On a busy Monday

At a late night pow-wow last night, it was decided that we ought to go and investigate a Farmer's Market we had heard about a few weeks, at Rabastan.
'Get there early because they sell out' was the information given to us, so up at 7-ish this morning, Hubs as well, off on the road at 7.30 ish, thirty minutes later and we arrive at Rabastan.

Yes, there was a market today. We could see that. Because the traders had only just arrived and were setting up. It felt slow, laid back, 'everything in good time', 'maybe sometime today we'll get everything unloaded so you can buy something', which is French-style attitude. No animals.

'Back of the church' we are told.

So we go to the back of the church. Nope. No-one there.

Un homme is asked: 'ou est the marchè pour les animaux?
'Huit heurre et demi'. (Half past eight)
We are too early.

Coffee then. Back to other market place. Purchase meat and cheese, then coffee stop sitting on bistro type chairs on the pavement. It was a nice moment. I still have reflective moments about the fact that we are actually living in France, especially when I stop and observe the French living out their lives.

8.40: Back to autre marchè. Still no-one. Sit on bench and watch the world go by for a while. I went on a recce round the back of the market and found a patisserie. Two pain au beurre, and a baguette bought.

9.00: Back at market, see one large white van which is unloading grates of chirpy, squeaky things. Chickens, it looks like.

That looks interesting! Approach with interest. Loads of crates of chickens. Some white. Some brown. Some bare-necked. Ducks. Some yellow. Some brown. All babies.

We feel keen.

"I think we'll have half a dozen" Hubs says.

Watch as one of the crates is opened, and the seller scoops up a bunch as if they are flowers, dangling them by their legs: a bunch of little chickens, mabe a dozen or so, all held in one hand. They are tumbled into the back of another van. Into another box.

We feel ever so slightly less keen.

We ask if these are laying chickens. No they are not. They are meat chickens. Laying chickens next February, March. We watch as another bunch of chickens are scooped up out of another crate. Another handful of upside down chicks, all squealing their dislike about having their world suddenly turned upside down.

We walk off, our keen-ness down in our boots. So we remain chickenless, but even more strong in thought that we want to know where our chickens are coming from, and after seeing Sara's egg incubator, Hubs is even more fired up about hatching our own. Then from start to end we will know that never have they been waved about in the air upside down, and so have never been unduly stressed. We will give them as much dedication as they will give us during their lives.

The pain au beurre's were nice though.

9.30: Back home. Builders here. Door to house shut. Try to open it, but can't. Noise coming from inside house. Want to know what it is. Try door again. Young builder opens it by a few inches as if he doesn't want us to come in. It was a funny moment, being barred from one's own roofless house!

But they are digging out the floors today. It is a warm day. Shirts off then.

Johnathen here as well, together with his young son of 12 who was fishing by the bridge. Son comes back. Has lost his hook. Dad stops work and assists. Son and me decide a project is a good idea, which is to open up the path down to the river after it has become overgrown again so he can fish off our beach.

That we do. I end up stung by the nettles and scratched by the brambles. He ends up with nothing: no scratches and no stings. But the path is cut. Boolie immediately went into the river to cool down, and I look forward to long summer afternoons by the river. Payment for J's son is a life-long promise that he can fish off our river bank whenever he needs to.

"Heelllloooo" I hear being yelled through the air. It's Dee and her son, Liam, come for a visit.
"You look well: all glowing" she says.
"Its sweat" I say. It's been hot work breaking a way through to the river.

It's lunch time. Nothing is prepped. Hubs is working. An hour later he must have realised that it was not looking good for getting fed anytime soon, because we are still chatting. "How about going out to lunch" he says.

We had our best lunch out ever. Not particularly any cheaper than in the UK, but all home cooked and delish. Liam did not go much on the shark steak he was given in place of the steak we had (he is a vegetarian which is not really something that the French do, being all meat eaters), but otherwise all was eaten. Three courses, including two carafes of wine and coffee to end, worked out about £12 per head. And all was fresh cooked.

Lester back to work. Dee and Liam off home. Me into the black dustbins out back to get one large container of nettle soup mix to dilute and use as fertiliser for my plants out front. Into black water bins out front. Ooops. One gecko floating upside down and very dead in one of them. Have already rescued one which was swimming in a water container by the water tap, and also a young frog splashing about in a container by the cold frame. I was too late to save this one. So have tipped it out onto the ground to be recycled by whatever wants to come and along and eat it. Such is the way of life: everything eats everything else. Nothing is wasted.

5 to 1 nettle mix into squirty bottle to see if the aphids can be discouraged from eating the leaves of the broccoli, kohl rabi, and brussel sprouts.
10 to 1 nettle mix as fertiliser for plants.

Hands smell very earthy. The nettle-mix is very strongly aromatic. Ah. Johnathen calls. He has blood oozing down his face. Grab clean tea towel and go mop him up. Nothing much. Just a half inch gash in his head from a piece of steel. His son asks if I can see J's brains. "No" I say. "Didn't think he had any anyway" was his son's remark.

Off back down to the beach he goes to do some more fishing.

Things I have learnt today: That each day has a flexibility to it if one can go with the flow and enjoy.
That nettle stings can last for hours and hours but don't really hurt than much, only sort of throb. That it is nice to share time with a youngster by doing a task together. That there are two ways of thinking about animals: either as commodities designed to be made use of by us human beings, or beings in their own right who need respect for the part they play in our lives.





And to finish off: I visited Rabastan a couple of weeks ago, to a Vide Jardin. Here is the market place as it was on that day.

And the horse needing to go to the loo!

Wading into the nettles

Take one container. Largish. An large old kitchen bin would be good, but not a pedal bin as that would be too small. Find some old gardening gloves although thick washing up gloves would do alright providing they have no holes in and are dry inside - there is nothing quite so horrible as putting one's hands inside damp washing up gloves: for some reason I always think something dreadful is going to be living inside the gloves so tend to become squirmy during the putting-on process. You also need to find some scissors, or shears, or clippers. For your attire: best to wear long sleeves, long trousers and boots. Oh and a hat if it is early morning or late evening or it is hot. All manner of things are going to be flying in and around the nettle patch during these times, so best to be covered up. Which means no bikini. If one would usually wear one, that is. But if one doesn't, then disregard that instruction.

So why would you want to be finding such tools, and be dressed in such a manner? Because you are going to make some Nettle Soup for your plants, or being sensible: Nettle Fertiliser.


1) Location: Previous to your Nettle Project, you need to locate a bed of nettles, not titchy little things, but tall mature ones and hopefully close to home, if not on your own land. Not too far, you see, in case you get something unpleasant happen to you when in amongst the nettles.

Our nearest patch is in the ditch by the house. Quite honestly it is not the most pleasant of places to want to spend any time in, but needs must.

So, with everything ready, off we go. For me, it is a slide down into the ditch which may or may not be either on my feet or on my rear end, depending on how slippery the sides of the ditch are. And also, bear in mind that I have clippers, and a large bin to cope with as well. I must be honest and say that no matter how I get into the ditch, I never can manage it is a lady-like fashion.

2) Cutting: If you are going to get 'value for money' out of the nettle-collecting adventure, you need to cut the chosen nettle at its base.

Choose your nettle, hopefully one which is easy to get at, and aim your cutting implement towards its base. Now a word of warning. You will probably have to stoop over for this, although because the nettles are on the side of the ditch I don't have to bend over as far as you might have to if you are on flat land.

Whatever position you find yourself in at this stage, be careful of other nettles in the vicinity of the chosen one coming in for the attack. You might be so concentrated on your intended victim that you might not see the one nearby which decides to have a go at your chin, or nose, or throat, or anything which is naked. I would remind you that long sleeves, long trousers, and boots, are the order of dress. If you opted for the bikini, well - I did warn you!

3) Folding: Long nettles are not going to get into the container. Well, they will, but only one end of them. So, you can either cut them up which is too fangley, or fold the stem up. I fold, squashing the stem as I go to burst it open.

And here is the folded nettle. You don't have to be tidy with it. Just scrunch it up.

4) Binned. Now into the bin it goes.

Keep cutting, folding, and binning until either the container is almost full, or you have to remove yourself from the site because of things happening like too many stings from either the vegetation or flying insects, or you get bored with the task. Another warning: this is not a quick five-minute job. You will need a lot of nettles. You will start off with vim and vigour, then tedium will set in after you have quarter-filled the container. Well it did with me. You might be more patient.

Eventually you will fill your container, taking a couple of hours or a couple of days depending on how keen you are to get the job done.

5) Positioning. Put your bin where it is going to live for a few weeks. Another warning: it will smell. Be mindful of this when you site your bin. By the backdoor of the kitchen or your caravan if that is your habitation at the moment, is not a good idea.

6) Watering. Fill your bin to the brim with water. Another warning: it will get heavy, that is why the bin has to sited first.

7) Stirring. Stir the contents around. It will look quite jolly. It will be the last time it does. From here on in, as times goes by, you will feel less and less like getting your hands into the mix.

8) Weighting. You need to make the contents sink, so place something on the vegetation to make it do so. A word of advice: make it something which is easy to get out, like a flat tile. Bear in mind that you will have to manually remove any weight you put into the mix at a later date.
Put a lid on your container, maybe a piece of wood, or a plastic bag. Anything will do.

9) Waiting. Now leave. Stir sometimes, if you want to. I did only once.

10) Done. Upon investigation, if the soup mix looks suitably rotten, and the stems have whitened and the leaves have dissolved, then the mix is ready. A word of warning: the smell will be really, really, rampant. Earthy. Of manure. Of rotting stuff, although not of rotting flesh or anything awful like that, just rotting vegetation. Strongly so.

11) Decanting. I have read that at this point the mixture can be decanted and bottled. Now, this means sieving the slush. If you are a brave person, then have a go. Fortunately Head Gardener Lester was in too much of a hurry to try the brew out and plunged my cooking jug into the brackish water. The jug will no longer be used in the kitchen. Forever after, it will be used for one thing only, and that will be for future nettle-soup projects.

The Mix! Mostly used up, but just to let you have an idea of the end product.

I am in the bottom left hand corner. Not in actuality of course, just me in reflection.

And so now you might be wondering why I am giving you instructions for this nettle-mix. It's for your plants! Yes! For your plants which are so valiantly growing for you. One part nettle-mix to ten parts water, that is the correct dilution. Only HG couldn't be bothered to count 1:10 and just fuzzed in a couple of pints from my once-upon-a-time cooking-jug into the watering can. Hopefully it wasn't too strong. Apparently it can be used as an aphid deterrent if used in a more concentrated mix. So it remains to be seen if HG has been too enthusiastic, bearing in mind his ant-attack on a couple of fruit trees which turned a goodly portion of the leaves black. He used almost neat washing-up liquid, bless him.

Things I have learnt: Nettles sting like the blazes at first, but the sting soon turns into a nice warm feeling providing one doesn't rub at the skin too much in the initial stingy moments. But there are dock plants around, the leaves of which can be rubbed over the sore spots. That curiously the nettle odour seems to have less of an effect on the nostrils after half an hour or so. That sometimes it is best to let HG take over certain tasks, distributing the nettle fertilizer being one of them: it would seem he has a stronger nose.

By the way, you can deposit the stuff at the bottom of your bin on the compost heap, which leaves you an empty container which you can have the pleasure of filling up again with nettles. Oh the joys of trainee self sufficiencers. The pleasurable days spent amongst nature. The aroma of nature. The naturalness of life. Am I inspiring you, too, to make a brew of nettle stew? Was that a 'no' I heard? Oh tut tut!

So heading out to cut another swathe of nettles for the next bin, cheerio for now.

Wild food revisited.

I am developing a passion I didn't know I had, and that is for herbs and 'wild' eating.
Following on from the blog 'Wild Eating' 16.03.09: I thought I sounded a real wooz about eating dandelions. Upon meeting Maddi (Bruno's wife) in the supermarket yesterday, I became enthused by her enthusiasm for the plant. Apparently it is good for all sorts of things including going to the loo (Number 1's). This was further inspired by Bruno popping along with Jade (his daughter) in tow, both on bikes, and carrying large baskets. They were off on a dandelion hunt.

And it occurred to me that looking for wild food in the wild itself might be fun. Ok, so I know that we aren't actually living in the 'wilds': two reasonably sized supermarkets are within half an hour drive of us, which isn't bad for France! But not to have in the larder, or awning in my case, food which has not been brought home in a bag is starting to grip my interest. Can I be bold enough to eat something which has not had a label on it? Can I have enough courage to go pick and eat wild plants, and make myself get past my reliance on supermarket 'fresh' produce?

Well, I am going to have a go! For today: Nettle tea. An Internet search has produced a recipe, which is really shoving some nettle leaves in a pot of hot water. Even I should be able to manage that. And in case you think I am avoiding dandelions, - I'm not. Only Maddi eats them as a salad, and trying to get Lester to eat a bowl of dandelion leaves is going to be an impossible task, so I thought I would be naughty and make a mixed salad and sort of hide a few dandelion leaves amongst the lettuce.

Mmmmmmm. Need to make a salad for lunch then. Better pop into the supermarket and buy a lettuce! It would seem that we are quite some way off self sufficiency at the moment!