Ripeness is all...summer's harvest at the Chateau
Dear friend,
Our grandes vacances are over. Summer winds down with shorter days and cool nights. The moissons, the harvests of wheat, oats, barley, and rape, are done. And for the moment, the family has dispersed. But we’ll be back together soon, for a wedding!
Meanwhile, I take up my pen to bring you news from the Chateau…and with great pleasure remember this summer's escape to our beloved countryside...where "le confinement" and covid fears seem far away...
When last I wrote, the golden sun of August was just spreading its beams over the countryside surrounding Chateau de Courtomer. The wheat was ripening in the big field facing our gates, stiff whiskers springing from the pointed kernels arranged symmetrically around thick stems. Down the lane, the barley in the back field bent in lanky, graceful curves, weighed down by its feathery grain.
And out beyond the pillars that frame the entrance to the park, the tall colza, angular seedpods swinging like little horns, rustled in the morning breeze. Everywhere, the green had drained from leaves, stalks and seeds. Scattered poppies, blooming at the margins of the field, decorated the pale expanse of the fields with an embroidery of vivid scarlet.
The countryside lay still, waiting for ripeness in the uncertain heat of this very rainy summer…and we waited, too…scanning the blue skies for any hint of a darkening cloud. Madame la Contesse, our dear friend and neighbor, brought over her Saint Joseph.
"Il faut le bichonner," she stated, setting the small figurine in faience de Quimper on the window sill where he could have a clear view of our fields. “You have to show him you care.”
She arranged a bouquet of roses beside the statue, stripping the leaves off the thorny stems with ruthless efficiency, and poking them into a vase.
" Voilà. It’s not because you keep him all year in a dark closet that Saint Joseph helps when you need him,” she admonished, polishing his bald pate with the edge of her sleeve.
The Countess’ Saint Joseph has legendary powers in these parts. Speaking from personal experience, he has successfully fended off rain for two cocktail parties, one diner dansant and one wedding reception in our household. In addition to active deployment chez la Contesse, his benevolence extends to her wide circle of acquaintance.
“And you remember,” she continued, “when I offered him to Marie-Capucine for Alfred’s wedding.”
Our mutual friend Marie-Capucine practices a deliberately modern form of piety, and had rejected the offer of a visit from Saint Joseph. Perhaps she had even allowed the soupçon of a snort to be heard. Ah, but Saint Joseph had reserved his favors.
The guests at Alfred’s wedding reception had been soaked and chilled, rivulets of rain water had drenched their shoes, and violent winds had lashed against the charming tented pavilions where hot foie gras and cold oysters were served. La Contesse tossed her head slightly as she adjusted Saint Joseph’s bouquet, as if recalling this difficult moment.
Now, from his perch on the window of the Chateau, Saint Joseph was to intercede with the heavens to keep the rain off our colza, as rapeseed is called here. We had heard the roar of the moissonneuse last night, as Monsieur Jean-Yves parked it next to the field so he and his son could make an early start.
The next morning was clear and dry. “Monsieur,” as he is known in the precincts of Chateau de Courtomer (elsewhere as my husband), and I walked across the park, over the stream, and out past the stone pillars into the fields. We had an invitation to ride in the moissonneuse.
The huge machine, cutting and threshing broad swathes of the colza, came to a halt. Monsieur Jean-Yves, beaming with pride, leaned out. We climbed up the steps and the door closed. We might have been in a spaceship.
“This is not your grandfather’s harvester!” remarked Monsieur, admiringly. Monsieur Jean-Yves lit up.
“Nor my father’s!” he rejoined. Like most Frenchmen born before World War II, Jean-Yves’s father had grown up using horses to power the work of the farm. Now Jean-Yves showed us the computer screen next to the steering wheel.
“Tells you the percentage of humidity in the grains,” he explained. “But I don’t use it.”
“Looks like you can also drive it remotely with a GPS,” commented Monsieur.
"Ma foi, oui. I don’t use that either.” The two men looked at each other, united in admiration for the machine and faith in the superiority of one’s personal judgement over technology.
A camionette pulled up at the edge of the field, and the burly figure of a neighboring farmer hurried across the field, followed by a small boy. Monsieur Jean-Yves opened the door of the moissonneuse.
A staccato exchange ensued, sprinkled with percentages and punctuated with nods and shrugs.
“I told him it’s at nine,” he told us when the farmer had turned back to follow his own moissonneuse down the road. He turned on the computer screen. "Eh bien, that’s what it says, too.” The machine weighs the incoming seeds and stalks and detects water content.
Colza is best harvested with a low rate of humidity – around 9% -- but too low, and the seedpods will shatter when the plant stem is cut, scattering their precious cargo before they can be gathered up. Too green and high in water content, and the machine can’t break the pods apart. They clog up the machine, wearing it out. And if it rains, you must let the colza dry out again. If you have time.
“Mais quand c’est mûr, c’est mûr et là faut pas trainer. »
When it’s ripe, it’s ripe. You can’t wait.
For a long moment this summer, while the moisson of colza was succeeded by that of oats, barley, and wheat, we basked in the certainties of the agricultural world...and turned to Saint Joseph to deal with the vagaries of nature.
As we returned to the Chateau, the statue stood at his post, staring impassively out at the distant fields. I tucked a few sprigs of late harebells around his feet.
Until next week, with warm regards -- et à bientôt au Chateau!
