Bread Man bought my baguette this week and handed it over with a little flourish. “Zis” he said, “zis ‘umble baguette I made with my very own ‘ands, is a UNESCO-listed treasure you know.”

And he’s not wrong. This week UNESCO accepted France’s application for the baguette to be listed under the heading of intangible cultural heritage – savoir-faire (know how).

French bread is a way of life

In honour of the occasion, Bread Man came in for a cup of coffee. It’s been a bit cold this week so I had the wood fire lit, FatCat and Mimi the Marmalade Moggy were lying on the hearth and barely opened their eyes to acknowledge our presence. Tigger the kitten jumped on to Bread Man’s lap and curled up making eyes at him while we sat chatting. Ronnie and Reggie the Labrador puppies looked hopefully at the baguette on the table.

“’Ooo would ‘ave thought it” he said, “me and UNESCO…”. I think he feels personally responsible for the baguette making the list. “Just four ingredients you know, really it’s five, but you won’t read zat in a recipe because you can’t see it, it’s passion.”

Bread Man learned to bake bread as a child, his dad was a baker too. His daughter is learning the arts of baking and cake making and will join her papa one day. His wife is also a baker. It isn’t an easy life being an artisan baker. Early morning starts, copious amounts of paperwork in running a small business, rising costs, and not huge profits. You definitely need passion to be a baker.

A long history

Strangely, no one knows when the baguette was first invented. Bread Man poo poos the theory that Napoleon invented them so that his soldiers could carry the thin sticks in their pockets whilst marching. He adamantly disagrees that they are Austrian in origin (like the croissant). His preferred provenance is that the baguette as we know it is an evolution of elongated loaves made in France since the 1600s.

“Baking a baguette is a bit of magic when you think about it” he said. “You squash 4 ingredients together, put zem in oven and out comes something delicious. Life without baguettes would be long comme un jour sans pain” and he laughed at his own joke. It literally means ‘as long as a day without bread’ which the French say to mean the same as ‘as long as a month of Sundays’ or very, very dull. Passing Tigger over to me, he pulled on his coat waved goodbye and resumed his rounds delivering a cultural treasure to the rest of the village…

More on bread

History of the baguette

Bread is a cultural experience in France

How to make a baguette 

Janine Marsh is Author of My Good Life in France: In Pursuit of the Rural Dream,  My Four Seasons in France: A Year of the Good Life and Toujours la France: Living the Dream in Rural France all available as ebook, print & audio, on Amazon everywhere & all good bookshops online.

Don’t miss the weekly newsletter which every week brings you inspiration from France

Read the whole newsletter this was extracted from here – loads of fun features and top tips for where to go in France…

It’s easy to subscribe if you don’t want to miss my weekly newsletters of musings from France and a round-up of fab features, plus exclusive random newsletter giveaways. Just scroll to the bottom of this post if you’re on a mobile device. Or look on the right on a laptop or PC. Type in your email address and click subscribe…

The post UNESCO-listed baguette a French cultural treasure appeared first on The Good Life France.

When, out of the blue, I received a message from the American Library in Paris informing me that my book had been nominated for their prestigious book prize awards, you could have knocked me down with one of my chicken’s feathers!

Now before I go any further, let me tell you I didn’t win. I never expected to. The American Library in Paris book awards are very highbrow and tend towards the ‘intellectual bent’ as they put it. I was up against tomes on Napoleon, Lafayette and Robespierre and some of the best names in literature.

It’s possible that my stories of life in the middle of nowhere rural France aren’t as scholarly as some books on the list. I write about my 30 chickens who have unusual names like Zsa Zsa Gabor (very, very bossy), Barbra Streisand (on account of her clucking sounding just like “I am a woman in love”) and handsome cockerels George Clooney and Brad Pitt. I tell tales of Bread Man, a philosophical delivery driver who ruins my plans to diet with his tempting cakes and pastries. I reveal all about my rucking ducks, including Mel Gibson and Rocky who spend most of the day glaring menacingly at each other through the fence that is required to separate them and quacking “you want some?” to each other. And I write about the traditions, heritage and sometimes quirky way of life in a very rural part of northern France in a village with no shops or bars where the people have sunshine in their hearts.

Nevertheless, my book – Toujours la France: Living the Dream in Rural France was one of just a handful of books for the year 2022 to be accepted for submission to the judges. And I am thrilled. To whoever nominated me – thank you very much!

By the way, the title of this post is a joke – there is no way I am going to eat my chickens, even if I didn’t win! I did try once. When I first came to France many moons ago I took in a baby chicken that was challenged in the looks departments as chickens go. Very gangly and with drab feathers. She did though have a rather outstanding physique. We called her Eaglet. She rapidly outgrew her sisters and stood so tall I considered entering her for the Guinness Book of Records “biggest chicken” category. Imagine my surprise then when she started cock-a-doodle-doo-ing while I was pegging out the washing one day.

Of course I had made a rookie error. She was a he though he did attempt each day to lay an egg just as the rest of the gang did. And he had impeccable manners as far as they were concerned, never bothered the girls at all unlike his successor Roger Moore who certainly lived up to his name. We loved Eaglet dearly. One sad day he fell out of the coop and broke his leg. Distressed and in pain, we put him out of his misery. We convinced ourselves his life should not be in vain and we prepared coq au vin. It smelled delicious. It looked delicious. We couldn’t do it. All we could think of was that Eaglet was our pet. I guess you can take the slicker out of the city but you can’t lead it to water…

Janine Marsh is Author of My Good Life in France: In Pursuit of the Rural Dream, My Four Seasons in France: A Year of the Good Life  and Toujours La France: Living the Dream in Rural France:

AMAZON UNIVERSAL LINK: smarturl.it/ToujourslaFrance

AMAZON UK LINK: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B09S3WPJ61

AMAZON .COM LINK: www.amazon.com/dp/B09S3WPJ61

All are available as ebook, print & audio, on Amazon & all good bookshops.

The post Winner winner chicken dinner appeared first on The Good Life France.

Every year I look forward to the TV Show Village préféré des Français – the favourite village of the French, presented by the likeable Stéphane Bern. 2022 is the 10^th anniversary of the show and there is much excitement in the bit of France where I live as Hesdin, one of the ‘big’ villages near my tiny little hamlet, is representing our region!

The show is a chance to see places you sometimes have never heard of, sometimes more well known, and certainly famous if they win this coveted title and join a list of gorgeous villages in France…

Take a look at the contenders for 2022:

Hesdin – Hauts-de-France

Hesdin in Pas-de-Calais (top photo), boasts a picturesque cobblestone square with an imposing Town Hall dating back to the sixteenth century, a former Spanish castle. Surrounded by cafés and small shops, this is the perfect place to sit and grab a coffee, relax, and people-watch. On Thursdays the square is filled with market stalls and people and you can buy everything from fruit and clothes to bread – the archetypal traditional French market. It’s a small town, everything is within easy walking distance and it’s friendly, welcoming and quintessentially French (the TV series Maigret was filmed here).

Quintin – Brittany

Awarded Small City of Character status, Quintin has two castles and thirteen listed monuments, watermills and mysterious megaliths. Once a centre of the weaving industry, there’s also a museum of linen.

Pino – Corsica

Pino is made up of 13 hamlets which pepper the landscape from the edge of the Mediterranean Sea to the crest of Monte Cupieta. Utterly unspoiled and uncrowded, it is like time forgot this beautiful area with its grand though largely empty buildings and glorious views.

Saint-Sulpice-de-Favieres – Ile-de-France

This village in the Essone department, metropolitan Paris, has a long heritage though most people have never heard of it, even in France. Its 13th-14th century church is as big as a cathedral. There is also a historical arboretum with some 6,500 species of tree, established in 1857.

Bergheim – Alsace, Grand Est

Close to the city of Colmar, Bergheim is a wine producing village and watched over by the castle of Haut-Koeningsbourg. It’s beautifully preserved with 16th century buildings, surrounded by ramparts and has an unusual museum dedicated to sorcery. Don’t miss the public garden with its 700 year old lime tree.

Levroux –  Centre-Val-de-Loire

Medieval Levroux, in the former Provence of Berry, in Indre, Loire Valley, is picturesque and historic. It has long been a centre of leather production and still is – producing goods for the luxury industry to this day. Cobbled streets, half-timbered houses and an impressive medieval gate to the town.

Saint-Sauveur-en-Puisaye – Burgundy-Franche-Comté

It’s here in the village of Saint-Sauveur-en-Puisaye in the Yonne department, that the writer Collette was born. You can visit her former home, now a museum. This listed “City of Character” has many ancient buildings, a 12th century church and 11th century tower.

La Bouille – Normandy

La Bouille is in the Seine-Maritime department. Just 20m from the city of Rouen, it was one of the strongholds of the Impressionists. Turner, Gauguin and Sisley all captured its beauty on canvas.

Ainhoa ​​- New Aquitaine

This pretty village in the Pays de Basque, Pyrénées-Atlantiques, is on the pilgrim route of Santiago de Compostela. Founded by monks in the 13th century, it is a town of red and white coloured houses, typical of the area, with espelette peppers drying round windows. Ainho is officially one of the most beautiful villages of France.

Dieulefit – Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes

Dielefit is in the Drome department, a land of lavender fields and olive orchards and stupendous scenery. The town’s pastel coloured houses and tree lined streets are watched over by mountains and surrounded by gorgeous countryside.

Port-Joinville – Pays-de-la-Loire

Port-Joinville in the Vendée is both the capital of, and the gateway to the Ile d’Yeu. Its very pretty with white washed houses and a thriving marina.

La Grave –  Provence-Alpes-Côtes d’Azur

La Grave is in the French Alps, (Hautes-Alpes). Its traditional stone houses at the top of La Meije and the Girose glacier in the Oisans Massif make it a standout location. It’s a skiers paradise with an unspoiled landscape.

Le Malzieu-Ville – Occitanie

Le-Malzieu-Ville in Lozère, is one of the officially Most Beautiful Villages of France. It’s a medieval city with cobbled streets that are festooned with bunting in summer months, ancient buildings and historic towers.

Saul – Guyana

Representing the overseas territories of France, Saul is in the heart of the Amazonian park.

Discover all the past favourite villages of the French winners

The post Favourite villages of the French 2022 appeared first on The Good Life France.

With spring in full swing, in April, our thoughts in this rural part of northern France turn to wood. I don’t mean literally of course. Despite the fact that the warm months of summer are yet to come, we start to think of keeping warm in winter. Pretty much everyone in the village has a wood fire, and some have wood ovens. My nonagenarian neighbour Claudette has had her boat-shaped enamel wood oven, the colour of the Mediterranean sea on a sunny August day, since she got married in 1960. It’s fed by small sticks of wood. Her son-in-law my neighbour Jean-Claude, abhors the job of log chopping on this scale. However, he can spot an opportunity from a mile away.

The first rule of Wood Club is you don’t talk about Wood Club

‘Let’s talk wood’ he said to my husband Mark one day a few years ago. ‘You can never have too much, and as it happens, there’s an opening in the Wood Club of which I am President. And me and the rest, well, we’d love you to join. It means free firewood in return for a little bit of help to manage the trees in Claudette’s fields’. Claudette is the biggest landowner in the area and rents land out to several farmers.

The ‘rest’ turned out to be Claude Senior AKA Claude “Claude at the top of the big hill”. Every day he visits his sone “Claude at the top of the small hill” (I hope you’re still with me). Petit-Frère of course is part of the team, he’s Jean-Claude’s best mate.  And Monsieur Durand and Monsieur Rohart, both former farmers. Jean-Claude made getting into the club sound as if it was an exclusive and coveted achievement. A little while later, at a formal meeting of the other members of the Wood Club, Mark was accepted into the group. He was told that he shouldn’t share details of what they do with anyone else, or they’d all want in.

They get together once a year in the winter months to chop down damaged or too big trees. The wood is then stored it in stackable sized pieces in Jean-Claude’s enormous barn where it’s left to season. Jean-Claude, as the leader of the gang, does little but sit on his tractor and direct operations.

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck

In late spring the Wood Club get together to chop the seasoned wood into usable logs. Jean-Claude and Claude-who-lives-at-the-top-of-the-hill bring their tractors to which are attached home-made wood choppers. The booty is shared out between the Wood Club members.

Jean-Claude is a wily operator and provides his team with a feast each day, buttering them up at lunch time with buttery fondant potatoes and rich  stews. Beef cooked in beer and creamy chicken poule au pot. He doles out great chunks of crispy baguette to mop up the sauces. And to finish there is one of Claudette’s famous fruit or chocolate tarts or crème brulee.

At the end of each day there is beer and wine or a glass of pastis, Jean-Claude’s favourite, his ‘petit jaune’, his little yellow sunshine in a glass. When he tacks a request for just one more day of help to cut small bits of wood for his belle-maman’s oven there is much raising of eyebrows. Everyone pretends to be exhausted or too busy. In truth they are all used to his ways by now. And all the Wood Club members expect this last request of the week but of course no one lets on! Life here in rural France is about friendship, neighbourliness and community, and eventually everyone gives in and the wood is cut to Claudette’s satisfaction!

Janine Marsh is Author of My Good Life in France: In Pursuit of the Rural Dream – My Four Seasons in France: A Year of the Good Life and Toujours la France: Living the Dream in Rural France – available as ebooks, print & audio, on Book Depository, Booktopia, Waterstones, Barnes & Noble, Amazon everywhere & all good bookshops online…

The post The good life France in April appeared first on The Good Life France.

Whenever friends or family come to stay, they’re a bit taken aback at how busy my life is in rural northern France. “We thought you’d be having a lie in every day, you know, taking it easy. Putting your feet up.”

Yes well, that’s not quite how it works. At least not when you have an extended family of 72 animals. And heating is from a wood fire, which means there’s always wood to chop. You’re trying to be more self sufficient by growing your own vegetables and fruit. And you are addicted to writing, like Forrest Gump if he’d picked up a pen.

I rise at 6am, as I always have. After life in London, the peace and quiet of my little village in the Seven Valleys still surprises me. An owl might hoot in a barn, considering me inconsiderate for turning on the light in the courtyard so I can see my way to my way to the pigsty, now my office, where I like to start writing first thing in the morning. A pheasant may rustle its feathers in the hedge. Sometimes a tractor will pass. No traffic, no airplanes, no sirens.

George Clooney and Brat Pitt get the party started

However, as soon as I put the kitchen light on at the back of the house to make a cup of tea, it’s a different story. My cockerels Brad Pitt and George Clooney kick it off. They crow loudly and constantly at the artificial sun/kitchen light. This is followed by chickens clucking, geese honking and ducks quacking, shattering the peaceful tranquillity of the village.

One year I let the ducks roam freely in the garden, I loved how they waddled to the back door to greet me in the morning.

“You look like a demented Pied Piper with that lot following you around” said my husband. There’s nothing like the adoration of ducks to make you feel good. They ran amok. Or rather, I let them do as they wish.

“It’s fine” I said, all blasé when my neighbour Jean-Claude tried to advise against it. “Don’t do it” he urged, “let them out – and they’ll create havoc, you’ll be sorry”.

Quite why I didn’t listen when I know, after several years of him being my mentor in France that he is always right, I am not sure. What was I thinking? Clearly I wasn’t thinking at all, as Jean-Claude delights in reminding me.

That year 52 ducklings hatched. I spent several months rehoming as many as I could to new owners who wouldn’t eat them. I ferried them about in crates all over the region. There is now no roaming free in my garden. Men to the left pen, ladies to the right pen.

Once my tea is made, I turn off the lights, head to the pigsty and with the darkness, peace returns temporarily.

The birds, the birds

When the sun comes up, I feed the wild birds. The minute I open the back door there is frantic activity in the trees as chaffinches, sparrows, robins, finches, blue tits, great tits, doves and birds of all kinds get ready to swoop. Arthur the ‘Alf an ‘Ead pigeon is always well-mannered, he’s missing half his head (yes the name is a give away) and sits calmly on the washing line waiting his turn at the food trays.

Then I serve the chickens, ducks and geese to a cacophony of squeaks, clucks, quacks, honks and cock-a-doodle-doos.

On the way back to the house I feed the escapees. Chickens Kendo Nagasaki, Barbie, Belinda and Beatrice refuse to stay in the pen and run wild in the garden where they dig holes for dirt baths, which I regularly fall over in.

Then I let the cats in or out. All of them screeching for food, cuddles, this and that. By now the dogs are barking to be taken for a walk.

Did I say peace and quiet? All that’s missing at this stage is a marching band!

Janine Marsh is Author of My Good Life in France: In Pursuit of the Rural Dream – My Four Seasons in France: A Year of the Good Life and Toujours la France: Living the Dream in Rural France – available as ebooks, print & audio, on Book Depository, Booktopia, Waterstones, Barnes & Noble, Amazon everywhere & all good bookshops online…

The post Life in France in March appeared first on The Good Life France.

In the far north of France where I live in the lovely Seven Valleys, by the time February arrives, we’re usually feeling a bit soggy after the long winter months. Though heavy snows do happen here, it’s fairly rare, but it sure does rain a lot which makes everything green and lush.

In the south, by late winter, the mimosa trees burst into blossom, heralding the spring. It’s often warm enough to eat lunch out in a t-shirt. One February I took a train from Paris to Nice. I considered myself well prepared. Wrapped up for northern winter weather in a quilted coat, scarf, hat, gloves – like a yeti on a city trip. I left the biting winds and sleet of the north behind and a few hours later arrived in the city. In complete contrast, I arrived to blue skies and sunshine. It felt like I’d taken a train to a different country, not just a different region.

The north does have one thing in common with the south though at this time of the year – it’s carnival time. The big southern one is in Nice which is where I went when I took that train. It’s a fabulously flamboyant affair with flower fights and fantastical parades. It’s joyous, bright, beautiful and bold.

No winter blues at the Dunkirk Carnival – it’s multi-coloured!

Here in the north, we have the Dunkirk Carnival and believe me, it’s every bit as animated and fabulous. Not for the parades though, and there are no flowers – it relies on the revellers to be the carnival. It is the craziest, noisiest and most friendly event I’ve ever been to. It began in the 17^th century when local fishermen left for Iceland to spend six months away from home catching herring. They still love their herring here though the fishing expeditions are no longer quite the same. To send the fishermen off, the townsfolk paraded through the streets. The men disguised themselves as women (reflecting that there were no men left. Amateur musicians beat drums and played merry tunes. Everyone enjoyed lots of beer, linked arms and sang rousing songs.

Nothing has changed.

As always in this part of France that adores its heritage and traditions, the street carnival has remained true to its roots. The chilly streets are filled with people dressed in their brightest colours. Think neon coloured feathered boas and colourful tiny parasols on long sticks. Everyone applies make up with a heavy hand, more clown style than make up artist. And if you’re not up to doing it yourself, pop to the tourist office where they’ll help you. Let’s just say they won’t be joining the beauty counters of L’Oréal any time soon.

Blowing the winter cobwebs away

My first time at this carnival I was blown away – almost literally. There was an icy gale whooshing off the English Channel along which Dunkirk sits. And snow flurries swirled around the swirling dancers. The feel good factor of this carnival is off the scale and it’s super friendly. I have never been kissed so many times in one day, possibly not in a year! In a world seemingly inhabited by pantomime dames you’ll also meet the local giants in Roman costume and probably Asterix the Gaul, Superman and Bart Simpson. Imagine a river of colourful, happy, freezing cold, slightly bonkers people singing at the top of their voices, dancing and swaying through the streets and you’ll get the picture.

A sort of hokey cokey/conga is de rigeur. And I’m not kidding when I say that in order to take photos and videos, I tied myself to a lamp post to avoid being swept up by the crowds. And if that’s not all mad enough, at the end of the carnival the mayor chucks hundreds of herring into the crowd from the town hall balcony. Yes real ones though they are wrapped in plastic, they’re not quite that far gone here. He also chucks a couple of plastic lobsters. If you’re lucky enough to catch one, you can exchange it for the real thing. I’m guessing that being hit on the head by a real lobster might not be that much fun.

The glow of goodwill

The fun factor of the Dunkirk Carnival knocks your winter socks off I can tell you. But any time of the year they really love a party in this part of the world. Dancing breaks out wherever there is music, whether it’s in a restaurant, in the town square or simply someone playing an accordion at a market.

No need for southern sun in the north, the glow of goodwill blows the winter cobwebs and blues far, far away…

Janine Marsh is Author of My Good Life in France: In Pursuit of the Rural Dream, My Four Seasons in France: A Year of the Good Life  and Toujours La France: Living the Dream in Rural France (April 2022), available as ebooks, print & audio, on Amazon everywhere & all good bookshops online…

The post Life in France in February appeared first on The Good Life France.

Every year it’s the same in my little village in the Seven Valleys, northern France. Madame Bernadette who lives at the bottom of the hill announces that her New Year’s resolution is to go on a diet.

Sometimes It’s tough living here in this little rural paradise. We’re surrounded by villages that are home to tempting boulangeries and patisseries. And I guarantee that the aroma of fresh baked baguettes from a wood oven, lifted out by a ruddy faced baker on the end of a long paddle, or the scent of flaky, buttery and golden just-cooked croissants, is utterly irresistible.

And then there are the cakes.

Cake makers in France are craftsmen. They train for years to learn how to make perfect little edible works of art. Opera cakes, Paris-Brest, eclairs, macarons, mille-feuille and many more. Classic French cakes really are in a league of their own. Nowhere else in the world does cakes like France

Keep calm and eat cake…

Regions, departments, even some towns have pastry specialities that are unique to them. Here in the far north, the “merveilleux” (marvellous) is a favourite. A speciality from Lille, it’s a seriously sweet meringue puff ball of a cake covered with whipped cream, chocolate or other sweet things. I can promise you, it requires fortitude to eat a whole one. In fact, if you get through one you may find you’ve eaten yourself to a standstill.

In the little town of Beaurainville near my village, the local baker makes a cake that I’ve never seen anywhere else. I am not sure you could put it in the great French classic gateaux category. Le Doigt de Charles Quint is a long sponge finger – literally. Red jam and Chantilly cream ooze from the centre. It’s meant to represent the gouty pinky finger of Emperor Charles V who ruled these parts. It tastes better than it sounds…

There are even seasonal cakes and breads. A Gallette des Rois (King’s Cake) is de rigeur in January. Bûche de Noël (yule log) in December. Cherry clafoutis in spring. And tarte tatin in autumn…

French women do eat cakes

I am always reading in some foreign newspaper or other that French women are somehow able to exert superhuman strength over their appetites and remain skinny. That might be true in Paris where I once saw a pencil thin woman order a bowl of lettuce for dinner as her lover tucked into succulent oysters, a juicy steak and ended with a dreamy tarte tatin. But I promise you, your average French woman, certainly where I live, is quite normal and able to resist anything but temptation – just like the rest of us.

Madame Bernadette loves cakes. The Bread Man who visits our village three times a week to drop off fresh bread and pastries knows this. And he is a good salesman. In January he hardly mentions the sweet feasts he has in the back of his van. Madame Bernadette accepts her lonely baguette with a sigh, but resists the urge to look in the side window at the trays of cakes and pastries. By February she will be asking “do you have a mille-feuille?” By March the Bread Man is openly tempting her with sugar cakes (basically a sweet pastry baked with a thick butter and sugar topping) or a sticky and creamy religieuse. The battle is lost. Resistance is futile.

But as Madame Bernadette says – there’s always next year…

Janine Marsh is Author of My Good Life in France: In Pursuit of the Rural Dream and My Four Seasons in France: A Year of the Good Life available as ebooks, print & audio, on Amazon everywhere & from all good bookshops…

Cake recipes from France

Love the sound of the cakes I’ve mentioned? Here’s how to make them at home!

Tarte tatin – like maman used to make

Merveilleux – a creamy meringue concoction that will blow your diet out of the water!

Galette des Rois – the king’s cake

Buche de Noel – a Christmas classic

Cherry Clafoutis – sweet and irresistible…

The post Life in France in January appeared first on The Good Life France.

As a poultry keeper, I’m always amazed by the antics of my birds. I have ducks, chickens and geese – they’re pets, not for the pot, despite the urging of my French neighbours.  I love them all but it’s the chickens who for me are the most fascinating. Ducks fight it out to establish a pecking order. Geese seem to be quite democratic, group together and have no clear leader. Chickens are a whole other story.

Reggie and Ronnie Kray

Take Reggie Kray.

Reggie and Ronnie Kray are beautiful cockerels who are the spitting image of their dad Roger Moore who is the leader of the pack in the chicken pen. Roger does not share. He keeps a very beady eye over the ladies and what they get up to. Reggie is a romantic. He fell head over heels for a fluffy brown, coquettish chicken called Annette and the pair managed to escape the pen for a quiet tête-à-tête together. She is able to squeeze through the fence as she’s a miniature chicken, and he just goes straight over the top.

Their affair blossomed under the leaves of a quince tree. Every night they returned to the pen. Reggie slept in his tree, Annette in her tree with Roger Moore and his harem. They do have chicken coops, but they prefer to be outdoors.

Annette eventually tired of her young lover and refused to leave the pen. Reggie was heartbroken and cock-a-doodle-doo’d forlornly every day.

So we bought yet another coop, 4 new girls and put Reggie in a new pen with them.

It started well. The girls were wary but made welcome by the rest of the group. And Reggie did a little welcome dance too (you can see the video on Instagram). But it soon went wrong.

Kendo Nagasaki wins this round

Reggie stayed with the girls all day but at night, went back to his old pen to sleep up in the tree with Ronnie.

Kendo Nagasaki, a miniature cockerel who is a solitary old boy and chooses to live in the garden alone (where he can nibble my vegetables to his heart’s content) saw his chance. Every night he nipped over the fence into Reggie’s pen and stayed with the girls. In the morning he left the pen.

Then he decided not to leave every day, sometimes he stuck around all day long. When this happened, Reggie, who is a lover not a fighter, refused to leave Roger Moore’s pen unless Kendo Nagasaki went back into the garden.

This went on for weeks. Cockerels to-ing and fro-ing like yoyos. The girls seemed to take no notice whatsoever of the boys shenanigans.

The cockerels who stay together win together

Then early one morning I heard Kendo Nagasaki at the back door calling me for breakfast as he always used to when he was living in the garden. I fed him and went to the pen to see what had happened. Reggie and Ronnie Kray were strutting about with the girls. If they had been twirling silver topped canes and doffing their top hats I wouldn’t have been more surprised (alright maybe I would a bit!). They had staged a coup in the coop.

So now I’m thinking I need to get more girls for Ronnie. It’s a never ending saga. Peyton Place with pecking I call it…

Janine Marsh is Author of My Good Life in France: In Pursuit of the Rural Dream – ebook, print & audio, on Amazon everywhere & all good bookshops online, and My Four Seasons in France: A Year of the Good Life

The post Peyton Place Chicken Pen appeared first on The Good Life France.

A couple of years ago now, we went through a torrid time in what is now called “The Year of 52 ducklings”. It was all my fault.

As a city slicker, moving to the countryside of northern France has been a bit of a learning curve to put it mildly. And when it comes to keeping animals, I was a total and utter novice. I think I had a goldfish when I was about 3 years old. That was it.

When I left my job in a bank in the City of London, my colleagues gave me an envelope with a picture of a chicken on. They said, “you can’t open it until you get there and you’re ready to live the good life”.

The Good Life was a TV series about a couple who wanted to give up city life to become self-sufficient (known as The Good Neighbours in the USA). My friends said “Ah that’s you! The Good Life France!”

It took a while but there came a day when I felt ready to open the envelope and inside was enough money to buy a dozen fully grown chickens. I named them all much to the horror of my neighbour and mentor Jean-Claude. “You will find it hard to eat them if you name them” he counselled. He was right, we never ate them, they became much loved pets.

Well chickens led to ducks. We started with just three girls. They are lovely friendly chatty creatures. We got a few more. One was a boy.

Oh the joy when tiny fluffy ducklings arrived. They were so cute. We loved our new feathery family members. Some of the ducklings were boys and some were girls.

Some months later more ducklings. This time the mum abandoned them, we bought them up in the house, we were enamoured of our new babies. One poor little soul had weak legs and was pushed out of the group, he lived with us in the house for weeks, we called him Rocky as he was such a little fighter (here he is on Instagram).

At the end of the year we had 21 ducks. I worried they didn’t have enough room in the pen. I let them out in the garden.

“Non, non, non” said Jean-Claude “ they will run havoc, you will be sorry”.

“It will be fine” I said, looking at the lovely ducks frolicking in the garden.

Well they frolicked alright. Instead of being able to collect eggs from a pen, they hid their eggs under hedges and bushes so I couldn’t find them. By the end of the year 52 ducklings were born.

O.M.G.

We were overrun with ducks. Every time I went out the garden I had a long line of them following me, jumping up into the food buckets, hanging by their beaks from my sleeves. The garden and everything in it was covered in duck poo. We knew we had to do something, next year there might a hundred, maybe more ducklings.

I asked everyone I knew, do you want ducks or know anyone who wants ducks – but not for eating, these are pets. Everyone wanted girls. Only one boy found a home. He went with three girls to live in a chateau where they had many types of ducks. A week later the new duck mum phoned “Could you take him back please, he’s insatiable, he won’t leave any of our ducks alone”.

In the end we had 9 boys left and two girls, Belle, and daughter Bella. We separated boys from girls. The girls were very happy on their own. The boys watched them through the fence, eyes glinting.

Sadly, the next year Belle died. Bella was heart-broken. She laid an egg and sat on it. She was convinced it would hatch. She wouldn’t eat. She wouldn’t come to see me when I came to the pen. The egg didn’t hatch. She lost weight, her feathers started falling out. I knew we had to do something to save her.

I asked my friend Annette if she would take Bella in to live with her ducks. “Of course” she said, “bring her over, we’ll see how they get on”.  I was sure it would be ok because Annette had already taken 18 of my overflow ducks but you never quite know how an established group will react to a newbie.

We took Bella in the car to Annette’s house. I carried her round to the garden and placed her on the floor. She just stood stock still as if in shock. I hated to lose her but keeping her would definitely lead to her demise. Then her head moved to stare at something. Another duck was walking along followed by a string of ducklings. One little tiny duckling was at the back and struggling to keep up, it was smaller than the rest. Bella stared, she was transfixed.

Then she slowly and gently waddled over and joined the back of the queue. The little duckling turned to look, the rest carried on. The little duckling stared into Bella’s eyes, not moving. I could swear Bella had a smile on her beak. They stayed like that for a while. The original mum didn’t seem to mind, she didn’t look back at all. Bella slowly and carefully walked over to a food bowl, the duckling followed her. They both ate and then wandered off together round the pen before Bella settled under a bush, the duckling safely tucked up beneath her.

That’s not the happy ending though.

Annette called me to say that Bella has just hatched two babies of her own, she’s a proud and very caring mum and she’s very happy…

Janine Marsh is the author of My Good Life in France: In Pursuit of the Rural Dream and My Four Seasons in France: A Year of the Good Life

The post A happy ending for a lonely duck appeared first on The Good Life France.

Making friends in France isn’t difficult I’ve found. They don’t care if my French is not great or I get my grammar all wrong. They don’t even care that much that I am “Flop chef not Top Chef” and can barely grill a bit of French bread without spoiling it. But there are some things you must never ever do…

Being late really is fashionable in France

Never turn up to a party or dinner on time. You will find your host half-dressed and irritated. Be at least 15 minutes late and don’t apologise. 30 minutes late is better.

I once turned up on time for dinner with my neighbours and they were very surprised. Dinner didn’t arrive until more than two hours after we did as they weren’t remotely prepared for us and had to stop preparation to talk to us and have a drink. One or the other of them kept sneaking away to carry on the preparation in a piece meal fashion.

Quite why French people don’t make the invite for the time they actually want you to arrive is not yet known.

Quality – not quantity

Never ever tell your French neighbours that you moved to France because it is cheaper than living in your home country. It will be considered deeply insulting. The fact is there is most likely always somewhere else you can buy an even cheaper property so it’s unlikely to be just about money. If you tell a French person you moved there because you love the way of life – they will be much more accepting of you.

I made the mistake of telling my neighbour that I could never have afforded the house and land I have in France if I was still in the UK. He has never forgiven me.

I now talk about how I appreciate the French love of their traditions and culture, their patriotism and love of good food and wine, how I can go to a different market ever day of the week and buy seasonal goods – and that’s the truth of it.

This is what happens when you do it wrong. The person you told will narrow their eyes and nod slowly but say nothing. They will rush to tell everyone else in the village, the news that a ‘salop’ (asshole) has moved into town.

The Postman Always Rings Twice

Never say no to a post office calendar. Postmen and post ladies in France will offer to sell you a rather unattractive post office calendar at Christmas.  It’s up to you how much you offer, when I asked my post lady she said, ‘as you wish’.

Take my advice and give at least five Euros or your post might be delayed. The first year I received the offer for the most disgusting calendar I said no thank you. My post was consistently late, very late or very very late. I learned my lesson.

If, like me, you offer a 20 Euro note and expect change, don’t. Your friendly postie will simply hot foot it down the path but you will get a great service for the rest of the year.

Get more tips and find out what real life is like in France in my book: My Good Life in France: In Pursuit of the Rural Dream

Available on Amazon everywhere in print, ebook, audio, CD and big print and at great book stores everywhere including Waterstones, Foyles, Barnes & Noble etc..

Amazon UK; Amazon US

The post Insider tips to help you make friends with the locals in France appeared first on The Good Life France.