This year we’ve had stunning crops in England, and news of
drought in Spain. The garden in the field at Stow has overwhelmed us - and our
neighbours have benefited from our surfeit. We’ve been feasting on potatoes,
peas, beans, aubergines, radishes, lettuce, cauliflower, calabrese, savoy and
sweet corn, oh and Margaret’s startlingly yellow courgettes plus some very nice
plums and delicious raspberries. It was really difficult to tear ourselves
away, but we did, not even stopping at our home from home in Dover before
landing in France and making a toll road dash for Rheims.
Why Rheims? Nothing to do with gardens at all. Shortly before leaving Oxford I attended a
riveting lecture on the evolution of church architecture across Europe and
Rheims cathedral was highly praised. Always
difficult to park a motor home in a city overnight of course, but we managed to find a place within walking distance of
this vast, highly decorated, gothic creation of the 13th century
where many monarchs had been crowned and Joan of Arc is vividly remembered. I
was entranced by the dual towered entrance facade and really moved by the
spacious interior. But enough of that, we had nearly a thousand miles to go
before we would get to our Spanish garden.
Late on our second night we drove into a small town called
St Pierre La Moutier which seemed quite an interesting place on the map. However,
we quickly realised that we had made that same choice earlier in the year and
found it quite dull except for the bar which was quite lively. No restaurants
were open then so we had to dine on unmemorable take away pizzas. This time
even the bar was closed and we dined on...
Next day, we said goodbye to St Pierre for ever and headed
towards Toulouse in the hope of seeing its cathedral and visiting our grandson
who lives on the other side of the Pyrenees. Neither event happened for various
reasons, but on the way we did get to stay the night in Cahors, a city of
France that we had always avoided for no particular reason. It was lovely. The
river Lot embraces Cahors in a graceful horseshoe; the main streets runs through
the centre of the place and is lined with wide pavements fronting busy shops,
bars and restaurants; and that street separates the old quarter from the new where
even the latter is attractive, especially the stunning bridge that crosses the
Lot on that side. The cathedral, a twin domed building, lies in the old quarter
of course - an area laced with narrow streets and many bars. We found one near
the cathedral which sold the famous Cahors wine (Malbec) and where everyone
kissed a lot – except us.
We left Cahors vowing to return one day for a longer visit,
roared through Toulouse and then crossed the splendid Pyrenees through a pass
which I would not recommend to anyone in a motor home or in fact in any motor:
constant tight curves always rising steeply through narrow roads lined by tall
menacing trees. But it did lead us to Formiguera, an alpine-like town with
crystal clear air and stunning views over a high green valley.
It was in a bar in Formiguera that we met an ex-pat who had
lived in France for thirty years and knew it all. He sorted me out on subjects ranging from
real ale to Brexit and told me that he had once earned a fortune selling more
than a thousand ice-creams a day on the beach in St Tropez. Fascinating.
More twists and turns as we threaded our way down through Cataluña,
our belligerent neighbour which soon intends to foment the breakup of Spain
through an illegal referendum. We reached Aragon, our own section of the
country, unscathed and were soon looking over the five terraces of garden that
is, as they call it here, our huerto.
Desiccated it certainly was, but the drought had at least
kept the weeds under some control. My irrigation system, a constant work in
progress, had silted up yet again, but had probably got the trees through the
worst of it. One tree, growing where a joint in my plastic tubing had split,
was doing extremely well; others were looking parched, but may recover. I began
emergency treatment – buckets of water and intense drip feeding – hope it
works. On the plus side I found some potatoes in our overgrown veg patch,
handfuls of delicious grapes on the feral vines and even some small apples on
one tree. No almonds, but the olive trees that I had pruned mercilessly the
year before had survived and were bearing some fruit.
Margaret’s cacti up on the sun terrace of the house survived
of course. Perhaps cactus gardening’s the thing. Prickly pears anyone?