I woke up early this morning, not because I was over-joyed at the thought of turning 55, but because the clocks went back last night and no-one told the pups. I like to avoid big celebrations on my birthday. I have learnt over the last half century and a bit that any plans to do something special, especially on those ‘significant’ years, tend to end in misery. For a start, it’s on Hallowe’en, the ancient Celtic festival when it was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to Earth and people burnt sacrifices to ward off evil. Yay. Thankfully these days we don’t tend to carve up goats, just pumpkins, but any chance of going out to a restaurant without seeing spiders hanging from the ceiling or kids covered from head to toe in fake blood is pretty slim. Having said that, France doesn’t do the whole ‘trick or treat’ thing as this weekend is dedicated to visiting past loved ones and tomorrow is All Saints Day, a holiday. Traditionally chrysanthemums are placed on family graves so the shops tend to be full of brightly coloured flowers instead of gory costumes. I think my 50th year was probably the worst as I lost Macgyver and Arry put me in hospital which meant no big party. Tony thoughtfully booked a night out in a restaurant and invited my closest friends, two of which turned up three hours late completely blotto and a fight broke out between one and someone else’s husband.

Despite my lack of excitement at getting older, the past week has been a pretty special as I got to spend a whole 6 days with my bestie, Irene. We drove up to Toulouse and pottered about the city centre and all the shops, a first time for me as I had only been through the outskirts before. I can thoroughly recommend a trip there even if we couldn’t remember which car park I had stuck Josephine in which was a little stressful. We did the local market thing and took a long walk up through the vines with some of the woofers, plus my usual shouting at Arry to behave. A couple of neighbours popped over for aperos resulting in everyone having fuzzy heads the next day and my new pal Pip dropped in to say hello. As much as I loved letting Rene have a glimpse of my life en France, the best part was just being able to sit and chat over a few glasses in the evenings and the weather was kind enough to let us do so. I wasn’t alone in my appreciation for the visit, poor girl had woofers scrambling to share her bed every night. So much for loyalty.

As I’m not one for birthday cakes, my mother once made me one in the shape of a witch’s head when I was much much younger and covered it in liquorice for the hair which was a disaster as I hate the stuff, I suppose I ought to make a birthday wish without blowing half a ton of candles out. But to be honest, I’m not going to because a) my asks of the universe tend to go adrift and b) I can’t think of anything. Right now, I am blessed with a beautiful home in a country I love albeit with a bloody great pool in the middle of the garden and no deck or fencing yet, a son whom I adore even if he wants to go and live on the other side of the world, my mum next door whenever I need to rant about something and nine occasionally loyal woofers all of which are currently spread in comatose fashion around my little abode. Life might have dealt me a few lemons over the past three and half years but this girl who was born in the Year of the Fire Horse and a Scorpio to boot, is thankful for what she has.

As I hit the middle 50’s today, my amazingly wonderful niece turns 21. I’m sure Katie will be out in London town, in costume is highly unlikely knowing her, as I did all those years ago but mine was in New York. The less said about that particular occasion, the better. So Happy Birthday my mini-witch.

“You know you’ve aged when you read events you lived in a history book” (Will Ferrell)

It’s been a busy week which is just as well as I was itching for Saturday to arrive, and Irene. Having not seen my best friend in a whole year (and a bit), she was finally going to come and spend a week chez moi. So I purposely kept myself busy and filled the diary with everything that needed to be done so I could spend a week with Rene and whatever we decided to get up to. She couldn’t have chosen a better time to visit as neither Alice or I are able to do much in the running department, she has post-op stitches and I managed to do something to my knee whizzing up a hill the other day. Naturally, I didn’t take much notice of it and carried on bouncing around on it until the joint refused to comply any further. So rest and relaxation it is.

I am beginning to calm down a little after Callum’s ‘New Zealand’ bombshell, although I am still not comfortable with the back-packing idea. There is always the worry in the back of my mind that he will be stuck somewhere without his diabetic medication which is silly as he’s been taking care of himself since he was old enough to know where to stick an injection. He’s also on the list for a diabetic sort of pacemaker thing which he aims to get before he travels which will make his Mum happy. And, as my French teacher pointed out (classes going very well thank you for asking), NZ isn’t exactly the backwater of the world and with all this Covid stuff it’ll be a while before he will be able to wander freely anyway. I suppose we forget that when we were his age and decided to go somewhere, WhatsApp didn’t exist let alone mobile phones so our parents hadn’t a clue what we were doing except what was scrawled on the occasional postcard.

With the French classes going well, I armed myself with my new found confidence and went for a meeting with an investment accountant on Wednesday. I did get a little stressed whilst driving aimlessly around Castelnaudary (home of the Cassoulet just so you know) with a SatNav that kept telling me I had reached my location which blatantly wasn’t it and several rather rude lorry drivers. I got there eventually, it turned out I was only a hundred metres away, and after an hour or so I left feeling frightfully important with a file of possibilities. I still can’t understand financial jargon in any language but at least one of us knows what she’s doing.

I couldn’t help but feel a little emotional taking Alice to the vet on Friday for her sterilisation, it seems like only yesterday she was fussing over her new-born puppies, but there was only ever going to have one litter. The vets here don’t tend to go for the full hysterectomy unless there is a problem so I felt a little better knowing just the ovaries were being removed. I had plenty of time to think about it all as I got stuck in a traffic jam on the way to the clinic, the first one I have experienced since leaving the UK. As I sat there, doing the New York Times Spelling Bee and looking at the vast countryside around us, I began to notice the silence around me – no one was beeping their horn or shouting out of the window. I’m a long way from the city now I thought as we were eventually diverted around the overturned manure trailer in the middle of the dual carriageway.

Mumo has fixed my broken vase or should I say glued all the bits together and then carefully brushed over the cracks with gold paint. Somehow it looks even more beautiful with all its flaws on display. Thank you Mumo..

“It is necessary to relax your muscles when you can. Relaxing your brain is fatal” (Stirling Moss)

Just as Autumn brings russet red and yellow colours to the countryside and cooler winds start to blow, I suppose it is inevitable that it brings in changes elsewhere too. As we all begin to poke our heads out of the Covid bubble, the world beyond and plans for the future bring excitement to some and ‘head over heart’ decisions for others.

Mumo finally moved back into the main house this week after Lord knows how many months camping out in my spare room. It feels very strange to have my little abode all to myself again, although it was comforting to have the woofers in my room for a change – apparently Mumo’s bed was more inviting. Mind you, it won’t be long before they disappear again, my bestie Irene is finally coming next week for a bit of R&R French-style and I’m not sure the spare room door closes properly.

Mumo wasn’t the only one to move out this week, my nephew Max decided the time had come for him to spread his wings and he won’t be the only one. Just I selfishly though Callum might want to settle here, he threw me a curveball – he’s going to fly off too. I know one has to do the right thing by one’s child and let them follow their dreams but New Zealand? You can imagine the conversation. Of course he should travel and see the world whilst he’s young and Tony loved NZ but does he have to start so far away? At least he’s applying for carpentry jobs first, apparently there is shortage there (and everywhere else Callum!) as I really don’t like the idea of back-packing. Bless Max who always tries to see things in a positive light, “you see Aunty Sophi, if that’s the furthest place then everywhere he goes from then on will be closer to you”. Have fun in Jordan my darling nephew.

Not everyone is leaving though, we had a short visit from Simon and Alba (my sister-in-law). I haven’t seen Alba for a couple of years so after a scrumptious meal at a local restaurant, we sat at my bar table chatting over wine and Limoncello until the early hours about everything and anything. It’s the first time that section of the my house has ever had company and thoroughly enjoyable it was too, I don’t think my head thanked me for it though.

Darling Denis is finally back so the grounds have had a major haircut and plans for the pool landscaping have been discussed and agreed on. Since the bloody thing has taken up so much space in the garden, I am going to move the potager into the courtyard instead. The woofers were thrilled to have their friend back – they get very bored with just me. I booked Alice in for her spay next week, I can’t help but feel a little sad about it but I definitely don’t want to do the puppy thing again. She has been an amazing mother and she still has her ‘not so small’ son here who definitely isn’t making any plans…..

“Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person’s character lies in their own hands.” (Anne Frank)

It’s been a surprisingly busy week for me. I had my first French class, took Josephine (my Jeep) in for a service and went to look at some potential apartment purchases in Carcassonne. And of course, managed all things pool side. You will all be pleased to know that the bloody thing is now full and pump activated and has even had its first ‘swimmers’, Callum, Max and Arry. I did try to keep Arry out of the water, not least because the deck isn’t been constructed yet and there are piles of terre everywhere but his hysterical screeching (boys needed saving) dictated otherwise. I was assured that the temperature wasn’t that bad but it is October after all. Still, I am relieved that the flipping thing is finally sorted and I can now concentrate on the landscaping. The lovely Lionel assures me that he can get the fence done soon, I am a little concerned that the Mayor might notice we don’t have one yet.

I made it to my French class without any directional issues. There were only two of us which was a little disappointing but the teacher has assured us that numbers will increase. I honestly didn’t think my French was that bad but two hours later, I thought my brain was going to explode. I know it was only the first session and the other lady had been there before but I couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed about just how bad my grammar actually is. Mind you, it makes one realise just how hard the English language must be to learn – one word can have so many connotations depending on where and how you stick it in a sentence.

One of the things that I still can’t get used to in France is the lunch hour, or perhaps I should say, the lunch hours (12 to 2 pm). Having dropped Josephine off for her yearly service at the swanky Mercedes-Jeep centre in Carcassonne and told to come back a couple of hours later only to find that no-one was actually working at 12.05 p.m, it was a little annoying to have to go back in for a third time. Luckily Max, my nephew, enjoys driving and I did get a very clean Jeep for our troubles. They even smoothed out my little dent on the passenger door with no charge so all is forgiven.

I finally got to go apartment hunting this week. Not being all that familiar with the town centre, I was embarrassingly late for my appointment with Lesa, the immobilier. Grovelled apologies made, I went off to view a couple of very different properties to get an idea of what sort of thing I could afford. I did like the first one very much, it was small but perfectly located with parking, a wine bar and a coffee shop at one’s fingertips. Although the second one had a beautiful terrace overlooking a little square, I found it too big for the kind of rental I was thinking of. A lot to think about and I am glad that I have the wonderfully knowledgeable and effervescent Lesa to help me. I did take a stroll around the rues after we parted ways just to improve my bearings for the next time however!

I had a little disaster the other morning. I broke the piece of Poole pottery that Tony had bought for me some years ago. I didn’t close the latch on the bathroom window properly so it blew open and the vase took a dive. Amazingly it managed to break into large bits with the bottom half still intact, all of which Mumo has managed to glue back. There are a few tiny fragments missing (mainly because Madame Antonie the cleaning lady swept them away) so we had the idea of repairing it ‘Kintsugi’ style where you paint over the cracks with gold paint. This Japanese art of fixing broken pottery is said to symbolise acceptance of change and flaws rather than throw away the history of an object. Very fitting I think……

“It symbolizes how we must incorporate our wounds into who we are, rather than try to merely repair and forget them.” (David Wong)

It has been a week dominated by only one thing – the pool. Finally, after God knows how many months of headaches and delays, the weather report said all systems go. Roy and the Nicks (the tech team) arrived ready to lay the felt and put the liner in, not an easy task when you consider the size of the bloody thing and how many wrinkles had to be smoothed out as the hose trickled its bounty onto the pool floor. It’s at this point that I ought to mention how bad I am at Maths (scraped a CSE for those who remember such basic exams) so I hadn’t quite realised just how long it would take to get the water up to the first marker (so the boys can come and tweak everything before it’s filled right up). Two days to get to 60 centimetres in fact and I don’t even want to think about the water bill. All we have to do now is get the decking and fencing in, render the pool house and landscape the surroundings ready for next summer. I’m hoping the winter cover will keep the worst of the chill out or else we will wearing wetsuits in August.

With the arrival of October, thoughts turn to what to do as the temperatures begin to drop and the nights get darker. Well, I start my French classes on Tuesday and I’m feeling a little nervous to be honest. Apart from my unbelievably bad sense of direction even when following a SatNav and I have to hit the centre of Carcassonne in the peak rush hour, the main reason I decided to do the group thing was to get a bit more social life so one wants to make a good impression.

I had an idea a few months ago about extending my little abode into the space above. Said space is the same size as the apartment but currently only accessible via a loft ladder and to say it needs a lot of work is putting it mildly. The ceiling is barely there, there’s a huge concrete beam running along the floor and brick columns which look like someone wanted to play Jenga but it has potential. Lots of it. Of course, like everything else at chez nous, it’s going to need a very patient building team and a flexible budget so definitely a project for next year. I can’t help but feel excited about it though even if our current builder thought I was nuts. Now I just have to get a couple of properties in the portfolio to pay someone equally bonkers to take it on. Watch this space as they say.

I took the opportunity to take a load of dog stuff to one of the local charities a few days ago, how I managed to accumulate so much, I’ll never know. The car was crammed with fleeces, beds, blankets, bowls, coats, collars and the odd harness or two and after a quick drive into Carcassonne, gratefully received by Ingrid and her rescue. Mumo asked me later if I perhaps thought of volunteering, absolutely not I replied. Getting involved with anything dog-related is the last thing I want, I have quite enough of it with my own brood here. As much as I love them, I need to get away from them occasionally just to relax and talk about something other than the latest canine conundrum.

Arry just asked me when the pool would be open, Sherman fancies a dip…

“Either you stay in the shallow end of the pool or you go out in the ocean (Christopher Reeve)

I’m definitely not a ‘fly by the seat of my pants’ gal’ (to quote a line from one of my favourite films), spontaneity is just not me. I like order in my life, straight lines, clean surfaces and all that. Knowing when and where things are happening at all times is my kind of happy. I may have mentioned more than a couple of times in this blog my tendency towards being a bit of a control freak so when people don’t show up or I have to change my daily routine due to others, it’s not unusual for me to feel totally out of balance or worse still, have a hissy fit. Losing Tony so suddenly may well be a contributing factor but I’m pretty sure I was born with a calendar in one hand and a bottle of disinfectant in the other. With all this in mind, you can imagine my state of mind this week when Lionel didn’t show up as promised and we started the new running schedule.

I liked running or Thursdays and Saturdays mainly because the latter marked the end of the week for me as Sunday is a no workout day, running on the new days just feels unsettling. I liked the routine of changing the bed linen after a good ramble to start the weekend (battling duvet cover aside), 20 minutes of high intensity bouncing around with an online trainer is just not the same. Arry is, of course, thrilled about not having to wear a hi-vis jacket through the hills although I do keep that cowbell on his collar just in case there’s an errant hunter who doesn’t check his diary.

The blessed Roy (all things pool tech) turned up with a sump pump for the pool this week. The previous week’s deluge had left a couple of inches of murky water which needed to be suctioned out so that we could dry it. Sounds daft but we can’t fill the pool until the bottom is dry because it will go mouldy under the liner. Lionel also needed to get the pool house roof on so that the electrics would be safe and put the concrete wall under the steps which is why I had a complete tantrum when he failed to show up as scheduled. Poor thing got an earful from both myself and Moth who pointed out, pun intended, that he (Lionel) might be suffering from an ear infection but his sister being stressed was far more severe. The roof is just about finished and I am back-filling the space under the stairs. I ought to send a bunch of flowers to his wife – she hasn’t seen him all weekend. My darling Denis should be back next week, life runs so much smoother when he’s in control.

Poor Arry had to go to the vets this week as his ears were playing up again, his fault for being born with attaching radars. Actually I blame Alice as she constantly has her tongue down one of them, it’s the nurse in her. The vet was one of the newer ones in the practice, I have met her before as she has been instrumental in getting the pups jabbed up but she had never met our Arry. German Shepherds do, unfortunately and without reason, have a rep for being difficult so I wasn’t surprised when she asked if he was friendly. The ensuing facial wash and counter-wiping tail wag was assurance enough even he wasn’t overly keen on staying still whilst she swabbed his oreilles. You gotta love the goof.

Callum turned 23 in Tuesday and since we had all clubbed together to buy him a carpentry thingamajig machine, I decided to make him a themed cake. It didn’t exactly turn out as I had envisioned, what was supposed to be a model of a sander looked more like the blob from Ghostbusters. I may have a creative mind but it doesn’t seem to connect with the rest of my body. As Callum says, I may embarrass him most of the time but I do make him laugh. I wish his Dad could see him now, a true craftsmen and a flippin’ good looking one too. Admittedly he spends most of his time covered in dust and plaster but I think he’s happy here. So is Sherman…..

“Routine is a ground to stand on, a wall to retreat to; we cannot draw on our boots without bracing ourselves against it.” (Henry David Thoreau)

There have been some complaints about the blog or lack of content thereof. To be more precise, apparently I don’t write enough about the woofers progress, it’s all me, me, me and the bloody pool (the less said about that the better). Suffice to say, now that the last but one pup has left for his new home next door and the summer visitations are over, life for all has calmed down once again. And for those who also asked, the Peace Lily is still blooming even at 27 years old and thoroughly enjoys her rain showers whenever she can.

It’s weird to think that only a few months ago, Alice gave birth to six healthy puppies. I’m lucky to have regular updates from all the new families and all make me very proud. As a former behaviour consultant, watching these tiny pipsqueaks grow and develop into their very individual personalities, has been an education in itself. No matter how much attention you pay to the ‘nature vs. nurture’ thing, they are born with their own specific character traits that will stay with them for life. Of course, you can help build their confidence with socialisation, environmental exposure and training but how they cope with it all is down to what they were born with. That and having an incredible mum and a mostly supportive pack around them, the exception being Neo but then he isn’t really a fan of sharing his space with anyone anyway – grumpy old man that he is.

Alice had a wonderful mother and those genes meant that Sherman had the same. Yogi Bear came from a large family of devoted bears which in turn, allowed me with all three of them to pick the pup who was best suited to our crazy life. However, with the slight exception of Gizmo and Arry to which I have some hazy insight into their early lives, I have no idea what sort of upbringing Mo, Coco, Neo and Simi had. There are always theories one can put forward but those once again are based on the character shaped by circumstances but nevertheless, what they were born with. I’m pretty sure Simi was born on the streets though, she has that sort of savvy about her and really doesn’t care what others think. At 11 years old now, she spends almost all her time lying in a sunny spot on the driveway with her legs in the air.

The middle of September has brought out a darker side to our twice-weekly run and I’m not just talking about the sunrise being later. The chasse has begun. This is the hunting season lasting from now until early March and, although the hunters are licensed under a strict set of laws, accidents still happen. With this in mind, I have decided to change our outings to those on non-shoot days and buy bright orange reflective jackets for Arry and Alice. This, along with a cowbell on his collar (I’m told this is the best thing as the working dogs wear them), has not gone down well with Arry. Apart from ruining his street cred, the hares now hear him coming a kilometre away which has taken all the fun out of his morning pursuits. I did have a mildly scary moment yesterday when I came rather close to a man and his gun, his frantic waving however was not to warn me but to say hello, it was one of lovely builders Michel. It did strike me as somewhat bemusing that a man I know to be such a sweet and shy character was toting a rifle and watching his Springer bounce across the fields, I’m sure he has a lovely mother though……

” My dog’s so furry I’ve not seen

His face for years and years

His eyes are buried out of sight

I only guess his ears.

When people ask me for his breed

I do not know or care

He has the beauty of them all

Hidden beneath his hair“

(Herbert Asquith)

My brother Moth and I have a regular lunchtime joke about cheese. He likes to buy the posh stuff from the fromagerie in Carcassonne whilst I go down to our local epicerie, the latter always met with derision and comments about it being off or mouldy. Well yesterday both of us were kissing the porcelain god all afternoon thanks to his lunch contribution. I’m pretty sure I haven’t had my head over a toilet since Tony died and lying there on the cool tiled floor, I suddenly felt totally alone. There was no-one to rub my back or wipe my sweating forehead as he would have always done, it was just me and a load of rather concerned woofers who thankfully had collectively decided to steer clear of me and the loo. Thoughts ran through my head, what if something more serious had happened? How long would it be before someone noticed I wasn’t around? Maudlin I know but there wasn’t a lot else to think about when you are resting between bouts of retching. Eventually I summoned up the strength to grab my phone and call Mumo and of course, being a Mum, she came straight over. Before long I was put into bed and having all been fed, the woofers tucked themselves around me in a protective cordon. I slept for 10 hours.

As is the norm on Saturday mornings, I went for a run with Arry and Alice. With the weather finally having broken and beaucoup de pleut having descended upon the land, I decided to take a different route. Running through the vines after a downpour is not an enjoyable activity as I’ve mentioned before, the clay sticks to your shoes making them feel like moonboots. So off we headed up the other side of the village, following the dirt tracks up into the hills. After a few kilometres weaving through the woodland and oohing at the beautiful countryside, it occurred to me that I had no idea where we were going. Arry was of course, running ahead, Alice and I following him scaling steep inclines and picking our way down perilous drops into the undergrowth but truth be told, I was beginning to panic a bit. Eventually Arry stopped ahead, the darling had brought us up to a main road not far from an adjacent village and it was at this point, I remembered that mobile phones have Sat Navs so we couldn’t really get lost. I looked at the running app, a little wiggly yes, but we hadn’t actually gone more than 5 kms. With new faith in my trusted Shepherd, we headed off away from the road and into the trees beyond. A dog’s nose is an amazing thing, Arry had never been in this part of the hills yet he confidently took us, albeit in a round a bout way due to errant wildlife, back to a more familiar path. I’m proud to say we did 13 kilometres even if my legs weren’t happy about it.

Last week’s rain, much as it was badly needed, has had an annoying side-effect. The smell of rotting fruit to be precise. An entire morning spent raking up walnuts from the ground below the balcony lest the pups get hold of them was in vain, they just got replaced the next day. What will eventually be the orchard has a somewhat alcoholic odour with decaying pomegranates, figs and plums littered everywhere. Mind you, the pool actually holds water you will be pleased to read. Just the wrong sort of water. Without Denis who is still recovering from his hernia operation, everything garden has descended into chaos. He makes order out of chaos and probably likes figs which I do not.

Today should have been our 29th wedding anniversary. Love you always T xx

“Not all those who wander are lost” (J.R.R Tolkein)

The vendage has begun. ‘Tis the season to get ready all the stuff that makes them merry, in other words, the grape harvest is in full swing. Tractors hum gently through the vines and along with their larger mechanical harvesting counterparts, cause long lines of traffic on the surrounding roads. Despite their reputation for keeping one hand on the horn and a foot on the accelerator, the French motorists appear to hold these humungous vehicles in high regard – silently biding their time until a dual carriageway pops up. With most of France taking August as holiday time, there seems to be a flurry of activity everywhere. Summer is coming to an end and boy, what a summer it has been.

The poor terre has suffered through the dry season despite my sneaky watering with the hose. We don’t get hosepipe bans here, unlike the UK, but unnecessary use of water is still frowned upon. After 6 weeks of scorching blue skies, we finally had a drop of rain. Hardly the downpour promised (the odd thing around here is that it can rain in the town next to yours but you don’t get a drop )but enough to make the plants stand upright for a day or so. The only noticeable difference in the weather now that it’s September is that the nights are cooler – the thermometer is still hitting 30 in the daytime. Naturally the bloody pool is still without de l’eau as Lionel is back at work and only coming here on Saturdays but at least my earth mountains are slowly disintegrating. I would suggest that anyone wanting to design an outdoor gym should consider piling tonnes of dirt in one place and then moving it somewhere else. Of course, all this could have been done with a digger but anyone who has one is, guess where? On a tractor amongst those vines. My trusty wheelbarrow and I have shifted over half of the stuff already even with the interference that is Arry who feels the need to remove selected rocks for his own personal cayou sanctuary.

It’s hard to believe we moved to Rouffiac a year ago. The property bears little resemblance to the one we took the keys to. The apartment has had a complete overhaul (and I intend to add the hidden space above it next year), the main house has been all but knocked down inside and the downstairs now completely renovated and the garden has been blessed with new plantings and an almost pool. With Autumn on the horizon and hopefully, Denis back in full health, we can get started on the vegetable garden and tractor shed. I might have finished my mountain relocation by then.

I was reminded via email this morning that it’s time for the woofers’ annual check-ups. Frankly I’m not looking forward to taking either Neo or Mo, neither has a particular fondness for being poked about and I can’t find Neo’s muzzle. As much as they all seem perfectly healthy to me, some are starting to show their age. Simi, Gizmo, and Yogi Bear are all over 10 years old now and spend most of their days lazing in the shade or in Gizmo’s case, lazing on the sofa. But like fine wines, they are best left to settle……

A few fascinating facts about wine

– it takes 600-800 grapes to make a bottle of wine

–one vine can produce 3 bottles of wine

– one acre of vines can produce between 2000 and 7000 bottles of wine

– and Rouffiac d’Aude is right in Languedoc, one of the largest wine-producing areas in France although only a fraction of the stuff is exported. We do like our wine!

The floor has finally been put in the pool house so the last bits can be installed including the liner and actual water dans la piscine by the middle of next week. Just in time for the end of summer. Having had no rain for at least a month, the heavens are due to open just as we start filling the bloody thing. Any chance of me being able to get a swim in may involve donning a wetsuit at this rate but honestly, I’ll just be relieved when it’s finished even if it means putting the cover on for the next 9 months. At least I will have plenty of time to landscape the area, at the moment there’s nothing to see except the huge mounds of earth dug up to make the structure. Said earth will be buried under the decking, there are rumours about Lionel having a digger, but until I see it I’m breaking my back offloading the stuff around the walls. Patience has never been my strong suit and I’m bull-headed enough to believe I can do it myself.

With big brother Simon leaving last Thursday, the place suddenly seems strangely empty. We still have Callum and two of his cousins here but the chatter around the dining table seems somewhat muted, odd considering I’m always the one told to keep their voice down. Having had a house full of siblings and their entourage for the last few weeks, I’m already missing the chaos. Still, Christmas isn’t that far away and by that time we should have completed enough bedrooms for all. For some reason, no-one seems that keen to share my spare room with a couple of woofers to keep company.

As we now start drifting into Autumn, I have started to look at French courses in Carcassonne or maybe Limoux. Although my grasp of the lingo isn’t bad, I still lack the confidence to hold a conversation in group situations. I also thought I might be able to get a bit of a social life outside of our little village as well, I do need to get out more. Mumo is worried that I spend more time chatting to the woofers than I do people which is probably not very healthy. As much as I adore Arry et al, they aren’t very good at keeping up with global events and debates tend to be rather one-sided unless liver treats are involved.

Along with expanding my social horizons and with the imminent prospect of becoming a French tax payer, I’m busy perusing the local property mags with the hope of buying a couple of rental homes. A small city apartment is first on the list, Carcassonne has so much to offer and the airport sits only 10 minutes or so away. Perfect for weekend travellers and city breaks means buying something that doesn’t need any work done to it. The next property will be a holiday let in a more rural setting so will no doubt need over-hauling. Since I have discussed renovating and adding the space above the apartment to chez moi, I will need an income to pay for it. I’m hoping that Callum might want to stay and help me with the projects but it’s impossible to know what a 22 year old is thinking. He seems happier and more settled now in his workshop messing around with old doors and a multitude of tools but like me, he needs to get out more. There is a wonderful local college specialising in artisan crafts of the building type that he is interested in attending so I keep my fingers crossed.

Oh and Sherman is still here…….

“He was born in Bercy on the outskirts of Paris and trained in France, and while he knows a little Poodle-English, he responds quickly only to commands in French. Otherwise he has to translate, and that slows him down” (John Steinbeck on his Poodle)