Note on Wild Boar Hunt: Princess 1, who tends to be somewhat noctural, claims to have seen the wild boar revelling under the plane trees from her bedroom window on many occasions. She seems to think this compromises the integrity of the blog. All I can say is, that was then and this is now. She is 3 foot taller. Back then she probably couldn't see past the sill.
Yesterday evening le Comte and I patronised a local music school event in Charbonville. We took Princess 2 with us as she has joined the school in an attempt to learn the piano. My hope is that if she can speak french and play the piano we may yet marry her off to one of the crowned heads of Europe. Princess 1 has no chance. She has taken up the guitar. The best she can hope for is a minor scion and probably not even that.
There was no box set aside for us unfortunately, partly because we were very late having been held up at Princess 2's fencing class. So instead of the entrance le Comte and I had anticipated we had to creep round the back of le Grand Chapiteau (large tent) and sneak in with the guys unloading the refreshments. Luckily the lady on the bar smiled at us understandingly, probably assuming that the English do this all the time. I expect she has visions of the entire population of the British isles ignoring the doors and lurking in dark places waiting for an opportunity to climb through a half-open window or crawl under a poorly secured piece of tarpaulin. But I digress...
Le Charbonville band concerts are always gratuit and therefore excellent value. Plus, they have no strings. They are the only music school in the world that doesn't teach the violin - how enlightened is that! But this time, on account of it being a special occasion, they had invited a harpist along. OMG! Ten minutes of Celtic harp music in a packed Chapiteau in southern France. And they loved it...they cheered and shouted bravo causing the harpist to toss her hair and wave her arms as she tinkled the strings. Le Comte and I held hands tightly.
On the way back to the car it started to rain hard. Despite having put plasters over several holes in the roof, this continues to be a problem. The guttering fell down last spring. It was home to a small shrubbery and therefore of limited use, but no guttering is definitely worse. The tiles, replaced sometime during Chateau Coldspot's municipal era, no longer extend beyond the building, so the rain pours on to the roof and runs straight down into the huge stone walls. And there it stays. This has resulted in several fascinating species of mushroom sprouting in our bedroom. We have donated these to our french neighbours for their lunch.
The French love of mushrooms is legendary, of course, and every year at about this time, the locals go in search of the elusive Cep. These enormous fungi are the colour and consistency of insulating foam are are tremendously popular. Previously deserted mountain sides suddenly swarm with mushroom hunters, the most talented of whom return with brimming baskets. The Cep are then dried and sold for about the same price per kilo as gold dust. Though they are apparently better in omelettes.
We thought we might have found one once, under the washing line. So we picked it and put it carefully on the kitchen worktop where it kept us entertained for most of the evening: we prodded it, peeled it, smelt it and consulted our bible 'Fungi du Languedoc'. By bedtime we were almost sure that it was indeed a Cep.
On the second day we talked about having it for tea. Cep flan was suggested with eggs, of course, from our own hens. Unfortunately, le Comte fancied barbecued goat.
On the third day the mushroom was looking very tired. It apparently found lying on the worksurface a strenuous business.
'We should eat it immediately,' I said. We checked again in 'Fungi du Languedoc'. There was almost no doubt it was probably definitely a Cep and therefore delicious. I started to heat oil in the frying pan. At about the same moment Princess 1 disappeared on her scooter and returned minutes later with pizza fresh from Enzo's van. We couldn't really waste it.
On day four the edges of the probable Cep had begun to dissolve. Juice began to form little pools in its vicinity. No one suggested eating it anymore, but it was almost certainly far too valuable to throw away.
On day five Princess 2 was up early and the Cep had disappeared.
'They're disgusting anyway,' was all she said.
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