To add to my frustration, I suddenly found that the only phone line we possessed, apart from our mobiles, had gone dead. No internet! I went out to see if I could find the cause of the problem and found the wires hanging loose from one of the exterior walls. When I beckoned to petit José to find out what had happened, he told me it had been getting in the way and, as my husband had assured them that we didn’t need that line, they’d cut it.
‘But why would he say that? It’s the only one we’ve got!’ I barked.
‘No problem, Madame.’ The lines were spliced back together with red sticky tape. This gave me internet connection but communication from this landline was grizzly. I begged assistance from France Telecom and went outside to do some gardening.
In the evening, I printed out the copious pages of forms and set them aside. I would not show them to Michel yet, but time was not on my side if I was to turn around his decision and Quashia’s determination to forge ahead with the spraying. Aside from selling up, I had to find an alternative, a role model, and fast.
8
There is a jolly Provençal legend that I am rather fond of. It tells of a fisherman from the village of Correns who was out late one night crouching on the right bank of the River Argens, beneath a starlit sky, fishing for eels. There he sat gazing into the clear water at a magnificent reflection of the full moon shining directly down upon his rod. Suddenly, this villager’s line began to twitch and move. He had a bite! Excited, he leapt to his feet, pulling and drawing. At that moment a cloud passed overhead, covering the moon, masking its reflection. The rod went still and the poor excited fool lifted it obediently out of the water. The cloud sailed off. There was the moon reflected against his hook. Convinced that he had fished up the gleaming globe of night, the corrençois went dashing off to tell his friends his great good news. ‘I trapped the moon,’ he shouted. ‘Trapped the moon!’
And so was born the tale of The Fisherman of the Moon or, in Provençal, Lou pesque lune.
Twenty-first-century Correns, in the neighbouring département of the Var, does not permit fishing within the village itself though the River Argens still winds through its ancient stone heart and is home to many schools of freshwater brown trout. I had heard about this award-winning location on many occasions and had casually intended to pay a visit. Now, the moment was ripe. I needed guidance and, if I was fortunate enough to reach him, I believed there was one man there who might be able to advise me. A man who had made an extraordinary and quite incredible contribution to Provence. In his own fashion, he had reached out and drawn, if not the moon, then a corner of paradise to earth.
After having acceded to the role of mayor in 1995, Michael Latz persuaded the corrençois community of eight hundred to go green. Correns remained to this day, as far as I was aware, the only village in all of France that was operating entirely organically. It billed itself as ‘le Premier village bio de France’. Perhaps even more extraordinary was that Michael Latz was not from Provence. He was not even French, but German. So famous had he and the village he reigned over become that they had been visited by Ségolène Royal on her (unsuccessful) campaign trail to beat Sarkozy to the French presidency. The challenge for me would be to acquire an interview with him and at short notice.
Beyond the French windows, the dry late April morning was murmuring as I waited by the ringing phone. Eventually, it was answered by a young woman.
‘Town hall,’ she trilled.
‘Yes, good morning,’ I was a little uncertain how best to proceed. I gave my name and then dived directly in. ‘I would like to have a word with the mayor, please, if that’s possible.’
‘Concerning?’
‘His approach to bio farming.’
‘Are you a journalist?’
‘No.’
‘When would you like to see him?’
‘As soon as possible. I realise that his commitments must make my request a little difficult, but—’
‘I’ll give you his mobile. It’s probably best if you call him and fix the appointment yourself.’
Quite taken aback by an offer of such direct and immediate communication, I dialled the number. The man in question was on answering machine. I left him a message and returned to my desk.
I was trying to make sense of the questionnaire sent through by Nadine: a richly structured environmental maze! Michel always dealt with the farm paperwork but he was not here and, in any case, he had decided temporarily against bio … An almighty crash beyond the open doors caught my attention, quite startling me. It was fast followed by another. Swiftly on its tail came the sound of furniture being dragged, the dispersal of what could only have been broken pottery.
‘Those blasted Portuguese,’ I cursed silently, but they were not here. It was our dogs running amok. I rushed to the window and saw nothing, an empty deck. Nothing because a twelve-seater wooden table with eight chairs around it had disappeared from view. I threw on some shoes and scooted outside. Mayhem. Homer, who had been tied up due to the recent problems with the Rottweiler, was running for his life. A chain clipped to his collar, possibly three metres in length, was clunking along behind him, bumping and slapping up steps. Still attached to it was a substantial branch ripped from the cypress beneath which our Alsatian had been installed. He had torn himself loose! A swift glance showed the table was on its side, as were all its accompanying chairs. Terracotta pots were in smithereens. Hummocks of earth, shreds of wrecked geraniums and lavender peduncles, green stalks, savaged leaves everywhere. Paw prints autographed this mess.
‘Homer,’ I yelled. ‘Homer, viens ici.’
I had lost sight of him though now I could trace his trajectory by the paw prints, of which there were dozens and not all his. Lola! Lola was sleeping under another of the garden tables. The brouhaha had woken her but, lazily, she had not stirred, opening only one sleepy eye. I was confused until higher up the hill I spotted our black dog, lean and muscular, haring across the terraces towards the ruin on the Second Plot. Chain and branch still dragged along with him, damaging all herbage in its wake. Seconds later, I understood. On his heels was a black mammoth – the Rottweiler. In spite of Homer’s branch and chain handicap, the heavier, stockier beast was unable to overtake him and remained an arm’s length behind Homer, snapping, growling, at his haunches.
I yelled for our dog to come to heel one more time but he flagrantly disobeyed me. I picked up a pebble and flung it hard, intending to alarm rather than to wound. The Rottweiler looked my way, hesitated as though deciding which of us to attack, and then he spun about, changed direction altogether, hurtled up the land, galloping heavily, slipping off our plot into undergrowth towards the rear neighbour’s newly constructed horse boxes, out of sight.
I returned to the furniture and began lifting the chairs and setting them upright. I was calling to Quashia, ‘Please come and help me with this mess! Have you seen the workmen today?’ He shook his head.
Homer was bounding down the hillside, triumphant in his victory. In the descending silence, I heard the neighbour’s boyfriend, yelling, bellowing commands at his vanished black monster. I strode down the drive and found ‘Johnny H’ standing outside his gate. He was leaning on a pair of crutches. One leg in a plaster cast, clearly broken. I offered the whereabouts of his dog, or, rather, the direction the animal had taken. He scowled at me, and, immobile, yelled up the lane furiously then hobbled back into his own garden, slamming the gate behind him. I refrained from notating the damage wrought to our garden.
Returning to the house, ascending by the Italian staircase in this surprising heat, I found my hair covered with olive petals. The flowers on the olive trees were veils of creamy lace. We all three had agreed that during our years on the farm there had rarely been such a floraison. I was delighted and perplexed. We had pruned hard. I had encouraged it, hoping for small returns so that, if we were obliged to let the crop fall, the loss would be minor, but the exquisite sight of the trees was a bold denial of this fact. Nature was playing a game
, promising an unprecedented harvest.
‘There’s no question we’re letting this lot go,’ crowed our gardener.
Without spray, how were we to protect these young olives? I could not deny that I was concerned, but if a choice was to be made, in my opinion it was to be our minuscule contribution to the earth and perhaps also to the resuscitation of the bee kingdom.
Inside, my phone was ringing. It was the mayor of Correns.
‘When would you like to come?’
Sooner rather than later, if I wanted to enthuse Quashia and persuade Michel.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘I’m afraid that I have rather a busy day tomorrow. I could see you during my lunch hour.’
I grabbed the offer and we arranged a rendezvous outside la mairie, the town hall, for midday the following day.
‘Meanwhile, have a talk with Madame M——. She can introduce you to everyone beforehand, help you understand how it all works here.’
Unfortunately, Mme M, the press officer for the village, who also returned my call directly, was already booked for the morrow and in any case she had a full-time job elsewhere. She handled the village’s publicity on a part-time basis, she explained, because she was enthused by its achievements. She emailed through a press pack, cautioning that if olives were my interest, Correns, Courrens in Provençal, might disappoint.
‘I do hope you understand, Madame, that olive oil is more a sideline here. There are no corrençois who earn their income from the olive.’
White wine was the main produce and, second to the grape, came honey and goats’ cheese. The area, I understood from her, also farmed cherries.
‘There is not even a mill, moulin, in Correns but a neighbouring village, Le Val, operates one and that is where the corrençois who have olive trees go for their fruit pressings.’
‘Is it organic?’
‘Not necessarily. The region is renowned for its white wine, you know. You will be obliged to drive right by Le Val on your way into Correns from the motorway. Directly at the entrance to Le Val, where the road you need branches off to the left, you’ll spot l’Hôtel des vins. It’s a lovely building decorated with hand-painted frescoes on its exterior walls. It operates as an outlet, a cave, for the Correns wine cooperative. Attached to it is their olive mill, but it won’t be open this time of year. There is no activity outside of the pressing season.’
‘No little business selling olive-wood crafts?’
‘Everything that is for sale can be found in the Hôtel des vins. Do pay it a visit before you drive on up to us. Sorry I can’t meet you, but if you don’t find everything you need, come back on Friday and we’ll have coffee before I start work, about eight a.m.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I hope it won’t be necessary.’
The work seemed to advance in fits and starts. We would see enormous changes and then nothing. No one appeared for days on end. Today was one of those days when the Josés deposited their Arab skivvies and left them to get on with it. Men who seemed to do nothing but shunt mounds of sand from one corner of the semi-built site to the next. And then there were days, like today, when they reappeared at midday – the sacred hour of déjeuner. The second the hands of the clock in the local village touched noon, a siren sounded all across the hills and workmen downed tools no matter what they were engaged in. These Portuguese and their Arab helpers were no different. On days such as today when the work was dead, it was a ghost site until about quarter to twelve, then the lorries and trucks came roaring up the drive. Out would be unloaded baskets and bottles. A fire was lit, our barbecue and dustbins brought out for use, and lunch preparations were underway. I was beginning to feel as though we were running a courtyard restaurant. While the men caroused, I usually went down to see Quashia, knowing that all the imbibing was distressing him.
‘I think it’s time to cut the grass.’
By now, the herbage was brushing my lower calves and the heat of the sun was beating down against my face, creeping into corners, sliding itself into the nooks and crannies of my flesh, causing a mood of lethargy. Yet it was only late April. Insects – midgies we called them when I was a child, back when the grass was always as high as it was today, waving gently in an imperceptible breeze – were hovering in the still air. Chaffinches were chirruping. It might have been midsummer, a day becalmed, save for the absence of the cicadas. Along with everything else, the wild garlics were in full blossom, pale rose and white, and their sweet astringency perfumed the air.
‘I would prefer to leave the growth just a little longer. It’s not going to seed yet.’ If I had failed so far to persuade the others to take the organic route, we could as a minimum follow Vincent’s advice and create diversity in the groves. If we waited till every plant had gone to seed before strimming, we would be offering ourselves a far richer palette for the following years.
‘I don’t know why you won’t let me cut all this back.’
‘It’s for the bees and I want the seeds to fall and create more flowers for their next season.’
‘Bees! Are we having bees?’
‘Yes, we will when I find someone to bring us hives and teach you how to be a beekeeper, Mr Q.’ This pleased and quietened him for a moment or two.
‘Well, at least let’s dig up that red bush in front of the wood stock. It serves no purpose.’
Quashia had been much better mooded since Michel had told him that we would be farming the olives by the customary method.
‘The pomegranate?’
Our Scarlet Woman, our sole pomegranate, with her striking frilly flowers, red as a tart’s lipstick on a sailor’s cap, she was also coming into flower up near the hangar where she had been replanted, alongside the soft fruits: the peaches, nectarines and deliciously sharp apricots. She had never given us any of her leather-skinned fruits packed with seeds and juice, a potent cocktail, and this was not the first time Quashia had nagged me to ‘dig it up’ because it was ‘barren’, but I refused to. Fruiter or not, she was a beauty to behold, and that’s how it goes with Scarlet Women – they share their gifts with all who look upon and admire them. I could not expect her to be a bearer as well.
‘No, I prefer to keep her.’
‘But what on earth for? It serves no purpose.’
The pomegranate carried with it a trail of ancient history. It originated in Iran. Its fruits, packed with dozens of seeds secreted within little bags heavy with a tart, meady juice, were carried by caravan peoples thousands of miles across the deserts to provide liquid refreshment throughout the long weeks of arid journeying. Ancestors, quite possibly, forefathers of Berbers such as Quashia.
In any case, the poor tree had been dislodged once already. I reminded myself of the days when parties of olive experts tramped this farm, doling out advice, instructions, what could or could not be grown in between the olive trees in our groves; groves that were being designated as potential AOC oil producers. I believed now that much of that advice was unnecessary, if not downright questionable. Lifting out other trees, such as the pomegranate, reduced the fields to a single crop and that is detrimental to the longer term health of the soil. Removing that flame-flowered beauty from out of the grove because it was against the rules of the AOC bodies had been shortsighted. Diversity in the fields, as I had witnessed on the organic farm at St Jeannet, nourished the soil. The conventional measures were nutrient-destructive, eventually weakening the plants. In man’s efforts to protect the weakened plants, to help them survive, to fruit, we feed them with chemical fertilisers, we annihilate the ‘bugs’ living in the fields, and so we are locked in an ever-descending spiral that is poisoning the environment.
‘What are those men cooking now? Have you seen the bottles?’
‘Where are the dogs?’ I caught sight of Lola, prowling round the succulence grilling on the barbecue while the men, oblivious to her malevolent intent, continued drinking beneath the trees. I hurried off after her. ‘Lola! Lola!’ At the sound of my voice, she sloped away in
to the bushes. ‘I’ll be glad when all this work has been completed.’
‘Carol, when you’re shopping next, think of a couple of anti-tick collars. If you’re insisting upon the long grass …’
‘Actually, Mr Q …’ but I decided against saying anything on the subject of the dangers to bees from dog collars.
While I was preoccupied with these details, a couple of France Telecom technicians had arrived at twenty minutes to twelve, bitching and begrudgingly. They clocked the emergency red tape, threatened me with a massive bill for destruction of the company’s property – the wiring – then advised that if I got the job done on the black (either of these guys would be able to help me out for a reasonable cash fee on any Saturday) it would be considerably cheaper. If that was out of the question, they would sacrifice their lunch hour right now, handle the problem, log it in the book as all in order, be on their way and the matter would be forgotten.
So, what does a loss of lunch entail? I asked. A mighty outburst of shouting had broken out down near the parking area.
We agreed a cash settlement of seventy-five euros. I left them to it and scooted off to find out what the outcry was about.
Lola had filched every last chop and sausage the men had been preparing on the open fire in the yard. I found the three Josés, two young, rather bemused Arabs flanking them, running to and fro, knives, forks, frying pan in hands, charging around the lemon grove after Lola, whose slobbering jaws were jammed with meat.
This had been a theft waiting to happen.
From the fridge I pulled out steaks, two faux filets that had been earmarked for our supper. For a bunch of working men, I knew this was insufficient and I ran downstairs to find what other provisions I could come up with. Fish was unsuitable for the open fire. A chicken was all that I had to hand. Hastily, I lifted it from the spare fridge, grabbed a chopping knife and quartered it. Food on the plate, I carried it across the open verandah to the shaded spot where the masons had returned to their bottles of wine looking disgruntled, having resigned themselves to a liquid lunch.
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