The Hexagon Space

the podcast

by Sarah Heath | The Accidental Car Race

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It isn’t often that you can join in a car race by accident. Definitely not a Formula One race but you’d think even a vintage car race in the French countryside would be tricky to insert yourself into. Anyway, I managed it! And experienced this drive of shame one afternoon after my usual long Sunday run.

I drove the short distance to do circuits of the lakes in Castelnau-de-Montmiral, just up the road from where I live. That day, I’d already been ditsy enough to forget my phone which has my running app on it. This meant having to concentrate well enough to mentally count the miles down. I’m rubbish at this so I ended up putting a stone on top of the car after each circuit round the lakes and the car park! Just the start of an overly vehicle-orientated day.

Once I finished my run, I decided to take the scenic route home as a change to the norm. A negative side-effect of long-distance running is a slight sense of disorientation once the running stops. There’s a bit of momentary weakness, perhaps a general lack of oxygen. You are, well I am, bright red in the face and sweating rivers. And itching to get into the shower. Maybe a bit distracted by sore legs and sweat in your eyes. Anyway, this is how I looked and felt as I drove along back towards home.

It was just before taking a right-hand turn for the short cut home that I realised that there were a lot more people around than usual. Sundays in France are a big day for club activities such as cycling and walking. But this gathering was neither of those: along the narrow lane was a succession of vintage cars. 

“How lovely”, I thought. “What a lovely day for a drive in the countryside”. I turned and smiled to the drivers in acknowledgement of their gorgeous cars as I drove past. Continuing down the lane became more tricky as a line of cars appeared to line up along the right-hand side of the lane and I had to squeeze slowly by, slightly paranoid at knocking off the wing mirror of some priceless 1930’s Renault. 

This line-up of beautiful vintage relics went on for 50 metres or so and I recognised the odd Morgan, E-type Jag and Porsche in the mix putting my 1997 Volkswagen Golf slightly to shame. Vintage means old but good old. My car was old but scrapyard old.

As I pootled along, a man suddenly stepped into the middle of the road and waved me over. He looked a bit annoyed. I pulled down the window and said, “Bonjour”! 

“And where do you think you are you going, Madame?” he asked. 

“Oh, I’m just going home”, I replied, a bit confused as to why he was asking.

“Well, you shouldn’t have come down here! This road is closed off for a race. The end of the lane was blocked to regular traffic”.

 Oh. This was one of those fourth dimension moments when you’re not really sure if what is happening around you is really happening. Aware of my lack of awareness, I wondered if I had accidentally run over a race steward without noticing as I turned down the lane as they tried in vain to redirect me.

Luckily I was already bright red from running which hid the redness from my embarrassment as I quietly asked if I should turn around.

“You can’t do that Madame – this is the start line!”. 

It suddenly dawned on me that the cars I had just driven past were all in a queue for their turn in this time-trial. I was stuck!

“You’ll have to just go along the race route”, he said. “There really isn’t any other choice”. 

 I mumbled an apology and a thank you all rolled into one and started to ...

the podcast

by Sarah Heath | Our Tour de France

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We’re feeling just ever-so-slightly famous today in our little bit of the French countryside. The Tour de France passed through less than 3km from our front door. In fact, on one stretch it would have been possible to see the peloton from our house. Admittedly, with some very strong binoculars and some spectacularly precise timing and we didn’t make it back in time….but still!

All those men in lycra gets the heart rate going before the thought of riding a bicycle is even mentioned, although I’m not generally into cycling unless it involves a coffee and a croissant at the end of the journey. Where we live has gently undulating hills but not really gentle enough for lazy pedalling while admiring the views all around and chatting as we go.

But this year, the world’s toughest cycling race has been intriguing – and near – enough for closer inspection on who the likes of current leader, Julian Alaphilippe is and to check out the exact route for today’s 11th stage. 

The Tour has some pretty mind-boggling facts and stats: the first race was in 1903; it has 21 stages to cover over 23 days and the race always ends in Paris. This year’s race is 3,460 km, with today’s stage from Albi to Toulouse being 167 km. There are 22 teams with 8 riders in each team and if they all finish the entire route, they’ll each burn off 118,000 calories!

Each day, the rider who has the fastest overall time from the very first stage of the race wears the yellow jersey or maillot jaune. I accidentally called it the gilet jaune at an evening out with friends last night – I was confusing world-class cyclists with world-class political protestors for a moment there! Apparently this year, there are 20 different yellow jerseys for each of the different stages, each one depicting something different for that particular stage such as the geography, history or a famous local person.

The sartorial side to cycling doesn’t stop there: the rider who tackles the mountain stages the most quickly gets to wear the polka dot jersey and the green jersey is given to the fastest sprinter. The youngest rider with the best times, wears the white jersey. To be honest, trying to spot these jerseys as the riders whizz by is almost impossible but I did manage to get a flukey shot of Peter Sagan is his green get-up - he’s one of the favourites apparently.

As a starter to the main race, there is the tour caravan which is a bit slower, a bit less serious and there are loads of freebies chucked into the crowd. It passes by about two hours before the riders. La Caravane du Tour is almost as popular as the race itself and is a giant parade made up of hundreds of different vehicles. Some of these are crazy floats with giant cyclists or the likes of cartoon character Asterix sitting on top of them, there were a dozen or so old 2CVs, an orange Lambourghini, and a whole mash-mash of other cars mixed up with police outriders and a LOT of advertising slogans on jazzed up Skodas, all pootling along to some questionable Euro pop.

The freebies were an exciting mix of Haribos, keyrings, a headband and the one item I was allowed by my children to keep – a sachet of washing powder!

The idea behind the caravan was to try and raise money to help fund the race. And it’s a pretty good event to advertise – with the estimated 15 million spectators who are expected to line the route his year.

the podcast

by Sarah Heath | UNESCO: the French gastronomic meal

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This new series is on France’s contribution to the UNESCO World Heritage list, a distinguished catalogue of French places and cultural traditions as classified by UNESCO as being of “outstanding value to humanity”. In episode one, I’ll be discussing a slightly unusual but absolutely spot-on addition to UNESCO’s list.

If you were told to imagine France, what would be one of the first words you would think of? Baguettes? Cheese? Frog’s legs? Almost certainly, what would pop into your head would be something to do with food! France’s sensual love affair with food is no secret – clocks are practically set by when you sit down to eat! And good food in France is a treasure not to be rushed or taken lightly.

The words for food in French even make it sound so much more delicious than anywhere else: beef stew or boeuf bourguignon? Fish fingers or poisson pané? Ham and cheese toastie or Croque Monsieur? The English version sounds a bit factory-in-Slough while the French version conjures up a moustachioed Frenchman in a farmhouse kitchen, massaging a steak with his bare hands before flamboyantly pan-frying it in home-made brandy, while a table is being beautifully laid outside in the shade of an old oak tree. OK, I’m getting slightly carried away and admittedly, for a vegetarian, the chef sounds tastier than the steak, but those images aren’t just in my head are they?

Clearly not. In 2010, enthusiastic foodies from the UN cultural organisation decided that the French gastronomic meal fulfilled all the necessary requirements for its inclusion on the world intangible heritage list. No, I hadn’t heard of it either. Intangible heritage is also sometimes called living cultural heritage and is to celebrate and encourage those more abstract ideas of what makes up certain rituals in society – a shout out to day-to-day activities such as eating a beautifully prepared meal to one of the most recent additions to the French list, the art of dry stone walling.

The 2003 Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage says, and I quote word-for-word as I’m not sure I could untangle the wording into a neat précis:

Intangible Cultural Heritage means the practices, representations, expressions, knowledge, skills – as well as the instruments, objects, artefacts and cultural spaces associated therewith – that communities, groups and, in some cases, individuals recognize as part of their cultural heritage. This intangible cultural heritage, transmitted from generation to generation, is constantly recreated by communities and groups in response to their environment, their interaction with nature and their history, and provides them with a sense of identity and continuity, thus promoting respect for cultural diversity and human creativity.

But anyway, back to the food. The French need almost zero excuse to sit down with family and friends and enjoy a long leisurely meal and this ideal just in itself makes up a strong part of a key element required for its UNESCO status. It is a bringing together of people in a social environment. It might be for a special occasion like a birthday or a reunion or it might be a regular Sunday lunch-type affair. But it most definitely ISN’T eating beans-on-toast on your lap in front of the telly with Great-Aunt Marjorie!

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by Sarah Heath | Armistice Poppies

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This coming Sunday, it will be Armistice Day and this year has a very special significance with it being 100 years since that very first eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the eleventh day when World War 1 was finally brought to a close. When the Germans agreed to sign the Armistice in an old railway carriage in the forest of Compiègne about 35km north of Paris. In the UK it’s easy to tell that this commemorative date is not so far off as, about two weeks before, everyone starts wearing a red poppy. And here in France, as if spotting a Brit wasn’t easy enough, at this time of year the wearing of the little red flower makes it all the more obvious. There is an equivalent here in France although it is isn’t seen very often. The bleuet, which is the French word for a cornflower, is the French symbol to remember soldiers, victims of war and their families. You’ll see our gorgeous President Macron wearing one on the 11th of November.The cornflower represents delicacy and hope, and as with the poppy, the little blue flowers were the only signs of life in the fields of northern France after fighting obliterated the landscape. The name ‘bleuet’ was also given to soldiers for their blue uniforms as they went off to fight in the war. The name was so well known that Alphonse Bourgoin wrote the following about them in 1916.These here, these little “Bleuets”These Bleuets colour of the skyAre beautiful, gay, stylishBecause they are not afraid.Merrily, go forwardGo on, my friends, so long!Good luck for you, little “blues”Little “bleuets”, you are our hope!A few years later, bleuet badges were sold in a similar scheme to remembrance poppies although the tradition these days is not so widely observed. The badges were the brainchild of a nurse at Les Invalides, who wanted to find a new purpose for injured soldiers who were in rehabilitation, so they were first produced by war veterans in specially organised workshops and this actually pre-dates the production of poppies.Although it seems very British to wear a poppy, the tradition actually came about thanks to four of the countries who helped make up the allied forces: Britain, Canada, the US and France. The inspiration came from the beautiful poem, “In Flanders Fields” which was written in 1915 by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, a Canadian military doctor. McCrae was moved to write the poem the day after the death of one of his closest friends who was buried, along with many, many others, near the Flanders battlefield. The area  was brought back to life by poppies emerging between the handmade wooden crosses marking the soldiers' graves. This is what McCrae wrote:In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below.We are the Dead. Short days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,Loved, and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders fields.Take up our quarrel with the foe:To you from failing hands we throwThe torch, be yours to hold it high.If ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields.The poem set off a chain reaction after it was published in the English magazine 'Punch' which happened to be read by an American lady, Moina Michael,

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by Sarah Heath | Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

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In this episode, I’m keeping the subject close to home once again and talking about a painter, illustrator and printmaker who comes from my local town, Albi, down here in the south-west of France. The artist's name: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Actually his full name is Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa. Not often you need to draw breath midway through saying someone’s name so I’m just going to call him Lautrec for the rest of this podcast. 

He was born here in Albi in 1864 into an aristocratic family – his parents were the Count and Countess of Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa. Possibly as the result of his mother and father being first cousins, he was born with multiple congenital problems, in addition to which he broke both his legs as a teenager. This meant they didn’t develop properly and he only grew to around five feet tall.

  

 

Despite being in pain for much of the time because of these disabilities, Lautrec was able to make light of it. On one occasion when someone made a spiteful comment about his walking stick he remembered: “I had placed my stick on the table, as I do every evening. It had been specially made to suit my height, to enable me to walk without too much difficulty. As I was standing up, a customer called to me: ‘Monsieur, don’t forget your pencil.’ It was very unkind but most funny.”

Because of his health problems and inability to join in with other children his age, he immersed himself in drawing throughout his childhood.  Once his mother realised he showed great promise, she sent him to a Paris studio as a young man to learn from the portrait painter, Léon Bonnat. Her motherly ambitions were in the hope that he too would become a fashionable portrait painter.  But Lautrec had less pretentious ideas and preferred a far more informal approach.

Although his technique later went on to inspire the likes of other artistic greats like Andy Warhol, not everyone at the time appreciated his talent. The very traditional École des Beaux Arts called his style “atrocious” and showed little interest. In any case, it seemed that Lautrec preferred to learn by working at smaller studios where he met the likes of Vincent Van Gogh – not a bad consolation prize! His portrait of Van Gogh in 1888 which was done in pastel, became one of his best known works. Of his painting style, he said, “I paint things as they are. I don’t comment. I record”.

He was soon drawn to the area of Montmartre and became fascinated by the bohemian lifestyle of colourful 19th-century Paris where he made up part of a group of artists who became known as the post-impressionists, a rather grand sounding concept around the theory that art is based on the perception, imagination and emotion of the artist, not purely on making a copy of what is in front of your eyes. So form, texture and colour took on very different meanings to what was previously seen as ‘art’ in a new freedom of expression. His contemporaries included the likes of Paul Cézanne, Paul Gauguin, Vincent Van Gogh and Henri Rousseau.

For Lautrec, this freedom was not only based on his developing style but also, now no longer having to live up to the expectations of his aristocratic family, meant he could also have the freedom to be inspired by the vibrant city all around him. He began to find work as an illustrator for magazines and journals and he led the way in crossing the boundaries drawn between 'high art' such as painting and sculpture, and 'low art' which included posters and other forms of visua...

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by Sarah Heath | Le Rentrée

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And breathe! The children have FINALLY gone back to school! The collective sigh of relief of mothers across the land as the school term starts, is almost audible. La rentrée is a really big deal here in France, often likened in importance to the New Year in Britain as a sort of a psychological “new beginning”. For most parents it is more a renewed freedom going by the looks of joy in their eyes as they deposit their offspring at the school gate on that first day back – a reprieve from the 24/7 childminding of the past two months. Mine included!

Preparation for the new school year is not to be taken lightly: the run up to la rentrée can be fraught with arguments over the size of a gluestick and the "right" colour for a folder, the like of which you never imagined you’d have prior to having school-aged offspring. Parents are given a list of stationery that their children will need for the coming school year. This list of ‘fournitures’ is scarily long and needs a maths degree to figure out how many of each exercise book to buy (right size, right number of pages, right-sized squares on the page etc). And then you have to do it all over again for the next child.

Those who are organised send the list to a stationers (in July) who assemble the required “kit” and post it out to you – job done. We’re more at the last-minute, panic-buying end of the spectrum so we did it three days beforehand. The children always want to “help” generally meaning an increase to the final bill (which, by the way, was heading towards €200 this year) as they choose the “cool” pencil cases and predictably shatterable “shatterproof” rulers. 

The list

Traipsing up and down the aisles trying to find half the stuff is soul-destroying. My children won’t allow me to ask better-informed French mothers for help when they are with me because apparently me speaking to another human being in their presence is “embarrassing”. But on my third visit, in despair at ever finding something called “papier millimétré”, I resorted (clearly without the children in tow) to summoning the help of other mums. So, in the middle of the stationery aisle-of-hell I just let it out and loudly asked, “Bonjour les mamans! J’ai besoin d’aide, s’il vous plaît! Le papier millimétré se trouve où?”

A cluster of three or four empathetic mums came immediately to my rescue and I was saved from hours of trailing the miserable floors of Leclerc looking for a packet of specially-gridded paper which will soon be transformed into yet another piece of child-art to stick on the kitchen wall.

The return to the school-run routine can also be a bit of a challenge. We do a car-sharing rota with another family which I shamefully cocked up in our first week by forgetting to be at their house one morning at the pre-determined time. We have subsequently started a WhatsApp group between us four parents called “Service Taxi” in the hope of better communication so as not to repeat my oversight. There appear to be increasing numbers of alcohol-related emojis being used in our messages and we’re only at week two.

And now - here we are! Left in that period of slight disbelief and disconcertment that such peace and quiet and tidiness can exist – during school hours at least. Not that I’m complaining!

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by Sarah Heath | Buzzard Attack

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A couple of years ago during a visit to my physio, I was asked, while she was manipulating some body part or other, whether I was scared of running on my own. She was referring to the possibility of bumping into the likes of farmers with Pernod breath precariously waving their shotguns around. Or their hunting dogs, who can be a bit over-friendly in a hungry-looking kind of way. 

I’m lucky enough to be able to walk out of the front door and take my pick of the beautiful lanes and tracks around where we live – and go running! The rolling countryside is a pretty agreeable backdrop as running starts to decompress mind and body. A few years ago, I used to always run alone with my headphones on – nothing like running up a hill to Kate Bush singing ‘Running up that Hill”! Alone but for the odd glimpse of local wildlife – deer, hare and birds, all of whom outnumber cars passing by. But I have never felt unsafe.

One day, I did bump into one such hunter and his dog: the springer spaniel came bounding over so I cautiously called out, “il est sage?” (is he friendly?). The hunter replied, “Yes, he only bites the ugly, old ones”! The dog didn’t bite me which I took to be a roundabout way of paying me a  compliment?

On such a run one Sunday morning, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a large bird on the ground in the field about 10 metres away from me. A buzzard! I fleetingly supposed she’d just caught a mouse or similar…and paid no more attention to her.

About five minutes later, oblivious to anything but my ‘tunes’, I suddenly felt a clawing through my hair, quickly followed by birds-eye view of a bird’s back end. I was being attacked! I pulled my earphones out and immediately heard the cry of a buzzard. This is what it sounds like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLVIblWdWG4

I quickly realised that she was coming for me again! I ducked down as she swooped down on me – not coming into contact this time but flying only about four feet above my head. I ran for it!

Luckily, it hadn’t drawn blood (I’ve got quite thick hair!) but having checked afterwards if attacks by buzzards are a common thing, it seems that those who are more follically challenged have received some pretty nasty gashes across their scalps.

On a different occasion, another big buzzard (their wingspan is generally between 120-150cm), came for me from the side, swooping down the line of the field to my left. She was not much more than 15 metres from me when I noticed and started shouting and waving like a banshee to divert her.

For the next few weeks, in this particular spot and another just up the road, I was bombarded every day on my ‘peaceful’ run, by, it turns out, buzzard parents who for a short period become  super-protective of their young as they start to fledge. This aerial bombardment lasts for a week or two. Wildlife experts have said that while attacks on humans are very rare, birds who are nesting can be extremely territorial during nesting season.

So, self-defence tactics had to be clearly thought out as, although I’m not usually scared of birds, I don’t want one of them flying off with my eyeball either. The choice of arms to defend myself was limited to….my arms, or a big stick by the side of the road. Handy branches are not always available (I have started to leave one in the same place each time) and less easy to disguise when a car comes round the corner. There is one particular neighbour who I have never spoken to but see ver...

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by Sarah Heath | Apéro pique nique

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On one of the few beautiful days we have had this spring (the UK has been tropical in comparison), we were lucky enough to have been invited to an apéro-pique nique at one of the local vineyards. It was a Bank Holiday Monday (Pentecost Monday), the vineyard was about a two-minute drive from our house, we were going with some of our gorgeous neighbours and the sun was shining. Heaven!

 

After ten years of living in France we have desensitised ourselves to shops not being open on Jours Feriés and have slipped into what the French do best on such days: eating and drinking with family and friends. On this occasion, we were very well positioned on the drinking front by accepting an invitation to a vineyard! An association of independent wine makers open their vineyards every Pentecost weekend for these apéro-pique niques which have now taken place over several years. The healthy part of the day –  a walk through the vineyards – was dodged by all except two of the fifty-or-so guests!

The Domaine Mas Pignou makes a full variety of wine over 35 hectares including a perlé (the very slightly sparkling wine made only in the Gaillac region) and a sweet wine alongside its reds, whites and rosés, some of which are award winners at wine fairs throughout France.

We were welcomed by the owner Bernard Auque, who is the fifth generation of vignerons in the Auque family. A social faux-pas quickly followed as my mental gymnastics failed to kick in - vouvoyer or tutoyer? I got it wrong and asked "comment allez-vous?" rather than "comment vas-tu?" (the more familiar version). Having eaten round the same dinner table and also having had an hour-long conversation on my doorstep with Bernard while in my pyjamas, we are most definitely on 'tu' terms! He took my formality cheerfully on the chin and showed us to our table before leading us to the bar for the apéro - a Marquisette. This delicious cocktail is made from adding some sugar to lemons and limes for 24 hours and then just before being served, pouring in white wine and fizzy water. Really (and too!) refreshing!

Just before we sat down to eat our lunch, Bernard gave a toast by way of what he calls "la chanson du bénédicité" which was one of his father's traditions:

Verre en haut, verre en bas – plaignons qui n'en guerre. Verre en haut, verre en bas – plaignons qui n'en a pas                                                                                    Santéeeeeeeee (the last syllable has to be drawn out!)

While sharing our spread – we were a group of 12 – Bernard and his mother served every table with wine of our choosing, rushing off to get a bottle of red from the cellar if we needed a top-up. (Not a single drop was charged for – we were there at his invitation).

After lunch there was a small art exhibition within the wine cellars which were all open for a look around. The children loved seeing the huge tanks filled with all that wine! We saw the machines for bottling and labelling – such a great way to learn all the processes that wine has to go through before hitting the shop shelves.

 

The day sadly ended for us before the music started in the early evening.  But there are plenty of other apéro-concerts lined up throughout the summer on June 28th, July 12th and August 9th in addition to the Festival les Celliers du Jazz (19th-24th July) and the Fête de Vin at the beginning of August.

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by Sarah Heath | The Veggie Patch

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Any self-respecting French country-dweller grows their own fruit and veg – it’s a matter of green-fingered pride. Actually, the fruit really takes care of itself – we are lucky enough to have so many different kind of plum trees, we could set up our own natural-laxative factory. But the veg needs love, attention and back muscles like an Olympic weightlifter. 

Our little attempts often warrant more of a “Patchy Veg” than “Veggie Patch” title and over eight years of trial and error – we are still trying and erring! But Mother Nature is amazingly kind and we have lived off the fruits (and veggies) of her patient generosity with increasing gratitude – you haven’t eaten a tomato until you’ve eaten a homegrown tomato (coeur de boeuf our particular favourites!)

We proudly tell our friends of our pure-as-the-driven-snow produce. Not a thimbleful of chemicals are used in their tender cultivation. What we don’t mention is the fact that the next door fields of wheat/sunflowers (depending on the year) have the living daylights sprayed out of them with bug-killers whose names generally end in “…cides”. But we’ve persuaded ourselves that the wind always blows in the opposite direction on these spraying days so nothing touches our delicate shoots!!!

My husband has now added to his back problems by having just prepared the ground ready for planting. We always buy our veggie plants from the Foire aux Plantes in Gaillac on May 1st. The town centre is closed and gardeners can meander through the myriad of stalls selling seemingly hundreds of varieties of courgette and strawberry plants. We can’t tell the difference between most of them and are a bit nervous to ask in case we get into tricky conversations about soil type and land drainage – of which we, embarrassigly, know nothing. But each year we excitedly come home laden with the beginnings of delicious meals-to-be. It’s a bit like a lucky-dip some years: you might be expecting a lovely harvest of cucumbers which in fact, turn out to be courgettes. And who knew that certain melon varieties stopped growing when they reached the size of apples?

The soil-toil involved beforehand is literally back-breaking. Annoyingly, we spent €500 on a shiny new rotovator (for the uninitiated, this is the machine which turns the soil) only to discover a few weeks later through our friend Sally, that a method called ‘no-dig gardening’ (creating layers of organic material on the growing area to make a rich, fertile substrate) means…… NO-DIGGING! But we are stubbornly determined to get our money’s worth out of the rotivator even if it means spending half our lives at the physio for back treatment.

Some of our oldest friends came out from London to visit us this past weekend. Being fearless foodies, they are always interested in trying new and strange produce from far-flung – or less-far-flung lands. This time, they themselves semi-discovered a new delicacy to try after having seen various people on the way to our house, rummaging away in the ditches at the side of the road. What were they looking for?

Our time here has meant that we have learnt two things: not to be surprised at cars randomly, and often dangerously, parked at the side of the road and secondly, that the French will go to huge lengths to acquire the freshest of edible produce. The ditch foragers, in this case and at this time of year, were looking for responchous.

A word almost impossible to pronounce, not least because it is spelt in so many different ways (responchous, reponchons, respounchous…), this climbing plant is an indicator in our part of the world, that spring has arrived. Sometimes confused with wild asparagus, this stringy vegetable is in fact otherwise known as Black Bryony (in French, tamier commun) and needs supersonic eyesight to spot.

Foraging to many English folk, is one of those antiquated traditions in which people from slightly uncivilised nations partake. However, the French have no compunction in spending an hour or two poking about under hedges to find a delicious something-or-other which is free and can’t be bought vacuum-packed at the local Waitrose.

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by Sarah Heath | Responchous

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Responchous are particularly prevalent in the Lot, the Aveyron and the Tarn (where we live). They have pretty, heart-shaped leaves and need to be picked when young (I’m not sure how you distinguish between young and old shoots but let’s not be ageist until tasting time). It is also known as “l’herbe aux femmes battues” (battered-wives grass) for its bruise-disguising properties. Not its greatest selling point!

A forager friend, Sandrine, posted a photograph of a generous pile she had spent an hour or so harvesting along the edges of local woodland which incited our enthusiasm to try it. On the excuse of giving the dog a long walk we funnily enough ended up at a local vineyard the owners of which insisted we try all of their finest produce.. On the way home, two or three sheets to the wind, we purposely set forth on our quest to find our own responchous.

Happily ignorant of the fact that the entire plant is poisonous when uncooked, we started looking in the shrubs along the roadside and in the forest. We didn’t really know what we were searching for and we had had at least three glasses of wine each but we felt confident in our mission. We had also bumped into an old neighbour who showed us what it looked like – forgetting that she might have wanted to poison us after several 'neighbourly' altercations!