We were all sharing one car, so Dick drove my dad back to the gîte and picked me up to go back to château. But as we left the gîte, he chucked the keys at me. ‘Go on!’, he said. I laughed, ‘No bloody way!’ I hadn’t driven in France yet and I was really nervous. In fact, I’d never driven on the other side of the road before (if you discount the time I accidentally drove the wrong way down a one-way street, of course). This was a big deal for me. I looked to Dick for support. Poker face. I believe this may have been a tactic to not make a drama out of it but I was truly petrified.
I did it. I drove the seven minutes to the château, but I was shaking all the way. I still remember Dick repeating to me to stay in the lines, but we got there and no one had been hurt. I was delighted and full of excitement! When I ran into the château to tell everyone about my achievement, no one seemed to share in my elation. So I called my mum. If there was anyone who would understand it would be her …
I suppose I was a bit insensitive to the difficulty of driving abroad, but I’d lived in Germany on and off for most of the 1980s and after that thought nothing about jumping behind a wheel all over Europe, the Americas, the Middle East and the Far East. To me, it was all about going for it and giving the locals a run for their money. It never crossed my mind that Angela was seriously nervous. But as with all things that are important, Angela didn’t let it stop her for long. She thought about it then just had a go.
As I stood in the entrance hall of the château, I took in all that was happening: there was stuff everywhere, pipes and tools in every direction, not to mention the dust which was thick in the air. Dick has always said our home was going to be like a building site for some time and he was definitely right about that.
It was very cold that day: the grounds were frozen, the trees were as white as the sky, which was vast, and it looked like there might be snow on the way. I was wrapped up warm with a cashmere brown scarf that I had bought for Dick one Christmas. In all this craziness, Dick and I stood outside and watched Pascale as he climbed up onto the roof. As we stood together in that moment, holding hands in silence, it felt like we were watching our house become our home. And when I looked across at Dick and saw true happiness in his eyes, I knew he was thinking the same thing.
For our heating to even think about working we needed to start by lining three of our chimneys with stainless-steel flue liners. Being in a château this involved long and heavy liners going up three different chimneys. We did not have the time or the equipment to do that so, on a recommendation from Jacques, we called in Pascale, our whistling roofer. We didn’t think of him as such to begin with, but he definitely earned the title.
It was a very good start: Pascale and his assistant arrived at a good hour, we had the coffee that seemed to be expected and they proceeded to unroll and lay out the liners. The château was a bit of a building site, but we were still taken aback when he popped out to his van, put on his harness and came back through the entrance hall with a lit Gauloise cigarette dangling from his mouth. Before we could say anything, he had disappeared up the stairs, exited through an examination window in the roof and began walking along the apex of the roof, whistling. He seemed to be precariously balanced at the top of our home. It was freezing and the roof still had ice on it but this didn’t bother Pascale – he just sat on one of our chimney stacks, dropped down a weighted rope and then proceeded to pull up the liner as it was being pushed up by his colleague. Maybe whistling is a clever French trick to keep your bum warm? Within a couple of hours, he was fixing the chapeaux to the chimneys, having attached and sealed the liners. So all we had to do now was connect the boiler, the fires and all the pipes. We were making progress and things were happening thick and fast.
Life in the first few weeks seemed to revolve around pipes, holes in the walls and connecting things together, but there was more to it than that – we were living in France and it was important that it was not all work and no play. We wanted to truly enjoy the benefits of the food and wine that were now at our fingertips, as this was a huge part of why we had moved.
Angela was at peace that at this stage her main role was to keep everyone sane, keep the children happy, do all our admin and generally look after us, as well as all the cleaning and decision-making that was needed to keep our project on track. And it was a surprise to no one that she was the consummate hostess in the evenings. After a shower, it was slippers on, drink in hand, then some olives, crisps, nuts or nibbles. In the early days, we never really thought of our first drink of the evening as being aperitifs, but now that is just what they are.
Eating, relaxing, having a drink, and at the same time planning the next day, was a stress-free way to make sure we all knew what was happening. There were two separate upstairs in the gîte with a set of stairs going up to each, so Lee and Kyle had their own domain as well as having access to the communal family area. When friends stay as guests it can be a real test of the robustness of that friendship, especially with very long, cold working days. But Lee and Kyle were an absolute pleasure to have with us. Though it is interesting what you learn about people … Who would have known that Lee couldn’t live with a butter dish that was messy or had a knife mark in it? It provided endless sport. All it took was someone digging into the butter or, heaven forbid, putting some jam in the dish and you could visibly see him twitch. We are not naturally cruel but we had fun for a while.
In the evening, to make up for the paucity of lunch, we invariably had two or three courses, and then we finished with a cheese board. Now, I’m not saying Kyle is odd, but he doesn’t like cheese – that’s not normal, is it? I’m afraid we are too British to subscribe to cheese (without crackers!) before the dessert, though.
February is the time for warming one-pot food, so we tried to ensure we had something that was slow-cooked, even if it meant trying to cook a day ahead. As we were leaving dishes to cook for a long time, a favourite was jarret de boeuf *. It is always well marbled but this means it takes well to long, slow cooking as all the fat and sinuous bits break down and become tender and sweet. Cooked with red wine, onions, tomatoes and root vegetables, it’s a wonderfully thick and rich dish that goes brilliantly with baguettes and butter.
If we fancied something a bit lighter, I’d slow-cook pork belly in a ‘green sauce’. This dish has evolved over the time Angela and I have known each other. The green sauce is prepared in a blender and is all things loosely ‘green’ to hand: green chillies, apple juice, lime juice and zest, fresh coriander, ginger, garlic, onions, salt and white pepper. You blend it all together until it is smooth, then pour it over the big lumps of pork belly and then leave in the slow cooker for the day. It’s great served with the three-rice mix of basmati, red and wild.
We would normally serve food in waves, never rushing to clear the table, and constantly adding new platters. Grazing is a fabulous way to eat. Savoury rice dishes with lots of al dente veggies were always a winner and Val’s hot sauce made lots of appearances too. If we needed something quick, we often turned to mussels or other seafood. It takes moments to get something on the table and it’s delicious every time. It is just a matter of chopping some shallots, garlic and herbs and cooking them very quickly in butter, then in goes the white wine followed by the mussels as soon as the wine is bubbling. By the time we had rounded everyone up and they had broken their first bit of baguette and buttered it, it would be on the table.
MUSSELS
We made mussels differently every day. It really depended on what people fancied and what we had in. The options are endless, but the process is the same.
Ingredients
Lots of mussels, de-bearded (it doesn’t take long if you are chatting while you do it)
Sauce option 1
Shallots, finely chopped
Garlic
White wine
Fresh parsley
Sauce option 2
Coconut milk
Ginger, grated
Fresh chilli, finely chopped
&nb
sp; Fresh coriander
Soya sauce or salt (to counter the sweetness of the coconut milk)
Method
Soften your onions or garlic in a little oil.
Add all the rest of the ingredients apart from the chopped fresh herbs – they should only cover the base of a large pan with a lid about a quarter of an inch ajar.
Turn the heat up to fierce. When it boils, toss in all the mussels and put the lid on and leave on a high heat until the steam makes the lid move. Shake the pan to mix. Give it another two or three minutes, then turn it off.
Shake again. Then sprinkle over the chopped herbs and serve.
As Dick said, we didn’t call them aperitifs at first, but that is definitely what they are to us now, and we bought and tried aperitifs of every colour and flavour. We soon discovered there were many we loved: Suze and ice, Campari and tonic, Aperol and orange juice – the list goes on. And we still keep experimenting, but that is easy compared to the challenge of choosing wine in France.
There are certain wines we know, which are safe and delicious, however they can be a bit on the expensive side. We have always tried to buy local produce and that includes the wines, but with so many to choose from we may have been missing some treats. So we try lots and when we find a bottle we like, we usually buy a reasonable amount so we have some in. Lee discovered a red wine he found ‘easy’ to drink, a lovely Bourgueil AOC, and now we try to make sure there is some available any time we see him. The only problem is that the shops tend to change their stock, so it can be hard to find. Maybe everyone in France is constantly trying different wines to find the perfect one. Maybe it’s the French equivalent of searching for the holy grail. There’s nothing for it: we’ll just keep trying to see what we can find.
I’d always lived a very social life in London, so one of my biggest fears about moving to France was the distance it would create with family and friends. With the benefit of hindsight, I now know this most certainly is not the case. Obviously geographically it does, but the reality is you carve quality time out for them as and when you can. It truly feels like a treat when we get visitors, or go home to England, and our first year in France saw lots of friends and family coming to help and stay.
Shortly after we started our new life, I received a call at 6am: it was one of those ‘out of normal times’ calls when you know someone has either dialled you by mistake or they have something important to tell you. In this case, it was the latter. It was news that we had been expecting: my grandad Donald, my mum’s father, whom we named Arthur Donald after, had passed away. Naturally there was great sadness, as my grandma, his seven children, his thirteen grandchildren and his many great-grandchildren had all lost someone they adored. It wasn’t a surprise but not physically being there to support my mum and our family felt pretty crap. But my grandma, always the caring practical one, gave me strict instructions: ‘You are not to come home. You have only just moved. Save your money and buy a new window.’ So that was that.
There were definitely a couple of days where I felt particularly sad and helpless, though. Being more than a hop and a skip away from everyone hit home and there were only so many times I could call my mum to see how everyone was doing before I became annoying. Feeling my sadness, a couple of dear friends put on their capes and flew from London to be by my side.
Hazel is my vintage soulmate. We have been friends for a good ten years and both get immense pleasure from rummaging around in dusty charity shops. I first met Hazel at a vintage fair she started. I had just stopped my Angel-A Vintage Experiences in east London and needed a fix, so I popped along and Hazel was taking the money at the entrance. We did not become friends that day but I remember thinking how incredibly stylish she was. Our paths soon crossed again and our lifelong friendship was secured. With Hazel’s incredible work ethic, her scent for a bargain and her hunger for life, I knew she was going to be a great asset to the team.
Next on the plane was Alan, another great friend I had met many years before at a posh dinner party. We got on like a house on fire because he had a wicked, if sarcastic, sense of humour and loved food. Alan was a chef and had a degree in French: tick, tick. He even stopped at the supermarché en route and spent his entire first day cooking an arrival feast. Despite a tricky few days ahead, we celebrated that night and toasted absent family.
First up was a lamb tagine made with figs and pine nuts: tender pieces of lamb shoulder cooked with warming spices and enriched with just enough fruit to make it the perfect balance of sweet and savoury. It was a very simple dish in essence but the spices make this one special. With an exotic touch of saffron, this filled the gîte with wonderful mouth-watering smells to welcome the workers back in the evening. Another dish which we recall fondly was his classic boeuf bourguignon made with local red wine. The delicious slow-cooked stew created meltingly soft beef in a thick sauce studded with smoked bacon, mushrooms and little caramelised shallots. It was beautifully rich thanks to the cooking liquor being made up entirely of red wine. I remember him using a slightly more full-bodied red on this occasion rather than the classic lighter red burgundy.
The third dish probably won’t come as a big surprise, but Alan makes a truly great onion soup. And the one that night really was the bees’ knees. A true onion soup takes only a few simple ingredients. Firstly, a mountain of finely sliced onions need to be sweated down and caramelised in butter with perhaps just a little pinch of sugar. This is the important bit and you need to take time over it. It can take a good hour and a half to properly caramelise onions. Then garlic gets added to the mix and, for me, some white wine. The wine is reduced slightly before I add a little fresh thyme and good beef stock. It all simmers away for around thirty minutes and then it’s ready to be served topped with little slices of toasted baguette with delicious melted Gruyère.
With my new found confidence in driving and my sidekick Hazel, always keen for a bargain, by my side, we jumped in the car and headed towards a huge brocante*. Mission: ‘find a bath for our family suite’. It was a couple of hours’ drive and the rain was pretty heavy. But by now I had fallen in love with driving in France. This came as a surprise to me as I don’t love driving normally. But in France the roads are wide and very well looked after. Petite rustic villages overflowing with flowers fill me with inspiration and the sight of locals collecting their daily baguettes make me feel calm. Sharing the drive with Hazel added to the adventure and we giggled and chatted all the way there, talking nonstop about our lives, work, families and our latest vintage bargains.
When we finally found it, the brocante was the size of a small village. There were barns upon barns of stuff: statues, stones, baths, chairs, iron pagodas, benches, pans, lights, bricks, wood. Everything and anything you could ever have wanted, stretching out in every direction you looked. It was overwhelming. And the rain still came in buckets. It would probably have felt different if the sun had been shining and someone had offered us a drink and baby-care on arrival, but alas. We had to keep our focus on the mission to find a bath but with dozens of chickens roaming everywhere I was distracted, trying to ensure I didn’t slip over chicken shit. After a brief (forty-minute) look around one barn, it became apparent that looking in all ten may take a couple of days, so I checked I knew the French world for bath (la baignoire) and used by best Frenglish to ask if they had any.
After that, we got taken to the new part of their estate and shown a room full of very expensive baths that had been reconditioned. Our eyes popped out of our heads as we stroked an original 1919 Ritz Hotel bathtub. It seemed like we were in a dream. How could we be in France, soaked through, being taken into a room that was selling a bath from the bloody Ritz in London for €18,000? To add insult to injury, the other baths weren’t even that great. There was one solid bath with a nice shape: it was symmetrical with a roll-top and instead of feet the bath was mounted on a solid cast-iron plinth. It was elegant and definitely substantial, but of course it was also the second most expensive one in the place. But
at this point, having looked at millions on the internet and knowing the issue was actually getting something delivered to the château, I just wanted to complete my mission and get home to put some dry clothes on. The gentleman selling us the bath made us wait for a further forty minutes as he ummed and ahhed about whether he could deliver it. In the end, he reluctantly agreed for an extra €250 (on the basis we unloaded it from his van ourselves). I still kick myself today at the thought of giving such an arrogant man our money but it was early days and I can assure you I never made a mistake like that again.
While Hazel and I were at the brocante with the kids, Dick had dragged Alan to the château. It was all hands on deck and, while on paper, Alan was our team chef, there were more important things to do during the day, like stripping the kids’ windows of lead paint.
We had a couple of spare boiler suits so, once properly attired, Dick showed him what to do and set him to work. And he went for it with gusto. Alan has a willing heart and skills that are useful in certain scenarios, but the ability to smile was what we valued above all else. Alan would be the first to admit that DIY was not listed on his CV but his perseverance got that room done and, when we returned to the gîte, you could see the weight coming off his shoulders. And it took no time at all for him to change back into his chef hat and get food and drink on the table. Having lived in France when he was younger, Alan thoroughly enjoyed sharing his love of French foods and wines, and the rest of us weren’t complaining – it just made getting up in the morning to go to work that little bit more difficult!
We made many special memories that week, despite the endless challenges at the château – being together with great friends and having the ability to laugh at all the craziness that was happening around us kept everyone going. But I knew that once Alan and Hazel left, Lee, Kyle and my dad’s departure was imminent too and, with so many setbacks with the building work, things were far from on track. On top of that, Dick was due to go to America in a couple of weeks. So that evening my objective was to ask everyone to stay a bit longer – you know, just until everything was finished!
A Year at the Chateau Page 7
