Behind her, we could barely identify the shapes of three rugged men, whose arms, in their white vests, looked as big as my thighs.  It was ‘aperitif’ time and it was obvious we were disturbing their game of staring at a bottle of Pastis in silence.

I explained who I was, reminded the lady that I had called a few weeks before to make sure all was in order, and wanted to know when Denis would have time, in his very busy schedule, to come by and –please, please, please – cut that f’in grass.

I must admit I didn’t really understand what she answered, but she mentioned that he’d do it and asked if I had seen ‘the beast’?

Let’s state here that there was absolutely no innuendo in her question. That I knew because my neighbor Paul had warned me. Denis and his brothers had found an abandoned baby wild-boar, probably the orphan of an animal they had killed themselves, and had decided to keep it as pet. Their hunting dog had befriended the little creature and ‘the beast’, as the baby w-b had been named, was having a whale of a time in the farm. But this is Rural France. And feuds go along way. So do Regulations. Thus, you will not be surprised to learn that someone had called the cops on Denis and his brothers, as it is highly illegal to harbor wild animals. ‘Beast’ was bound to leave the farm for a wildlife Park two days after our visit, and the old lady wanted us, city folks to enjoy, the presence of the little creature. Unfortunately,  ‘beast’ was busy doing what baby wild-boars do when they don’t parade in front of strangers in the farmyard and we never saw it.

Vaguely optimistic of ever having the field cut short, we went back down the hill and treated Rob’s allergies with a lot of wine.

The next morning, my head was pounding. Hard.  I had to make it stop and decided to go for a run to sober up.

So, I opened the blinds, and found a gigantic man on a tractor, less than 10 meters away from the window. The further he went, the lesser the headache. That was Denis, fulfilling his part of the

Denis to the Rescue

bargain. After six years away from home, I still had a basic knowledge of the French social codes. My little trip up the hill had been fruitful.

Satisfied with myself, but not to the point of forgetting all decency, I got dressed and walked to the edge of the field, waiting for Denis to drive past me. It took him a good two minutes to do so and when he came close enough to see me, he didn’t turn the engine off, waved his hand to say hello and moved his head to signify ‘No’ when I suggested he should pop in for a coffee when he’d be finished. Then he pointed to the sun and said he had to make the most of daylight. It was 9 am in the morning, at the end of June, one of the longest day of the year…

I believe, that he had a ton of things to do and didn’t want to waste anytime with a slacker who just got out of bed when he had been up for a good three hours. Fair enough! And lucky enough too, because when I had my first conversation with him, a few weeks later, I confess I didn’t get everything he said. His friendly face and piercing eyes, at the top of his big body, didn’t make up for his very strong accent. I was looking up at him in order to find a meaning to his discourse but failed to keep up with the conversation. I was so afraid to offend him by showing I couldn’t understand, after he had been so helpful with the field, that I let the chat die rather quickly. Now, we communicate by handshakes and big arm-waves when we meet by accident.

So Denis is still a mystery to me, and I was very happy to learn that my boss Ernesto-the-mason used to party with Denis.

I’m not afraid of stereotypes, and actually do enjoy them when they refer to nationalities. For example, I do believe that the French can be arrogant, the English can seem snob and the Germans tend to invade your country. Hence, I am happy to say that Ernesto is an archetypical Portuguese builder, a bit pig-headed, hard-working and short. The pair of Short-Ernesto and Giant-Denis going to town together must have been a sight.

-Where did you use to go? I asked this afternoon, between two loads of mortars.

-We used to go to all the bars, in the villages around, and it would always end up in a fight. We had lots of fun! That’s because, when I was younger, I was a bit pig-headed (told you!).

-Wasn’t that dangerous, I mean every week?

-Oh no! We had a thing with my friends. We all wore these new white shirts with a big collar, so that we could spot one another when it would all kick off, and come and help if need be, it was safer. One day, I went to a bar where those guys had roughed me up a bit, three against one. That wasn’t fair, so I wanted my revenge. I had called Denis for back up. I had told him to be there at 10 o’clock sharp. I got to the bar at 10, fifteen minutes later, no Denis, half-an-hour later, the same. Those guys were teasing me. But I didn’t budge.

I wanted to give a good kicking to their leader, a big fellow.

11 o’ clock, still no Denis. Comes 12 o’clock, I stood up. I had made up my mind, I went to the guy, thinking that I’d punch him as much as I could until his mates get me. But at the same time, Denis’ brother walks in. Those guys, seeing how big he is, they start to run to the back door, where Denis is now standing. And he punches the first guy he sees, who happens to be the one I wanted. He gets him so well that the poor lad got knocked out. Then the police got involved, and an ambulance, we even had an article in the paper! But that’s a while back now, when we were young.

Nestled in the gentle hills of the Dordogne, the old French fighting spirit awaits. So, if you’re in a bar, and things turn sour, stay close to the short and friendly Portuguese builder. He’s got a giant of a friend behind the back door.

Finally, my temporary professional shift into the building trade has drawn the following questions from my children, at then end of my first day:

-Noah: Have you been dismissed yet?

-No.

-Hum, good for you.

-Samuel: Do you drive a digger?

-No

-Do you use a catapult then?

Samuel also asked if I could build a small brick-house.

I asked Ernesto about that.

-Yes you can…in five or six years.  Now, can you go and make some more mortar please?

Nothing can go wrong (with garlic and butter), or can it?

Could this be the last post ever on this blog? Is this the end already? Am I going to meet my maker after hours of insufferable agony ? Well, may be, dear friends and acquaintances, as I have just started digesting our first bash of wild mushrooms.

The end of Me or the Rebirth of my French identity?

It's not the elusive cepes, as explained in a prior posting. No, just a kind Rosé des prés that seem to enjoy the vicinity of our field. 

Rose des pres, pre - garlic & butter

Sue has mustered the courage to make me try some.
She applied the old French principle that nothing can go wrong when cooked in parsley (from under the kitchen window), garlic (from the market but planting is coming soon) and butter. And once again, this has proven accurate. It was absolutely delicious. Anxiety receded slowly as my taste-buds blossomed. I could have heard myself moan in appreciation if the crackling of fire in the chimney hadn't been so loud on this rainy day.

Defiant Looking 'shroom

Why, except for the obvious basking in our rural glory, am I writing this down? Because this is a major step in our integration process. Mushrooms, you see, are the 'talk of the town village'. And eating some make us one notch more local. I'll now be able to face Paul and Jean-Paul, and casually shrug when mentioning that I, too, eat mushrooms from my field. It will bring me closer to the status of real-French-country-man especially if I omit that for a good five days now, Sue keeps bringing back all sorts of mushrooms in the hope I'll be mad enough to try and eat them. Most of the fungi have this defiant, even arrogant look on their head that seem to say: "try me, try me, I may not be as dangerous as I look ".

-Good try, sucker, I 'aint no fool! I think on the inside.
On the outside I shrug and walk passed, especially since I have acquired some ultimate mushroom-knowledge at the special 'Mushroom Festival' last Sunday in Eglise Neuve d'Issac, the next door village.
Set in the communal hall, this exhibition and information gathering started at 2 pm. We turned up one hour late, to avoid the crowds (421 inhabitants in Eglise Neuve, twice the size of our village), to find a very quiet village square. We walked around the town hall, wondered if the meeting had been moved to a bigger venue to accommodate the large turn out ? Nope, after asking a local lady, we found out that the Mushroom Festival is ... next sunday! So we know nothing more about 'shrooms and I very well may be poisoned.

Trading in (Local) Commodities

With the €uro reaching 1.41$ , it’s about time to get my hands dirty and delve into a serious financial analysis of our local eco(nomic)-system. And as I’ve learned since the last days of summer, Dordogne has two currencies: mushroom and wood.

If one is the star of the season because of its scarcity, the other one rules over the surrounding hills with abundance and elegance. The rich and various colours of the forest remind me of fall in New England, or ‘England on steroids’, according to David Sedaris.

So is Dordogneshire in a way. Full of deep red and shiny gold leaves falling on the road. The ferns, lush and proud just a month ago have opted for a chic, but sad, ‘light-brown-and-dry’ look. When the thermometer gets depressed and falls to ice-cube temperature, mornings are simply glorious. The frost over the green pasture on the hill contrasts with the vivid colours of the forest in the valley, just beautiful.

D. the dog thinks so too, he can’t wait to run outside. Sue takes him out and D. folds his back legs to let nature take its course by the Pine-tree.  Then it’s all about ‘fed up with dog poop everywhere’ and ‘why don’t you take him out’ (the latter usually coming with finger pointing). And I’m sure she is right.  I should get involved in that part of the morning ritual.

But so far, from the warmth of the kitchen, gazing beyond the lime-tree, the valley looks amazing in autumn.

You would think that with so many trees around, surely, finding wood to burn should not be an issue. Ah, how mistaken you are, stranger.

Wood, like any commodity is highly dependent on time. The premise of winter in Dordogne is to wood what the Driving Season is to fuel in the U.S of A: a peak in demand reflected in rising prices that change the perception of the market.

I got my first hint at the intricacies of wood-buying after we purchased the house a little more than 2 years ago.

Christine and Guy, the parents of my friend Denis, live on the same hill than us, and they are the one who found the house for us. Retired bakers from Bergerac, they’ve done up their house here for the last three decades. It’s now an enchanting stone building with a nice swimming-pool and some super-classy flats to rent in the tobacco barn.

We visited them for lunch, after we bought the house, during Christmas vacations, over a year ago.

Pointing at the neat pile of logs, under the trees, I asked :

-Guy, how would one go about buying some logs ‘round here ?

-You buy wood in summer, he replied.

His eyes told me that my question was border-line heretic. Asking about the purchase of logs in wintertime was like claiming to holiday in France without swallowing any meat, cheese, garlic or wine, pure blaspheme.

I dropped the topic and debated the issue with Sue. She is way more pragmatic than I am. Thus, she pointed at all the posts and derelict pieces of fence that populated our ten acres and suggested we’d burn that instead. We picked up and gathered, with the merry help of our families, assembled and stacked, but never reached the beautiful symmetry of a well-organised woodpile.

By that time, we had met Paul (the episode of impromptu drink under stuffed-deer-head in sweaty armpits with fluorescent T-shirt would come months later).

We had introduced ourselves as we walked up the hill past his house, exchanged a few words over the fence, patted his dog on the head. Just enough civilities for Sue to ask him one day:

-Paul, how would one go about buying some logs ‘round here ?

-You can’t buy wood, he replied.

This was winter remember, and she knew she was already treading on very thin ice, but she had a plan, trying to play the genuine naïve which has been my strategy since I’ve set foot here.

-Oh yeah, it’s true, you buy wood in summer.

-No, YOU can’t buy wood. (long silence)  Look at how many trees you have ! Before buying wood, you need to chop a few trees down and split them into logs.

So, that’s what we have done. My parents have bought us a nice chainsaw, as a Xmas present and I’ve been playing lumberjack since, under Paul’s supervision.

He’s told me off for not sharpening the teeth on the chain properly, took it away to its den to bring it up to amateur-tree-chopper standard and told me off the second time I got it out, for not sharpening it properly. Surely, he had forgotten he’d taken care of it himself but I got his point: someone knows more about chainsaws than I do and that’s him.

A few weeks ago, as I proceeded to cut logs from the tree he had taken down for me (“you should wait another month, then you wouldn’t have so many leaves, he specified AFTER he’d cut it”), he joined in with his better-cutting chainsaw, a rolled up cigarette in his mouth,  and chopped away as if he was scooping half-melted ice-cream. I was sweating like a maniac in my polyester jacket and finally needed his help to unblock the chainsaw from the stump.

It’s a long road to become a lumberjack. But hey, I’ve got a cool checkered shirt now and thanks to Paul (thank you, thank you), logs to pile.

But not everybody owns trees to chop, or has a helpful neighbour to guide them.

Those poor souls, therefore, are bound to fend for themselves in the mercantile jungle of Dordogne-wood-merchants.

Some friends tried to improvise once by stopping in a farmyard, literally surrounded by dozens of meters of wood-piles and asked if they could buy some.

The answer they received from the farmer was pure French-spirit in a bottle:

-What wood? We have no wood.

Not: ‘Sorry, we can’t sell you any, we’re going to burn those 15 tons of woods in our little house over the next 4 months, because we live naked and cook on radiators and if they’re some left I d rather eat it than selling it to you!’ No, just pure denial.

Maybe it never crossed his mind that he could sell it…oh, I love him, even from my desk I can see him shrug as he says: ‘Nope, we have no wood’.

I guess having a whole meter deep wall of logs by your house is like owning a gun in the US: comfort by its presence without planning to use it (at) all. And even if you’d use up all your wood, you could actually buy some (in the summer) or pay through the nose in autumn.

But how much wood does one need? Excellent question, I have no idea of the answer because I can’t understand it.

-Wood comes in ‘brasse(s)’ told me Jean-Paul, the retired farmer, it’s nearly 4 ‘stere(s)’ [pronounced liked ‘stair’ as in stairway].

Since, I have learned that‘Stere’ is a measurement specific to wood and equals to 1 cubic meter. Brasse is actually 5 feet x 5 feet x 5 feet, or 1.6 m x 1.6m x 1.6 m so basically 4 cubic meters. Click here if you enjoy this. 

I’m not an advocate of standardization and I like to find out a unit that only applies to one specific object. But I’m also reassured to know that things got a little easier to understand lately. Look at this: a few centuries back Brive and Tule who are at least 40km apart had different sizes for 1 Brasse (2.329 in Brive/ 2.14 in Tulle).

That’s why that French farmer pretended he had no wood for my friends.  He couldn’t figure out if, with their English accent, they were more accustomed to the Brasse from Brive or the Brasse from Tulle.

If you persist, and really plan to buy logs down this part of the country, you have to count close to 50€ for a stere of oak tree, which is at current rate what you’d pay for 2 kilograms of Cêpes.

Why! Didn’t you know, prices have gone through the roof this year. The lack of rain in September-october, the frosty nights, it has all combined  to an extremely poor mushroom season.

Sue and I have found some Cêpes-looking-like-‘shrooms but a quick cut in the flesh and we knew those were the wrong kind.

-If they go blue immediately, they are no Cêpes, once stated Jean-Paul, they wouldn’t kill you but if you ate them you’d get the runs.

Saddle with such unexpected knowledge we are therefore biting our nails in anticipation for the day when we’ll come across a real Cêpe, and cook it in an omelette. For now, it’s all window licking at Bergerac’s market, staring in passing at those overpriced fungi from Correze, the neighbouring area.

-Don’t be sad told me Pierrette, Jean-Paul’s wife, those mushrooms from Correze (Brive and Tulle are the main towns of Correze) are not half as good as our Cêpes! They’re not the real deal!

I’m with her on this. Nothing from Correze can be trusted. I mean, come on! Those guys had two different unit of measurements for cubic meters of wood 2 centuries ago! That's a sign.