Not for the Faint Hearted
I wake startled by a cacophony of braying, whistling and ringing outside. George is in the room barking, filling the space with her nervous energy. My brain, still in a fug of sleep, scrambles to catch up. We are home, tentative tendrils of light push gently through the cracks in the curtains – so, early morning. A gunshot punctuates the percussion of noise, ringing outrageously across the valley. Saturday morning and La Chasse is in full swing. I swear and bury my head under the duvet, knowing that it’s useless; peace is shattered. Hunting days are heavy with booming and blasting. Strong, black coffee is required.
La Chasse is very much a part of life in the French countryside. Our house is situated on the cusp of two hunting areas – one from our village and the other from the small town at the foot of the hill. During the hunting season (from late August to end of February) our road is often lined with sentinel hunters dressed in a uniform of shrubby khaki and incongruous orange. Their backs to the road, gaze fixed down the hill, in case a wild boar, flushed out by dogs, breaks the line. This type of hunting is very much a waiting game. Standing for hours on the bleak winter hillside, shrouded by damp early morning mist, it’s difficult for an outsider to understand the appeal.
Plans for our morning walk are scuppered. A look outside confirms that our hillside is peppered with hunters, pops of fluo orange stand out against the bleak browns. Each year we read of walkers and cyclists injured or worse by accidental shootings during the season. A neighbour had their dog shot a couple of years ago. We will wait it out, they should be packed up and gone by lunchtime. I try to reassure George but she is anxious, pacing the terrace, barking. Letting them know she is there and not to come too close.
A snap of the wild boar in our garden taken last summer
Over the last few years we have a wild boar that hangs out in the forest just past our lower terrace. He comes and goes, feasts on the fig trees surrounding the garden. (read Of Figs and Pigs here ) Digging up the garden when he fancies, a playful tussle with the soft grassy earth. I have seen him on occasion, trotting along the terraces just at that magical moment when dusk holds its breath before exhaling into the lavender blues of twilight. Husky and musky, he is also splendidly bristly and brutish. He is unperturbed by me. Snout up in the shady air, this is his time. I stay crouched, my eyes straining in the half light. It is always a thrill to see him. A moment of connection to the forest.
Later after his evening turn, he will be hungry, wending his way between the trees, snout now down on the damp forest floor, snuffling for fungi and mushrooms, using his tusks to prise out tubular roots and rhizomes. Feasting on an hors d’oeuvre of acorn and chestnuts, occasionally earthworms with a side of succulent stems. Secure in his solitary ways for the most part.
At night we hear crashing, growling and grunting in the thickets below. I wonder if he has joined up with a sender – a group of females with their young. Time to mate? Or perhaps he has moved away and it’s the others we can hear. I imagine life in the thicket, with the pigs and squirrels, badgers and foxes but really it’s a mystery.
The clamour switches up a note, the dogs are on a scent and they are close!
Now the baying is intermingled with excited barking almost a howl, I peer out the window expecting to see them racing through the garden but can see nothing. The air is tumultuous, yells from the hunters join in with the dogs. I envisage the blind panic of the wild boar as all hell is let loose upon him. Suddenly an outburst of gunfire reverberates thunderously around the valley. The horn blasts signalling an end to the hunt. It’s done. Is it our wild boar?
A while later, things settle down. We hear the hunters pack up, car doors slam, and engines fired up as they drive off down the hill for a celebratory lunch. The quiet wraps us in its welcomed embrace, deep and singular. I feel relief, but also despondent. I think it must be him.
Afternoon lunch, the sun breaks through and we are uplifted by cathartic sunshine. A welcome reminder that spring is on its way. It’s time to trim the green roof of our chestnut terrace. Whippy swirls of giddy wisteria run unchecked, up the wall smothering the dead sections of vine that we need to be untangled and cut out. D and I set up a stepladder each, armed with our secateurs. Soon we are lulled into blissful meditation helped by the rhythmical sound of our snipping.
Suddenly a pickup comes haring down the drive, skidding to a halt in Starsky and Hutch type of way. Ohh that rankles. We lay down our tools, my features stonily set, but lo and behold I am met by a neon orange Father Christmas. He is rotund, and ruddy faced, complete with snowy white moustache finished with a nonchalant curl at either end. His mate is smiley, his expression apologetic.
They are sorry for disturbing us this morning, they realised they were close to the house, but they have bought us a peace offering. They thrust forward a large white carrier bag. I know immediately what it is. It’s the best cut they assure us. Yes it was a lone male, living just below our house. I feel faintly revolted by the thought. The older hunter tells us proudly he has been hunting this area for the last forty years. He is respectful of the tradition as well as their prize. We tussle back and forth until we feel obliged to acquiesce and D takes the bag. They tell us to keep it in the fridge uncovered for a couple of days then freeze it until we are ready to eat it. We will have no fresher meat he assures me. He has twinkly eyes and I find myself thanking him profusely.
Over the next couple of days every time I open the fridge I am faced with the leg of wild boar and feel dismay. It is so fresh there is no smell. I plan to freeze it then give it away. I am surprised at myself. I am not normally squeamish.
On day three, I take it from the fridge, the leg is lean and meaty. All that running around the forest, up and down the hills, has meant this was one fit pig. I imagine how I would cook it – firstly I would marinade with a couple of glasses of merlot and rosemary and bay from the garden to elevate it a note. Then before roasting, stud it with cloves to perfume the meat and sprinkle with sea salt to bring out the intense flavour.. Roasted in the oven along with fat wedges of sweet onion doux, full heads of garlic and nutty chestnuts so it would not be lonely. Accompanied by a medley of wild mushrooms, freshly wilted spinach and crispy roasted potatoes it would be a feast to share with friends. And so suddenly it feels like the right thing to do, a small celebration of the realities of the life in the countryside and all that entails. A curious juxtaposition perhaps.
A couple of weeks later, as we are winding our way up the hill after a Friday night dinner with family, we turn a bend and suddenly D slams on the brakes. Illuminated by the headlights is an impressively Herculean wild boar. For a moment only, he is fixed to the spot, then without a glance he lightly runs up the steepest bank and vanishes into the darkness. What a delight! It feels like the status quo has been restored. It’s going to be a good weekend.
