There are very few compensations for being parted from Jill for a couple of weeks, but on my recent sojourn in the UK for family reasons (Leamington Letters #96), I benefitted from at least two.

The first was the final three Grateful Dead shows at Soldier Field, Chicago. Jill not only missed the bus, but when she saw it, she jumped in a cab and disappeared in the opposite direction. 

So the fact that all three shows were available as a modestly-priced stream allowed me to indulge myself in the early hours of the mornings of Saturday, Sunday and Monday before watching the Sunday show for a second time at the Showcase Cinema on Monday night in the company of 300 or so local Deadheads. The sight of a motley crew of ageing groovers, some (though not me) in tie-dye, attempting to relive and celebrate their past must have been quite a revelation to the youngsters heading for Jurassic World, Minions and Magic Mike XXL, especially as I – a month short of 66 years of age – was one of the youngest in attendance. But hey, love-is-love-and-not-fade-away.

The Stalinist Deadheads have given these gigs some serious stick, but I enjoyed Friday and Sunday a lot. (Saturday less so, but then I was never a fan of Saturday shows – too many songs!) Lesh, Weir, Kreutzmann and Hart can still do it. Trey is not note-for-note Jerry but closer in spirit than the likes of John Kadlecik and, although I never embraced any of the Dead keyboard players after Keith, if I had to choose one, it would be Bruce Hornsby. And if you had to choose just one song from the entire run, it would be Cassidy on Sunday. Quite beautiful. Every component playing as one. Will never tire of it thanks to Bill Walker and NYCTaper.

So, a fitting celebration of 50 years of the Grateful Dead and of course, for me, a celebration of 47 years of my own life – and somehow appropriate that it took place in the early hours of the morning: much of my listening to Anthem of the Sun and Aoxomoxoa, for example, took place in seedy undergraduate rooms during those hours in the company of other nighthawks.

These days, of course, if I am still around at that time, it is because of the Red Sox. I am getting too old to live entire summers on Eastern Standard Time, so I welcome lunchtime games at Fenway. And I certainly welcomed the games played during my Jill-less fortnight. The Sox actually won four successive games and started playing the kind of baseball we expect.

We are still in the basement of a pretty poor ALE, of course. And there are many causes for concern. But it is a positive pleasure to see Mookie and Bogey proving that they are no longer prospects but accomplished ballplayers. Eddie Rodriguez has been sensational and really looks the part. Clay is, as Rick Hough pointed out to me, “more Mississippi John Hurt than John Lee Hooker” but he has pitched superbly before this latest trip to the DL. Ramirez is a great DH in waiting if we can sort out how to play Papi (maybe at 1st a couple of times a week?) and it is no accident that our W total has improved since the return of Ryan Hanigan. He’s not ‘Tek, but he’s very, very good.

As things stand, the morning after beating the Yankees last night (and as England beat Australia), I am not optimistic of a Red October. I think the season is over from that point of view. But these guys are good enough to give us a lot of fun times between now and then. And I have been spectacularly wrong before. I hope I am this year.

One thing I know, though: Dead shows and Sox wins don't compensate for being parted from Ms Every! 

Today from the everysmith vaults: Not, at this moment, one of the Chicago Fare Thee Well shows, but the first Santa Clara gig and What’s become of the baby? – an extraordinary piece which I had never heard live before and, to be honest, never thought such a thing was possible.

 

Arles makes few concessions to the tourist.

Its 2000 year history embraces the Phoenicians, the Romans, the Jews, the Gypsy Kings and, of course, Vincent van Gogh, who lived here between February 1888 to July 1890. But although there is a defined tourist area, centred on the Forum, and although it attracts thousands of visitors every year, it remains defiantly a communist town, with a working class ethos. There is nothing pretty or twee here; Arles is as gritty and uncompromising as the dust which the Mistral blows around its streets and squares.

The excuse for our most recent visit was the new Fondation Vincent van Gogh, in which some 50 or so drawings and prints are on display in a beautiful hybrid building – half 15th century and half 21st century – located in a small street between the forum and the amphitheatre.

It is a refreshing exhibition, because none of the famous, iconic paintings are here – a fact which provoked an American family buying tickets ahead of us to cancel their visit (“You’re telling me you have no originals at all?”). Instead, we are encouraged to focus on his draughtsmanship, his printmaking and his subject matter. Appropriately for a resident of a communist town, van Gogh’s early ambition was to create prints which could be bought at an affordable price by the working class, showing activities inspired by their working lives. In Arles, he cut and trimmed reeds to make pens which which he drew peasants, artisans and labourers at work and at play. Many are poignant; all are dignified and none more so than the gravediggers in Cemetery in the Rain.

Because the work is unfamiliar, at least to me, it commanded more time and attention than we expected. So much so that by the time we passed through the exit, it was time for lunch. Serendipitously, the same street which hosts the Fondation, also boasts a restaurant which is one of our favourites.

At Le Galoubet, one dines underneath the vines on a beautiful terrace and eats from a small but perfectly formed carte. On the day in question, it featured œuf mollet on a bed of ratatouille to start and suprême of pintadeau to follow. Perfect. And the demi pichet of red to accompany the meal was from Estézargues, wine I first drank in Terroirs in King William IV Street in London. We decided quickly that this would be our new house red and left Arles, raced down the autoroute and arrived in Estézargues (midway between St Quentin la Poterie and Avignon) within the hour. Another hour later, our degustation came to an end and we were cruising home with a boot full of sublime CdR – including an unfiltered Cinsault which I commend to all you fans of natural wines.

With the Mistral keeping the clouds at bay, we spent the evening in the company of this wine, sitting in the courtyard and looking up occasionally to admire our very own Starry Night.

A good day. Vin and Vincent is a great combination.


Today from the everysmith vaults: another great combination, thanks to Wolfgang. Jim Hall and Tal Farlow in Central Park back in 1973. Only a short set but every bar is exquisite.

PS. For our American friends, I should point out that there is an 'original' in the Fondation. Here it is - A Pile of French Novels.

I came late to Serial. A friend in the States recommended it to me last year but it was only on the 10 hour drive from Leamington to St Quentin last week that I binge-listened to all 12 episodes of this genre-breaking podcast, fascinated by this story of the murder 16 years ago of Hae Min Lee, allegedly by her ex-boyfriend Adnan Syed.

During the process, I became an expert in the geography of Baltimore, the location of cell towers in the county, the timing of phone calls, the folklore of Leakin Park, the complex and often fraught relationships of students at Woodlawn High, police procedures back in 1999, institutional racism, and the extraordinary behaviour of prosecution and – especially – defence attourneys: Christina Gutierrez was later disbarred.

In the hands of Sarah Koenig, the presenter, and her team at An American Life, it is a riveting story, and over the course of 12 episodes, it unfolds with detail after detail, speculation after speculation, before it comes to … well, no clear conclusion.

Did Adnan strangle Hae? Or was it Jay? Or Jay and Jenn, working in tandem, or perhaps with a third party? Or was it Mr S, the streaker who found the body? Or was it the man who had previously killed another female student of Asian ethnicity?

And why was this man never considered as a suspect? Why did the investigating detectives coach Jay in his tortuous efforts to record the events in a way which suited them? Why were no DNA tests carried out? What happened to Hae’s computer and AOL records which were seized by the police but subsequently disappeared without any record of examination? Why was Asia never interviewed?

There are a hell of a lot more questions than answers. But the answers that were given, true or otherwise, were sufficient to convict Adnan and get him a sentence  of life plus 30 years.

This is a sentence which, to a European sensibility, is cruel and unusual for a kid of 17, even if he were guilty.

But if I am convinced of anything after listening to 12 episodes of Serial and five of Undisclosed, it is that Adnan was not guilty, at least not beyond reasonable doubt.

In recent months, Jay Wilds has given a magazine article in which he changes his story once again, and even more significantly. And in the last couple of months, the appeal process has progressed quickly, with the Baltimore circuit court instructed not merely to address the specific point of attorney misconduct but now being given latitude to examine other evidence and take whatever steps are required in the interest of justice.

And this is the point. Listening to the podcasts, it is easy to forget that this is a real story, a ‘true’ story.

It is not a mystery story, a detective story, a courtroom drama of the sort to which I am addicted. It concerns people who existed on this planet: Hae herself who lost her life; Adnan who has been incarcerated in jail for 16 years; their families, the one grief-stricken, the other determined to obtain Adnan’s release.

These are not characters in a paperback thriller. They are real people. I hope that the Baltimore circuit court will remember this.

Today from the everysmith vaults: With the imminent release of Dylan, Cash & the Nashville Cats, I have dug out my bootleg of these sessions. Brilliant. Really looking forward to the full and remastered release.

In the village of St Quentin la Poterie, la journée de la truffe was heralded by a fly-past of balloons, floating dangerously low over our ancient streets. The sound of their burners brought us out into our courtyards and prompted us to take ourselves early to market, there to purchase a modest amount of the famous tuber melanosporum for the delectation of diners at Wilde’s.

December is always a busy month for restaurateurs – hence the absence of a new blog for some weeks, sorry – and it was both pleasure and business to take a week out for the truffle fête in the Gard.

The truffle is serious business as well as gastronomic pleasure in this part of the world. An entire month is devoted to it, with epiphanies, demonstrations, manifestations and dégustations throughout January. But the highlight is the truffle market in Uzès.

The rich, earthy aroma of the truffle pervades all of the Place aux Herbes. In one corner, pigs and hounds are demonstrating their prowess at sniffing out the truffle. In another, the marchands have set out their stall – large companies next to ageing couples who have been fortunate enough to find a couple of these highly prized mushrooms on their land. Others were cashing in: vignerons were boasting of the perfect matching of truffles with their red wine; a stall was selling petits pates Nimois, a sort of mini pork pie made from pork, veal, foie gras and truffles and without doubt one of the most delicious breakfasts I have ever eaten.

As we eat our pies, we stroll through the market, sniffing at the more tempting examples. Finally, we make our choice from a charming couple from Montaren. She places the selected truffles on the scales, and performs some complicated mathematics on a scrap of paper.

“€85.”

“C’est trop chère” say I. “€60.”

“€75” she says.

“€70” I counter.

“Bon.” She extends her hand. I shake it and pass over the money, explaining that these are for my restaurant and so I would like a reçu. She shakes her head, hands me the truffles in a paper bag bearing the logo of a local shop and turns her attention to other trufflers.

In my best Gallic fashion, I shrug. I accept that there will be no receipt, and trust that HMRC back in the UK will understand. We have no time left for debate. We are due to meet Tom and Jim Cantwell at La Terr’In, the restaurant in St Quentin presided over by Chef Axel Bachelard. Like the other restaurants in the Uzège, he is preparing a special menu for the day and each of the seven courses will feature the tuber melanosporum.

What a feast! Foie gras and truffles, egg and truffles, goat cheese and truffles, Bresse chicken stuffed with truffles, truffle risotto, truffle and Armagnac chocolate.

I confess that not one of us was able to complete the the full menu. We were pretty much defeated half-way through. But Axel, charmingly, priced each individual course for us, so that we were able to pay not €60 each for the magnificent seven, but a modest €45 for five.

But even without finishing, we had experienced enough of this mysterious tuber to appreciate why it is so celebrated in kitchens and dining rooms throughout the world. 

As Alexander Dumas, said: "The most learned men have been questioned as to the nature of this tuber, and after two thousand years of argument and discussion their answer is the same as it was on the first day: we do not know. The truffles themselves have been interrogated, and have answered simply: eat us and praise the Lord."

He knew what he was talking about.


Today from the everysmith vaults: The anniversaries of Subterranean Homesick Blues and Blood on the Tracks have prompted me to revisit these extraordinary recordings - not that I needed much encouragement, and I still prefer the New York version of BOTT. Live, I was in the audience at Wilde's last Sunday for definitely, positively, absolutely the final Swaps gig before the Beth hiatus. Quite brilliant.

Fifteen years ago, on a cold, crisp, clear day in February, we drove into Uzès for the first time and wandered through the narrow streets, past the Duché, in search of lunch. By chance we discovered an authentic bar à vins called Au Suisse d’Alger. The patron was Jean-Louis Bouvard, the eponymous Suisse d’Alger, and he made this English couple very welcome, happily discussing the couple of dozen wines available by the glass and, when it became clear that we were struggling to make a decision, decided for us. We each received a glass of Clos du Caillou. It was gorgeous.

“Where can we buy this?” we asked.

He pointed across the rue de la République to a small shop, La Cave du Suisse d’Alger. “Ma cave” he said.

He took us across the street and introduced us to his wife, Andrée, who was presiding over a wonderfully eclectic collection of wines and spirits. The frontage of the shop was narrow, but the depth was substantial. And so was the stock. There were local and Languedoc wines, of course, but they were from the then fledgling independent producers rather than the co-ops. What was unusual then - and is still today – was the plethora of wines from Bordeaux and Burgundy, from the Loire and Alsace, even from outside France! Not to mention several long-aged Cognacs and one of the largest collections of single malts I have seen outside Scotland.

What particularly impressed us was the enthusiasm with which the Bouvards discussed their wines and their selections, each punctuated by wonderfully told stories of the vignerons responsible for the wine. It was as if we were being shown round a private cellar by an amateur de vin rather than being sold to and it was, in no small measure, the reason why we decided that this part of the world would be the location for our second home.

Since then, La Cave du Suisse d’Alger has been our destination whenever we want a special bottle or two, an everyday bag-in-box, a new corkscrew or just a conversation about wine. The majority of our own cellar has been sourced from here or bought on a recommendation from here.

Jean-Louis and Andrée are retired now, but still make an appearance on jours feriés. Their Cave du Suisse d’Alger is under the aegis of Colette Arnaud who maintains the tradition of independent thinking about wine which Jean-Louis established a generation or more ago, talking with similar passion and erudition, and filling the shop with wines that she loves and that we, therefore, must taste.

There are now other caves and cavistes in Uzès and maybe half-a-dozen cafés which call themselves bars à vin. But ‘the Suisse’ was the first and – for us – still the best. We owe them a great deal. Santé.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Phil Lesh and the Terrapin Family Band have been on the road, including a couple of sets in London. And that's what I'm listening to right now. Enjoying especially vocalist Emily Sunderland. Better than Donna?

The talk in the village is of Scottish independence. Well, not all of it to be honest, but a lot of it; because in the village live two Scottish friends for whom the referendum is the culmination of a lifetime of hope. They can’t vote, of course, being resident in France; but this week they will be leaving their business and their home for a few days so they can be there in Edinburgh as the results come in.

They are not alone in this. Rupert Murdoch has also come to town on the basis that his grandfather was a Presbyterian minister. And I would too, if I were Scottish. But the complex DNA of my family may have some Danish, some Jewish and some Irish, but as far as I know there is no Scottish blood. (Although I do remember from my childhood that my father was unnaturally fond of the voice of Andy Stewart and his Scottish soldier.)

I have been following what has passes for the debate closely, primarily so that I can hold my own when Archie and I meet for a glass or two in the Bar du Marché, and I concur absolutely that Scotland has been effectively disenfranchised in recent decades and I think that, were I Scottish, I would be voting ‘yes’.

In fact, even as an Englishman who will probably have to suffer generations of Tory or UKIP hegemony should the vote be for independence, my vote would still be ‘yes’.

It would be ‘yes’ because, like millions of us outside the political class and the Westminster bubble, I feel that the agenda being pursued by our politicians – of all parties - has little in common with the real concerns of ordinary people.

And there is enough of the situationist in me still to want the Scots to throw the entire establishment into turmoil and see what comes out subsequently.

In my more rational moments, however, it seems to me that a form of federalism is the long-term solution. I hold it be self-evident that there are aspects of our lives over which each nation – England, Wales, Scotland – should have total control. Equally, there are elements which we collectively, as a republic, can act together and thus derive greater strength and greater influence in the world. A similar arrangement could operate in Ireland.

Apart from sporting allegiance, I am not a nationalist. As Mick McGahey, the Scottish miners’ leader, said, “nationalism is a bourgeois deviation from the class struggle”.

But I have been impressed by the way in which the ‘yes’ campaign has focused on the benefits which might accrue to those who are being ignored by the neo-liberal economics of the political class. And even the most casual observer of the news reports of the debate will have realised that the richer and more prosperous is an individual, the more likely are they to support the union. And vice versa.

I know where my sympathy lies.

Today from the everysmith vault: Dick Gaughan, Workers’ Song, from handful of Earth.

As I hope Iain Duncan Smith and his Department of Work and Pensions have remembered, last Saturday was my 65th birthday.

So we went to the seaside.  Specifically, to the fishing port of Sète which is almost, but not quite, an island – with the sea to the front and, at the back, the étang du Thau, long colonised by oyster and mussel beds. Towering over them is Mont Saint Clair, and three quarters of the way to the top of the mountain, along the Chemin de Huitième Station (the roads are named after the stations of the cross) is where Guy and Sophia had found us a gîte with the most sensational views over the Mediterranean.

Sète is famous for many things: Paul Valéry, sensational stretches of sandy beach, canals, fish and seafood, and its very own and bizarre water version of Medieval jousting.

Within an hour of arrival at the gite, we were canal-side, with a pichet of wine, and a grandstand view of the jousting. We selected our team – allez les bleus! – and settled in to watch the fun.

We won: the red lanceur ending up in the water five successive times.

Which was a great start and a good laugh. And to celebrate, we went for dinner. A fish supper. With, inevitably, in this part of the world, Picpoul de Pinet.

The thing about Sète is that it is very difficult to distinguish one place from another.

There is a vast swathe of restaurants along the quai.  They all look the same. They all have the same menus. They all are all priced about the same.

We chose Le Grand Bleu. Some atavistic memory had made me think it was good. Had I read a review? Was I thinking of IBM? In retrospect, I think I was confusing it with a famous oyster bar of the same name in Bouziques.

But as we sat down, we thought we were ok. It was early – we had young Dexter with us – and it was busy. With French people.

Problem was, it was too busy. The waiting staff couldn’t cope. And nor could the kitchen. So although the food was ok, it wasn’t the seafood delight that we had envisaged. But what the hell? Only my menu de degustation was actually bad. Everyone else’s was, well, ok. And they did have an excellent Picpoul de Pinet which washed away the majority of our issues.

The following day, we read, swam in the pool, and took it in turns to babysit. Jill and I sneaked out at lunchtime – an excellent salad in Café St Clair – and that evening Guy and Sophia struck lucky with fresh sole and great service in the Restaurant La Marine. And on Monday, Jill’s birthday, we went to the beach and took to the sea briefly before adjourning to one of those beach bars which the French do so well. The girls had Mojitos, which the French don't do so well.

On Tuesday, we drove home via Marseillan and another – this time sensational - sea food lunch in the port of this gorgeous little village.

And so back to St Quentin. And so to bed. A wonderful long weekend which was all too short.

Today from the everysmith vaults: The 30th of August was not just my birthday, Ted Williams's birthday and John Peel's birthday; it was the anniversary of the release, in 1965, of Highway 61 Revisited. So I've been revisiting this album and my collection of outtakes most of this week.

Nîmes is the city which gave us denim jeans (serge de Nîmes) but it is built on water.

The great Fontaine of Nemausa and Nemausus prompted the Romans to establish a settlement here, which became the home of a colony of veterans from the conquest of Egypt by the Emperor Augustus.  Hence the crocodile coat of arms and the nickname of the local football team, Les Crocos.

They built the perfectly formed Maison Carrée and the best preserved amphitheatre of the Roman world and, as the city grew, supplemented their water supply by linking the crystal clear Fontaine d’Eure  - just a kilometre away from where I write in St Quentin – to the city via a 48 kilometre long aqueduct.  

It goes through tunnels, across the Gardon over the famous Pont du Gard, and through the garrigues. And it is precisely engineered to fall exactly 0.7 centimetres for every metre of its course.

That’s how seriously the Romans took water. That is why the Nîmois have built one of the most beautiful public parks in the world, Le Jardin de la Fontaine, and why, each year, they celebrate their waters with La Féerie des Eaux.

This is where we were the other Friday evening, after enjoying apéros and an excellent meal at Carrée Jazz, overlooking the Maison Carrée. (We were slightly bemused, even shocked, by the fact that this recently refurbished 2000 year old architectural masterpiece was being used as a goal for an impromptu game of football, but that’s by the by.) But by the time darkness fell, we were heading into the gardens to find a decent viewing point.

The number of spectators was being limited and although we were at least three quarters of an hour early for the scheduled start, pole positions were all taken. But we managed to squeeze ourselves into a reasonable place in the centre but well back.

It was a terrific performance, music from every genre pounding from speakers in the trees, weird and wonderful imagery projected on the ancient stonework, and the waters erupting in plumes of multi-coloured spray and fire.

The French do this kind of thing so well. According to Midi Libre, 1500 metres of electric cabling linked 200 water pumps, 30 flame throwers, 150 projectors and 5 video projectors to create this spectacle which enchanted us as much as the hundreds of young children present. And as we left, we walked through thousands of people queuing for the late night show and it occurred to us that this would be the ideal venue for a collection on behalf of WaterAid.

More than two thousand years after the Romans built their aqueduct from Uzès to Nîmes, water is still in short supply throughout the world. 748 million – one in ten – do not have access to safe water. One in three of the world’s population do not have access to proper sanitation. And 1,400 children die every day from unsafe water and poor or non-existent sanitation.

What did the Romans do for us? They taught us the importance of water and showed us that safe supplies more than justified the most ambitious and expensive engineering project.

It’s a lesson which, celebrations like this apart, we have not yet taken on board.

You can find out more and donate at http://www.wateraid.org/uk/what-we-do/the-crisis.

Today from the everysmith vaults: listening to a Concert Vault playlist of Dylan covers by the Dead, Hendrix, Patti Smith, the Byrds and a dozen others. It's not all good by any means, but most of it is, and much is new to me. As it may be to you. Worth an hour of your time.

Yesterday was the third and final day of the 39th Foire aux Vins in Uzès, the first at which Duché d’Uzès wines can properly qualify for AOC (Appelation d’Origine Contrôlée) status and, in the French way, the first at which AOC no longer exists. It is now replaced by AOP (Appellation d’Origine Protégée), which amounts to much the same thing, except that there are more controls now that it is merely protégée than when it was controlée.

Of course, for all the rules and regulations attached to both, neither AOC nor AOP has anything to do with what really matters: the quality of the wine. And this point was reinforced at the tutored dégustation yesterday morning, with your correspondent in attendance in seat A1, which meant I was the last rather than the first person to receive my tasting sample of each of the eight Gold medal-winning wines on offer. (Had the Sox not waited until the 19th inning to lose in Anaheim, I would have arrived in time to sit anonymously and with tasting priority at the back!)

It is over a decade now since I found myself in full agreement with the worthy men and women of the Syndicat des Vignerons du Duché d’Uzès and try as he might, the charming and articulate M. Michel Guerber, our expert œnologue, was unable to convince me that these were the best wines in each category from our region this year.

The white wines were over-reliant on the aromatic Viognier in the blend for body and style. The rosé wines were made in a manner which is neither refreshingly Provençal nor the only-with-food rich fruit of the Tavel style, although both winners were Grenache-dominant.

And the reds? Once again, I was profoundly disappointed. All were 2012, so perhaps a year too young for any Rhône blend to be drunk with pleasure.  But even so, they were thin and tough, with a linear, undeveloped and undeveloping taste; and although I received Brownie points amongst my fellow-tasters for my comment about them being charnu, the taste to which I referred was more unadulterated wood than soft, integrated tannins.

So it was with some relief that I was able, at the completion of the hour's tasting, to stroll down the marquee mall and find Stand 32, where the delightful Ms. Lillard poured me a delicious and generous taste of her La Gramière rosé, a Rhône blend which is crisp and full, with the perfect balance of acidity and fruit.

And it was with this taste still fresh in my mouth that I left the 39th Foire. I am proud of our local wines, and pleased for those vignerons who have worked so hard to achieve the elevation to AOC – sorry, AOP – status. But I am concerned that too much effort is being devoted to the production of wines which meet all the increasingly numerous rules of the appellation but which lack individuality and flair.

They are, I am afraid, what HRH Jancis would term 'serviceable'.

What they are not, unfortunately, is inspired or inspiring. Dommage!

Today from the everysmith vaults: Once in a while, now for example, I tune in to Cassandra Wilson, shuffling her to listen to the full range of jazz, pop, blues, covers and originals. It's a beautiful voice - totally at home in this eclectic repertoire.

We arrived back in France on Samedi Noir, the first Saturday of August, when most of the population of northern France is heading south at high speed and, in the case of those from the capital, combining high speed with Parisian arrogance. Inevitably, the A9 was one vast bouchon, so Terri avoided the autoroute and took us through the centre of Nîmes and the garrigues, a journey which allowed her to display her skills at the wheel and the manoeuvrability of her Renault Clio.

We had left Leamington at 4.30 in the morning, made it through security at Luton by 6, took off at 6.30, and landed at 9. By 10.30 we were home, by 11 we were in the Bar du Marché for an apéro, and by 12.30 eating our first meal in Le Terr’In, where chef-patron Axel Bachelard has opened his own restaurant just 100 metres from our house, taking over the premises in which Cyrille ran, successfully as we thought, 30 Degrees Sud.

That was just four days ago as I write, and I can still taste the tenderness of the canette, the earthiness of the truffes blanc and the subtly citrus-dressed haricots verts that Axel served. It may not have been as refined in terms of presentation as his menu at Comptoir du 7, but it was delicious and, with a demi of the local rouge, it was the perfect welcome home meal.

We had been in the UK primarily for the grandchildren. Jill got to visit Dexi. I got to visit Maxi and Asher. And we both got to see the latest addition to the family, little Tiger.

But it is, nevertheless, good to be back in France and especially good to be back in St Quentin la Poterie. With the exception of the opening of Le Terr’In, which will receive another visit from us imminently, and an increase in the frequency of sub-tropical storms in late afternoon, nothing has changed.

Our old friends can still be found at their usual tables at their usual time. Our new friends are totally sympa and en accord with the rest of us, who are united by our love of France and la vie Français. The râleurs and flâneurs I have mentioned before are still evident. The fête votive in Uzès survived the storms with only a few cancellations of concerts, and the bulls charged down the boulevards with their usual insouciance, pursued and corralled by Camarguaise horsemen and women who had done it before milles fois. The fête in St Quentin is a couple of weeks away, and the Foire aux Vins takes place this weekend. I have seen the winners of the best wines and am delighted to see that our facture, Serge, has won a silver for his Cevennes red. On Sunday morning, as last year and the year before, I will be at the œnological tasting on the Esplanade, nose in glass and notebook in hand.

I am conscious that this is an idyll which must come to an end at some point this fall but not, I hope, before we have had the chance to contribute to the 2014 vendange for Amy and Matt.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

P.S. Richard and Janet, this one is for you. Great to meet you.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Robert Hunter, the Dead lyricist who worked so well with Jerry, has recently allowed a number of his recent shows to be posted on the archive. I have downloaded several and am very much enjoying these totally different versions of great songs.