Walk cataloguing. Walk No 2

The Ajac walk.

In previous walk-catalogue post, I explained that we are moving North-Westwards, therefore all walks that we hold dear from this region must be recorded, and possibly put into a book called, walks in the Aude or something more interesting but for now, I'll include them on this blog.

So, the Ajac walk.
This is a varying length walk, can be a longish circuit of three or four hours depending on heat, or whether Mark is on the walk - very, very long legs - or it can be just a pleasant amble along a winding stream with all associated insect, flora and bird life. This morning, as it is plum season here (far too early - used to be end of August...) it was a dog amble with bags ready to scrump free fruit.
The tree I thought I had remembered must have been on another walk, or perhaps I dreamt it - an enormous umbrella of a tree covered with almost black plums - but we found clutch of other trees at the edge of a vine field, each branch weighed down with pounds of fruit, and just ripe enough to make perfect jam.
The dogs romped in the stream, chased each other up and down the grassy pathways and generally built up memories for later snoozing on the sofa - the twitching feet and the occasional muffled bark as they dozily reenact the walk.

                     

Walk's start in Ajac village

    

               The walk down towards the stream





              

                  happy dog (Gala has recently discovered the joys of stream bathing)



The sort of shed I would build

                   

                           Plum scrumping in RayBans



                

           Not such a good apricot year, but we found a few

Walk cataloguing

So . . . yes, we are in the process of moving - in that we have found a house Northwards in France, or rather North-Westwards. It was going to be purely Northwards but plans have changed . . .
It's about fourteen years since we last moved house and that was only a mile up the road. This move will be huge in distance and stuff. I've been steadily boxing up unwanted stuff for the last couple of weeks now and taking it to the equivalent of Oxfam, but the amount doesn't seem to be decreasing much. If Mark had been a flute player and just that, not a pianist/multi-instrumentalist/ethnomusicologist we might not have quite the amount of associated items, but we do, and that's fine. We also have all the antique and boot sale finds that we have accumulated over the years, partly for the pleasure of doing so but also with the idea of running a 'brocante' /tea shop somewhere. This new house may well lend itself to such an enterprise so all that has to be kept too.
Anyway, part of moving to another region is the excitement of new discoveries but also the sadness of leaving loved people and places behind. The people will hopefully visit but the places will only remain in memories and photos, therefore I feel compelled to catalogue all the favourite places, mainly those that feature in regular dog walks.

Walk one:



This involves a short car drive to a village on a hill, and a further winding road leading to a tiny hamlet called Lapayre, now just one dwelling in which resides Mr Oui, Oui, Oui, and his wife who I have never seen. If Mr Oui, Oui, Oui (called thus as his cheerful conversation is peppered with the repeated word) is around he will sally forth on his elderly but spritely legs and retail us with information about the hamlet which once held eight families all called Lapayre, the vines, the woods, his regard for all people whatever their skin colour, his happiness at living in such a place, etc.
Today, he appeared, hobbling slightly and explained that he had met with a slight tractor accident. I congratulated him on his magnificent vegetable patch (small field) which made ours look utterly pathetic, and talked about pesticide-free gardening. He led us into the veg area, cut us a lettuce the size of a turkey and handed it to me saying his chickens would only eat the outside leaves of a home-grown lettuce, non of this supermarket rubbish...
We thanked him and set out on the walk which features a gently concave slope of vines slightly resembling a saddle. The dogs, let off after a safe distance from the chickens ran off knowing well the walk's outline, just waiting at the appropriate moment when we decide whether to take the shorter walk where one admires the view of St Polycarpe Abbey and the hills of Arce (snigger not), or the longer loop walk which ends back up at Mr Oui, Oui Oui's tractor barn.
We took the longer walk which leads up into a small wood, down a lush hillside full of wild flowers and insects and then up into a small but challenging (in the heat) upward section back to the car.

 

                                     



I've probably done this walk about fifty times over our seventeen years in this beautiful area of the Aude, and I never tire of its sights, and sounds of the resident crows who live in the forest above the path and the breezes that blow through the pine trees.

                           


 

Building No 63

Transfixed, I was by this stunning shed (?) very small art studio, club house, whatever.
Especially special were the jutting out sunk pieces of stone - to hold plant pots? religious deities?
How marvellous that someone would take such care to create something so unique.
Noted and snapped on a hike up above Montazels (near Esperaza in the Aude): Bluest of blue sky, hovering birds of prey, wind rustling the pine trees and views across to the snow-covered Pyrenees.

Building No 57

                                    All that's left of the Aude's first and last concrete rocket

                           

or possibly a water tower.

Shall I compare thee . . .

to a well-organised (but not overly obsessive) wood pile. What could be more beautiful? To those who heat their house in this fashion would undoubtably agree; there's nothing quite like standing back and admiring the stacks of oak, rescued chunks of builder's planks, and branches cut from the previous years fruit tree pruning.
Now I just have to get the chimney swept. Sweeps are sought after here in September and October. Organised folk might have got the job done in the spring, but somehow the whole winter experience becomes lost with the first warmish evening and we move on to all the next season's jobs; the fire left full of last ashes and the chimney forgotten.
The first sweep I called had done the Aude region and was now moving onto the Ariege. The second arrived yesterday, took one glance and said: 'Non madame, c'est pas possible' - he had back ache and our particular type of 'insert' fire is complicated and heavy to deal with.
So back to the Pages Jaune . . . Success: Mr Bladel is coming on Saturday and has assured me that his health is fine and that any type of fire is no problem.
As the weather seems stuck firmly in late summer at the moment, fires, blanket and hot water bottles all seem mysterious things, but will no doubt all be soon revisited.

Fromage de brebis

Sheep cheese.
Ezra is fascinated by cheese-making at the moment; something I hope will last . . .
He has so far made a basic type fabricated with milk and lemon to curdle it, very nice it was too. He talks of making Chedder and other types that need to be left for months in a damp, cave type atmosphere which will be challenging as we live in a south facing villa with no cellar, but we'll see. . .
This morning we went to visit some expert 'Brebis' (sheep) milk cheese makers. Their farm is high up in the mountains above Quillan: an area of rolling rich pasture, forests of pine and circling eagles.
Monika and Andreas Muller have been making cheese and caring for their flocks of sheep up in the tiny hamlet of Parahou Petite for twenty years.
We joined Monika for a morning in the Fromagerie to see a little of the process which was fascinating and made extra special by being invited for breakfast to feast on tome de brebis (pictured) organic bread and wonderful blueberry jam.

The visit was cut slightly short as I had to get home to check the ancient dog wasn't doing anything disgraceful in the sitting room which was a shame as I wanted to see what was going to happen next to the vast vat of curdled milk.
I failed to take a picture of the 'cave' where the ripening cheese is stored; it was lovely, shelves of orangey-cream coloured cheeses, and the smell, mmm . . . Blogger, perhaps you could develop a scent-accessible blog sometime in the future.
Ezra is now dreaming up a plan of attaching a small cheese shed to the back of the house while I prepare fresh crusty bread and cheese sandwiches for lunch.
Monika sells the cheese at Limoux (Friday) and Esperaza (Sunday) markets as well as in the 'biologic' shops in the region in case you happen to be passing through the Aude.