Over the hills, under the moon - and off the beaten path

Our village of Antraigues looks so peaceful from afar, but this weekend it sprang to life as the center of the annual Ardeche chestnut festival drawing neighbors from all over the surrounding Cevennes mountains. Crisp autumn air and the scent of woodsmoke greeted us as we walked out from our townhouse and into the square just as the festivities were beginning.  Villagers mingled happily, voices rising in laughter as they awaited the evening's revelries. Tables groaned under the weight of honeyed figs, freshly cooked chestnuts, wheels of soft cheese, and loaves of crusty bread.  The rich aroma of roasted meats drifted from fires crackling nearby, while children scampered about, their delighted shrieks echoing off ancient stonewalls. As darkness fell, an air of celebration took hold under the light of the full harvest moon.  Friends clustered together, clinking gla...

The ceaseless patter of autumn rain against the terrace has become the soundtrack to our mornings here in our village of Antraigues.  Ensconced in our townhouse we've settled into the worn sofa by the oil stove, a steaming cup of coffee at hand and books piled high on the side table. As the wind rustles through the changing leaves outside, we luxuriate in having nowhere to be but right here.  These quiet hours tucked away indoors while the world dampens seem a rare gift to be unwrapped slowly.  No distractions, just a pile of books waiting to transport us to other times and places. The morning light fades to a dreary afternoon gloom, urging us to turn on the lamps earlier than usual.  The warm glow from our lit candles  casts shadows across the cracking plaster walls, and the scent of simmering pot au feu, drifting in from Ritas  kitchen, hints at the pleasures of the evening meal to come. For now, I turn the page, taking comfort in the fa...

We have a house in the Ardèche region of southern France, and on our many visits,  we have explored the surrounding countryside, crossed its rivers and mountain passes, and visited its many beautiful, medieval villages.  We were actually beginning to feel confident that there were no major discoveries left for us in the area. The other day we were proven wrong! A local friend told us that there actually lie some hidden remnants of an ancient capital city just a few kilometers from our house. The more than 2000-year-old ruins of what was once the center of the Gallo-Roman country of Helvia lie atop the Jastre mountain, with no road signs or tourist brochures giving any indication of their existence.  They lie concealed by wilderness and have been lost to common memory for centuries. This we had to explore, and like two modern-day Indiana Joneses, we decided yesterday to climb the mountain and try to find this apparent ghost city. It was ...

Photo: Finn Tranter After several months of living in the perpetual glow of Paris, London, and Lisboa,  we're now back in our house in the small village of Antraigues in the south of France. We miss the pulse and excitement of the big cities but at least we have regained the inky blackness of the night skies. Here in Antraigues, far from the garish illumination of modern urban life, the sky remains unsullied, allowing thousands of glittering stars to reveal themselves, and we appreciate that it is indeed a rare gift in this modern world to find a place completely devoid of light pollution. In the cities, we can forget what an unfathomable multitude of worlds exists above our heads, but in this sleepy Volane valley, surrounded by black mountains, the heavens astound. Last night, we stood on a grassy slope outside the village and saw all the familiar constellations rising in their full glory -  the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, Andromeda, the square ...

It seems we’ve scarcely blinked, and somehow more than  a month and a half has passed since we first stepped foot into the tangle of narrow streets and steep staircases that make up Lisbon’s most historic quarter, the Alfama neighborhood. As we pack our bags and prepare to leave, we can’t help but muse about what this charming,  bewildering place has taught us. We’ve learned, of course, that a cautious gait is critical when navigating steep alleys with cobblestones polished to a sheen by centuries of foot traffic.   In Alfama, one cannot help but slow down, meander aimlessly, and get delightfully lost. The very topography resists efficiency and speed. Turn a corner and you stumble upon yet another cobblestoned incline dotted with flower boxes, beckoning you to stop and smell the blooms. The pace invites contemplation. We’ve learned that quiet moments of reflection are made sweeter by the melancholy strains of fado drifting on ...

The splendid city of Lisbon presents countless wonders to uncover, but there is one exploration that has risen to the top of my agenda: Finding a specific tree, and below that tree - a place that belonged to my mother's youth! Many years ago she visited Lisbon with some friends. It was during the heat of summer, and she often told about how one of those friends persuaded the group to climb a steep hill to sit in the shadow of a grand tree.  Not once, but several times during their weeklong stay.  As the years went by, my mother kept the many visits as a fond memory, but I never heard the reason why they had to climb that hill.  Now - years after her death - I have the time in Lisbon to finally find this tree. And perhaps discover  why they returned, again and again, to sit and reflect in its shadow? The internet can be a good solver of life's puzzles - and I did find an answer in one of its far corners: When the fabled P...

The unmarked door in the alleyway gave no indication of the feast that lay beyond. We knocked twice, and curious eyes sized us up before the door creaked open. Tonight we were visiting one of Lisbon's 'Chinês clandestinos', the illegal, non-regulated Chinese restaurants, which opened some twenty years ago during a wave of immigration from China. In a city that at the time was notoriously unwelcoming to immigrants, these underground eateries were sanctuaries, and some exist to this day in the narrow back alleys inside the multi-cultural Mouraria neighborhood Often on an upper floor and with no outer signs at all - just  perhaps a red Chinese lantern swinging high up on the wall The staircase was steep, grungy, and strewn with graffiti, but stepping inside on the first floor, we were immersed in delicious scents of Szechuan spices. We were led past the narrow kitchen, dodging woks ablaze with oil and a cook yelling...

I'll admit I was a bit anxious walking into my first attempt at making Pastel de natas, those dangerously addictive Portuguese custard tarts.  Michael and I have eaten them about every single day since we came to Lisbon. We've even tried them at the Pastéis de Belém - the legendary bakery,  which claims to have  the original recipe - but I've never tried my unskilled hand at crafting their intricate layers.  Until this morning, when I stood ready with about ten other newbie pastel bakers, while the chipper instructors at our cooking class reassured us that we'd all be custard experts in no time.  Martha and her colleague demonstrated how they carefully stretched the dough, explaining it should be made so thin that you would be able to read a newspaper through it. Soon I was elbow-deep in flour, attempting to coax my dough into ultra-thin plates, possibly using a few choice wo...

Last night was our first night ever in Lisbon, and the start  of a long stay in the historic neighborhood of Alfama. We had just arrived and were sitting on our balcony, looking out over the terracotta rooftops, which slide all the way down the steep hill towards the Tagus river. We knew, when we looked for an apartment in Alfama, that this neighborhood was the birthplace of the traditional Portuguese music Fado, which we love very much -  and it felt almost like a  miracle, when the melancholic tones of a fadista, a female Fado singer, suddenly filled the alleyway below us. Although we were completely worn out from a 30-hour long journey, we had to find the source of these mournful vocals,  and we went out and tracked the music to a nearby café.  Here a woman stood in the doorway, eyes closed, singing her heart out. Her rich, emotional delivery conveyed the essence of Fado - a bittersweet od...