Slowly Does It - Pumpkin Pie Porridge

This is my submission for 'Go Ahead Honey It's Gluten Free!', the gluten free baking event started right here on this humble lil old blog and carried aloft by the great and good of the gluten free community - God bless you every one (and all the other gods too, they bless you - and if you're Buddhist like me then you know that attachment to being blessed is counterproductive.....ah, I seem to have lost my train of thought).

Ah yes, the theme this month being slow food - the kind that takes hours to meld into something way more than the sum of its parts, the kind that celebrates sitting down with family and really tasting what's on your plate, a celebration of the chef's time and talent, the kind of food that is hopefully sourced from as near your house as possible and carried home in a re-usable bag......

Just lately, an idea for a breakfast soup has been bubbling away on the back burner of my creative stove. It may sound like a bizarre concept to those who rely on cereal, toast or even eggs for their morning meal, but I am about to prove to you that even the reluctant can be persuaded and then even converted to this warm and delicious way to start the day.

I've had cherry soup before, and chilled yoghurt soups too, why a smoothie ain't so far removed from a soup when you come to think of it? So why did I meet with such resistance when I shrugged on my apron and tossed some carrot in a pan this morning?

You know the kind of sweetness that emerges from roots vegetables when you cook them slowly in a little spoonful of fat? That's what I was after for this soup that was sweet and cinnamon kissed and emerged slowly, as we sat in the warm kitchen and watched the frost lift off the grass, under the first rays of sun slinking into the garden.

When the buttery apple had given off that fantastic autumnal scent and the carrots melded with the squash almost to collapse, I tweaked the final cinnamon note and blitzed away with the food processor until everything was an unctuous velvety orange. It was delicious and hugely reminiscent of that pumpkin pie I shared so reluctantly with my boys.

As a soup, or even a sauce it was both hearty and yet delicately flavoured - but it became something much more breakfasty when I stirred in a few spoonfuls of freshly ground almonds. The soup became a warmly spiced fruity porridge, slightly sweet, nutty and satisfying enough to see me through until lunch time. It would have been delicious with a spoonful of yoghurt or creme fraiche - but my yoghurt maker still had another 12 hours to complete in the 24 hour SCD yoghurt marathon, ho hum.

"Hey guys you have to taste this soup!" I ventured enthusiastically - whilst fearing that I had made a rather small test batch.

Fin and Nick peered dubiously at the bowl I was photographing and started to mutter excuses about not being that hungry and planning to eat just a morsel of something else that definitely wasn't soup - for breakfast.

Unperturbed, I sat down to eat my delicious bowl of porridge with a great deal of lip smacking and appreciation while Fin hovered about and Nick scarfed down a rather conventional looking bowl of oats.

Eventually the performance got the better of Fin and he leaned in for a taste of the intriguing gloop. And then like a trained killer, he swooped in silently - before I had a chance to shout, "stop thief!", and snatched the whole bowl - like Goldilocks finding she did like the little bear's porridge - whisking it off to the other side of the table to gobble up before it got cold. Humph! I guess the lesson here is not to call this soup, or gloop - spin it a little and your audience will be swallowing down their breakfast food prejudices before you can say pumpkin.

If you want to eat this any time before 10am, make it the night before - it won't be rushed! In the morning, heat thoroughly and stir in your ground nuts until it has the right porridgy consistency before spooning something cool and creamy on top or adding a drizzle of your favourite honey. Porridge, it ain't - but it does seem to fit right in that place porridge used to occupy and I'm looking forward to many a steaming bowl of this on a cold winter's morning to warm my spleen and bring a hint of pumpkin pie to the day.

Pumpkin Pie Porridge (three modest portions)

1 sweet eating apple
1 tsp butter
1 tsp coconut oil
6 oz carrots (peeled weight)
half a small squash (about 6-8oz peeled and de-seeded)
1/2 tsp cinnamon

1 extra tsp coconut oil to finish
Approx 9 dessertspoons of ground nuts (I used almonds with skin on)

Peel, core and chop the apple roughly.

Melt both butter and 1 tsp coconut oil in a saucepan and add the apple, saute over medium heat until it starts to soften.

Chop carrots and add to the pan. Turn the heat down low and stir every now and then as they start to soften.

Chop squash and add this to the pan. Keep the heat low and stir occasionally until everything is soft and starting to colour. It will take about half an hour.

Then add enough boiling water to cover the veg, sprinkle over cinnamon and simmer for about an hour with the lid firmly on. If the liquid level drops then top it up, but don't add too much - you can always thin it down at the end.

When the hour is up, pour everything into a blender and process until velvety smooth. Add the remaining coconut oil and process again. Does it need more cinnamon, a little honey, or is it just right?

Either chill overnight or eat straight away with three spoonfuls of ground nuts added to each bowl and stirred in, perhaps sprinkle a little ground cinnamon over the top and the afore mentioned optional extras spooned generously over the top.

Banana Breakfast

I remember the rhythm of waking before Fin swelled our little family to three.

Weekday mornings would snatch me with a gasp as the alarm clock reached into the deep waters of sleep, pulling my limp body up to the surface too fast, like a new baby taking that first painful breath and then yowling, "no! put me back!". Then I'd sink smoothly into reprieve for a few delicious minutes of stolen snooze, before the next ring sent me hurtling headlong into the bathroom and something smart and kooky to wear. Breakfast - humph! Gotta catch a bus and then a train and then sprint the last bit and hope I screech in before someone superior can give me that look again.

Weekends were a different matter, a long lazy summer afternoon of dozing and turning over until eventually my eyes opened voluntarily and I could regard the day stretching ahead with that peaceful anticipation of, 'time off'. My time, to drift as I would through a gentle brunch reading the papers into a long bath and then maybe think about grabbing the day by the horns - if that's what I felt like.

Of course, if I'm honest - this state was somewhat too often produced by my need to recover from the exuberance and lateness of the night before. But my point is - it was all my choice.

Now my mornings have an entirely different pattern and one that varies less, because it is determined by Dorset's most reliable alarm clock - Finley.

At 6.50am each morning - weekday or not - Fin arrives clutching an alarm clock and asks in a stage whisper if he can come in for a cuddle. Mostly I manage to surface long enough to nod at the alarm clock inches from my face, and he gets into bed to wriggle for ten minutes, all cold feet and hands, telling us about his dreams or just sharing random thoughts that neither of us can work our mouths well enough to respond to.

At 7am he decides to go downstairs and we start the ascent into waking, holding each other tight in the warmth and remembering how it feels to drift in and out of sleep without obligation or deadline, before we push the covers back and slide out of bed like a pair of spineless mollusks.

When I get downstairs, Fin is waiting with his beak open chirping,
"feed me, feed me, feed me".
So I ask him if he wants eggs or banana breakfast? And because he is having a growth spurt, the answer is always, "both".

A quick SCD breakfast that keeps you going can be tough if you don't want to eat lots of nut bread and don't have the time to make pancakes, muffins or a cooked breakfast. I often eat leftovers myself - soup is my favourite, but nobody else seems to share my enthusiasm for these savoury delights. In the summer we opted for smoothies as a grab and go meal - adding a spoonful of nut butter to beef them up a bit and remembering to chew them too - but as the frost settles on the grass overnight, something more satisfying and muesli-like is required.

My solution is the 'banana breakfast' - a delicious mixture of fruit, nuts and yoghurt that ticks the muesli box without ever even glancing at an oat flake. It's the sort of thing you can vary according to the fruit you have and dress up with additions such as dessicated or shredded coconut, chopped nuts, seeds and dried fruit. But beware SCD newbies - coconut, seeds, dried fruit and chopped nuts can be tough on the digestion, so don't add them until your system is calm and untroubled or you will be in for a windy day or worse.....

Banana Breakfast - per person

1 perfectly ripe banana with brown spots on the skin
1 piece of other fruit (fig, apple, plum, peach, half mango....)
2 desertspoons of ground nuts
few whole nuts, coconut, dried fruit etc
portion of SCD yogurt
spoonful of runny honey

I like to toast my ground nuts and keep them in a jar in the fridge. Toast a trayfull at a time in a moderate oven, stirring occasionally, until pale golden brown.

Chop your banana and toss it in a bowl with the toasted ground nuts. Spoon yoghurt into each serving bowl and place the nutty banana on top. Chop your chosen fruit and add this to the bowl. Add any extras and drizzle over a scant teaspoonful of runny honey if you feel you need it.

I have this breakfast without the yogurt, as I don't eat dairy. Just pour a little water or fruit juice over to moisten the nuts instead.

Vanilla Pumpkin Pie (SCD)

Cradling a mug of vanilla rooibos tea after consuming a rather toothsome lunch of sardines with espellette peppers, spinach and parsley salad with capers and some mouth wateringly tender artichokes in oil, I felt in need of something creamy and distinctly dessert-like to pop into the small space left. It was not, you realise - an actual space in my stomach, really more of a metaphorical space, the one that opens up during a cosy evening at home wearing your favourite stripy bed socks or gives a gentle rumble at about four thirty in the winter months, when the sky is fading into pink and gold behind leafless trees. The whisper that says, "you don't need pie right now, but a slice of something would really wrap up this moment just fine".

Of course, I had something in mind already and although I knew the eating of it would have to wait till the evening - just the thought of pie making seemed to quiet down those post lunch rumblings as I tied on a fresh apron and leafed through my recipe books for inspiration. I was looking for pumpkin pie - that American thanksgiving staple and something that I had baked many a time back in my days as a commune dweller. The problem was that those pies were based on crisp buttery pastry and a delicately spiced pumpkin custard - rich with brown sugar and un-pasteurised cream. Strangely enough, none of my recipe books contained anything for pumpkin pie - except the unparalleled Jane Grigson in her formidable Vegetable book. I glanced over the recipe and its proportions long enough to see that it was also based on a creamy custard.....hmm. I placed all the books back on the shelf and did what I do best - made it up as I went along - hurrah!

Fin's afternoon visitor that day was staying to supper. I repeatedly had to bite my tongue as he pushed a perfectly good roast dinner around the plate - organic chicken roasted with bay, lemon and carrots in the tray, spaghetti squash with butter, minted petits pois and new season broccoli. "Can I have a banana?" was his eventual request, as Fin simultaneously popped his empty plate next to the sink and asked hopefully if there was dessert?

However, when I bought the pumpkin pie to the table, even this reluctant dinner guest agreed to have a small piece and then came back for seconds. I wished he had eaten more vegetables and left the pie for me, but there you are....

When Nick came down from putting Fin to bed I offered him a piece of pie - half hoping that he would say no to the now rather diminished pie reserves left. "Pumpkin pie?" he said, with not a faint whiff of disgust, "I'll have a very small piece then". I bought him in a very small piece indeed - rather happily imagining myself eating the rest for elevenses.

Nick's fork hovered for a moment as he anticipated tasting something not nice, yet having to make a polite face to avoid offending his wife. I already knew that the pie was completely delicious and any dislike on Nick's part was just further confirmation of his deranged taste buds (see earlier evidence that Nick has a bizarre dislike for tahini and dates here).

As the first forkful hit that fussy tongue, Nick turned to me with a look of unabashed apology. "This pie is amazing!".

I know.

This pie is amazing - the crust has that crunchy texture I remember from a digestive biscuit (graham cracker) crust and just a hint of salt to offset the gooey, fudgy caramel and vanilla flavour of the pumpkin filling. The subtlest hint of cinnamon is what's needed here - I know that traditional pumpkin pie has a warmly spiced custard, with cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg all vying for attention. Well I like to let the pumpkin speak for itself, with assenting murmurs from the vanilla, honey and cinnamon providing the warm background of a mid morning coffee shop.

If you can tolerate dairy then it would be superb with some Greek style strained SCD yogurt - or a dollop of creme fraiche. I loved it just as it was - and now it's gone, like a newly minted love affair - I just can't stop thinking about it........

Vanilla Pumpkin Pie (serves six modestly)

Of course, squash is what we all use for pumpkin pie - I guess squash pie just isn't alliterative enough? Use any of the dense fleshed squashes, celebration, potimarron, acorn, butternut, harlequin.......

Crust Ingredients
2 oz hazelnuts
4 oz ground almonds
1 oz butter
2 heaped tsp set honey
pinch sea salt flakes

Filling Ingredients
12 oz squash (peeled and de-seeded weight)

2 oz butter
3 heaped tsp set honey
1 tsp bourbon vanilla extract
3 large free range eggs
couple of shakes of ground cinnamon

Preheat the oven to 180C. Line a springform (or loose bottomed) 8" diameter round sandwich tin with non stick baking parchment.

Chop the (peeled and seeded) squash roughly and put onto and oiled tray. Put the hazels on another, dry tray and roast both in the oven until done. The squash will take 45 mins to an hour to get soft and start to take colour - the nuts about 8-12 minutes. If the squash gets a little caramelised on the bottom all the better!

Set the nuts aside to cool and when they are ready, get on with the crust. Grind the hazels coarsely in a food processor and then add the almonds. Cut in butter, add honey and salt and pulse until the mixture resembles damp crumble topping. Don't let it turn to a paste. Press into the bottom of the tin using a fork - not up the sides, just the bottom. Pop into the fridge to firm up.

When you take the squash out of the oven, turn it down to 140C - fan assisted (155C without).

Make the filling. When the squash is cooked and has cooled to lukewarm, put it in the food processor with butter, honey and vanilla and process until smooth. Add the eggs one at a time and process until thick and creamy. Shake in the cinnamon, taste to see if it needs a little more and then pour onto the chilled crust and bake for 30-45 minutes or until firm to the touch and slightly risen around the edges.

I like mine with a gooey bit in the middle so I took it out when it still had a bit of wobble to it - judge it on what you like personally.

It may crack as it cools, but it won't affect the taste. Serve cool but not chilled.

Cookies for a Small Bear With a Sore Ear

Nick is away in Wales this week, so yesterday morning Finley crawled into bed at 7am clutching his travel clock (it says seven, look it is seven, is it seven? I think it's seven? I waited until it said seven.......) and twitched me awake with the loudest quiet whispering possible, whilst I tried to turn over and pretend that a small boy was not shoving a clock in my face. So instead of fighting the incoming day, I gathered that lovely boy in my sleepy arms and inhaled the bready scent of yesterday's muddy knees, perfect skin and nape of neck and then threw back the covers and tickled him out of bed.

When the kettle was on and a pan heating for eggs, Fin weakly announced that his ear hurt and he didn't think he could really attend school today. Alert to the possibility that this was an elaborate ruse to snatch a duvet day, I had a look in the proffered ear and did some crafty ear tweaking to ascertain whether it was genuine. Hmm, nasty wax and pain on pulling the earlobe down - external otitis, probably from swimming. I granted the longed for day off and Fin looked looked relieved that he wasn't going to have to resort to subterfuge.

As we weren't rushing off to school Fin suggested we start the day with a spot of Roulette to accompany our eggs. Soon, I was broke and Fin was clutching a fistful of IOU's from the empty coffers of the toy roulette bank and laughing maniacally each time his tall stack of chips became an even taller stack of chips. If we ever go to Las Vegas, I'm taking Fin, because that boy has an uncanny winning streak.

Around mid morning Fin's stomach told him that it needed a little treaty morsel to make his ear feel better. Of course, I had anticipated the necessity for comforting treats and produced a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a vanilla goats yogurt lassie that Finley gratefully carried back to the sofa to share with Piggy whilst they watched another episode of the Simpsons together.

Now these cookies would not be considered 100% legal in SCD circles because they include cocoa liquor - cocoa and chocolate are considered inappropriate for the diet because they contain indigestible carbohydrates. However, I find that my gut can cope with small amounts of unsweetened cocoa liquor (the raw form of chocolate before it has sugar added) so I'm happy to include it here for those of you who do not need to adhere religiously to SCD. If you're not on a sugar free diet, you can just use very dark chocolate instead. You can buy cocoa liquor and cocoa butter here.

Bitter Choc Chip Cookies (makes 18 small cookies)

2oz pecans
2oz whole almonds
1 oz pure cocoa liquor
4 heaped tsp set honey
1 teaspoonful bourbon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 140C fan assisted (155C without fan) and line a baking tray with baking parchment or use a silpat.

Grind nuts as finely as possible in a food processor.

Chop cocoa liquor coarsely so that it resembles chopped nuts in texture.

Mix nuts and cocoa liquor in a mixing bowl with vanilla extract and honey until a soft dough forms.

Roll the dough into a log and cut into 18 pieces. Roll each piece into a ball and place on the baking parchment. Flatten each ball into a disk with the side of your hand - the palm will make the cookie stick.

Use a clean wet fork to make a pattern on the top of each cookie - clean if it gets gunky or it will stick.

Bake for 15 minutes until golden and firm - they will harden as they cool. Store in an airtight container for up to three days (return to the oven for 5 minutes to crisp up again if they get soft).

'Go Ahead Honey, it's Gluten Free!' - Is it really September already? Eeek!

Gather round my lovely readers, because the nights are starting to close in again, leaves making their way back to the earth to continue the endless cycle of growth and decay. That indescribable scent is in the air again, first thing in the morning - just poke your head out there now and inhale.....the flavour of a harvest passed, chestnuts almost ready to fall, the hedge full of the last brambles, the collective creaking of wardrobe doors as we delve in deep for those stowed away jumpers in ochre, purple and red.

It's my turn again to host 'Go Ahead Honey', (now that I have a little more time on my hands) and I though that a fitting theme would be 'Slow Food'. Now I guess slow food means different things to different people - to me it means, the sort of thing you cook when you are going to be at home a while and can leave something to simmer or braise for some time, possibly stirring it occasionally or just enjoying the delicious smells that drift around the house and fill you with a sense of comfort and well being.

It's no accident that slowly cooked food is exactly what we need (energetically speaking) when the weather turns damp and cold and our bodies are swathed in layers of clothing. Braising, simmering, slow roasting, pot roasting - all maximise the sweetness of vegetables, melt tough collagen in those hard working cuts of meat and get the last bits of flavour out of the chicken bones or veg scraps you've been keeping. Any herbs or spices that are added to these dishes take on a deep and rounded flavour that improves if you're lucky enough to have any leftovers the next day.

As much as I love the summer, when Autumn comes peeking from behind a fully laden apple tree, I know the kitchen will be a warm and inviting hub of bubbling cooking pots and caramelising vegetables.

I don't mind if you choose sweet or savoury slow food, it could be chutney or jam, some seasonal fruit that you have gently coaxed into its sweetest and most pliant state with a cool oven or those lamb shanks that just long to be bathed in Moroccan spices and steamed slowly in a tagine.

There will be special mentions for both the person who manages to make the slowest dish, and the dish that is most locally sourced (if it's also cooked using a green form of energy I will do a little dance and blow trumpets too)

The deadline for these wonderful recipes is September 30th. Send me a link to your post and a (not too big) photo if possible and I will post the round up in the first week of October.

I do need more hosts, so if you're interested let me know before the end of the month.

I Left My Heart in San Sebastian....

Here I am again, back home - smoothie in hand, carpet underfoot, grey sky crowding in at the window. We are to expect the remnants of hurricane Hannah any day now so I plan to make some stock and start cooking the comfort food that will cushion our inevitable bumpy landing from summer in France, to Autumn in Dorset.

But I promised to tell you more about our time away and I want to dwell a little longer in the pine scented warmth of Aquitaine so here's what we did....

The first week really was a blissful miracle of strong sun, sea breeze, long lunches and balmy nights. Although travelling with an only child entails one of us being on playing duty most of the time, the pool and Fin's new found confidence in the water at least allowed the spines of our novels to be cracked and pages dog eared, long enough to finish a book each over the course of two weeks. We ate simply but well; slender emerald green beans, sweet misshapen beef tomatoes, succulent free-range, corn fed chicken, sticky Agen prunes and the holiest of squash holy grail - a potimarron, dense deep orange flesh with a nutty flavour.

In the local Intermarche supermarket I found ground hazelnuts and almonds - for making crepes apparently. In broken French I managed to convey my need for gluten free baking powder (levure chimique) and followed a surprisingly buxom sales assistant to the cleaning aisle where she pulled down a large yellow tube and handed it to me excitedly, whilst miming what seemed to be an explosion. In the midst of a stream of French, I caught the words, 'pour gonfle!' - (to inflate) and got it. Aha! Bicarbonate of soda, 'tres bien, fantastique!' I almost hugged her, but the enormous wobbling cleavage nipped that impulse right in the bud.

There was also a whole shelf of artisanal flours, from barley, through chestnut to walnut (farine de noix) - I fondled the packets longingly and wished I could trust that the walnut flour was gluten free, but I knew it wasn't and left the chic brown paper package sitting on the shelf with a wistful pang for all the things I would have baked with a shelf of flours like that in the days before SCD. I still managed to whip up some hazelnut pan-bread, honey almond brittle, yogurt ice-cream and lemon biscuits baked in the tiny apartment kitchen oven, all of which Fin greeted like manna falling from heaven.

Our second week was the first in September, so all the French families packed their trunks and headed home - back to school and work. The weather decided to do the same and although the days were still warm enough for short sleeves, there were clouds moving swiftly overhead and a distinctly tumbleweed feel to the little towns we visited. It was as though, with the departure of the French, nothing much mattered now - leaves gathered wetly at the edge of the pool and peddalo boats knocked forlornly at the edge of the lake.

So we all piled into the car and headed south. First into the Western edge of the Pyrenees where the landscape initially looked a bit like Dorset and then as we drove higher and caught sight of the blue paper cut out mountains ahead, we agreed it wasn't that much like Dorset after all. We were heading for a little mountain railway that scales Col de Saint Ignace, near the border. But the Michelin guide-book said nothing about the crowds of eager passengers waiting five deep on the tiny platform for three small carriages to convey them upwards. We stood in the static ticket line for twenty minutes - noticed that everything would be shut for lunch soon and contented ourselves instead with a visit to the gift shop, to buy some postcards of the view we would have seen had we spent half the day and a small fortune waiting for it. 'Now I can pretend I've been up there!', mused Fin. Nick and I exchanged an indulgent look - definitely glass half full.

Back at the car we scrutinised each other's faces for signs of disappointment and found none. 'I'm glad we didn't go on that train' said Fin before happily sucking his thumb and enjoying the scenery as we drove onward to San Sebastian. It was as though we had got a day off school somehow and the miles fell away until the Sat Nav announced, 'you have reached your destination'.

We emerged from the musky car park into the most amazing fish market, where shoals of bright glassy eyes followed our slack jawed tour of the stalls: a huge tuna beached on a bed of ice, pinky bream, silver bass and my favourite, merluza (hake) - surely the freshest fish we had ever seen.

Although we planned to eat lunch, snacks were in order so we ducked into a supermarket to see what we could find - some ripe bananas, toasted hazels, thin slices of dark cured beef and a brief survey of the chorizo in case we could find one without lactose, dextrose or some other indigestible sugar in it. The lady behind the counter checked all the chorizos in turn for sugars, 'mmm..no, mm..no, mmmmm...no....'. I wandered away through the refrigerators stacked high with charcuterie I was never going to taste and started to look idly through the ingredients...azucar, lactosa, harina, dextrosa, glucosa....how can something that started off as simple as meat, fat and salt end up with these sweet additions? I could see Nick making his way over with a shrug in his walk and glanced down at the packet I had just picked up. By the time he made it to where I was standing, I was grinning from ear to ear and little cherubs were firing up an orchestra of flutes and harps for the heavenly chorus that accompanies finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Pork, Pimenton, Salt and Garlic - just what pigs were made for in my opinion. I grabbed three packets, punched the air and ran towards the till, grabbing a jar of roasted piquillo peppers and some saffron on the way. Back at the apartment was a corn fed chicken waiting patiently to be gently introduced to these new treasures.

We strolled on towards lunch in a cafe on the side of the docks. The hills above the city are a dark densely wooded contrast to the restrained hazelnut colour of the buildings. Above the beach with its flotsam of barely clothed bodies, stood an enormous statue of Jesus - smiling benignly down at the bathers frolicking in the waves. Old women were swimming off a jetty to our left and fish wives sat in a cluster mending nets on the dockside, each with a large hook caught in between her nut brown toes. We ambled on past day boats and teenagers line fishing, drinking it in, squinting in the bright haze that shimmered over the elegant sandstone streets lining the bay. The impression was of a town comprised of layers of gold, yellow sand, bronzed bodies, buttery stone houses and strong pale gold light illuminating it all.

The cafe was shady and filled with food loving San Sebastianos tucking into huge plates of seafood. We ate each mouthful reverently, sharing a plate of sweet succulent tiger prawns and melting, milky merluza - Fin had his second ever steak, a piece almost as big as his face that he guarded jealously, allowing us only a morsel each so we could appreciate just how good it was. Our waiter was a little non plussed when we asked for salad in place of the patatas (chips/fries) - I mean, what kid has salad instead of fries?

Walking back through the town hand in hand, I felt replete with that sense of well being bought on by a fantastic meal, in a lovely place. A spot of gentle mooching and a visit to some swings rounded off a delicious afternoon - and then reluctantly, we headed back across the border to France.

En Vacances

Well, I had planned to write a lovely long post detailing some of the highlights of our sojourn in Southern France so far (the pool, the beach, the pool again....) - but this French keyboard has everything in a different place and it could take a few hours to type something coherant....

Just a taster then for now, and a little note to say that your comments warmed my heart and bought a smile to my face when I logged on this morning.

Mostly we've been taking it very easy - slipping into that lovely rhythm of lazing about reading and splashing in the pool with Fin, a long lunch of salads and charcuterie and then back out for the afternoon, maybe watching the sun set on the beach or wandering gently through deeply fragrant pine forest drenched in the last golden rays of the day.

We hired bikes for one day as this area is covered with long, smooth piste cyclables (cycle paths), but I found it too frustrating to be pootling along at Finley speed and kept my bike so I could swoop and glide through the shady trees as fast as possible - ting, ting on my little bell when someone came into view ahead and then on as fast as my wheels would take me. Nick calls me the bike equivalent of a petrol head (someone who loves fast cars) - we tried to think of a similar name and the best we could do was peddle head. in a car, I'm sensible and moderate - on a bike, look out I'm coming through!

During the first week of our stay the French were all en vacances and the pool was surrounded with slender neat families, the children played quietly in the water and the parents watched as they perfected their already perfect tans.

We were conspicuously pale - all being of Irish decent and plastered in mineral suncream that makes you look ill untill you wash it off in the evening and are pleasantly surprised to see you do have a tan after all.

Finley decided to get into the pool as fast as possible - his excitement was palpable as he's recently learnt to swim properly. Letting out a high pitched squeal of joy - the peak of which was surely only audible to dogs - he launched himself into the water with an almighty splash. As he surfaced, all goggles and gap toothed grin, I noticed that his trunks had slipped down to reveal a healthy portion of bum - which he proceeded to wiggle suggestively in my direction. 'Oh Finley' I sighed inwardly, 'why cant' you be a little more......French?'

Afterwards, I observed French parents a little more closely and saw that they acheived their children's restrained behaviour by being extremely strict with them. Suddenly Finley's enthusiasm felt more like a little show of character and personality and less an indictment of the English on holiday.

Yesterday we made the trip down to Spain - passports at the ready in case the gruff looking border guards should flag us down, but we sailed through unhindered and the light came into Nick's eyes as the sign posts turned Spanish.

We drove on to San Sebastian, to eat lunch under the watchful gaze of an enormous statue of Jesus on the wooded hills surrounding the port. But I'll tell you about that next week when I'm back home again.

Until then mes chou fleures, bon chance et bon appetit. Je vais à la plage......

x x x