Rent's due; a visit to Katia and Nanking

Above: With Katia de Courtomer, age three

Chère amie, cher ami,

“Isn’t it the fête de la Saint-Michel today? asked my husband. “And don’t you owe me some money?”

Sadly, I do. September 29, this past Friday, is the date when a French farmer pays le fermage, his rent.

And more sadly, the land which Monsieur rents to an agricultural association of which I am now the principal member never makes a sou.

Or, to use French slang for money, it never yields enough blé to pay the landlord. Blé means wheat. And it is no coincidence that wheat and money are closely associated in the French language.

Winter wheat, blé tendre, is one of the most valuable staples of human existence. It is more productive of grain and more robust than other cereals. It provides more calories, more essential vitamins, minerals and enzymes. And France is the second most productive grower of wheat in the world.

My husband’s land is to the south. There is a layer of clay hardpan under the topsoil. Summers are hot and dry. In this part of France, there is never enough “blé” to satisfy the landlord.

Ah, but verdant Normandy!

The great novelist Flaubert describes Dr. Bovary riding out to visit his patients «dans les sentiers dont les blés lui montaient jusqu’aux genoux.»

Yes, along the country lanes of our province, the wheat still rises to the height of a rider’s knee.

The agricultural wealth of Normandy invited Roman conquest and Viking invasions. Its opulence was the base for a Norman empire that stretched from Southern Italy, Sicily and North Africa to England, Ireland and a sizable chunk of France.

Here, the land yields four times the tonnes of wheat produced on the land to the south. In the last campaign, ending this feast of la Saint-Michel, Courtomer’s hectares produced almost 700 quintaux of grain. Nice going when prices are strong. We’ll see what happens over the winter.

Cutting the wheat in late June this year at Courtomer.

Price fluctuation aside, modern farming is such an expensive enterprise that even at Courtomer the landlord rarely gets paid. But since the châtelaine is both the bailleur – the landlord – and the fermier – the exploiter of the farm – she is not very exigente.

“It’s the horses,” pointed out my accountant as we reviewed the figures.

Horses are almost as ubiquitous in Normandy as wheat. Like wheat, raising horses has a long history here – and especially in the country around Courtomer.

In the 19th-century heyday of the horse, when large land armies required their strength and agility and developing industry relied on actual horse-power, our region was the second most important provider of horses. The “Merlerault” horse, named for the town just a few miles away, was an admired saddle and driving breed.

Alas! The horse’s range today is limited to sport and what is known as the “pasture pal.”

“If you didn’t have les chevaux, you might make a little profit,” added le comptable unfeelingly.

I sighed. My presence in the world of horse-breeding has nothing to do with balance sheets.

As a friend of ours once ruefully observed about the state of his affairs, “I don’t care about money. And it shows.”

My horses, unlike Courtomer’s fields of wheat, are the result of a deep sentimental attachment. The sporting career of my trusty mare, Gavotte du Loup, was cut short by an accident. She survived to give birth to a filly.

Had the cold blood of le comptable run in my veins, I would not have saved Gavotte. I would not have bred her. Having bred her, I would have sold her offspring. And I would not now own five horses. Or be short of blé with which to pay my fermage.

Instead, little Victoire, Gavotte’s daughter, became my broodmare.

Since I had also retired an eventing stallion, this gave my decision an appearance of logic.

Gavotte died of old age, a confirmed pasture pal, a few years ago. So did the redoubtable old stallion, having lived a long and mellow life as a stable pal. I now have four produits, as we call equine offspring in France, all in various stages of career development. Two are in America.

The oldest, Finn, has been such a handful that he is now being re-educated. India, a more studious subject, is slowly and carefully learning to be an eventer.

On the Saint-Michel, I went to visit the French brood. Little Nanking is now almost five months old. Katia is a three-year-old. Victoire, their mother, is thirteen. Fertile and an excellent mother, she could go on producing a new poulain every couple of years.

Michel hobbled out to meet me. Horses have not been kind to his joints. Largo and Maverick, barking lustily, leapt around their master.

“Les voilà!” announced Michel, pointing across the lane to horses clustered at a hay rick.

“All bays this year!” Katia and her older brother Finn are dapple gray. But Finn is in America, of course. And Katia was in the stables. She is now in training.

Stepping forward on dainty hooves came Nanking. Her ears curled forward like pert little candle flames. A long blaze like a slender streak of jagged lightning runs down her face. Her forehead is broad, her muzzle is just narrow enough to be elegant, and her eyes are a warm and intelligent brown. Like her grandmother!

“Ah, ah!” exclaimed Michel, his face lit up with a satisfied smile. “Elle n’est pas belle?”

“And she isn’t pretty?”

After a long career riding and training jumpers, Michel and his wife run a small stable with a couple of broodmares on the side. Michel, who has always dabbled in breeding, is a respected judge at young horse trials at the Haras nationaux.

Nanking is admirable. Her back is strong, her legs are straight, her chest is broad and she already has a well-built hind end.

Quel moteur! For her age, Nanking is a big filly.

“It’s Idéal de la Loge,” Michel explained, referring to her height. Her illustrious grandfather stands at 1m70, and descends from taller and even more famous stallions, Dollar de Murier and Jalisco B, grandson and son of the fabled Almé. I had fallen for Idéal’s pedigree. I had not thought about size.

Nanking was curious about me. But she kept her distance. I had batted her gently on the nose when she snuffled me, and she had taken umbrage.

Victoire, on the other hand, allowed herself to be petted and complimented on her fine pouliche. A couple of other broodmares, one having her first foal at the age of 21, stood around. Perhaps they were hoping a piece of apple would fall their way.

We left Nanking and Victoire and walked up to the manège, the covered arena. Katia was going to free jump.

Katia entered, led by Manue. She stopped politely and waited while her lead was detached.

“C’est magnifique,” said Michel with deep admiration. I took hold of Katia’s halter and inspected my youngster.

“What are you feeding her?” I asked, astounded.

Katia loomed above my head.

“C’est une percheronne!” Katia is a pure selle français, but she looked more like a Percheron work horse than a saddle horse.

Michel was not offended.

“C’est un paquebot,” he corrected. “A cruiser. A battleship.”

“Queenly,” he added, nodding his head in admiration. “The size is Idéal.”

“Les jarrets! Les épaules! The hocks! The shoulders! Look how broad her chest is!”

Her rear and her ribcage were large, too.

Katia is built on the lines of a medieval warhorse. She looks as though she gallop through a battalion of enemies, or knock down walls, like a battering ram. The archangel Saint Michel could have ridden her to defeat the dragon.

Katia began to trot. Big, suspended strides, her head held high, her tail erect. She was indeed magnificent. And very graceful.

She’s still growing, Manue reminded me. She mentioned that she rarely rode her.

“I don’t want her to get angry,” she said. At her age, Katia is still learning to use her body.

A tantrum could cause an earthquake, I thought to myself.

“Her ears are big,” remarked Michel, regretfully.

I like a big-eared horse. I think it makes them look honest.

“Oh yes! She has no fear,” Michel responded.

We watched Katia jump. She tucked her front legs nicely, just the way her grandmother used to do. She floated in the air, suspended over the jump as if she were an enormous bird.

Michel was satisfied. It was his fault, he said, that Katia had kicked off a pole with her back legs on one of her jumps. Standing nearby, he had noticed her stride was a little long. But Katia was unperturbed by her mistake. She cantered around and jumped again, this time taking off at the right spot and neatly lifting her back feet to avoid any collision with a pole. Not bad for a young 'un.

Later, over a coffee, Michel and I discussed Katia’s splendid prospects. We agreed that Nanking is promising, too. There was hope for Finn. India might do very well for me. I forgot about the disagreeable shortage of blé. Horses don’t eat wheat anyway.

Perhaps it was a good omen that I went to see my horses on the Saint Michel, I reflected. That it was the trainer’s saint’s day. And that the saint patron of Normandy, protector of its wheat and its livestock, is Saint Michel himself.

Perhaps I’ll be able to pay Monsieur his fermage one of these days.

A bientôt, au château!

Elisabeth

P.S. A video of Katia as she learns to jump, on September 29.

Day of Saint Michel