Le Florion Des Moines - a forgotten cheese

The story of the 'Florion Des Moines'. 

The ancestral cheese of Talloires-Montmin

Once upon a time in the fields and meadows of la Tournette above the village of Talloires lived three farming families, each specialising in cheese making - one made the Reblochon, one the Tome and the third, the Florion Des Moines. In the 15th century, tragedy struck Antoine de Charrière, maker of the Florion. Accused of heresy and witchcraft, he was tried and burnt, and with him died the practice of Florion-making. The two other cheese-making families, aghast at this happening, and out of solidarity with their old friend, informed the monks (les moines, who still wished to be provided with their Florion) that they did not know how to make their mythical cheese. Fortunately, the recipe did not disappear altogether as it continued to be passed on through the Comte de Talloires' family, whose ancestors had been working the fields at Casse and at the Chalet de l'Aulp for generations.



To link back to this prestigious past and in celebration of the 1000-year anniversary of the Talloires Abbey, Pierre Comte spoke with specialist cheesemakers from the region; Monsieur Bastard Rosset from Montmin, maker of the Reblochon and Monsieur Alain Michel from Annecy. As a result of this discussion, the three men decided to bring the tradition of the Florion, this important monks' cheese, back to life.

This cheese re-birth will shine a light on the unjustly neglected cheeses of the hillsides on the east bank of the small section of the Annecy Lake. It is true that cheeses from this area are known to have been of quality, but grape growing assumed even greater prominence. The monks, themselves, decided to prioritise grape-growing, being a much more profitable activity than cheesemaking. Given that these days the vines have also disappeared from Talloires Montmin, it is only natural that the cheese should now take its revenge. Thus it was decided that the production of the Florion Des Moines, a cheese of quality from this area should once again take place on site.

If you want to fully appreciate the Florion, be advised that traditionally those from Talloires and Montmin ate it with fresh walnut bread and a good glass of Mondeuse.

Bon appétit!
(photos from Les Fromages d'Alain Michel and translation as recounted above)

As always, copies of 'But you are in France, Madame', which take you with us on our French adventure are easily downloadable at Amazon, here or send me an email on cb222@me.com if you'd prefer a print copy.

A chat about our French journey

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldjH19EFVGU&feature=youtu.be

The steps: The words - The book - The promotion - The surprises

I have meandered along this path, not altogether blindly, but with only a vague destination, no route map or compass, a very small support crew (my husband) and many passages up dead-ends, steep cliffs, never-ending, unremittingly straight roads, in earshot of the happening parties just out of sight over the next crest.

Thankfully, along the lonely way, people have happened along to say 'hi', including Annette, from A French Collection (above). Both Australian, we connected through my book and her website, discovered that we live only 170 kms apart (not far in Australian terms), have three children each of roughly the same ages and share a somewhat inexplicable attachment to France.

We met up for the first time last week and, after a simple lunch, we sat and chatted in front of the camera. If you are curious, you only need click on the link here, or above, to find out more.

As always, copies of 'But you are in France, Madame', which take you with us on our French adventure are easily downloadable at Amazon, here or send me an email on cb222@me.com if you'd prefer a print copy.

Lastly, let me say a sincere thank-you to everyone who has been a part of this publishing journey to date; your encouragements and heart-warming appearances at the sidelines have kept me going and have motivated me to see how far we can go.

What to do?

You are right; it is not the sexiest, or most interesting, of photos to lead today's blog. In fact, given all the pretty pictures of France that are out there to entice you, I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't make it past a quick glance...just like we nearly didn't make it past the silent sentinels. 

I'm never sure whether it is just us, or whether other families have car-moments when unfamiliarity and indecision turn a happy outing into stressful, white-faced, rapid-fire discussions amongst the 'adults' whilst those in the back become unusually...menacingly...quiet. 

Our first such moment, in the Montpellier underground carpark into which our GPS had unwittingly led us, did not get a photographic record. I was incapable of movement, as I waited for our car to bottom- or top- or side-out at every inconceivably tight turn. Parked, I drained myself out from my seat, through a car-to-car gap the size of our keyhole to gaze in wonder at the big 4x4s neatly aligned nearby.

Time we had a-plenty on our second car-moment, as we rounded a corner on our one-way street and nearly into the metal bollards above, before idling quietly to consider our options. There were no other cars around and, other than backing up along a labyrinth of narrow cobblestone lanes and through the afore-mentioned carpark, we had only one way out; forward. Would we glide quietly into the stubbornly unmoving posts, or perch ourselves atop said obstacles, as they disappeared then re-appeared in an untimely manner? Neither, as it turned out. Our angst was unwarranted and, as we inched forward, the posts slid from view and we exited unscathed.

But everyone knows that two negatives make a positive, right? And, FREE seaside parking offered itself up as proof. Let me know in the comments if you know why?

If you would like to read more stories from our family's French adventure, please don't hesitate to contact me on cb222@me.com for a print copy of 'But you are in France, Madame' or click on the following link for a Kindle copy.

Bunny with a message

I sent an email to a girlfriend last week. She lives in Melbourne and we were particularly close when we lived there too. I still consider that we are close, despite the fact that we had had no contact for over a year at that point. 

"Well, well, well", came the reply that afternoon, as she stepped off the plane at Sydney airport.

My Scottish grandmother believed that coincidences like that happen, and that they happen for a reason. 

So, what do I make of cute bunny below?

Do you see the difference with exhibit number 1 above?

Bunny number 2 (below) who hopped off the supermarket shelf and into my daughter's boyfriend's basket ... in Australia ... had successfully worked his incognito magic and was indeed a little French one. 

There is definitely a message in there somewhere.

Happy Easter! Joyeuses Pâques!

Stowaway French bunny 

Just about us

I could blame my non-existent recent posts on lack of time. Isn't that what busy (read important) people do? But, I'm not...so I can't. Truthfully, I have many blogs ready and waiting to go, which I'll post after they are written...and if I could find a comedic Youtube sketch portraying the things people do to avoid doing other things, I'd upload it here (please share if you have one up your sleeve).

Instead, given that I received notification that my blog was amongst the Top 100 French blogs*, and some of you reading But you are in France, Madame for the first time would be struggling to get a real sense of what this blog is all about, I thought I'd re-introduce myself.

But is Madame actually in France? Read on...

Australian-born, but French-at-heart, some years ago, I persuaded my husband to come with me on a year-long adventure to France. That one year turned into several, a book, the purchase of a house and an ongoing commitment to a place, a people, a language and a way of life.

Our three children, then aged 6, 9 and 12 came along for the ride. They were willing accomplices; completely uncertain as to what they were signing up for and, despite leaving with only one smallish suitcase each and arriving to no family, no friends, temporary accommodation, a new school system, a new language and new food and routines, they thrived. Naturally, we had our down times, our difficult times, our downright scary times but, now back in Australia, they recognise the wonderful gift that their life in France was to them.

Why France? Je ne sais pas. My first French lesson was in high school at age 12 and hooked I have been since. Could it have been Italy, Germany, Japan, Indonesia if one of these languages had been my compulsory first second-language? Maybe, but I suspect not. School French lessons turned into university studies followed by many fulfilling and happy years teaching the language to secondary pupils.

Why did we choose Annecy? This post of many months ago might help to explain.

Why, if we loved our French life as much as I proclaim, did we return to Australia? For that, you'll probably have to read my book, as it has no easy or short answer. As to our choice of life in France, I have no regrets, only pride that my husband and I did not 'do normal' and that that has given our lives a richness for which we are eternally grateful.

Do we return to France? Yes. As often as work, school and other commitments allow, we return to our second home. Each time, I am fearful that the magic will have dissipated. Each time, I try and not count down with sadness the days until our departure and concentrate instead on loving re-living in France.

If you would like to read more stories from our family's French adventure, please don't hesitate to contact me on cb222@me.com for a print copy of 'But you are in France, Madame' or click on the following link for a Kindle copy.

*Really not sure about this, and so, unwilling to put you all through unnecessary email bombardment from clicking through to unknown links, I will refrain from pasting the pictorial award.

Whatever you feel, really feel.

Path next to the Pont du Diable

Just over twenty-one years ago, I was toughing it out in a labour ward in Melbourne. My mind was firmly on things other than the traffic, visible through a flimsy curtain. Despite my lack of attention to what was happening outside and the agony of what was happening inside, I burst out laughing. Something had caught my eye.

"Don't take pain, take Panadol*" read the advertising on the side of a bus.

It happened again today - not the childbirth, but the distracted awareness of a passing bus. My mood was a lot more melancholic, as I had just finished walking alone along the beach, watching the waves through the mist of the salt spray and conscious of the noise of the cafés which, like the waves, were pumping, full of couples, families, not-a-care-in-the-world groups of beautiful singles.

"Whatever you feel, really feel."

I have no idea what the ad was for. Here's hoping it wasn't for condoms, as that would be completely ironic in light of my previous story.

But, the words on the bus, whatever they were for, legitimised my state of mind.

Three years ago, my husband, son and I headed back to France to finalise the purchase of our first French home. First, not because we have many, but, because a first, just like the child about to be born above, is memorable. The melancholy came from missing them both - France and the family-life that began at that moment; both of which, in the natural way of things, keep changing, keep me guessing, but perhaps most importantly, keep me feeling.

* Paracetamol-based tablets.



If you would like to read more stories from our family's French adventure, please don't hesitate to contact me on cb222@me.com for a print copy of 'But you are in France, Madame' or click on the following link for a Kindle copy.

Round, wooden thing that you put cheese on

Should you look inside one of my kitchen cupboards, you'd see a large range of drinking glasses - mostly recognisable as former jam, pickle or Vegemite pots. Open another door and a plastic bag, bulging at the seams, will not launch itself at you, as it has been solidly packed with flimsy supermarket shopping bags, ready for their second and subsequent uses, and wedged against the cupboard hinges. Look closely at my right summer sandal and you might detect the faint marks of the clamps and glue used to reattach the strap to the sole, and if you flick through family photos of a decade ago, you won't see those sandals, but you might see the jumper, jeans or dress that appear in my recent holiday snaps. I am not a hoarder (my children's memorabilia and my teaching books aside), so that's not the reason for such peculiarities. It is; however, one of the reasons that I adore everything about the French vide-grenier.

These joyous community events give pre-loved trash and treasure the opportunity to begin afresh, just like my array of glassware. Up and down village streets on vide-grenier day, I wander, intermittently aware of the friendly banter, good-spirited bargaining, occasional loud-speaker announcement or distant chimes from the cows and goats in the surrounding fields. The excitement does not leave me until I have perused, assessed and walked past each stall, picked up and cradled several items and made eye-contact and subsequent small talk with one or two stallholders, deserving of my attentiveness after a night of minimal sleep and maximum preparation to enable my colourful, visual tableaux.

Unsurprisingly, such events are not as frequent in winter. So, there is no alternative during these months, but to head further afield and discover more beautiful country routes and picturesque hamlets. Hardly a chore, this is exactly what we did recently and which led me right past the subject of today's blog - cheeseboards.

I hadn't paid much attention to the details of our destination. I didn't know the village, but knew that the drive through the Bauges would be possible, as the big dump of snow predicted for the week would not yet have impacted easy circulation. Usually, it is enough to note the name of the village, type it into our GPS and, when within a two-kilometre radius, follow the line of people walking from make-shift carparks to vide-grenier central. This time, we parked in front of the church...easily, which was not a reassuring sign, and, stretching from the drive, looked around. No crowds, no sounds, no tempting hot oil smells from the barquettes de frites.

Avoiding eye-contact with my own tribe,

"I might have got it wrong. Perhaps I misread the date, but let's go for a walk."

It took as long to get dressed - hats, scarves, gloves and jackets - as it did to check out the village. There was a sign on the school fence saying that a case of chickenpox had been confirmed at the école, but, whether directly related to this or not, there was no-one there.

My family are kind. They made no fuss, pretending that this crumbling wall on that ancient barn was an excellent reason for an hour-and-a-half in the car.

After fifteen minutes of sustained, deliberate looking, I turned to my husband,

"What if we were to actually look up the address?"

And, lo and behold, we were in the right village, on the right day, and nearly-the-right place, with fifteen minutes before the event was due to conclude.

We raced back to the car.

It looked promising from the road. With each newly sighted piece of bunting, van and trestle table, my spirits lifted.

Leaping out of the car, not bothering this time with careful dressing, I raced to the first stall, noting that there was a flurry of newspaper at the three alongside. Yikes, they were packing up and I had not even begun my slow browse.

A chipped Ricard jug caught my attention. I'm not opposed to chipped anything, but searching for the price, my eyes slid downwards to a circular piece of pock-marked wood.

"What do you think?"

"Get it", said my husband.

"Mmm, do you really think so?"

"Yes."

Interpreting my cautious decisiveness as a reluctance to pay the price, the stallholder offered me a five-euro reduction.

"Plus the jug?" I asked cheekily.

He nearly went for it, too, but outsmarted me by proffering another, even more battered than the first, and suggesting that I pay for just the more expensive and get the two.

"That's ok. Thanks anyway. Bonne journée, Monsieur."

Grinning happily, I thanked my son who, taking the board from me to carry it back to the car, allowed me to fit in a quick, unencumbered lap of the Méry event.

If you would like to read more stories from our family's French adventure, please don't hesitate to contact me on cb222@me.com for a print copy of 'But you are in France, Madame' or click on the following link for a Kindle copy.

We made it to February 5

We made it to February 5, our day of departure, and against all odds we were ready. Busy until the very last minute and with the pressure of being the only responsible parent, I had no time on that last day to give in to excessive emotion. The children on the other hand cried through the morning, again on the bus home from school and as I turned the key for the last time in our beautiful old wooden door before hiding it under the stone in the corner of the garden bed near the barren wisteria, and taking my seat in the car. This time our suitcases, like us, were well-travelled and worn; this time the excitement of our departure four years previously had been replaced by a dullness, and this time, it was not the rain but the snow, which had stopped falling to make possible our departure, which started falling in earnest the next day. (extract 'But you are in France, Madame')

It is hard to believe that five whole years have passed since our return to Australia. I look at the photos of the castle above, as we looked at them every day and in all seasons from our balcony in France, and the emotion is still there. I was weary, exhausted actually, from packing up a whole house, three children...our entire French lives. Some items, I sold on the French equivalent of eBay, le bon coin; some things I gave away; I sorted and packed boxes and boxes to be shipped back to Australia; our travel suitcases had to be carefully packed to include items that we would need immediately upon return; utilities had to be cancelled; the house had to be cleaned; friends had to be farewelled and normal everyday cooking, shopping, washing and mothering had to be fitted in, too.

We arrived back early in the morning to a hot summer's day. On the other side of the world, we had been suitably dressed in jeans, jumpers, thick coats and scarves but sweltered uncomfortably through the long customs queues in Sydney. Fragile and smelling less than desirable, we emerged into the Australian sun where underneath the animated chatter of our reunion with my husband we were silenced by the different light intensity and the sounds and smells that were no longer familiar.

The following day, I ventured into an Australian supermarket feeling lost and decidedly out-of-place. I wandered aimlessly picking up, putting down and picking up again a packet of Hot Cross Buns from the shelves, needing the comfort of my favourite bun despite wanting to resist the judiciously placed display for an Easter still far away. To these I added a few items that I thought I could use for making up the long-forgotten-about school lunch boxes, wincing at the copious layers of wrapping that enveloped all of the easy morning options. That was enough, I had to leave. Passing through the checkout, I realized that I only had one little foldable bag with me, a grabbed souvenir from the roadside throwaways on the Tour de France and apologized to the male cashier as I was trying to squash everything into it as quickly as I could. He looked at me and asked kindly if I was ok packing my own bags. For a brief moment, I had no idea what he was talking about and then realized that that was no longer how things were done. (extract 'But you are in France, Madame')

For many of you who have been following our adventures through this blog, or who have read our story, you will know that the adventure did continue. But, in both directions, I still make mistakes. It takes time before I remember to take our re-usable bags to the supermarket when we return to France, to say 'bonjour' before beginning a conversation, to find the right words once everything is properly back in French, to anticipate the shops shutting at lunchtime, or to hop into the driver's seat on the right side of the car in order to remain on the right side of the road. Despite the passing years, the emotion is still strong. Our last week in France is always hard, as I countdown not only all the jobs that need to be done to restore our house to perfect holiday rental conditions, but the days left to savour morning walks to the bakery, throwing open the shutters to greet the day and the mountains, unashamedly sitting idly by the window watching the snow fall, anticipating the treasures that I will find (not necessarily buy) at the permanent second-hand stores, perusing the lunchtime set menus and knowing that there is no need to schedule further afternoon activities, catching up with old friends, walking and skiing amidst the grandeur of nature...

To finish, let me share some village news. Jean Sulpice, head chef and owner at Le Père Bise in Talloires has just been awarded two Michelin stars, which is another excellent reason to visit our special place in France. Click here to read the full article from L'Express

I am again linking up to All About France. Head over to read other French-themed stories.

Or, as always, if you would like to read more of our family story, 'But you are in France, Madame' please don't hesitate to contact me on cb222@me.com or click on the following link for a Kindle copy. 

A snowy Christmas lunch and The Book Podcast interview

In a previous post, I mentioned an interview that I did with Rosemary Puddy of The Book Podcast. It was still Christmas here in France when the interview was posted and was a lovely way for me to finish the day, which had in fact been a little different from start to finish.

Being reduced in number, my husband and I decided that a snow walk and lunchtime picnic would be fun. On the drive up to our starting point at the Col des Aravis, we could have been forgiven for thinking that it was just any ordinary day. Epiceries, boulangeries, cafés, restaurants, magasins de souvenirs et de vêtements were all open for business. In fact, my daughter pointed out that we struggle to find anything open on a regular Sunday in the year in France, but on Christmas morning, everything seemed open.



The snow had fallen in abundance, unlike last year, when all those who had booked holiday ski chalets were severely disappointed with the lack of skiing and the changed festive ambiance. Additionally, the sun was bright and the sky a stunning blue and Mont Blanc was cleary visible. We were not the only ones out walking and, on reflection, it would have been a good way to shake out the cobwebs for those families that had celebrated in traditional French style on Christmas Eve.



Not completely forgoing Christmas traditions, our dinner menu once we were nicely tired out and back home was nearly exactly what we had seen posted on the boards outside the Col des Aravis restaurants - smoked salmon, chapon and bûche de Noël with a little coupe de champagne.








We were out in the snow again today much closer to home doing our own post-Christmas exercise with a little tobogganing when the cloud rolled over. It was a good reminder to us that the mountain weather needs respect. Even knowledgeable of a certain walk, the fog can disorient and be dangerous. No worries, though, for us today, as our tobogganing slope was roadside.






I hope that your festive season has been what you were hoping for.


If you would like to listen to the interview that I recorded with Rosemary on The Book Podcast, click here to listen.

If then you would like to read more of our family story, 'But you are in France, Madame' please don't hesitate to contact me on cb222@me.com or click on the following link for a Kindle copy  here is the Amazon link for a Kindle copy. 

And finally, for more French-inspired stories, hop over to this month's link-up at All About France

Thanks for nothing ... or the invisible man

For a long time, I refused to subscribe to Facebook, Instagram or any social media. I hated the thought of having to put forward a perfect public image, because, no matter how many people tell me that that isn't what happens and that people post themselves warts and all, I don't see it.

We've been back in France for less than two weeks. For those of you who follow this blog, you would already know that our trip here was less than perfect. But, since then you would have seen snow, Christmas markets, skiing, restaurants, delicious-looking French food, nature walks and smiling, happy family pics. Now for the underbelly...four doctors visits, five trips to the chemist, weigh-you-down jet lag, cancelled trips to the CERN facility, which was to be the highlight of my son's first week, postponed social events due to illness and the thought that this year we will be celebrating Christmas as a reduced family troupe of 4, not the raucous extended family gathering of 15 of last year. But, still our FB and Instagram posts look pretty good.


This morning, my husband and I were at the supermarket. I was calm, strolling the aisles, reminiscing fondly about the time a few weeks after our first arrival in France (long before But you are in France, Madame) when my husband, knowing not much French, swiped a massive jar of cornichons (gherkins) off the shelf. With a resounding crash, it ended up in a puddle and it was only thanks to my daughter's robust lack of fear of making mistakes that the whole affair was sorted in her developing French.

He, my husband, on the other hand, was subject this morning to the invisible-man phenomenon...again. I'm non-plussed, but he can be standing in front of the yoghurt, cheese, wine or canned tomato displays, obviously making his selection, when frequently he will be forced aside as someone (usually a woman) will weasel her way into the narrow gap in front of him, to reach for her product. No 'excuse-me', no 'sorry', just a slide, grab and body contact exit. Today, though, two days before Christmas, the aisles were a parking lot of trolleys and trolley-pushers. Caught in a jam, he felt the first nudge from behind, turned, spied the woman behind the offending trolley and turned away, patiently waiting his turn to move forward like those he was jammed up against. He felt the second jab. Same trolley, same woman. Surprised, yes, but still with nowhere possible to go. Third jab from behind the laden trolley and incomprehension. It was very lucky that he is a veeeery patient man, otherwise her Christmas may have gone off the rails just like her trolley was attempting to do to my husband.

Some years ago and still living in France, we were showing friends around our special patch. We went into a gift shop, had a short browse and, with a chorus of overly grateful 'mercis', we turned to exit. "Thanks for nothing", in good-enough English, came back at us. I was horrified, mortified. I was a French devotee, doing all that I could to win people over to my side, taking them out, proud of where I was living and what I was doing. This was a personal affront, one which to this day remains with me and prevents me from ever stepping back into that store.

But - I was also at the doctors this morning - for the third time in 9 days. He may have been taken-aback initially by our presence, but laughed when I asked him as we were packing up to go, if he was "Le Père Noël". Not unkindly, especially when I elaborated that, as he was the village doctor and the village mayor, plus I had seen photos of Father Christmas at the village school that resembled him, that he could feasibly be 'him' too.


Off to the chemist and business concluded, I was asked if I had yet been given a copy of the store's Christmas calendar. "No". But, how lovely. I walked out with my festive tube. A quick chat with the friendly waitress at the coffee shop and it was starting to come back to me. That was what I missed. Not the pushy trolley pusher, not the distrust for any English speaker (who actually spoke French), but a sense of belonging. Living alongside people with whom I could share light-hearted moments, who acknowledged me, accepted my family and I as part of the community and who appreciated that we were there to give, not just to take.

Wherever you are, whatever you do at this time of the year, I wish good things for you.
Thanks for being a part of this virtual community. If you haven't already done so, but would like to read more of our family story, "But you are in France, Madame" here is the Amazon link for a Kindle copy. 

If you would prefer a print copy, an Affiliate link is to be found in Kristin Espinasse's French word-a-day blog. A purchase here costs no more and would be so very much appreciated by us both.

I can get satisfaction

 Not quite as snowy but still magical with the twinkle of the Christmas lights.

It was a last minute decision to go up to the market in Thônes. We didn't stop to have breakfast at home as the BMW IBU WORLD CUP BIATHLON is taking place at Le Grand Bornand this weekend in excellent snow and we knew that this would mean heavy traffic on top of the general Saturday ski crowds; so best to be away early in an attempt to get a jump on everyone else.

Talloires is at lake level and snow had fallen here this morning, but it was colder with a much thicker cover just up the hill. Despite the passage of the snow plough, roads were icy and as recently arrived left-hand drivers, we took our time winding up through Bluffy and beyond.

On the way to the market

Breakfast

Due to the snow, the market was smaller than on a regular Saturday in Thônes, and whilst we would normally shop and then stop, today we opted for breakfast first. Tempted to return to a familiar café, we nonetheless headed into an unassuming little place facing the church. The slightly overdone wood and check Savoyard mountain decoration helped us feel at home straight away.  Unsurprisingly (you are in France, Madame), there were no croque-monsieur available despite the 'Croque-monsieur à toute heure' sign, but the coffee and croissant were fine substitutes, the service was friendly and the snow flakes thick and luscious outside. We were the only guests, but the barkeeper, deep in conversation with a friend, headed towards the door to continue talking out of earshot. Clearly still worried about our possible indiscretion, the ladies headed outside to stand in the snow and continue conspiratorially.

With the arrival of another gentleman, it was back to business. Madame la serveuse realised at this point that the music had stopped. Was Monsieur there to sing for her, she called out, laughingly.

Tomme de Savoie

Thônes

I was too far away to attempt to eavesdrop on this conversation, and too shy to zoom in and get a clear photo, but would have loved to be a part of this tête-à-tête (which then technically would no longer have been a tête-à-tête).

 

 

Back in Talloires with blue skies trying to wipe the grey slate clean.

A perfect culmination to a market visit is displaying our produce and making our lunch selection.

Personally, no fancy restaurant necessary, I can get my satisfaction with what you see below. 

PS If you are thinking that there is a lot of cheese on this lunch table, you'd be right. Promise that the wheel of tomme fermière, the log of goats' cheese and the two wide wedges of Comté and Beaufort made it through more than just lunchtime.

Soup, bread, cheese and ham

As always,  if you would like to read more of our family story, 'But you are in France, Madame', here is the Amazon link for a Kindle copy.
If you would prefer a print copy, an Affiliate link is to be found in Kristin Espinasse's French word-a-day blog. A purchase here costs no more and would be so very much appreciated by us both.

My Johnny story

"On a tous en nous quelque chose de Johnny"

"We all have a bit of Johnny in us..." wrote Emmanuel Macron this morning after learning of the death of French rock star Johnny Hallyday.

Even me, from a country far, far away.

I encountered Johnny on my first visit to France as a young, impressionable assistante d'anglais. Everything in that year was new, challenging, exciting and terrifying in equal measures. With no money to my name, buying CDs was out of the question, but I was aware of this icon of French music. I had no real idea whether I was supposed to admire him or not, but listen I did.

My favourite song was Laura, written for his daughter in 1986.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HjnwtIE74ek

In 2009, it was the turn of my husband, and my three children to return to France with me and prior to our departure from Australia, I introduced them to Johnny.

Today, like so many, I react with sadness and say chapeau Johnny.
Adieu.

PS Johnny himself used these words in relation to Jacques Chirac in 1988. A neat way for Macron to politically salute Monsieur Hallyday.

Then and Now - Cycling France in 1957

Below, the original article that I wrote after a lovely, lengthy email communication with 82 year-old British cyclist, Peter Newman. As you will read, Peter and three mates did a cycling tour of their own in 1957, which crossed paths with the actual Tour de France. They had none of today's tools to assist with their preparation or their day-to-day comfort, making what they did a real exploit in my mind. Read on to discover more, or if it is easier to read the web version;  here it is - web article in France Today. 

Thank-you to Peter for his indulgence with the clarification of details and the time that he gave to answering my many emails. It was lovely to get to know him over the miles.

As always,  if you would like to read more of our family story, 'But you are in France, Madame', here is the Amazon link for a Kindle copy.
If you would prefer a print copy, an Affiliate link is to be found in Kristin Espinasse's French word-a-day blog. A purchase here costs no more and would be so very much appreciated by us both.