Frankly, I’ve been trying for some time to come up with an opening post for this blog and, in the process, I found myself thinking about what blogging is all about. Needless to say, such navel-gazing eventually put me in a complete tail-spin and I had to put the ‘the weather in France…’ out of my head for a couple of weeks.
This morning things are different. I’ve decided that this blog is to be about the novelties and differences of living etc. in France and a good place to start, I think, is with the humble sardine.

I first discovered that sardines didn’t only come in a tin one pearly morning in San Sebastian when, following a delicious, intoxicating smell, I came upon a little woman busily fanning a tiny grill on which three or four sardines were sizzling. An epiphany, if ever there was one! Discovering that they were on the menu of every self-respecting cafe bar and restaurant in the town was no more that total wish fulfilment. Suffice to say I was hooked and far from this being a passing fad it was life changing. Necessarily however, the pursuit of the fresh sardine in my travels around the world was not always successful. The US as far as I can tell has never heard of the beast and Britain while paying lip-service to the idea of fresh fish is actually not much further ahead. New Zealand had fifty different fresh fish on offer but no sardines that I could find. The water’s too warm, I suppose, in South-East Asia. Spain, Portugal and now France turn out to be the main stomping ground of the silver darlin’s.
Actually this morning my supermarket had two varieties on sale - the Atlantic, a little larger and more substantial fish and the Mediterranean, smaller and, I’d have to say, slightly more shifty. I chose the Atlantic not because of any territorial prejudice but only because their eyes were that little bit clearer and they had an appealing look. By the way, I counted the varieties of fresh fish i.e. un-frozen, packed however in ice, and with shellfish and the usual cooked crevettes there were 24 varieties available.
So now, gutted - one slice of the knife and a finger full of innards to disengage - washed well in cold water, drained, marinated in lemon juice and coarse salt they’re waiting patiently. A few haricots verts from the garden and a dab of butter, the remains of a bottle to so-called Cotes du Rhone and that’s lunch. It’s a rotten job but someone’s got to do it.