We arrived here, under the Mont Ventoux, last Wednesday. The mistral was blowing, already at the TGV station in Avignon, even harder as we drove northeast towards the Dentelles de Montmirail and the Mont Ventoux. Grape vines turning colour, olive trees shimmering silver and covered with fruit—no worms this year, unlike last, so there will be a good crop, come Christmas, and lots of oil.
This morning our next door neighbour—the two houses have a common wall and both sit smack on the road on the way up to the village—banged on the door and Michel went down. Paul was excited and wanted him to put his shoes on and go next door. It turned out he’d killed another boar, with his team, hunting yesterday, Saturday, and he wanted to give Michel part of it. Poor Michel! He tried to refuse, but Paul was having none of it and so Michel spent the rest of the morning skinning and butchering a joint, and wondering how we’d ever eat it all. Freezer, we decided, let our foodie kids deal with it at Christmas. I chopped it into stew-sized pieces and put them in a big container with half a bottle of wine, herbs, onions and carrots. Maybe we’ll make ourselves a small pot of civet before the rest goes in the freezer, which normally we would unplug when we leave, but perhaps not, after all.