I’ve done it, I’ve bitten the bullet. You can blame me if there’s a frost next week as I’ve switched wardrobes. The woolies have been packed away and the bikinis have come out to play. But whilst it’s definitely T-shirt weather this weekend, just in time for Easter bunnies, I have no intention of taking the pool cover off just yet. It’s one thing having 22 degree blue sky balminess but we still have the sand-laden Spring winds to come. I have been a nice little sister though, I pulled out the sun loungers from their winter storage so my big brother Simon could have a well-earned snooze in the sun. He’s been spending a lot of time travelling back and forth from Scotland so I figured he needed defrosting. Mind you, my friends back in London tell me that they too have a yellow orb above them – happiness all around.

Purple is the colour according to the garden at present. Denis tidied up our verge, after which the irises burst forth with their plumage and the Judas trees have added a sharp contrast to the otherwise pink and green foliage of the fruit bearers. And whilst rain is never far from my mind, I am relishing the heat warming up these middle-aged bones. Thankfully it is still only a few bips above freezing at dawn so we can still get up and running, at least until mid-May I hope. Then we’ll heave off the cover and wait several weeks for the pool to reach the desired temperature. With everything arboreal and fruity getting ready for the summer, I’ve left Denis to do what needs to be done outside and concentrated on finishing my theatre ‘sièges‘ – delicately sanding the grime off the little brass pins that frame the cushions with an old electric nail drill. I’d bought it during lockdown back in the UK all those years ago so that I could keep up with my false nail addiction but never quite got the hang of how to use it without ripping the enamel off my poor digits. Who knew it would be just the ticket for sparkling up little gold-coloured buttons? D just has to finish re-upholstering the arm rests, I unwittingly bought the entire stock in the local DIY store the other day (we have had to replace all on said rests) so the last task has to wait until next week. In the meantime I have moved my ‘travaille’ down to the courtyard, all the rattan furniture has to be cleaned and re-oiled which isn’t exactly a walk in the countryside. What the flood waters left behind at L’Horte back in 2018 is still firmly stuck to the chairs and rattan doesn’t like getting soaking wet – a bit of a ‘wax on wax off’ job.

Last week was actually a comparatively quiet one compared to the ones before. Roy and Nick have all but completed the new suite in what was once the boiler/utility room and are now preparing the space below my main staircase for what will be a dog parlour of sorts with a shower and all my grooming stuff. No, I’m not going back into the trade but it would be nice not to have to share my bathroom with a load of woofer hair. I’m hoping the work won’t take more than a week or two as the next spaces to overhaul are my bedrooms and I’d like them done before my guests descend on me and the sun deck.

Tomorrow, Mumo and I are taking the short walk down to the ‘petanque’ ground at the bottom of our road. Aside from the annual Easter egg hunt, Denis is preparing a picnic for friends and family along with a giant omelette, a tradition in this part of France. It is said that this practice dates back to Napolean who once feasted on one made by a local innkeeper in a town called Bessieres, North of Toulouse. So overwhelmed with this culinary delight, he ordered a giant version to be made for his army the next day. The over-sized eggy creation became a tradition as it could feed the poor people at Easter and since has become a symbol of friendship and family togetherness. The omelette, known as ‘pâquette’ is laced with honey and rum, I’m assuming this has always been the case although it might be D’s swing on things and with another fine day beckoning, I’m looking forward to it even if I’m not sure about the combination of eggs and alcohol. And I haven’t met his mother yet…

“Easter is the only time when it’s perfectly safe to put all your eggs in one basket” (Evan Esar)

I know I promised my family that I wouldn’t add any more pets to my pack but it appears I have adopted another. Gabriel or Gabrielle, as I have no idea how to sex a gecko nor would I want to, has taken up residence in the living area. My Moorish or Common Wall Gecko doesn’t seem to do much except plaster itself upside down on the ceiling rather than snoozing on a wall but since he/she/it is great at keeping flies and mozzies at bay I’m told, our new house guest is welcome to stay. As long as it doesn’t suddenly do a death drop. Thankfully the woofers haven’t noticed a change in resident numbers, I dread to think what a lizard would do to Arry’s digestive system. I wonder if he’s allergic to them? He’s allergic to practically everything else.

Sadly, as one moves in, another leaves. After 2 years of toil, changing the entire heating system and disposing of the old one, my beloved Max chauffagiste extraordinaire has finished what he came to do. With the final flourish being the installation of whopping great solar panels (many jokes made about E.T landings) and an equally whopping bill deposited, Max pootled off in his battered camion – it hasn’t escaped the mischievous front gate either and headed off into the sunset. Or Limoux I expect. Of course he’ll be back from time to time, if only to check the oil reservoir but I will miss his practical jokes (“Sophi, don’t touch the solar panels because they are very hot!” I did, they weren’t, he cracked up) and his early morning bellows of “Bonjour Stupido!”. He adores Arry and the feeling is mutual. Denis will miss him too, the two of them have become great bosom buddies and have the rest of us in stitches when they start winding each other up. As I hugged my Monsieur le Max goodbye yesterday evening, he smiled and said he would see me soon – I was bound to break something within a day or two.

We may have gone all ‘eco’ with the impressive solar sheets tilted against my terrace wall but as yet, we haven’t had much sun to make the most of them. It’s been a windy, wet week with the exception of Monday (perhaps Thursday as well but I can’t think when everything is covered in grey cloud) but the garden is happy. The trees are green once more and the wisteria is popping buds all over my apartment frontage. Bunches of wild garlic have added a sprinkling of white to the otherwise mostly pink blossomed Spring display. The lettuce are growing bigger every day, I think my morning motivational chats are encouraging them to reach for the sky and Denis has managed to cut most of the over-grown herbes in between the downpours. As rain has most definitely stopped me playing outside, I have discovered a new passion – restoring furniture. It all started with my theatre chairs, now gracefully sitting in the lounge with just the arm rests to re-cover. There is something about seeing old, dirty bits of wood transformed with a bit of elbow grease, a lot of washing up liquid and various oils. The garden bench is now a gleaming piece of teak technology as is Mumo’s rather funky 1960’s chair. Both survived the floods at L’Horte although, judging by the amount of gunge I removed from all their nooks and crannies, I highly doubt they’ve seen a sponge since. Yesterday, the lovely Lionel popped in with a ‘seen better days’ mirror that he thought I might like. Frankly it’s so ugly, it’s beautiful. Someone painted a ‘trompe l’oeil‘ on the glass, adding olive branches and a village landscape below, strangely eye-catching if you excuse the pun. At the moment the whole piece has decades, if not centuries, of grime embedded in both the frame and the mirror itself but I’m looking forward to finding its inner beauty.

As I mentioned, it didn’t rain on Monday. Monday was a gloriously sunny warm day so Denis and I took advantage of the blue skies above and drove over to Abraham’s place to buy some more pork. Naturally, it goes without saying in this village, one never just visits to buy something. We found Abraham and his partner, Rosa, out in one of their many polytunnels clearing weeds between lines of carrot tops. Unfortunately our little potager doesn’t have room for such delicacies but Abraham did offer to give us some tomato plantlings next week – apparently the best time to get them in the ground. Then, of course, we all went and sat in the sun on a few logs in a field, along with a very nice bottle of Rosé. As you do. Eventually, D and I made it back home with our purchases and a whole lot of bones for the woofers – a gift from our hosts but lying out there under the Spring sunshine, I couldn’t help a little inner giggle at how quickly I have become used to my new life down here. I may have jumped in at the deep end, driving 9 dogs and a lily plant (she’s doing very well in case you are wondering) in a motorhome to a country whose language I barely understood but rarely a day goes by when I’m not grateful to this little spot in South-West France. Even if Gabriel/Gabrielle is suspiciously close to the top of my head at the moment…

“Bloom where you are planted’ (1 Corinthians 7:20-24)

Well, we’ve sprung forward into Spring. With a soggy start. Yesterday, we were wandering around in flip flops and sunglasses with sunshine aplenty and today, it’s back to boots and jackets. One shouldn’t complain, river levels are still very low but I am starting to get a little bored of my winter wardrobe now. Looking out from the terrace this morning and seeing the abundance of green lawn (it’s actually couch grass but who cares) covering the terre and the little lettuce leaves soaking up the pluie did make me want to do a little happy dance – a short-lived one as my eyes were drawn to the pool’s steel-barred cover. Bit depressing really.

We had a sibling Zoom last Sunday. Such events don’t happen very often but as we all have equal shares in the house, any potential projects or problems with current ones, have to be discussed and voted on. My idea to renovate the space above the apartment this year was one of them – I got the thumbs-down. At least for the near future. I hate to admit it but my younger brother Moth was right in his concern over how much my budget would likely over-run and the amount of disturbance it would cause to both myself and Mumo. The last two and a half years have been non-stop builders and trucks clogging up the driveway so we are all in need of a bit of renovation respite. I am surprisingly okay with it (Ikea were very good about refunding the kitchen cost) especially as Denis and I have already come up with a few ideas for my little apartment garden. Lionel still has a list of outdoor jobs to tick off including the back part of the pool deck and Max chauffagiste will put the new solar panels up on Tuesday, the concrete ‘capture’ base carefully laid by Lionel and his son yesterday. I did suggest it might be fun to add a few paw prints on the top of the perfectly smooth surface for added appeal but the looks I got meant I was out-voted again. I’m not going to lose Roy and Nick anytime soon either, we have yet to start on the ‘dog shower’ room which will be in the space below my main outdoor staircase and both my bedrooms need quite a bit of TLC. Cracks have formed in the dividing wall and over the doors all caused by the work that was done in the main house’s living room directly below them. Roy is going to put in new sockets and switches as the current ones are ancient and in the most ridiculous places- having to turn on a bedside light by flicking a switch three meters away for example. And the former boiler/utility room downstairs is now completed and I’m very proud of the result. The calm, airy space is perfect for exercising in or just chilling out and has a hidden bed for guests of which I hope there will be many in the coming months.

The bulk of the building work may have been all but finished here at Rouffiac but at L’Horte, the opposite has started. Denis and I popped over earlier in the week to say hello to Nicolai and Severine and coo at the latest additions to the pygmy goat herd. We were on our way to do some wild asparagus foraging in the nearby woods, his idea of a fun day out, when we made the detour onto the former family homestead only to be greeted with the sight of a huge mechanical claw pulling down the smaller house – the demolition has begun. A building constructed in 1698 was a matter of rubble in a few hours. It was hard to see so much history disappearing under the clouds of plaster dust but I was oddly unemotional about it – as though another chapter of my life had been closed. As I said to Denis, if we hadn’t moved to Rouffiac, I wouldn’t have met him and been exposed to the delights (sarcasm intended) of scrabbling through brambles and sliding down muddy banks on my bum just to find the odd green stalk the same of which can also be found in the corner of our front garden. If I did have any city girl left in me, it’s now firmly buried in a bog somewhere to the South of nearby Preixan. I’m reliably informed that the other house, the mill that Pop rebuilt, will remain standing for now as there is a team of archeologists itching to find hidden treasures around the foundations. I’m not sure they’ll find any Roman remains but there are probably quite a number of china dinner plates buried as a result of the 2018 flood. A few flip-flops too I expect, reminders of summers past and with any luck, the summer to come…

“To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow” (Audrey Hepburn)

I’ve spent most of the week removing a century’s worth of grime off the old theatre seats with an old toothbrush. It’s a painstakingly slow task but after three rounds of scrub, rub and wipe, the wood is just about back to its original colour. And since the last week was almost non-stop drizzle and gusty winds, being undercover and busy in the remis suited me just fine. At least the garden is looking better now that the terre has had a decent soaking – there are daffodils popping up all over the place and the skyline is covered with pink blossom. I did notice however, when I was doing the usual hike up the hills, that the clay surrounding the vines is nowhere near as bad to run on as it was last year. My ankles are thankful even if the grapes aren’t.

I went up to the city mid-week with a friend of mine. Toulouse to be exact, destination Ikea. Denice is an interior designer and I’d wanted to have a look at the kitchens they had to offer. After getting lost and having to negotiate more roundabouts than the SatNav dictated, we found a parking space, grabbed our big yellow bags and followed the arrows. You have to hand it to Ikea, all their stores have the same layout as far as my experience goes and unfortunately for my wallet, the same marketplace. Naturally I bought more wineglasses even though I don’t need them and a very large packet of paper napkins – always useful. By the time we got to the cashier, I’d added a curtain pole for the converted utility room’s new glass doors and a set of serving cutlery for Mumo. I just wished I had remembered to bring a carrier bag because trying to balance a long metal pole and a box of breakable glass whilst trying to get back to the car was a bit of a stressful experience especially since I’d parked near the exit where everyone was trying to get home for lunch. At speed. You will be relieved to know that all items made it home safely even if I dinged a few Citroens on the way with my curtain rod.

Swedish home furnishings weren’t my only purchases last week, Denis and I finally got around to salad shopping. Our potager now has almost perfectly straight rows of lettuces and spring onions, all waiting to grow up and be summer suppers. Denis strung some bits of white plastic sheeting on bamboo poles to keep the birds at bay – I did suggest putting Papa Noël in the enclosure but apparently, the oiseaux are wise to portly men with white beards who don’t move a muscle. Speaking of winged creatures, I fear we may have had a death or two chez nous. I think either Mrs Pratt the pigeon or her bird-brain of a husband are no more, the incredibly messy construction of their nest above my terrace lies empty and I did see Arry carrying around a feathered corpse the other day. I doubt he is capable of catching one but the local buzzards are partial to a pigeon pie so one might have dropped its prey. I will miss seeing their ugly babies poking their heads out from the roof space.

Whilst I’m not about to mourn the loss of buzzard bait, I did go to a sort of ‘Remembrance and Celebration’ evening yesterday with Denis and several members of his family. His niece who is also a gal pal of mine, lost her 17 year old son to a car accident a decade ago. I don’t know if it’s a traditional French thing or just this household but the event is marked every year with a party and a table over-loaded with delicious plates of everything her son loved to eat. Stephanie told me that one should never cry on such days, remembering a life should be one of celebration not weepy wailing or words to that effect. I didn’t think I would but I thoroughly enjoyed myself despite eating far too much and waking up this morning with what I hope is just Spring sneezes and not a cold. I’m pretty sure Stephanie and Rashid (her other half)’s girth-challenged Chihuahua had an equally bad tummy ache this morning, she has her own seat at the dining table you know…

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die”. (Thomas Campbell)

You will be thrilled to know that we have finally had some rain, the proper stuff too. Drizzle is the best kind when you want the garden to get a decent soaking, heavy downpours just make mud. Unfortunately, we had the winds too which howled their seasonal song non-stop for three days blowing any good mood about the rain right out the proverbial window. At least Denis and his brother, Thierry were able to dig out a fairly sizeable piece of terre below my apartment balcony so Lionel can dump a load of cement in it. Max chauffagiste is about to put solar panels against the wall, apparently grass is no good to bounce sun rays off – we need concrete apparently. As much as I hate seeing part of my little apartment garden being ripped up, I have discovered its a great way of getting rid of the bits of brick and mortar left over from the rest of the house projects that have been piled up randomly outside. Denis even managed to lay a pathway down with some paving slabs I found in the back of the old chicken house, something I would have been more thankful for except that he wasn’t supposed to be lifting heavy things and now he’s hurt himself again. If he says “ce n’est pas grave” one more time, I’ll hit him where it is serious.

We went on a little shopping spree mid-week. Whilst I was at Abraham’s small-holding a couple of weeks ago, chatting and drinking that delicious local grape, I had spied several aisles of old theatre seats circa 1900- the ones that flip up their plush cushioned bottoms. Perfect for what will eventually be my library upstairs. Adolphe, Abraham told me, had left them there as he didn’t have space in his second-hand emporium but I could buy whichever row I liked. Hence the shopping trip. Denis and I popped over to Adolphe’s place, our man had invited us anyway as he had a new girlfriend – an English one, that he wanted me to meet. That and he had found a 1960’s coffee table – perhaps a quick peek would be in order? Sarah, who it turns out is Scottish, was very chatty and easy to like, I get the feeling Adolphe is rather smitten by this one – a change as his usual ladies are half his age, Sarah is closer to mine. The next hour or so was spent whizzing back and forth across the main road, the only thing separating Adolphe’s and Abraham’s properties, choosing the right set of chairs and oohing at the gorgeous mosiac- topped table all of which are now safely tucked into the remis for a little bit of restoration work. I’m itching to get started on my upstairs but at the moment, there are no stairs – just the loft door accessed by a ladder. Lionel is due to begin putting a new ‘entrance’ in at the end of the month, probably wishful thinking on my part as he hasn’t been able to finish his jobs outside yet because of the other thing I wished for – rain.

With Spring just around the corner, we finally got around to the local garden centre on Friday to buy the first potager plantings – lettuce and spring onions. My beau is of the firm opinion that salad is always on the dining table when the weather warms up so chose a couple of varieties whilst I moseyed through the cacti section. Very few things survive on the verge that banks the other side of our front fence during the hot summer, apart from rosemary, so I decided prickly desert dwellers would be the perfect inhabitants. They should also stop that dog who lives in the next street from running up said bank and encouraging my woofers into a noisy confrontation through the wire. It might make Sherman think twice about digging another escape route too seeing as he can no longer use the ones down the back.

I’ve been a good girl all week, tap tapping away at the second Book. I can’t say I’m liking what I’ve written so far, the flow is a bit hit and miss but Sally editor is murmuring positives so me and my keyboard haven’t come to blows yet. With the cover of the first done, I’m just waiting for Cal to finish preparing the photographs. And The Book now has a title. I’m happy with it even if my darling son told me it sounded like something a middle-aged woman with too much energy would think of. No, I’m not going to tell you – I have no doubt I’m going to be spending next week trying to decide which font best compliments my amazing nephew’s cover design. No, you’re not seeing that either. I’m still hoping for a May release date – just in time for summer, sun-warmed solar panels and a lot of salad…

“An optimist is the human personification of spring” (Susan J. Bissonette)

March winds and April showers. Well, the first has definitely arrived and cold too but we really need the second now. As much as I love the sunshine, we are desperately in need of a few weeks of the wet stuff. With Spring approaching, the blossom is starting to bud on the fruit trees and the daylight hours are filled with the sound of birds chirping but the terre is rock hard. At this rate, Denis and I will be buying cacti instead of cucumbers to plant in the potager. Buckets are back in the bathrooms too – water is becoming a precious commodity. If one was to believe anything the weather forecasters predict, the end of next week will have us in shorts and under umbrellas. Let’s hope.

With the winter months all but over, the chasse or hunting season has finally ended which means a change in scenery on our dawn runs. Whizzing through the vines has become a bit of an extreme sport, what with keeping the woofers out of the way of tractors turning the dried out clay soil into lethal ankle-breaking gulleys – I still have my knee strapped up like a Victorian corset so I could do without adding another trip up. Whilst not unfamiliar, this route is more road than rough clay and pretty much all uphill until you get to the last bit – what goes up must come down at some point, better on the knees but harder on the butt. And my peace of mind because the down bit means entering the neighbouring village, Prexain and its cats. Arry especially likes the latter which means me having to put his lead on and hope to hell he doesn’t spy a feline or two. Arry + downhill + prey is not a pleasant experience.

As I mentioned in the previous blog, I had a visit to the dentist this week. Actually two visits, the first was so she could stick an injection inside my lower lip and prepare my apparently, unusually small and over-crowded bottom teeth and the second so she could fit a couple of veneers. Lying on her dentist chair with my tiny mouth wide open and close to getting lock-jaw, Annie chatted away happily as she fitted and fiddled whilst I answered her questions in a sort of tortured sign language. Using the words; ” don’t move” and “does that feel okay?” in the same sentence seems to be some sort of private dental joke. She did a fantastic job though and I do like my new fangs. Thankfully, the last bit of the major mouth overhaul is at the beginning of May, after which I will be smiling without gaps in my gob.

It won’t surprise you to read that I was back at the vets again on Friday. I’d found a small lump on Arry’s chest (no it wasn’t his brain, that has never been accounted for) so being a worrywart and him being a great big goof of a German Shepherd, I popped him in for a check-up. Denis offered to come with me but I managed to convince him that I could handle the beast, I’ve had a lot of practice over the last seven years. That and I cleverly booked the first appointment after lunch, less likelihood of there being other needy pets waiting. In fact, the only other dog in there was an elderly Pointer with an obvious bladder issue and it just so happens that Arry loves Pointers. He had a bosom buddy in London called Arnie of the same breed. A semi-calm Arry is a wondrous thing and so is a negative result on a little lump. Just a lipoma although how he can have any fatty bits anywhere is beyond me.

With this good news and me being able to smile about it, Denis whisked me off to his brother Thierry’s house in Carcassonne for some wine and witty conversation and so I could meet Thierry’s wife, Josy. As usual, Denis arrived at the gate in his ancient but adored camionette who I don’t think has forgiven me for grating her clutch that day when we went down to the river. Ever the gentleman, D jumped out and came around to open the passenger door for me but it stuck fast. We wiggled, pushed, pulled at the thing but it wouldn’t budge. Not having any choice in the matter, I ungraciously clambered over the driver’s seat and upon settling in, noticed that my seatbelt buckle was caught in said door. “No worries” said D, “I’ll get Thierry to help me get it out when we get there, just hold the rest of it around your middle”. Clutching a seatbelt whilst your other half negotiates the busy city roads in a vengeful camionette may sound like a wise decision but as we turned a sharp left towards our destination, the door suddenly swung open, narrowly missing a motor scooter and taking me with it. Managing to grab the handle and close the bloody thing before me and the wine disappeared onto the asphalt, I broke out into a fit of giggles. Denis thought I’d gone all hysterical but the whole incident was absolutely hilarious and couldn’t stop laughing. Poor chap had to down a couple of drinks before he too saw the funny side. I did make sure I was well strapped in on the way home though, I’m not sure his camionette and I are even yet…

“March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.” (Hal Borland)

If the week before was all about flip-flops and warm toes, this one has been back to boots and mittens. Normal February weather has resumed. I only hope my Mimosa tree won’t be affected by the drop in degrees as she’s blooming already. I think the whole garden is getting a little confused as what season it is. What we really need is rain and as much as I hate the thought, we need quite a few days of it. After all, I have a potager to plan and all those tomatoes and lettuces like a lot of water. Alas, according to the local weather station, that is to say anyone you talk to in the epicerie – snow is about to descend on us.

I spent most of last week being bored. Although I went back to running up the hills albeit with knees strapped and eyes downward watching out for rogue roots but feeling good, everyone else seemed to think I should be taking it easy and putting my legs up. With my offers of help being turned down politely and not much to do in the garden except amuse the woofers, by Friday I was ready to punch something -unfortunately, we can’t put the boxing bag up until the painting is done in the converted utility room. I am not an easy person to be around when I’m not doing – ask Mumo. I get tetchy, twitchy and liable to fly off the handle about the most insignificant annoyances like not being able to find my sparring pads. So with cabin fever beginning to reach dangerous levels, I decided a visit to a couple of second-hand shops was in order. The new space needs a sofa bed for a start and I do love wandering around trocantes looking at the oddities mashed in with the ordinary everyday stuff. Naturally I roped Denis into coming with me, apart from knowing the various patrons of such places, he never fails to put fun into our days out. We didn’t find a sofa bed and even if we had, I wouldn’t have paid the extortionate prices scrawled on their labels but we did have a bit of a giggle over a matching set of Spanish Toreador outfits. Very short Toreadors. Boot empty and not ready to return to chez moi, we then opted for a trip over to l’Horte and a bit of pygmy goat cuddling- tearing up the back roads in Giselle was great therapy even if Denis’ knuckles were turning white. To use a quote from one of my favourite movies “this baby corners like she’s on rails”. I also had a load of bagged up prawn shells on the back seat to off-load into the river which were a bit whiffy. I think more of the seafood scraps ended up in the bushes lining the bank than the actual water – I don’t have a good aim and those what didn’t make into the fishes mouths ended up being scoffed by the resident dog. A veritable Labrador buffet. With the houses now nothing but bricks and mortar, literally, there was something quite poignant about a Lab wiggling its way down to the water’s edge – the first L’Horte dog was one too.

Finally, one offer of servitude was accepted and I skipped the short distance between our house and Saba and Roy’s. Both were taking advantage of some holiday time to paint walls and chase up construction mishaps, like us they’ve bought a property that needs a complete overhaul and since neither likes cleaning very much, I donned my Marigolds and got to work. Bathrooms sparkling, I left a few hours later armed with a cake-filled box and a bottle of wine for the dinner I was hosting the same evening and headed home. I do wonder what the residents of Rouffiac must have thought about seeing this regular runner wandering up the road, jeans covered in plaster dust and arms loaded with sugar and alcohol. Saba suggested I finish the look off with a cigarette dangling from my lips but I didn’t want to drop ash into the gateau. And it was a very nice gateau too shared between great friends who know how to banish the boredom blues and put a smile back on my face. Speaking of smiles, I have two dental appointments next week. Oh whoopee…

“Friendship is when people know all about you but like you anyway” (Unknown)

Who’d have though it, flip flops in February? Yet, this weekend we have been bathing in blue skies and 20 degree temperatures. It won’t last of course, the forecast for the week ahead looks much more like what one would expect at this time of year but this little village is taking full advantage of the unseasonable warmth. Luckily for the kids, it’s half term so they’re out playing in the streets or hanging their legs out of open sun-baked windows. The woofers are sprawled out either on my terrace or in whatever bit of garden isn’t in shade. Simon even managed to find some charcoal so we had the first barbecue of the year last night although we did eat inside – we aren’t yet in summer nights.

The warm weather couldn’t have come at a better time. Out running on Thursday morning, I stupidly tripped over a root and whacked my left knee. Naturally, me being me, I dusted myself off and continued my kilometres, blood dripping down my legs and body trying very hard to give up. I’m a stubborn lass. By the time I’d got home and in the shower, my knee was throbbing and in dire need of a little patching up. Except I didn’t have any plasters big enough to cover the messy wound so I messaged Denis. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived with what looked like an entire medical cupboard and bandaged me up whilst muttering words about what an idiot I was. I told him it was his fault after all, if I hadn’t been daydreaming about him and the roses he bought me for Valentine’s day, I wouldn’t have hit the ground. My sister-in-law, Alba insisted I would need a couple of weeks rest before it would be fully healed and ready to go up hills again, she doesn’t know me well enough yet to realise that would never happen. I can’t keep still for five minutes. Mind you, I did put my bare toes out for a few hours yesterday up on the pool deck and exposed my lower limbs to the sunny skies which seems to have made my genou happy. Nothing like a bit of heat therapy.

Mumo and I went over to L’Horte mid-week. Not being one to step outside before Spring, she had decided that the double-digit degrees were just about enough for her to venture further than the front door and she hadn’t visited Pop for a while. The visit also gave me a chance to introduce her to Nicolai and Severine, our tenants at the old homestead and see what they’d done with the land. We got up close and personal with the mini-goats who came running for a bit of a cuddle and a lot of ‘aren’t you gorgeous’ before we wandered down to the river and Pop’s tree. Goats, pigs and donkeys aside, it was wonderful for Mumo to see how L’Horte had been given a chance to survive, after all it was originally the market garden for the Abbeye in St-Hilaire – Pop would have liked it. Sadly the houses have been pretty much gutted now and the doors and windows taken away for scrap. Just shells of a former life.

Speaking of times gone past, I’m back at the computer again tap tapping away. I can’t lie – it’s tough going. For some reason I thought writing the second book would be easier but no. I have to keep telling myself that this is only the first draft, the one what I have written went through three of them and took almost a year to complete but I’m hard to please. My editor tells me this is quite normal and once I get through past chapter three, I should feel the flow. I hope so because right now I’ve hit a dam. Still, the weather isn’t going to break until Wednesday so with any luck, like my knee, the sunshine will make everything better. Life is always brighter in flip-flops…

“There is always in February some one day, at least, when one smells the yet distant, but surely coming, summer.” (Gertrude Jekyll)

I got in a bit of a fluency flap mid-week. Despite spending the majority of my time, particularly the social part, with mes amis français – there are days when I lose hope in ever being able to rattle off sentences without doubting my grammar. The thing is, I never seem to worry too much when I’m talking to those friends but trying to argue a point with a shop assistant without getting frustratingly tongue-tied can really stomp on your confidence. It doesn’t help either being blonde in an area where most are dark-haired – the conversation invariably starts with “You are English, non?” and then my linguistic learnings go out the window.

It all started with a visit to a furniture shop in Carcassonne on Tuesday. The weather was miserably wet so I roped Denis into coming with me; I had a few errands to run and he was bored stiff of being on post-op recovery down time. Owing to the fact that I had apparently missed a delivery from said establishment, the other half of the bed my brother had bought at no small cost, I had promised Simon that I’d pay them a visit and find out what had happened. I had been at home that whole afternoon and neither myself or the woofers had seen the truck – that is to say, they hadn’t been when they said they had. Anyone in this village will tell you that my woofers can be set off by a leaf blowing past the front gate. Now, I’m a London gal and know how to deal with snotty counter-controllers but this one saw me coming – blonde hair and all. She refused to take any blame on the shop’s behalf for only delivering half the fully paid up bed in the first place and insisted that the delivery chaps had rung both bells and no-one answered. Simon would have to pay for another drop-off. I thought I said all the right things in the right order but her smug smile made my temperature rise and Denis had to drag me out of the building before I threw a tantrum. To make matters worse, by the time we got to the next stop, I needed someone to fix a thingy in my kitchen, my French had decided to sail. Luckily, the ever-patient Denis managed to charm the kitchen fitter into coming that evening to fix the problem. And he did, very nicely.

The whole debacle put me in a mood to match the grey skies above, something even running up the hills couldn’t shake. And then, there was the vet appointment. I have to say I did warn Denis that Arry could be a little more hyper than usual seeing as how he has never understood the art of keeping calm in a waiting room but my man insisted on holding the other end of the leash. I had Simi who has the art of Zen down to tee in any situation. If he wasn’t lunging at every other dog in the room, Arry barked and bounced up and down like a demon possessed. I could feel everyone’s eyes on the blonde with the crazy canine, that is except for the vets who for some reason find my over-sized German Shepherd delightful. It goes without saying that Arry would never have played up had I been the one on the collar, he just decided to take full advantage of D’s inexperience at handling dynamite.

Finally, by the end of the week, the rain stopped and sun soared high into the sky. And with it Sophi’s sagging spirit. Denis decided that the best way to shift my blues was a walk down by the river. The River Aude is just a short hop across the main road onto a dirt track and after a few precarious wiggles, you’ve reached Nirvana. Or the river’s edge anyway which to me, is total bliss. I even got to drive D’s ancient and much-adored camionette, although I don’t know who was more scared – me or the car. It’s been a long time since I’ve driven a stick shift, even longer using one whilst trying to keep on an almost non-existent path into the woods. It was worth it. The sound of the water and the stunning landscape surrounding it was the perfect panacea to my murky mood. We ended up walking across the fields below Rouffiac to say hello to Abraham’s pigs before stopping by to say hello to the afore-mentioned. Abraham is one of the sweetest people you could meet, a tall gorgeous-looking (ladies, he’s married) Rastafarian who owns a small-holding on the same short hop across the main road. He is also one who loves to hold parties so wanted to show us the new space he’d created for such great occasions and whilst we were there, we could buy some of his fresh pork cuts. Before long, familiar faces started to arrive and an excuse to open a bottle of wine that just so happened to have started life in the field next-door. I may have been the only blonde there but amongst friends, such frustrations are forgotten and words began to flow once more. Inevitably, the week finished with a dinner party chez moi, complete with bangers and mash drowned in good old British onion gravy. Wine though, not beer and a knees up. I even bought the heels out. I haven’t worn stilettos since I left London – country living doesn’t really lend itself to such footwear and Denis is a little shorter than me but a girl’s got to have her dancing shoes. I can only apologise to the residents of Rouffiac however for the car crash karaoke that Saba and I subjected their ears to. Learning to speak French fluently is one thing but singing it is a different matter, all the notes were definitely in the wrong order…..

“It is great to be a blonde. With low expectations it’s very easy to surprise people.” (Pamela Anderson)

I ought to title this week’s blog, “Sleepless in Rouffiac” based on the lack of kip this past week. The health app on my watch is starting to get testy about my irregular night time routine, I can feel it rolling its techie eyes at me every morning as I struggle out of bed. And it’s not just inanimate objects holding judgement, as I got ready to go out for a meal with friends last night, Arry stood in the bathroom doorway with the most guilt-inducing face as if to say, “seriously Mum, not again!”

The social distancing between me and my duvet over the past few days hasn’t been all my fault. It all started last Sunday when Mumo called me to say she was sick and in bed. We put the cause of her maladie down to perhaps eating something that hadn’t agreed with her so tucked her in with lashings of ginger tea and strict instructions not to leave her bedchamber until her tummy had settled again. The following day and having done the daily food shop, I popped over to Carcassonne with Denis to pick up my new motor and say goodbye to Josey Jeep. A couple of hours later and having sent most of the Toyota showroom into hysterics (there’s only so much you can absorb about the latest whizz bang technology before you just want to lighten the conversation), I drove Giselle Rav 4 home to join Mumo’s little Yaris. Feeling unusually thirsty and knowing I had to feed the woofers, I returned to chez moi and that’s when it all kicked off. One minute I was watching Denis pootle off in his little camionette and the next, I was praying to the porcelain Gods. For six hours. Eventually, drained and shivering, I crawled under the covers surrounded by very concerned four-pawed medics and crashed out. And I woke up feeling perfectly fine. Whatever the bug was that had tried to fell Mumo and I, had left the proverbial building although it did take my desire for any coffee with it for a day or so. The odd thing is that neither Simon or Alba succumbed considering they were sharing the same crockery, nor did Denis but then again, he says he’s too tough for weedy tummy troubles.

I did manage to get a decent night’s sleep mid-week which was just as well since I had back to back dinner do’s by the end of it. Friday was a belated birthday celebration for Denis’ daughter, Marina, with members of their family and Saturday, as I mentioned, was a feast with friends over at Adolphe’s (he who owns the local brocante , a sort of cross between a flea market and a second-hand antiques emporium). Adolphe is a larger than life character who was once an international rugby player. On first meeting, you’d think he was a bit like the French version of Arthur Daley only much taller but he’s actually a total darling and much more worldly that most would give him credit for. And an excellent host. Needless to say I got home in the early hours and my body isn’t thanking me for that. Or the woofers. I have promised them faithfully that I won’t be going anywhere for a while, at least until my health app is happy again.

Finally with the arrival of February and Denis being able to start work again, we will be able to get back out into the garden in the coming weeks. The potager needs planting, I have no idea with what but apparently tomatoes, salad and beans are on the menu. I have insisted that before anything commences, we need to sort out the far too penetrable fence – I still have anxiety attacks every time I let Sherman out so I walk around with treat-laden pockets. He’ll be too fat soon to get down any of the holes. It isn’t just the worry of terriers roaming the street of Rouffiac, it’s also the local cats who, knowing the dogs aren’t running wild in the back garden, are using it as a communal toilet. And it seems, it isn’t only felines ferreting around. Alice is on the hunt and has decided Sherman should learn the art of sniffing out what I can only assume are rats in the woodpiles. I’m not sure he’s totally convinced of the fun to be had standing dead-still and cocking your ear against a rotting log but Alice can do just that for hours on end. Mind you, she’s keeping her son occupied and far enough away from the liberty line so I’m all for the terrier tutorial. And I’ll be able to sleep at night….

“A good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures for anything.” (Irish Proverb)