And just like that, 2022 has vanished into the history books. The Christmas tree is beginning to look a little wan without presents under it and Papa Noël is sagging on top of the wall. I’m itching to take down all the decorations – I don’t do the whole 12th night thing, once the festivities are over that’s it for the baubles. And with the last week of the year being filled with family and friends, I’m looking forward to getting back into a calmer routine and back to my computer.
I managed to get through the festive season without too much over-indulgence (alcohol probably being the exception) and kept my temper in check (almost). I blame the first set of brackets on friends and an apero evening that turned into an all-nighter and the second set on family – I love them dearly but three days of being pretty much ignored at the dining table does start to grate on one. But then you miss them when they’ve gone, the exception being my big brother Simon and his wife, Alba, who have finally made the move down here permanent by buying an apartment in Narbonne. They’ll be spending most weekends here chez nous, gladly welcomed by Mumo and I. Mind you, my sister Bong and her family nearly didn’t make it out and back to the US as their hire car decided to pack up the day before their departure. Being the season of ‘sorry everyone’s on holiday’, the rental firm had their only spare wheels in Toulouse, an hour away, and nobody available to drive them there. It was a good job I’d made sure the Josey Jeep had got a full tank of petrol before Christmas and being a person with an occasionally quick-thinking head, I lent them my precious car so that they could go and pick up the replacement vehicle. Why do things always break down on Sundays or holidays?
As much as I’ve taught myself to focus on the present and not on the past over these 4+ years (yes, I’ve been writing this blog since January 2019!), I did take a trip back up memory lane on Christmas Eve, or should I say, back to L’Horte. Although I don’t pop in to say hello to Pop’s tree and the three Shepherds laid to rest beside him as often as I used to, there are certain times of year when I just like to go and spend some quiet time with them all. L’Horte, like these years gone by, is fading with the houses are marked for demolition and the ivy taking over the roof of the main one but not all of our former homestead is suffering the same fate. As I turned down the driveway, for once I wasn’t greeted with silence and sadness – the terre is alive with new inhabitants. And very noisy ones too. Our tenants, Nicolas and Severine have brought in pygmy goats, donkeys, a couple of very large pigs and best of all, a whirl of woof in the shape of Pastis who greeted me with dog kisses and waggy tail. Pop may not have been that fond of goats but seeing Pastis run up and down the river bank, that he would have loved.
So off we go into another year brimming with excitement about what may lay ahead. My phone messages have already burnt up with news of ‘Surprise, we’re getting married!’ and ‘we’re having a baby in 2023’ – the first not associated with the second by the way because that would be very weird for the couple who announced the former. Here at Rouffiac, the next phase of building will begin in a couple of weeks and the calendar is filling up nicely with friends wanting to come and stay. Our new ‘neighbours’ (well 2 minute walk down the road), Saba and Roy will be moving into their newly-renovated house in the next month or so which, if it were possible in this buzzing little village, will breathe even more fun into the year ahead. I’ve got a whole bottle of Ricard to share having won the grand prize in the epicerie’s tombola so they better hurry up and move in. What with L’Horte looking like a petting zoo (I don’t trust those pigs though) and new amis about to add to Rouffiac, 2023 looks like a promising year. And better still, this girl gets to start the whole shebang with her Woofers and a new love in her life…
Happy New Year all!
“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice.” (T.S. Eliot)
Widow plus woofs 