A Taste of the Berry: A Sojourn in the French Countryside

By Angela Blondeau

Were we having a daydream, entertaining a romantic notion of packing it all up and moving to another country? This delightful narrative of an adventurous (or foolish) couple in the autumn of their lives, who desire a lifestyle change, begins in 1992. He a skeptical, flamboyant American, and I, still clinging to a British passport and three dogs. Knowing no French, we make a bold decision to abandon California for an unspoiled village in the heart of the French countryside, called Le Berry.

Once the germ of the idea becomes firmly rooted, we begin to realize the myriad obstacles and complications that must be addressed. This valuable information is laid out in a light-hearted way, and gives the reader some insight as to what actually must be done to buy a foreign property and make a move, as well as a sense of our determination and fortitude to follow the dream.

The story truly unfolds once the interminable bureaucracy is behind us and our feet touch French soil on a frosty winter morning. Our first night does not go as planned, as our rented van becomes mired in a watery ditch on a desolate country cowpath in the pitch-black night.

We feel like two aliens dropped onto another planet, as all our belongings are sailing the high seas, and were camping out with three dogs in our vacant cottage in the midst of France. This raw fact forces us to explore our village, meet the town folk, and become familiar with our idyllic surroundings. It also allows us to try dealing with merchants for the purchase of a car, a sofa-bed, and some kitchen cupboards; simple transactions, we thought!

We find that living in an adopted country means adapt. Not so easy with strange shopping hours, and a lack of ethnic food. I resort to some bizarre culinary experiments, using ersatz ingredients, in order to re-create our melting- pot American cravings. The language is difficult, especially for my very verbal actor husband, who begins to feel alienated from lack of expression. He has a brilliant idea to utilize our acting backgrounds which has us scurrying to Paris. An agent links us with a film producer in Lille, who hires us sight unseen. The project lands us pleading our case in a French court; judge and magistrates attired in flowing robes and powdered wigs, and no one speaks English! Can we win this case? I try my talents as foreigner working in the very French environment of a chateau-hotel in a valiant attempt to hone my halting French.

With seasons so defined, we learn complicity with natures timetable, inevitably becoming a part of country France. We find the rich rewards of life are the simple joys; snail, mushroom, and firewood gathering, the challenge of transforming a cobwebbed attic into a grand room, delicious long evenings around a dining table with Berrichon friends sharing country cuisine and bottles of wine, delights of true French picnics on warm afternoons on the banks of a lookinglass lake in the woods, encountering little creatures wed never known before, or those many peaceful times wandering the picturesque lanes, exploring medieval villages scattered like windblown seeds across the velvet patchwork of countryside.

This charming adventure, filled with first-hand knowledge, told with warmth, humor and paintbrush-upon-canvas descriptions, beckons the armchair traveler, as well as those so bold as to consider such a move. So curl up in your cosiest chair, pack your imaginary bags, and savor the taste of a bucolic village in the Berry!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 11, 2004
• ISBN: 9781465325785

Angela Blondeau

British born, Angela voyaged to America with her parents, aboard the Queen Mary, to settle in the Hollywood Hills. She apprenticed at Warner Brothers cartoon studio enjoying a career in animation. Later she and husband opened a photo studio in Monterey, Calif. before moving to France with three dogs. That adventure inspired Angela's first book, A Taste of the Berry. Widowed, she moved to N.Y. with current husband. Now in Coronado, California with rescue pup. Working on next book, she enjoys oil painting, gardening, ballet, classical music and assisting animals. Works towards peace for all creatures and nature on Earth.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Perchance to Dream

So much had transpired since meeting Norman in Hollywood. It was the seventies, when we each got lucky by landing important roles in an unimportant film. What was important was the circumstance that enabled us to meet and thus to make this tale of adventure possible.

We had loved an intimate French restaurant tucked away in a corner of Sunset Boulevard that has now been quietly absorbed by the creeping deterioration of this once-famous and glamorous part of Hollywood. Norman mopped up the garlic and parsley-flavored butter that was left from his escargots with a crusty hunk of French bread and popped it into his mouth. Anticipating its deliciousness, I was still extricating the last escargot from its large shell.

One day, I’ll probably return to Europe, to live, I announced as I licked a buttery baby finger and reached for my glass of golden Chablis wine. After all I was born there.

Norman sought my eyes as he questioned, sardonically, Am I included in the plan?

Of course! I smiled, looking into his gentle eyes. I just have this feeling. I don’t know when. Maybe when I’m an old lady, but if you’re willing and available, why not?

Yeah, it’s a nice dream, considering you’re only thirty and holding down a good job with the cartoon studios, and I’m making decent wages in the electrical contracting business. Retirement is the last thing on my mind.

I shrugged as I ran my finger around the edge of my wine glass. One day, I said, who knows?

Right, nodded Norman, dismissing my curious notion, as the waiter served our entrees.

That conversation had taken place some fifteen years earlier, and I recalled it clearly as I drove the lonely two hours home to Santa Maria after spending a weekend with Norman in Los Angeles.

Motivated by boredom after selling our photo business in Monterey in 1989, and moving to Santa Maria where work prospects were sparse, Norman decided to return to work with his Los Angeles-based union. He felt he could contribute a couple more years to the electrical trade, keep his medical benefits, and build up his retirement pension.

This decision necessitated his renting a small apartment away from our home in Santa Maria where we’d recently moved. We felt we could maintain our marriage despite our week-long separations if we took turns driving the two hours from Los Angeles to Santa Maria on weekends to be with one another. The sacrifice of living apart during the week was one we were willing to make to assure a comfortable retirement future.

I managed a small office-supply warehouse for a Trans World Airlines pilot, who thought this business just might be his ticket to paradise. With our combined incomes, we were able to pay our mortgage, live comfortably and put a little away for our future.

We enjoyed a typical lifestyle in our home in Quail Meadows, a secure, gated community of mostly mature couples. We all observed the rules, kept our properties in a tidy manner and, on occasion, socialized in the clubhouse. Our favorite times were enjoyed with a book by the pool, taking a cool swim or relaxing in the steamy spa.

I had arrived home after one of these weekends with Norman. Mechanically I prepared a lackluster cuisine and turned on the television to be enlightened by another Sixty Minutes with Dan Rather. Suddenly, my ears pricked up at the announcement of the program to follow: British buying French properties. A distinguished British gentleman introduced himself as Mr. Rutherford, owner of a London-based real estate firm. He explained, in a clipped British accent, how his agency linked English buyers with French estate agents and cut through the legal red tape and language barrier by handling all details of buying a French property. I jotted his name down as that piece ended, and a program focused on Saddam Hussein began.

An interesting bit of information, I said to myself, as I tucked the scrap of paper with the name Rutherford into our phone book. Methodically I moved into the kitchen to feed our two loyal dogs, Sabu, a Lhasa Apso, and Dabney, a silver-buff cocker spaniel, now pregnant from breeding her to a champion sire from a nearby kennel.

Memorial Day weekend arrived and Norman drove home to spend a relaxing three-day holiday with me. His cousin, who was winding up his final years as a city planner for Los Angeles, came up with his wife to stay and enjoy the holiday. The relationship Norman and Larry shared reached back to their boyhood in Chicago. Theirs was a close union of memorable moments, and now we were to witness another event. Dabney chose to give birth to her brood of eight fat, sausagy babies that afternoon, one being a very unusual black and white. Larry and his wife wanted one for their grandson; the rest, we agreed, would be sold.

The momentous weekend over, Norman reluctantly packed up for the uninspiring drive back to Beverly Hills, and the routine began again. Our lives proceeded as work dictated.

After work, Norman knew he had to occupy his time, as he was prone to bipolarism; a bout of depression and emotional anxiety was never welcome. His cousin had time on his hands after leaving his office in Marina del Rey, so Norman and he spent many an evening together rambling around Los Angeles, going to movies or to dinner. Norman even picked up a word processor and began writing a script about a star-crossed encounter he’d had while making a film with Italian movie star Pier Angeli. I enrolled in a philosophy course at the local college, began a new ballet class, and mothered a yelping litter of precious pups. On weekends, we abandoned necessary chores to enjoy special moments together.

Chapter 2

A Drive through France and Italy

After putting up with our separation and keeping our respective noses to the grindstone for over a year, a well-deserved reward of a holiday in Europe was overdue. Ten years had vaporized since our first visit together to England, and now we hungered for more distant horizons: France, Italy, Spain, Greece…

October of 1990 seemed the right time as I had accumulated a few weeks of vacation time, and we preferred to travel in the fall. Our only trepidation about leaving was the awkward little black-and-white cocker spaniel; Patches, who’d won our hearts, was only four months old. We pacified our anxiety with the knowledge that he’d be at home in familiar surroundings. His mother, Dabney and our old Lhasa Apso, Sabu, would provide comfort during our three-week absence. Twice a day the vice-president of the local kennel club, of which I was a member, would attend to them.

Monday morning brought a flurry of excitement as the Buick station wagon was packed for the drive south to Los

Angeles Airport. Sabu had a knack for predicting when a trip was imminent. He placed himself strategically atop the clothing in the last open suitcase, and then stared at us pleadingly with his large, dark eyes. I sadly lifted him to the floor and tried, unsuccessfully, to placate him with a meaty soup bone. While Patches and Dabney chewed on their bones, Sabu followed us to the door, tail dragging sadly along the floor. A pat on the head and a few false promises that we’d be back soon were all I could offer as I closed the door, and we guiltily drove away.

Norman had made arrangements with his union to leave the car in their somewhat-secure parking lot, as it was minutes from the airport. We felt we could avoid vandalism problems and save a tidy sum on parking expense.

California to England is a long flight, but what a reward as the droning plane finally broke through the cottony clouds to reveal a variegated green patchwork floating on a silvery billow of sea! It was Great Britain, and somewhere down there was Cambridge, my birthplace. The sight brought an unexpected lump to my throat, then the usual anxiety as we prepared for landing.

With no desire to immerse ourselves in the bustle of London, we left the airport as quickly as seven huge pieces of baggage would allow, in search of a train to deliver us to the port of Dover and our first destination, France. Although the journey was just beginning, our burden of luggage would prove to be a major source of argument and frustration throughout our travels.

The train sounded a warning whistle as we ran alongside it, whilst pushing our overloaded baggage cart and looking for a non-smoking car.

Here’s one, shouted Norman, on the verge of panic as he flung open a door and began hastily hoisting baggage.

A very prim woman, in her mid-thirties, obviously business-oriented, looked up from her paperwork and slowly lowered her glasses to observe Norman.

Oh, smiled Norman, feeling eyes upon him, and turning on the charm, Would you mind if we shared your compartment?

She seemed a trifle amused and curious as she fingered the tip of her crisp, white collar, buttoned to the neck. No, not at all, she responded, in a likewise crisp British accent.

The train lurched forward, throwing me off balance as I jumped in, blurting, but we are barging in on you. …

Not at all, she smiled faintly. First class compartments are not private.

First-class? Norman and I chimed in unison. We don’t have first-class tickets. We’d better move.

No, no, protested the soft-spoken lady, with the girlish bobbed hair. Please, put your things down. I don’t think the conductor will ask. She remained serene and stately as she observed our pushing and jousting with the luggage until we had secured all seven bags in various compartments.

We took the seat facing her, and quietly composed ourselves before the introductions. Norman and Angela, we smiled in unison.

Anne, she responded primly.

What else but Anne, I thought, as I digested her tidy, starched appearance, as though she had a nine o’clock board meeting. Actually it was nearing five in the afternoon and she was heading home to Canterbury.

As the train rumbled through the picturesque villages, swaying us gently in hypnotic rhythm, Anne took pleasure in pointing out places of interest and their historic significance.

Upon hearing of our plans to spend the night in Dover, before crossing the Channel to Calais and a waiting rental car, she informed us there was absolutely nothing in Dover.

Canterbury, however, was a magnificent medieval town, rich with history and architecture. And, it was only a short taxi ride to Dover.

Just a moment, I’ll ring my secretary to see if we can find you a place, she said, producing a small telephone from her leather valise.

Hello, Sheila, Anne here. Yes, thanks. He’s doing fine. Says hello. I’m on the train back from London, and there’s an American couple here, needing a room for the night. Would you be a dear and ring up Mandy’s House? Maybe they can put them up. Yes, we should be in Haversham in half an hour. Right.

Handy, those phones, aren’t they, ventured Norman, not really sure how to respond to this generous gesture.

She informed us that she was an executive with Pfizer Pharmaceutical and frequented London on business. This journey however was to visit her seventeen-year-old son in hospital, who’d fallen from a balcony in a sleep walking accident. The details were interrupted by her telephone.

Sheila, right. Hold on then. Would twenty-four pounds be acceptable? It’s a B and B, she uttered gently. We grinned and nodded enthusiastically Lovely then, Sheila. They’ll have it, she smiled, her prim face softening against the straight cut of her bobbed, fair hair. Mmmm, about six, right-o, bye-bye.

We thanked her profusely, but in her calm, unruffled manner, she dismissed it as nothing, and directed our attention to the countryside through the train window.

As the ancient village of Canterbury became visible, Anne indicated the spires of the cathedral and related a bit of history. The murder of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, had taken place there in the eleventh century. A handful of his own knights had done the deed in an effort to please King Henry II.

And, you mustn’t miss the window high up in the nave, she suggested.Most people miss it. It’s splendid. My favorite. Go to the pulpit and look up, she gestured with hand and eye. Oh, here’s our station."

Norman and I began the arduous task of unloading the seven suitcases, and Anne was right there assisting, despite our protests that they were far too heavy for her.

Nonsense, she smiled, placing an overstuffed suitcase onto the curbside. Now, you wait here, I’ll fetch the car and we’ll be off. She moved briskly, disappearing around a corner, leaving Norman and me standing dumbfounded in the dewy chill of Haversham Station.

The forest green Rover pulled up to the curb and she popped out. Norman made comment on the handsome, new car as we loaded the trunk.

Oh, Pfizer provides them for me. Good reliable cars, they are, she commented as she picked up the heavy camera bag and swung it into the trunk. Shall we be off, then? She smiled, looking as prim and proper as the moment we’d met.

Anne drove with the confidence of a successful businesswoman, navigating the narrow quaint roads, as Norman and I delighted at the views of the old English village.

Ah, here we are, she announced, pulling the car into a small circular driveway that fronted a substantial three-story residence.

I’ll help you unload then, she said energetically.

Oh, Anne, you’ve done more than enough. May we take you to dinner, or …

Now, I’ll have none of that. I’ve enjoyed you both, and I hope you find your stay enjoyable. And do see the cathedral and the window; you can walk from here. It may be closed now, but there’s time in the morning. I must be off.

We wanted to hug her, but a firm handshake was all she would allow, as we thanked her for a most lovely and memorable first day of our travels. We vowed to keep in touch. And, with a bounce in her long stride, a right-o, she was gone.

A canopied bed, enclosed by romantic draperies, lent a quaint charm to the tiny, timbered room, reminiscent of a fairy tale. The mattress was so high that a stepstool was needed to clamber into the marshmallow softness. I had visions of Sleeping Beauty awaiting a kiss from her Prince.

A small, leaded window looked out onto a typical English garden strewn with rambling color. The tall spires of the cathedral beyond reached toward the dusky rose sky like slender elegant fingers.

Let’s walk, I suggested gleefully.

Oh, let me take five first, Norman pleaded, sinking into the billows of the feather comforter.

The walk was brisk, the cathedral closed, the dinner hearty, and the bed deliciously cozy. What a delightful way to begin a holiday, we mused as we drifted into enchanted slumber.

We made a quick trip to the cathedral in the moist dew of morning, and found it to be as awesome as Anne claimed.

The rain began as we boarded the ferry for the two-hour trip across the Channel to France. Norman sang a wistful rendition of White Cliffs of Dover in his rich bass voice, as we stood on the deck buffeted by a strong wind, dampened by rain, and watched the historic cliffs fade into a gauze of silvery mist.

With the hour creeping into dusk, we hadn’t planned to drive directly into Paris. We intended to stay with the security of the autoroute where we thought we’d find a roadside motel for the night. Little did we know that if one wants a place to stay, you must exit the autoroute, then drive miles through the countryside until you come to an obscure village and hope they have an inn. We knew nothing of the roads, small towns, or the language, so we stayed on the autoroute. By nine o’clock that evening we were inching along the Peripherique, which circles Paris; it seems all roads led to Paris. But we weren’t sure we really wanted to be there, at least not driving!

Well, the directions are certainly well marked, if we knew where we were headed, sighed Norman as he crept along in the cortege of vehicles.

This traffic is incredible. It looks like Los Angeles at rush hour. I can’t believe these long tiled tunnels, I said staring ahead at the red glowing ribbon of taillights, reflected on the white tiles.

I can’t believe these fumes. You could die in here, commented Norman as he fluttered a hand under his nose. Where do you think we should get off? he then asked, obviously tired and hungry after three hours of driving.

Well, let’s head towards Versailles, I said, squinting at a small map in the dim interior light. It looks like Rueil-Malmaison is around that area."

We knew of Rueil-Malmaison, a suburb of Paris, only because the Italian actress, Pier Angeli, was buried in a small cemetery there. Her mysterious and untimely death in Hollywood, after completing a film with Norman, had left him with a wish to say a final good-bye to a very special love relationship.

We circled the Versailles area several times in a vain attempt to locate Rueil-Malmaison, and a room for the night. In desperation, and in our bedraggled condition, we even stopped at the very posh Petit Trianon Chateau. An elegantly dressed gentleman complete with silk top hat greeted us.

We just want some directions, a room, and a restaurant. I muttered timidly

You ‘ave reservation? He questioned politely.

No, we confessed in unison.

The upward turned white gloved hands, and the typical French shrug, conveyed to us that he couldn’t help us.

Hunger and sheer frustration overtook our need for sleep. We parked the car on one of the narrow streets that are so common in Paris and began to walk. It was easier to find inns and cafes on foot, and it felt good to stretch our legs. Midnight had silently arrived as we finished our delicious meal in the narrow, crooked dining room of a quaint auberge. Now we had to resume our search for a bed.

The NO VACANCY signs and the streets became all too familiar in our exhausted condition and serious thoughts of sleeping in the car crossed our bleary minds. Unexpectedly, a blue neon sign blinking the name The Forest Hill Hotel appeared. The rate of one hundred and thirty dollars a night would have been a definite deterrent under other circumstances. Not this night!

The following morning, as we drove around the tree-lined streets near the hotel, we realized we actually were in Rueil-Malmaison, and had been all along. Almost by Divine Providence, while exploring the narrow winding streets of the village, we came upon the small, crowded cemetery where Pier Angeli rested. A well-dressed gentleman with an understanding of English seemed intrigued with our interest in Pier Angeli. He became our guide as we talked and walked the graveled pathways to the marble stone that covered her grave.

While I wandered the rather stark grounds, reading names and dates carved into stone memorials, Norman privately relived the past; their moments together, the film, the tragedy of her life, and her mystery-shrouded death at the age of thirty-nine. Pier’s distraught maid had called Norman to her Beverly Hills home, and escorted him into the bedroom to find her lifeless body. I knew this was a necessary good-bye for Norman as he had loved her and they’d talked of marriage. It brought closure to a painful chapter of his life that had occurred just prior to our meeting.

An hour later, with Paris behind us, we now felt excited and ready for adventure as we continued south toward Lyon. We tarried an afternoon and overnight in Fontainebleau. Our evening stroll led us to The Franklin Roosevelt restaurant, a local haunt that was packed within minutes of opening with country folks seated elbow to elbow around long, family-style dining tables. What a marvelous dinner was laid before us as a symphony of chattering voices rose around us! I tried to catch a word or two but, with the added percussion of utensils rattling happily upon plates, it was useless. We observed their animation and delight while sharing their table, but without language skills we could only bask in afternoon memories of our visit to le Chateau de Fontainebleau. Napoleon’s summer retreat was idyllic in setting and extravagant in decor, to the point of ostentation.

An early morning hot chocolate and flaky croissant in a tiny cafe prepared us for a new day and destinations south. Autoroute meals were delightful tastes of nutty Camembert cheese, crudely carved on my lap, along with green, tart-sweet apples plucked from an abundant tree bowed over a country lane, and hunks of crusty French bread, torn from a fresh baguette. Red wine would have been customary, even for us, but since we were driving we settled for sips of fruity cassis (black-currant) juice from a large glass bottle.

Three hours down the road, the skies became gray and foreboding. Passing Lyon we snaked our way out of the gently rolling countryside, and into the rugged rock formations of the breathtaking Alps, and Mont Blanc. The tiny village of Annemasse, doorway to Switzerland and Italy, lay curled like a sleeping cat at the foothills of the Alps.

Temperatures began to feel really frosty as we climbed higher into the craggy, snowcapped peaks. A crystal lump of ice, which clung tenaciously to the glacial northern exposure of Mont Blanc, glinted like a jewel, captured in a ray of sunlight for a brief moment. But clouds quickly scudded over, cloaking it in gauzy mist that turned to rain on our windshield. By the time we reached the border checkpoint into Italy, a soft snow was dusting the road and layering a white sugary icing over the steep rooftops of the Alpine houses. We glided from one picturesque gingerbread village to another.

Operatic arias began swirling in my head as we wound down the hills, toward Milan. I imagined seeing and hearing great moments from La Traviata, or Carmen at La Scala, despite our firm decision to avoid the horrors of driving in large foreign cities. We spoke no Italian, and in addition, we were finding the natives’ driving habits far more perilous than those of the French drivers.

Bypassing the large city, we were generously rewarded with a charming evening spent in a quaint town northeast of Milan in the picturesque and ancient foothills of Bergamo, birthplace of Donizetti. Here we savored our first real Italian pizza. It was delicious, with its delicate, nutty crust and generous smothering of fresh crushed tomatoes, basil and cheeses, real cheeses!

Awakened early by a gonging church bell, we left Bergamo for Venice, arriving just as the sun began to cast elongated shadows upon the streets. It was a mosaic feast of light and sound. We spied a poster detailing a Vivaldi concert to be held that evening in a church, and relished the thought. I asked at shops and stalls for directions, to no avail, as no one understood English.

Norman began loosing patience, a common affliction when he became hungry, but I pursued. I interrupted a swarthy young Italian spinning pizza dough while singing O Sole Mio with joyful abandon. He spoke a smattering of English, and was willing to point a finger in the direction of a bridge and a platform of several waiting taxi boats. "You must take boat number three, and get off at the Piazza Turini." We grazzie’d profusely and took off at a run, just in time to jump aboard a packed and departing boat. Bottom-to-thigh, we jostled along with the boisterous international throng of bodies, keeping an eye out for a church and piazza. Suddenly the mass of bodies lurched sideways, as the boat fishtailed to a platform.

This is it, I shouted to a startled Norman. In a panic we shoved our way through the crowd and jumped off as the boat heaved and left us in a spray of water.

I hope you’re right, mumbled Norman as we strode to the church doors.

A slender man with his back to us peered curiously through a crack in the massive oak doors, and upon hearing our language, he turned and piped up. I’m wanting to hear the concert. I believe we purchase tickets here.

Oh, you’re British, too, I smiled in relief.

It’s nice to be able to communicate in English, sighed Norman. We had one difficult time trying to make ourselves understood and getting directions. We found it by the persistence of my wife. She didn’t let the shrugs or upturned hands faze her, and here we are. He squeezed me to him and kissed my forehead, then asked, Have you had dinner?

Actually, I was intending to purchase my ticket first, and then find a restaurant nearby.

They may only sell tickets at the doorjust before the concert, I suggested. Should we have dinner and take our chances?

Indeed, a capital plan, he agreed.

We felt an immediate rapport with the charming Englishman, who appeared to be in his late forties. So, together we struck out along the narrow canal streets, and tried to keep the twists and turns in mind, as we sought out a restaurant, prior to the evening of chamber music.

Our dinner at La Zucawas peppered with lively conversation and delicious cuisine. Satiated, we meandered back to the now-animated church, and purchased our tickets. Never had we been so moved and enthralled by a chamber group. The trills of the flute rang true and clear, entwined with the resonating strings of violin, viola, and cello. Vivaldi should have been there to see the joy on people’s faces as music filled the eleventh-century dome and carried us back to earlier times. We had shared such a