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Excuse one missed edition, life stuff.

Let’s begin : )

Alethea x

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With weeks of rain – quite unusual here, even at this time of year – I returned from some time visiting my father in Greece (with pleasant sunshine) via a scary aborted landing (a 90 degree return to the skies and an eerily silent cabin) and into the beginning of Tempete Nils. Finally arriving home, after a painfully slow three-hour drive from Toulouse (wind, torrential rain) into the full storm. 

‘Madame’ generally braves storms well. Built into the rock and on a hill we were fortunately immune to flooding, the main casualty here being the third tree in as many months coming down along the meadow fence-line. A few roof tiles went flying, and there was a leak into bedroom four but that is now sorted. All things considered, we were lucky.   

Tempete Nils has hit South West France hard. Parts of Nouvelle-Aquitaine and Occitanie saw severe flooding and major power cuts, with hundreds of thousands of homes affected. The Dordogne and Lot rivers are still seriously flooded, with stretches of riverside villages and roads still submerged, for example La Roque Gageac, and many routes remain under water and impassable.

Here, for two days, the only sound above the howling wind was chainsaws as fallen trees were removed from roads and power lines. As I write, we’re battening down the hatches for more 100km winds this evening and the arrival of Tempete Pedro: (

Ever since our first Asian Hornet nest encounter, I’m keen not to repeat the experience. Ticks are also surfacing from their slumber, I found one in my hair (how?!) and duly freaked out! Romy’s coat is particularly easy for them to latch onto, not helped by her penchant for rolling. So it’s back to the monthly anti-tick dog muti. I’m not keen on it, but after trying spot-on treatments, various collars and even very pretty, but ineffective, crystal necklaces (!), it’s the toss-up between that or the extremely nasty, deadly tick-borne diseases. Pff. Meanwhile, the only way I can get tick muti into / onto Nala is via a fraught towel and cat scratching situation - not fun.

2026 bookings are open for our perfectly formed little house : ) Apparently, one of the most loved homes on Airbnb 😄

⭐ In addition, the main property is available for a limited four week period - the booking window closes on 8 March 2026. If you’d like more information on dates & availability, please message me for details.

A little truffle themed Snapshot this edition, inspired by our recent Fete de la Truffe…

Roadie efficiency

The vieille Fete de la Truffe roadie crew are a model of rural-event logistics, no lastminute preparations here : ) It’s a well-oiled machine of about fifteen men, with, I would say an average age of 70, who set up the bones of the fete with quiet efficiency.

Romy and I wandered over to see what was happening two days before the big event. Dog-TV activities being scarce on the ground, you have to take the opportunities where they present : ) This year’s set-up included, for the first time, the recently renovated village four au pain (old bread oven) due to be lit again after years of inactivity. A great pile of firewood looked promising for the latest addition to the extensive food options, pizzas.

To date, I haven’t actually experienced the full Fete de la Truffe. The first year was a brief ten-minute excursion following six weeks of bronchitis. Then there was 2025…

January entertainment

Last year, it was sheer serendipity that my friends J and AM’s lastminute travel plans coincided with La Fete de la Truffe. With AM off to Dubai for work, J decided to take the opportunity to visit deepest rural France. Part catch-up, part recce for future visits and part impromptu carer duty.

The contrast between our respective weekends, skyscraper marina gltiz versus rural Dordogne in January, was not lost on any of us as photos pinged back and forth between here and Dubai.

A week before J’s arrival I’d had ‘the’ stupid fall on the hill that went on to define my next twelve months. At that point, the brain injury hadn’t made itself known. I was simply moving haltingly, like a broken dalek, with a fractured sterum and ribs. Everything hurt and everything was slow. The dishwasher remained unemptied and driving was out of the question.

Having warned J of my limitations as host, he was unfazed and assured me it was perfect timing as he could help. It was only once his flights were booked that the memory of being the unwitting passenger in the ankle-gate wheelchair racing incident resurfaced.

Years earlier, a spectacularly inane ankle break (exiting a taxi on arrival at a hotel for a two week stay in Mauritius, doh), followed by an even more spectacular series of hospital screw-up’s in both Mauritius and the Netherlands, grr, I’d spent three months in a wheelchair and another three on krukken (a much better Dutch word than crutches!).

At the time, I was working at Aegon Asset Management in a fab, small team led by J. Pre-Covid, pre-WFH norms, he’d kindly ensured I could continue working from my temporary sofa-office. Two weeks in, a harried J had called: “You won’t believe this. V’s just broken her ankle too!’ Strike. Two of five team members were down.

Never ones not to find some humour in a crisis, our little team made light of the situation whenever possible. Hence the wheelchair racing shenanigans along the long Aegon corridors en route to lunch on rare office days. With sufficient enthusiasm those wheels were surprisingly fast and of course, we all became increasingly competitive. J had been instrumental in keeping spirits up then and I suspected a similar dark humour may be helpful now.

With few restaurants or attractions open here in January, I was delighted there would at least be something novel on the weekend’s agenda. We planned the rest of his trip around Sunday’s much anticipated highlight: the gastronomique truffle experience.

With J on chauffeur duty and me in full dalek mode, before the truffle fete, we executed our best impression of a certain type of coach tourism group: drive as close as possible to the site of historical interest, exit vehicle, take photo, mildly obstruct others for a bit (added bonus for being accompanied by a large dog!), then shuffle back to the vehicle and onto the next. Tick.

Just like some tourists ‘do’ Europe in a week, we hit five of the Dordogne’s greatest hits in one afternoon: Beynac, Catelnaud, La Roque Gageac, Domme and Sarlat and drove past many others. Since J’s trip doubled as a recce for when both he and AM visit it at least provided a helpful preview!

The big day

On the morning itself, the fete host’s microphone could already be heard booming across from the village at the uncivil hour of 8am. Odd, I thought, the main event wasn’t until midday.

Our plan was to arrive comfortably ahead of the chef’s truffle canape tastings, where four local chefs unofficially compete to produce the best bite and the crowd is quick to judge! Meanwhile, there were tulip bulbs to plant (J) and a spot of dog-walking (also J) and no need for breakfast in anticipation of the truffle feast ahead.

We nonchalantly rocked up, collecting another friend en route, only to realise almost immediately that all was not as it should be. The first clue being a dearth of crowds. Hum, weird, I’d remembered more people the previous year. A glance inside the chef’s tents confirmed it, the serving stations were empty.

Somehow, I’d got the times wrong. The tastings were over, save for two truffle tiramisus (which were not good). We were two hours late and everyone had moved on to the pre-booked salle des fetes lunches. Helass pindakaas.

Fortunately, J did at least manage to buy a truffle to take home, but there was no truffle food to be had. Oops. Quite how I managed to miss the central event of a fete located approximately 600 metres from my house remains unclear. Not my finest hosting moment!

This year

To be absolutely sure not to repeat last year’s debacle, I’d conducted a first sortie, dog in tow, around 0830am. Just to check. After brief conversations with everyone I saw (the mairie, one chef, two producteurs busy setting up their stalls with local produce and the head of the Comite de Fetes), I continued Romy’s walk reassured, and returned later to meet friends, sans chien. Recent seagull-style (nieuwe haring style for my NL readers) canape-thieving incidents, involving vertical leaps, were not something I was keen to have to watch for in a crowded, food-rich environment.

Winter 2025 / 2026 has not been a good year for truffles in the Perigord Noir. The verified market at the fete only had 8kg of truffles for sale, usually it’s over 20kg available. Although, the same day, at the Sarlat market, only 800g were available. Apparently this was due to the extreme cold, and frost earlier this year.

Yet this year, canapes were had! Yay! Lovely local rose crémant from Domaine de Lasfarges was shared – at 10am – and we were also the happy recipients of the first pizzas (ever?!) from the restored four au pain. Given the vile weather, we’d lucked out with one of the tables under the abri, close to the fire, with a prime view of all but the traditional dancing (which we somehow) missed.

The square was soon buzzing, queues formed at the chef’s tents, truffle-laced aromas filled the air and the communal chat volume was ever-increasing. Canapes were devoured, wine flowed, and it was exactly the atmosphere I’d imagined for last year’s hosting moment – just twelve months late! Next time, and perhaps I’ll catch the dancing then too : )

More Snapshots of the Domaine Les Plonges ‘journey’ every edition.

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Standing on an exposed hilltop in early February, blasted by the wind and driving rain, I’m watching what feels like the canine Eurovision of chercheurs de truffes. A full Disney-esque collection of dog breeds and crosses all vying for the prize.

We’re here to see our Club Canin friends and, while I love a local social occasion, if it weren’t for the dog socialisation aspect I would definitely be at home snug inside. Never in a million years did I imagine this would feature in my Saturday afternoon plans.

Romy is having a ball playing with friends, tapping up all pockets for biscuits and wholly unbothered by the inclement conditions. Meanwhile, I can barely feel my hands.

I haven’t entered Romy into the competition given she is definitely not a trained truffle hunter. However, after several ‘pourqui pas’ shrugs from others, Romy joins the roll-call. In front of the straggly crowd, the field is sectioned off into large red and white taped squares. The day before, five corks (infused with the concentrated truffle oil scent for training) were hidden in each section. Each dog has five minutes to locate their five ‘truffles’ and the fastest dog wins. How hard can it be?

Part of my reluctance to inscribe Romy into the competition is that I’m not overly keen on her winning. The major honour part of the prize is that the victorious dog must demonstrate their skills the following afternoon at the actual fete de la truffe. That would mean further wind-blasted hours on a hilltop demonstrating her prowess to a much larger crowd. Non, merci. 

This reticence stems from Romy’s surprise success during her one and only previous attempt at cherche la truffe, where she found every truffle cork within a minute and was declared ‘a natural’ by our Club Canin friends. So, we bound off, last in the first round, to showcase these hitherto hidden talents. 

Ever the performative, people-loving hound, Romy is far too distracted by her audience to concentrate. Clearly, her nose is on point as she quickly discovers the first truffle cork, but that’s where our success ends. She proceeds to rip up mouthfuls of grass, and adopt a thoughtful cow-like chewing stance before erupting into celebratory zoomies and general show-off behaviour. Further entreaties to cherche la truffe are either ignored or met with insouciance. With the wind howling, and everyone frozen, we abandon the attempt at three minutes.

Turns out I was ridiculously over-confident in my dog’s olfactory abilities 🤦‍♀ any vague concerns that she’ll then be too in-demand among local truffle farmers dissipates. Nul points! On the plus side, there are no requirements to do the honours the following day. Pas mal.  

Or… other sources

My first December here, I made some ginger biscuits, put them in Kilner jars tied with ribbon and a note, and dropped them off at the ten closest neighbours. It was a good ice-breaker, but much to my surprise resulted in an astonishing array of reciprocal welcome gifts, including a whole truffle, homemade vodka (I think, to this day the bottle remains unopened in the drinks cupboard, looking slightly menacing), wild boar pate, jams, walnuts, chocolate and wine. Quite the (unintended!) net result.

The truffle was given to me by our ‘local truffle man’. I have no idea of his actual truffle title, but know that all truffle related queries and buying expeditions seem to go through him. It was an incredibly generous welcome gift.

Here, truffles are an integral seasonal ingredient. People train dogs seriously to find them in the few remaining wild areas or actively cultivate them in small truffieres dotted across the hills.  A friend who recently planted 35 of these mini oak trees explained it’s approximately eight years before you’d expect any truffles to appear.

Some time ago, on one of our many exploratory walks, Romy and I stumbled upon our first truffle plantation. Fenced, camera-monitored, a little hidden and faintly clandestine. It felt a little like that marijuana fields scene in The Beach, albeit with a more valuable ‘crop’. Black truffles fetch around €1,300 per kilo.

I’ve since learnt you can often spot a truffle-producing / hosting tree by the ring of almost scorched earth around it. Caused by chemicals released by the truffle fungus to suppress competing plants.

Yet despite this monetary value, what strikes me most is people’s generosity with these little black diamonds. Sharing them, using them liberally in recipes and most of all, delighting in recounting the find or their dog’s brilliance. This takes precedent over any discussion on sale value. During my first attempt at hosting aperos here, one neighbour turned up with a platter of flakey baguette, butter (not too much, very important) and thick slices of truffle. Peak Periogord Noir, haha!

According to a friend who knows, the place to go to become more educated on all things truffe is La Truffiere de Péchalifour, with acclaimed trufficulture expert, and author, Edouard Aynaud.

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