Speaking FrangaAfter our President's recent little faux-pas in calling the Australian Prime Minister's wife "delicious" (we assume he meant delightful but... maybe not?), linguistic challenges trip up even the greatest of the great and the good.  As Charlemagne, King of the Franks once said, "D'avoir une deuxième langue, c'est posséder une deuxième âme" (Having a second language is to have a second soul). Would Franglais have counted or would Charlemagne have fainted at the horrors which slip out of the mouths of Brits? Maybe he would have enjoyed the enthusiasm of the speaker and encouraged such comical communication?

Sometimes it's a case of the right word but the wrong pronunciation: sometimes it's just completely the wrong word. Chatting away to one of my closest friends as she was sticking photos to her fridge, I suggested that perhaps she needed magnets. This wasn't what I actually asked though: "As-tu des amants?" was the question I put to her – "do you have any lovers?" Familiar with my sometimes random vocabulary, she corrected me: "aimants, des aimants".

My husband did his placement year at a hotel in Charente-Maritime. The restaurant was one of those old-fashioned places with overly-starched white tablecloths in which nobody speaks above a whisper and rich, old ladies insist their handbag-dogs actually sit at the table with them. In an attempt at polite conversation as he cleared one such lady's plate, he uttered the words, "Terminez, Madame? Vous êtes pleine?"  Thinking he was asking if she had had enough and was full, he was actually asking if she was pregnant!

After sustaining a calf injury and being unable to continue running for a while, the physio was a little shocked when I asked if I could "have a go on the chimney sweep". I had meant to ask if I could use the rowing machine. "Ramoneur" is "chimney sweep" and "rameur" is "rowing machine".

There are words which are very difficult for Brits to pronounce properly: "fauteuil" (armchair) being one but my personal nightmare is "bouilloire" (kettle). Place names can also be a challenge: chatting with friends about skiing, I asked, "Vous skiez dans les Pyrénées?" ("Do you ski in the Pyrenees?"). The words were right, the pronunciation after a few glasses of local wine, not so good. I pronounced it "périnée" which is the word for "perineum". Not a place to ski!

French-to-English is not so easy either: I've seen signs for "Black Shag", "Willy Photographie" and a kennels called "Maison du Barf". My favourite ever washing instruction is "Go and ask you mother" but the "Made in Turkey"/"Fabriqué en Dinde" comes a close second. Wouldn't life be boring if we got it right all the time?

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by Sarah Heath | Chinese Lantern Festival

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The Gaillac region is usually known for its wonderful vineyards and historical bastides or the medieval city of Albi. But now, all of a sudden, Gaillac is the talk of France thanks to the stunning, world-renowned Chinese Lantern Festival, Festival des Lanternes. It is the first time ever it has appeared in France, or even in Europe. The event opened at the beginning of December after having taken two months to construct by the 40 members of the team. It remains open until the end of January.

The festival has been so popular – 14,000 visitors last Friday alone – that there was even talk of extending it for a further two weeks. Attendance figures are already almost hitting the 150,000 mark – well above the predicted 100,000. People have come from right across France but also from Italy, Spain and the UK to see the enchanting display. Our children thought they were at a Gaillac version of Disneyland!

The festival celebrates Chinese culture originating from the Tang Dynasty (AD 618-907) in the town of Zigong in the Sichuan Province which has been given the pseudonym ‘Lantern Town of the South Kingdom’.

Held at the Parc Foucaud, itself listed as a place of historical interest, the exhibits are spread right through the grounds, creating a dreamy, glittering backdrop as night falls. The lanterns themselves are shaped to represent ancient stories and myths. But there are also exquisite hand-made models of animals: a field of zebra, a panda forest and a dazzling 80m-long dragon, which is made up of thousands of pieces of crockery laced with tiny lights.

As you enter the park, you walk along a row of Chinese zodiac predictions for 2018. The children loved finding the year of their birth and the corresponding animal among the twelve different display panels. (It seems that only the 'rats' are going to have a good year!)

There are over 100 different hand-made sculptures, built from silk, paper, glass and porcelain and individually lit up. Many stand over 10m tall. Aside from sculptures of animals, there are also pagodas and temples and even a specific nod to Gaillac itself:  to reflect the town’s history of winemaking, several exhibits in the shape of wine bottles and glasses have been built especially.

 

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by Sarah Heath | Galette des Rois

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La Galette des Rois is another unavoidable food tradition in France! Just when you've resigned yourself to eating lettuce leaves for the whole month of January after the excesses of Christmas, French bakers unashamedly put your resistance to the test by making the most simple-looking, but wickedly calorie-laden cakes called galettes des rois. 

The galettes are traditionally eaten at this time of year as part of Epiphany celebrations around the sixth of January. This is meant to symbolise the arrival of the Three Wise Men to Bethlehem bearing gifts for the infant, Jesus. However, as with many Christian festivities, the date was originally a pagan celebration – this one for the winter solstice. And as with many French festivities, the tradition (which has been going on since the 14th century) has been converted into something heavenly to eat!

My children, however, are more interested in finding the hidden treasure inside the cake than in the history behind it. The fève, a small charm (although big enough to break your teeth if you accidentally bite into it) is hidden inside the cake. Before the onslaught of mass production in China, the fève was originally a simple broad bean, whereas these days they are made from porcelain or plastic. Tradition dictates that the youngest child hides under the table and in an orderly fashion, decides who is offered each slice.

Such civility is sadly lacking at my house – my children just argue over which bit they want or don't want after microscopically examining each slice for uneven bumps which might expose the prize. Allegedly adding to the pretty carved design on the top of the cake, they will also prod and stab it with a knife in order to find the fève there within. Whoever finds it is crowned for the day with the accompanying paper crown and can choose their 'King' or 'Queen'. This king or queen selecting apparently poses a real dilemma for ten-year-old school children who find it very embarrassing to single out a particular other to be their royal partner for fear it may expose who they are 'in love' with! To fève or not to fève, that is the question....

To avoid a constitutional crisis at the Elysée Palace, the presidential baker is banned from adding a fève to the Head of State's galette so that there is no uneasiness about the presence of a king within the walls of a presidential palace! 

The cake is usually made from puff pastry filled with frangipane, a paste made from almonds, butter, eggs and sugar. Nowadays, there are many variations using chocolate, fruit and cream – artisan bakers use their imaginations! One famous bakery in the Marais district in Paris,

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by Sarah Heath | Two veggie's at a butcher's

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Having never been to the Provence Cote d’Azur area of France, we were very excited when my sister-in-law and her family invited us to stay with them in a beautiful villa they had rented for their holidays. The villa was just outside a little village called La Garde Freinet, about half an hour inland from St Tropez.

Our adventures began just as we were winding up the meandering roads up to the lovely medieval village which is situated in the Massif des Maures in the Var. Slowly approaching the next corner, we spotted a wild boar! He didn’t flinch – or move an inch – as we passed him by. He was obviously used to British tourists!

The following day, my sister-in-law and I offered to walk into the village to buy the ingredients for supper that evening. We strolled through the daily market and picked up the supplies we needed until all that was left to buy were a couple of whole chickens. Jut off the main square, we found the butcher’s shop, Chez Jean-Jacques which was run by the butcher, who had one of those strangely corned beef-type complexions, and his smiley wife who was there working alongside him.

“Qu’est-ce-qu’il vous faut, Madame?” ("What would you like, Madame?") I asked for the two chickens whereupon he pulled open the door of a walk-in fridge and reappeared promptly with the chickens. As he was in the process of weighing and wrapping them, the butcher’s wife suddenly looked at her watch and declared, “C’est midi alors – l’heure d’apéro!” ("It's midday – time for an aperitif!")

“Would you like one?” she asked. “Yes please!”, the two of us replied, a bit confused at this slightly out-of-the-norm suggestion. We were noticeably apprehensive as to what she might produce when she then entered the walk-in fridge, pushing past various hanging carcasses with her blood-stained apron. But she reappeared.....with a bottle of nicely chilled rosé! After pouring us each a plastic cupful, she offered us a little cocktail sausage to go with our drink.

Confession time! “Actually, we're both vegetarians”, I explained feeling slightly embarrassed at my lack of carnivore status. Without missing a beat, she picked up a little leek tart from the fridge display and split it four ways for us.  “Santé!” The wine and the tart were delicious despite the bloody surroundings.

To make up for the slightly embarrassing fact that we were two vegetarians in a butcher’s shop in Provence, we bought some delicious courgette gratin. This was for us to take back for the two of us to have for supper instead of the chicken. (Who am I kidding – the courgettes were probably...

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by Sarah Heath | Remembering World War II

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It's difficult when admiring the peaceful countryside we see today, to imagine the barbarity which went on in this part of the world around 80 years ago. German forces took over south west France and the reality which had to be faced by the people who lived here was unthinkable. And while the military heroes are deservedly saluted each year on days of commemoration, civilians (whose fathers, sons and brothers fought on the front line) and what they lived through, are often overlooked. Their discreet part in the war effort is largely unsung but their stories are equally, if not more, fascinating than their family members who fought in the armed forces.

Jean-Louis, the man from whom we bought our house in Gaillac, who remains a neighbour and friend, is one such witness to life during the war. His family lived on a farm near Toulouse when war broke out and he has clear memories of that time when he was just a young boy. He remembers the day when his family were visited by SS officers searching for resistance fighters and illegal weapons. They had apparently been tipped off by neighbours (such was the level of distrust at the time) and while walking around their home, one officer noticed a photograph of Jean-Louis's father, Gaston, dressed in army uniform. The officer spat on the floor in contempt upon which six-year-old Jean-Louis also spat on the floor. His young patriotism was rewarded with a sharp tap on the cheek with the officer's whip.

Gaston, at the time of this unwelcome intrusion, and unbeknown to the rest of the family, was a prisoner of war. A soldier in the 14th Infantry Regiment, he had been captured in 1940 in the Vosges Mountains. After having been initially kept prisoner in Italy, (he escaped twice before being recaptured), he was subsequently transferred to Rawa Ruska, a prison camp in the Ukraine. Rawa Ruska was known as "the camp of thirst and slow death" and from 1942, was where French prisoners endured torture and starvation as punishment for refusing to work in German factories, or for sabotaging German facilities. Gaston was kept in this hellish place before finally being repatriated at the end of the war in 1945.  For over two years, Jean-Louis and the rest of the family didn't know whether he was alive or dead.

Jean-Louis's wife, Christine, has an equally fascinating personal recollection of the war, also around the Toulouse area. When war was declared, her father, André Mot, became a member of the Blagnac Résistance. This part of France was under the control of the Nazi-collaborating Vichy government and along with many others, Mot felt he couldn't stand by and do nothing. He became heavily involved in the Résistance's communication networks. He was responsible for distributing Résistance newspapers as a sideline to his respectable accountancy job. But Mot soon became engaged in far more dangerous activities.