In rural south-west France, the Christmas rush happens after midnight Mass, when villagers consume oysters and white wine until the small hours, writes Jane Shortall
Where I live now, an hour's drive south of Toulouse, almost at the Spanish border, the pre-Christmas rush is . . . well, it isn't.
In vain have I tried to describe our complete lack of haste, hurry or urgency, when I hear from dear friends as they describe the long, busy and fraught lead-up to December 25th.
The pressure my poor friends come under from about mid-November reads like some horrendous diary, and it's set to continue until they fall into bed on December 24th. Since each grouping must have its evening out, their nights are spent at an endless round of parties; ending with the usual skirmishes for taxis, with some poor souls forced to walk half-way home before flagging one down at 3.30am.
The wretched hours spent shopping at late-night openings. One friend has already earmarked the date she intends to do the "Big Shop" in her local supermarket. It will be at three in the morning, just like last year. She swears it was a great idea, though the next day was lost.
The delight of weekends, then? A time to relax after work, where every day is a nightmare anyway, due to the partying. No. Saturdays and Sundays are spent beating a path through the throngs in the shopping centres armed with gift lists, credit cards and cheque-books. Followed by queuing to get out of the giant car parks, and on to the motorways. What fun! These and other daft stories remind me how thrilled I am to have stepped off the treadmill, to now live in this little-known, laid-back part of France, having left all the madness behind.
Last year, my stress leading up to Christmas went something like this.
Madame Morère made us a rich foie gras. It came in a magnificent white porcelain dish. I had strict instructions to keep it in the freezer, but to be sure to move it to the fridge four days before Christmas. I moved it to the fridge on the evening of the 20th. Up to then, that was the extent of my Christmas preparations.
On the 21st I bought two bags of clementines, stuck cloves in them, piled them up on a big Victorian glass cake stand that belonged to my grandmother and sprinkled fine sugar over the pile.
Luckily I had two days to rest before wild smoked salmon arrived by courier from Beshoffs in Dublin. I took in the delivery boxes. Things were hotting up.
Our local market town of St Girons is small, little more than a village, but we have everything. On the morning of December 24th last year we picked up our free-range turkey from Monsieur Garcia, wines from the Durrier brothers, vegetables from the Christmas Eve market, cheeses from our local cheese factory, bread from Monsieur Soum the baker. What a busy Christmas Eve morning, and I had a dinner invitation that evening.
The night of the 24th is the biggest night here. It is an extraordinary evening, when a truly stylish meal is had, usually just with family, but occasionally friends too. Some people might then go to Mass, usually at about 10pm or 11pm. Afterwards it is the custom to gather again, to enjoy oysters and white wine into the early hours.
We are very far from the sea, so lorryloads of oysters arrive from Arcachon on the west coast days before Christmas. They are made up into huge festive-looking boat-shaped boxes, and on Christmas Eve the little town is full of people heading home to the villages in the hills, laden down with their midnight oyster feast.
This area is all about food and traditions; some of the best food in the whole of France is produced here in the Ariège region.
But what about the wild spending that goes on elsewhere, the endless hassle of trying to find just the right gift for everybody, the crying over credit cards in late January when the big spend has all been totted up? It just doesn't happen. In this place, nobody cares if you have €2 or €2 million. It's just not done to flaunt money, so any gifts that are given are tiny tokens of friendship and are wonderful to receive. They mean something. A little thought must go into a small gift after all. It's so much easier to run around waving a fistful of cards and thinking oh, hang the expense. I know; we've all done it.
But here in the Couseran hills, with the backdrop of the mighty Pyrenees, snow capped now, there just doesn't seem to be a need to overdo things. In the valleys the animals and fowl bask most days in sunshine. We get more than average sun here each year. It is possible to have a pre-lunch glass of champagne outside on Christmas day, as people might any day. In this part of France every day is special; there will always be another lunch.
