Wild Blueberry Picking in the Mountains of the Limousin

On our Saturday visit to the distillery, the brewmaster mentioned that she was expecting a batch of blueberries from a local grower, as it's now the season for the fruit. Our ears perked up. Blueberry season?! Back at the house, I leafed through our hiking book and found a drawing of "la myrtille sauvage" which grow at an altitude of 800 meters on the northern exposure of Les Monedieres, small mountains to the south of Limoges.


And so we set out at an ungodly hour on Sunday morning. Compared to the cow pastures and meadows around Limoges, the landscape in the Correze, near Tulle, is completely different: the mountains loomed blue, covered in pines and evergreen forest. At the summit (911 meters), the wind tore across the shrubs. The only other sound was a loud (uncannily so) buzz of bees zipping from blackberry bush to bush. From the highest point in the region, the view is heartstoppingly gorgeous.


It was cold on the mountain and we wrapped in fleeces and began the search for the elusive blueberry bush. The temperature reminded me of cool mornings in Maine. We walked a loop around the summit, underneath towering evergreens, and finally stumbled upon a patch of bushes with big, plump berries. Aha! We noticed that the leaves turn red as the berries mature. We fell on our hands and knees, giddy with excitement, and plucked those tiny berries until our hands and teeth were stained blue. After an hour and 15 minutes, we had picked at least 2 kilos. Then we set out on a 3+ hour hike.


The hike-- Le Cirque de Freysselines-- is 11 kilometers through rapidly changing terrain: from the wind-swept summit, descending into timbered forest, the trees covered in moss, through fields and small villages, past a lake (and much warmer temperatures in the valley), and then back up along the slopes covered in beautiful pink blossoms and low brush. We even saw a herrison (hedgehog).

Back at the top of the mountain, adventurers were hang-gliding, families were scouting for blueberries, and we realized we had beaten the crowds that morning. When we arrived earlier, the mountain belonged to us. We also realized that most of the area was fenced off as private blueberry farms. An older woman put a finger to her lips as she sneakily picked a few blueberries on the roadside.

Near the car, a man had set up shop selling blueberry confiture and honey, and we bought some honeycomb, which is the most divine thing I have ever eaten (though the beeswax can get caught in your teeth), especially with goat cheese.

The Artisanal Distillery in Limoges

Saturday was one of those perfect days of cool breezes and ample sunshine that reminds me of San Francisco. We stopped at the boulangerie for steaming hot crossaints, the cheese and fruit vendors at Les Halles, and a chocolate boutique. The real purpose of the outing, however, besides all this blissful browsing and loitering downtown, was to find the distillery.


We went in pursuit of this mysterious artisanal distillery after we sank our teeth into some speciality chocolates that oozed peche liqueur. A gift from Pierre's brother, Manu, a few weeks ago. They were wrapped in shiny foil, gilded with the name of the local distillery.

Towards the train station, in a run-down building with a small plaque outside, we found it. The elderly lady behind the cash register showed us the laboratory where they concocted the delicious speciality liqueurs, heating blueberries or cassis over a flame until the essence was refined into a small glass container. I felt like I was in some alchemist's shop from the Middle Ages.

The walls were lined with beautiful bottles with colorful, Victorian labels, and we sampled the lot of them. The specialty drink in the Limousin is Liqueur de Chataigne (with chestnut extract) but I'm a sucker for cassis, because of my favorite evening kir.

Fish and Chips in the Limousin

The newscaster announced a bizarre phenomenon in a small town called La Porcherie, just outside Limoges. On Friday evenings, a star chef from England takes over the kitchen at a nondescript bar/restaurant in the Limounsin. The rotund, red-haired chap, shown poised over the vat of oil, battered fish in hand, has won some important Fish N Chips tasting contests in England.

I ran out of the kitchen and stared at the TV. Could it be? The most delicious, wonderful platter that I've enjoyed at The Ramp (San Francisco), London pubs, and on the wharf in Nelson, New Zealand? My favorite fried fish, smothered in malt vinegar and tartar sauce, in the middle of nowhere France? Pierre and I quickly turned off the nightly news and hopped into the car to make the trek to find out. But not five minutes later, the heavens opened and we were stopped by a deluge of rainwater on the highway, so had to settle for Chinese food in Limoges.

All week I anticipated Friday's Fish N Chips. We invited our friends, Vincent and Marielle, to join us, and set out on Friday at 8 pm. We were not disappointed. The little bar had been transformed by the news publicity; the owner had bought a bunch of plastic tables and scrawled the name of the reservation on white paper on top of it. (Reservations were a new thing for this joint, where the intoxicated regulars sat at the bar and eyed the crowds in wonder.)

When the chef came out to talk to some of the patrons, we raved about the food and the publicity on the news and he just beamed. A little dog followed him back into the kitchen. (In the picture, notice the napkins counting down to the year 2000 celebration, and the enormous bottle of bad Spanish table wine.) The owner insisted on our comments in his guestbook.

This place was a trip.

African Hunger Strike, and the Seeds of Racism in Limoges

Next to Pierre's office is an abandoned building where African residents of Limoges are now protesting with a hunger strike, and demanding paper as legal residents. When I walk by to meet Pierre after work, I peer inside and notice the mattresses on the floor. Men are seated outside, quietly talking, and I wish I could ask them about the strike, but I've only just learned the French word for hunger, so conversation would be a little stilted.

We recently invited our neighbors for an aperitif in the garden. The couple next door work in the hospital, and commented on the illegal Muslim Africans who come to give birth in the hospital, without paying for care. Sometimes a man will escort two of his pregnant wives and demand two separate hospital rooms, though denying he's the father so as to ensure the higher government payments for a single mother. People from the developing world desperately want to give birth on French soil to get coveted citizenship for their children.

Our other neighbors, a darling couple who impress me with their exercise regimen (two hour runs!), work in two different factories: a printing press and auto-parts manufacturer. They commented how the Africans seem lazy, don't want to work, but expect hand-outs. They pointed out the difference between these immigrants, and the hard-working Latin American folks who go to the US looking for jobs.

I listened, and thought a lot about migration between developed and developing worlds, racism, and where it stems from. Blue-collar communities like Limoges have dedicated their lives to their work, with the promise of abundant benefits (social security, vacation days, retirement) from the Great French State. A lot of folks I've met in Limoges seek comfort in the security of jobs, rather than embrace ambition. They choose benefits over the hope of a higher-paid job. And the French will fight to defend that precious State system. Immigrants who free-load are seen as jeopardizing it.

Sunday hikes in the Limousin

Another 13th century chapel. Yet another panorama of verdant, rolling hillside. More remote villages, with crumbling stone houses framed by purple hydrangeas. Cows grazing in pastures next to cascading creeks. And deer nibbling on blackberry bushes (I got a stomache from eating fistfuls of perfectly ripe berries.) Bored yet?

The Limousin is just so quaint.


So it's become a ritual of sorts. We've stocked up on maps from the tourism office in Limoges, and set out every Sunday on a hike in the surrounding countryside. Last weekend we headed to St Julien-le-Petit, and ambled over 20 kilometers in a big circuit around the village: past a small lake where I snapped these photos of the cool reflections, past adorable villages (where rabbits for the dinner table were kept in little cages), past a quarry.

It drizzled a little-- the perfect temperature after weeks of intense heat and humidity. (After the horrors of the 2003 European heat wave, where 15,000 people died in France, the government has been freaking out, issuing orders to keep shutters closed all day, drink fluids, and take sponge baths.)

Vacances

When I went running through the park today-- past the boules courts (reeking of urine, since the old men choose to avoid the restrooms conveniently located not 50 meters away) and the pond where ducks and geese hang out with muskrats (I thought they were little beavers, but the long, slimey tail doesn't lie... these critters are part of the rat family)-- I couldn't help but notice how packed the place was. I mean, crawling with people: strolling, sauntering, slithering, slowly pacing. Older couples in their hats and finery, hand in hand, moms with baby-carriages, troops of families, with leashed hounds in tow. And then it hit me, It's August 1! And as Pierre explains, "There are July people, and there are August people"-- defined by when they decide to take their vacation. So today, an entirely new set of people are out and about celebrating their blessed dog-days of French vacances.

Image via Wikipedia

Paul- The Ultimate Boulangerie

I escaped to the brightly-lit, too-clean, air-conditioned mall yesterday to work. Not for the inspiration, but more for the change of scene. Because in the downstairs, next to the Etam, Devred, and all those people-watchers who loiter on benches, there is a Paul. Oh, how I love Paul. The perfectly flakey crossaints, buttery pain au chocolat, dainty cakes and mouth-watering pastries. Who cares if it's a bobo chain that has an outlet in just about every train station in France. Actually, I wish there were more stores, maybe in Alexandria, Virginia and San Francisco (and not just the three measy little outlets in South Florida). Among all the couples, and older mothers and daughters, and university kids enjoying their afternoon gouter, I sipped a delicious cappucino and worked. Of course my coffee cup was accompanied by a perfect little profiterole on the side. Yum.