Coucous et Communes

This post will boost your technico-blagger French no end.
After you have finished reading, you will be un expert on Local Council-ese, level one.

And you'll need a strong drink.

"Une semaine en mars, une semaine en avril"

Denise, who lives across the river in the neighbouring commune, of L'Oie, explains that here in Sainte-Cécile, the cuckoo announces the arrival of La Belle Saison. She has listened for his call for more than three-quarters of a century.

Even after the long, cold winter of 2009-2010, Cuculus Canorus arrived right on cue last Sunday, two minutes before midday, the morning after the clocks went forward.

Denise set about sowing seeds in the poly-tunnel for the tomates coeur de boeuf crop this summer. More on this as the year progresses.

Click on les coucous pic above for a four-minute glimpse of vineyard work here, which will provide un ingrédient indispensable for the summer grillades: des fagots de sarment.

Lexique;
Semaine; lundi, mardi, mercredi, jeudi, vendredi, samedi et dimanche.

Commune; La plus petite division administrative en France. Il y en a 36,682...(En Espagne 8000, en Belgique 589, en Angleterre 8500 parish councils...) Par conséquent, il y a 36,682 Maires et beaucoup, vraiment beaucoup, de conseillers municipaux. C'est la démocratie participative et locale en action, plus ou moins. C'est du sérieux et c'est parfois le grand bazaar. Un peu "Coucou", même. Mais les machinations et les intrigues des accords et des désaccords, les vrais et faux-amis, les ententes-cordiales ou pas-, les règlements de comptes, les prises de décisions et les choix des orientations sont toujours une source de fascination.

Grillades; On peut dire aussi Barbecue.

Sarment; Morceau de bois de la vigne.

Voilà la leçon d'études civiques pour aujourd'hui. [Ouf. Pour moi, ce sera un Pastis. Ed]

Poésies, Primula Vulgaris et Primula Veris

If you drive due east from Sainte-Cécile, and keep going all day until just before Germany, you will be in the province of Lorraine.

Our friend Jean-Luc is from Lorraine, and his accent is that of the East.

"Salut Alan, content de te voir"

He said with his trademark smile and gentleness.

Primula Vulgaris-not so common as you'd think.

J-L ended up on this side of the country after falling for Nad'. They have teenage daughters and day jobs.

They also produce sculpture and poetry with passion, insight and sincerity.

Last Saturday, I took the Deux-Chevaux into a headwind to see Jean-Luc and Nad's combined work on display in Aizenay. The exhibition was the culmination of several weeks' work by local schoolchildren, their teacher, the town council, and a variety of partners.

The theme was "Poèmes-Objets": each sculpture had a poem displayed next to it, which was more-or-less related to it. The kids had written their own verses, and dozens of these had been laminated, then attached to cords which linked the town's cultural centre with the library and media building a hundred metres across the road.

The visitor could walk beneath and between these lines of poetry, which mostly remained attached to the strings despite the best efforts of an Atlantic gale, and which were called "la Rue des Petits Bonheurs".

These snippets of happiness, supplied by the children of Aizenay, perfumed the morning, Jean-Luc's sculptures and Nad's poetry.

Primula Veris/Cowslip/"Coucou"

There were erudite speeches from the Maire ("C'est quoi, le bonheur?"), the président of the Association (A Prévert-tribute list-poem to the participants which drew a standing ovation), and from grey-suited, pink-tied and élégant Monsieur L'Inspecteur d'Académie (A moving salute to the retiring primary school teacher who had spent thirty years developing these literary initiatives with his charges). The latter was a poem by Portuguese revolutionary Manuel Alegre.

Monsieur L'Inspecteur gave me a copy over post-speech apéritifs, and here it is:

Le Poète
Quand un homme se met à marcher
Il laisse un peu de lui en chemin.
Il est entier au départ épars à l’arrivée
Le reste demeure toujours en chemin
Quand un homme se met à marcher.

Il reste toujours en chemin un souvenir
Il reste toujours en chemin un peu plus
De ce qu’il avait au départ ou lui reste à l’arrivée.
Il reste un homme qui ne revient jamais plus
Quand un homme se met à marcher.

Manuel Alegre

On the way home, with a tail wind, the 2CV passed almost effortlessly from West to East of Les Essarts, where there is an invisible botanical border: the Primulae change from low-flowering Vulgaris to long-stemmed Veris.

As the little Citroën's forty year-old engine buzzed, driving past Le Lac de Rortheau, I thought of the common truths of the morning.

Lexique;

Well, this time you could just read the Alegre poem, don't worry if you don't get all of it, because that's Life and Language, and think about journeys.

Click on Vulgaris for another glimpse of J-L's sculptures.

Ficaires, Loriot et Mimosa

"C'est le printemps jaune ", said Colette, as she cut a few leaves of pissenlit and mâche in the meadow next to the farm.

She was using her brass-handled penknife, which is always attached to her belt by a length of blue string. The blade was well-worn.

"Ce couteau, j'ai acheté à la foire de Chantonnay en 1949"

I pictured Colette as a teenager after the war, travelling the ten kilometres home with her sister from la foire one Tuesday on Le Petit Train into the village centre. Then walking along the muddy riverside path to Le Breuil after pausing at the crossroads to slip their town-shoed feet into parked wooden sabots.

"Tu as vu les ficaires? Ils sont en retard cette année" She asked, and then paused and said;

"Ecoute."

Loriot. Oriolus (From golden Latin aureolus)

Click on pic for distinctively mainland-Europe call)

There was a silence, then the unmistakable call of the oriole.

"Voilà. Le loriot est arrivé. Ce sera bientôt le coucou"

We walked up from the field together, as she explained how she would make the vinaigrette for the lambs' lettuce and dandelion.

"Dau bon vinaigre d' la barrique à Roger. De l'huile de tournesol. Dau moutarde. Pi' dau sel pi' dau poiv'. O l'è tout"

It sounded even more authentique in patois. [Strewth. We're lapsing into patois now. Ed]

Lexique

Pissenlit Plante sauvage. Les petites feuilles sont excellentes en salade. Attention! Ne pas faire pipi au lit après...

Loriot Oiseau jaune et exotique. C'est un migrant d'Afrique.

Mimosa Arbuste qui fleurit en janvier sur la Côte d'Azur, et en février sur la Côte Atlantique. Symbole floral de L'Australie.

Tournesol Autre fleur jaune qui donne de l'huile. Se cultive en très grandes quantités dans le sud de la France. Devenu symbolique (pour les Britanniques francophiles notamment) des vacances, parce que la floraison est en juillet. En réalité, c'est un symbole de l'agriculture industrielle.

Sera Futur du verbe être. Pensez au Latin Que sera sera. [Doris Jour, 1956. Une bonne année. Ed]

Moutarde Say it out loud and think of Colman's.

Ranunculus Ficaria/Ficaire/Celandine.

"Little Frog plant with bulbs which look like figs?"

Cresson et Crécerelles

Stone-mason Jean-Philippe turned up this morning in his Renault Master. We looked at the four à pain. He said, in the roundabout way that Vendéen artisans have, that he hadn't rebuilt one before.

"Mais je connais une association qui pourra t'aider".

He gave me the address on the back of a Gauloise packet [Actually it was Marlboro. Please forgive the blatent over-gallification here. Ed], then said something off-the-wall for a stonemason. [No comment. Ed]

Cresson des Fontaines/nasturtium officinale

Click on cresson pic to go on a four-minute spring journey to the lavoir de Sigournais

"Je peux demander aux pierres leur âge"

"You can ask the stones their age?"

...enquired your correspondent.

"Oui. C'est de la radiésthésie"

From his pocket, he produced a wooden sphere, the size of a cochonnet, which was attached to a fine, golden chain. Then he placed a hand on the stones and mumbled a phrase in patois.

The pair of kestrels in the field next door screeched mating calls and performed ballet in the spring air.

Mille six-cent quatre-vingt-dix à mille sept-cent. Louis XIV, non?

He said with a smile, slipping his ball back into his trousers.

Faucon Crécerelle/Falco tinnunculus (presumably because of the noise?..Latin specialists please advise.)

That'll be 1690 to 1700, then, I thought. The same estimation that had been given by the Architecte des Bâtiments de France a few years ago.

We shared a few stories about dowsing, divining and doodlebugging over a glass of rosé, and I showed him a video clip of the lavoir in Sigournais from last week's picnic.

"Sigournais. Magnifique. Deux châteaux et de la belle pierre calcaire". He said.

I showed him the watercress from the spring which feeds the lavoir.

After exchanging recipes for soupe au cresson, he bade me farewell, and drove out of the village.

The male crécerelle broke off from his noisy courtship to swoop, silent and low over the Renault.

Lexique

Cochonnet; Petite boule en bois utilisée lors d'une partie de pétanque.

Louis XIV; Roi de France (1643-1715) peu modeste.

Lavoir; Regardez le clip vidéo, vous le verrez.

Cresson; 1. Plante médicinale et délicieuse. 2. Nom de famille de la première femme premier -ministre de France. (mai 1991 à avril 1992. Don't ask...)

Violettes Blanches, Lapin Blanc...

Jannick is a quadragénaire who has a Breton name, and the ruddy complexion of a Normand. The Vikings and the Celts clearly passed this way a thousand years or so ago during a previous episode of La Grande Histoire de l'Immigration en Vendée.

Today he was collecting feuilles de chou for his rabbits, wearing un-Viking un-agriculteur jeans and trainers.

Violette blanche-Viola alba

"J'ai une lapine qui a fait quarante-huit lapins en quatre ans...Je donne des bananes aux petits, et après, des feuilles de chou."

He proceeded to give a detailed gastro-anatomical description of the Easter treat he had in store for the lapine de quatre kilos, which involved:

Gras de porc...sel...poivre...quatre épices...ciboulette...ail...échalote

"Je fais des boules de pâté, et ma femme s'occupe du reste"

For readers of a sensitive nature, we will not go into a detailed description of the soon-to-be ex- Lapine. Mainly because of her white fur and pink eyes. [It might help if we imagine Jannick saving it from a worse fate: appearance on stage with Paul Daniels, during one of his fake French lessons. Ed]

Walking back home, crossing the bridge over the stream, a spring breeze carried the scent of a thousand violettes blanches.

Lexique:

Lapine: Lapin femelle

Banane: Are you kidding?

Ciboulette: Petit oignon, on mange les feuilles.

If you have difficulty guessing the rest, scroll down to the first post, and revise.

Xynthia et les Cigognes

Météo France put out the storm warning on the Wednesday evening.

The next two or three days' weather was strangely calm, and it was only when a pair of storks appeared in the grey skies over the village that we guessed that something was very, very wrong.

"Les cigognes ne viennent pas par ici d'habitude"

Ciconia ciconia

Commented René.

"La météo sur la côte doit être bien mauvais..."

That evening, the wind started to howl. In Sainte-Cécile, thoughts turned to the hurricane of October 1987, and "La Tempête du Siècle" of December 1999.

The electricity went out just after 3am. Each rafale increased in intensity, then at 4 am came a tinkling of glass from the kitchen. Investigation showed a triangular hole in a window. Xynthia sent probing banshee fingers of draught through the house. We gathered the battery radio and torches, then started to prepare a plan in case the roof should peel away. This involved putting on warm clothes, and stowing half a dozen teabags in one pocket, just in case the rescue centres had only coffee.

There was no rain during the darkness. The window-panes made a crackling sound. We found out next morning that they were being peppered with salt. [Come on. Ed].

Over the next hour, the worst of the storm passed over the village. Then came sleep, followed by sunrise in a chaotic sky.

There was no electricity for two days, but we escaped lightly.

On Sunday morning, we listened to radio reports of 30 fatalities due to the tidal surge and resulting floods.

Nicolas Sarkozy, Président de la République would visit La Faute sur Mer with a posse of ministers on Monday morning at 11. There would be hand-on-shoulder and "bon courage" from the incumbent of the Palais de L'Elysée, then a rapid analyse to determine blame. The Président would lose no time in determining potential culprits, and the list would include the Usual Suspects: Property promoteurs, who had built on the flood plains behind the dunes and ageing sea-defences; compliant Maires, who had allowed zoning of low-lying land for new-build; any ennemi politique who needed a warning shot fired across their bows...

Philippe de Villiers, Président du Conseil Général (the Département's ruling council) got in first and gave a considered analysis of the causes of the disaster on France-Inter on Sunday: "Trois éléments: un vent exceptionnel, une marée exceptionnelle, et une pression barométrique exceptionnellement basse". He managed to self-publicize only mildly, hardly mentioning at all in his trademark mildly camp aristo timbre that as "organisateur du Vendée Globe [four-yearly round-the-world yacht race], he knew a thing or two about wind. [ He also knows about hot air and quasi-Front National politics, allegedly. Ed].

These were, after all, exceptional circumstances.

We didn't really need an énarque 3-part analysis to remind us of that. But Monsieur de Villiers' support base in Sainte-Cécile and elsewhere in Vendée would have taken considerable comfort from his reassuringly competent analyse.

Click on the Météo-sat pic for a 3-minute view from the ground. [What? Ed]

Lexique:

Marée; Cycle du mouvement de la mer toutes les 12 heures environ.

Enarque; Une personne qui a fait des études à L'Ecole Nationale d'Administration. Un énarque peut devenir préfet, ministre, etc. Obligation après de faire des analyses en trois points. Regardez Wikipédia, vous verrez bien.

France-Inter; Station de radio nationale "medium/highbrow". Un peu l'équivalent de la BBC Radio 4, mais avec plus de musique avant-garde et/ou rétro par moment. Il n'existe pas de John Humpreys, de Humphrey Littleton, de "disques pour une île déserte" ni de "Show de maintenant"...Si vous préférez le highbrow, écoutez plutôt France Culture, station préférée des professeurs baby-boomers en retraite. (de plus en plus nombreux en France.)

Cigogne; regardez la photo!

Pies et Perces-Neige

Pie (Voleuse). (Pica Pica)

René parked his antique tractor outside the cellar this morning, and the steaming dung in the tray defrosted the icy air.

He pointed to the magpie nest in the top of the ash tree.

"Je t'avais bien dit que l'hiver serait rude. Les pies ont niché haut l'an dernier".

I nodded, and thought about asking him to formulate a sentence which would be easier to transpose to the rudimentary language level of this blog. One without a pluperfect verb or rude pies.

But instead, I remarked on the artfulness of magpies, and we walked past the fading perces-neige, went inside his wine cellar, and discussed the winter's passing.

Perce-neige (Galanthus) Now Click on perce-neige for Last of the Winter Freeze.

Lexique; Nicher-construire un nid (Do not confuse with Nichon, which is rude. Beaux Nichons = Great Tits but not in the ornithological sense. There's another bit of lexis you won't forget.)

Nid-La maison d'un oiseau.

Pie-Oiseau noir, blanc et voleur. (Ne pas confondre avec le plat australien emblématique)

Voler- verbe à double-sens; on vole dans un avion, dans un hélicoptère... un voleur irait peut-être en prison. Une pie vole et vole.

...et un peu de langage familier pour finir; Piquer = voler. To nick. Pica Pica = pie voleuse.

Voilà!