Well, what a wacky week that was and for once I am not talking about the weather even if that can’t seem to make up its mind as to which hemisphere we live in. Monday we were in the Arctic and by Friday, Australia. I’m not going to complain – waking up to sunshine especially when you’ve still got a crooked neck is not only good for the aches but the mood as well. And I’ve got my Mac Book back. Not only has Florian managed to find it a new battery so I can actually work without the screen going black but he’s updated it as well. The only problem is that I can’t figure out how to make the font larger than an ant’s eye view so specs are mandatory. For that and for signing the papers for the sale of this house on the same day you send the payment for your little bit of Rouffiac d’Aude. Oh and the day before that, have a meeting over at L’Horte with the powers that be i.e. big brother, Nicola and Severine plus a chap from the agricultural board to agree on the division of the land. I don’t think I’ve ever spent as much time talking about legal stuff let alone in another language and, as I pointed out to bro, ever owned three properties at the same time. Still, one will hopefully be in someone else’s hands by the New Year – the one that actually has a house on it.
My reasons for wanting to keep a bit of the homestead are admittedly, mostly sentimental – L’Horte has always been a sort of sanctuary. The flood of 2018 and then the tornado a few months ago may have taken what was familiar but not its beauty. Yet, whilst I have no intention to doing anything to my ‘bits’ other than give it back to Nature and maybe build another jetty so we can swim in the river again, the land has already done me a service and saved me a large pile of euros. Wood and I don’t mean the jewellery kind. You see, once upon a time the terrain held several ginormous oak trees along the riverside which unfortunately got hammered by the storm. So I sent in Denis and his son Yoan to grab whatever they could before the authorities came in to clear the waters of the aftermath’s dangerous debris. Put it this way, I have enough firewood to last a few years and saved myself a tidy sum. Naturally, I persuaded my man to haul out some larger pieces of trunk for future design ideas but since my new abode’s only source of heat will be a poêle , I’ll be warm and toasty and in pocket for once.
Speaking of plot purchasing, I went to a funeral mid-week. No, I didn’t if that’s what you’re thinking but apparently such future decisions are commonplace down here. Madame Cous died at the age of 104 and after a life spent within this little village, was to be laid to rest in its cemetery. I’ll be honest, I don’t do these sorts of occasions well as you may recall from the Book but D said we should pay our respects and didn’t actually need to do the church bit. I’ve never walked through Rouffiac’s cemetery gates, the last time I was in a place something vaguely similar was to say goodbye to Tony but our local gave me quite a surprise. We arrived a little early for the enterrement so D took me on a little tour of the place; I recognised a lot of the names carved into stone but what got me was just how well-kept the ‘tombs’ were. Some were centuries old but others resplendent in polished marble and fresh flowers. It was during our sightseeing that I noticed that there some unmarked but definitely recently made; reserved D informed me. A short time later, as the cortege joined us for the somber walk to Madame Cous’ final resting place my arm was taken by another local legend that is Ninette (Miss Marple in French form) who then pointed to her right – ” that one’s mine”. I didn’t really know how to answer that nor what to say when we reached Madame Cous’ destination. Let’s just say, looking inside a burial chamber at a coffin laid next to another dustier one was perhaps, a little Halloween’ish’? I shall leave it there as I have a big birthday coming up and any reference to it being on that particular day is strictly prohibited. I’m still only 59…
“The best investment on earth is earth” (Louis Glickman)
