I suppose it was inevitable but it was still hard to see the last house at L’Horte pulled down last week. What once stood proudly for centuries, over-looking the land that started out as the market garden for the Abbey in St-Hilaire, is now left with nothing more than its foundations. All that is left is there for the archeologists to poke around in, everything Pop had renovated – gone in a matter of days. Still, sad as it is, at least now that the digger and excavator crews have left, the place is peaceful once again and doing what it’s supposed to do. Be a market garden with Nicolas and Severine taking care of it all. Nicolas has promised me he’ll try and save Mumo’s peace rose that used to climb up the terrace, my brother Moth asked me if I could grab a few of the building’s cornerstones. I might be fit but I’m not a weightlifter thank you very much.
The old homestead at L’Horte hasn’t been the only receptacle to be drained of life these past few days. Despite Roy and I fixing the probable cause of the bloody pool’s leak, the algae has refused to budge. Running the pumps for several hours at a time and adding diluted chlorine hasn’t fazed the diabolical sludge so I’ve given up trying and the water plus its contents are now draining over the garden. I dread to think what’s living in those murky depths and it’ll be me getting in and cleaning the damn thing. Then Roy and I will fill the vast space with nicely spiced chlorine concentrated eau and put the cover back on until the summer. Another job ticked off the list.
Said list is getting shorter by the day. Denis and I have been toiling all hours of the day to get through it. The carport is cleared and brother Simon has got his car in it without hitting the sides, the tractor shed wall is now painted, I cleared all the weeds from the outside verge and the pool deck now has a fresh coat of preserve. Annoyingly, I only noticed the bit I missed after I’d cleaned the brushes but since the spot is on the margelle otherwise known as the under edge of the deck, I’m not going to say anything. And it wasn’t just the two of us making a difference, Paula, also known as the ‘Oven Queen’ came over for her yearly visit to sparkle up our stoves and catch up on news. Not only is Paula a genius but great fun to be around too and she doesn’t mind the woofers underfoot either.
Just as well as the apartment is getting more crowded by the minute. I’ve brought up one of my armchairs so I can finish the upholstering and I’ve got two saddles waiting to be returned to Le Jardin. I spied them lying dejected and dried out on one of the tables in what will soon be the refurbished bar and restaurant. With a lot of elbow grease and saddle soap, they are now ready to ride. Or as I have decided, become bar stools. I’ll be back down at Le Jardin in the coming week to help Abraham split and replant the seedlings I carefully poked into little pots of earth last month. He’s got enough to do and I weirdly like the work – it’s peaceful and doesn’t require stressing out the brain cells. Not that my life is that stressful except the evening tap tapping away at The Second Book. I’m so close to the end and my muse keeps going to sleep. It doesn’t help that this opus has a lot more factual information than the last one and trawling through pages of research isn’t my idea of fun. And with Spring arriving as the clocks have gone forward, I’d rather be outside talking to my tomatoes than banging my fingers on a keyboard. They are sprouting nicely in case you were worried, better than Denis’ – he’s managed to burn half of his because he put them too close to his barbecue. The same barbecue that will be the star of attention at tomorrow’s Maybon family get-together (D’s family that is) on the petanque ground down the road. The same one, if you remember last year’s, that the giant omelette is traditionally made for. The one laced with sugar and rum. Thankfully D had come to terms with my feelings about this curdled cultural congelation and I won’t have to eat it. The thing looks like a paler version of what I’m emptying the pool. I’m no fool…
“April prepares her green traffic light, and the world thinks: Go (Christopher Morley)
Widow plus woofs 