The new arrivals just keep on coming in Les Verrines- Just a few weeks after receiving our wonderful Easter present, one of our poussins from last year has now become a mom! Eule hatched eight beautiful fluffy little chicks who are now bumbling happily around the yard… Our chicken army has now reached it’s highest enrollment levels ever, now topping out at twenty-one! It’s been good to see all three generations together- Plus, we’ve confirmed that our cock has been doing his duties properly!

Eule’s been going about her motherly duties wonderfully, finding worms and teaching the little ones the ins and outs of being a chicken… However, Eule’s first day out in the yard proved that becoming a mother chicken might have a slight learning curve:

[See post to watch Flash video]

The little ones have since learned not to follow too close in their mother’s footsteps, and to wait for her clucking call when there’s some tasty morsel to be had.

The view from the bedroom window in winter.

Gallery

(Video: Watch this video on the post page)

The Building Process:

Best Friends.

The Coqs, awaiting their fate…

The ‘debate’ as to eat one’s own chickens had begun early. Many people had asked weather or not we would be eating our lovely pets… And when we saw the cute fluffy poussains hatching from their shells, we were decidedly torn. But when the neighbors started putting money on the table and reserving the young coqs, things changed fast. Still, someone had to do the dirty deed. So, the days of bloody, work began… with plenty of plucking to follow.

The verdict: There’s just nothing like the taste of a FRESH farm-raised bird when it arrives on the table. Debate away, our stomachs are satisfied! And our consciences? We know our chickens lived healthy lives and ate well when they lived; and they died… as chickens often do: Decidedly bloody, but we made it as quick as possible… And we did our best to use EVERYTHING- down to the last bit of stock. Can you say that about the last ‘mystery bird’ you bought from the supermarket?

Contemplating his Chances

Frederik was visiting from Denmark and just had to have a go at the shooting arcade… The first bullet hit three balloons at once, and we were ready to haul off that giant teddy bear. Apparently, there was some kind of catch- only one point per ROUND. So we only got a Che Guevera lighter…

Off to have a drink then, check out the flea market, heckle the mini misses and mini misters, and then… the smell of diesel fuel and motor oil fills the air. It’s THE TRACTOR PARADE!

Some say, tractors resemble their owners. Or is it the other way around?

Even More Cuteness:

The story of a young chicken named Tchitchi… who grew up so fast! Our little baby Tchitchi is now a mother! She had six little baby chicks hatch- We’re so proud!

(Video: Watch this video on the post page)

Photos:

Photo Gallery:

(Video: Watch this video on the post page)

I started up top, next to the house, digging and struggling to get thing planted and into the ground before it was too late! The weather was cold and wet in May which made things more difficult… The dark nights were spent alone nursing my broken back with whisky and herbal cigarettes- only to start fresh and early the next morning. It was non-stop digging for weeks on end. Finally, the ground was prepared, seeds were planted, and all that was left was to wait. Except… was one garden really enough? I mean, couldn’t we use a few more rows of beans? More tomatoes? And what about beetroot, squash, corn, and cabbages? It was clear my work wasn’t finished yet! I had to start digging again, on to Garden #2, racing against the seasonal clock…

Towards the end of June my back finally said NO, I had to give up for this year and finally sat back and relaxed in the warm, longer afternoons to watch the garden grow… and it’s starting to look GREEN.

He doesn’t have a name yet! Any suggestions???

Basket of Cherries

June is Cherry month in La Creuse… for a few precious weeks the trees throughout the countryside are filled with beautiful pink blossoms. Then, almost all at once the cherries are ripe- and then are gone. For a few days in early June we eat all the cherries we can stand- one’s yearly cherry ration in the matter of a few hours! Whatever is not eaten, packed into delicious Clafoutis, or sterilized into jars, will either rot or be taken by the birds if it’s not gathered fast enough… So Jaques called one day asking if I could come by that very afternoon for Cherry Picking- it was either now or never since the birds were already getting full! If we waited even a day longer they would be gone… So, I cancelled my plans for that afternoon and we headed to Eguzon gather all the cherries we could.

At Jaques house, we had a quick coffee and set to work: Cherry picking is serious business… Jaques’ cherry trees were enormous, and just to reach the lower branches required a step-ladder. But the real bounty was in the higher branches, some 10 meters from the ground! Huge bunches of gorgeous, ripe cherries were just waiting for the intrepid worker to make his way up… We went to the neighbor’s for some tall ladders and an electric saw, and set out… The men chopping whatever branches they could reach, the women on the ground frantically gathering all the fallen spoils.

As the afternoon wore on, our clothes were stained, our arms were sore, but the cases had filled up little by little with an incredible amount of cherries… Over 50 kilos of cherries in one afternoon! That night, the work was not over: The cherries had to be cleaned, pitted, and sterilized in jars before they rotted. We headed home to a quick dinner and set to work again… loading as many cherries as possible into glass gard to be preserved. The remaining kilos found their way into many a clafoutis, jams, and even some CHERRY WINE over the next few days…

The team after a successful day (Jaques on the right looking very pleased!)

Gallery:

Inspiration of the Day:

A friend, inspired by my new feathered companions, recently loaned me a book written by Annie Dupery- a Parisian actress relocated to la Creuse… In Le Poil et la Plume she describes eloquently her reasons for relocating to this ‘forgotten’ part of the country, and her endeavors raising both chickens and cats (Fur and Feathers) in her rural garden… The opening text of her book puts it perfectly, (in words better than I can conjure) so I have left them in the original French (rough English translation follows).

J’ai la chance d’avoir un grand et beau jardin. Il est situé au centre de la France, dans ce magnifique pays qu’est la Creuse, département fort peu connu, en général, des autres habitants de l’hexagone. Certaines personnes, stupéfaites que j’aie eu envie, [...] de m’installer dans une région dont personne ne parle, me demandent parfois : «C’est où, la Creuse ? »

Je réponds : « Là où personne ne passe. »

Et c’est vrai.

On ne « passe » pas en Creuse.

On n’a a priori aucune raison de le faire, car ce département n’est sur le chemin d’aucune route attrayante vers le Sud. À la rigueur, si, par l’autoroute, vous filez vers Bordeaux et Toulouse, vous la frôlerez, cette Creuse… Mais vous n’y passerez pas. Rien à faire. Pour y aller, il faut le vouloir, sciemment. Vous ne la découvrirez pas par inadvertance.

Donc, n’étant sur le chemin de rien et pratiquement inconnu, bon nombre de gens qui n’y sont jamais allés, un pli de méfiance au-dessus du nez, qualifient ce pays d’« ingrat », « arriéré », « paumé » – à l’exemple de cette personne qui répondit à ma sœur, apprenant qu’elle résidait en Creuse : «Oh, ma pauvre…»

Pour d’autres, plus rêveurs peut-être, moins conformistes ou citadins invétérés, la Creuse évoque un pays préservé, à l’écart de l’agitation, un territoire un peu mystérieux, comme un secret gardé quelque part ailleurs et au fond de soi, un paysage et une manière de vivre comme les ont connus nos grands-parents et ceux d’avant encore, au sein d’une nature omniprésente et en accord avec son rythme. Un écho nostalgique, un peu touchant mais lointain – voire un peu inquiétant en ce qu’il suppose de régression pour ceux qui ont perdu le contact avec ce monde dit « révolu ».

* * * * *

Pour créer un jardin en pleine campagne, il faut être très patient, très obstiné, de cette obstination ferme et douce qui exclut tout énervement. Rien ne se fait en un jour, en une saison, ni même en plusieurs. L’amour doit être constant, la volonté souple. Aucune panique du temps qui passe ne doit troubler ce qui est en train de prendre forme : un espace privilégié, délimité arbitrairement au milieu du paysage environnant, que l’on soigne et embellit, pour son plaisir, sa famille et ses enfants, ceux qui passent. Un espace qui, au fil du temps, devrait refléter assez parfaitement les goûts et les aspirations esthétiques de son propriétaire, ses aspirations plus profondes, aussi, concernant l’harmonie et une manière de prendre la vie. Je pense sincèrement qu’un vrai jardin est toujours philosophique, sinon il n’est pas – mais une philosophie naturelle, apprise et appliquée au jour le jour, qui ne tient à aucune spéculation théorique. Une philosophie pragmatique, pourrait-on dire.

Être patient, donc, obstiné et humble à la fois vis-à-vis de ce que l’on plante, et qu’on apprend à connaître, mais aussi vis-à-vis de ses voisins et des autochtones en général lorsqu’on s’installe dans un pays dont on n’est pas originaire, et qu’il s’agit, pour créer son espace privilégié, d’acheter un bout de champ mitoyen, un terrain communal touchant la maison, de détourner un chemin, même à ses frais, pour qu’il contourne le futur jardin au lieu de passer au milieu, d’échanger quelque lopin de terre contre un taillis, etc. Pour tout cela, dix, quinze, vingt ans passent comme une saison, et il ne faut pas s’en effrayer. Simplement considérer avec contentement ce qui est acquis, le cultiver avec soin sans ménager ses efforts – on vous juge, pendant ce temps, sur votre aptitude aux travaux champêtres et votre respect de la nature –, poursuivre tranquillement ses travaux, son rêve, et surtout… rester là !

Here’s my rough English translation for the French impaired:

I am fortunate to have a large and beautiful garden. It is located in central France, in this great country of La Creuse department, little known, in general, by the other inhabitants of the hexagon. Some people, amazed that I wanted [...] to move to an area of which no one speaks, sometimes ask me: “This is where exactly, La Creuse?”

I answer: “Where no one passes.”

And it’s true.

No one “passes” in the Creuse.

One has a priori no reason to do so, because this department is not on the way of any road to the South. In a pinch, though, if by the highway, you head to Bordeaux and Toulouse, you pass just next to La Creuse… But you do not stop there. Nothing to do. To get there, you must want, knowingly. You do not inadvertently discover.

So, being on the road to nothing and virtually unknown, many people who have never been there, a wrinkle of distrust over the nose, qualify this country as “ungrateful”, “backward”, ” lost “- the example of the person who replied to my sister, learning that she resided in Creuse: “Oh, my poor…”

For others, perhaps more dreamers, less conformist or inveterate city dwellers, the Creuse evokes a preserved country, away from the bustle, a territory a little mysterious, like a secret kept somewhere else and at the bottom of itself, a landscape and a way of life as have known our grandparents and those before too, in a ubiquitous nature and in keeping with its pace. A nostalgic echo, a little distant but touching – even a little disturbing in that it involves regression for those who have lost touch with this world called “revolutionary.”

* * * * *

To create a garden in the middle of the countryside, one must be very patient, very obstinate: firm and gentle obstinacy which excludes any nervousness. Nothing is done in one day, in a season, or even more. Love must be constant, the will supple. No panic of passing time should disturb what is taking shape: a privileged space, defined arbitrarily in the middle of the surrounding landscape, which can heal and beautify, to his pleasure, his family and his children, and all who pass. A space that, over time, should reflect quite well the tastes and aesthetic aspirations of its owner, its deepest aspirations, too, for harmony and a way of taking life. I sincerely believe that a true garden is always philosophical, otherwise it is not- but it is a natural philosophy, learned and applied from day-to-day, that does hold to any theoretical speculation. A pragmatic philosophy, one might say.

Be patient therefore, determined and humble vis-à-vis what one plants (and thus what one begins to understand), but also vis-à-vis ones neighbors, and in general when one has settled in a country where one is not born, and in it tries to create a privileged space, buy a headland adjoining, common land touching the house, to divert a path (even at its expense, for it bypasses the future garden instead of going through the middle), share some piece of land against a copse, etc… For all that, ten, fifteen, twenty years as seasons pass, and one must not be frightened. Just look contentedly at what is acquired, cultivate carefully sparing no effort – we judge you, meanwhile, on your ability to handle farm work and your respect for nature – persuing ones work quietly, dream, and above all… Stay there!

This week, Le Vignaud Productions sets out to tell the story:

(Video: Watch this video on the post page)

In the Chicken Coop

We have chickens! Does that mean it’s a farm yet???

Actually this is a little bit old news, since they have been with us now for two weeks- but I wanted to give them some time to adjust before they got the paparazzi routine… Now they are happily adjusted, enjoying their freedom, and pecking around the garden… no eggs yet, but we will give them a little more time to come up with the rent before we kick them out.

Curious?

Gallery:

When Chris was 20 years old, he realized that he had never eaten a single thing that he knew where it came from. At 22, he helped start an organic vegetable farm outside of Olympia, WA. Three years later, for family reasons, he moved back to the Carolinas, and soon thereafter, moved to Earthaven Ecovillage, a 320 acre intentional community outside of Black Mountain, NC, with a dream of one day clearing his own farm field. He will be sharing a presentation about a small 12 x12 Microhut that he designed and built of the wood that came from the field he helped to clear.

Cloudy Skies Over Castles

2)

Green Grass and Heart-Shaped Shutters

3)

Green Grass and Castle Walls

4)

Colorful Umbrellas on Cloudy Days

5)

Foggy Afternoons and Green Forests

The death of animals on the farm is not generally something that given much thought or notice. Animals are raised and sacrificed for our means, pets come and go. It’s simply a fact of life. That is the way things are, and the way they always will be… But in this case, there was something more than just the loss of life – in this case just the lives of a few chickens – It was the loss of an ideal.

I arrived at Jeanine’s house this weekend, so happy that I had finally found some chickens of my own, eager to show her the photos of my new girls. Shortly after I arrived, the phone rang, Jeanine answered, and after a short conversation she hung up. She looked at me and said simply: “All the chickens are dead.” She shrugged and turned towards the kitchen and as she walked away I heard her say “and I had just finished making their breakfast…” I walked to the chicken yard to find Jean-François waiting. He was just standing looking a little bewildered and shaking his head in disbelief. All twelve chickens had been killed- some animal; a fox or a dog perhaps, had gotten into the henhouse that night and one by one had killed them all… the bodies were scattered about the yard, lifeless and deplumed. “Une massacre” was all Jean-François had to say.

Marc, Inspecting the Damage

Such is life. The chickens were gone for sure, all twelve accounted for, lined up in the grass… There was not sadness in their deaths- only regret that there would be no more eggs. Disappointment that their bodies would go to no use in the kitchen. But mostly- Sorrow for Jeanine. She tried not to show it, but I could see the look of heartbreak in her eyes. She feigned a smile and remarked, “C’est comme ça.” I looked about the yard which I had come to know so well over the years- when I would stop by for un goûter or a café. If Jeanine was not at home when I knocked, I always knew where to find her, in the chicken yard, calling “Cocotte” and tending to her troupe. Standing there that morning, I mourned not for the loss of life that death brought to the chickens (for it could as well have been a man’s knife than a beast); I mourned for Jeanine. I loathed the silence, and I wondered how could it be: la Mamie without her flock following and pecking behind?

Shutters Opened

Here’s the new chicken coop, made from recuperated palette wood- Even the nails were recuperated! Total cost: about 3 euros for brackets and screws… It’s traditional acadian-french style with clapboard siding and trim. The roof is angled to the south so that the sun does not make the interior too hot, and is equipped with a rain water recuperator… This will be the home of ecologically conscious chickens! Inside we have some comfy hay (certified bio from our field), and nice perchoirs for sleepy chickens at night time… now just have to find some lovely inhabitants. Can’t wait for eggs!

By the way, see Any resemblance?