country lanes together, dropping in unannounced here and there for an aperitif, filling our days and evenings with nonstop eating, drinking and sightseeing. I keep saying to myself that I must start taking walks or getting some form of exercise, but itâs very hot and sitting in the cool of Jockâs house with its tiled floors and thick walls sipping a chilled rosé seems like a much better idea. Already my pants are getting hard to zip up, not a good beginning when I have firmly imagined that this long, relaxing break from work will have me returning home looking slim, tanned and thoroughly well rested.
Not long after arriving my fiftieth birthday looms. It feels odd being so far away from home for such a landmark occasion, but I am determined to enjoy it regardless. Jockâs in the know, having been emailed by Gil, and we discover that there is to be a special lunch in the restaurant across the road from his cottage, so it couldnât be more perfect. We can eat and drink as much as we like, without having to drive anywhere afterwards.
The morning of my birthday is cold and overcast. I spend more than half an hour talking to my family in Australia who are having a typical Sunday roast dinner to celebrate my birthday as well as Davidâs, which falls two days before. The previous day was the winter solstice in Australia and the annual Winter Magic Festival in Katoomba has apparently been a great success, with our grandchildren donning fancy dress for a street paradeand an evening of fun at the local pub which has left some members of the family feeling a little hungover. Hence the lateness of the midday birthday meal. I speak to everyone properly for the first time since I left home, except for Eamonn who is still refusing to talk about me or acknowledge me on the phone. David says heâs just being a typical sulky six-year-old, but I recognise his feelings of abandonment, and that his silence is a form of punishment. Heâll get over it Iâm sure, but I find it a bit painful knowing he feels so miffed.
Jock is preparing a caviar mousse and we have put champagne on ice for the drinks party to be held after the lunch, with a group of seven of Jockâs wayward friends along for the ride. The restaurant across the road doesnât operate on a regular basis, however in order to maintain a current liquor licence it is legally obliged to open at least four times a year. The solution is a series of monthly Sunday lunches, with the set menu being distributed by pamphlet ten days ahead of time. Jockâs assorted friends arrive at midday for a drink. They are a funny lotâtwo elderly retired English couples living nearby, an English man of middle years restoring an old house, and a raging Scottish couple who are down for a month to work on their barn. The meal, which is typical of the region, starts with huge steaming bowls of garlicky chicken soup and noodles with chunks of country-style bread. The charcuterie course is overwhelming, with several choices of pâté and terrine plus crudités based on tomato and raw carrot. The poulet plat du jour, chicken served with verjuice and creamy potatoes, is followed by a crisp salad, then an elaborate cheese board and an even more elaborate dessert, a fruity flan with lashings of cream. The wine never stops flowing and the local liquor is passed around with our coffee. Called âeau de vieâ itâsmade from pears or plums and itâs nothing more than firewater, but somehow as it sears down my throat, it rounds off the three-and-a-half hour epic eat-a-thon.
Weaving out into the afternoon air we return to Jockâs courtyard for the champagne and caviar party. I feel quite delightfully unsober, but several in the group are really starting to look much more the worse for wear, lurching and slurring. More of Jockâs friends arrive bearing gifts, which is quite a surprise given that I have known them less than two weeks. But
Not long after arriving my fiftieth birthday looms. It feels odd being so far away from home for such a landmark occasion, but I am determined to enjoy it regardless. Jockâs in the know, having been emailed by Gil, and we discover that there is to be a special lunch in the restaurant across the road from his cottage, so it couldnât be more perfect. We can eat and drink as much as we like, without having to drive anywhere afterwards.
The morning of my birthday is cold and overcast. I spend more than half an hour talking to my family in Australia who are having a typical Sunday roast dinner to celebrate my birthday as well as Davidâs, which falls two days before. The previous day was the winter solstice in Australia and the annual Winter Magic Festival in Katoomba has apparently been a great success, with our grandchildren donning fancy dress for a street paradeand an evening of fun at the local pub which has left some members of the family feeling a little hungover. Hence the lateness of the midday birthday meal. I speak to everyone properly for the first time since I left home, except for Eamonn who is still refusing to talk about me or acknowledge me on the phone. David says heâs just being a typical sulky six-year-old, but I recognise his feelings of abandonment, and that his silence is a form of punishment. Heâll get over it Iâm sure, but I find it a bit painful knowing he feels so miffed.
Jock is preparing a caviar mousse and we have put champagne on ice for the drinks party to be held after the lunch, with a group of seven of Jockâs wayward friends along for the ride. The restaurant across the road doesnât operate on a regular basis, however in order to maintain a current liquor licence it is legally obliged to open at least four times a year. The solution is a series of monthly Sunday lunches, with the set menu being distributed by pamphlet ten days ahead of time. Jockâs assorted friends arrive at midday for a drink. They are a funny lotâtwo elderly retired English couples living nearby, an English man of middle years restoring an old house, and a raging Scottish couple who are down for a month to work on their barn. The meal, which is typical of the region, starts with huge steaming bowls of garlicky chicken soup and noodles with chunks of country-style bread. The charcuterie course is overwhelming, with several choices of pâté and terrine plus crudités based on tomato and raw carrot. The poulet plat du jour, chicken served with verjuice and creamy potatoes, is followed by a crisp salad, then an elaborate cheese board and an even more elaborate dessert, a fruity flan with lashings of cream. The wine never stops flowing and the local liquor is passed around with our coffee. Called âeau de vieâ itâsmade from pears or plums and itâs nothing more than firewater, but somehow as it sears down my throat, it rounds off the three-and-a-half hour epic eat-a-thon.
Weaving out into the afternoon air we return to Jockâs courtyard for the champagne and caviar party. I feel quite delightfully unsober, but several in the group are really starting to look much more the worse for wear, lurching and slurring. More of Jockâs friends arrive bearing gifts, which is quite a surprise given that I have known them less than two weeks. But
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