The wheel of life

It’s been a week of catching up with old friends and sadly, the loss of a little one too. Willy, my tiny Roborovski hamster passed away quietly on Wednesday night. I can’t say we had a very tactile relationship in the almost 3 years we spent together but he knew my voice and I had gotten used to the monotonous sound of his exercise wheel squeaking throughout the sleepy hours. Denis and I buried him in the new flowerbed under the apartment frontage – his little house marking his grave. I didn’t add the wheel, his spirit might wake the neighbours.

Speaking of neighbours or should I say, the neighbourhood, everyone’s been out in their gardens over the past few days to soak up the glorious early Spring warmth. Mowers humming and beer caps popping as shorts were pulled out of drawer depths – they’ll be returned to their winter lodgings tomorrow however as we are set for a wet and windy week ahead. Just in time for the Easter Weekend. I have to keep reminding myself that March winds and April showers are to be expected and we still really need the rain but I do prefer flip flops to work boots. The short burst of sunshine however has given my tomatoes a boost – they may be tortoises but slow and steady they rise. And I managed to make a start on painting the tractor house wall, luckily I’m taller than D so he’s only got the top of the wall to do – unless I sneak out the ladder whilst he’s not looking. We’ve shot through our to-do list mind you, ambient temperatures and blue sky abundance tend to get the work done – I just wish I’d decided to the pool leak last Thursday instead of the one coming. Ah well, wetsuit it is.

And with the nights more on the cool than chilly side, I hosted a dinner party out on the terrace on Friday evening. Denis cooked a traditional chicken and olive stew and I provided the vegetarian tatin de tomates. Sixteen were very well-fed and equally, well drunk and all had a thoroughly good evening. I only wish that I could have had everyone over last night instead as my good friend and once grooming mentor arrived yesterday for a stopover on her way to her holiday home near Málaga in Spain. It’s been wonderful to see Heidi again after almost 9 years and to meet her stunning Standard Poodle Tiffany and travel gal pal Lindy. Naturally they’ve had a guided tour of Rouffiac d’Aude, which takes all of 15 minutes and a drive around Carcassonne to see La Cité and St-Hilaire to see the Abbaye de St-Hilaire. We didn’t do any actually walking around as Tiffany is a little on the shy side but the views seem to impress her human counterparts. I do love having visitors and being able to show off this little corner of France (subtle hint to all those who keep promising to pop in, ahem).

As mentioned, Easter is almost upon us and then it’ll be April and hopefully, Spring. This year seems to be whizzing by or perhaps I’m just getting old. I still have another 5 chapters to finish which I’d like to get done before the summer so I can put the wretched thing in the hands of the experts to refine so to speak. It’s not that I don’t like writing it, it’s just that I have itchy feet and want to get on with other projects – ones that don’t require so many brain cells. On the subject of itchy feet, Callum’s is much better he tells me so he’s off being touristy for a couple of weeks around Taz before getting back into the work mode. Life’s all about getting the right balance and getting off the hamster wheel…

““Friendship’s the wine of life.” ( Edward Young)

Parenting skills

Being a parent is not an easy job but I do think some are more in tune with the basics of bringing up kids than others. Take Mr and Mrs Pratt, the pigeon couple for example, versus Bert and Skirt Magpie. Every year, these pairs come back to build their nests and raise their families – Bert and Skirt choosing the safety of the giant cedar tree and the Pratts, well they’ve decided this year to move from the terrace overhang to the gutter above. The woofers have already had one fledgling that had fallen out of the narrow nursery and then I heard another scrabbling around in the bottom of the drainpipe. There was no way I could take the tube apart which broke my heart but I blame the parents. How the population of pigeons keeps growing, is a baffling question considering their ideas on progeny production. At least my offspring is back in touch again having disappeared into the Tasmanian wilderness for a couple of weeks. I do try not to worry but hey, I’m a Mum and what doesn’t help is when he tells me half an hour into our conversation that he’s been in hospital. All that larking about in the forest ended up with an infected foot – infected no doubt because he didn’t have access to my motherly smothering. Serves him right as he can’t go climbing up any mountains or kayaking off waterfalls until the doc says so.

Mind you, I did have to swing into nurse mode last week after Neo managed to acquire a deep gash on his left side. I’ve no idea how he managed to make such a mess of himself but since vet visits and Neo do not mix well, a bit of home TLC seems to be doing the trick. He might look sweet but he’s got a mean bite where distrust is concerned. Plus, the late great Keith Butt taught me well when it comes to open wounds on dogs – stitching it up would not be the best practice, infections are better out than in.

I’m sure the change in the weather is helping Neo’s recovery, the sun has come out and the temperature is suitably pleasant for this time of year. Denis and I have been busy getting through the long list of garden projects, he’s even started clearing his own plot – working on everyone else’s greenery hasn’t given him any time for his own. I didn’t even know he had a gate at the back of the property such was the overgrowth. Our terrain however, is beginning to look very Spring-like – I’ve finished painting Denis’ old trailer that he wanted to throw away, Bella will now carry strawberries and marigolds instead of rusting away in some corner of a dump. And we’ve started on the stone wall that will hopefully transform the flowerbed below the front of the apartment. I say we but realistically, D’s doing most of the hard graft whilst I play with the flowers.

Of course, there is still much to do. There are the daily chores; cleaning up after the woofers, tending the ‘allotment’ and battling the ever-present algae that is slowly beginning to dissipate from what water remains in the pool depths. Hopefully, having bought some dye from the piscine shop in Carcassonne where D’s son works (we get a discount yay!), we’ve found where the leak is most likely to lie. I was right, next to the pool steps. Next week, I’ll have the joy of fixing that imperceptible irritation – I just hope the wetsuit still fits. And speaking of dinky dramas, there is hope in the air. My timid tomatoes have finally decided to reach for the sky! Okay, they’ve a long way to go if they are going to catch up with Denis’ mini monsters but I’m very proud of my brood. It’s tough being a parent but watching all you have carefully nurtured grow upwards is all you could ever want. Unless you’re a pigeon…

“When your mother asks, ‘Do you want a piece of advice?’ It is a mere formality. It doesn’t matter if you answer yes or no. You’re going to do it anyway.” (Erma Bombeck)

Fruits of our labour

Spring is in the air and everything garden-wise is blossoming forth – except my tomatoes. Denis’ however, have started to pop their little green stalks upwards which makes one of us bounce up and down with glee at the prospect of winning the competition. My spinach, my lettuce, my chillies and my herbs are all reaching for the sky but zip from my reluctant entries. I told D his were hares and mine tortoises, I’m just going to have to be patient.

Patience has never been my strong point but with the must-do list getting longer, I’ve got several jobs to finish in several different locations. There’s a side table in the garage that I’m revamping for Mumo, 4 doors that need stripping in the carport, two chairs to be reupholstered in the downstairs bedroom, two outside walls to be painted and a leak to be mended in the bloody pool. And let’s not start on all the planting. I blame my toing and froing on my recent obsession with Chateau DIY, it gives me far too many ideas. Watching one of the programmes ended up with me deciding to change the flowerbed in front of the apartment by building a low wall around it – I’ve never built a wall before but it’ll be educational I’m sure. Denis and I took Jacqui and Terry next-door to the garden centre in nearby Couffoulens so that they could buy some floral additions for their plot and I came back with half a dozen colourful purchases to put in the new brickwork. There’s plenty of foliage there already but one cannot go into horticultural heaven and not come out without at least one pot.

I know I say it a lot but we really do live in the most beautiful part of the world. Now that the hunting season has finished, Arry, Alice, Sherman and I can change our running routes once more and with the sun getting out of bed when we do, I can see where we’re going. And the views up there above Rouffiac never fail to take my breath away, not that I have much in the way of puff left by the time I’ve climbed the several kilometres of continuous uphills with no down dales. But it’s worth the leg ache when you get to the top and look out over the vines and woodland towards the Pyrénées. Still covered with snow, they rise above the dark green canopy like meringues dusted with pink and orange as the sunrise hits their peaks. Never less than spectacular to see. My tomatoes should take a tip or two from them.

Mind you, if the forecast is anything to go by, that snow won’t be there for long – there’s warmth weather predicted for the week ahead although I don’t trust the météo as it has a habit of changing its mind every 5 minutes and we’ll probably get hailed on. We’ve got away with a pretty mild winter so I’m not changing my wardrobe just yet. I did however help Mumo clear hers yesterday and we filled a couple of bin bags full of clothes for the next vide grenier or car boot sale. And because I’m all about recycling, I took a few items for me – ones that should not be worn for gardening for once, Mumo bought me a new pair of jeans the other day and made me promise to keep them unsoiled for nights out. All my other pairs are tattoed with oil spots and grass stains. It’d be nice if I got a bit of tomato juice on them too…

“In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt” (Margaret Attwood)

Head, shoulders, knees and toes

Spring is definitely not in the air. The March winds are blowing a hooley and the sun’s taken a rain check. On the plus side, the chasse season is over so I can change our running route – there’s only so much mud a girl’s trainers can take. Mind you, at least if you trip over, the ground beneath is softer than the road on which I took a tumble 50 metres from home last Thursday and scraped any remaining skin off my right knee and bruised my shoulder. I suppose I should be grateful for the cold weather in this case, my knocked-about knees can be safely hidden from view for now.

But not all catastrophes remain covered. Knowing the bloody pool has a very small leak somewhere, Denis and I decided to remove its winter cover yesterday so we could survey the damage. Amazingly, it still has water in it – only about a third full but it does seem to have stopped draining itself. Of course, we now have to find where the tiny tear is but I have an inkling it’s somewhere around the pool steps which means one of us is going to have to don a wetsuit and go hunting. And we all know who that’s going to be. I dread to think how icy that water is, even Arry took one look at the depths and shuddered. I’m hoping that now the wretched algae is exposed to the elements, it’ll shudder too and take its green goop elsewhere.

Despite the dipping degrees, the garden is looking rather lush at the moment especially now that the front lawn has been cut. I’ve also managed to get a start on painting the tractor shed and D’s ancient trailer – the latter will be filled with strawberries and marigolds once I finished prettying her up. The strawbs are safely tucked away in the warmth of the serre for the time being although, like my tomatoes, they don’t want to make an entrance into the world – not even a tiny glint of a stem to be seen. I know it’s a long way until July and winning the competition but I do think they ought to try and make an effort.

Speaking of making an effort, albeit ending in failure, D and I popped down to the Diner on Friday night. After the usual banter with the staff to whom Denis has been promising a tagine since 2018, we went into the restaurant area to eat. Wanting to try something different from the usual goat’s cheese burger I always order, I decided to go for what I thought was a bun-less, healthier version of the above. Only I forgot my glasses and mis-read the menu. A few minutes later, a monster mountain of meat was lain before me barely hidden by yes, a bun. All I can say is that the woofers were very grateful for my myopic mistake. At least it was edible unlike my first attempt at making a sauce for the enchiladas I was serving up to my guests last night. I’m not a great lover of chillies at the best of times but whoever wrote the recipe must have lost their tastebuds in the process, I only put half a teaspoon in my mouth before the heat blast nearly took my lips off. Thankfully, the bought tortillas had a packet of ready mix attached, the mild variety so no-one needed free plastic surgery. I’ve got that song on my mind, “head, shoulders, knees and toes”…

“March is nature’s way of reminding us that we’re not in control… especially when it comes to umbrella usage” (Unknown)

Tractors and tomatoes

What a drizzly cold day it is today. It actually feels like February even though we are almost at the end of the month – one that has, so far, been more balmy than brrr. Denis reckons we are in for a nasty start to Spring which I really hope isn’t the case as the garden is definitely thinking about all things bright and beautiful. My little serre is busy producing tiny spinach and salad shoots and I’ve relocated the infant carrots to the makeshift nursery beside it. Graham donated one of those plastic covered clothes rail thingies which Denis ingeniously lay flat with zipper side up and dumped a few inches of fertile earth into its middle. This has also given me space to hatch my competition entries. Yes, the tournament of the tomatoes has begun. D has his contestants at his house whilst mine are tucked away in the sweaty confines of the poly tunnel. Naturally, I did as was decided and carefully poked 3 or 4 minute seeds into each hole – 30 of each type as per the rules whilst Denis just scattered his lot willy-nilly into pots. I’m taking the scientific route, he isn’t. July is the deadline for showing off our prize toms and Saba will be the judge. My fellow cheval du feu.

Working outside in mostly dry conditions has been just the ticket for blowing the cobwebs from my sleep-deprived grey cells. I finally managed to get 4 chapters off to Sally having nailed myself to the laptop every night. I do wish my writing muse had a bit of respect for my necessary 8 hours deep snoozing, she seems to have an aversion for working during the daylight ones. Still I’m over half-way, less the re-writes which my editor has a fondness for so I’m shooting for that distant last line one one exhausting evening at a time.

The past week wasn’t just about punishing my mentals, D and I finally managed to move Callum’s beloved Massey-Ferguson out of the car port and into its new home in the tractor shed. Its only taken 3 years to get it the 100 metres or so from the front to the back of the garden; one because we had to build the shed, two as we had to remove the giant fig root from its lodgings under the building’s roof and three, the little red tractor doesn’t go vroom. It hasn’t gone vroom since the day Callum pulled it out of the river after the L’Horte flood of 2018. The battered old girl needs a lot of fixing up as well as a couple of new back tyres. Anyway, we cabled her up to the back of the blue ride-on mower and with me driving and Denis guiding, heaved her surprising weightiness the short distance betwixt the two abodes. D was very impressed with my skills at getting both machines out of the mud half way down the back, I may have once been a city girl but those heady holidays spent at the former family homestead that was L’Horte gave me an education in manoeuvring motorised vehicles across mulchy meadows.

At least that was one thing ticked off the very long list of ‘must do’ chores, actually I managed to highlight another couple too. I made it through the annual vaccinations of Neo, Mo Cridhe and Coco Loco unscathed thanks to D’s help and very gentle young vet recently added to the clinic’s practice. She wasn’t the slightest put off by Mo’s eyeballing and Neo was a complete lamb, he didn’t even mind her cutting his back dew claws – something I hate doing as its like playing Russian Roulette with his ‘will I won’t I bite’ looks. And speaking of bites, I had a visit to the dentist so she could check on my new teeth. One in which she told me I wasn’t cleaning my extortionately expensive purchases properly and I needed to buy one of those dental water spray thingies. Which I dutifully did and managed to douse more of the bathroom walls than those inside my mouth. They’re quite powerful little machines you know? Mind you, if Denis thinks showing his bottom to his tomatoes will make them turn red, my soon-to- be even more dazzling dentures will give my lot sunburn…

“A tomato may be a fruit, but it is a singular fruit. A savory fruit. A fruit that has ambitions far beyond the ambitions of other fruits” (E. Lockhart)

Pen the past and plant the future

I’ve pulled a fair few late-nighters over the past week and not because I’ve been frolicking into the wee hours. Nope, I glued myself to the laptop and worked my fingers to the bone tap tapping away at The Second Book. Deciding to focus for once on getting the opus finished before the summer is a great idea in principle but this means penning 3 chapters a month and that’s flipping hard work. Bringing up the past takes a toll on one’s emotions even if this time around, it’s about a new life in a country that I adore. I seem to have forgotten how difficult those early years here were, starting again without Tony by my side. But determination is my middle name and frankly, there are so many other projects to get done – ones I’ll actually enjoy doing.

Like pottering around my little serre for example or getting the huge party-dome down at Le Jardin redone so it’ll be ready for its grand opening in April. Abraham and I actually took some time out from our plots and went over to L’Horte to have a gander at what Nicolas and Severine have been up to. For those who aren’t regular blog readers, the two look after the land with their market garden enterprise as well as raise mini-goats and chickens. Anyway, I wanted to introduce Abraham as they are all in pretty much the same business which I did. I left Nicolas and Abraham to chat about all things green and good for you whilst I took my usual path down to the river to say hello to Pop and then poke around what remains of the surviving house. As you know, L’Horte has always been and always will be, one of the few places where I feel totally relaxed even if, like me what she once was and what she is now are strangers to each other. As I looked across the terrain and up towards the hills behind the property, a thought passed through my zoned-out brain. 4 years ago I was living in London, a city that wears stress like a second skin and now my home is surrounded by vines and beautiful views of the countryside. And even though I don’t have Tony to enjoy it with me, I’m lucky to have found Denis – my man who knows his onions when it comes to anything about his little piece of France.

And no he didn’t hand me over a bunch on Valentine’s day. Instead he bought me some heart-shaped goat’s cheese and a single rose – I’m easy to please when it comes to cheese. And he knows me well enough not to flatter me with a dozen red flowers, I prefer my flora to be in the ground not in a vase. Cut blossoms always remind me of chez Knollys being full of them after Tony died. And they die too, far too quickly. As romantic get-aways go, hiking though the forest looking for mushrooms that afternoon might not be too everyone’s taste but foraging for fungi is me to a tee. Except that we didn’t find any, not even the bad ones. The ground was dry and the moss practically non-existent – Denis blamed the local gangs for ripping the place apart but my money’s on the weather. Not nearly enough rain despite a couple of non-stop drip days during the last week and the thermometer is still doing see-saws – that afternoon it was over 20 degrees and blazing sunshine.

Despite the météo still making its mind up as to which month we are currently in, Denis and I made the brave decision to remove the winter wrap from my Mimosa tree. She’s flowering you see and needs to spread her limbs. She’s not the only one, most of the rest of the garden is too – far too early for most but D reckons they’re strong enough to survive a frost or three. I have kept Mimosa’s roots covered though as she isn’t old enough to brave a blizzard. Or anything else the tempestuous temperatures want throw at us before the summer and until that season arrives, I shall keep bouncing the balls of my fingers across the keyboard and try to remember where I am right now…

” It is not easy to walk alone in the country without musing upon something” (Charles Dickens)

Weathering the elements

Having finally finished my ‘a la Jimi Hendrix’ chair, save a couple of minor touch ups, I’ve started the next restoration project. Thankfully, the piece is in fairly good condition although the fabric has seen better days and I don’t like the colour. Initially, I had dark blue in mind but Denis suggested I remove all the varnish as it made the chair look younger than it is so I did. And the pale wood underneath is gorgeous although a lighter shade of blue would look better – this one has boudoir written all over it. Hopefully, someone will fall in love with her as I can’t keep hoarding my work – the apartment already resembles a second-hand furniture store with added woofers lounging on whatever horizontal surface is available.

Speaking of woofers, I was back at the vet last week with Arry and a reluctant Simi (she prefers the lounging bit to sharing a car with an excitable German Shepherd) for their yearly health checks and vaccinations. The new vet at the practise was suitably impressed with my old lady’s self although Arry’s constant whining begged the question; “is he in pain?”. I reassured the concerned clinician that such chattering was perfectly normal behaviour for my insane companion. At least I’d chosen an appointment at the quietest time of day as I really didn’t want Arry to go full volume as is his norm on seeing another dog waiting in reception. In and out with the bare minimum of Arry’s antics is always a plus, a rarity but a plus nevertheless.

Apart from ringing the vet’s ears, the past week has been a pretty quiet one on the calendar. The only other must-do was a visit to the sage-femme for a smear test. Sage-femmes are midwives but here they also do most of the personal lady stuff too. I have to say, the whole thing was done within 5 minutes but filling out all the paperwork took another 20 – why one needs to complete several thousand forms with your address, birth date etc I have no idea, especially when the lady in front of you is plugging the same information into her computer. It’s definitely one of those unexplained French customs. Oh and the French translation for a smear test is a frottis which for some reason makes me want to giggle like a naughty school kid.

It’s just as well that the diary remained relatively clear as the weather man threw all sorts at us. Blue skies and flip flops one day and then lashings of the wet stuff and whistling winds the next. It’s still far too dry out there though, running through the vines the other morning I could have been forgiven for thinking I’d slept through two seasons and summer had appeared. As much as the warmth is good for the spirit, droughts are not and we’re going to have to refill the bloody pool as soon as we find the hidden leak. Mumo hasn’t even needed to light the fire in the main sitting room which says something although it was blazing on Friday night for a little get-together with the neighbours and our Graham. We didn’t really need the extra warmth – old friends and comfy chairs will do that. I did however give Graham a photo I had taken of the village from the hills above us, a sunrise one just in case he forgets what that is when he goes back to Scotland…

“It isn’t so much what’s on the table that matters, as what’s on the chairs” (W.S. Gilbert)

Planting and planning

Frankly, I’ve felt better. I don’t know if it’s because last week was so busy or the fact that I have rather overdone the social swirling but I am bunged up. I’m hoping a decent night’s sleep will lay the lurgy to rest as I really don’t have time for snotty noses. The ‘to do’ list is getting longer by the day and I’ve yet to put one tick on it. And it’s already February.

Ah yes, February. The last month of winter. Except that we are bathing in warm sunshine still and the barbecues are out. The almond trees have started unveiling their pale pink blossom and the lawn is getting so thick, I can’t find the dog poo until I step on it. I’d cut it except that we haven’t had a proper frost yet or a decent downpour of late so the lush greenery underfoot needs to protect the terre. I went over to Le Jardin (Abraham’s place) mid-week to help him with the veggie planting. One seed at a time. Trays and trays of little cubes of soil into which I had to carefully put a single grain. Weirdly, I enjoyed prodding my finger along each row of squares so each aubergine-to-be could grow up big and strong although the job required total concentration – blink and you’ve forgotten where you popped the previous one. And I did it all almost single-handedly save the last line or so as Denis stopped by at the end of the day and offered to help so we could join the boss for a beer. Not much of a help really as he got a bit random with the numbers – Abraham did say one seed in each so I made Denis take out all his extra additions. I wasn’t going to have my contribution to bio-agriculture messed up.

Getting lost in legumes was a welcome break from whizzing around town so Mumo and I could get to our various appointments which for some reason all seemed to be in the same week. The one that had half of Carcassonne backed up because giant tractors were parked up all on one of the main roundabouts along with twice as many police cars. Luckily, I’d got the traffic update from our épicerie so I could plan accordingly and avoid getting stuck in the barricades. Mumo got to go and sit in a dentist’s chair and I in the hairdresser’s. You don’t need to switch on the news when you live in Rouffiac – the most up-to-date information can be found over a croissant counter.

Speaking of village press updates, our resident Scot is getting ready to leave our shores. You’d be right in thinking I’ve written this in a previous blog with his failed escape back in 2022 but sadly I think he’s going to make it out this time. But not without a few farewell parties, one of which Mumo and I attended yesterday lunchtime in nearby Cépie held by his local walking group. Other than family do’s, I don’t think I’ve sat down at a table without a French person at it let alone not know most of the guests. Thankfully, the wine flowed freely as did the conversation. It was nice to be introduced to a different crowd and hear their stories about life in France although I had somehow managed to get seated between Graham and my neighbour Terry both of whom I talk to virtually every day. Mumo and I will host a soirée on Friday for Graham along with the usual crowd, just in case he forgets us. And this little village…

“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant” (Robert Louis Stevenson)

Perspirating in poly tunnels

So here goes another break in the norm. I am writing this over coffee this morning instead of my usual after lunch ‘a la pizza’ musings. Firstly, I am going over to Denis’ Mum’s place for midday munchings in an hour or so and secondly, we ate the pizza last night. Another brave move from the routine. As we’d spent Friday night with friends down the rue emptying the contents of their fridge and wine rack, D and I decided to stay in and eat with Mumo - and inhale her delicious Italian offering. She makes the best.

It’s hard to believe it’s the end of January already, where the hell did the month go? Mind you, the current temperatures are more reminiscent of May – we are still in double digits and the thermometer hit 21 on Thursday. Of course, that would be the day I spent clearing out the largest of Abraham’s poly tunnels so that he could begin the new season’s planting. I still haven’t managed to remove all the minute hay needles from my jeans -even tweezers and a magnifying glass can’t eject the pesky pins. And boy, it’s hot in those tunnels. Sitting down over a beer later, I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the windows. Let’s just say, a scarecrow would have been terrified at the reflection. And Abraham’s wasn’t the only ‘sauna’ being taken care of. Denis managed to get my little one up and installed at the back of the garden; in his words, Ikea instructions were easier to follow but he did it. I moved all my little seedlings in and bought a few others so they wouldn’t be lonely in their sweaty surroundings. At least if Mother Nature decided to throw us a curveball and send snow our way, I know where to keep warm.

On the plus side, ambient degrees make for gorgeous morning runs over the hills. And with the mornings becoming lighter earlier, I can start the pace under the moonlight and ascend into the sunrise – quite spectacular. Work has started back up on the vines too so the sound of Arry and co’s collar bells is now inter-mingled with the hum of tractors – strangely comforting in a way as we head out of winter.

And with that, I must depart for what will be, no doubt, a stomach stretching afternoon if I know D’s family. Oh, and the podcast is now up and running on Spotify every Sunday evening. I think I’m getting to grips with it now and my Ipad is still intact. I have no idea what tonight’s will be like but I shall keep the wine to a minimum. At least I have a voice now, last weekend I was reduced to rasping Dot Cotton style…

“Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.” (Paul Theroux)

Ripping up the rule book

Talking to my bestie, Rene, last week, our conversation meandering between who was doing what and plans for the year ahead when the subject of routine came up. Or changing routines to be more exact. Both being widows, we know what it’s like in those early days – having a steady hold on your daily life becomes habitual, a coping mechanism if you like. But it also becomes an unhealthy rut. It wasn’t until our phone call was finished that I realised that whilst Rene was already making changes to hers, varying the time of day she does her yoga sessions or walks her bundle of energy that is Pepper, I’m still sticking to more or less the same routine. Not the one I had in place when Tony first passed away, my life is somewhat different now but how I start my day definitely has an order to it. I may not make plans for the future other than what needs to be done in the garden or making deadlines for the Second Book but my ‘get up, let dogs out, change Mo and Coco’s nappies, workout, shower, smoothie then coffee’ is pretty much the same. And if something comes up that means changing the above, my mind gets befuddled. I’m not even sure I can blame my obsessive tendencies towards this little bit of regularity in my world on Tony, I think a lot of it comes from those London working days – my pea-size brain can’t forget the stress of Tuesdays and Thursdays as they were always my busiest ones. I still seem to rush around on those ones for no apparent reason whatsoever. But Rene is right, a change is good for the mental me so I’m making tiny steps – yesterday I made coffee before my shower.

And it didn’t stop there. The other evening and with book head stalled, I was watching a programme about celebs homes and thoughts of changing my living area around began exciting the synapses – there’s an inner interior designer in me although what it thinks it can do and what it actually does are two different things. I have to admit I’m very happy with the result although the woofers less so, it took Simi several days to find the water bowl I’d moved an inch away from its original spot although a sofa is a dog sofa no matter where it lands up. I found my old painting table in the garage so now I have a place to put all my pins and fabrics for upholstering which is just as well as I discovered on moving my renovated theatre sièges that I hadn’t finished the backs of them and my almost-finished purple velvet armchair looks perfect in place so I’m not going to sell it. I also moved the telescope out onto the terrace now that my nephew, Louis figured out the lens configuration although the nights are too flipping cold to stand out there peering at the stars above. Rene’s right, making little changes keeps the mind moving and now the writing muse is back in force and chapters flying off the keyboard.

Rustling up one’s routine however, might be the right thing for us mere mortals but not so much for Mother Nature. The weather is frankly bonkers at the moment and our poor terrain doesn’t know which season it’s in anymore. We’ve gone from sub-zero temperature to the high teens and back down again in one week. Hard as it is not to want to relish the warm sunshine on your face mid-winter but we need the frosty mornings. Or rather the trees do. Our apple and pear ones are starting their Spring buds when they really should be hibernating – Denis says we will have to cover the lot if we get a freeze now. Mind you on the plus side, we have had time to prepare the ground behind the pool house for my serre which arrived a couple of days ago and once we battle with the inevitably impossible to understand instructions, it’ll be up and ready for little seedlings. Abraham also finally arrived with his tractor to heave out the giant fig tree root in the tractor shed, which popped out with ease thanks to Denis’ constant watering around it and probably Sherman’s digging because he’s a dog, help. Next week, I’ll be over at Le Jardin (Abraham’s place) to learn all about market gardening as for him, the planting starts now – albeit on a much grander scale than my little 4×2 metre plot.

And planting, I have learnt, needs planning and organisation – right up my neural pathway. With the old compost construction (the one I built out of the interior remnants of the old chicken house) dismantled and its contents spread over the potager out of reach of woofers’ tummies, a new one and a water reservoir are on the list although the latter might be scratched if the weather stays dry for another week. It’s not as odd as it sounds. Rashid knows a diviner in Preixan who has promised to come by as long as it doesn’t rain – searching for a possible water source I’m told gets a bit confusing if its pouring down. Such rod-waving experts are hard to find but much in demand as their success rate is well-known and as quite a few of our neighbours have managed to bore down for the River Aude’s precious hydration, there is a high chance we have something running under our bit of Rouffiac. Naturally we will have to inform the Mayor if and when we find the precious liquid but since I’m drawing the village map for the panneau by our corner wall, I should be in his good books. And if the dear diviner does find the source, I might ask him to wander round the bloody pool as well – plugging leaky liners is one routine I could do without…

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