Jacques loves his wine and that night we were being treated to a 2005 claret that was far too easy to drink, so the conversation was lively and fun. I’m old enough, and have been around enough, to be socially competent. That doesn’t mean I don’t misbehave; it means I know when I am misbehaving. I have since taught Jacques the joy of Bushmills whiskey, Black Bush to be more accurate, and a friendly rivalry has grown between us. But at that first dinner, he had not yet learnt the error of his ways and still thought the blues, the French rugby team, could be lauded in the same way as the Irish team, but we enjoyed the craic.
However, being British, there are some things that cannot be allowed to pass without comment. Our end of the table was discussing the history of the château and I’m sure I heard someone passing comments about, ‘that was when the French drove the English out of France’. I like a bit of history on the side and I’m sure that when the very pious Henry VI married Margaret of Anjou, in the middle of the fifteenth century, he agreed to give King Charles VII back a large part of France (where we lived was actually part of England, the counties of Maine and Anjou as I told everyone) won during the Hundred Years War. I think I may have even mentioned that my son James had a yew longbow. When Jacques said it was in his history book that we had been driven out, I asked who had written the book. And when he said it was in French, I just nodded sagely and declared – case proven! Then I changed the subject and talked about rugby, though still giving no quarter.
We had a lot of fun that evening and also met Gabrielle, another of Jacques and Isabelle’s children. She shared with us the Baglion legend of the wolf that lived at the château. The story took some unravelling because as far as I knew they could have been talking about a magnifying glass until Louis started howling like a wolf. Apparently, the old count, who I think was Jacques’ grandfather, shot the last wolf in this part of France out of one of the tower windows at the château. It had then been stuffed and spent decades scaring the children by snarling down from the ledge overlooking the grand double staircase. I have to say, our understanding was greatly improved when Gabrielle nipped off and returned with some photographs. We asked where the wolf was now and apparently it had taken residency in a flat in Paris with one of Jacques’ sisters. Like any great story, it was told with passion, drama and excitement. Dick could not stop talking about the wolf on our walk home.
We felt very lucky to have caring and thoughtful neighbours like Jacques and Isabelle. We also knew how kind it was of them to introduce us to everyone, but we also knew in our hearts that we would not be part of the château circuit. We have such busy lives, not as châtelains, but as simple people who are lucky enough to live in a château.
We had a lovely walk home that night: the sky was so clear that we could see the Milky Way. That was probably the first time we had been outside on a clear evening enjoying the size of our sky. We’ve done it many times since but I’ll never forget that first time. In that moment, I realised how different life was now. I discovered how much I like looking at the sky and the stars. I still love the peaceful feeling of walking slowly beside our moat, holding hands and gazing up above our château as Dick points out Orion and the Plough, and explains how to find the North Star … We had briefly stopped to smell the roses and we knew just how lucky we were.
Even though our time together was short and, for the first few months in the château, there was always another trip to America looming large, we managed to talk about everything in that week. There may have been an ocean and thousands of miles separating us when Dick was away but we stayed in touch enough so that we always felt we were doing it all together. We even started to look forward to imagining what it would be like when the targets we had set ourselves for the year were done and we were living in comfortable surroundings. It was in moments like this that a housewarming party was first muted. Our wedding also got a mention, as that hadn’t been discussed since we’d found the château and up to that point the plan had been for half a dozen people, or an elopement. That, however, was not the case for long. And, with time flying by, if it was to happen, we’d have to tell people soon.
Somehow we both have a different recollection about what happened from here onwards. I can categorically not remember ever agreeing or knowing at this time we were to have a big wedding. I think I was actually surprised when everyone started turning up, but that’s another story. I think I was naively holding onto pre-château comments about small weddings and I hadn’t moved with the times. We were going to have a party to celebrate, so our wedding seemed like the best reason Angela could think of to get everyone we cared about together.
The very first moment I had met the château a seed had been planted that we would share our marriage day there with family and friends. For many years now, we had discussed running away and having a very intimate wedding with just the two of us … but although I loved the idea – and an Elvis chapel in Vegas excited me no end – I had never really come to terms with not having family there. I had been growing this ‘wedding at the château seed’ in our new forever home slowly and perfectly. It could double up as a housewarming too. I may possibly be guilty of not sharing the growth of the idea with Dick. However, Dick and I often have chats about things and he swears blind we have never discussed them. But on this occasion I remember his answers and the conversation vividly.
We first met on 14 November 2010 and so it just made sense to me to have our celebration on this date. Neither of us wanted another anniversary date to add to our calendars! When we met, Dick was cooking at a pop-up restaurant in London and I was attending with my TV agent, Sophie Laurimore, and her husband. Sophie was Dick’s TV agent as well so she introduced us and we chatted all night, and very quickly fell in love. For 15 per cent, Sophie gave me Dick Strawbridge. It doesn’t get any cheesier or more romantic. Neither of us expected that five years on (and two children later) we would be planning our wedding in France, but here we are. You really cannot write the script.
It was the end of March now, so we had oodles of time to plan, or so we thought. And although we had a lot of dog work to do still, as we started to chat about family and food and all the little extras for the day, we both felt very excited. It gave us great focus and a huge fire in our bellies.
After so many years living in the UK, you get used to the fact that shops want your custom and they will try their best to help you, and if you live in London there is a 24/7 mentality that means you can get anything you need at any time. That is a long way from life in rural France. Next to nowhere is open on a Sunday and garages aren’t manned unless you are on a motorway. Apart from a few (a very few) convenience stores that open on a Sunday morning to coincide with the bakers that have to open to ensure the masses have bread seven days a week and the bar tabacs, Sunday is family time.
A month into living in France and we still hadn’t really got to grips with shopping. The supermarkets were not an issue because for the six days they are open, they are open all day. That comment may seem a bit odd, but shops in our part of France close for lunch and many of them also close at least one other day during the week – maybe a Monday or a Wednesday, but obscurely sometimes a Tuesday. Those old enough will remember a simpler time when half-day closing in the UK was normal. There were numerous occasions when we nipped out to pick up something from a DIY store, or electric wholesaler, or plumber’s merchant, to park up, walk to the door and discover it was just after midday and they were closed for the next two hours.
How do you respond to this inconvenience? Our first reaction was to be annoyed, but that has absolutely no effect on anyone else. No one will open up, apologise and say, ‘Please come in and spend your money here.’ In fact, the overwhelming feeling you get when shopping in France is that they don’t actually care if you are their customer or not. It took time for this to sink in but we worked out that the world-famous ‘Gallic shrug’ – that show of indifference where a person’s shoulders twitch and they make the facial expression that says, ‘And thi
s is my problem, how?’ – is not actually someone trying to piss you off or a declaration of war. It is simply them letting you know that this is only work and there are so many more important things in life, so why should I give a f***? In the time it took for understanding to dawn, there were many examples of how slow we were to learn.
One morning, I went out for a list of items that was both long and complicated. After the best part of an hour, I was doing really well and was three-quarters of the way through it when one of the assistants, who had been noticeably absent when I was searching for rubber washers, came up and told me the shop was closing and that I could leave my chariot and come back at two o’clock. It is all but impossible to imagine that happening even at closing time in any large DIY shop back home. The real crunch was that we needed everything in the trolley and more and there was no other shop to go to during the next two hours. The choice was to rant in bad French to someone that wasn’t invested or to give the assistant the best Gallic shrug I could muster and leave with as much dignity as I could manage. I did the latter, but I think I was still mumbling under my breath something along the lines of, ‘As if I give a shit … I like lunch too.’
At the start of March, the idea of family lunches was a fantasy we aspired to but not something we were close to achieving, so we definitely had teething problems coming to terms with our new shopping culture. Someone explained to us that it usually took someone moving to France a couple of years before they too were absorbed into the way of life. However, quite quickly we decided it was good and we too appreciated the idea of stopping, eating a leisurely lunch, spending some family time, then going back to work recharged. Though having said we appreciate the idea, we are still waiting to be able to adopt it – while lunch as a family is one of our greatest pleasures it is still probably a bit of a rarity.
But a Sunday-morning trip to the boulangerie is an experience we love and the perfect example of French village life. Often on a Sunday morning, I will take the children to get fresh bread and patisseries for an afternoon treat. The village is just over a mile away as the crow flies. For a lot of the week, the streets of the village appear deserted, but on a Sunday morning they are always full of activity. It is expected of you to greet people with a ‘Bonjour, Madame’ or a ‘Bonjour, Monsieur’ and if you know someone you kiss or shake hands. Not to greet one another is unthinkable, so everyone does it.
What happens next all depends on the time … If it is just before the church service, we always meet a stream of elderly ladies who take a moment to smile with the children. Smiling is contagious and our children have always been open to new people so they smile easily. After a bit of cheek-pinching and lots of ‘petites mignonnes’ we will reach the queue that usually stretches outside the shop. We only ever see these ladies on a Sunday morning and I had, mistakenly, assumed them to be either widows or living alone, until one day I arrived a little earlier and spotted them walking down the hill with elderly partners. With military precision, the old gentlemen peeled off and went into the bar tabac for a coffee, a cognac and a chat as the ladies went to tend to their souls.
The owner of the boulangerie is always cheerful and, on leaving, there is always a ‘Bon Dimanche!’ to see you on your way. It was all a little confusing for me in those first few months, though, as I could have sworn the owner of the boulangerie was pregnant, but then the next time I saw her she wasn’t. But that is not something you comment on if your acquaintance is at a superficial level and, even if it isn’t, it pays not to speculate. I questioned Angela on this and somehow she knew that the boulangerie was, in fact, run by twins and that one was having a baby … all gleaned with next to no French?
To queue in a boulangerie on a Sunday morning is a mouth-watering experience. The shelves and cabinets are filled with every form of yumminess. It must be years of conditioning that allows the French to leave without a bags of cakes or delicacies, but we were new to this and felt no guilt in yielding to temptation. The cabinet on the right as you enter has chocolates and truffles, all made on the premises, then comes the patisseries and the cakes. It’s just not right. They look too beautiful to eat and every single flavour you can imagine will be represented there somewhere. There is every combination of white, milk and very, very dark chocolate, often in layers, to tempt you. Over time, we have tried them all. On those first visits we used to limit ourselves to buying two patisseries unless we had guests, in which case it was gloves off and fill a box! The patisseries with fresh fruit or fruit-flavoured mousses, often with a crisp coating or crunchy praline to add texture, are exquisite and we even found some with ‘popping candy’ in them, which sounds wrong but really wakes up your mouth to the other flavours.
The gateaux are always perfect. Our region is just south of Normandy so apples and cider feature predominantly in our lives and you can’t go anywhere without being near a variant of an apple cake or tart, usually topped with exactly the right amount of apricot glaze to balance the acidity and the sweetness – and being heathens we love them with cream poured over. Even the supermarkets in France always have a gateaux selection that would not be out of place in a very high-end tearoom and somehow they always have perfectly ripe fruit arranged in a way that is surely an indication of OCD. However, boulangeries seem to have to go a bit better and be a bit fruitier, or a bit taller, or a bit more exotic. And yet in the shop when it says ‘for 6–8’, it just never looks enough. Consequently, we always buy too much, which just means coffee break on a Monday is a treat too – win/win!
And all this is just the first cabinet. I haven’t even got the bread yet. Guess what? There is so much more to French bread than baguettes. Don’t get me wrong, we really love the baguettes that are baked several times a day to ensure they are at their freshest, but they only occupy about a tenth of the bread shelf. There are massive round loaves that are cut up and sold by weight and other breads that we assumed were baguettes too but are actually all very different. We often buy the traditionale (the crust is much denser and tougher and the structure inside is much more like a sourdough) or the wholegrain variant the tradi-grain. Lots of other breads fall into the traditional category and they are varied in shape and size but all the bread has one thing in common: it doesn’t keep and goes stale very quickly. We were a bit perplexed by this to begin with but it makes sense. The bakers don’t use any enhancements to help preserve the bread. People who stay with us often pass comment that they don’t feel bloated after eating lots of bread in France. Perhaps that is the reason?
Having managed to make decisions on the patisseries and the bread, we then move onto the pastries that make Sunday breakfast special, and there are a lot more than just croissants. Though it is very hard to beat a warm croissant. We are suckers for them all: pain au chocolat, pain au raison, Swiss (large folded pastries with crème patissière and small bits of chocolate), the little open pastries with half a peach or apricots, some with creme patisserie and fresh fruit toppings, and on many occasions we have been seduced by almond croissants (yesterday’s croissants filled with almond paste and covered with flaked almonds before being rebaked – rich and so tasty).
Obviously with so many decisions to be made on a Sunday morning, it is no wonder the queue takes a bit of time. What is so refreshing is that no one is impatient or agitated by the speed things move forward, but every once in a while there is spanner in the works (demand outstrips supply of the croissants). This is further complicated by the fact that the croissants can’t just come from the oven onto the shelf, they have to cool a bit or they can be squashed in the bag and, of course, this is France, so revolutions have started for less … We’ve been there on several occasions when the croissant queue has grown and it’s been great. Everyone is chatting away, even those of us who are linguistically challenged, in the sure knowledge we are going home with warm croissants – it’s the little things that make life special.
Getting home from the bakery we sit down for the ritual of a Sunday ‘French breakfast’. When Arth
ur and Dorothy were little that involved sitting on a rug round a coffee table and ceremoniously eating our breakfast. With coffee and fruit juices on the table, we started by breaking off bits of baguette. This makes a crunchy sound because the crust is so fresh and the dough seems to stretch as you pull it apart. Dick would be master of ceremony and put on a slice of butter (Bons Mayennais demi-sel butter that had been made within a mile of the château, with milk from the département) – and it really would be a slice (Dick justifies it as part of his Northern Irish upbringing), topped with a teaspoon of apricot jam. It was always messy, and the children would always end up sticky, but that is irrelevant. We were immersing ourselves in the culture and having a ball. Croissants are made by folding a lot of butter and dough, over and over again. Dick knows that as he was taught how to make them by a French baker; however, in our house, they get eaten with even more butter on them.
March ended with us all feeling spring was in the air. We’d been through the darkest, coldest part of the year and progressed from the nightmare of a bitterly cold midwinter first night to the joy of sunshine and cherry blossoms. We now had convenient, functioning heating and hot water and some electricity, so the family were well established in the château. With Dad’s arrival, multi-generational living had started, though we were still waiting for Grandma to come and join us. It is fair to say we had had a taste for what living our dream would be like, but there was still a lot of chaos in our lives.
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* Cut.
* Châtelain is the French title for the keeper of a castle (or château).
chapter four
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A Year at the Chateau Page 11