The Olive Press

It's that time of year again when the olives are beckoning so I thought I'd let all my non South of France readers know how it works (as well as serving as a reminder of the process for me for next year!) We don't have a lot of olive trees (8) but we have enough to be able to call the last terrace in our garden, pictured above, an olive grove. I can't tell you how much pleasure that gives me, as a North London girl who now has an olive grove. Last year, the harvest was terrible, which was just as well because I was very ill and would not have been able to pick them anyway and would only have felt guilty letting them go to waste. This year it is a different story, the branches were literally bowing under the weight of the lush, plump mainly black olives. I saw olive nets being spread out in the valley in October but Rosine, my Italian neighbour and font of all food knowledge, said no picking until November at the earliest, and you can wait until as late as January or February providing they don't get hit by frost. After five days of rain, we had warm sunshine for days on end so the time was right. I asked the girls if they were interested in helping me pick, to be greeted with 'Nope, too much homework', uttered while watching back to back episodes of One Tree Hill and Gossip Girl. Handyman was too busy being handy and running the renovation of the top floor so it fell to me to head off to harvest toute seule. I don't have any fancy equipment (one friend has just bought an olive picking device for €900. Frankly I would rather gather by hand and have a new handbag/pair of boots, preferably both) but I have a rake and one set of nets, and these work just fine. I worked my way through a tree at a time, picking from the lowest branches by hand and bashing the rake at the highest branches to reach the plump bunches, which always seem to be just out of reach. The raining olives fell on the nets and then it was just a question of niftily gathering them up without treading on them and before Oscar the greedy pug had a chance to hoover them up, as he will eat literally anything, weeds, the grout between floor tiles, even half a dead rat a couple of weeks ago. I stopped short of climbing into the trees to go after the most elusive olives when I heard about Tony falling out of one of his last week, crashing through a fig tree below and narrowly escaping serious injury (I only laughed when I realised he was okay and not lying horribly maimed in hospital.) So bountiful was the harvest this year that it has taken me two weeks to finish the picking. Rosine came to help me marinade this week as I can never remember the quantities, and her method yields the tastiest olives we (and our impressed UK visitors) have ever eaten. First, sort the good from the bad (any pockmarked or slightly squishy ones can go in the moulin pile.) Then wash them in cold water and leave them soaking for two days, changing the water each day. Then drain them off and weigh them. We had a total of 55 kilos, not bad considering half of them are still on the trees out of reach, so we decided to marinade 20 kilos. You need a tuyau - a glass jar with a plastic cap - and the two I had were filled almost to the top. Then you top up with fresh water and add 80g of salt per litre of olives. We wandered around the garden picking bay and rosemary to make home made bouquet garnis to plug at the top before putting on the lids. Ta da!

They have to stay in a cool, dry place for seven to eight months before they are ready to eat. I have tried decanting into jars after marinading but as jars need to be sterilised and then kept cool, this means a fridge and wine fridge filled with olives and no room for food (or wine, perish the thought.) My new method is to leave them in the tuyau and decant as I need them. A rinse in fresh water (or not) and a squeeze of fresh lemon, a sprinkle of fresh garlic and rosemary leaves and they are ready to enjoy. Preferably by the pool with a glass of rose in hand. The remainder - some 35 kilos - I took to the Moulin de la Brague in Opio, where they weigh your quota and give you a proportion back in freshly pressed, cloudy green olive oil. My yield equated to five litres, enough to keep us going for a couple of months, and it really does taste different knowing that is freshly made from the olives in the local valley. The best way is to pick and chat with friends so if the harvest is anything like as good next year, I am going to throw an olive picking lunch, all guests need to arrive in time to do a couple of hours picking and the food and wine will be on me. As well as a jar of olives when they are ready. Lastly, and not on the subject of olives, I must mention some tea that I was kindly sent by Ali Silk at Tea Horse. I can't drink much coffee any more and have stopped drinking tea with milk so these Oriental teas are a great alternative, and even come with a cocktail recipe. Very tasty indeed. Try it.

Bad luck but good karma

It was my first trip to London since the summer and I was so looking forward to it. I had a full diary, a screening of the new series of The Killing, a chat with the star Sofie Grabol, and a few parties with friends and work colleagues. But the bad luck fairy was also in town and on my first night back in London town, my handbag, containing cash, cards, phone, passport and driver's licence, as well as make up, perfume and my diary which is my lifeline, was stolen.Granted, I was not hanging onto it for dear life as I usually would because I was at a private party and allowed myself the little luxury of a false sense of security. But whoever took it had to blag their way into the party, which was at a small intimate basement bar in Charlotte Street, root around in front of me to find it and really take a chance on walking out with it as it was a small friendly crowd. I thought I was going slightly mad until I rang American Express to cancel my card, only to be told that some lowlife had already made three attempts to draw cash from my Amex account in the previous hour. Cue the rest of the evening spent calling round to cancel everything and an hour at Holborn police station to report the theft. Much as it was a downer to be cast adrift in the middle of London on the first night of my trip with no ID, no communication and not a penny to my name, I couldn't let it ruin the trip. Usually when I go away, I always take a battered leather photo holder with dog eared slightly faded snapshots of the girls through the ages, from toddlers playing on the beach in Devon through to passport photos of the beautiful teens they are now. This photo wallet has been all over the world with me in the last 15 years, to Australia, Tahiti, the States, Africa and many other places and I now realise, is probably the most precious thing I own. Fortunately, I had forgotten to take it for the first time ever, so despite being totally gutted about the loss of the Miu Miu wallet I bought in Florence, and the tan clutch that went with everything, the most important and irreplaceable possession is safe. Subbed by Sarah, who also helped to organise my emergency passport application and let me use her office as a base, I still managed to have a lovely time especially when the passport office at Victoria helpfully processed my new passport in less than four hours. I spent a fab night at the Dean Street Townhouse hotel, and also had good times at E&O in Notting Hill, Bill's new deli in Soho and the NFT, where the lovely Sofie Grabol was on top form and so much more smiley and chatty than her alter ego Sarah Lund (you can read exactly how lovely in the latest edition of Hello magazine.)I also have a new phone, the Samsung Galaxy S3, which is a thing of total beauty and is revolutionising my Luddite life with easy to use technology. The moral of this story is do not EVER put your bag down. Anywhere. (Another friend told me about the time her bag was stolen in a restaurant when the thief literally crawled commando style on the floor between tables taking whatever he could find.) And don't go out with a clutch bag and no shoulder strap if you are planning on holding a glass of something all evening (see pic.)

And if you do happen not to heed these words, make sure you have a nice friend with you to wave a magic wand and make everything okay again.

Feeling racy

It's been a busy few weeks chez nous. Mipcom was the usual chock a block celeb fest in Cannes with the great and the good flying in to promote and sell their latest TV projects. Trinny and Susannah were on great form, sharing their secrets to looking good in your 40s and 50s, what not to wear if you want to age gracefully (I listened hard) and generally telling it like it is. Go girls. Matthew Modine was a gentle soul as he talked about his new sci-fi end of the world series Cat 8 and Sarah Wayne Callies from The Walking Dead was refreshingly on the ball about life in Hollywood. The hot tip for great TV coming soon is The Americans, a sizzling new pilot starring Keri Russell and Matthew Rhys about the secret lives of Cold War spies. Then there was the Grasse 10k race, which Liv had press ganged me into signing up for. The last time I ran it was three years ago, in 47 minutes, which was never going to happen again and in typical Competitive Mum spirit, I was loathe to say yes and not be able to beat my previous time. But it was good training for Liv's Manchester marathon next spring and her first big race so I agreed to put my own ridiculous competitive spirit to one side and be her running partner. The day dawned last Sunday, sunny and a bit too warm for running at 75 degrees, and off we set for Grasse old town along with 1899 other mad souls. I was a bit jaded, the result of a ridiculously late night at Ecole des Filles with friends. We were so busy chatting that I forgot about getting an early-ish night and only having one glass of wine and suddenly it was 1am, the wine was still flowing and I had the prospect of less than 8 hours sleep....not the best preparation for a race. So it came as quite a surprise that despite a slight hangover, I enjoyed it as much as I did. It's the furthest I have run for a year, and pounding the tarmac looking out across the countryside to the coast felt brilliant. There was something very cool about being in the midst of almost 2,000 other runners with music pumping across the PA, jazz and steel bands playing en route and spectators shouting out 'Allez, les filles' which is difficult to do justice to here. We both finished in 56 minutes, a major achievement for Liv, who only took up running six months ago, and not such a shabby result for someone who could barely put one foot in front of the other last spring.

What a load of old bollards

What is the purpose of bollards? Are they useful in any way whatsoever or is their existence merely to stress out petite drivers of Jeeps?  My first brush with a bollard happened when I offered to go shopping so that my friend Sally, who was arriving to stay with us and is a brilliant cook, could whip up a fabulous supper. She was stuck on a yacht in Monaco harbour following the Historic Grand Prix, poor thing. As I loaded the car with shopping, my phone started beeping with impatient messages from Child No 1 asking how long she had to wait for her lift. I reversed out of my space in the underground car park at LeClerc in Grasse and promptly whacked the car into a low fat bollard that had failed to materialise in my side mirror. I mean, what is the point in a bollard that you can't even see, beside a car parking space that you are encouraged to use? Supper was delicious, but it might have been cheaper and less stressful if I had just taken us all out for dinner.  The car went off to the garage for repairs and came back like new, all shiny and clean with no nasty dents. So you can imagine how gutted I was when I took Handyman's parents to the airport last week and it happened again. Again, I was doing someone a favour, this time to save Handyman from missing out on work, so I offered to drive. I parked in a lovely big space near the ramp so I could push the wheelchair to departures and did a quick appraisal of the space and saw no bollards. I had learned my lesson, however, and looked in every car mirror several times before engaging reverse, so why did I hear the sickening scrape of metal against a stupid, short, dumpy, upturned bucket of a bollard that was next to my space? Because it was invisible to anyone sitting in the driver's seat. As if by weird mental karma, my phone rang and it was Handyman asking how the drop off had gone. 'Well you won't believe this but....'  'You haven't pranged the bloody car again have you?' he spluttered in rage. 'Honestly, do you think someone is driving around putting bollards up each time you park?'  Well yes, actually that's exactly what I am thinking. Livvy said: 'Mum, you need to stop doing nice things for other people.' As I type this, we are en route to Florence for my birthday weekend. The autostrada is two lanes, incredibly narrow, with high crash barriers, tight bends and the occasional bollard. And I am not driving. 

Piste to Plage...A Triumph

The word hero is generally overused but it is the most fitting word I can think of to describe each and every rider who took part in Piste 2 Plage, which came to a triumphant end late yesterday afternoon on the beach at Juan les Pins. In a nutshell, it was four days, 440 km and 160 cyclists snaking along Tour de France routes and up and down cols from the Alpine ski resort of Sainte Foy to Juan les Pins in weather that ranged from driving rain and freakish September blizzards to 30 degrees of sunshine. Lining up with 160 riders in the pretty mountain village of Auron in early morning sunshine, the anticipation of the final 111 km descent from the mountains to the coast created a tangible buzz of excitement in the air. At the forefront of my mind was the mantra 'Do Not Fall Off The Bike' and perhaps even more importantly 'Do Not Fall Over The Edge.' Having fallen off while stationary twice this summer, not forgetting a couple of embarrassing crashes into my fellow cyclist Tony while touring Kyoto two years ago, the falling off thing was in danger of becoming an obsession. Especially when I spotted crash barriers at the side of a sheer drop that had already been crashed into and destroyed. Thankfully, nothing to do with me on this occasion. We set off at 9.30am in staggered starts, with the slowest, most cautious riders first and the speed junkies last. I think you can guess which group I was in. The biggest group I have ridden in until yesterday was a gang of two so the joys of riding in a peloton were all new to me. The descent down from Auron through the mountain pass towards Nice is a spectacular drive at the best of times but on a bike with 160 other riders whizzing along with you, the wind on your face and the September sun high in a blue, blue sky, it came pretty damn close to perfection. With the roads getting busier the closer we came to Nice, we bunched together with riders shouting out warnings about gravel, posts and oncoming cyclists to the riders behind. One minute you'd be on your own lost in thought, concentration and the breathtaking scenery and the next, another rider would draw level and strike up conversation. I made a lot of new friends. As we cycled towards Villeneuve Loubet slightly ahead of schedule, the temptation to ditch the bikes for a dip proved too much and they were abandoned on the grassy verge as 100 or so sweaty padded bottoms made a dash for a quick swim in the sea, much to the amusement of the French sun worshippers on the beach. 'Oui, c'est les Anglais,' sighed a female pedestrian as she looked on bemused. If any of us needed any reminder as to why we were taking part in such an arduous challenge, it came right then when Mark, a marine who lost his right leg below the knee in a parachute accident, abandoned his bike too, ran down the beach, kicked off his prosthetic limb and hopped into the sea amid deafening cheers. Jamie, a para who sustained 60% third degree burns when his plane cockpit burst into flames, Rab, an army captain who broke his back and neck in an army ski training session and Mike, an RAF operator injured during reconnaissance over Afghanistan rode alongside us. However much your bum might hurt on that miniscule saddle, you don't even want to contemplate moaning as you ride alongside such inspirational human beings. As we headed into the last few kilometres at Cap d'Antibes in a long meandering snake, with drivers beeping and pedestrians cheering their support, the atmosphere was electric. We finally crossed the finish line at the Pinedes in Juan to the claps and cheers from friends and family and the tears flowed (well, mine did!) One year ago,I wouldn't have dared to dream that exactly a year after being diagnosed with cancer I would be marking that first anniversary riding in a challenge of this scale. I wasn't the only one proving that impossible is nothing. Neil, who had open heart surgery a few months ago, and Tom, who broke his back a year ago, were also doing the same. As the celebrations continued into the early hours at a party on the beach in Juan, the buoyant mood made everyone dig deep at the auction and raffle, leading to a current total in the region of £325,000 for Help For Heroes, which is nothing short of phenomenal. This money will fund a hydrotherapy unit at Tedworth House rehabilitation unit in Tidworth, Wiltshire as well as spa facilities for injured servicemen. None of this would have happened without the tireless dedication of one individual in particular, a certain Mr Al Parker Swift, who has lived and breathed this event since first coming up with the idea of a little cycle ride with a few mates last autumn. Words cannot express how brilliant it was. You'll just have to take my word for it.

Homeward bound

The six week 4,500k road trip is coming to an end. In that time we have had many adventures, some fun, others not quite so. The highlights? Travelling through Spain, France and the UK, seeing all the bits you usually miss, enjoying the unspoilt beauty of Cap Ferret, the culture and nightlife in Barcelona, Bill's deli in Lewes, the cool ambience of the Riding House Cafe in Soho, riding through the Norfolk countryside, surfing in the Atlantic, cycling coast roads, wine tasting in Saint Emilion, meeting my great new literary agent, watching the Olympics closing ceremony fireworks from the roof, collecting lovely bits and pieces from all over Europe safe in the knowledge that the Jeep could take the strain....oh yes, and the boozy barbecue where I realised that half of us present represented four of the most reviled professions....journalism, politics, estate agency and banking. The downsides were slashing my ear in a surf accident, losing a diamond earring in the same accident, leaving the beautiful Anthropologie cardigan I've never even worn in Saint Emilion, having a van smash into us on the M23, arriving at Beachy Head unaware that someone had committed suicide minutes earlier, enduring horrific traffic jams in 37 degrees (clearly this wasn't in the UK,) breathing through my mouth while using the stinky overcrowded mens loos at the Valence services (the queue for the ladies was 25 deep) and unpacking 1500 items from the boot at every stop. I'm returning to the Cote d'Azur a few pounds heavier and several shades blonder thanks to Karin's skills with my newly growing crop which led to being scouted for a fashion shoot by a photographer (yes, I couldn't believe it either.) Our last day and night has been spent in fitting style in Saint Remy de Provence, catching some rays by the hotel pool, mooching into the beautiful town for supper and enjoying the calm before the storm of unpacking, restocking cupboards and cracking on with work. Back to reality, except the prospect of fresh figs from the garden, 35 degrees and yoga by the pool is not such a bad routine to return to.

Back on the road

They say opposites attract so there is a reason I'm married to Handyman. I break things and crash into things, he fixes them, I pack virtually everything I own (one holdall just for shoes, another for toiletries, you get my drift) he travels light and I love a lie in while he is up before the birdsong starts and has been for a walk, breakfast and coffee before I have even brushed my teeth. Our last night in Western France before leaving for the UK was a frenzy of packing (me and Issy, who have oversized suitcases, so much her mother's daughter) while he nonchalantly chucked a few bits into his diddy Samsonite and hey presto, he was off to the bar while we waded through unworn, unfolded clothes that there was no point unpacking in the first place.  This morning, an hour before we were due to leave, he was hassling us to close our cases so he could start loading the car. I am allergic to organisation on this scale especially when I'm still in bed with sleep in my eyes. Issy was still unconscious. I dragged myself out of bed, shut my case and he was off sprinting to the car with it. Half an hour later, with the car immaculately loaded with cases, wine, beach bags, my bike and concrete candle holders, I realised that the apartment key was still in my clutch bag, now packed in my suitcase. Cue a complete unpacking of the car, amid stifled hilarity upstairs while Handyman burned off a few cals of last nights pizza/pasta carb fest trying to find the right clutch (they were three to choose from, so easy to get confused.) The moral of this story is that it doesn't always pay to be ahead of yourself.  Despite the fact that this last month was supposed to be a relaxing holiday, with some work and adventure thrown in, it has been rather eventful. I am covered in cuts and bruises, the result of biking/surfing exploits. Two days ago, I fell off my bike in front of 200 tourists as I left the ferry at Cap Ferret. It was far worse than landing in the dirt in Spain when at least no one else was around. But by far the worst accident was surfing. There I was, surfing at Biscarrosse near Bordeaux, catching some great waves and enjoying the water. After a couple of hours, I decided to get 'one last wave.' Unfortunately so did the guy next to me and he ploughed into me, knocking me off my board and somehow entangling his ankle leash around my neck under the water. As I fought to release the cord, the guy was tugging his board above me and strangling me. The surfboard fin smashed into the back of my ear and as I finally emerged from the water, I was covered in blood, my diamond earring ripped from my earlobe and the back of my ear sporting a gaping slice. The Baywatch guys swung into action, cleaning me up as other bathers looked on in horror and sending me off to Dr Fabian, a cool hippie with a surfboard in the corner of his office who stiitches up all the unfortunates. The surf shop owner said 'Fabian is good with a needle and thread.' He took a photo with his iPhone to show me the gaping flesh before and the neat six stitches afterwards saying, 'It's a shame it's behind the ear as it looks so pretty now.'   My mum has urged me to take up something safer, like knitting. In London, I have decided to leave the derring do to the Olympians and stick to pedicures and some light shopping instead. Meanwhile the 12 hour journey back to the nippy North unfolded with us both doing what we do best....Handyman driving and me reading the satnav, the papers on the iPad and Cote Ouest.