Close the book and step outside

We had a little celebration at Le Jardin last night – I finally finished the first draft of the Second Book! Obviously there’s a lot of tweaking to do before it is fit to be sent off to the possible publishers but I sent the last four chapters off to Sally editor last night with a note saying ‘take your time, I need a break’ only to write back this morning and ask her not to touch the last one as I decided to change the final paragraph. I was still scrawling ideas after midnight but I think I’ve got it so to speak. And then I can read a book, someone else’s – I can’t when I’m writing, it messes with my head.

It’s been that sort of week, virtually every day having a little ‘hip hip hooray’ . The pool appears to have stopped leaking although with the strong wind of late and occasional blasts of sunshine, there’s always going to be evaporation. I’m not filling it back up yet as no-one gets in until mid-June and it gives the remaining half of its contents a chance to warm up. Then, there’s our bumper crop of spinach in the potager – deliciously crisp greens and in a few days time, carrots. We won’t talk about my tomatoes versus Denis’, they are too pathetic to mention. Speaking of mellow fruitfulness and I don’t mean the burgeoning apricot, apple and plum trees, Sherman the Tank turned 3 years old on Thursday. The not so tiny bundle of puppy fur that Alice delivered in the palm of my hand has grown up into a gorgeously handsome, lovable and bloody big Border Terrier. He’s easily double the size of his mum although that’s never stopped her from giving him a good talking too when he and Arry get too rambunctious. The latter was back at the vets yesterday, the summer scratching has started but this visit came up with a possible cause for his itchies. It’s not enough to be allergic to over 450 different flora, fauna and foods; apparently he can add fungi as well. So we are starting a new treatment which apart from anything else, is much cheaper than the Cytopoint which doesn’t work. Saving a few pennies is enough to say ‘cheers’ to.

I don’t know where May went but hello summer and, if the météo is to be believed, the heat is returning. About flippin’ time. The winter wardrobe has been packed up and shoved under my bed and D and I have been slaving over the garden and courtyard for all to enjoy. We still have the petanque area to complete – up til now it has been too windy to get Graham’s donated marquee up and put gravel underneath it. But the courtyard is all neat and tidy, ready for those apéro evenings to come. TI’ve started undercoating the top bedroom walls in the main house, it’s taken me two weeks to get the several layers of wallpaper off them – whoever invented it was a sadist. I’ll be glad to finish the room, not just because of the endless up and down the hundred and one steps staircase – it’s horribly stuffy in there too. Still, if the fine weather promised is to come, I’d better get on with it – lazy days in the garden beckon.

So roll on summer and a chance to sit back with a book that isn’t mine and not a laptop in sight. Well, I’m sure it will get pulled out of its chamber – there’s always forgotten incidences suddenly scribbled on bits of paper in the middle of the night but with Le Bistrot about to open its doors for the season in a couple of weeks and the usual Saturday chill-out sessions with friends at Le Jardin (the bongo drum set last night had everyone swinging their toes and drumming tables), I’m ready to put the opus to bed for a while and slap on the sunscreen. Hello June…

“In early June the world of leaf and blade and flowers explodes, and every sunset is different.” (John Steinbeck)

Gypsy for the day

Seeing as how I can’t really remember what happened at the start of last week, I shall devote today’s blog to the latter part of it. Working title: Sophi goes to the beach. Yup, for the first time since I landed in this part of France, I got to spend a couple of days away from it. I can’t thank my wonderful friend, Giselle, enough for looking after the woofers for me – all of whom apparently behaved impeccably. A rarity for which I shall thank them too.

Having packed up my car, Denis and I headed South-East on a sunny Thursday afternoon – destination, D’s niece’s house deep in the Camargue some 3 hours or so away. I still can’t get my head around how big France is although the hitch-hikers at the petrol station en route who were trying to get a ride to Berlin must have been even less familiar with the country. A compass might be handy I feel. Mind you, even with my GPS, we took a number of wrong turns although vaguely in the right direction before we got to the little town of Istres. As scenery goes, the Camargue is incredibly flat, filled with rice paddies and marshlands and on the horizon, the oddly-pink coloured beaches lining the Mediterranean Sea.

Anyway, have spent a lively, if not extremely alcoholic, evening with D’s relatives, we headed off to what we’d come to see. Le Pèlerinage aux Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer or the annual get together of Gitans from all over the world to celebrate their patron saint – Sainte Marie de la Mer. The Gitan people descend from travellers or Romany gypsies so unsurprisingly the town of St. Marie de la Mer was heaving with camping cars and caravans and traditional ‘Vardos’ – vibrantly painted, horse-drawn wooden wagons. The streets were packed to the hilt with people dressed up to the nines and guitars strumming on corners and in the middle of the town, a huge market. I have to admit, I wasn’t feeling all that well, probably down to the night before’s wine consumption but the crowds didn’t help either. My brain seemed to have forgotten all those years spent in London as I found it difficult to breathe.

That being said, The main event was quite a spectacle. As the impressive cathedral’s bells rang out, a procession of beautiful, white Camargue horses came down the main street, their riders easily manoeuvring their charges through the throngs gathering to see their patron saint. After the first team of equine gentleness moved past, along came the lady herself, covered in what looked like silks and carried on a litter, six men holding the poles on either side as they were inundated with hands reaching up to touch their cargo. Denis told me that this was to make wishes for loved ones, I’m not of the religious persuasion but I did mentally throw a few her way – one might have been about the bloody pool which is by no means a loved one which is probably why it didn’t work. Followed by her congregation, Sainte Marie was then led down to the sea, the horses going in with her to make a circle as she is dipped into the waters (from whence she came I was told) before being transported back to the safe confines of the cathedral. The whole ceremony took about two hours, thankfully under a clear blue sky so it was just as well that D’s niece had booked a restaurant in the town square. And there, with the accompaniment of a Spanish guitar- playing quartet, the festival goers sang and danced the night away. All very rowdy and loud but not once was there any trouble despite an undeserved reputation placed on Gitans. I might not be one who wants a life on the road but being amongst those effervescent and happy souls did make me think we should all be a little bit more gypsy

After all the hustle and bustle of the day before, it felt good to come home to the quietness of Rouffiac. Naturally the woofers were thrilled to see me, hah! when I returned chez moi. Obviously Giselle must have treated them like Gods considering the lukewarm greetings I received. That is apart from Yogi Bear who snuggled into my arms. I should worry about leaving them less often. And I won’t be, leaving them that is, for a while now – June is just around the corner and there is much to do before the summer guests arrive. Like trying to find out how to keep water in the bloody pool…

“Walk like a Queen, Love like a Hippie, Speak like a Sailor, Travel like a Gypsy, Garden like a Witch and Work like a Warrior” (Unknown)

Soap and sentiments

I can’t say I make it a habit of eating macarons in the shower but in my defence, I had originally thought that the tasty morsel was a fancy soap. My girl, Giselle, having just returned from Paris, had bought me a little gift box of what I assumed were edible concoctions until Denis mentioned something about soap. Considering we were hosting a dinner party at the time, I only had one ear to the conversation between him and Giselle;

“It’s a present for you, not Denis” Giselle said kissing me as usual on both cheeks,

“It must be soap then” Denis pouted

So I took the classy cadeau into the bathroom and left it on the vanity – it did smell deliciously perfumed.

It was only when I went to shower the following morning and thought it odd that the ‘soap’ didn’t have much froth and the scrubby underside was crumbling, that it dawned on me. I’d almost cleansed myself with a French cookie.

I blame my boob on lack of sleep. Between the bloody pool (let’s not go any further) and late nights tap tapping away at the final chapters for The Second Book, my usual eight hours slumber has been more like six. I don’t do well on six. I don’t do well either when the weather can’t make up its mind and the thermometer is like watching a carnival ride – up in the 20’s one minute and down in the teens the next. Then add spectacular storms from dusk til dawn. On the plus side, my veggie patch is bursting with carrots, onions, spinach and beans – even my tomato plants have started to show signs of actually growing (Denis are doing far better but July is still far away mister). On the downside, the pelouse now resembles a jungle but with the amount of rain we’ve had, it’s too wet to cut. So it was back to work indoors, namely pulling several layers of wallpaper off the walls of the only bedroom yet to be renovated. I’m sure it’s good for one’s thigh muscles hoofing up and down all those flights of stairs but I doubt all the dust my efforts are uncovering is. I need a holiday.

And next weekend, I hope to do be doing just that. Having a little break with Denis, thanks to Giselle who for some reason, likes the woofers and so offered to stay with them so D and I can have a getaway. Aside from my yearly visits to L’Horte, which was a home from home really, I haven’t had a vacation for almost ten years. 8 woofers tends to be a hindrance to such idealism.

Hence the dinner party on Friday evening. I wanted Giselle to meet Mumo so that there wouldn’t be a stranger living next door so to speak and invited a few others too – Giselle’s husband Jamel, her son Hugo and his girlfriend Marina, who happens to be Denis’ daughter. Having D’s family around as well as my mum wasn’t just about introductions and woofer cuddles, there are certain times of year that are easier to bear when you have friends and family with you. And whilst I have been incredibly lucky to have found a ‘second life’ and a ‘second love of my life’ here, there isn’t a day that goes past when I don’t still talk to Tony. 6 years seems like a long time but then again, not at all. As we raised a toast to my beautiful T, Denis whispered to me how proud he thought T would be of me. I think he would be but I bet he is still laughing in the aisles over my mushy macaron mistake…

“What soap is to the body, laughter is to the soul “(Yiddish Proverb)

Night life and nifty wheels

Standing out on my terrace the other morning, averting my gaze from the bloody pool, the thought struck me as to how much my life has changed in such a relatively short time. It’s not something I make a habit of, looking backwards but where I am now compared to then does seem a little surreal from time to time. Perhaps my reminiscence was risen knowing I have only two and half chapters to finish for the first draft of The Second Book or perhaps because next weekend will mark 6 years since Tony passed away. And whilst I have been incredibly lucky to find a new love with Denis and a wonderful home in this little French village, never an evening goes by when I don’t have my nightly chat with him on same said terrace before bed.

Considering the monsoon that stayed with us for the most of last week, I’m amazed I was able to stand out there at all without needing a wetsuit. Thankfully the Gods were gracious enough to turn the tap off and let us have a dilapidated’ glorious weekend. Especially as Saturday was the big re-opening of Le Jardin. Abraham got us into the summer vibe in grand style with DJ’s spinning the decks with a romping reggae night. And what was once a somewhat charming but chaotic mess of a club now had a proper bar and seating area along with an updated stage for all those music makers. Having been a part of the great renovation, I was a little bit nervous about how the event would turn out but Abraham did himself proud. Even if I still have to give him a few lessons in getting the food out before midnight.

Speaking of food, Denis and I stumbled on a little treasure Friday night. We’d decided to go out to the local pizza place for dinner only it was closed due to the owner wanting to take a holiday so we ended up popping over to Pomas, another village ‘next door’ and found that their once tired table-top bar had been taken over and transformed into a restaurant. Fabulous food and a really enjoyable atmosphere. Between Le Jardin, the Diner, the pizza parlour and Abis tros denas (took me a while to get round that name), we’re becoming spoilt for choice down here tucked away in rural South-West France.

It’s just as well that Mumo finally bought another car, what with all the choice eateries. Yup, she is now back behind the wheel of a bright blue Renault Clio. The two of us zipped over in Giselle (my speed loving Toyota Rav 4) to the showroom in Limoux and after having signed three gazillion documents and given a tour of all the car’s internal bells and whistles, Mumo followed me home at a pace even the snails would see in their back-mirrors. I thought my accelerator foot was going to cramp up. Still, she’s done it and is back in the driving seat again after last year’s hillside hiccup in the Yaris. And I know, if like me, Mumo has her nightly natters with Pop in her patio garden, he’d say how proud he was of her. Of course, he’d probably remind her that there is a second gear…

“The direction you choose to face determines whether you’re standing at the end or the beginning of a road.” (Richelle E. Goodrich)

Indoor days and birthdays

So far, May has been a complete washout. I know I bang on about how much we need the stuff but a whole week of non-stop pluie? The driveway resembled a lake and my shower drain backed up because the excess had nowhere to go. Even the woofers retreated indoors, their pleading eyes asking me to turn the tap off up there and Sherman was not his usual happy self sloshing through muddy puddles on our morning run. Still, at least we’ve had a sunny, dry weekend as the forecast for next week isn’t encouraging unless you’re a plant.

On the plus side, Denis and I have spent most of our time fiddling about in the garage with the ancient motobécane that brother Simon had found in a dump a decade ago. The L’Horte Four (our kids) had had great fun bouncing over the old homestead’s terrain on her back but after becoming another victim of the 2018 flood, she was put to one side to be fixed but soon forgotten. That was until we decided that the old lady should be bought back to life again. So far, it’s been mostly about de-clogging 6 years of debris in her motor parts, a piston needs replacing and the paintwork needs, well, work but I’m having fun learning about motor machines. Abraham told me that there used to be a ‘moto’ club in Rouffiac years ago and we should start it up again. I don’t have a parka but Tony’s Barbour will do and I have a hankering for one of those old-fashioned helmets – you know the ones that look like you’ve stuck a mixing bowl on your head.

I wish I could say that being forced to stay indoors unless you have a penchant for scuba diving would have resulted in a finished Second Book but no. I’ve only got three chapters to go and I can’t seem to find the motivation to pen them. It’s not as though I don’t want to put the opus to bed, 3 plus years of tap tapping away on the two tales of life after Tony is quite enough but with the end in sight, my muse has gone into hibernation. But with my self-imposed, get it done before the summer, deadline, me and my laptop will be as one. I mean, its not like the sun is going to make a re-appearance anytime soon and the bloody pool is tucked up under the covers for the next month or so. We aren’t as yet, back on talking terms.

But though the weather is a bit doom and gloom, there are little moments to be celebrated. Like Bear birthdays. My slightly-tubbier round the middle, mostly deaf unless you open a biscuit tin, constant cuddle companion, Yogi Bear is 14 years old today. Like most of the pack and their occasionally obeyed mistress, he’s been through a lot over the last almost 6 years. Having lain faithfully by His Master’s bed in those last days, Yogi grieved over Tony’s death until we moved here to Rouffiac and the Bear found a new best buddy in Denis. Now in his senior years, Yogi likes nothing more than to be either snoozing the day away on his favourite cushion or lying under Denis’ feet whilst his beloved human tries to do some gardening. Unless there’s food. Food is always the best thing in life. So Happy Birthday to Yogi Bear, Norfolk Terrier Extraordinaire. May your life always be filled with cuddles and picnics…

“Life’s too short to skip a picnic” (Yogi Bear)

Where the wind doth blow

For those who might be thinking life down here is all sunshine and roses, there is one weather phenomenon that an immobilier’s blurb would leave out. Aude is one of the, if not the most, windy departments in France. And when it doth blow, it bloweth hard and makes everyone feel miserable – the sound of its haunting wail as it rages across the land is known to affect one’s sanity. At this time of year, the Tramontane that pushes its way through the gap between the Pyrénées and the Massif Central at speed of around 60 kms and hour and we got the full force of it last week. Luckily, none of the trees fell down although I have had to spend most of this morning clearing the aftermath of flora and fauna from the pool. I shall not mention the bloody pool again, we are not on friendly terms.

Since working outside was inadvisable unless you wanted a natural face-lift, the week was spent finishing off all the renovation bits and bobs I’ve scattered between the two houses and the garage. Of course, this hasn’t stopped me from adding more to the pile – Denis and I went off for a little forage down by the river to find any remnants left over from a large palm tree clearing operation. Bits of tree trunks are now about to enter a new life as corner tables in what will be a tented seating area next to the new petanque ground. Mercifully, we haven’t put the marque up yet as it would probably be in Spain by now. Working with wood always lifts the happy hormones even when you’re stupid enough to use the sander when there’s a helluva hooley swirling around.

Braving the elements over the past few days hasn’t been the only test of courage – Arry, Alice, Sherman and I faced our demon together on our regular Tuesday running route. There he was, the great big fluffball behind the fence once more allowing us safe passage although Arry couldn’t resist a couple of face-to face barks across the divide. As much as I knew the owner had taken care of the hole in the enclosure, it was still a ‘shall I shan’t I’ decision to run that way again. I really should try and be more like my half-brained German Shepherd, his mind empties two seconds after an event. That being said, the view from the top of our run makes any fleeting thoughts of staying under the bed covers worth the brief lip-biting hesitations.

With any luck, the end of April will take the blustery thermals with it and May will bring sunshine and occasional showers. Yes, rain. Not that I like getting soaked but the garden does and with the cost of refilling the pool uppermost in one’s mind, a bit of free water wouldn’t go amiss. My veggie patch is suffering and I hate dragging the hose around especially as Arry views any spray of water as an amusement park offering and one of us ends up wetter than the other. At least if the Gods are feeling benevolent, they’ll add a bit of summer warmth to the mix – such activity can be tolerated in shorts and a bikini. And they can take their tramontane and blow it somewhere else, we like being a happy little village down here…

“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.” (William Arthur Ward)

The strength within

It’s been an eventful week, to coin one of my son’s ‘scare Mum’ phrases, and not just because of the number of soirées attended. Once again I managed to injure myself running, only this time it wasn’t down to clumsiness – I got bitten by a dog saving one of my own.

So there I was, huffing and puffing along our usual Tuesday morning route preparing to take on the first of many inclines when suddenly the humungous hairy hound appeared and launched its 90 plus kilo body at Arry pinning him to the ground by the throat. So I pulled him off. Easy yes? Nope but us Mums have inner power when it comes to saving our precious ones. I wrapped my hand into the choke chain around the attacker and hauled him across to the opposite fence. It did cross my mind to hook the chain loop around said fence but I didn’t want to hurt the dog – weird I know but I didn’t. Thankfully, for once in his idiotic life, Arry obeyed me and backed off to a safe distance but Alice and Sherman, terriers they are, weren’t going to let the beast get away lightly. As Sherbs glued his fangs to one hind leg, Alice went into full tigress mode, snapping at every available limb and its sizeable neck. If I had had time to admire her ferocity at this dog’s brazen attack on her beau, I would have but in the process of swinging for one of the diminutive devils, the dog bit me in the leg. The whole episode was over in a matter of minutes – the exhausted assailant giving up and plonked his large behind on the road, long enough for me to grab the two tenacious terriers and make for the hills. Now, before you think I was being foolhardy and putting myself in danger, I wasn’t. I know this dog although he is normally behind an electrified fence protecting his owner’s flock of sheep and said owner has been in touch with profound apologies and offers to pay any vet bills (no woofers were hurt mercifully) and an invitation to go and meet his animals, including the fluff monster. Having spent more than 20 years as a behaviour consultant and trainer, I know enough that it wasn’t the target and frankly Arry does look a bit like Wile E Coyote. I do wish I’d stopping scarring my knees though, I’ll need a GPS to find them soon.

Anyway, I’ve been ‘tetanused’ and loaded with antibiotics, thankfully those that don’t require you to abstain from alcohol (I don’t think such medication exists in these parts) which was just as well as the rest of the week was all about dining and wining. Mumo, having celebrated her xx birthday on Monday, held a little party for close friends on Friday. Denis and I bought her one of those outdoor braziers as she doesn’t do cold very well – the little fire pit blasted out lava-like temperatures the whole evening keeping everyone warm and toasty if not a little smoke-scented. My sister-in-law Alba, made a fancy spread of finger foods and I kept the flow of wine going. And I managed to behave myself and keep the dancing under wraps.

Hip-shaking however, was mandatory last night – my man on the barbecue and his brother, Thierry, on the decks as I was treated to a night of traditional Catalan cuisine and music at his Mum’s house. She hasn’t been well of late so the brothers decided to cheer her up with their presence. D’s other brother, Bruno, is her main carer so having a bit of riotous company was for him too. Yet another thoroughly enjoyable evening even if my body said differently when I woke up this morning. I relish Sunday mornings when I can stay in bed and cuddle the woofers but alas, I had another engagement – an early one. My first French baptism held at the church here in Rouffiac, mercifully a two minute walk round the corner as neither Denis or I would have had the stomach to drive anywhere. To be honest, I’d only met the parents once and my tired self would have rather forgone the invitation but in a small village like ours, well you can imagine what the neighbours would say. It was the first time I’d been in the church too and after the previous two nights, I was grateful for the quiet sanctuary within its walls. The service was beautiful and blessedly short with the most genial baby who never cried once and no hymns were involved so no-one needed to hear me ruin a momentous family occasion. Luckily, D and I also managed to escape the after-party after a small glass to wet the baby’s head and return to our own abodes for a bit of down time after the week’s events – I haven’t mentioned that D fell off a wooden plank whilst trying to put shelving together and bruised ribs and shoulder. At least next week with any luck will be slightly less dramatic I hope but I have started to fill the bloody pool…

“Your responses to the events of life are more important than the events themselves” (Virginia Satir)

Witchy work

I feel I should title this blog “40 days and 40 nights” judging by the amount of rain we had for the first 4 days and 4 nights last week. And just as I was getting on top of all the water under the pool liner. Still, I would like to thank Sophy and Sean for their lovely gift on leaving our little part of France on Wednesday – blue skies and 30 degrees ensued. I’m back in my bikini once more and the woofers flopped out on the cool apartment tiles. The bloody pool is almost empty so with any luck and a few more days without pluie, Denis and I can finish the last bit of reparation around it’s drain and start refilling the vast abyss.

Having one hole to empty of water is one thing, finding a possible two or three in the front garden that may well hold the precious liquid is another altogether. We had a visit from the long-awaited water diviner this morning. Since finding out that quite a few of the neighbouring houses have ‘natural’ wells, I was pretty sure we must too since the underground source comes directly from the River Aude at the bottom of the village. Rashid (him who is partnered with D’s niece Stephanie) knew an old man in Preixan who is just that – a water diviner or sourcier. Along with his son, the Monsieur found not one but 5 locations in the garden, all pretty much where I thought they’d be. It’s fascinating to watch as the rods move about and then cross over each other when water is below and before you think it’s all hooplah, I had a go and got the same result. It is a really weird feeling when you get close to the ‘x’, a sort of mild buzz goes through your hands up up your arms. Well, for me anyway, Mumo didn’t feel a thing when she tried – must be the witch in me. Now all we have to do is get clearance from the Mayor and then a massive drill will make a great big hole 15 metres down. I’m leaving the buttering up to Denis, he and the afore-mentioned are great friends. Always helps.

What with all the spinach and carrots I’ve just planted out in the potager, I’m going to need a ‘free’ flow of eau. Yesterday evening I put all my little shoots in to their new home, not quite in a straight line as I had been instructed to do by you know who but I don’t suppose the veggies mind. In fact, the weird weather of late might give them a boost as it has for all the fruit trees – plums, apricots, the dreaded figs of course and grapes. Yes, for the first time since I put it in the ground three years ago, my grapevine is bursting with little bundles. Hardly enough to make a bottle of wine but hey, who knows? Domain Stewart may be the next chapter in my new life. Or maybe I’ll be the next great graffiti artist – I finally finished the tractor shed wall and hung up my beautiful wrought iron frames over my brush work. I was rather pleased with my efforts until Stephanie remarked that the paintings looked better with the frames than without.

Speaking of chapters, Sally editor has sent back the last lot and a note to say how good they were – high praise indeed as she usually covers most of my writings in red ink. A pat on the back is enough to drive me forward and finish the last four before the summer. Then, as opuses (or is opii?) go – I’ll leave both books to the hands of the experts and keep my fingers crossed. By that time, we might just have a well for me to make a wish…

“In time and with water everything changes.” ( Leonardo da Vinci)

Buckets and blow-outs

Last week started with a storm, followed by glorious sunny weather and ended with a power cut. And for most of that time, I’ve been ankle deep in water in what should be an empty swimming pool. I can’t even blame the rain because we’ve barely had a drop, nope this is down to water being under the liner rather than on top of it. I shall explain. Having sorted the most likely source of the leak i.e. in the pool staircase thanks to the ever-reliable Roy’s expertise, I pumped out the remaining third of green, slimy liquid out into the garden and set about cleaning the liner so we could refill the bloody thing. It was at this point I felt the ground move under my feet so to speak or rather, wave underneath me. The mystery of where the leak had put the water was now clear, under the liner. So I’ve had to loosen the drain cover to make a gap for the stuff to come out of, wait for the small area to fill up and then go in with a bucket – and I’m still schlepping the thing two days later. I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t have mountains of other work to do and that the weather has suddenly turned very cool and my toes are in permanent prune mode. I’m really really hoping I’ll finish this tedious travail by tomorrow so we can put the water back on the right side of the liner before putting the summer cover on and forgetting about the bloody thing until the end of next month.

Mind you, both Denis and I have had time between my buckets to cross a few more things off the diminishing ‘to-do’ list. He’s started on the pétanque ground – a sort of bowls game that’s very popular in these parts. And yes, D has made sure the sporting venue is placed well away from next-doors windows – he knows my technique well. It’s not an easy thing to create, the lack of decent rainfall has made the terrain rock-hard despite me emptying the algae-contents over Denis’ meticulously marked-out plot. As for me, I’m still finishing the tractor shed wall’s ‘art’ – you’ll see it when I’ve finished. Oh and I’ve completed Chapter Sixteen of the second opus which I’ll pop off to Sally editor tonight and then, if she doesn’t send everything back covered in red ink, I only have four more chapters to go. Well, for the first edit anyway.

As I mentioned at the beginning of today’s blog, we started and ended last week with what could have been party poopers. Easter Monday saw the annual Maybon (D’s family) gathering, the sun was out and the barbecue sizzled whilst the little ones played with snails on D’s front lawn. Poor molluscs couldn’t get away slow enough. That was until the skies above turned slate grey and the distant rumble of thunder brought everyone under cover. Thankfully, the impressive display of lightning and sheets of rain waited until the day was almost over – so French. One must get the meal over first. That being said, yesterday’s power cut almost put a stop to anyone having a bite to eat. I had just put the evening’s dinner in the oven, Saba and Roy were joining us and I had another little surprise for both them and Denis, when everything suddenly went pfft. That was at 2pm. Rouffiac didn’t see electricity again until 9 pm. But we are resourceful and were not about to let a tiny little thing like power stifle our soirée. Or my surprise from arriving. My wonderful friend Sophy (the one with a ‘y’ not an ‘i’) and her husband Sean joined us, having popped over to visit Carcassonne for a few days, bringing buckets of wine and cheese to fill the meagre table which wasn’t so meagre after the local pizza joint got its wattage working. The whole night spent in semi-darkness was such a riot that when the lights came back on, we turned them off. Life is never dull when you live in this little village tucked away somewhere in South-West France…

“Happiness is not the absence of problems, but the willingness to deal with them joyfully” (Jonathan Lockwood Huie)

What once was

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)