Details

Not representative of my day! But they are representative of the medieval centre of Murat, the small town where I am staying. This is the region of volcanoes, so it’s not surprising that volcanic rock features heavily. Beautiful details catch the eye among the grey.

I’m here for a four-day escapade refreshing my memory of how to do sourdough properly. I found La Ferme Badabec via the (in)famous purist French sourdough group on Facebook. It was when I was going through the very stressful last weeks with Mystère, when I hardly dared leave the house, and the possibility of leaving him in S’s care for a few days was hard to resist (of course in the event he has seized the opportunity to go to the Pyrenees!).

So this morning I drove 20 km further up into the mountains to join five other people and Thibault, the baker at his remote farm. As we introduced ourselves over coffee I was a bit alarmed when the first two people revealed that they had obtained their professional bakery qualifications (obligatory in France if you want to sell bread) and were setting up their own boulangeries. But luckily there are two other enthusiastic amateurs like me.

It was a talking day today as Thibault went into the technical details of maintaining a starter, fermentation, and different methods of managing the process. Given that we were 1200 metres above sea level, it was ridiculously hot, around 34C, but luckily we were able to spend most of the day outside in the shade.

Back down the hill at about 5:30 — I did a bit of shopping in town, and was so hot and tired that I was forced to sit down in a bar for a beer. Then back to the hotel to chill (metaphorically). I eventually decided I’d better get something to eat. The Cantal is not very vegetarian friendly and I really didn’t fancy the slabs of meat on offer in most places, or the noisy crowds and harassed staff. It’s peak tourist season here, but it only lasts about a month.

Eventually I found myself on the terrace of a nice quiet bar where I enjoyed a generous salad featuring deep-fried breadcrumbed chunks of Cantal cheese and air-dried duck breast, a glass of crisp white Auvergne wine that was so nice I had another one, and a herb tea. For background noise the excited yelling of French TV commentators as Léon Marchand smashed the butterfly final. Then a stroll back in the relatively cool dusk. Bread making in a wood-fired oven tomorrow!