The chaleur has broken. Rather dramatically. If Thursday evening’s soiree over at Saba and Roy’s meant wearing the floatiest dress I could find that could make the heat bearable and Friday’s barbecue next door had the bug zapper under the table noisily disposing of mosquitos, then partying over at chez Abraham’s last night was all about jumpers -the temperature dropping by 20 degrees in a matter of 24 hours. And whilst we are all grateful for the rain, it’s come a little too late to save most of the potager – we lost all the haricot beans and two of the tomato plants. Still, it must be welcome relief for all those involved in the vendange or grape harvest – working along those vines in 40 plus degree temperatures can’t have been much fun. Perhaps they can now get up a couple of hours later to rev up their tractors and not have the need to wake me up at 3 a.m.

Aside from the usual fêtes with friends, the past week has been a quiet one, mainly because stepping outside was akin to putting your tootsies on burning coals. Poor Denis had to get up at the crack of dawn every morning to water down everyone’s gardens and then go back out again at sunset to do those what he hadn’t had time to do earlier. He’s still recovering from the ordeal. I wasn’t much happier either as the apartment’s thermostat proudly displayed the internal temperature as hotter than the external one and to cap it all, one of my two electric shutters on the patio doors has decided to get stuck in the down position. A bit like looking at the bottom of a roasting tray although thankfully someone has now turned the oven off. Little brother Moth is coming over later this afternoon so that’ll keep him busy.

Speaking of friends, I took mes filles, Saba and Stephanie, over to the Cave in St-Hilaire on Friday morning. Caves or wine shops are commonplace in these parts but the one located a kilometre or so down the road from L’Horte is the one I like best, they’ve known my family since the shop started and naturally always stock the best stuff. Since it was the first visit for both of them, I elected to drive and therefore forgo any tasting of the grape. Now I have to be honest, my fluency in the native tongue is always better after my two coffee morning ritual and even more so when I’ve had a couple of glasses of rouge so having had neither, trying to follow any part of the conversation between Saba and Stephanie post-Sherbet inhaling was near impossible. I would suggest that Duolingo might want to include machine-gun French in their course and advise a good dose of caffeine beforehand. A stop at the afore-mentioned L’Horte helped clear the cobwebs for all afterwards and for Saba, it was a chance to see and understand why the river is so special – she’s reading The Book.

According to the somewhat unreliable météo , we will be back to normal end of summer temperatures in the next few days with added downpours. I hope so as I’ve been able to dodge a bullet this weekend but I still have a target on my derrière. Somehow Denis has persuaded me that going sea fishing on a boat is a fabulous idea and there’s no chance of me getting sea-sick on the Med in summer. Incidentally, sea-sickness in French is mal de mer which when said, sounds like rolling waves – not helpful. Alas, we cannot go out in a little pea-green boat when it’s windy and raining so such enjoyment has been put on hold. Quel dommage. Mind you, I would like sun next weekend as we are having a party to mark 3 years since we arrived in Rouffiac. And what better way to celebrate than to be with all those who have made me feel a part of this kooky village than by the thing I am most proud of creating – the bloody pool…

“Good company, good wine, good welcome, can make good people” (William Shakespeare)

I’m sure you will be relieved to read that I made it to the UK and back with only a couple of minor glitches last week. Despite my fear of flying, I made it over the Channel unscathed, The Book in hand for a little free advertising, although arriving on a cold, wet Monday afternoon in flip flops was not my idea of a welcome back present. Mercifully, the weather was gorgeous for the rest of my stay – the Gods deciding to wait until I got back to France to drum up a thunderstorm over my head. To add to their messing, the return flight was delayed at Gatwick due to potholes needing filling on the runway so not only did I have to endure an extra hour with agitated toddlers in the seats adjacent to me, I also had to find my car which I had stuck in one of the long stay car parks in the middle of a very soggy night. Thinking I was clever, I’d taken a photo of Giselle (my car in case you had forgotten her name) in her spot with the bay number clearly displayed – only I didn’t look to see which multi-storey automobile lot I had put her in. With one of 3 to choose from, I spent at least half an hour dragging myself and my luggage up and down staircases, temper at tantrum level until I finally found her. I would like to point out for those who may wish to park in one of Toulouse Airport’s concrete monstrosities, the ‘I’ section only exists in car lot number 2, that is to say the others have every letter of the alphabet except ‘I’. I have done extensive research.

It is a fact of life I suppose but funerals and reunions go together. Having caught up with Rene’s sons and Lareine’s family the night before, I was fully prepared for the onslaught of hugs and ‘oh my God it’s you’ on arriving at the crematorium the following day – after all, I hadn’t seen any of my old circle of chums in 3 years although I did feel a bit like the prodigal child returneth. My bestie Rene did herself proud with a beautiful and touching funeral service, even if I did have to reach for the tissue in Lareine’s outstretched hand when Rene’s sons gave their speeches. I raised a silent mental toast to my T too. Both he and Gary (Rene’s husband) would have had a bit of a giggle if they had noticed what I saw whilst standing outside afterwards waiting to go to the wake – a small metal sign attached to one of the pillars facing the crematorium doors saying ‘Smoking Zone’.

As much as it was lovely to catch up with friends, I am glad to be back home again. The much-discussed Denis was waiting at the door when I got back from my epic car park adventure and the woofers were delighted to see Mum again. Sort of. For about 10 minutes – apparently life with Denis is so much more exciting judging by the huffs I got after he left me crashed out on the bed. Thankfully I am forgiven and said bed is once more covered with panting pooches hogging any available fan – it’s flippin’ hot out there and if you think cooling off in the pool sounds like the perfect solution, the water temperature is 30 degrees. Once more into the soup and all that.

If my brief visit to my former turf taught me anything, it’s that I don’t miss the place one bit. I am sure I will pop over there again, certainly next Autumn as I will be attending Rene’s oldest son’s wedding but my heart lies in this little corner of France now. After all, Rene and Lareine, we drive on the right side of the road here…

“I’ve had a splendid time and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life. But the best of it all was the coming home”. (L. M. Montgomery)

Three years ago today, I safely landed the Mothership and her cargo at L’Horte – the cargo being myself, my best friend Rene, 9 woofers and a 4 ft high Peace Lily. In my blog from that Sunday I wrote, ” I’ve made it. I’ve finally come home and so the next chapter of my life starts. A new beginning and hopefully many many more blogs and a book to begin. As they say in France; Bienvenue dans ma vie”. It’s hard to take in sometimes, I’ve crammed so much into the new chapter since then. Whilst two of the original woofers, Evee and Gizmo, are no longer with me, I have managed to bring up a litter of Border terrier puppies and keep the one that is my precious Sherman. I wrote that book and am now plodding away on the sequel and I still write the blog every Sunday. I helped build a pool and learnt how to mend liner holes underwater. I renovated a neglected garden, added a potager and blinged up our corner wall. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I fell in love with a wonderful man – my Denis and a little village called Rouffiac d’Aude. And although she is somewhat frail these days, being around 28 years old, the Peace Lily is still with me. And, in case you haven’t had enough ‘and’s’, tomorrow I will be flying back to the UK for the first time since I left. It’s a funny old world.

Speaking of our wonderful world, I got a chance to see the incredible meteor shower last night with friends at Abraham’s place. Under a cloudless sky surrounded by nothing but fields and the hills beyond, we watched the night’s canvas unfold. Billions and billions of stars flashed and twinkled above us, I’m pretty sure everyone has a sore neck this morning from all that oohing and craning. The only minor disappointment was that I only saw one shooting star – I did make a wish though and naturally, I won’t tell you. I might get a second glimpse tonight unless the possible thunderstorms roll in but I really do need to get to bed early – far too many evening soirees over the past week.

The heat hasn’t helped with my sleep routine either – I’ve got fans on full blast with panting woofers strewn below them. Arry is spending more time in the pool than out of it, the others preferring the afore-mentioned or the cool earth under the pool deck. Mind you, as much as I love cooling off in such heavenly waters myself, as soon as you are out and dressed for the evening ahead, you’re sweating again. If you think that perhaps wearing shorts and T-shirt is appropriate attire for aperos, absolutely not unless you want to be eaten alive by the midges. I am not complaining however, with it being a good 10 degrees warmer here than the former land that is the UK I am going to have to pack a couple of sweaters – my body has become accustomed to 30 plus Augusts.

Ah August…the month when bees buzz lazily through the oleanders, cicadas make music after dusk and Arry turns 8 years old. Physically that is, mentally he’s stuck at 8 months. Sadly I will miss most of his big day as I won’t get back home until late but I’m sure Denis will keep him amused and out of the oleander beds. So to my darling doofus, I hope you have the most marvellously idiotic day as every day is to you and thank you for reminding me that stress levels can still rise to epic levels – I do love you my crazy, cailloux-obsessed canine…

“Life is a book and there are a thousand pages I have not yet read.” (Cassandra Clare)

One could be forgiven for thinking its late September instead of early August judging by the weather over the past week. Grey skies, below average degrees and quite a bit of rain doth not make for a balmy summer. The water temperature in the pool is warmer than the outside one, just as well as I had to re-glue the protective liner patches that brother Simon put on the week before – I did tell him it wasn’t an easy job but hey. Still, at least the howling Cers wind that is currently causing strife has stopped any algae from wanting to bed down. We are unreliably told by the Météo that this weather system is just a blip on the radar and the coming weeks will be all sunshine and smiles.

Seeing as how there hasn’t been much to do now that the pool is sorted and the potager is full of ready pickings, Denis decided we needed to get out of town so to speak. Despite having lived in Rouffiac d’Aude for almost 3 years, I’ve rarely had the chance to see what else lies beyond the county limits other than a few city excursions. As I mentioned in the previous week’s blog, France pretty much has everything you could want as a holiday destination and our little bit of the South-West is a bit of a gem in that department. A couple of hours drive or so will take you West up into the Pyreenes Mountain range and a similar pootle East will have you basking on the Mediterranean beaches. So we did both. Along with D’s niece Stephanie and her other half, Rashid, we took a day out by the sea on Thursday accompanied by Yogi Bear as he hates being left these days (my younger brother Moth kindly offered to look after the remaining woofers) and we felt he would be good company for Stephanie and Rashid’s somewhat overweight Chihuahua, Xena. After a light picnic lunch ( I say this facestiously as there is no such thing as a light meal in D’s family) in Gruissan, a hop from the city of Narbonne we made our way down to an almost deserted beach a few minutes away. I can’t say we had perfect weather conditions for lazing on the sand – the wind played havoc with our towels for a start and any deep intake of breath at the beauty of your surroundings meant inhaling large quantities of sand but we couldn’t have had a more relaxing time. Whilst Rashid went snorkelling for couteaux or razor clams, D and Yogi ambled along the shore and dipped their toes into the Med. It was a little Bear’s heaven being at one with the outdoors and his most favourite outdoors man although Xena wasn’t overly thrilled to have his wagging tail in her face. We finished the great afternoon out at a nearby seafood restaurant eating raw cockles, mussels and oysters – okay I’ve yet to be convinced on the latter but the rest was delicious especially when washed downed with a chilled bottle of white wine. Beach destination, Check.

Lazing by the sea done, the four of us decided to head West a couple of days later – to Andorra. Andorra is a principality bordered by France and Spain on the Eastern side of the Pyreenes. It’s a tiny country, about 460 square kilometres, and best known for the fact that since it isn’t part of the EU, it’s duty-free. As soon as you make your way through the border control, you are greeted by a sort of gargantuan monolith of hypermarkets, restaurants and price popping billboards – if it’s tax-free, we have it kind of thing. I have to admit that whilst it was great fun looking at all the bargains you could buy that you didn’t need even if I wasn’t quite dressed for alpine temperatures – my fingers were so cold I couldn’t have got my debit card out of my wallet if I wanted to, the best part of the whole trip was the scenery beyond. Instead of taking the autoroute, Rashid took the high roads. Literally. Weaving up into the vast mountain range, the landscape is covered in forest and the occasional ski lift. The views are breath-taking although I could put that down to my fear of heights too – there was a reason why I didn’t look down and it wasn’t just because of the huge eagles gliding across the blue sky above us. Mountains. Check.

As usual, we finished the week chez Abraham last night with lashings of good food, gorgeous wine and great friends. Some of us were rather woozy already after all that altitude but still found the energy for a bit of a boogie. I blame Stephanie for that as she insisted we stop at some thermal baths on the way back down the mountains so that I could experience the pleasure of hot spring water on my tootsies – definitely put the dance into my digits. I couldn’t resist another purchase either as Abraham had, as has become a feature of his Saturday night soirees, an artisan of a magician with metal – old gas canisters to be precise. Martin makes masterpiece lamps and lighting out of them and yes they were pretty pricey but the workmanship was so beautiful I bought one of the smaller ones. Back home. Check…

“Life is made for good friends and great adventures” (Unknown)

Denis and I popped over to his sister, Natalie’s, house last night for a barbecue. I was a little concerned as the météo had predicted heavy rain but the deluge never happened. At least not for us. 14 kilometres away in Carcassonne however, Yoan (Denis’ son) was sending us videos of what looked like a mini tornado charging across the city – such is the weird weather of late. I would like to reassure you all that, despite what the television tells you, we are not in a heatwave down here – not yet anyway. The temperature is nowhere near the scorching levels of last year and we have had a lot more rain. Good for the garden and the potager if not for the huge influx of English tourists of late in the nearby towns. And ducks too. In our pool. I have no idea why our aquatic avians have decided to wiggle their waders in our body of water but the woofers don’t seem to mind and as long as they don’t poop in it, neither do I.

Speaking of the bloody pool, we may have found the source of the leak. I called Roy, our master of all things piscine-related as an exhaustive search of the depths by myself, Katie my niece and brother Simon had come up with zilch. I even went under the back of the deck to see if any of the pipework was wet, a dangerous task as you really don’t want to know what devilish insects live in those dark reaches but no, all was dry. In order to eliminate each possible theory, Roy closed the drain and so far, so good. Well, sort of. That bit of equipment is buried below the pool so at some point, someone (guess who) is going to have to dig a flipping great hole to see whats what. We will have to leave it until the Autumn though as the ground is rock hard so for the moment, out of sight out of mind. At least I wish the last few words were true, the first thing I do every morning after I let the woofers out is to cross my fingers and cast an eye over the bloody thing.

Aside from a quick trip to the dentist to have one of my new teeth put in – feels very strange having had a gap in the back of my mouth most of my adult life, I haven’t done much over the past week. As I mentioned we have had my niece, Katie, here which has been lovely for Mumo and for Arry too. Katie, like her aunt, loves to run so my daft German Shepherd has had a couple of early morning exertions up and down the hills. Such pursuits are not for me in the summer, this aged body needs to recuperate between seasons and I prefer to swim. Preferably without ducks. I also introduced my niece to the local nightlife in the form of a Spanish evening at the Petit Bistrot and a chance to meet our large group of amis. In fact, most of the village turned up, probably because the word had got around that Denis was cooking. Good company, great music, cold beer and succulent sausages made for a grand night out. She’ll miss all this when she goes back to London tomorrow.

And I too will be returning to former shores next month – almost exactly 3 years to the day I left. It will be a flying visit though and not one I had planned. Many of you who have read The Book and/or have followed my blog over the past 4 and a bit years will be familiar with my bestie Irene or Rene as I have always called her. Rene held me up when my world fell apart and now I need to be there for her as she says goodbye to her husband who died suddenly a few weeks ago. I’m leaving Denis with the woofers, someone has to keep them company and anyway, he doesn’t have a passport. I asked him why once, his reply was that France had everything you would want in holiday destinations – sun, ski, surf and cities. He’s right of course but it doesn’t have my Rene and it’s my turn to hold her up especially when she can’t reach the pedals…

For you, my darling Rene:

“If ever there is tomorrow when we’re not together…there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think but the most important thing is, even if we’re apart… I’ll always be with you.” ( Winnie the Pooh)

Arry’s been in the wars again and back at the vets. I’m pretty sure the bald patches that suddenly appeared on his rump and chest were down to a mosquito attack rather than an allergy flare-up so the world’s most expensive rescue dog is now on a course of tablets and twice-weekly washes with a very pricey shampoo. Despite the difficulties in keeping him still for 5 minutes whilst the soap does its thing, his poor skin is starting to recover and grow hair once more. I have no idea why the pests single him out from the other woofers, perhaps there’s more of him to go around.

On the subject of miniscule annoyances, you will be pleased to hear that not only is my courgette-chomped finger back to normal again but so is the pool. Well, the algae’s pretty much disappeared anyway – what with my daily chemical tests and measures and constant cleaning but it seems there maybe another little problem. The bloody thing is losing water, only a few millimetres a day but it doesn’t half play havoc with the quarterly H20 bill. Initially we put it down to evaporation or a possible crack in the automatic fill up doodad pipe but I’m beginning to think there may be a hole in the patches I put over last year’s leak. There isn’t much I can do about it at the moment however as I’m the only one here aside from Mumo and I can’t see her diving to the depths to repair the liner – she doesn’t like swimming. I’ll have to wait for Simon to return as he’s got all the scuba equipment and anyway, I did it last time which should tell you something.

Whilst I’ve been searching for life’s little solutions, Denis has been hard at work getting everyone’s gardens sorted before he takes a break next week so I’ve been looking after ours by my lonesome. To be honest, there isn’t a lot to do this time of year apart from the occasional battle with the hosepipe before morning coffee (we are advised to only water the plants between 8 pm and 8 am because of the heat) and checking on our potager harvest so I’ve spent most of my spare time catching up with my ‘to-do’ list – i.e. all the things I’ve been putting off or procrastinating about. Alice, Sherman and Yogi Bear are now feeling the breeze through their newly clipped or stripped bodies and the ‘dog wash’ washing machine is now fixed – it doesn’t take a genius to know what caused the blockage. And the littlest room in the apartment, the loo, has a new paint job although that was mostly the work of Saint Nick my great friend and all round handyman.

After such a busy week scratching my head looking for solutions and trying to stop Arry from doing the same, a catch-up with friends was the panacea to my problems. If Friday evening was spent pondering life’s great mysteries over pizza with my neighbours down the road, Saba and Roy plus Denis’ best friend who I fondly call Denis Deux because well, he shares the same name and my man is number one, then last night was all about burgers and blues. A meal down at the American Diner with various members of Denis’ family was followed by a quick drive over the other side of the road to Abraham’s place to listen to another ami make magical music with his harmonica into the wee hours.

Speaking of friends and family, I am now permitted to let the proverbial cat out of the bag and say congratulations to my sister-in-law Fran and her new husband Steve. I have to admit my sister from another mister did tell me of their plans several months ago but I promised to keep the secret until the deed was done last Friday. I only wish you two hadn’t rushed into it so quickly, I mean you’ve only been living together for 36 years…

““In the cookies of life, friends are the chocolate chips.” (Unknown)

My mop and I might have found a new career in pool cleaning. Whilst I’m still battling the spots of algae that appear daily in our piscine, our neighbours now have a crystal clear body of water to swim in thanks in part to my trusty tool. I’d gone over to their place at the beginning of the week to help Denis tidy up their garden, only to find out that their pool was thick with the green goop that of which Ian had almost given up on getting out. He’d tried every product available but the stuff wasn’t shifting. Having suggested we might have a go with the ‘Sophi’ technique, the two of us got out our weapons of war and got sponging. With a little help from the anti-algae blaster that I keep in the poolhouse, all was cleared just in time for their guests and next month, the new owners. Yes, sadly the wonderful Mandy and Ian are moving back to the UK in a few weeks so Arry won’t be able to have arguments with Mina their dog over the back fence anymore. I am told the newbies have a pooch though so Arry shouldn’t be too upset for long.

Speaking of upsets, I managed to injure a finger again. Not a spider bite this time, instead I got snagged by a carnivorous courgette plant. Denis was showing me why our green variety weren’t growing (the flowers needed manual pollination apparently), when I got bit. For those who aren’t familiar with the foliage of such culinary yumminess, they have teeny tiny needles hidden in their depths. I didn’t think much about it at the time – you’d think I’d have learnt from my encounter with the evil araignée a couple of years ago not to let the wound fester but no. My finger swelled up angrily and if it wasn’t for Laetitia who owns the vineyard up the road being a former nurse, I might have ended up in the emergency room. She deftly sliced into my infected digit and squeezed the yuck out. Alas she couldn’t get to the spike as we didn’t have any anaesthesia and my pain threshold was already at max but it’s looking better already. I’ll nip into the doctors on Tuesday just to make sure.

Despite my idiotic injury, D and I have had a busy week in the socialising sense. Friday was July 14th, a national celebration in France. It commemorates the storming of The Bastille in 1789 and is mainly marked by a whole lot of firework displays over famous monuments. Since most of us oldies didn’t relish the idea of getting crushed by the crowds in Carcassonne, or trying to get out of the city afterwards, we went up the hill opposite Laetitia’s place – it has a jaw-dropping view of the citadel, albeit from a distance. I have to say it was great fun sitting on rickety garden chairs, drinking wine and watching the whizz bangs in the otherwise pitch dark even if the whole spectacle only lasted about 20 minutes. Watching all the traffic headlights trying to get out of the city limits afterwards was an added bonus though. We only had to manoeuvre our way through the potholes our hill road is legendary for.

If Friday night was all about snap, crackle and pop – last night was more about elegance and taking it easy. It started with an apero dinatoire hosted by some friends of Mumo’s over in St-Hilaire. Big brother Simon and his wife, Alba, were also there. Since Denis and I couldn’t stay long, we had another do to go to, we took a chance to see Michel and Francoise’s very formal but utterly gorgeous garden accompanied by their overly-enthusiastic Doberman before sitting down for a classy glass. Poor Michel got terribly flustered trying to get everything perfect so knowing D and I had to go, he offered us the dessert bit first in the shape of a rather liquidy sorbet.

“Don’t worry, I have burnt all the alcohol off ” he assured me as a took a sip.

Well, I don’t know what he burnt off but it certainly wasn’t the neat vodka that ripped its way down my throat. Had it been the night before, I’d have lit up the night sky myself.

Thankfully, my poor oesophagus recovered with the rest of the evening spent chilling back and chatting with familiar faces over at Abraham’s place whilst watching the rain gently soak the parched earth and wondering if I would have to clean the bloody pool again this morning…

““In wine there is wisdom, in beer there is Freedom, in water there is bacteria.” ( Benjamin Franklin)

At this time of year, a rumble of thunder on a hot summer’s night is music to one’s ears but the downpours that usually follow are currently carrying excess luggage – the unwelcome kind. Green algae and gorging midges. You can slather yourself in citronella but it’s no match for the minute munchers and you spend most of your days slapping various body parts like some sort of 1920’s flapper girl. Luckily we have the pool which provides much needed respite from the ‘small but mighty’ raptors and we have, thanks to a bit of yours truly’s ingenuity, clear water to cool off in. We are the fortunate ones for once, if you remember this time last year I was plugging holes in the liner, as many of our friends and neighbours have bottle green piscines. The always much needed rain is packing the slimy stuff – algae and it likes swimming pools. Last weekend, I did notice that the underwater lights had an odd tint to them so I went out and bought several gallons of the antidote and dosed up the bloody thing. And then, because I am one of those wot dots ‘i’s and crosses ‘t’s, I swam up and down the vast meterage with a mop like a demented charlady. If anyone passing had strange ideas about English people’s odd customs, I’d like to reassure them that witches like myself often use household objects for more than just one purpose.

Eradicating the green gunge from its watery depths wasn’t the only bit of seek and destroy I had to do this week. Denis and I finally found time to clear the weeds and cut the overgrown grass around Pop’s tree at L’Horte. Well, I say ‘we’ but it was mostly Denis and his dream machine aka his débroussailleuse. While he strimmed and styled the plot, I wandered off to nosey around the flora and fauna. I think Pop would be thrilled with all the wild flowers and orchids popping up all over the place even if you need a machete to see them, I can see him now wandering down the tree-lined path towards the river at dusk admiring his land. Actually, I can because something a little weird has happened to a photo I have of him in my bedroom. I have put the picture below so you can see what happens when I turn the overhead light on. Spooky but serene at the same time.

With all the mopping and tidying over the last few days, a decent shower was what we both needed. Preixan style. Nick-named ‘Le fête de la mousse’, the neighbouring village’s annual party brings in the crowds. DJs on a massive stage, pump out thumping tunes as thousands of people of all ages boogie the night away. Everyone had a blast; no arguing, fisticuffs or foul language – something I have noted on many a night out, nobody swears. I asked my friend Saba about this once, she is French but lived most of her school years in England and she’s married to a Brit. She told me that family is the most important thing in this part of the world, the children are brought up to respect their elders and those in authority. Families dine in together, dine out together, dance around together. I have never heard Denis curse either. But it wasn’t just the music and chumminess that brought in the throngs and thongs – it was the mousse. Hordes gathered under something that looked a bit like a giant microphone hanging from the scaffolding, reminiscent of that scene in Independence Day when the aliens arrive to be covered in what I can only describe as frothed up Fairy Liquid (other brands may work better, who knows). By the time I got home in the early hours this morning, I was soaked but boy, does this little pocket of France know how to party. Small but mighty brilliant…

“Nothing inspires cleanliness more than an unexpected guest” (Radhika Mundra)

For the first time in 4 and half years of Sundays, I’ve missed a blog. I can only apologise profusely to you all – a combination of too many late nights and too much of the grape lead to a total wipeout and my bed. And Arry’s allergies haven’t helped either, his constant scratching and licking has interrupted what little sleep I might be able to have. We are off to the vet this afternoon, my poor pup is tearing his skin to pieces and looks thoroughly miserable. I’m sure it has something to do with the current mosquito manifestation, apparently everyone is getting chomped more than usual this summer – it is the number one topic discussed at any social event. Luckily, so far I have escaped lightly, possibly because I’ve slapped myself all over with citronella oil. Alas, I can’t do the same for my woeful woofer but I’m hoping the vet has a solution because he won’t have any hair left soon.

The short, sudden rain showers we have had of late plus the seasonal heat may be why the mozzies are feasting so ferociously. The number of social gatherings of late may also be a factor, the ‘all you can eat’ buffet kind. Denis and I went over to his niece’s place for dinner on Thursday, Stephanie is one of those people that can’t cook on a small scale and you end up dragging your stomach out of the door at the end of the evening. I love her to bits but her invitations terrify me – her meals are delicious by the way, it’s just the quantity served. Then there was the usual Saturday night barbecue chez nous which, although equally tasty, meant mounds of meat and potatoes and very little else. As I’m not a big eater of either, I did ask my sister-in-law if we ought to have a salad or something green to go with the brown stuff? Despite her look of horror, I did manage to sneak some lettuce into a bowl and my brother Simon reluctantly put a half-burnt but otherwise raw courgette on the table. Another night of indigestion bound to follow. And just in case my internal organs hadn’t suffered enough, It was Denis’ mum’s birthday yesterday so a family lunch at her place was in order. It started at midday and was still going strong when D and I left at 7.30 by which time I didn’t care if I never saw a pizza again. Or a bottle of wine.

Mind you, Friday night was a welcome relief from all the calorific carnage as I went to a concert in Carcassonne with my girl Saba and her husband, Roy. You can be forgiven for not knowing or remembering Steve Hackett unless you were a die-hard Genesis fan. The only reason why I know of him is because Simon was a fan way back when we were kids and later, my Tony. I have to admit I wasn’t overly keen on going especially as D couldn’t make it but it turned out to be a great night out. The only downside was it took us as long to get out of the car park as the concert itself and I was desperate for the loo. Judging by the number of people of a similar age to me who were dancing in the aisles, I expect I wasn’t the only one.

I’m hoping that the week ahead is going to be a quiet one, not only for my head but for my poor belly too. And Arry. With the work finished on both houses for the meantime, I can get down to tap tapping away at The Second Book and pootle around my potager in peace. Such rest time is sorely needed, not just because my liver needs a break but next weekend is the Preixan Festival, two days of non-stop boogieing in the village next-door. I’m going to stuff a salad in my handbag…

“If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito” (Dalai Lama)

I am not an early morning person. I’m sure such enlightening information has been mentioned in previous blogs but my woofers can’t read and apparently one needs to get up at the crack of dawn to go mushroom hunting. For the woofers, when the sun rises, it’s time to charge down the front stairs and do what needs to be done – a task that requires only a vague wakefulness my end as I just have to unlock the door but trekking across woods foraging for fungi pre-coffee? Actually, when Denis picked me up, I had a take-away cup of my morning drug of choice and he provided the croissants so we could search for cèpes before the rest of the world stirred. It’s not that the little orangey-yellow delicacies disappear if you don’t get out of bed early, more that their locations are a closely-guarded secret. And I wouldn’t be able to tell you where we went even if I could, except that it was a forest and we got there by road – middle of nowhere’s ville. D, of course being the outdoorsman he is, is a mushroom expert so showed me how to tell whether or not you were likely to kill yourself over an omelette or live to savour the dish. The red ones I would have you know, are hallucinogenic and the big ones that lie at the bottom of the hill are almost always a no-no. Further up into the wooded darkness however, we found our treasure, like little elf caps poking above the mossy undergrowth and bags filled, snuck back out of our secret garden before anyone noticed an ancient camionette parked precariously on a hidden wayside.

With the fungi washed and put into the freezer, I then had the odious task of cutting up spring onions and doing the same. With only Mumo and I here most of the time, there was no way we were going to eat fifty plus bulbs on our own and I do want to be able to talk to my friends without them passing out when I speak. At least the next plantings will be haricot beans and those are much more sociable. Now there is just the glut of plums to deal with, little brother Moth suggested plum wine but I think Mumo’s idea of future crumble mixes is a better bet.

Speaking of search and retrieve, we got a call on Wednesday night from friends in nearby St-Hilaire – their elderly, deaf Border Collie had gone missing that morning. Mumo suggested I took Alice and Sherbs with me as Alice is an excellent rat catcher but neither of them was interested in doing anything other than race around the property perimeter as terriers do. I took them home and switched the panting pair for Arry, his nose is built for scenting and if he can find a rabbit, he can find a big dog. Or a swimming pool. Yes, my faithful hound decided to suddenly take off after what I thought was a possible lead and dive straight first into the worried owners’ pool. Thankfully, not only do they have a sense of humour and even took photos but Poppy Border Collie was found tired and dehydrated but okay in a neighbours garden the following morning.

With such an eventful week, a get-together at the end of it all was just what one needed. Friday as always, is the Bistrot night, although this time D and I were not in charge of the food so we could wind down with best friends over beer and banter. Oh and an orchestra. To be honest, the music was beautifully played but reminiscent of the last minutes of the Titanic – depressing and all rather tragic. Being told to keep quiet by the conductor didn’t help either, she obviously didn’t know the village at all and everyone would have shut their mouths if the music had been a bit more upbeat. As it was last night down at Abraham’s place. You can’t go wrong with a blues guitarist with a voice like molten molasses and a right good sing-a long. The only downside was that, just like the beginning of the week, I had to drag myself out of bed as the sun began to rise this morning. The battle of me and the garden hose has started once more…

“Adopt the pace of nature. Her secret is patience.” ( Ralph Waldo Emerson)