Finally some good bait to get us fishing.  Three guys from St. Malo just “seeded” the bay with 600 bottles of champagne.  For the past several years the three–a sommelier, a restaurant owner and a man who runs an oyster farm–have been aging wine in their very own underwater cellar.  The results have been so good with the wine coming back to the surface in perfect condition that this year they decided to try “watered” champagne.

We’ve got news for them: they’re about 80 years too late.  That experiment was already done, albeit unintentionally. 

During the Prohibition years in the US, plenty of booze was smuggled into America via the French islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon.  Occasionally, however, the Feds caught sight of the “rum runners” and they had to ditch their cargo.  The smugglers had some favorite sandbars and always hoped to go back for the goodies.  Mother Nature, in the form of tides and currents, sometimes had other ideas.

In one case during the 1920s a load of Charles Heidsieck champagne got dumped, and that was the end of it–until about 1963.  Then some clam diggers found more than they bargained for.  Their clambake turned into quite a celebration, complete with well-aged, but still young and delicious, bubbly.

So, you St. Malo champagne-sinkers, get ready for a sparkling party when you reel it in.  And don’t forget to spare a toast for the “rum runners” of old who could probably still teach a thing or two about dumping champagne in the ocean.

Quiet and calm–two words nearly everybody uses when they ask about country life.  Ha!  New people moved into our village and promptly became city hall regulars complaining about noise.  It seems there was lots of mowing, plowing, hedge-trimming and kids-playing going on.  Even big tactors pulling wagons of mooing cows.  Our mayor, a life-long farmer, was surprised.  It never occured to him that the place was noisy, but dutifully he suggested to the coterie of little boys that they might not yell so much. 

Another mayor also got complaints about noise.  This savvy fellow decided to complain himself and called in the local press. He’d had it with the weekenders who came out from the cities and didn’t understand the countryside.  “Plowing and hauling, that’s what we do,” he said.  “Do they think their food is made in some cotton-lined warehouse?”

You may also remember Pedro, the donkey hauled into court for braying too loudly.  This week he got company–Coco the cock.  He crowed at night keeping a neighbor awake and furious.  The sleepless one resorted to sleeping pills which “ruined her health,” she said.  So, she too, took an animal–and its owner–to court.  The judge forced the owner to pay damages or kill the cock. 

“It’s not my fault,” said Coco’s owner.  “It’s those electric lights.  People shouldn’t use them.  They confuse poor Coco.” 

If they ever make a cow version of “Sex and the City,” the four bovines who came to spend a  season in our orchard will be the stars.  These four girls, all purebred Norman cows, were black and white beauties.

And they were all out for a good time while they waited for the next step in their lives–motherhood and work.

There was no question who the “alpha” cow was–number 21, our own Sarah Jessica Parker.  She was the leader of the pack and wherever she went numbers 19, 20 and 22 followed.  19 and 20 were twins who naturally stuck together and trotted after 21. 22, however, was a freer spirit.  You always had the sensation that she would go her own way if something more interesting came along.  She didn’t follow because she was a follower; she followed when–and if–she wanted to.

21 was a tease.  If we bent over to weed, she would buzz us, running right up beside us at full speed.  Then, I swear, you could almost hear a quartet of cow laughter as we jumped aside.  21 all but said, “Gotcha.”

22 hung back a bit from these cattle jokes, seemingly as amused by her pasture-mates as by human behavior.  

At no time was 22’s diffidence more apparent than when the four of them were returned to the Mercier farm to meet their destiny–artificial insemination.  Again 21 was the leader; she became pregnant instantly.  19 and 20 dutifully followed suit.

Not so 22.  She did not like the whole procedure.  She began to lose her hair and began avoiding the other girls.  The Merciers tried again, but had no better luck.  “I think she wants a bull,” Monsieur Mercier told us. 

It was a few months later that we found out M. Mercier was right.  After a lovely “honeymoon” in clover and other grasses with handsome fellow, 22 was “with calf.”  Once again her hair was lustrous and she had her whimsical style back.  

There was also a slyly superior look about her.   The other girls had settled for the first excitement that had come their way.  She had found Mr. Big.   

“You must meet European norms for your septic tank and system,” we were told.  We called in a company which, for several hundred euros and a great deal of digging up our property, brought us up to code.

That was the easy part. 

Sometime later there was a knock on our door.  Outside was a woman wearing an offical jacket of the water company, dark blue slacks and serviceable shoes.  Somehow, with her carefully applied makeup, beautifully tailored shirt and gold jewelry, she managed to look extremely elegant.  “I’m here to check your septic system,” she said, presenting her ID. 

We answered her questions and watched as she diagrammed the path of evacuation.  “All right, let’s look at the tank.”

Out we went.  She lifted a concrete cover off and began poking around with a long stick from her truck.  “You need new filtration charcoal,” she said, pulling out an old net bag full of black stuff.  

Then she moved on to the center cover and lifted it.  “Hmmmm,” she said peering in.  We edged closer.  Inside was thick brown sludge.  We were so embarrassed we didn’t know where to look.  That was certainly more of ourselves than we cared to reveal to anyone.

“You’ll get a report,” she said, and then she was off, still looking unbelievably elegant.

We felt like slugs.  Let’s hope she mails that report.   We couldn’t stand to face her again.