A Year at the Chateau

by Dick Strawbridge

  PIPERADE WITH BAKED EGGS (BASED ON THE TYPICAL BASQUE DISH, BUT A BIT MORE BREAKFASTY!)

  There is nothing better than eggs for breakfast. Here’s one of our favourite dishes, with a French twist.

  Ingredients

  1 red pepper, sliced

  ½ onion sliced

  2 tomatoes sliced

  1 tsp paprika – smoked or hot, you choose

  Too much extra virgin olive oil

  4 eggs

  Salt and pepper

  Method

  Slowly fry the pepper and onion in the olive oil. Don’t spare the oil!

  When the peppers are soft, add in the paprika, cook for thirty seconds, then add the tomatoes, stirring until they have broken up.

  Pour the mixture into an ovenproof dish, make four egg-sized hollows and then crack the eggs into them. Season well and bake at 180ºC for fifteen minutes.

  I warn you: you need bread to dip into the unctuous, oily sauce.

  In mid-April, there were ten wonderful days that Dick was home and my mum was here. We were all together. But before Mum arrived, the pressure was on. It was never talked about but we all knew it was there – the desire for my mum to be romanced by the château and the French lifestyle. The château is large; however, very little of it was really habitable or comfortable in the first year and it still had very few facilities. So we spent a busy couple of days getting the salon habitable for Mum and Dad. First, we gave it a huge clean. Then we made sure their bathroom, in the eastern tower, off the dining room, was functioning. We hadn’t been able to find out where the waste went, but it was going somewhere, so it would have to do. There was no time to touch anything else, but the high ceilings and faded blue walls were a great backdrop to a king-sized bed and their three-piece suite, which had been placed next to the fireplace. A few fresh flowers later and none of us could wait to hug Mum.

  When she arrived the scrabble to hug her was very funny. Of course, Dick and I stood back and let the kids go first. We knew how much she had missed them. It was a great relief that Mum loved her new room and that evening we stopped all work and ate like one should when you live in a château!

  Eating slow, leisurely meals is the ultimate, decadent way to spend an evening talking and catching up. The individual dishes don’t have to be complicated; they just have to keep coming.

  With aperitifs of sparkling demi-sec Loire Crémant, we started our ‘welcome to the château’ meal with toasted seeds. These are very easy to prepare: you simply toast your seeds in a pan (we had sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, pine nuts and even a few sesame seeds). When they are browned you take them off the heat and add soya sauce and chopped chillies to the still hot pan, stirring to coat them. Then serve in a bowl with a teaspoon. The salty spice goes very well indeed with the cold bubbles.

  We followed that with a large pan of garlicky prawns, which are incredibly simple to prepare but delicious to eat.

  GARLICKY PRAWNS

  Ingredients

  200g butter (yes, 200g!)

  4 cloves of garlic, sliced

  1kg large prawns – shell on

  Baguette

  Method

  Melt the butter.

  Add in the garlic.

  After a few seconds (don’t let the garlic cook too much or it can go bitter) add in the prawns.

  Heat and toss until the butter has become a pinky, garlicky yumminess and the prawns are cooked through.

  Put the pan on the table, with a couple of bowls for the shells, and sit around peeling and eating.

  When you pull off the heads you have to suck them to get the juices out. Don’t think about it, just try it … You’ll find that is where lots of the flavour is hidden.

  Our main course was a leg of lamb cooked in white wine over a bed of root vegetables and whole garlic cloves. For dessert, we had our first rhubarb dish of the year, which had to be crumble – slightly soggy where it touches the fruit and wonderfully crispy on top. We could have served crème anglaise (custard to us!) but instead we opted for fresh cream.

  To finish we obviously had to have a cheese board, served with some of our precious quince jelly we’d prepared from the fruit we had been given by Jacques and Isabelle the very first time we saw the château the previous October. That was only six months before, but my goodness lots had happened since then …

  We were never short of tasks on our ‘to-do’ list but we were living in a château and very aware that our lives could not just be graft, so we always tried to spend quality time with the children and not to forget why we chose this lifestyle in France in the first place. Despite lots of very important and urgent jobs, we made the decision that it was time to spend a little more time outside the château. Our overgrown walled garden had been all but ignored. As it was surrounded on all sides by walls, it would take very little effort to turn it into the most amazing chicken run. All we needed was a chicken house and then they could enjoy the whole area to scratch around.

  There are three ways into the walled garden: from the château/moat side there are four steps leading up to some ornate pillars; in the western wall there is an arched doorway with a sturdy wooden door (rotten on the bottom but still solid); and then in the north-eastern wall there is another arched door by a set of old run-down rabbit cages with the remnants of a gate hanging off. Having decided we wanted to make the walled garden secure for the chickens, it only took a couple of hours to knock up a simple wooden gate covered in chicken wire for the ‘main’ entrance and to patch together a couple of Frankenstein doors Shelley would have been proud of for the other doorways.

  All the gates were functional but I could tell Angela was affronted by the very simple, somewhat ugly gate that adorned the entrance that could be seen as you approached from the château. It was a rectangle of various pieces of reclaimed wood (all the pieces were the same colour, so it wasn’t too unsightly) with a diagonal piece to force the weight to act through the lower hinge. To finish it off, I covered it in chicken wire. I explained it was only temporary and that there was work to be done there to sort out the very wonky steps, and so when we addressed that we should discuss a gate design that would do our walled garden justice. I’m not quite sure how I got away with it, but I did and, interestingly, that gate is still there today. Though the comments about replacing it are getting more frequent!

  I have not spent much time in the walled garden until recently. That gate is most certainly on my list to get done this year!

  With over an acre to run around and be free range, all the chickens needed was a coop. This was the subject of lots of discussion; however, we were totally in agreement that the coop had to be cheap as we had so many other pressures on our finances. Somehow it was decided that our chickens could live in one of the outbuildings that appeared to have been a laundry at some time. Decision made, there were several things we needed. Firstly, a way for the chickens to get from their new home to the walled garden; then secondly, an entrance that allowed us to enter the room without the chickens all making a bid for freedom in rural France. And last but not least – chickens.

  As the chickens were to be a joint venture we decided to modify the stone building that was to be the ‘chicken shed’ together. As with every project at the château, work commenced with clearing and cleaning. With our unsung heroes Jenny and Steve looking after the children it felt like a date. The treasures that were not to be used for our chickens’ home had to be moved out and whatever remained was to be repurposed – that included the most amazing hand cart, miscellaneous drawers, an old laundry cauldron, various sets of old rickety ladders and stepladders, and lots of old wood.

  There followed several hours of construction. It was a bit chilly and, as this was basically a non-essential project, we didn’t start until the evening, so it was dark. But I loved it. Who gets to spend a romantic evening doing woodwork with their wife in an old building, lit by battery work lamps, while she looks gorgeous in her vintage fur coat? Not many chaps, right? Despite her attire,
Angela got stuck in. I had her sawing up the wood to make our internal fencing and even knocking the hole through the wall to put a doorway for the chickens to access the garden.

  We had scavenged some wood and an old gate from one of the other barns. It was only when I went to move it into the chicken house that I discovered that it was so heavy it must have been made from hardwood – it looked as if it could even be mahogany. We arranged the cauldron, the drawers and the cart and filled them with straw to be our laying boxes, then laid the ladder horizontally to provide the roosting space. Indeed, our setup could easily have been home to a hundred happy chickens and the lucky ones that ended up with us were guaranteed a house that was solid stone, slate-roofed and complete with mahogany fittings. We just had to find some chickens.

  Research uncovered a market about an hour north of us at St-Hilaire-du-Harcouët. We hadn’t explored that area at all so we were really excited to be going off on our expedition. It was around an hour from home and our sole purpose for this visit was chickens. We left Arthur and Dorothy at the château with Jenny and Steve. All four could not wait to have fresh eggs. Before we left, as parents do, we’d been explaining to the children where we were going. There was lots of clucking and talking about dippy eggs. I think there was even a ‘quack’ from Papi Steve but we won’t go into that …

  By the time we got there and found somewhere to park, it was mid-morning. Fresh eggs were within our reach and our trip was actually feeling very romantic. The market was full and bursting with people, many with baskets and wonderful baguettes and produce. But initially all we could see were market stalls of goods of mainly plastic ‘tat’ destined to be landfill. We attempted to get directions to the livestock but only found two different butchers. However, things started to look up as we found lots of stalls of fresh vegetables and artisan meats and cheeses. All was not lost and, although we were there for chickens, I could not pass by without stopping and we ended up with a bag of rhubarb, asparagus, leeks, cabbage, baguettes and some cheese. French markets are not cheap compared to supermarkets but there is an authenticity to buying direct from producers and you know you are being guided through the seasons. There are larger stalls that have obviously been supplied from wholesalers but there are also stalls where it seems as if the produce is the surplus from their garden or allotment.

  Contrary to what many city-dwellers may assume, spring is not a time of overflowing bounty. April is actually a relatively barren time for local producers. Most of us are totally unaware of this as supermarkets have undertaken to keep supplying us with cheap and abundant fresh produce all year sourced from all round the world, so much so that the seasons don’t really seem to matter. In fact, by April, most domestic winter crops have bolted and gone to seed and the other vegetables and fruit that have been stored are running out. Spring salad and vegetables have been sown but most won’t be ready to harvest until May and June, so this period is often called the ‘hunger gap’ and is a time of slim pickings. That said, there were plenty of cheese and charcuterie stalls to drool over, and more than enough greens for us to fill our shopping bags, so we were already laden down when we found the separate car park where livestock was for sale.

  This part of the market contained all sorts of enticements to get you to ‘grow your own’. Supermarkets back in the UK sometimes put up displays that celebrate seasonality but it doesn’t feel particularly like fruit or vegetables have their moment in the year when they are the stars. It’s almost as if seasonality is hidden so you buy everything all the time. In France, we find it enlightening to see what everyone else is using.

  As the chance of frost diminishes, it is as if everyone is encouraged to go out and dig for victory. In every large supermarket in our département, you cannot avoid the fact that it’s time to plant your crops or flowers – when you enter you have to wind your way through the racks of seedlings and plants that you should be taking home and planting. There are the normal rows of packet seeds that are there all year round, but they are now accompanied by rows and rows of young plants that have been put into small pots. They are not exactly cheap, but they are vibrant and ready to go out into your vegetable patch. Maybe, like us, no one else was organised enough or had time to grow from seed but, either through guilt or an overwhelming desire to join everyone else, the trade in seedlings, flowers, shrubs and herbs is a bit frenzied in April. We knew we wouldn’t be able to join in and dedicate time to our garden as the château needed us, but the desire was still strong to buy at least a couple of runner beans to grow up our bamboos, or maybe one or two of the courgette plants, but ultimately common sense prevailed and we continued on to the livestock.

  I was a little surprised at the cages upon cages of young poultry available to buy. Logic says that the only reason they are there is that there is a demand for them. But as we walked up and down the rows of chicks, ducklings, goslings, point of lay hens, mature ducks and geese, there was a mind-boggling choice and to say it was noisy was a bit of an understatement. I thought I had dampened the mood a little when I explained to Angela that not all these birds were going off to become ‘pets’ and the bigger, chunkier ones were destined for the pot. But she got it, so we set about choosing our flock. The vendor spoke no English but he was a natural showman, whipping birds out of cages and pointing to their best bits. In the end, we came away with several boxes containing a young cockerel, and a couple each of what I thought to be point of lay Light Sussex, Cuckoo Marans and what looked like a Rhode Rock Hybrid. Even though we would have to wait a little to get our eggs, ‘point of lay’ is the best age to buy a chicken, as egg production is just about to start and, when it does, it starts with little eggs and progresses very quickly to larger eggs, so for most of the year we could expect them to be laying an egg a day.

  When we arrived home, it took only moments to get the boxes into the chicken house. And when we opened them to release our hens, Arthur surprised us all by saying, with perfect diction, ‘chickens’. He got lots of praise from his very proud parents and grandparents. And it only took a couple of days until we had the first of many eggs. They were ceremoniously collected, brought to our little temporary kitchen and then soft boiled and served with buttered toast soldiers as our first château-produced, dippy eggs. We may be biased but the taste of buttered toast dipped into soft, very fresh egg yolk is a winner! Arthur and Dorothy loved them from the first and egg collecting has been a part of their lives ever since.

  National Geographic was continuing to provide the much-needed funds for us to continue our work, but that involved yet another trip away. Any couple would find it hard if one of them had to work away from home but for us it felt slightly different, as we needed to have both of us there to provide the necessary horsepower for a project as big as the château. And decisions also needed both our inputs. We really felt the separation. Consequently, getting everything organised before we parted, and agreeing what had to be done in my absence, was manic. During the day, we would be engrossed in whatever task we were doing and at night we would catch our breath and have ‘meetings’ to discuss deadlines, costs and what we had to do next.

  Along with the lengthening days and therefore, what felt like easier working hours, spring had brought with it a sense of optimism. Grandma had arrived and we saw the first swallows swooping around the outbuildings. Even though we had been disciplined and kept the château as our focus we had made a step towards the potager, being productive by getting the hens. Unfortunately, I was still commuting to America but … needs must.

  * * *

  * ‘Cheese’ is a derogatory way of describing a material that has not got any physical properties worthy of credit.

  chapter five

  MAY

  May feels like summer but is definitely spring. We had not had any rain for a couple of weeks and the temperature had crept up, so the feeling of summer days was there and there were more daylight hours, but as any gardener knows you have to expect cold snaps, even frost, and the need to pop a jumper
on in the mornings was a constant reminder that we were not quite there yet. With young children come early starts but being welcomed by eggs from our chickens first thing in the morning always felt like a treat. And going out to collect the eggs meant being able to enjoy the dawn chorus, which is positively deafening here. It makes you think a bit about your day ahead, when every little bird is singing its heart out ahead of a day of working away building nests or feeding young. They all sound so happy. Our lives had been devoid of cuckoos prior to arriving in France, but now every morning there was one happy bird cuckooing with such conviction that you simply had to listen. We already knew we lived in a very special place, but now the extent of the natural treasures we had on our twelve acres was really starting to unfold. The birdlife was varied and numerous. We knew there were wild mammals from deer down to shrews but it was only slowly that we actually got to see them all.