House Of The Rising Bun

The House Of The Rising Bun

In England I just don’t think about bread. In France, for me bread is the new chocolate. Sadly or luckily, a crusty baguette or pain does not carry a nutritional value label. In a town of about two thousand souls, how many bakers can co-exist? Well, within walking distance of my house there are a mere four. In addition there is a mobile bakery parked at the station and a depot de pain – which is a grocer’s shop which sells bread. All the bakers loosely cooperate with a rota for holidays and week day closing. Of course, they mostly close for lunch just in case the tourists want something to eat.  

Much fun was poked of the Mcdonalds University degree. In France you can go to the Ecole Banette. No one would jest about the importance of the artisan baker I can assure you. As I groan my way back to full speed back at my UK desk I can still dream of the house of the rising bun in Saint Savinien. Oh yes – it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy/girl – and god I know I’m one. 100 grammes of lettuce for lunch it is then.

 Chat – Oh
Chateau.


About on a level with bread is the French love of pets. When they ask me if I have any animals in England I tell them I have a rabbit called Casserole. Etiquette requires them to smile and glance quizzically at any other French person present. However I have some new neighbours who have a cat. I took some photos just so you can say Ah. 

Even in mid France the weather is most un-seasonal. The natives huddle in overcoats and scarves as the North wind blows in June. Brave poppies grow from any crack in any wall. The swifts (les martinets) still swoop and turn.  For some reason all the fields are planted with cereal crops this year. I guess the sunflower seeds went on strike and refused to come out. At least there will be running wind shadows across the oceans of barley at harvest time. 












Emma Thinx:  North winds speed a fledgling swallow. Accept.

Watercolour Postcard From Saint Savinien

A River Runs Through It

Oh – do we have eau! Saint Savinien carries the tag line – village between water and stone. Well dear me – there sure is water and luckily plenty of stone for folk to stand on. Although I have not seen a drop of rain myself, the natives assure me that it only stopped about an hour before I arrived. Not even a cloud has entered my sky but seemingly this has been one of the wettest ever winters. Last year was definitely the coldest ever. Oooh – I’m starting to sound like some old granny over the garden fence.

Relax – put your feet up. 


Nothing can hide the beauty of this place and a slight surplus of water merely adds to the quality of reflected light. It is oddly comforting for me to know that the only way to travel between the village of Taillebourg and the opposite bank of La Charente is by means of a causeway built by the Romans using hand tools, eye sight and pots of red wine. The tarmac road built by helmeted sober technoids with lasers and 4G connection to Head Office is under water and crumbled into pebbles. It  fully exonerates my Luddite follicles. 

Time to reflect.while reflecting on Time.
Which one is the real me?

The French were of course, never conquered by Les Romans. They were merely a band of heavily armed civil engineers who were allowed to stay on condition that they did some building work in exchange for the recipe for Moules Marinieres. Believe me, the Romans got a good deal.

 Oooh – last night we had the neighbours in for a sea food blow out. Today I feel like the last of the red hot mollusc mamas. If you’ve not tried harissa paste cuisine get some and get stuck in! I was gonna ask for advice on pruning my vines……but in the end I chickened out. I can’t deal with information overload. Vine pruning is a kinda genetic gift from the jolly green Gallo-God. I got up and just had a chop. Usually I do Oscar’s hair. He’s getting a bit woody but still alive. 

Baguette in the flow of life  in search of a back story

When I was a young temp in London I once worked in the art world. I actually helped to organise a surrealist exhibition. It was a difficult job because the gallery owner thought he was a fish and only communicated in speech bubbles. I made up the last sentence because I’ve allowed a couple of glasses of Chablis to pass my lips. The memory entered my sozzled brain as I snapped a passing baguette. You know in any narrative there is the problem of back story….


Emma Thinx: Stop wine on empty stomachs. Prohibit stomachs.