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)

Busying away the blah

I started the weekend in a somewhat filthy mood. It would have been easy to surmise that the blame for my dour demeanour should be placed solely on Callum’s departure on Thursday but he wasn’t the only guilty one. All my friends seem to be down with either a cold, the flu or a mixture of both since the New Year started so life has suddenly gone a bit blah. It doesn’t help that the main house is now empty of its family save Mumo now that all have returned to their own nests and everything seems strangely silent right now. It’s as though the party has been boxed up and put away until the warmer seasons creep in – all a bit depressing really. Mind you, a few months of semi-solitude will be good for me – there’s a book that won’t write itself and several pieces of furniture needing my attention let alone the garden. Denis and I are excitedly awaiting my Christmas present from Mumo, a serre (a sort of mix between a greenhouse and a poly tunnel) so we can start growing little seedlings before letting them out into the big wide potager.

Yes, my own not-so-little seedling has flown back across the vast seas to South Oz. I’m already missing him like crazy and I’m not the only one. The bedside lamp socket in Mumo’s bedroom decided to go on the blink as soon as the only electrically-capable family member left the country and neither Mumo or I can figure out how to get the filter out of her fridge to replace it. The night before he left, Cal and sat up in the apartment talking about our lives and Tony. I know I say it a thousand times a second but I am so proud of our boy. Considering how much he has gone through, he has turned into a confident, knowledgeable and sensitive young man. Driving to the airport on Thursday afternoon, I noticed him fiddling with my phone – it wasn’t until I got back to the car after dropping him off at the departure gate that I realised he’d synced his music playlist with mine. He has excellent taste in tunes. And as much as it tore at my heart waving good-bye to my gorgeous grown up son, there was also the worry about how he’d cope with the flight this time i.e. would he spend the entire time throwing up again or would my theory prove correct and the drugs would do their thing. It seems my research paid off and he landed with stomach intact – it wasn’t air sickness he was suffering from, it was altitude sickness. I’ll speak to him during the week when the jet lag dissipates.

With the weather reminding us what winter is all about last week, save the snow that was promised but never arrived, I kept myself busy hammering little gold nails into one of my current renovations, lop-sidedly I might add, whilst Denis planted a whole slew of giant cacti on the verge outside. One of the village residents had one too many growing in his garden so Denis went over and did a bit of uprooting and self-harm. With arms looking like he’d been hooked on heroin, scratched and pot-holed – my brave man repositioned the horned demons into their new habitat which I hope will stop the dog from round the corner attacking my lot through the front fence. I’m actually rather fond of such spiky sculptures and our new frontage has gotten many a thumbs-up from the locals. Apart from said dog that is.

Oh and by the way, I did eventually succeed in making a podcast on Spotify. A day late. I had set everything up and lines ready, hit record, did my spiel and pressed the publish button. Except said button refused to comply and my Ipad almost ended up in next-door’s garden. Temper flaring, I took the bloody thing over to Cal who promptly fiddled with it for two seconds and bingo, my podcast flew off into the ether that is media. I’ll have another go this evening as Callum is 9 hours ahead and I don’t want to wake him up when I can’t press the button again. Did I tell you what an amazingly gifted child I have?…

“Behind every great kid is a mom who’s pretty sure she’s screwing it up.” (Anon)

An album in mind

For some reason yesterday, as I was stretching purple velour over the base of a chair whilst trying not to get stabbed by a disagreeable pin frantic for freedom, I’d set the living room speakers to play 1990’s Britpop at volume. As I sang along to Oasis, Blur and the rest, snapshots of times spent partying with friends in London and dancing round the kitchen with Tony screened through my mind- it’s funny how music does that. I didn’t upset me or make me hanker for the old days, I rarely reminisce about such things unless I’m writing The Second Book and that, just like the first opus, is like writing about someone else. Perhaps getting the little chest that I kept a few souvenirs of his father’s in down from the attic for Callum to go through had triggered my music choice, who knows but I still know all the words to Wonderwall.

Maybe jumping into a new year had something to do with my brief slip into days gone by although it wasn’t so much as a leap as a crawl. There’s been a bug going round town and most of the remaining family were starting to suffer with it by New Years Eve. With the main house filled with the sound of noses being parped and throats hacking, Denis and I left the sad party to see in 2024 upstairs. I barely made to the Bonne Année bit before dropping off, the exhaustion of the last couple of weeks catching up with me. And with my niece Katie and her brother Louis flying off last Thursday, the L’Horte Four (if you haven’t read the book, I’m not elaborating) are down to 2. Two that will be leaving us next week, one for Chad and the other for Australia. I’m trying not to think about that one. It wasn’t so long ago that each of them would have been going back to school, now they all have jobs requiring their return. Katie’s gone back to her lab, Louis to his square pianos and will be followed by Max off for his wildlife and Callum to his growing number of trades in the building industry. Denis outshone himself with a deliciously decadent tagine last night especially for Max and Callum which I’m sure won’t be forgotten for a while – it has certainly been a holiday for the photo albums.

Speaking of albums, today marks the 5th anniversary of this here blog. Half a decade of Sunday writings to which I have all of you to thank. Of course, I’ll keep up the weekly posts but I’m going to attempt to add a podcast too. Knowing my ineptitude towards anything vaguely technological, I’ve no idea whether it’ll work but I’m willing to have a crack at it. I’ll put a link on the Facebook site when I figure it all out.

So now as the decorations are back in the garage and the fairy lights carefully wrapped so they can tangle themselves all over again, life is slowly getting back to normal. The balmy temperatures of Christmas have been replaced with near-zeros and between the bitterly cold wind whipping across my terrace and the pelting rain, even the hardiest of woofers, Sherman, wants to stay indoors and curl up on my bed. Apparently we might have snow arriving over the next few days. Whoopee. Ah well, it’s only 4 months until Spring…

“The shortest day has passed, and whatever nastiness of weather we may look forward to in January and February, at least we notice that the days are getting longer.” (Vita Sackville-West)

All together now

Whilst my head may be thinking that the past week has gone all too quickly, my body can’t wait for all the festivities to be over. Not only do I still have the last lingers of a cold, the amount of meat and alcohol consumed over Christmas has left my guts feeling, to put it mildly, a little sensitive. Not getting to bed until the wee hours every night hasn’t helped either but the bags under my eyes and bloated belly are unmistakable signs that it has, for the most part, been a bloody brilliant Noël. I’m pretty sure we will see in the New Year in similar style tonight even though it won’t be the whole family singing Auld Lang Syne out of tune as my sister and her lot left on Friday.

And so it was that for the first time in three years, Mumo had all her offspring and their offspring and other halves at the table at the same time. It’s quite a feat considering one came from Australia, 3 from Kenya, one from Chad, a couple from the UK and 4 from New York. Add in myself, Denis, Simon and Alba and you get 16 trying to find a place to sit comfortably in the living room. Unfortunately, I got the floor cushion as I’m always the last one in the building so to speak and my sister did her level best to stay at least 2 metres away from me at all times. But I minded my manners and kept schtum as I promised Mumo I would. I ought to be used to her aversion to my presence by now but it still upsets me, the one upside to being side-lined being Callum who knows his mum so well and gives the best hugs in the world. And gave her an Australian ‘cowboy’ hat which she absolutely loves. Putting all the death stares aside, the few days that the Collins/Stewart/Plevin clan were together were full of rowdiness, constant banter and sides aching from so much laughter. And food. And wine. It’ll probably be another few years before we are all together again and I am trying very hard not to think about Cal returning Down Under in a few weeks so these rare moments of family are priceless.

Having 16 for Christmas lunch on Boxing Day, Moth who is traditionally late for everything arrived on the 25th, had required months of pre-planning. The meat and potatoes were cooked over at mine and the rest in the main house. I roped Denis into cooking because he’s such a good chef and actually likes slaving over a hot stove and I don’t. He did himself proud and produced restaurant-worthy platters of lamb and chicken with lashings of roast potatoes. My only contribution was the gravy I’d made the day before which left everyone amused as Pop would always berate Mumo for leaving it to the last minute. Then, once the pudding was eaten and the 2 Buches de Noël were decimated, we all plonked ourselves around a garden bench on an unseasonably warm day for the necessary photos. Moth captured some great shots although I couldn’t help but slap myself for drinking red wine beforehand. Everyone had nice white teeth except for yours truly.

And so as the last vestiges of 2023 tick down with the clock and thoughts of resolutions and diets pass through heads, I wish one and all a Happy New Year. Who knows what 2024 will bring even if I did take a gander at my zodiac and the Chinese one too – apparently I’m set for a period of personal growth and success but have to watch my stress levels. Whoever wrote that has never lived in the idyll that is Rouffiac. I hope everyone has a right good knees up tonight and drains the last of the drinks cabinet in style. Bonne Année à tous!

““For last year’s words belong to last year’s language, and next year’s words await another voice.” (T.S. Eliot)