Bonjour!

Bonjour!

The hot days have brought back childhood memories of summer camp in a picturesque spot high up in the Jura mountains. My brothers, Gérard and Michel, and I would say au revoir to Maman Blanc and, with other children from the village, we’d head off to the camp. It was in the middle of huge forests of towering pine trees and was our home for a month every summer.

With rivers, streams, exciting waterfalls and freezing cold rock pools, this was a place of goose pimples, fun, adventure, not much sleep and lots of laughter.
(The pines, I must add, are used to smoke the region’s legendary Morteau sausage and ham, and provide the casing for the Mont d’Or cheese, courtesy of milk from the Montbéliard cows).

It was also at this camp – in the streams beneath dappled sunlight – that Gérard tried to teach me the art of catching trout by hand. We had to find them first, and that took at least an hour. He’d gently tickle the fish on the tail and move slowly up the body to quickly grab the fish and pull it from the water. Gérard was masterful. Moi? I could spot them and tickle them, but then they’d dart
away. They must have sensed I was a budding chef!