Malgré le succès et le résultat de cet été, nous venons d’apprendre que La Fondation de France ne nous subventionnera pas sur notre projet d’atelier collectif de création audiovisuelle.

Malheureusement sans aides financières, ces ateliers ne pourront être mis en place l’été prochain et encore moins pendant l’année. Nous continuons nos démarches administratives et demandes d’aides dans l’espoir de trouver un soutien financier nécessaire à la réalisation de ces projets.

Here’s a slide from tonights presentation to the GMIT Heritage Society. We’ll be presenting a talk on the beer experiment and Fulachta Fiadh at 7pm tonight in Rm. 940. We’ve been busy reading Pat McGovern’s ‘Uncorking the past’ which is where we encountered the Laussel Venus pictured here. Pat posits a paleolithic origin to alcohol making and consumption and points to the Laussel Venus as a particularly provocative cliff carving which may depict drinking. She is depicted with one hand on her pregnant (?) belly and holds aloft an object that looks suspiciously like a drinking horn. Other interpreters have suggested the object is a musical instrument or a lunar symbol.

]]> http://mneaquitaine.wordpress.com/2009/11/14/une-zone-artisanale-integree-regroupant-de-nombreux-acteurs-de-leco-construction-devrait-bientot-voir-le-jour-dans-les-environs-de-velines/ Sat, 14 Nov 2009 18:14:49 +0000 pascalbourgois2 http://mneaquitaine.wordpress.com/2009/11/14/une-zone-artisanale-integree-regroupant-de-nombreux-acteurs-de-leco-construction-devrait-bientot-voir-le-jour-dans-les-environs-de-velines/

sudouest.com, Arnauld Bernard, le 12 Novembre 2009

ECOPÔLE. Une zone artisanale intégrée regroupant de nombreux acteurs de l’éco-construction devrait bientôt voir le jour dans les environs de Vélines

« Pas de la construction mais de l’habitat »

En octobre, une réunion était organisée à Périgueux entre différents acteurs économiques, pour étudier les futurs aménagements du quartier du Gour-de-l’Arche. Dans l’hypothèse d’un projet pilote d’éco-quartier, les “écopôliens” du Pays de Montaigne-Montravel étaient de la partie. Depuis qu’ils travaillent sur cette problématique, les membres de cette association commencent à avoir une certaine expertise dans la région.

Pour eux, l’éco-construction, ce n’est pas seulement un mot à la mode, c’est l’utilisation de nouveaux matériaux, mais aussi de nouveaux procédés dans la conception d’un habitat.

Jean-Philippe Geoffriau, un membre de l’association, résume : « Avant, l’objectif, était de monter vite avec des matériaux pas chers. Nous, on adapte parfois des techniques anciennes à la construction d’habitats modernes. Cela peut entraîner un surcoût, mais ça tient plus longtemps, et l’économie en énergie est considérable. »

L’écopôle, c’est donc la réunion d’acteurs autour de ces valeurs. Il y a des architectes, des ingénieurs, des paysagistes, un bureau d’études, des conseillers en traitement et en valorisation des déchets organiques, un charpentier, un maçon, un plasticien, un électricien, des communicants ? Tout ce petit monde participe au même projet : la construction d’une zone artisanale sur-mesure.

Une zone sur-mesure

Bertrand Quattrocchi, ingénieur environnement en habitat bio, est impatient : « Nous avons mis en place une charte. L’objectif est de minimiser son impact sur l’environnement et pour cela, on mutualise nos moyens. Nous n’avons pas encore d’espace physique, mais ce sera l’étape suivante. D’habitude, les collectivités sont à l’initiative de la création des zones artisanales, mais là, c’est un groupement local qui essaye de mobiliser les politiques autour d’un projet, une zone écoresponsable. Ce sont donc les futurs usagers qui conçoivent la zone, en fonction de leurs besoins. Tout, des locaux à l’assainissement, serait de l’éco-construction. Le lieu serait aussi pédagogique, avec de la formation, des ateliers ?

Aujourd’hui, on sépare zone industrielle, zone artisanale et zone d’habitat. Nous, nous sommes dans une démarche intégrale. Pourquoi pas y organiser des manifestations, de l’événementiel ? »

La signature de la convention de partenariat avec la Communauté de communes est imminente. Le Conseil général a également assuré son soutien. Il ne reste finalement plus qu’à trouver un terrain.

« Depuis un an, je trouve qu’on assiste à une montée de la demande écologique, poursuit l’ingénieur en habitat bio. Pour un client, c’est le parcours du combattant pour trouver des artisans. Trop souvent, certains utilisent l’argument écologiste comme une aubaine, et ça donne souvent n’importe quoi. Je pense à ceux qui, sous-prétexte de construire en bois, considèrent qu’ils font de l’éco-construction. Notre démarche d’entreprise n’est pas bucolique, on est sur du réel.

Alors pourquoi ne pas créer un lieu commun pour que les gens puissent construire leurs projets avec nous ? »

Décidément le Leberon a les dents longues…

Nous avons commencé un nouveau projet de film animé avec la classe de Mr Vignole à l’école élémentaire de Trélissac.

Les enfants se sont inspirés du conte du leberon pour écrire leur scénario en classe.

Chaque vendredi après midi (cinq interventions) nous allons ensemble créer les décors en papier découpé puis nous nous attaquerons au tournage.

Eric Lavignasse (acteur) et Laura Leeson (réalisatrice) encadrent ce nouveau projet d’animation pour l’association ARTicle19. Après une séance de découpage technique (vendredi 6 novembre 2009) et un petit cours sur le langage cinématographique (echelle des plans, description d’images…), les enfants ont commencé le story-board et un groupe pourra imaginer les décors avant de les réaliser à partir de papier recyclé. Pendant ce temps Éric aidera un autre groupe à enregistrer les dialogues, les sons et les bruitages du film.

Le film sera fini pour noël…

On the southern side of the Dordogne River, between Domme and Beynac, Castelnaud is a magnificent castle, with splendid views across miles of rolling countryside. It is is built on a rocky outcrop and offers a splendid panorama on the Dordogne valley. The Château de Castelnaud is a medieval fortress that was erected to face its rival, the Château de Beynac. The oldest documents mentioning it date to the thirteenth century, when it figured in the Albigensian Crusade; its Cathar castellan was Bernard de Casnac. Simon de Montfort took the castle and installed a garrison; when it was retaken by Bernard, he hanged them all. During the Hundred Years War the castellans of Castelnaud owed their allegiance to the Plantagenets, the sieurs de Beynac across the river, to the king of France. In after times it was abandoned bit by bit, until by the French Revolution it was a ruin.

Today the picturesquely restored château, a private property open to the public, houses a much-visited museum of medieval warfare, featuring reconstructions of siege engines, mangonneaux, and trebuchets. The castle is listed as a monument historique by the French Ministry of Culture.

The Castle of Castlenaud could have been built in the 12th century, but if mention is made of a certain Raoul de Castelnaud around 1150, nothing suggests the existence of a castle at that time. There is even mention of an old chapel, according to a 19th century account, although there is no proof of such a construction dating from the 12th century. It was in 1152 that Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, married the Duke of Anjou, Henry Plantagenet, future King of England, thus opening one of the most important periods in history for the region, in which Castelnaud would play a critical role. The first trace of a castle dates back to 1214 when Bernard de Casnac, lieutenant of Aymeric of Castelnaud, a follower of the Count of Toulouse, controlled the domain. Casnac was a fervent believer in the Cathar faith and was renowned for his cruelty towards Christians. For this reason, Simon de Monfort, leader of the crusade against the Albigensians (the name given to the Cathars) and against the Count of Toulouse, seized Castelnaud in 1214 and drove out Bernard de Casnac, having taken the fortresses of Montfort and Domme. De Casnac retaliated by taking Beynac. The following year, in 1215, Casnac took back his castle and hanged the entire garrison left there by Simon de Montfort. This was a short-lived revenge, as later that same year the Archbishop of Bordeaux drove the heretics out for good and burnt Castelnaud to the ground. Not much remains from this period. It is thought that there would have been a keep, surrounded by a wall and a main building.

In 1240, Aymeric de Castelnaud swore allegiance to the king, St Louis, which lasted until the Treaty of Paris in 1259, when the King of England-Duke of Aquitaine, Henry III, became the vassal of the King of France, receiving part of Aquitaine in return. This delicately-balanced situation led to the Hundred Years War, in which Castelnaud was involved, as the castle came into English hands in 1259. Bernard de Cadillac, Seneschal of the duke-king, then became the first English lord of the castle, succeeded by the marshal, Jean de Lalinde. In 1273, the castle returned to the legitimate line of Castelnaud, who paid homage to the King of England. It was at this period in the middle of the 13th century that the castle was rebuilt and reinforced, and from which the square keep, the curtain wall (the wall separating the two towers and topped by a covered way) and, to a lesser extent, the remains of a first barbican (construction protecting the curtain wall and the entrance gate), date. In the 15th century a second barbican was built and it was at this time that the castle took on its present appearance, masking the old 13th century constructions.

The end of the 13th century was a calm and prosperous period in the eventful history of Castlenaud, despite the incessant feuds with the Barons of Beynac castle for control of the region. This mutual animosity had no real consequences and lasted until 1337 when the terrible Hundred Years War broke out. Castelnaud was taken by the English seven times, mostly in the first few years of this war. The first major battle was that of Crécy (Sommes), won by the English archers in 1346. The Black Death increased the number of deaths, claiming a third of the entire population of the Occident. In 1360, the Treaty of Brétigny (Beauce) freed the King of France, Jean the Good, and gave Aquitaine to the English, now controlled by the Black Prince (Edward, Prince of Wales, son of Edward III King of England. He won the Battle of Poitiers and took Jean the Good prisoner in 1356). Castelnaud therefore became English once again, before Magne de Castelnaud, the only heir, married Nompar de Caumont, a Lord from Agen, in 1368. Their descendants were to own the castle right up to the Revolution. The Caumont stayed loyal to the English for a long time, and in 1399, Nompar was appointed as Seneschal of the King of England, Henry IV, for the Agenais region. This sparked off disagreements with the Lords of Beynac, on the French side, once again. Until the 15th century the lords fought for both sides, depending on circumstances, and this is why Archambaud and Bertrand d’Abzac, successive captains of the castle, frequently changed sides to save face, while the Caumont family, the legitimate owners, always fought for the English crown

Castelnaud, therefore, changed sovereignty several times until 1442 when the French King Charles VII, inspired by the victories of Joan of Arc against the English, ordered the siege of Aquitaine, which included Castelnaud. On 7 October 1442, the castle was under siege for three weeks and the English captain Pascal de Theil was driven out of the region. The English were finally beaten at the famous battle of Castillon in 1453, which brought the Hundred Years War to an end. In the same year, Castelnaud was returned to Brandélis de Caumont, who assumed the overlordship and started the reconstruction of the castle around 1463, which lasted until the end of the 15th century. François de Caumont, Brandélis’ son, continued with the renovation and transformation of the old 13th century feudal fortress, and combined the requirements of defence with the new Renaissance style. The castle was extended with a lower courtyard, protected by a wall flanked with two semi-circular towers, interspersed with cannon loopholes. A new drawbridge and barbican were built and the main building, served by a spiral staircase, was modified and embellished to match the adjacent keep. The rib-vaulted kitchen and the large banquet hall with moulded windows were built in the Gothic style at the end of the 14th century.

At the same time, Castlenaud’s artillery tower was built in 1520 to strengthen the fame of François de Caumont. De Caumont had the Château des Milandes built in 1489, the Renaissance comfort and modern style of which were far more to his taste. This comfortable residence, made famous by Josephine Baker in the 20th century, gradually became the main residence of the Caumont family. However, this is not the end of Castelnaud’s history. The castle, whose owners opted for the reformed religion by becoming Calvinists (Huguenots), was affected by the Wars of Religion around 1540. It is in this context that Geoffroy de Vivans, born in Castelnaud in 1543, enters the castle’s history. The Huguenot captain of the castle, he was feared throughout the region, and it was with him that Geoffroy de Caumont took refuge after the Saint-Barthélemy massacre, before being poisoned. Geoffroy de Vivans was still captain in 1580, a troubled period in the life of Anne of Caumont. In 1588 he seized the bastide town of Domme, a Catholic stronghold. As a result of the terror caused by the captain, Castelnaud was spared the Wars of Religion. Castlenaud’s period of glory now came to an end and the castle was gradually abandoned, with the Caumont family leaving the Château des Milandes for the Château de la Force near Bergerac

At the end of the 16th century and at the beginning of the 17th, the northern section of the castle was modified for the last time, in the style of the period. The drawbridge and barbican were replaced by a fixed bridge, the moat was filled in and the interior re-decorated. After the Revolution, the castle was abandoned to nature. In 1832, it was used as a stone quarry to build a slipway for river trade, which was undergoing expansion, and which today has disappeared. In 1966, Castelnaud became a listed building and has gradually been rebuilt by its private owners to its original medieval form. The difference can be noted between the yellowish, eroded original stone and the newer, greyer stone which is in perfect condition. This is now one of the most visited châteaux in France. There is a Middle Ages Siege Warfare museum inside the castle, with weapons and war-machines, a number of videos on life in a fortified castle, as well as the chance to take part in imitation medieval “jousts” for younger visitors. A sound and light show introduces visitors to the history of the château and the charms of the fortress at night.

Cloudless Blue Skies

French estate agents, like any other, are skilled at marketing the properties on their books. They aim to seduce prospective purchasers by displaying photographs taken in full summer of picturesque country houses nestling in sleepy hamlets beneath cloudless blue skies. Judging by the thousands of expat Brits now living in France, this strategy has been highly successful.

It’s true that the summers, particularly in the South of France, can be truly wonderful, and every bit as glorious as the estate agents’ photos suggest, but if you were just judging by the photos, you would be surprised to learn that it does actually rain sometimes in France, and when it rains, it rains! And when you get a thunderstorm, it can be truly spectacular. The trouble is it frequently knocks out the electricity and the broadband!

Unprepared

The winters in France can be bitterly cold, as my husband and I discovered when we arrived in the North Dordogne in February 2001. Looking back now, we were terribly naive. Leaving a cosy centrally-heated British home for a 300 year old converted barn was quite an education, to say the least. In fact, it was quite a shock to the system.

We knew that the house didn’t have central heating, but it had been lovely and warm both times we’d viewed it before buying it.  The previous owners had kindly left us one old log burner and a small supply of wood, otherwise I don’t know how we would have managed.  We simply hadn’t imagined how cold it could be.

Not Up  to the Job

Unfortunately for us, the poor old log burner wasn’t up to the job of heating such a large property.  Since the  house had been empty for a month prior to us arriving, it was like living inside a giant freezer.  No matter how much wood we piled on to the fire, it made very little impact.  In their chilly state, the 3 foot thick walls of the old barn acted as highly efficient heat storage units, sucking in the meagre warmth from the fire, while our teeth continued to chatter. It would be a good week or so before they were sufficiently saturated  with heat and prepared to spare any excess for us.

No Home Comforts

Add to all this the fact that our furniture and belongings had yet to arrive from the UK, it was a pretty miserable initiation into French life. There were no little comforts like a hot water bottle or electric blanket to take the edge off our misery; not even a rug to protect our extremities from the icy chilblain-inducing tiled floors.

We’re Still Here

Being eternal optimists, this experience didn’t get the better of us.  We were determined to embark on a new life, and it would take more than a bit of cold to deter us from our ambition.

We now have healthy respect for the seasons. There is a clear delineation between each one here in France, and each has its own charm, even the bitter cold winter. The secret of being able to appreciate that lies in being prepared.

I suppose the moral of this story is that you shouldn’t imagine that just because the summers in France are warmer than the UK, the winters will be as well. Southern France is not protected by the Gulf Stream.

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Much as I’m hankering to be back in a city and resume my search (I almost wrote ‘cherche’; thinking in French, translating into English) for la femme de ma vie, I’m at least conscience that for many Americans (and even some French city denizens) the idea of a guy living in a medieval stone house in the south of France surrounded by green pastures, 100 yards from a river, and looking up at magnificent limestone cliffs dotted with pre-historic caves trying to get out of there might seem a bit *fou.* And I hate not living in the present. So, where I can, I try to take advantage of what’s unique and and typique in my experience, be it that of living in the country, living in the country in France, living among (to a degree) paysans, living in duck country, or other unique aspects of this milieu. (Never been much on pre-history, so that I’m writing you 300 yards from the first cro-mag discoveries, made back in 1860 when they were building the railroad bridge that crosses the river, is wasted on me.)

Saturday night, it was the hunting. Not me hunting — I cringe even hearing the rifle fire resound off the cliffs, or, worse, seeing a hunter toting a rifle over his shoulders in my backyard — but the booty of my pal Stephan’s hunting. The crisp autumnal day was already heading towards perfect. I’d been bugging Bernard to bring his electric saw over and cut up the long branch I’d extracted from the petit woods in the ‘yard.’ (More than a yard, really a field, and which used to house a roof tile factory, ergo the terra cotta fragments that encrust the soil, and the name of my ‘hood, le Tuilerie, not to be confused with one of my favorite endroits in Paris, le jardin des Tuileries.) Of course, being Bernard, after he’d swiftly disposed of the branch on the terrace, he insisted we tramp down to the woods and cut up some more wood. After Bernard had reduced about a dozen branches into logs, he commanded me, “Now clear them out!” In the process, I spotted what looked like a sort of lever peering out of the ground. Removing some of the dirt around it, I found a small semi-oval steering wheel. When I yanked at the lever, they separated. Feeling around the ground, I discerned what seemed like the rusted carcass of some sort of metal apparatus — perhaps a mill for grinding up corn? It turned out to be what looked like a child’s car, complete with pedals and engine.

“Vient voir!” I urged Mr. Marty, the retired farmer who lives across the path. “I think I found Bernard’s first car!” He was impressed. “C’est un vraie antiquité! Tu peut le vendre!” I couldn’t wait to show Bernard, who’d said he’d return in the evening to see how I’d progressed on the wood. I was lying around listening to “Our Miss Brooks” when he drove up at around 7 with Stephan. “I have a surprise for you!” I announced. “I found your first car.” “Mais oui, c’est ca,” he confirmed, but all it provoked was a smile, no marvel, and he was not interested in taking it with him; he only laughed when I proposed he show it to his daughter Mathilde. Bernard and Stephan had other business; they’d brought over deer liver and heart from a deer Stephan had shot that morning.

I hadn’t had venison since we lived in the country in Northern California in the late ’60s, and the taste lingered still; I was salivating already. Mr. Marty rushed over to see Stephan, whose matrimonial future he continues to worry over. (“Mais, quand est-ce que il vas se marrier?!”)

“Got garlic?!” asked Bernard.

“Mais oui!”

“Chop it up and let it cook first before you add the meat.”

“I have even better!,” I said, pulling out the grater.

“Pepper?!”

“Bien sur!”

If you’ve seen the kitchen/dining room, most of which is taken up by a mahogany picnic table and benches, the rest by a large armoire set on cinder blocks (to protect its contents from the annual flood), a long counter, an over-stuffed easy chair, a range, a bicycle, and half of a huge two-piece late ’50s era rose and off-white formica cabinet-armoire (40 Euros at the Emaus ((or Salvation Army)) in Perigueux, later spotted in the identical model for 400 Euros at a Menilmontant brocante), you’d know that adding four people to this space, running excitedly around, two cooking, two commenting on the cooking, makes for a bit of an obstacle course, but to me it felt festive).

After the liver had started already started cooking, Bernard, taking in the dozens of apples strewn over the picnic table (more local booty, along with the walnuts strewn in even more quantity) and the 1/2 of the ’50s cabinet suddenly said, “Ah, I should have said, add apples!”

“I’ll add them now!”

“And if you have panaché…” Bernard said hopefully, referring to the beer lemonade which is the only liquor he can drink… Unfortunately I’d drunk up my last bottles. “Mais…offer Stephan something!” I offered wine all around but none of the (French) men were into it.

Usually, the French undercook (by my standards) meat. In the case of the liver, though, whenever I’d ask Stephan if it was time to take it out, he answered, “Pas encore. Laisse!”

Finally, when the meat — and, as important, the garlic and the apples — was nice and crispy and dark brown, it was ready, and Bernard, Stephan, and Mr. Marty stood around watching me eat. (None wanted to join me.) It was succulent — perfect. And it was as much the apples taking in the juice of the liver that made it as opposed to the other way around. (Of course, I had to ask if they’d mind if I added ketchup, and Bernard grimaced.) A perfect cap to a perfect day.

Before Mr. Marty left, I’d wrassled him into accepting that I’d do the vendange Monday. I’ve been pestering him about this for weeks, always with the proviso that I’d do the work, he’d just need to direct me. Mr. Marty — as is his right; he is, after all, retired — has sort of let the vines in back of and next to his house go. While he did clear out the sarmantine — dead branches — from last year, he only half cleared the weeds. But as this is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me — yes I know, there’s supposedly a vineyard in the Belleville neighborhood of somewhere, but I’ve never found it, nor that in Montmartre — I’ve permitted myself to insist. (I also think it will make me feel less guilty when I ask for a third bottle of his famous eau de vie, made from previous harvests, this winter.)

The moment finally arrived Tuesday afternoon. Mr. Marty found four barrels, and his sharp clipper, and I set to working my way through the seven rows, clipping the grapes and tossing them into a red plastic basket. It was harder going that I’d anticipated. Because the branches were lower than me, with many bunches of the fruit close to the ground, I did a lot of bending and, then, sitting, and I wasn’t starting out with a back in full form. I’d also assumed — remembering a previous experience with sour new wine — that I should pick only the sweet grapes, so I did a lot of taste-testing. After four hours without pause (and without getting stung; my desire to make wine in the Bordeaux region tromped even my phobia of bees) (contrary to what you may have heard, the bees are not disappearing, they’ve all become grape tasters in the southwest of France), I’d amassed close to three (medium) barrels full, in each of which swarmed about half a dozen bees. Physically tired as I was, I was ready to continue to get it all done in one coupe (I had three rows left), but Mr. Marty appeared at the base of the fields and said, “Time to stop for today Paul.” As tired as my dogs were, the physical work had also left me exhilarated, so, rather than turn in chez moi, and taking courage from Boo-bah, the Belgium shepherd — collie followiing me, I decided to walk to the railroad bridge, stopping to collect walnuts from Bernard’s trees. The stark grey autumn evening sky and the magnificent setting of the valley surrounding me, the crisp air made for another perfect ending to another perfect day. Until the night anxiety of the solitaire set in, anyway.

I resumed the vendange yesterday. This time what threatened to do me in was the taste-testing. I must have tasted from at least one bunch of every little grape tree, and as about half seemed to be sour, I was starting to get nauseous. After close to three hours, I’d pushed it to three barrels and was, I thought, finished. But when I checked in with Mr. Marty an hour later, he indicated the heights of the rows and said, “There are still grapes to pick.” I explained that all those that were left were sour. “Mais, c’est rien! C’est l’eau!” (It had been raining more or less constantly since the previous night.) Just to be sure, I picked a bunch with some sour grapes, and asked him to taste one to verify. “Mais c’est bon!” In effect, I could pick all. Now that I also know that I don’t need to taste them, I’m all right with this.

On Tuesday, Mr. Marty had offered me some of his eggs after I finished working. These are farm eggs, of course, and are the yellowist eggs you’ve ever seen and fluffiest I’ve ever tasted. Yesterday, and for the first time in the two years we’ve been neighbors, after he’d straightened me out on the grapes he proposed, with a glint in his eyes, “Un petit Ricard?” “Avec plaisir!” said I. Later, when I noted that one of the things I liked about pastis was that, “It’s natural,” he reposted, without missing a beat, and indicating the bottle of cold water, “Except for the water!”

developpementdurablelejournal.com, Jacques Cortie, le 15 octobre 2009

Eau : Des restrictions dans 45 départements

La situation des ressources en eau continue à être problématique alors que l’on est sorti de la période estivale. 24 départements sont mêmes en restriction totale. Ce n’est pas encore inquiétant, mais c’est largement préoccupant et augure d’une année 2010 compliquée.

On ne s’attendait pas à ce que l’automne charrie à nouveau cette drôle de nouvelle : l’eau est rare. Les départements français concernés par les divers degrés d’alerte pour son utilisation sont pourtant aujourd’hui au nombre de 45 (1). Mais surtout, parmi eux, il y en a 24 qui vivent une situation de restriction totale soit le niveau le plus élevé de l’alerte, selon la terminologie officielle, et qui fonctionnent au rythme des arrêtés préfectoraux. La reconstitution des nappes, par la pluviosité, ne se fait pas, ou très mal, alors que l’on se trouve largement au-delà de la période habituelle d’étiage. Voilà en fait un bon mois que la tendance de l’été aurait dû s’inverser…

Lutter contre les gaspillages

En Aveyron, l’un des 24 départements les plus problématiques, les mesures prises fin juillet ont été confirmées le 9 septembre et vont subir un nouveau tour de vis en cette mi-octobre. La faute à l’absence de pluie. Un classique, qui crée un panorama difficile. “La situation est sérieuse et mérite un suivi” témoigne Renaud Rech, responsable eau et biodiversité à la DDEA (Direction Départementale de l’Equipement et de l’Agriculture) de l’Aveyron. Dans ce département il n’y a pas eu de pluies efficaces depuis mai-dernier. “Nous avons donc pris les premières mesures au milieu de l’été : restriction sur l’irrigation, sur les loisirs, le remplissage des piscines, les lavages de véhicules. De nombreuses collectivités, une vingtaine, connaisse de sérieux problèmes, même si cela implique encore peu de personnes, de l’ordre de 1.000 à 2.000. ” Le 9 septembre le département était passé à un stade supérieur avec l’extension des mesures à de nouvelles zones. Une situation analogue à celle vécue lors de la sécheresse de 2003 par rapport à l’état des ressources. “Maintenant on ne peut continuer à renforcer le dispositif, alors notre discours va se centrer sur l’attitude et la responsabilité des habitants. Il faut lutter contre les gaspillages” prévient Renaud Rech. Pas pessimiste dans l’immédiat, le responsable aveyronnais note que “pour attaquer une saison 2010 dans de bonnes conditions, il ne faudrait pas que la reconstitution de la réserve se fasse de manière trop réduite”.

L’Europe demande des comptes

En fait, si l’on excepte 7 départements (22, 29, 35, 50, 56, 61 et 2B), à des degrés divers, c’est quasiment l’hexagone dans son ensemble qui pâtit d’un problème avec ses ressources en eau. Cette permanence de l’alerte hydrologique, alors que l’automne est entamé, est d’autant plus préoccupante que la France est un pays riche en eau : il pleut en moyenne 440 milliards de m³ d’eau annuellement et un quart de ce volume s’infiltre dans les nappes souterraines, alors que l’on estime les prélèvements nationaux à quelque 7 milliards de m3. Mais il y a un autre problème derrière ces alertes à l’utilisation : celui de la qualité actuelle de l’eau. Les spécialistes s’accordent à dire qu’elle est catastrophique. Ils estiment que la moitié des nappes du territoire est impropre à la consommation. Si, depuis une quarantaine d’années maintenant les pollutions industrielles sont contrôlées, ce sont les pollutions diffuses, d’origine agricole, qui constituent le problème n° 1. En 2000 une directive européenne a d’ailleurs imposé à tous les États membres de l’Union de présenter, fin 2009, un plan détaillé de mesures avec obligations de résultats à l’horizon 2027. En clair : toutes les nappes devront, au plus tard en 2027, avoir retrouvé leur seuil de potabilité. .

 (1) Hautes-Alpes (05), Ardèche (07), Aveyron (12), Bouches-du-Rhône (13), Cher (18), Côte-d’Or (21), Dordogne (24), Doubs (25), Drôme (26), Eure (27), Eure-et-Loir (28), Haute-Garonne (31), Gers (32), Gironde (33), Indre (36), Indre-et-Loire (37), Jura (39), Loir-et-Cher (41), Loire (42), Haute-Loire (43), Loiret (45), Lot-et-Garonne (47), Lozère (48), Maine-et-Loire (49), Marne (51), Haute-Marne (52), Mayenne (53), Meuse (55), Oise (60), Hautes-Pyrénées (65), Rhône (69), Sarthe (72), Savoie (73), Seine-et-Marne (77), Yvelines (78), Deux-Sèvres (79), Somme (80), Tarn (81), Tarn-et-Garonne (82), Vendée (85), Yonne (89), Territoire de Belfort (90), Essonne (91), Val-de-Marne (94) et Val-d’Oise

Grotte de Lascaux

Bien historique et culturel par excellence, les Grottes de Lascaux sont une référence du patrimoine préhistorique français de Dordogne, le berceau des hommes de Cro-Magnon, avec sa remarquable collection de gravures et peintures datant de 18000 à 15000 ans avant notre ère.

La Dordogne m’a accueillit cet été pour les vacances, et j’avoue que ces dernières furent ponctuées de formidables découvertes.

Je vous invite à vous laisser guider sur le site en Flash de ce site réalisé pour les grands sites archéologiques du Ministère de la Culture et découvrez les différents recoins de cette grotte.

Une belle initiative pour découvrir les trésors désormais cachés de notre Histoire et qui sont remis à jour pour le public, pour l’occasion.

Voilà une façon intelligente de relier la préhistoire avec les nouvelles technologies.

Si vous passez dans les environs de Lascaux, je vous invite à faire un tour du coté des Eyzies-de-Tayac-Sireuil avec les Grottes de Font-de-Gaume pour ses peintures polychromes et la Grotte des Combarelles pour ses gravures tout à fait remarquables de bisons, de rennes ou de chevaux.

Et pour ceux qui aiment se laissez transporter par les différentes découvertes préhistoriques de Dordogne, je vous propose de faire une escale à la Grotte de Rouffignac qui vous emmènera pour une petite ballade en train à la découverte de nombreuses gravures et peintures de mammouths, rhinocéros laineux et autres bisons et chevaux!

(Via FWA)

Dordonha é um departamento da França localizado na região Aquitânia. Sua capital é a cidade de Périgueux.

*Jakarta Globe, 30 Sept 2009

I stumbled by chance across Asvanara, a horse farm in the heart of Tuscany, Italy’s famed wine region.

Here, where the sky is home to clouds as fat as Gorgonzola cheese-filled gnocchi and the air is crisp as freshly baked French baguettes, I wear the various hats of dishwasher, housemaid and sous chef.

As the farm teaches courses in natural horsemanship it is always filled with boisterous Italian equine aficionados clad in jeans, fringed leather chaps and cowboy hats. The owners have freshly-scrubbed faces, ride bareback, practice yoga and are prone to performing morning meditations in the buff.

Days are filled with everyone’s constant greeting of “ciao!” punctuating the air, the hypnotic swishing of horses’ tails and the hopping of crickets guiding my way through the farm’s grassy terrain.

Lining the slopes of the farm are quaint wooden bungalows, named after planets, set aside for students. Pink popsicle-colored hammocks are slung around the trees outside, complemented by the arresting vista of Tuscany falling sleepily into autumn.

It is in this postcard-perfect place that I have discovered my passion for the kitchen and homemade cuisine.

On the road I’ve experienced my share of kitchens. In fact, I make a habit of gravitating toward them.

In Bujumbura, Burundi, I crouched besides a wooden fire cooking gruel with three African girls in a dimly-lit mud hut. I sipped hot chocolate and shared laughter with three generations of women baking apple pie in a creamy New Jersey home. I peeled potatoes by the bucketful to earn my dinner in the blisteringly hot kitchen of a temperamental cook by the Dordogne river in France.

In any home, I find kitchens are more than just where food is created. They are where friendships are formed. Within those four walls is the sense of something new and, also, a sense of comfort. The kitchen is as warm as a mother’s womb and full of tastes and smells reminiscent of youth.

On my first day at Asvanara, I had a taste of the local grub, a simple meal of creamy cauliflower soup and spaghetti dressed with fresh tomatoes and spices. But the chef’s homemade concoctions with his secret slips and slaps of spices gave me an insatiable appetite. It was love at first bite. You could say, he had me at spatula.

From that moment forward, I knew that being the housemaid wasn’t going to cut it. I volunteered for extra kitchen duty. I wanted to learn how to cook.

For a girl who once charred the ceiling of her apartment because she didn’t know how to work a gas stove and had eggs blow up after attempting to cook them in the microwave, this may not sound like the best idea. During my time in Jakarta, the only time I stepped into a grocery store was to purchase a Magnum ice-cream and the extent of my cooking skills as a bachelorette in London were limited to adding soy sauce to a daily diet of buttered salmon fillet and sauteed spinach.

But I thought I’d chance it this time around. After all, I had a kitchen god in Asvanara in the form of Udo, an Enid-Blyton-reading-yoga-master-vegetarian-chef from Germany. As fate would have it, Udo even has a connection to my homeland. His first kitchen was in an Indonesian restaurant in Berlin and one of the first dishes he learnt was gado-gado (mixed vegetables with peanut sauce).

In order to be in the presence of Udo, my other, not-so-coveted, chores required me to wash dishes and clean the dining areas. From the crack of the fog-filled dawns until the blue high noons, I tackled dishes and the perpetually soiled mess hall floors, courtesy of the cowboys.

The hard work paid off. Gradually, Udo began to trust me to handle food.

I discovered that the kitchen flirts with every sensory faculty.

It sings. Heated butter gurgles, pots and pans argue noisily when washed, ovens hiss and plucked basil sighs. The aroma of chopped parsley, the scent of grated lemon and sprinkled cinnamon wafting through the air, filling the room, teases the nostrils and cavorts with the senses.

And there are tactile sensations attached to the preparation of a meal. To feel the chill of the cucumber’s skin, the juicy seeds tumbling out of a ripe tomato, the slippery heat rising from cooked pasta and the pillow softness of whipped cream are to be in touch with the life source that is food.

Soon I was assigned baking duties. Within a week I knew how to bake bread, creating six baguettes a day for over a dozen hungry cowboys and ranch hands, and learn the secrets of making chocolate from scratch.

But after weeks of pizza and pasta, not even Udo’s culinary talent can prevent them turning bland upon my Spice Islands tongue.  Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a bowl of Indomie noodles right now!

sudouest.com, Hervé Chassain, le 24 Septembre 2009

ÉCOLOGIE. L’association la plus connue et la plus active veut mettre de l’ordre dans ses actions pour être plus efficace

La Sepanso se réorganise

Il y a eu du mouvement à la Sepanso Dordogne, la fameuse association écologiste (1), et ce n’est certainement pas fini. Depuis le mois de juin, Michel André (du Bugue) qui était un des piliers du bureau, a démissionné de son siège de vice-président et a été remplacé par Georges Barberolle (de Bergerac) et Mathilde Guignard (de Limeuil). Nicole Barberolle est aussi devenue secrétaire générale. Gérard Charollois (de Veyrines-de-Vergt), l’emblématique président, a conservé son siège.

Aujourd’hui, c’est Georges Barberolle qui monte en première ligne pour réorganiser l’association. « Il fallait mettre de l’ordre et de la lisibilité dans nos actions », explique cet ingénieur gazier à la retraite, revenu à Bergerac depuis une dizaine d’années. Il y a fondé l’association du quartier Est, qui s’est fait entendre sur de nombreux dossiers, notamment sur la déviation ou pour défendre les arbres de la place de la Myrpe.

Des dossiers partout

« La Sepanso ne doit plus être utilisée pour des intérêts particuliers et ne doit pas faire preuve d’intégrisme », explique-t-il. Il dit ainsi sa méfiance face l’effet « Nimby » (2). Ce qu’il avait d’ailleurs prouvé en défendant la reprise des travaux de la déviation de Bergerac, alors que la présence du pigamon jaune, une fleur censée être protégée, les avait fait stopper. Il souhaite que l’on fasse la part des choses.

De même, il assure « qu’on ne peut pas refuser tous les projets de développement touristique. Mais il faut qu’ils soient bien intégrés à la région ».

La Sepanso a des dossiers ouverts dans tout le département. Elle a été en première ligne pour s’opposer au projet du circuit de voitures anciennes de Bagatelle en Périgord vert (aujourd’hui abandonné) et est toujours opposée au projet de gazéificateur de Saint-Paul-La-Roche. Sur la création d’un village de tourisme au plan d’eau du Rosier à Coursac, elle attend d’en savoir plus. À Atur, elle a soutenu une association locale qui s’opposait à l’extension d’un camping.

200 adhérents

« Nous intervenons la plupart du temps en soutien d’associations locales », explique en effet Georges Barberolle. La Sepanso arrive avec sa notoriété, le savoir-faire de ses 200 adhérents, parmi lesquels des juristes, des naturalistes et toutes sortes de spécialistes, ainsi qu’un certain sens de la communication.

On la retrouve aussi à Boulazac pour discuter du regroupement des centres de transfert des déchets de la Surca, à Carlux pour s’opposer aux gravières ou à Meyrals pour refuser une carrière d’ocre.

On a également vu la Sepanso autour du château de Bridoire, dans tous les dossiers liés aux déchets ou à l’eau. Un prochain combat concernera peut-être de nouveaux plans d’eau prévus sur le Bandiat.

Mais on vient aussi la consulter pour des projets de panneaux solaires et d’aménagements en tous genres. Voilà pourquoi, selon Georges Barberolle, pour conserver sa crédibilité, la Sepanso devait se réorganiser et parler d’une seule voix.

Contact : 13, place Barbacane à Bergerac. Tél. 05 53 73 12 71.

(1) La Sepanso a été créée il y a quarante ans en Gironde et a essaimé dans la région. À l’origine, son nom voulait dire Société d’étude, de protection et d’aménagement de la nature dans le Sud-Ouest. (2) L’acronyme Nimby vient de l’anglais « not in my back yard » (« pas dans mon arrière-cour ») et désigne l’opposition à des projets dans son environnement proche.

Un Grand site pour la Vézère

La Sepanso s’est investie dans le projet d’opération Grand site sur la vallée de la Vézère menée par les services de l’État et les collectivités. Cette réflexion basée sur une étude menée pendant deux ans par deux spécialistes entend « donner un paysage à la préhistoire ». De Terrasson à Limeuil, il s’agira de réfléchir sur la protection du patrimoine, de l’agriculture, de la forêt, du tourisme et de l’urbanisme.

La Sepanso participera à deux groupes de travail : « requalification paysagère de la vallée et agriculture » et « architecture, urbanisme et patrimoine ». Elle a aussi demandé à participer au groupe « tourisme ».

L’atelier collectif de création audio-visuelle

Atelier du 27 au 31 juillet 2009 à Grand Brassac, montage final fait le 11 août 2009 à Renamont

Après six jours intensifs de travail collectif autour d’un scénario librement inspiré de la collecte du Pôle Patrimoine et Culture Occitane, le film “Emporte-moi, je t’emporterai” est fini. Les jeunes ont choisi de travailler sur le conte du Leberon, mais ont aussi incorporé des idées issues des entretiens en occitan.

La première projection publique aura lieu le 04 octobre 2009 à Grand Brassac (vers 16h30), lors de la 4e rencontre Orient(s)-Occident(s) organisée par l’ACDD.

Les jeunes seront présents pour défendre leur projet et répondre à toutes vos questions. Le film sera ensuite montré lors des restitutions de collectes du Pôle Patrimoine et Culture Occitane.

Je profite de l’occasion pour dire un grand merci à ceux qui nous ont soutenu : la mairie de Grand Brassac, La Clé, le Pôle Patrimoine et Culture Occitane, Pampaligossa, Le Tri-Cycle Enchanté et la Convention Culturelle…

Le résultat et l’intérêt que le projet a éveillé nous encourage à recommencer l’été prochain, et une autre “formule” sera proposée: toute l’année scolaire deux fois par semaine avec un groupe de “grands” et un groupe de “plus jeunes ” à partir de 2010.

Le Périgord est l’ancienne région française qui, depuis l’instauration des Départements, est identifié comme celui de la Dordogne…

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DU PERIGORD COMPLET ET GRATUIT AVEC PHOTOS

Le département de la Dordogne, dénommé ainsi grace à la rivière du même nom, correspond à peu près à l’ancienne région Périgord…

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DE LA DORDOGNE

Rocamadour possède un pèlerinage très ancien à la Vierge Marie sous l’apparence d’une Vierge noire dont le corps était autrefois couvert de plaques d’argent, puis d’un manteau, comme Notre Dame du Puy ou Notre Dame de la Daurade à Toulouse. Cette statue est dans l’une des chapelles dans les sanctuaires à pic, sur les gorges de l’Alzou.

De dimension européenne comme l’atteste le Livre des miracles du XIIe siècle, il perdit en notoriété après le passage iconoclaste de mercenaires protestants en 1562. Une nouvelle fois pillé sous la Révolution, les sanctuaires de Rocamadour furent entièrement restaurés au XIXe siècle, ce qui leur évita une ruine complète.

L’épreuve finale de ce pèlerinage consistait à gravir à genoux les 216 marches conduisant à la cité religieuse (qui comprend 7 églises, et 12 autres que les restaurations du XIXe siècle n’ont pu relever). Enfin parvenus à l’intérieur des sanctuaires après cette ascension, les pèlerins laissaient en ex-voto divers objets. Les plus connus restent les fers de condamnés libérés de leurs chaînes, les bateaux de marins sauvés et reconnaissants, ou les plaques de marbre gravées et accrochées au mur de la chapelle aux XIXe siècle et XXe siècle.

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DE VOYAGE ROCAMADOUR

Attention, il faut réserver longtemps à l’avance pour visiter Lascaux2.

La grotte de Lascaux est l’une des plus importantes grottes ornées paléolithiques par le nombre et la qualité esthétique de ses œuvres.

Les peintures et les gravures qu’elle renferme n’ont pas pu faire l’objet de datations directes précises : leur âge est estimé entre environ 18 000 et 15 000 ans avant le présent à partir de datations et d’études réalisées sur les objets découverts dans la grotte.

La grotte est située dans le Périgord noir, sur la commune de Montignac (Dordogne), à une quarantaine de kilomètres au sud-est de Périgueux.

Elle s’ouvre sur la rive gauche de la Vézère, dans une colline calcaire au sein de l’étage coniacien (Crétacé supérieur).

HISTOIRE

La grotte est découverte le 8 septembre 1940 par quatre adolescents à la recherche du chien de l’un d’entre-eux disparu dans un trou étroit révélé par la chute d’un pin foudroyé. Ils souhaitaient au départ garder pour eux le secret de cette découverte. Mais quatre jours plus tard, le 12 septembre 1940, ils reviennent sur les lieux et avertissent rapidement leur ancien instituteur.

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DE VOYAGE GROTTE DE LASCAUX

 Périgord noir, Département de la Dordogne, Région Aquitaine.

L’architecture de Sarlat en fait le site touristique le plus fréquenté de Dordogne et le quatorzième en France avec quelque 1 500 000 visiteurs chaque année. Cette petite ville de 10 000 habitants est néanmoins réputée pour avoir la plus forte densité de monuments historiques classés ou inscrits au monde.

Sarlat est une cité médiévale qui s’est développée autour d’une grande abbaye bénédictine d’origine carolingienne. Seigneurie monastique, elle atteignit son apogée au XIIIe siècle. L’origine de l’abbaye se perd dans les légendes. Elle existe au IXe siècle et fut reconstruite à l’époque romane entre 1125 et 1160. L’église abbatiale devint la cathédrale du diocèse de Sarlat. Les évêques, remplaçant les abbés, commencèrent sa transformation architecturale qui fut achevée seulement à la fin du XVIIe siècle.

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DE VOYAGE SARLAT-LA-CANEDA

La capitale de la Dordogne compte environ 30 000 habitants et elle est établie autour d’un vaste méandre de la rivière l’Isle. La cité romaine Vesunna est créée (temples, bains, arènes, forum) puis entourée de remparts à la fin du IIIe siècle. En 1240, deux cités rivales s’unissent finalement (Vésone et Puy-Saint-Front) afin de fonder Périgueux.

En 1669, l’évêché a été transféré en 1669 de l’ex-cathédrale Saint-Étienne, détruite par les huguenots, (dans le quartier de la Cité) à la cathédrale Saint-Front, une ancienne église.

Sur les berges de l’Isle, une « voie verte » de 15km permet de se promener ou de se déplacer de manière sympathique.

La ville dispose de quatre musées :

musée d’Art et d’Archéologie du Périgord

Le musée gallo-romain Vesunna (bâti par l’architecte Jean Nouvel) www.vesunna.fr

- Le musée Militaire du Périgord.

• – Le musée atelier du trompe-l’œil.

FETES ET EVENEMENTS (entre autres) :

• Les grandes fêtes de Saint-Georges :

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DE VOYAGE PERIGUEUX

When I tried to get my Parisian bouquiniste (Seine bookseller) pote Luc to come down here this summer, one of the excuses he gave me was, “Ah, you know, down there, in the country, they eat mostly meat.” (Sounds better in French: “Ah, tu sais, la-bas, c’est que le viande qu’on mange.”) Luc is a vegetarian. (Though definitely not a vegan, judging by his predilection for the camembert Le Petit; he even saves the red cartons.) (Camembert secret: Open the box — yes, in the supermarket — and press down on the cheese. If it bounces back, don’t buy it. Unless of course you’re planning on using it for the eight-day Simenon diet.) Okay, c’est vrais que the great southwest of France, surtout the Dordogne, is known as the capital of foie gras. And, yes, my neighbor Mr. Marty did just knock on my door this morning with a big bloody chunk of raw sanglier (wild boar) meat. And I’m certainly not complaining. Nor did I say no when Bernard and Stephan came by one night and asked, “Are you in the mood to eat sanglier?,” and we cooked up the meat Stephan had brought from the sanglier he caught the day before on the converted half water heater Bernard made into a grill, after gathering wood by the river. (The succulent flavor was no doubt helped by the sarmant or dead wine branches from Mr. Marty’s vines.) So what if the morsel that lodged in the ruins that are my teeth is still there two weeks and a couple of dozen ibuprofen tablets later? I will still cook up Mr. Marty’s sanglier with relish. I will cook it up for ten hours and pulverize it, but I will still cook and eat it with relish.

If Luc is still reading after that little eloge to viande, I want to tell him that I have never eaten as much fruit in my life as I have eaten the last two months — peaches (from Mr. Marty’s grove), apples (mostly from the tree in the backyard, near the river). And above all plums. It started with Mr. Marty inviting me to bring a basket over and pick some of the tiny red plums from the tree behind the chicken coop — “Otherwise they’ll be wasted and that would be dommage!” — then progressed down the route to Le Bugue, the village where I do my marketing, and along which I scored green, red, and a whole lotta yellow or mirabelle plums. (The rule here is that if the branch is hanging over the road you have the right to pick the fruit. And for fruit on the ground, it’s safe if it’s not punctured.) There’s even a bush of mirabelles right before you turn into the train station. In Le Buisson, where I go to get the medicine for Sonia, my 20-something part-wolf Alaskan Siamese, I took a different route to get to the river after picking up the meds and trampled upon a field of prune plums — probably the best I’ve found. And in the cute medieval vllage of Belves a couple of weeks ago, finding myself stranded at the train station for two hours (the wine festival I was there for was over by the time I arrived), I was reduced to picking very hot, almost prunified plums below a little red-leafed tree next to the abandoned gare.

But The Big Prune Show — that’s what it’s called — took place last weekend in Agen, after California the largest producer of prunes in the world.

If there’s one great food divide between Americans and the French, it may be our different perspectives on the noble prune.

In the States — even in California, the world’s largest producer of prunes — prunes and above all prune juice are something for very old people. And they are diaretics, which is exactly the reason I avoided them for 40 years. I actually like the taste, so it was more a protective measure. (Even in the popular culture, prunes get a bad rap, e.g. the villain character of Pruneface in the Dick Tracy comic.)

France has totally changed my perspective on prunes.

First, they don’t give me diarrhea here.

That out of the way, I’ve been able to indulge.

Besides being succulent tout seule as a fruit (generally speaking they’re not so dried up here), they’re fantastic in yogurt. I’ve also had them wrapped with bacon and have made my own aperitif recipe involving spreading creme de canard (or foie gras if you’re rich enough) and a single (pitted) prune on a grainy bread, preferably toasted. Soaked and stewed with lamb, tajine-style, they’re sublime and make the lamb sublime. Then there are prune tarts. This region is also known for ‘prune,’ which doesn’t actually mean ‘prune’ but eau de vie a la prune. (The eau de vie Mr. Marty supplies me with is actually made from his grapes. Not that he makes it; he no longer has the right. The problem when he, and other paysans, made it on their own is the government couldn’t tax it. Now, if he wants to have eau de vie from his own grapes he has to pay a man who comes around once per year to collect the harvest and turn it into ‘fin.’ It costs him as much as if he were to buy a bottle in a liquor store. The best way to consume eau de vie, btw, is a la ‘canard.’ which does not mean getting a duck drunk with the liquor and then killing it for the barbecue, but rather dipping a sugar cube into the eau de vie and then sucking on it. The best eau de vie I ever tasted was fig, which is illegal, perhaps because the alcohol content is too high.)

So last weekend I decided to take the Perigeux-Agen regional train to the end of the line in Agen, a 90-minute to two-hour ride depending on how many stops you make. Later I learned, watching a television documentary on French concentration camps, that if I were taking that same train in about 1944 I probably would have had to get off in Penn, where I’d have been interned before being shipped off to Auschwitz.

Fortunately, this being 2009, my French hosts permitted me to stay on the train until the terminus (of the train), where San Francisco pals Renee and Alvin were waiting for me. I know Alvin peripherally, because he used to run a jazz cafe across the street from me in San Francisco’s Mission District, Cafe Babar. They were installed having a glass of blanc and tea at the buffet I was a bit impatient. “Where’s the prune giveaway?” I pressed them. We started with a walk through an alley where local producers were selling regional wine and liquor specialties. Here I had a great reunion with an aperitif called the floc of Gascon. The red variety kind of tastes like bitter strawberries, and goes well with chocolate. I also discovered that I was not quite as finished with rosé as I thought I was after a summer of going through three three-litre cartons (of a very red and dry Lot variety) and one 5-litre box (from St. Emillion). The one I tried in Agen was fruity and actually had a nose, rare for a rosé. (With a nose like that, it probably also would have found itself type-cast and sent to Penn by France, er, Vichy, during the Occupaton. ‘Free Zone’ mon oeil.)

After the tastings, Renee and Alvin lead me to a tour of the old city, starting with the Street of Jews. (Talk about making it easy for the French, er, Vichy police. “Eh les flics! Nous-sommes la!”) (If I keep digressing to this subject, it’s because this week, finally, after years of films in which everyone in France seemed to be resisting the Nazis and/or hiding the Jews, the public television is finally focusing on the collabos. On Tuesday, France 2 broadcast a fictional film in which Marthe Keller discovers that the granddaughter she thought was shipped to the camps and her death was actually kidnapped by one of the French militians who arrested her family, and is now a pupil in her class. This was followed by a documentary on Drancy and the other French camps that focused on the role of the French police and gendarmes in rounding up the Jews, and reminded us that it was the French, er, Vichy government that volunteered to do so before the Germans, er, Nazis could ask them to — the only country where this happened. Then the last two nights, a documentary on Jacques Chirac replayed — twice — the landmark speech he made, shortly after being elected in 1995, in which 50 years after the fact, a French chief of state finally acknowledged the culpability of the state of France in the deportations and deaths of the Jews.)

But where were we? Oh yes: In the old city of Agen. Which is pretty breathtaking, with the buildings a sort of melange of the sandstone found around these parts and Spanish-Toulousian red brick. (Agen is an hour away from Toulouse by train and, in the other direction, the same from Bordeaux. It has a real Mediterranean, luminous feel, not surprising, I guess, as it also hosts the canal deux mers, which runs from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic, more or less.) Later, when Alvin and Renee decided to take a pause for lunch, I left them at the resto and took my picnic kit and lunch to the white-stony banks of the broad and vast Garonne. This is fast becoming one of my favorite French rivers, after the Seine. (In the moving van that brought me here two years ago, trying to make conversation, I asked the French girl who was doing the driving what her favorite dream was. I guess I must have said ‘rive’ instead of ‘riviere’ and she must have heard it as ‘reve’ because she answered, “A fragment of Roland Barthes.” Even when I do manage to connect with a French woman on a serious topic it’s by accident.) It may be just my imagination, because I’m aware that the Garonne feeds into the Atlantic, but I could swear it was almost blue and that my lunch was accompanied by a briny aroma.

On the way back to find Renee and Alvin, I crossed a long, green esplanade, with the requisite skate park and petanque players. I stopped to watch the petanque players, just so I could write that. Then finally, at about 3 p.m., we reached the prune give- away, where there was already a long line. Renee and Alvin left me there, with their sac, which gave me two. First I scored a big sac of wet, just prunified fruit — what looked like a prunifying machine was just behind the tables where the young men and women were handing out the sacs of prunes — and then, cleverly stuffing it into my bag, I moved to the next table and was handed a bag of the dried variety. Before leaving I found a Shopi in the covered market, where I scored a jar of brandade (great in crepes — thank you, Joe Liebling) and a bottle of Tariquet at an affordable price (4.20); then a second at an even more affordable price 3.70) at a food and wine boutique. (Tariquet is a white made from the same grape as armagnac. It’s kind of like Colombard, which one can find in the States, but better — fruity and with a bite. Goes great with fondue, tartiflette, and raclette, and can even be served as an aperitif.)

While my train was still in the station, a friendly-looking older man with a hearing aide sat down across from me. Noticing his umbrella, I said amiably, “Fortunately it didn’t rain today!” He explained that he’d just been getting the umbrella repaired for his grandchildren. I asked if he’d checked out the prune festival; he’d been busy visiting the church. “They were giving out free prunes!” I said, and invited him to try the wet ones. “Delicious!” he remarked, his whole face lighting up. As soon as I found out he was from Toulouse, I asked him if he found it polluted. Toulouse had been one of my candidate villes until I visited it last summer and discovered that on some streets you can actually see the pollution in front of you.. But for social reasons, I keep coming back to it. “No no,” he said, he didn’t find it polluted. As, doing the math, I figured he must have been close to 80, I thought this was a good sign. He added that public transport is FREE for those over 60. This is another thing I like about Toulouse, on paper anyway; it isn’t just that it offers a lot of cultural events, but that they’re free or close to. (For 80 Euros, you can see everything at the Cinematheque — a good one, with a strong Russian collection — for one year, which beats Paris (120) and Lyon (183, and you still have to pay for the special seances). He also said, brightening up even more, that in the park across from his home there’s lots of pissenlit (dandelion leaves) to pick, so we swapped recipes, mine for salad and his for a casserole with potatoes (the key is to cut the pissenlit up into tiny morsels). I guess I was friendly enough that the man, whose name was Marcel, asked me if I wanted a gold or a silver Virgin medal. I asked for the silver but he ended up giving me both. All I need to do to get benedicted is show it to a priest. (According to the documentary on the deportation camps, it was the albeit belated protests by the priests — notably the archbishop of Toulouse — that finally slowed the French, er, Vichy government down in its zeal to collect the Jews and deliver them to the Germans, er, Nazis.) On the trip, Marcel, a retired telecommunications specialist for the train company, explained to me how fragile the telecommunications lines for the train company used to be, made of glass.

Just before we passed the stone house where I live, from the train window I caught Bernard and Stephan harvesting Bernard’s potatoes. During the Occupation, according to Bernard, whose father lived those years here, the maquis used to sabotage the train tracks just above the stone house. They hid in the pre-historic caves I look up at when I take my apero on the terrace. The Germans once shot at Bernard’s father — for nothing. There were also collabos who told the Germans where to find the resistants and, not far from here, a whole village that was killed in reprisal by the Germans.

After dropping the prunes and Tariquet at the house, I walked down up to the potato fields. Bernard handed me a heart-shaped pair of Siamese potato twins and said, “You know what these are? Balls!” I unearthed a potato tinier than a prune. Holding up the one Bernard had given me I said, “These are American balls.” Then showing him the tiny one I added, “And these are French balls.”

For the prunes: The more aged ones are so hard — almost like hard candy — I decided to stew a few in a glass filled with Mr. Marty’s eau de vie. Perhaps I will have them for desert today if there’s any room left in my teeth after the sanglier gets through with them.