Wine Fest

                                                                   
                                                                    
                                                                    
                                            
It’s that time of year again when summer slowly gives a little room to autumn, allowing a crispness in the early morning and a mild cool darkening of the evening. Here ,in the street of fields, the house martins are sensing the change in the atmosphere and are frantic in their search for flies. From first light their shadows flick across our shutters as they swoop from the barns across the road to our open windows in the roof. They perch and chatter loudly, the sound echoing down through our stair well so clearly that I am sure they are trapped in the bathroom. I suspect they are discussing the quality of the local food and preparing their imminent route down south. Since the spring they have been training their young how to swoop and soar from our balcony and window sills, the babies losing their soft down as they fatten up to become the sleek aeronauts we enjoy so much.

And it is that season when all good Luxembourgers turn their attention to the local harvest. The summer has been spent bringing in the hay, letting the calves gallop out into the fields and devising ingenious ways of getting together to cook sausages, chops and, in the case of our local village, haunches of suckling pig, slow roasted in a contraption designed and engineered by our very own neighbour. This marvellous machine looked more like an instrument from the Spanish Inquisition, with its chains and spikes and the hot coals glowing and flaring at the flesh impaled along its length. It was truly effective, and I was at last able to use my year’s Luxembourgish study to order boiled potatoes and salad with the piglet haunch. A proud moment. Folks recognised us from the previous year, I chatted to a neighbour or two and we were introduced to the other Brit living in the village, who has lived here since he was married as a young man to a local lass some 40 years ago.

But I digress. That was the summer and the village marquee has been taken down, the benches and tables stored in their own special cupboard in the village hall. I dare say that the magnificent roaster has been oiled, stripped down and decommissioned ready for next year.

Now it is definitely autumn and it is time to think of the next harvest. Wine. The vines are heavy with glistening swags of grapes, and these last few days of sunshine will fatten and sweeten them up. To that end we thought that we would join in some celebrations of the grape in a village not far from home, Schwebsange just back a bit from the Moselle. The Weinfest has been advertised for weeks on signs planted carefully on the grass verges. We thought we would saunter along round about lunch time and sit with the rest of the world enjoying sausage grills or perhaps a salad with potatoes and we would sample the local wine with a view to buying a few ready for winter. However, our arrival at midday found a few stalls set up and ready with pottery displayed carefully along the huge single beam press that takes pride of place in the centre square. There were tables and chairs set up under a marquee as we had expected, but the sound man was still testing the equipment by the fountain newly decorated with ribbons and bouquets protected by railings.

“Aha” I thought having done some research. “This must be where they serve the free wine.”

But nothing was happening and nothing was heating on the grill. There was no grill. We were loath to leave because we had an excellent parking place. We opted for lunch in the Italian Bistro (lasagne for me, Spaghetti Carbonara for Dearly Beloved, our collective spirit of adventure numbed) and we waited. The meal arrived about half an hour later. Tout le monde, it seemed, was doing the same as us, from large family parties with patient grandparents walking  toddlers up and down (and in every gathering, is there not always a child with a squeal that could launch an Exocet?); older couples, Sunday dressed, the ladies’ jackets just so over their shoulders; younger couples, chic, thin, self- absorbed, cigarettes and smart phones on the go for aperitifs and between courses; and there was us, dressed for a street barbecue and with no clue what was going on or when it would happen. How long we thought, can we spin out a post prandial cup of coffee?

As we ate, more folks wandered through the square, admired the fountain and disappeared. It was not only us, then, who felt that midday would have been a great time to start. On reflection, I suspect that the battalion of dignitaries were themselves being fed and watered elsewhere.

The restaurant cleared away the lunchtime tables. Large groups began to gather, some to take une coupe or a digestif at the restaurant, others to mill about. They were,unusually, all clutching a wine glass. One lady had a plastic bag of them tidily wrapped in tissue paper, enough for each of the noisy band of family and friends now occupying most of the restaurant terrace. Surely something would happen imminently? Girls walked past in the ubiquitous National Dress of all European countries: black fitted waistcoat, white blouse, black dirndl skirt and black pumps. Is there a National Dress outfitters, discreetly placed in the forgotten parts of Brussels, Strasbourg and Luxembourg, gently regulating away any gingham excess, measuring the holes in any lace work, dictating that all men over the age of 65, if not in a suit, must wear a checked shirt at any semi- formal event, such as a wine festival? Who knows?

After the girls, a handful of young musicians wandered past. The party at the next table finished their drinks, told us that it was all about to start now, assured us that there would indeed be speeches, wished us a good festival and left to mingle with the crowds that had now swarmed in as if from nowhere.

The sound system, hitherto belting out good old fashioned German drinking songs, was hushed by the band striking up and the dignitaries rolled into view, comfortable looking chaps with figures and faces honed by years of hard toil, testing and approving the vintage. The Waikinnigen (wine queens) and their princesses followed, dressed in robes of white, red and rose. Along with the band they gathered round the fountain. The speeches did indeed follow. I think, but was not sure, that the outgoing master of the vines was handing over to his successor. There were, of course, the long list of thanks, a summing up of the trials, tribulations and successes of the year past. Then gravely the incoming master explained how things would be better now, though the price of grapes would never be enough to maintain a worthy standard of living, but they would all continue to work cooperatively together to bring the beautiful country of Luxembourg its health giving nectar. Well, that may have been what they both said. How would I know? I have only done one year of Luxembourgish, and can introduce myself, discuss the weather and order three croissants.

But now, drum roll and crescendo fanfare, the fest was open and the wine could flow freely. Two buxom girls stood on a plank suspended over the fountain pool, and cheerfully dispensed a glass of wine to each of the dignitaries, wine queens, the band and then to the masses. But we had no wine glass. This is Luxembourg however, and no one should ever be caught out without a wine glass for free wine when it's on offer. So, Dearly Beloved queued at the special wooden cabin to buy one, and then queued for the laying on of wine. He has better elbows for this task than I do, queue being a merely aspirational term for the jolly crush bearing down towards the fountain.

The wine? Crisp,dry,acidic and fruity, undeniably local, we have no idea what it was. It would have been, I am sure, produced from the vines that comb their way down the hills round the village, along the sides of the houses and around the car parks. Whilst strips of vines are owned individually, the grapes are harvested and pressed cooperatively. We were free loading on the fruits of their endeavours.

I say free. What I really mean is that we got a glass of wine for the cost of a two course lunch (about 70 euros) and the cost of a glass (2euros), and three hours spent wondering if anything would happen, practising our small talk.

Next year, we shall be splendidly prepared, glass in hand and straight on to the cunning little parking spot we found behind the church on our way home. And I shall ensure that DB’s checked shirt is crisply ironed.

A di.

Porky

Happy New Year, if I haven’t already wished you Season’s greetings. 

Christmas was, yet again, different for us this year. Another country, another home, another roast. This time, we took our linguistic courage in both hands and visited the farm we pass daily to investigate its advertised porcelet. It’s a real farm, with odd and ancient equipment strewn in forgotten areas of the courtyard, a dog barking behind a shuttered window, something steaming behind the sheds, and a scrupulously clean butchery. We nearly lost our nerve, but just as we were hastening to the car, a young man appeared and wished us Moien. I explained in Luxembourgish that I only spoke a little of that language (namely enough to make that statement) so, of course, like all the business folk here, he tried again in French, German and a little English. (I do think the UK missed a trick in not introducing the learning of another language into primary schools.) As we explained our need for a Christmas Roast and that we had in mind a piglet big enough for three carnivores, his mother, the farmer, drove in to the yard. Looking relieved, he handed us over to her tender care, and she ushered us into the kitchen. 

It was a real farm kitchen. Banish from your mind any thoughts of scrubbed pine tables, cheery dressers and gingham bistro curtains. This was the dark cool kitchen where the farmhands could come in without shedding working clothes and boots, the dogs could lie on their own huge day bed without having to be sluiced down and the Portuguese daily help could swear gently into the huge deep sink in the corner. The farmer nodded towards her.  

“She won’t bother to learn Luxembourgish,” she said, disparagingly, “She can’t see the point. She only speaks Portuguese, French and a little German. English too, of course.”  

We went on to discuss porcine matters. Would there be a porcelet ready in time for Christmas? What size would she recommend for said carnivores? Would we want it jointed or whole? We explained that our oven was only so big, and Mme Farmer recommended something in the area of 8 kg. Did she sell any other products? “Well, of course,” she said, reeling of a list of hams and pates. Dearly Beloved’s ears pricked up at the sound of Boudin Noir. Did Madame have any Boudin Noir? Was it homemade? She disappeared into the darkness of the corridors beyond the kitchen. In the meantime, a portly, moustached and blue hatted elderly man appeared, boots and overalls caked with the by-products of his trade. He nodded, grunted a Moien, and sat at the cluttered table to roll a cigarette. Mme Farmer re-appeared with a list and a vacuum packed Boudin.

“You can have that,” she said, “It’s the last one for now.” Pressing it into DB’s eager hands, she refused to accept payment for it. Nor would she take any advance money for the promised piglet and took only our phone number. We would see her again on Christmas Eve and collect the little chap then, all oven ready. It was as easy as that.

Having really missed our friendly butchers in Back Lane in Coventry where the butcher knew the names of, or at least the homes of, all the beasts he was selling, we had been looking for a similar enterprise in Luxembourg. We also feel that food miles should be kept to a minimum, and this little piggy would be able to run home the 1.5 km if he so wished. 

In the interim, we invited a hungry looking couple from church to join us on the day to assist our pig handling.

Christmas Eve arrived and Dearly B was dispatched to bring home the bacon. He rang the doorbell on his return and through the entry phone, suggested I came downstairs. A little worried that there was a problem with the pig, that it might perhaps be too small and we would have to go shopping to feed our supplementary guests, I dashed down the two flights of stairs. The boot of the car was open and stretched across its depths was Hubert. All of him, his tiny trotters extended before and behind, measured at least two and a half feet.

“Where shall we put him?” I asked. “He won’t fit in the fridge like that.”

 

“He won’t fit in the oven like this,” said DB, a little panicked. “We shall have to do something. It’s too warm to keep him in the garage.”

 

It was particularly mild that day. But our drive way is on the north facing side of the building, and stays relatively cool, so Hubert spent the day in the back of the car, coming with us to Thionville  and Remich on a shopping and sightseeing tour with my visiting elder son. So much for reducing food miles. Hubert did a round trip of about 100 miles that day. And what if we had been stopped by the police or customs officers, and found to be crossing borders with a corpse in the back? An excuse of “Sorry officer, we just wanted to keep him cool” sounded rather flabby. Hubert also enjoyed his trip to Midnight communion in the city and spent the night quietly on our drive way. 

Christmas morning started with the slightly gruesome sound of sawing. Even with his feet tucked under him, it would be too tight a squeeze to get all of Hubert into the oven without some serious cosmetic surgery, so Dearly Beloved removed his little piggy head.

 

“I wish they had shut its eyes,” he said. “It’s a trifle off putting.”

 

Hubert beamed at us, his ears flapping back and his tiny teeth grinning beatifically. Dearly Beloved prized open Hubert’s mouth and I pushed in a Satsuma, the apples being far too big. Dearly B trussed the piglet’s back legs under his tummy, and folded the front legs under it. Thus arranged, Hubert fitted snugly into the roasting tray, his legs forming enough of a ridge to allow him not wallow in the roasting juices. DB had already poured boiling water all over him to ensure crispy succulent crackling and so he was oven ready. His head was popped face up into the corner of the tray but slightly disconcerting was his little whip of a tail. It was too small to be trussed, but just long enough to brush against the side of the oven. It went in anyway and singed gently, for half an hour or so in a hot oven, to be basted and then to sit in a slightly cooler temperature for several hours.

Much basting later, Hubert emerged glistening mahogany brown, having spat out his Satsuma. The meat fell apart. The crackling was crispy and melting. Served to loud and cheery toasts of cremant, accompanied by spicy braised red cabbage and roasted potatoes, Hubert was the perfect Christmas dinner companion. Five greedy grown ups had their plates filled high. We had a cold meat lunch the next day, also on the greedy side. And Dearly Beloved made five cartons of porky goulash for the freezer. We abandoned the head and the trotters due to lack of imagination and appetite. And the ham bone supplement we had bought in case there was not enough stayed in its sealed sleeve for another week.

Dearly Beloved is making plans for a pig roast in the summer. Watch this space.

“A di!”

 

 

It's beginning to taste a bit like Christmas!

“If we don’t go today,” warned Dearly Beloved last night. “We probably won’t go at all.”

I stared at him, a little worried.

 

“The weather” he went on. “It’ll be clear and cold tonight, and then it’ll rain like billy-o for the rest of the week. If you want to go to the Christmas market with me, tonight is the night.”

 

“I’ll get my coat.”

 

Dearly Beloved subscribes to a daily weather forecast from the airport. Once the airport failed to predict that no planes would be able to use the runway because a family of wild boar had sought grazing rights on the wrong side of the wire fences. This event was reported it as "snow". But generally, the forecasts are generally accurate. And no wild boar would stampede the Christmas Market in town, strewn across the Place D’Armes and onto the Place de la Liberte overlooking the Petrusse Valley.

 

Hats, gloves and scarves on, we joined crowds of different nationalities swarming round the gluhwein stands. I drank mine out of a china boot.  DB decided against it. We queued for the ever popular Gromperer Kiechelcher (and try ordering three of those after few gluhweins). Potato cakes in any other language, they are similar to Swiss rosti, mixed with herbs and some spring onions, and then deep fried.Sprinkled liberally with salt, they are the perfect accompaniment to a cold winter’s evening. A couple stopped us to ask what they were – so evidently not Luxembourgers – and were happy to try some of ours. We didn’t see if they bought any. Fighting our way past the Santa stand where we could have bought any Santa themed product from Santa Ear Muffs to a Santa Negligee with fur trimmed Thong, we found friends and joined them for a while- they represented the Merl Park Rangers football club and were out for a team building stroll, the warm drinks being purely medicinal.

 

Over the road to where the neon lights of the Ferris wheel lit up the smaller less commercial stalls. Local crafts were on sale and more attractive than the mass produced items we had seen earlier. Pottery, fabric iPad covers and jewellery were all beautifully made and sadly, not what we were looking for. It was getting colder and luckily, my favourite hot chocolate shop was there with its own stall. I chose the perfect hot chocolate combination: a chunk of dark chocolate on a wooden spoon, flavoured with Hot Chilli and orange, left to melt in the hot milk. Dearly B, wandered over to the Flammkuche stall, and waited while the paper thin dough was coated with Munster cheese and bacon chunks and griddled until slightly charred. We shared it but I wished the melted cheese had not dripped into my Hot Chilli and Orange. So difficult to manage this street stuff. It wasn’t as messy, though, as my previous visit to the Market, when I had a waffle powdered with icing sugar – on that windy day, it was a remarkably poor choice, particularly as I was on my way to the hairdresser and trying to look, for once, at least a little bit sophisticated. There was, as usual, the champagne and cremant tent, with smart lights and elegant high top tables, and by contrast the pancake tent, its primary colours and blankets looking heartily tempting. But we headed for back to the car, stopping only for my Dearly Beloved to fulfil a local tradition. He bought me a heart shaped LebKuchen.

 

Scheier Feierstag!

The Years come and Go

Despite becoming four years younger last week, I can’t say that I felt the benefit of it at the beginning of this week. Perhaps it was the extensive jet lag. 

Last weekend, the first weekend in December, I ate a fruit from Azerbaijan, tasting all at once of pineapple, banana and apples, and spicy samosas from Pakistan. I had Irish coffee and hot Canadian pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast and felafel for lunch. In the meantime, I bought Christmas presents for the family from Iceland and Slovenia, and Christmas tree decorations – “Delft” baubles from The Netherlands and star garlands from Germany. I tried on hats from Peru and leather from Italy. I bought three paperbacks. Yet it wasn’t a weekend devoted entirely to frivolous pleasures because I sold 100 jars of marmalade, 30 Christmas Puddings and 60 packets of tea from Betty’s Tea Rooms in Harrogate. Dearly Beloved, looking fine and manly in his Kilt and Braveheart shirt, talked whisky, sold Tombola tickets and posed for photographs. 

I think you have probably rumbled me by now. I wasn’t doing my celebrity tour for the fans – I was working on The British Stand of the Luxembourg International Bazaar. You may remember that last year I rashly volunteered and found myself making dozens of mince pies and selling cards and crackers. This year, I was Section Head of the Food stand. We have had a garage full of tea, biscuits, puddings, cakes, jams and chutneys, as well as the greatest collection of home made marmalade that I have ever seen. Some of the latter were a little challenging, arriving as they did with sticky sides and bottoms, and one, notably, with its mustard labels still intact and mustard seeds in the lid! And I made dozens of mince pies.

I did have help! Last year’s section head came over and we spent a long afternoon in our garage, washing and drying the marmalade jars, labelling and pricing and adding frilly tops. More marmalade arrived during the afternoon and we had not even touched the pallet of the goods mentioned above. I did hope it would all be worth all the work. I particularly hoped this early on the Friday morning before the event when Dearly B drove the goods and me to LuxExpo, and helped me carry everything in before going off to work at 8 a.m. We had less to carry than expected, as other members of the d stand had come to collect some for us, following the accident which, which meant we had a smaller car that I couldn’t drive. What a palaver. Anyway, I had missed the information that other folks would arrive around 10:00. It felt like a long time to be there and my altruism levels were dropping like the mercury in the thermometer outside. But within the two hours, the place was transformed. The stark gantries and boxes were decorated and draped with flags, and lights, the stands filled up with people and produce and my colleagues arrived with brightly coloured cloths and the rest of the products. It only took a couple of hours and we were off for lunch and then home.

 I had spent a few weeks amassing helpers from Church and from the British Ladies club; they all arrived bright eyed and bushy tailed. I fussed about and got sent off to do my shopping, and they all did a fantastic job. The Stand overall took over 35,000 Euros to donate to the Bazaar’s charities, and Dearly B and I took home four bags and a box of the products. I shifted some of the remainder at a table top sale at DB’s office, but still have a lot of chutney and brandy butter to find a home for, if any one local is keen to buy. The five Eccles cakes seemed to have provided snacks for DB at the office and home and I find I need some chutney for tea tonight!

 

It was exhausting and exhilarating at the same time and I felt quite weary through the week, despite my recently regained four years which I got from the Bank. This is not a service usually provided, and I am four years younger, not with surgery, but in true Continental style, through the Completion of Paperwork and the Signing of Forms.  

I had been trying to purchase seasonal gifts on the Internet and bounced against the new 3D security form which one now has to complete to validate one’s credit cards. I entered the relevant numbers of my account and my birth date. The system disagreed with my input and after half an hour of not very patiently typing in the same data repeatedly, I called the helpline. The helpline said I needed to call the credit card company who said I needed to call the bank. They all gave me the same number to call, which was the original helpline number. When I had completed the circle a second time, I asked if they could tell me what it was I was putting in that was wrong. Of course, they could not tell me exactly, but it transpired that the date I was trying to put in was wrong. I obviously did not know my own birthday…

“I shall go to my bank personally, “I said, exercising great restraint. People had all been very helpful, even if they evidently felt that the poor old soul was obviously not coping with modern technology. At my age, they would have thought, I should be using my Pensioner benefits and going out with my bus pass and taking the waters at the spa.

I went to the bank, where they looked with disbelief at my passport and the information held on the computer. How could the computer be wrong? Aha! They realised that Madame had obtained a new passport since registering with the bank. “Your husband’s details have changed your address but yours have not. Please sign this form to show that you also have moved.” I signed. 

“Do you think your previous passport might have had your birth date wrong?” said one assistant. The other assistant and I looked at her. In unison, we said “No!” 

I pointed out that I did not have my bus pass, my pension or my annual three free trips to the Thermal Spa at Mondorf, so I could not yet be 60. 

I am now four years younger, no scars, no bruising and no recovery period, but I think I regained them at the Bazaar…

 

A di.

 

 

A Tight Spot

I can never quite get over the kindness of strangers in the most awkward of circumstances.

 

We were particularly reminded of this only last night when Dearly Beloved rounded a very tight bend only to meet two cars which our side of the white line and heading towards us. He swerved but got caught on the edge of the road and drove in to the ditch. It was truly frightening experience. Being a passenger, I was on the side of the car that was closer to the ditch and got a very close andfar too intimate view of the grass and mud that now covers our car.  

I screamed as we slowly bumped to a halt, and we lay, dazed, on our sides for a while. But in front and behind us, other drivers were stopping, putting on their hazard lights and rushing to help us. They talked to us, switiching to English rapidly, checking that we were not hurt, and we said we would be alright - we had road side assistance insurance and neither of us needed an ambulance. They went on at our request.  

Again, someone stopped while Dearly B was trying to call the number given on the insurance card. This card does not, incidentally, show up well at night in thick fog in the middle of farmland with no street lighting. This Samaritan said he would wait until we were sure we would get assistance; otherwise, he would call his own insurance company to come and help us out. Once reassured, he went on his way.  

I managed to get out of the car, none too elegantly, by treating my side door as a floor and the driver’s door as a hatch. People continued to slow down as they went past, and called out to see if they could help. We stood some way behind the car on a rough patch of ground between the fields and waved reassuringly at the passers by who all slowed down; some called out, and one lady drove off the road to see if she could do anything for us. In all about 30 people must have cared for our safety that evening.  

We also realised that we did not know anyone immediately local. We were also in a strange, middle of the fields place that only locals would know. Many of our friends and contacts would not be able to get there without us giving instructions. Shocked as we were, we were not particularly coherent. We called a practical chap who we thought would be at the meeting we had set out for, and therefore nearer than he would usually have been…but he was in Provence. Mobile phones are great in these circumstances, but one does have some strange conversations with folks in the oddest of places. Not that Provence is odd of course…it’s just that it is not near enough to be of any use to someone in the middle of a field in Luxembourg.

 

A young fireman in his jeep pulled over to see how things were.

 “Yes,” he said “This bend is legendary. Too many people come round it too fast and they end up in the field over there.”

Our hostess called to check and offered to stay on the phone until help came. If I had been on my own, this would have been very welcome, but DB was there and we were managing - but what a kind and lovely thought. DB called our Heroic Chaplain to see if he could come and take me home, out of the cold. He arrived within half an hour, just in front of the recovery truck. He had brought a warm blanket and I snuggled up in the car, defrosting,  while he offered prayerful assistance to DB and the Truck Man, who were working out how best to get a car out of ditch without wrenching it apart.

In the end, they all leant on the car to balance it better so that DB could reverse it out of the ditch ready to be loaded on to the truck. So, our Heroic Chaplain was in good time to give us both a lift home and to join us for tea and toast, while the poor battered car was taken off. 

Next day, DB needed to fill in the Insurance forms - challenging enough, but in French, they are somewhat overwhelming. Luckily, a secretary at the office took it in hand. We had numerous phone calls and texts from church friends and work colleagues. Physically we are ok, if a little strained in places, and we did not sleep very well.

 

So, my conclusion for today is, that even when one does something really rather daft, people are still kind and helpful, compassionate and practical. Isn’t that wonderful?

 

Addi.

 

Transition

I think this may be the only blog where The Hairy Bikers and Proust can validly, without even stretching a point, be mentioned in the same paragraph. More later.

We have been here for nearly two months now and have worked out how to use the blinds by remote control having first located said controls, used all the new appliances, even though the microwave instructions can only be found in Estonian, and we are waiting for the weed killer to take effect in the garden. Neighbours have waved and have returned our only confident use of Luxembourgish: “Moien” which, of course, means Good Morning or Good Day. 

In the meantime, I have neither stories of woe to tell nor thigh slapping humour relating to our move. It went astonishingly well and the removals men were very impressed at the high standard of our packing. As its quality knocked a couple of hours off the overall day, it meant we saved a few hundred euros, so my dry hands, cracked nails and slightly creaking joins were more than worth it. The removers used a cunning device of a height adjustable tail guard on their van in order to make it easy to extract items from our bedroom window in the chateau. They simply wheeled everything to the bedroom, shouted down to their mates who raised the tail guard as a  platform, and eased the boxes, sofas, plant pots and grandfather clock on to it. C’etait un morceau de gateau, I thought. It was a tight squeeze of about a centimetre either side for the van to reverse out of the chateau gates and attracted the close interest of M. le Chateau, our landlord. No damage done, thank heavens.  

Moving items in to the sleek new flat was always going to be difficult. It is a “duplex” on the second and third floors, with a tight return on the staircases. This is not unusual here in the Duchy and The Team came ready prepared with a hydraulic lift. Everything came in through our new bedroom window, was distributed around the house according to labelling, with a little confusion later about which was bedroom two or three. Dearly Beloved assembled the bed and we were asleep by 10:00. It was as easy as that.

Since then we have achieved many great things. We have registered with the commune (local council) without being asked for our family histories and evidential proof dating back to the time it was chipped onto a stone tablet. And, more importantly, I have a medical card for the excellent Luxembourg health system. We had put aside at least a morning to register me with social security, because of our experience in France and in Luxembourg back in 2010 when we first arrived. We had a sheaf of papers, documents, cards, inside leg measurements - all those essential details… Oh yes - we had them in triplicate. We arrived at about nine o’clock after a sleepless night, Kindles in hand with which to while away the hours, collected our number for our place in the queue and discovered we were third in line. Our number was called. The assistant tapped in our name, and found us already on the system at our new address. She scanned in our details, handed us each a sheet of paper and said that my card would be in the post in the next three weeks.

“Is that it?” said Dearly B, barely hiding his surprise. “Of course!” said the assistant with amused detachment. I nudged DB, thanked the assistant, and grabbing my dazed husband’s arm, we walked swiftly to the exit. “Don’t look back,” I said, “don’t say anything. Just leave before they change their minds.” In the car park, we nearly burst into tears in relief and took ourselves out for the day off we didn’t realise we were going to have.

Our first two weeks were tempered by the fact that we had to clean the old place to a standard that would not compromise the return of our somewhat hefty deposit. Armed with all the tools of the trade, mop, grout cleaner and a toothbrush we spent, over the two weeks of DB’s holiday, about three days scraping, sluicing and buffing so that the place gleamed. Messieurs le Chateau were delighted. They could barely take off their sunglasses because of the glare. We all shook hands, wishing each other well  as younger M le Chateau started measuring up for replacing the floor. We skipped out and kept our fingers crossed for the deposit’s return in a couple of month’s time…maybe three.

Did I mention Hairy Bikers and Proust? Well, here is how it happened, being merely the juxtaposition of two fairly low key events: the installation of UK satellite TV at the glossy new apartment and the booking of Lunch with the British Ladies Club at Lea Linster’s Michelin starred restaurant in the village only 2 kilometres down the road.

We had not had TV of much note throughout our stay at the Chateau. M le Chateau had assured us that we could get fantastic TV including BBC through the French national provider. We had only to get the Live box, and extensive entertainment and internet would be piped through. No, we could not have a satellite dish and why would we need it? To cut a long and administrative story short, the provision of high speed internet and cabling had not been extended to le Chateau. The package would be the same, of course, event though residents could not receive the bandwidth on offer nor the full range of media services. But we could make international telephone calls of up to three hours for nothing. So we took what we could and watched BBC World News in English and badly dubbed CSI from five years ago. Our internet speed took me back to the days when we used to have to dial a number to access it. 

So the introduction of real telly was very exciting. Dearly B was out for the evening and I watched every programme I could, including The Hairy Bikers Bake-ation (ouch). Coincidentally enough, it was the episode where they travelled through the Benelux countries promising a baking session with Luxembourg’s only female Michelin starred chef. I watched transfixed as the cameras filmed the hirsute pair travelling along the end of our road and into the restaurant where I would be eating the very next day. 

And the very next day, I was there too. No cameras, no bright lights and thankfully no bikers, but all us ladies enjoying the last of that early spring sunshine (do you remember it?) and eating roasted cauliflower soup and a carpaccio of salmon and beef. The lovely Lea joined us and pulled a chair up to our table. Her waiters quickly laid a space for her and she discussed Jamie Oliver, local food and McDonald’s ice cream. He view was that at least in McD’s you get exactly what you expect where as in many establishments the food is neither locally sourced nor prepared on site. A woman after my own heart. You may not have heard of her in the UK, but here, she is vey well known and is a celebrity particularly on German TV. Our meal ticket price included une coupe de Cremant and a glass of wine from Lea’s own vineyard, but typically of her generous attitude, the wine waiters were always at one’s elbow.

That Proustian moment?  Also included in the deal was a demonstration of Lea’s renowned crème brulee, in the very kitchens where the Hairy Bikers had been only the summer before. But just after the main course and to encourage us to move to the kitchens, trays of golden shell moulded madeleines came to us hot from the ovens, glistening and smelling of caramel and butter. The perfect cake, its wafer light crust crumbling on the lips, the airy sponge within fragrant with teasing notes of vanilla and lemon. Heaven! It's Luxembourg!

A di.

Moving on

So, no entries on the blog in goodness knows how long. My files show a number of half completed essays which I never felt like getting round to finishing or posting. I even looked at last year and started a round up of events too small to make it worth posting about as an entity but which I thought might be interesting to mention.

What happened? We moved house. It didn’t take four months to do it but we spent two months looking, an activity prompted by an advert in the British Ladies Club magazine about a property available less than 15 minutes from Dearly Beloved’s work. It was spacious and, at a pinch, affordable. One of the reasons we were living in a Chateau in France, was because it was considerably cheaper than similarly sized properties in Luxembourg. But it came at a higher price that we only realised after a year of living there. 

 It was a long way from work and the city where our social life was emerging. I spent three times as long on public transport getting to these events than I did actually enjoying them. We spent some long evenings eating Al Desko - I would get the bus to DB’s work with a picnic and we would while away the hours before an event in town started at 8. Not enough time for Dearly B to get home without immediately turning around and going out again, but too much time spent doing nothing. Or we had some unmemorable meals out eaten at a rush. Living the Transfrontalier life meant that we fell between a number of stools, and felt part of neither country.

Then there was the heating. Anybody who has lived in an old or listed building will identify with our dislike of sitting in a draught, with a coat on even though you are paying over 400 euros for two months’ worth of electricity. Nor was it easy to meet people living, as we did, behind high chateau walls. And I realised that my French is nowhere near useful enough to have volunteered for anything. The same could also be said for my Turkish, Portuguese, any North African language you might care to think of and I have no Roma. Mont Saint Martin has many social needs which the local services work hard to address. But I didn’t think they needed another problem expat. 

There are a few things that we shall look back on with affection and I wouldn’t want you to think we were having a horrible time. As I explained to a friend, there were just a number of low level discomforts which seemed to grow daily, and if we had loved the place and got involved with the community, we would have overlooked them and the long and tiresome commute to the city.

So what shall we look back on? 

The pig roast of course was a highlight and in our mental calendar.

 We joined a small archery club and took lessons in a tiny school hall in order to be insured to loose arrows in France. We both got badges and a certificate and we learned some very specific French vocabulary. I would say that this is the closest we got to meeting local people. At the archery club, we were impressed with the way the youngsters behaved and were treated. Each child came in and either shook your hand or offered “les bons bises”. Any adult coming in payed the children the same regard as the adults. C’etait charmant.

Francois, the trainer, made us very welcome and took us for a tour around the area, where he has lived all his life. He remembers a time when Longwy, the town nearest us, was still producing steel and moving it on the once busy railway network. When he was boy, all the buildings were black with soot and a grey pall hung over the town even on a sunny day. Although there is comparatively little employment in the area now, Francoise, who lives near the current mayor, says that the latter strives hard to make the town presentable and a pleasant place to live. Its Vauban fort is listed as a World Heritage Site; the Well house which used to serve the garrison town in the eighteenth century, is now the tourist office, the well glazed over...

 At the beginning of last year, I was rather peeved that the former Mairie, La Roseraie, was running well over its target date in its refurbishment. From the middle of February, the date slipped further into the summer, which meant that the public park in which it sits was out of bounds to the public. The park itself must surely have previously been within the curtilage of Le Chateau, and possibly La Roseraie was too, but the two areas are now divided by a link fence. There is a lake with fish which provided the dramatic reflection of the best fireworks we ever saw in a local festival for the eve of Bastille Day. There are some swings and a death slide, and it was a shame that in those glorious spring days (do you remember that false early summer?) nobody could use the park. However, it was open for a few special events, including a book fair. This explains why, one evening from the chateau, we could see lights suspended in the high plane trees and day-glo clad people in abseiling gear hiding amongst the leaves. In another part of the park, the children were singing songs and listening to a story. I never did find out what story our abseilers were enacting.

Talking of the Bizarre, we took in an open air late spring concert tucked in the gateway of the aforementioned garrison town. It was free, the weather was fine and we knew nothing about any of the acts. Two of the acts surprised us. The gentleman in tail coat and pebble glasses, looking very like Picasso, played electric cello setting up his own recorded backing track while we watched which he then looped over the sound system as he played popular classics which hummed and soared in the Spring air. Then by complete contrast was RIC (pronounced “airissay”. Young men with wild dread locks and dressed in brightly coloured spangly overalls, we soon understood why they were so skinny. Puck like, they jumped, skipped, leapt over and on top of the speakers all the time rattling off the lyrics without pausing for breath. The crowd loved them and all seemed to know the words. We were exhausted just watching them.

The few visitors we have had to Le Chateau will have seen The Gothic Dream. Featured on local Mirabelle TV, the owner has taken a modest bungalow in the little village of Piedmont, and has refaced it in the local sandstone adding a turret and crenellated balustrade around the roof. Then he has added dragons, swords, runes, Black Knights, Knights Templar, Celtic crosses and it is by no means finished. Snugly behind his huge oak door, with its medieval hinges and bolts, he dreams and plots his new creation, lovingly worked in the summer evenings and at weekends. There is always a pile of stone in the trailer outside his house. He smiles and waves as people go past. It is a happy labour of love. I think we shall go back next year and take an inventory of new modifications.

 I might even miss my frequent trips to the post office where I was the only English speaker. On one memorable occasion, the assistant behind the counter asked me if I was looking forward to the wedding. I could only think of the one we had attended the previous year and wondered why she knew about it. She obviously saw my confusion.

“It is the wedding of William and Kate. It is very exciting, is that not so?”

“Oh yes,” I said, rallying well. “There will be many lovely hats.” This seemed a satisfactory response even though I was not attending the event as I evidently should have been.

We spent a lot of time trying to obtain a Carte Vitale, so that I could visit a doctor and benefit from the social security and the medical insurance we had been paying erroneously for nearly a year. We crossed the final hurdle and appeared at the local office with all our paper work intact. The lady smiled very nicely and asked for our bank details. We produced the Luxembourg account details.  

“Oh no,” she said, “That won’t do at all. You must have a French account.”

 I could have wept. In fact, I think I did. We trawled round Longwy looking for a bank. The Post office only allowed you to open an account with a rendezvous, in three weeks’ time when their officer was back from leave. The other banks were shut on a Monday, apart from Credit Agricole. By the following Thursday we had a French bank account and leapt through the final hoop at the social security office. Everyone was very pleasant but the paper work had us completely submerged. 

I could go on. But enough to say we have happily moved and I shall tell you tales from Luxembourg as soon as I have worked out how to change my blog from “Chateau Living”.

A bientot.