I am not an early morning person. I’m sure such enlightening information has been mentioned in previous blogs but my woofers can’t read and apparently one needs to get up at the crack of dawn to go mushroom hunting. For the woofers, when the sun rises, it’s time to charge down the front stairs and do what needs to be done – a task that requires only a vague wakefulness my end as I just have to unlock the door but trekking across woods foraging for fungi pre-coffee? Actually, when Denis picked me up, I had a take-away cup of my morning drug of choice and he provided the croissants so we could search for cèpes before the rest of the world stirred. It’s not that the little orangey-yellow delicacies disappear if you don’t get out of bed early, more that their locations are a closely-guarded secret. And I wouldn’t be able to tell you where we went even if I could, except that it was a forest and we got there by road – middle of nowhere’s ville. D, of course being the outdoorsman he is, is a mushroom expert so showed me how to tell whether or not you were likely to kill yourself over an omelette or live to savour the dish. The red ones I would have you know, are hallucinogenic and the big ones that lie at the bottom of the hill are almost always a no-no. Further up into the wooded darkness however, we found our treasure, like little elf caps poking above the mossy undergrowth and bags filled, snuck back out of our secret garden before anyone noticed an ancient camionette parked precariously on a hidden wayside.
With the fungi washed and put into the freezer, I then had the odious task of cutting up spring onions and doing the same. With only Mumo and I here most of the time, there was no way we were going to eat fifty plus bulbs on our own and I do want to be able to talk to my friends without them passing out when I speak. At least the next plantings will be haricot beans and those are much more sociable. Now there is just the glut of plums to deal with, little brother Moth suggested plum wine but I think Mumo’s idea of future crumble mixes is a better bet.
Speaking of search and retrieve, we got a call on Wednesday night from friends in nearby St-Hilaire – their elderly, deaf Border Collie had gone missing that morning. Mumo suggested I took Alice and Sherbs with me as Alice is an excellent rat catcher but neither of them was interested in doing anything other than race around the property perimeter as terriers do. I took them home and switched the panting pair for Arry, his nose is built for scenting and if he can find a rabbit, he can find a big dog. Or a swimming pool. Yes, my faithful hound decided to suddenly take off after what I thought was a possible lead and dive straight first into the worried owners’ pool. Thankfully, not only do they have a sense of humour and even took photos but Poppy Border Collie was found tired and dehydrated but okay in a neighbours garden the following morning.
With such an eventful week, a get-together at the end of it all was just what one needed. Friday as always, is the Bistrot night, although this time D and I were not in charge of the food so we could wind down with best friends over beer and banter. Oh and an orchestra. To be honest, the music was beautifully played but reminiscent of the last minutes of the Titanic – depressing and all rather tragic. Being told to keep quiet by the conductor didn’t help either, she obviously didn’t know the village at all and everyone would have shut their mouths if the music had been a bit more upbeat. As it was last night down at Abraham’s place. You can’t go wrong with a blues guitarist with a voice like molten molasses and a right good sing-a long. The only downside was that, just like the beginning of the week, I had to drag myself out of bed as the sun began to rise this morning. The battle of me and the garden hose has started once more…
“Adopt the pace of nature. Her secret is patience.” ( Ralph Waldo Emerson)
Widow plus woofs 