Saintes Glaces, Lune Rousse

"Attention aux pommes de terre, la lune rousse n'est pas passée encore"
Marie-Joseph is full of bonhomie this May morning, keeping out of the wind and out of Camille's way, having a crafty smoke and feeding the three token sheep in his makeshift paddock.
He is giving me a lesson on the russet moon, the first one after Easter. The one which threatens frosts, especially in the middle of May at Les Saints de Glace.
"Quand la lune rousse est passée
On ne craint plus la gelée..."
M-J pulls out a dicton de circonstance. He does this at frequent intervals to show his expertise.
Every year it's the same. A week or two of glorious weather in Sainte-Cécile, then the icy, Midnight Cowboy blast from the north-east.
Marie-Jo shuffles to the back corner of the shed, and pulls a hidden bottle of red from between a half-eaten haybale and a multi-recycled sheet of once-upon-a-time galvanized iron.
While he pours a single glass and downs it in one before refilling and offering it, there is just time to register the irony of my friend's name. For someone with a girl's moniker, he is the most un-feminine person I know. Except for the lady down the road who used to keep the goat, but she died back in the late eighties so doesn't count.
"De toute façon, il ne faut pas être pressé pour semer les patates, mon vieux. Camille est peut-être forte en goule, mais c'est moi l'expert du jardin..."
And this seems to be as good a reason as any for him to do as little as possible today. I leave him to his bottle, then jump in the 2CV and cast around for something to take away the taste of vinegar, Gitane sans filtre and sheep shit.
Lexique (Il y en a beaucoup aujourd'hui); Rousse; Roux au féminin. Cf blond/blonde: brun/brune...
Pomme de terre = patate
La gelée; Quand il fait froid la nuit, le lendemain matin il peut y avoir des gelées. C'est dangereux pour les jeunes plantes tendres. Surtout les patates, les tomates ou des fruits en formation.
Forte en goule; On adore! C'est du patois vendéen = une femme qui parle beaucoup. Goule = bouche (ou visage)
Pensez aux lunes; Lune rousse, lune bleu, lune de miel...
Dicton; proverbe populaire.
Saints de Glace; Tradition/superstition folklo-catholique. Le 11, 12 et 13 mai. Regardez sur Wikipédia.

La Couleuvre, et le Docteur Pouce

"C'est une couleuvre, c'est inoffensif, tu sais...ça n'a pas de venin"

Marcel is by the jardin potager sharpening his croissant. He squints against the early morning April sunshine. He speaks slowly and works the stone against the blade with an easy, practised movement.

The grass-snake is more than a metre long, and, not yet warmed by the morning sun, it it slides lazily over our boots.

"Autrefois, il y avait des gens qui mangeaient ça. Le vieux Pompard, par exemple. On appelait ça l'anguille des broussailles".

Hedgerow eels indeed.

The real deal eels are a delicacy in the Marais Poitevin wetlands south of here, where they are cooked over smoky embers, and washed down with the crisp but unfortunately-named Vin de Pissotte.

I ask Marcel how he received his petit-nom sobriquet of "Docteur Pouce". I knew the answer, of course. He'd told me dozens of times over the years. As he nears eighty, I love to see the glint in his eye as he tells me of his talent.

Farmers used to come from far and wide to benefit from the healing properties of Marcel's thumb, and a very few still do. It is well-known locally that on one occasion, following an excursion to Brussels on the "La Thatcher à la mer" demo circa 1983, an agriculteur from Bournezeau turned up while Marcel and a dozen neighbours were grape picking. Le patient and Le Docteur retired behind the grape press, to emerge two minutes later both smiling. Marcel was fifty francs richer, and the relieved farmer's hémorroïdes [can't you spell it in English? Ed] were now back in a more comfortable location.

Our green and yellow grass-snake becomes a little too curious, and entwines itself in the strawberry netting. We spend a few minutes extricating the creature, my companion's legendary dexterity clearly extending to his fingers.

Tu prendras un verre, Alan?

He asks, and we retire to the cave to drink, as is customary here, alternately from the same Arcoroc glass. Marcel jokes that on that day the Bournezeau bloke turned up for thumb therapy, nobody wanted the glass after Le Docteur...

Lexique: Croissant; C'est bon au petit-déjeuner, et c'est aussi un outil pour couper l'herbe.
Jardin potager; On y cultive des légumes (carottes, tomates, pommes de terre...)
La Thatcher; Premier Ministre du Royaume Uni 1979 à 1991. Les agriculteurs en France ne l'aimaient pas beaucoup.
Cave; On y stocke le vin. Ce n'est pas une grotte.