Rat runs and summer fun

Apart from a ‘blink and you miss me’ drive through en route to Spain by nephew Louis so he could drop another ancient keyboard at the ‘Pianos ‘R’ Us’ warehouse that some of us call a family home, the annual vet visit so the two Border terriers could have vaccinations jabbed into their derrieres, a nice pocket of euros after a pop into the shop hosting my bijoux, an almost finished top after my third sewing lesson for its production and talks of a shared business venture next year; it’s actually been a peaceful week. Let’s forget Thursday and the donning of a sweater because the temperature dropped to 26 degrees shock horror – didn’t last thankfully and we got a downpour out of it but the nights are definitely getting cooler which is a bit depressing. Flip-flops are still underfoot though.

And with the last weeks of summer slowly heading south, so did little brother Moth (not that I’ve seen many sightings of this elusive creature this season) but not before Denis and I had a chance to pop over to his property in the hills above Cenne-Monasties. Actually, it was more of a necessary trip since my younger sibling had ‘borrowed’ the chainsaw and a visit was the only way we were ever going to get it back but the promise of coffee and a tour of all the estate updates was a bonus. But, as much as Cenne-Monasties is a charming village full of French traditional architecture, it is worth noting that manoeuvring your motor through its somewhat slim streets is an art in itself. As D and I were leaving, we came upon some lost British tourists looking for the way to the lake so I offered my guidance in taking them back down to the main road and the signs to their destination. The driver was a little concerned about the state of the descending road but that might have been the least of their problems. Having made them squeeze their sedan through spaces their sedan wasn’t designed to fit through before waving goodbye, a guilty thought crossed my mind. They might just have been looking for the other lake, the one further up the track from my brother’s abode not the one I’d treacherously guided them down. I wish I could say the same however for accidental relocations when it comes to Ratatouille and Courgette. Denis is less than amused by their reappearance considering he’d taken great pains to evict them and their cozy nest from the garden storeroom below the apartment. Now, I’m not averse to rodents and these country critters are much cuter than their city cousins but even I will admit that rats are probably not a good advertisement when selling a property of such grandeur. That and in D’s words, they’ve been busy being broody. I don’t think the woofers, especially Alice professional mouse markswoman, find their parkour pastime and overt cockiness adorable either – always exasperatingly out of reach of gnashing fangs. I know they have to go but I’ve told D to do so out of my nurturing eyesight – let’s not forget that short-lived love affair with the mice under my sink.

Whilst the animal antics along and over the terrace walls does provide a bit of evening entertainment, a night out St Hilaire is a little more my kind of thing . Whilst being best-known for its Benedictine Abbey and the birth of the fizzy wine that is Blanquette (not champagne – that’s a myth); the commune, up until recently, had the less salubrious reputation of being one great retirement home complex. Not any more with the completion of a large market square, housing shops and including that what has my wares within, and a bustling bar cum bistro complete with an outdoor seating area perfectly placed for a view of the old monastery whilst you dine out with friends and listen to one of them sing. Our Ever Reliable Roy serenading us with songs of yesteryear whilst we sipped chilled Rose and lauded over the local menu. No sweaters and most definitely wearing flip-flops…

“August is the slow, gentle month that stretches out the longest across the span of a year. It yawns and lingers on with the light in its palms.” (Victoria Erickson)

New horizons and birthday celebrations

Well, there you go. On the 10th of August 2026 at precisely, sort of, 4.30 p.m and having signed my initials on several hundred sheets of document, I walked out of the notaire’s office as a landowner in my own right. Just up the road and turn right. For the first time in my nearly 60 years of plaguing this here planet, I have a piece of it that is mine and not shared with anyone else. Okay, it hasn’t got a house on it yet, let alone a fence (someone has nicked the boundary posts) and the architect has to file for the building permit – not a problem I’m told by our lovely Mayor but it’s a relief to finally have it all official.

I wish I could say I was overcome with excitement but actually a bit the opposite. I did have a wee little celebration on Wednesday evening up there squinting through blackout glasses at the sun disappearing behind the moon along with most of my one day neighbours and then got the most awe-striking view of the meteor shower from the apartment upon re-entry. One plus about getting older and needing the loo in the early hours. But as soon as the ink was dry and the sun back out again, said architect was round to draw up the necessary plan for my future residence – luckily he is a friend of Denis’ (who isn’t?) and the afore-mentioned Mayor so not only did he give me a knock-down price for the work but also assured me all would be sorted very quickly. Then the lovely Lionel who will be constructing the teeny cube was on the phone checking start dates and all that stuff whilst D was compiling lists of people for various jobs. I cannot put into words how incredible this little village in the South-West of France is; between my adopted family that is the Maybons and the friends I’ve made here, I’ve got experts for everything and anything. But, I haven’t had a chance to breathe. Until this place is sold, I’m the sole carer which is a full time occupation in itself let alone trying to keep up with a fledgling business and its demands. Mind you, we did have a visit from a very nice English couple and their kids yesterday – Alice charmed the pants off the two young boys as did the swing which no-one here has ever used. For those who know me well, as most of you do, I’m not one to crack easily but the whole caboodle got a bit too much and I ended up in bed.

Not for long. How could I when a certain hairy beast wakes you up by rolling his ridiculously angular in all the wrong places body into your space before shoving those oversize paws in your face? But I cannot imagine a world without my Arry aka Aragorn (yet to earn that name) who turns 11 years old today. How he has got this far in life is a miracle in itself but his idiocy and endless quest for all things unpredictable never fails to lift the spirits of those who around him including the other woofers. He might be ageing disgracefully and a bit wobbly these days due to arthritis but give him a pool, his Border terriers and a caillou and he’s all set for mayhem and destruction. So here’s to the future, one I know is highly unlikely to be without potholes but with my crazy Shepherd by my side, it’s one I’m looking forward to stepping into…

“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me, and I’m feeling good.” (Nina Simone)

A modern day education

There is big news in the village – Denis has a new phone. That and Cyrelle who runs the epicerie has only gone and closed up the shop for a week so she can take a holiday. Such blatant disregard for human suffering would be considered enough of a shock but D joining the 21st century? Smelling salts wafting everywhere. Just in case there are those reading this and wondering why the purchase of a mobile device should cause eyebrows to raise; there was a time when phones were the size of a Mars bar, writing a text gave you finger cramp and Whatsapp meant how are you. I give you Denis’ relic of yesteryear. The only positive words one could say about said antique was that it couldn’t be traced which is probably why the government decided to ban them much to D’s chagrin and our delight. The downside of discovering new technology however, has meant I’ve lost my man to Youtube and endless fishing videos.

Mind you, considering the current ‘step outside and stop breathing’ weather of late, staying in and losing yourself to the joys of the internet seems a sensible way to while away the afternoon. I shouldn’t complain since a) summer passes all too quickly and b) we have had a bit of rain unlike the Motherland. Unfortunately a little late for the vineyards who are having to bring the vendange (the grape harvest) forward by three weeks so we shall be woken up by the clatter of mahoosive machinery rumbling through the village shortly. Even Domaine Sophi hasn’t been able to escape – all my efforts to keep my little vine happy were in vain with nothing left except shrivelled remnants of what might been a bottle. 600 grapes maketh a bottle, Google told me and I counted every one. Still, as said, we’ve had the occasional down pour which is not only a blessing for the terrain but for my temper too – the hose has stayed coiled.

As for me and despite the hilarities of trying to explain to my chap how to take a snapshot of the subject you’re trying to capture instead of the ground below it, it’s actually been a relatively quiet week. I took our Lisa over to Prexian and Xavier’s place to meet our neighbouring villagers and put in a good word as she’s trying to find a new house; naturally she charmed the pants off all the men, probably pissed off their wives, got a couple of contacts for rentals and several glasses of free wine. D tried out his new snapping skills even he managed to make his girlfriend look like a wardrobe next her glamorous gal pal. It’s a good job that girl doesn’t indulge like she used to as I spent the following evening over at D’d daughter Marina’s house having dinner with the fam – including Mama Maybon. I do like her. Anyway, as we were discussing D’s various mishaps with modern day gadgets, Hugo (Marina’s other half) was opening a box he’d retrieved from his post box. At first glance those little packets looked a bit iffy to me, especially when the person holding them is applying to join the police force but I was assured they were just CBD and completely legit. “Helps me wind down and sleep” he said, “you should try some”. Hmm..I won’t even take the sleeping pills the doc gave me. Later that night, after dropping me back to see to the woofers, D returned for his usual night cap. With a suspicious looking cigarette in hand. “From Hugo” he whispered and passed it over. Well, didn’t I feel grown-up with a dodgy looking roll-up between my fingers even if most of it had turned to ash by the time I took a puff. I did sleep well but not before I saw stars. I mean, in the sky. Thousands and thousands of little orbs twinkling across the cosmos above the terrace. At least I hope that’s what I was looking at. I’ll have another chance to verify the view on Wednesday and from a different angle. Just down the road and turn right – the perfect place to take a phot just up on that hill…

“The trouble with having an open mind is that people will insist on coming along and trying to put things in it.” (Terry Pratchett)

Bopping, bidding and battered bods

If one was to summarise the events of the past week and indeed, finding ourselves halfway through 2026 already, late nights and wake up calls come to mind. But then again, this is a blog so no need for the synopsis to start in the first paragraph. I am however, reasonably pleased to see the back of July – for a start, the diary is looking much less frenetic and boy, do I need a few weeks of nothing going on particularly. Well, there is that one thing but lips are still zipped for the time being. Mind you, two concerts in the space of 7 days was the perfect way to end such a busy month; the simply fantastic Franz Ferdinand and the somewhat slightly disappointing Kool and the Gang. The first I went to with our Welsh lass Lisa and hopped and bopped my way to blisters; the second I attended along with brother Simon, his wife Alba and friends Gavin and Ann-Marie – less boogie and more bland in my opinion but that didn’t mean I wasn’t limping out the exit. They all stayed up drinking afterwards – I found my bedcovers more appealing. I’d put that down to old age except my sibling and his childhood friend are years above me and they didn’t have to wrestle with the hosepipe as the sun came up.

That being said, keeping the fading flora alive in between all those groovy moves is hopefully worth the struggle as we had another house visit. This time a couple of very nice English ladies who were looking for two houses on a decent bit of land – 7 dogs between them you see (hmm, familiar). Naturally, they were completely charmed by the spectacular dwellings, the pooch paradise that is our acreage and my enthusing of the vast walking terrain that surrounds our little village deep in South-West France – I mean what woofer wouldn’t want somewhere to wake everyone up at the crack of dawn with a barrage of barking at anything passing the gate. I would like to point out that by 9 a.m the only place you’d see a flicker of movement is under the nearest fan which must be a blessing for the neighbours. Suffice to say, they liked the place so we will wait and see but they better hurry up as we have had an offer – way too low but the immobilière thinks its just an opening bid. And I’m not going to yes to the possible purchaser’s request to include my garden pots, the tractor roof or the tractor itself which, I’d like to add if they’d actually taken the whole tarpaulin off, is more of a shell of what it once was than a piece of working machinery. Heritage my nephew Louis says.

Ah yes, back to that wake-up call. My blood tests results came back with one simple (or perhaps not) answer – girl, you’ve hit the red stress zone. According to those in the know, ten years of not dealing with what I should have dealt with instead of shoving everything under the proverbial carpet has ended up with a body not thanking me for it. Hence the need for a quiet introspective August. Gavin (who has been in my brother’s life since I was barely out of nappies) called it trauma – that sounds a little too not me but then again he also added that I’d always been ‘highly-strung’, that’s more like it. But, in all seriousness and as my gal pal and confidante put it – Soph, it’s time you started to prioritise you. Well, easier said than done especially when you really don’t want to unearth a decade of deeply buried drama but with the help of the experts and more importantly those I trust, I’m going to try. There is a new chapter just up the road and to the right just waiting for my pen and I fully intend to write it. Soon…

“These mountains that you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb.” (Najwa Zebian)

Admin overload and positive outlooks

I finally got the chance to pop into St Hilaire this morning to see how the Witch Wackle wares were doing. I’d been promising Nicola and Severine (them who have a bio shop and are kind enough to give me a corner of) for weeks but somehow something always managed to crop up. To be honest I’d never been into the newly-built commercial hub of the village our family once called home so it was a nice surprise to find their fruit and veg emporium slap bang in the middle of the main square. Okay, perhaps commercial hub is a bit of an exaggeration; St Hilaire isn’t exactly an over-crowded populous but thanks to its famous Abbeye, it does get a fair bit of the tourist trade in the summer which is a plus for local vendors. And me. I still can’t really get my head around the fact that stuff I make actually sells and today I got my first commission – someone liked one of my bowls so much they’ve asked me to create a similar design on another. And I will, when I have the time – I’ve spent most of the last week cataloguing and photographing individual pieces so that I can finish the website. Creating is one thing but all that admin – ugh.

It’s not that I’ve had a particularly full diary and therefore been unable to spare the time for a visit – I’m just easily distracted. That being said, I did have to go to the prefecture for a ridiculously early Monday morning appointment – the renewal of my Carte de Sejour, otherwise known as a residence permit. Luckily, the interview went well, I hope, even if I did manage to upturn my entire file of papers all over the clerk’s desk, giggle loudly at my passport photos and almost break the photocopy machine (me and technology). I swear I saw the poor bloke heading for the espresso machine on my way out and it was only 9 am. But apart from that, another house visit and another crack of dawn date with the nurse for a blood test (thankfully Nathalie comes to the house as no-one in their right mind would be able to focus at such an hour let alone drive a car), it’s all been rather quiet chez moi. Almost. Mid-week did have my stress levels and my temper getting the better of me – dealing with accountants and lawyers over the telephone in any language tends to befuddle the brain especially when trying to follow instructions on negotiating your way through a maze of yes/no press button to go to next step websites. Suffice to say, I plan on ensuring the Witch Wackle one will not require a degree in software engineering. Thank the Gods for Denis who religiously sets me a large glass out on the coffee bar every evening and knows nothing about computers.

Yet, despite the aggravation of all that administrative angst and the daily cross-fit that comes with keeping this place looking perfect for potentials, something in the universe of Soph is shifting. I’m not going to say what as I’m of the superstitious sort but fingers are crossed. I wish I could say rain alas that would be a wish too far although we did have a few hours of precipitation perfection last Sunday night and the forecast, well let’s not get depressed. Let’s just put it this way and keep nice with the Gods (I’ve been very polite of late); it’s about time…

“Never underestimate the power you have to take your life in a new direction.” (Germany Kent)

Helicopters and hairy rides

It’s not often that I get a chance to have a ‘day off’ from keeping this place tip top and trying to find time for Witch Wackle business so an invitation to pop over to Andorra for a morning’s shopping wasn’t going to be turned down. Not just for the duty-free cigarettes and alcohol; bulk buying laundry detergent and other sundry items at knock-down prices are a must when popping over the border and let’s not forget (Denis’ words) that petrol is cheaper too. Yes, but you have to fill the tank to get there darling. Anyway, with Welsh Lisa being kind enough to look after the woofers, we took off at the crack of dawn in my car (the only one with air-conditioning) – Marina and her boyfriend Hugo joining us as, according to the latter, he knew a much quicker route. It wasn’t but that’s me being pernickety. Now, anyone who has ever driven from here up into the Pyrénées will wax lyrical about the vast beauty of the mountain range but not if you suffer from vertigo as I do. Luckily Denis opted to take the wheel otherwise we’d have ended up stuck at the bottom; put it this way, it is very long and very winding road perched precariously on the edge of what can only be described as an abyss below which I left my stomach. If that wasn’t enough, upon arriving in El Pas de la Casa that is to say the commercial centre (think Oxford Street in the 1980’s on steroids), Marina decided we should stop at the petrol station before letting our debit cards go wild. A petrol station that was another 2 kms up a cliff. Is it me or is driving further than necessary to get a few centimes off half a tank of fuel a little odd? Ah well, at least I won’t need to buy any washing powder for the next couple of years.

Still, having survived the throngs of tourists and hustlers and with Bluebottle’s (my car for those who don’t know) back end loaded with booze and bags of bargains, we descended back onto the more favourable flatness of the French side. And a tornado. Okay, we weren’t in its direct path – just shrieking along beside it whilst trying not to be bombarded by flying signposts and tree debris. Yet, my little Renault Clio took to the task like a military veteran as did Denis – I’m glad one of us found the experience adrenal -inducing. Thankfully, that evening was spent at the opening night of our pal Xavier’s new emporium in nearby Prexain in the company of familiar faces listening to an amazing band and downing lashings of the local grape. And for me, a little bit of networking. It’s funny how sometimes you meet people in the weirdest ways and become friends; Xavier was the one whose 90 kilo Mastiff escaped, tried to kill Arry and instead got beaten into submission by a 6.5 kilo Border terrier that is our Alice.

You’d think after all that excitement, one would finish the week with their feet up on a Friday night looking up at the stars with a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc but no. Earlier that afternoon and pootling back from Arry’s physio appointment, D and I took the exit onto Rouffiac’s top road and found ourselves instead being diverted onto the bottom one. A fire. Not a big one but enough for the presence of a fire engine and the village’s volunteer vigilantes – brooms and rakes in hand. Peeps, don’t throw lit fags out of car windows. Anyway and with that haze of smoke gotten under control quickly, D and I decided a quiet evening was in order as was one of Christophe’s pizzas. Then the phone started ringing and before long, the whirr of helicopters. Having raced the two minute walk over to the pizza locale in the camion; Denis’ idea of safety, to catch up with the hungry crowd and check in on family, we stood watching the sky. Another fire then another then another – 4 in total and no doubt set deliberately. Those helicopter pilots are simply incredible, zooming back and forth with expert precision and speed. Mercifully no-one was hurt and nothing damaged other than a few acres of terrain; mine not included and our swimming pool left untouched. I know that sounds a little selfish and by law the pompiers can use whatever water source is available but we had another house visit booked for the following morning. One in which I had to show the potentials around as the agent wasn’t available. I can’t say it’s a future career for me even if it does involve a lot of talking, my field of expertise but luckily for my siblings, I won’t be leading tomorrow’s maybes around – I’m off to the prefecture to refresh my resident’s permit. I mean, where else would a widow and her woofers want to live?…

“Never doubt the courage of the French. They were the ones who discovered that snails are edible.” (Doug Larson)

A buried past and a new friend

For reasons that will come to pass, I found myself up in the attic this morning leafing my way through a ridiculous number of long-buried in the past photos. I say ridiculous because at least half of the box’s contents were of views unrecognisable, out of focus and still lying in their various ‘pockets’ up there instead of the bin down here. A job for another day; nobody in their right lobe would want to spend more than two minutes in a chamber more suited to a sauna than a storage space. And on that subject, I would like to point out to the Beeb’s weatherman that we, that is to say those of us living south of Paris (France is a big country, Mister) are not going through a third summer heatwave – we haven’t come out of one since May. As happens around this time every year, the sound of Canadairs and helicopters overhead has become the new norm as wildfires rip through areas where the word rain is a distant memory aided by the treacherous tramontane winds.

Anyway, I digress. Again. Over a conversation last weekend at the Prexain festival, I somehow ended up offering my services to a friend of Denis’ daughter, Marina. Anais had been feeling a little self-conscious about her size (gorgeously curvy in my opinion) and Marina, knowing that I have a penchant for exercise suggested I might be able to help. Of course. After all, long before I dabbled in dog dilemmas, I was a successful personal trainer even if I say so myself. Hence the photo fish around – I didn’t always used to be a beanpole you see. Naturally, no-one especially D believed me so evidence of a previous me was needed. However, in my quest for the truth I also happened to stumble upon a bunch of modelling shots which D has now purloined; a threat of slow death issued if they get a public viewing. It was a very short career by the way as I couldn’t maintain a size zero and let’s face it, I don’t have a face for fashion. Here’s funny thing and I’m not talking about 1980’s suits, not only had that brief episode of my life been totally forgotten about, the years in the fitness game had been too. But, all that being said, it’ll be fun to step back in time to help a friend feel better about herself even if it means proving there once was a larger me once upon a time.

Thankfully none of the dated data made its way over to Le Petit Bistrot on Friday evening and neither did my boots. On purpose. As much as I enjoy a good hip-shaking, toeing the line is not my groove. It’s not that I can’t do a decent impression of a do see doh, I just like to add in a few whoops and yeehaws whilst doing so – it was all a bit too serious although that didn’t stop me and my new gal pal Miriam from adding our own vocal additions including a bit of Jolene even if it wasn’t on the playlist. I absolutely adore Miriam. Aside from her Irish wit and natural ebullience, she is a woman of incredible insight and never fails to catch me off-side. I’ve told her I’d marry her several times if it wasn’t for the fact she’s been with her wife for 27 years and she’s not a man. Alas, France is their second home so they will be going back to the Emerald Isle in the coming months, post-Brexit rules and all that but at least there was time to come over chez moi yesterday along with a few other ladies I’d invited for lunch in the courtyard. Just us girls chatting about everything and nothing for a couple of hours over scrumptious salads, all home made and not by me although I did make mint lemonade as most didn’t drink – very civilised indeed. Sadly, I didn’t remember to catch the day on camera although the same couldn’t be said for the sorry sepias D ‘accidentally on purpose’ left behind which led to a discussion about how much I resembled a young Meryl Streep in the film ‘Sophie’s Choice’. I think not and this Sophi would rather choose to bury that part of the past back in a box in a stiflingly humid attic and hope the rats are hungry. Some chapters of one’s biography are better left buried where they came from…

“Old photographs are very deceiving, they give us the illusion that we are alive in them, and it’s not true, the person we are looking at no longer exists” (José Saramago)

Stormy spirits and shaky chakras

Driving the easily walkable distance over to the pizza van to grab a few for a pre-festival apéro at Denis’ daughter’s house, a few metres further up the same road, the thought struck me as to how far removed my life is now from the one I had with Tony. I know it’s not the first time my mind has wandered off into such contemplations but something happened to me on Friday or should I say someone did something to me which wasn’t what I expected and has left me feeling a little off-balance. Hence the introspectiveness.

Actually, most of the past week has been, for want of a better phrase, eye-opening. For once, Monsieur le météo was bang on when he mentioned a storm coming last Sunday – D and I sat under the parasol watching the the skies light up and the blessed rain come down. It’s funny the way such things can affect your mood; I find such summer spectacles weirdly relaxing considering how scary they can look. I’m not sure Neo is of the same opinion, the poor thing gets stressed by any loud bangs although most of the other woofers remain blissfully unbothered. Alas the downpour only lasted a couple of hours and it doesn’t look like we will see another one anytime in the near future. In fact, D and his brother Thierry had to spend a couple of days chopping down trees killed by last year’s chaleur which would have made me weep but instead has resulted in even more space in the garden and I’ve never used elderberry wood before. And speaking of whittling while you work, some of my pendant, pots and whatnots are now in Severine and Nicola’s shop in St-Hilaire and better yet, have been spotted by my friend Jude, at the town’s Thursday night market. I’ve yet to discover how things are going on the selling front, nerves perhaps but I have said I’ll pop over in the next few days. I still find it hard to get my head around the idea that I actually dabble in design instead of dog brains. Makes the mind boggle.

And that’s why I ended up having my chakras stabilised on Friday – unintentionally. You see, I’ve been having a little problem with my right hand cramping up every now and again which I can only assume is down to repetitive strain injury so I got myself an appointment with Michel Bougis. Now Michel is what you might call an ‘alternative’ practitioner who knows a thing or two about how the body works so I strolled down the same bit of road that D insists needs to be taken in four-wheeled style so he could maybe do a bit of manipulation on my malfunctioning main. Er no. I wouldn’t say I’m a sceptic by any means, people have the right to believe in what they believe as long as it doesn’t involve abuse but honestly, I’ve never really thought about my interior energy points getting blocked. But don’t knock it til you’ve tried it is a motto worth living by. Having watched his pendulum hover over a drawing with seven circles around a body, alarmingly wavering all over the place when it came to the torso area (deals with emotional baggage he informed me), Michel sat me on a chair with my bare feet on what looked like a mouse pad (the computer sort). I was told to imagine a light coming from above me and a vacuum going into the ground below; oddly quite de-stressing except for the fleeting sensation of not being able to move my legs when I opened my eyes. Then I got to lie on a table whilst Michel explained to me where and why I had shaky chakras, thankfully only two out of seven before he proceeded to realign them. I’m not great at being in one position for very long but being unwound left me almost comatose even if the glow of my ‘third eye’ did make me wonder if I was about to leave this mortal world for a second or two. But, excuse the pun, I’m not making light of my session with Michel. He knew things about the workings innermost psyche that no-one, apart from my bestie Rene and my Callum, know and as I walked back down the very short road home, I felt weirdly weightless and empty-headed (no blonde jokes please). Normally, as those of you who know me know, my mind is like a ping-pong tournament on speed play and I can’t say having all that suddenly stop has made for a particularly comfortable state to be in but I do feel calmer and it’s noticeable I’ve been told. How long this mellow me will last, who knows but as a good friend said recently: “Soph, you drive an automatic, you wouldn’t know where first gear was”. Maybe but my car’s stick shift has Park written on it…

“For fast acting relief, try slowing down.” ( Lily Tomlin)

Summer bugs and idle dogs

A storm is on the horizon. Well, according to the radar anyway; then again that’s not exactly trustworthy as such promises tend to avoid us but boy, do we need one even if it’s only enough to drench leaves. Life is wilting here – as I pointed out to a friend in the old motherland who was complaining about the canicule over there, we still have 3 months to get through. Their summer will probably be done and dusted next week. It’s gotten so bad that the large fig tree next to the pool now has the persona of Queen Victoria collapsing into her crinoline under the weight of its odorous offerings which aren’t normally ripe until mid-July. Denis had to cut off the top branches just so the poor lady could get some respite. Fig confiture is very popular in these parts he tells me; he can do what he likes with them, I can’t stand the things.

All that being said and let’s not mention the battle of the hose, being stuck mostly indoors this past week has been rather pleasant. Okay, there was that flood in the house’s main bathroom, thankfully curtailed by the entire contents of the towel shelves but not before it came through the kitchen ceiling. Luckily no damage done and a strong worded Whatsapp to the family with my thoughts on having to remove other people’s hair from shower drains sent. Then there was the kamikaze flies to deal with – the floor around the downstairs glass doors of my atelier covered with them. Bizarre but apparently I’m not the only one with mouche madness. But other than dealing with unwelcome house crimes and a need to have a meeting with Abraham about my little investment we know as Le Jardin, having a practically empty diary has had its advantages. I’ve made a start on the Witch Wackle website, a very slow one but as much as I am not a fan, AI can be helpful for technophobes like me. I’m not entirely comfortable conversing with cyber bots who chat to you like you’re best buddies (creepy) but at least I’m getting somewhere. I would be getting a lot further except photographing each individual piece is really boring and ‘creating content’ is a language I’ve yet to master. Thankfully our Welsh Lisa is a pro at marketing and wants something to do whilst her busted up foot heals. In the meantime, I’m still at one with the paintbrush finishing off the last of the current pot pile so that D can pop them over to St-Hilaire ready for what we hope will be a decent influx of tourists now that the holidays are upon us. They should have been in situ already if it wasn’t for my inability to draw a frog. I should have considered a grasshopper instead; the one I rescued from under the cabinet yesterday would have been a perfect model. At least I think it was a grasshopper; poor thing looked like a dinosaur who’d just about survived extinction. I left it on the broom in a shady area of the garden near the wildlife rehydration trays which was probably not the best idea now that I come to think about it.

I’m not the only one who wouldn’t mind a downpour later – the woofers have barely moved. Apart from their expressive dawn chorus at the front gate as the neighbourhood drag their reluctant pooches round the block, there is barely a flicker of movement between them. Sherbs is still plopped in his now sizeable hole in the flower bed and Alice has snuck into the big house to cool off on the stone tiles. The rest lie outstretched under fans save for Arry who, being an idiot, prefers baking on the terrace sofas. Mind you, such laziness is occasionally interrupted by an upheaval of his aging bones for a quick dip in the pristine pool (note still no swearing on that subject). Not exactly refreshing considering the ‘set on soup’ temperature of the water, currently 30 degrees but let’s not grumble and get in before the heavens may open and drop a ton of bugs into the depths below. Can dinosaurs swim?…

“Do what we can, summer will have its flies.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Blissful bathing in barbecues

According to Monsieur le Météo, the insufferable scorch we are currently experiencing is nothing compared to what’s in store next week. Great. It’s not enough that I have to drag the infernal “I’ll kink when I want’ hosepipe across the barren landscape at dawn or that all my terrace flora shrivelled into nothingness despite the parasol shade overhead, you feel the need to crank up the celsius to cremate? Put it this way, I’ve replaced the balcony’s burnt offerings with cacti and put away any thoughts of sleeping past sunrise.

Thank the Gods for the pool (note that I have removed the normal curse that precedes her title). In fact, anyone’s pool. The usual and not to be sniffed at invitations to pop over for a drink or lunch now have the addition of ‘and bring a cozzie’; Jude and I spent passed yesterday afternoon mostly submerged in her liquid luxury save the hand holding the bottle. Non-alcoholic I promise. As for our over-sized body of sheer bliss, it’s being well-used by yours truly and Arry of course since me and the woofers are the only ones in residence at the moment which has its advantages in that the big house is easier to take care of and I’ve gotten used to taking care of the outside toute seule over the years. I did have the company of brother Simon and wife Alba on Monday so she and I got to share a dip and a chat in the depths. They pootled off the following morning in car full of food stuffs as I rarely use the big fridge and I didn’t want to throw away its contents unnecessarily. I did suggest adding the larder contents to their load too although I was a little surprised that the upstairs loo rolls were nowhere to be seen. I am not aware such items have a sell by date. We did have a second visit by a French family that same afternoon which looked promising but alas, the mahoosive mansion turned out to be just that – too mahoosive. Don’t I know it. Mind you, there might be better luck in the months ahead as we’ve decided to drop the price a little; having a 4 instead of a 5 in front may just sway the prospective punters.

At least the evenings are still relatively bearable so one can don the glad rags (as little as you can get away with and still be decent) and do the social circuit. Mostly chez moi although Friday night down at Le Petit Bistrot was banging as the young folks would say. Festival de la Musique is an annual summer thing round these parts with villages and towns hosting local combos of varying styles. Rouffiac’s started out with a sort of pub rock group who got everyone on the dance floor shaking their parts to well-known grooves before we were treated to a traditional folk fest which in turn had the older generation singing along in fine tune. Kinda. And since spending one soirée partying with one’s people wasn’t enough, Denis and I threw together a barbecue yesterday for our usual crew. Thankfully, a sit down affair in the coolness of the courtyard – my body can only boogie so much, a fact it often reminds me about so a good old-fashioned gas over a table heaving with deliciousness and wine and if necessary, bathroom toiletries refreshed made for a comfortable chillout amongst friends. Speaking of cooking and all things fire weather, that pristinely perfect pool has my name on it…

““If summer had one defining scent, it’d definitely be the smell of barbecue.” (Katie Lee)