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Tuesday 28 August 2012

Eating, Singing and Dancing into a New Decade

It's been so long since I opened my Blog at Bardies tab, I'd forgotten that I'd left a draft from the end of May lingering in the unpublished file. It's rather good, she says modestly, considering that I was stressed to the eyeballs [is that a metaphor, I wonder?] with packing cases, interminable rolls of bubble wrap, removal vans and an urgent desire to book six sessions with a Brighton chiropractor. Reading it now, it seems like ancient history. Much of our lifetime's worth of material possessions are now either squeezed into the chateau or festering in the garage awaiting a sudden burst of energy or a massive injection of cash into the family coffers to fund my new writer's den at Bardies. Everyone should have 'a room of one's own', even if they are never going to be a Virginia Wolff or a Vita Sackville West, or even a Marilynne Robinson or a Madeleine Miller. We all live in hope.

Brighton is two hours and twenty five years away from Salisbury, and I say that in a caring way. Salisbury, like Ariege, is locked in a delightful time warp, both places where one walks with souls from a medieval past. Close your eyes and you can almost see wimples or Cathar tunics further along the narrow streets. Their modern day inhabitants may be internet-savvy but their values remain firmly 'a la recherche de temps perdu'. Brighton, in mind blowing contrast, is a bolt into the future, a cross between Sydney or San Francisco and a massive university campus full of boys and girls who never want to grow up. It's wild and whacky, and so full of 'joie de vivre' I sometimes wonder if perhaps I'd have been better off put out to grass on the South Downs. I jest, of course. I love it. The worst noise is from the seagulls, who screech and squawk all night long, drowning out the occasional fracas at nightclub chuck out time. As a contrast with Bardies, it is perfect for our next decade.

Life at Bardies this summer has been blissful and a foretaste, perhaps, of things to come. Our children, of course, opted for Brighton night life and sundry festivals in the UK for much of it, which left us pottering around in the 'canicule' lazily reading, swimming and dining. Were it not for the sad demise of my stepfather and the necessity to return for a few days to Blighty for the funeral, I would say that it was the most perfect sojourn here that we have had. We even had Charlie, our feisty Jack Russell, with us to make up for our missing youngsters. He proved to be a source of endless amusement but not so good on the post-prandial politics and music discussions. For the first time in I don't know how long, Peter managed a whole month chez nous, largely because he was on a three line whip because of the big birthday plans. The festivities began on 15th August and finished six says later, when the last of our guests departed. We will be issuing long service medals some time.

We kicked off with a fabulous lunch for fifteen under the trees in 38 degree heat, cooked by the amazing Marybeth Tamborra. I know that we live in France and adore Bayonne jambon secs and Bethmale Valley cheeses, but there is nothing quite like artisan prosciutto, pecorino and parmesan brought directly from Viareggio on the previous day's flight. Marybeth arrived laden with festive fayre from Italy, including a precious bottle of Marsala Superiore to make trays of Tiramisu for the weekend's big party. She even brought a ravioli cutter with her to complement my ancient pasta machine that hasn't seen active service in a wee while. We ate antipasti, a sublime ravioli with pear and pecorino in a sage butter sauce, fresh sardines and salad, cheese and a sharp lemon tart to die for, all washed down with Tariquet rose. After all, we couldn't ask her to lug a case of Pinot Grigio onto the flight too!

As more guests arrived for the long weekend, menus became simpler but the quality remained the same. I shall never forget the sight of dozens of fresh lasagne sheets drying on a pizza pole suspended between the mantleshelf and the spice cupboard. We slow roasted cartons of tomatoes and doused them in olive oil, garlic and fresh parsley. We made pizza Caprese for family and friends from freshly risen dough resting in a huge mixing bowl awaiting the go-ahead from Easyjet online arrivals and departures, buffala mozzarella and sun kissed tomatoes from my thirsty 'potager'. On the Friday, when the musicians were rehearsing their set together for the first time, I made Ottolenghi's cauliflower fritters with lime yoghurt, which we cooked on the plancha under the trees. We cooked, cleared and laughed all day long to a backdrop of Billie Holiday, rock 'n' roll and Katy's wonderful folk music.

Saturday's party food was a piece of culinary history, consisting as it did of a recipe for Persian lamb given to Marybeth by a Jewish exile from Tehran, her room mate at college, who finally escaped to Chicago after eight years under house arrest. The recipe for the Tiramisu came from an ancient Italian grandmother who taught it to Marybeth in Viareggio. The food that we put in our mouths says as much about a cultural heritage as a library of books or an archive. Even Ottolenghi's cauliflower fritters came from Sami Tamimi's Palestinian mother's recipe from the old city of Jerusalem, given to the children to take to school in a pitta for lunch. Then on Sunday we moved to Mexico with an authentic chilli con carne. Sharing such food with friends passes on these stories and continues the legacy, something which so often in our busy lives we replace with fast food and takeaways. The big food corporations have much to answer for in terms of our health but the obliteration of our culinary heritage runs a close second in the list of charges.

No Bardies bash would be complete without music and this year's offerings were as diverse as they were divine. We danced the night away to rock 'n' roll with Pierre Pheline on vocals, Peter V on lead guitar, Fran Okine on bass, Bob Morgan on keyboard and sax and Phil Overhead on drums. One seventy-five year old guest said that he hadn't danced like that for twenty years, a triumph indeed. I don't think that Peter would have wanted to celebrate his big birthday any other way...... a new decade, a new dawn and I'm feeling good! And just when we thought it was nearing our bedtimes, the amazingly talented Katy Heath took up Peter's Martin guitar and serenaded us until dawn, ably assisted by Bob on clarinet and Phil on percussion, with a dazzling repertoire of old English folk songs and contemporary re-arrangements of classics. Another guest said that he hadn't sat up listening to music until the sun came up since he was twenty-five.

And, just to ring the changes, Sunday started with a forty-five minute 'Magic Flute', performed by Peter's conductor brother, Richard Vardigans, with nineteen year old Georgie Malcom as the 'Queen of the Night'. Sensational! The mellow afternoon, when we were all bathed in warm, soft drizzle as well as a great deal of bonhomie and rose mistiness, was a magical moment which none of us will forget. The beautiful singing, which included a Russian folk song as well as Irish and English folk songs, and even some Abba, metamorphosed from acoustic and unplugged into an impromptu set of music wired for sound to dance to. By the end of it all, when we had eaten, sung and danced our way into Peter's new decade, we all stumbled [literally!] off to bed happy and replete. Life is worth living for moments like this so here's a toast to the good things in life but especially family and friends. Memories are made of this!