During the first week at the farm in Medoc, I joined my hosts and some of their friends at a Ginguette. Ginguettes were outdoor bars that opened exclusively in the summer months. They were fairly modern inventions having only caught on in the last twenty years or so. Finding out about these felt like a life hack for the South of France as most towns had one and they always had good food, cheap drinks, music and plenty of locals. We also visited the beaches (plages) around Medoc, in particular la plage de Gurp; a popular surfing destination that faced the Atlantic. During the Second World War the French coastline, including Gurp, had been occupied by Germany. These days the beach was still strewn with enormous concrete bunkers, which now acted as graffiti covered hideouts for kids. The beach was always packed with people, almost all of whom were German. Greg informed me that, having discovered Gurp during the war, the Germans still thought highly of the beach and its reputation had spread through word of mouth down the generations.
We also visited a coastal market town called Montalivet. Montalivet operated much like a Ginguette in that for most of the year it was completely deserted, then during summer it would come to life as a bustling market town. Vendors sold artisanal soap, antique jewellery, shabby hemp bags, and all the classic French foods, including oysters (huitres). Having never tried oysters before, we bought a tray of them and Greg demonstrated the right way to go about eating them. Oysters were eaten alive, and the first job was to gently detach them from the shell using a knife or spoon. You then threw back the oyster and either chewed it or swallowed it whole depending on preference. Oysters were yet another French delicacy that seemed to be eaten more out of cultural pride rather than enjoyment. They tasted like sea-water with the texture of a wet sneeze. After gulping down an oyster, you would take a bite out of a raw shallot then wash the lot down with white wine. Lemon and cider vinegar were provided with the oysters, presumably to mask the taste. The dubious lunch was saved by the discovery of a vendor who sold spheres of choux pastry filled to the brim with cream (chantilly) and covered with a light dusting of icing sugar.
Back on the farm, music became a very useful medium of communication. With Greg being fluent in English and me being busy with projects, there were few opportunities for practicing French. In the evenings we would often gather around the fire for an apero, and one day Gaston joined us, bringing a pair of large congas with him. He started slapping at the skins randomly with an expression of deep focus on his face. There was no discernible rhythm but it added nicely to the twilight ambiance. Clearly in deep flow, he gestured at me to join him so I hopped up and started playing the other conga. I played drums (les batteries) for several years in school, so tapping out a passable rhythm came very naturally. Gaston was thrilled, and swore appreciatively whilst we played. We continued whilst Greg prepared dinner and the chickens clucked sleepily in a nearby prune tree (pruneau). At intervals, the cross-eyed tabby would cartwheel through the air away from the fire, only to prowl back into the glow moments later to find a more forgiving person to pester.
When we later attended a barbecue hosted by some of Greg and Claire’s friends, congas were preemptively bought out. Whether this was out of appreciation for my drumming or to avoid my garbled French wasn’t clear, but my new reputation as a musician proved to be a blessing and a curse. After the introductions (one kiss on each cheek in Southern France) conversations could dry up quickly when the speakers realised they had to repeat every other sentence in order for me to understand. After a bit of music however, people seemed much more willing to put up with a conversation in slow, broken French. Conversely, the English speaking attendees became very keen to practice their English and would talk at great length. Over dinner, the wife of a family member quizzed me on my horoscope, and a cousin described in detail how he had set up a climbing wall with some friends in Montpellier. We ate grilled monkfish followed by rabbit and pork stew, and drank wine from the Chateau next to the farm; a fruity bordeaux. Food, drinks and music proved to be a language we all shared.
At the farm I took on a new project; installing an anaerobic digester (methaniser). This was essentially a large plastic sac with an inlet for household waste and an outlet for natural gas that would be produced as the contents decayed. The setup weighed around one and a half tons when full and needed a flat surface to sit on, so I began by building a wooden deck mounted in concrete (béton). This was slow going as the site Greg had chosen was a ditch that needed filling before the supports could be added, so I spent a couple of days in the sun weaving wheelbarrows of soil between the goats and chickens. Otto was curious about the new project, and would regularly drop by to sleep directly in my path; having spent his life living with goats, he wasn’t particularly bright.
With frequent changes to the project, including additional reinforcements and cleaning of a wall beside installation site, the deck took a little under two weeks to build which left very little time to install the digester. I had time to place the unit on the new deck, fill it with water and attach the fittings. The only job remaining was to attach some piping to carry the gas to the kitchen, which didn’t yet exist but was intended to be built in the back of a circus wagon parked on the property. After attempting to explain to Greg what was left to be done after my departure, he insisted in full seriousness that “you must complete your challenge”, a technique he had employed on a previous worker to convince him to stay for another three days to complete a fence. I declined, he insisted, and in the end we went our separate ways on bad terms; an unfortunate end to an otherwise excellent visit.
When the next day came around, Claire gave me a lift to the station where I wished her the best of luck with the goats and headed out to the platform. The sun was warming up for an especially hot day as the platform steadily filled with people, mostly German, waiting for the train to Toulouse. The train arrived late, and around lunchtime it stopped off in Bordeaux, where I had a layover for two hours. Having stopped off in a restaurant to eat and use the wifi, I received a call from Gaston. We hadn’t had a chance to talk in the morning, so he was calling to say goodbye. Without music or food to help, the phone call was a jumble of French and English.
“Next time”, he said, pausing to search for the words “you can stay chez moi, no problem.”