Driving out of a shopping centre the other day, I momentarily found myself on the wrong side of the road. Luckily the road was empty but for a few seconds I was driving as the English do. It seems that even though I have immersed myself in everything French, some of brain cells are still working out where they are. Even as I am unpacking boxes and shifting furniture, I find myself referring to everything as bits I bought from home even if I don’t think of Knollys as anything but a memory. Apart from friends and family, I don’t miss a single thing about London life but I suppose it takes a while for those old habits to die.

I’ve been in France now for five months which doesn’t sound very long at all. I speak more French now than I do English and I’ve even managed to hold a couple of phone conversations! For those who aren’t familiar with France, everyone speaks three times as fast on the phone. Aside from my driving blip, I am now confident enough to drive into town and shop without Mum interpreting. I even managed a very wet garden centre albeit with the help of Denis of course, plant names can get lost in translation and I did want very particular arboreals. If nothing else, I shall soon be fluent in all things leafy and building construction.

There are times however when understanding how another country’s bureaucracy gets frustrating. Having booked the vaccine for Mumo, I drove her to the hospital in Carcassonne for her appointment. We arrived early which was a plus as neither of us had remembered to bring the map showing where the actual clinic was within the building which meant a lot of swearing for me as I negotiated several car parking areas and one -way systems. Finally having parked up in a bay (all free in the hospital here, another first), I sat in the car doing the New York Times Spelling Bee whilst Mumo went in for her jab. Two hours later, I began to panic. What if she had had a bad reaction? Would anyone know where I was? I decided to put my best French forward and headed off to find her. Several minutes later and a new intimate knowledge of all corridors in Carcassonne hospital, I finally found here, with no jab. It seemed that what the Government had said about vaccines being available to everyone over a certain age was not entirely true. Mumo doesn’t have a social security number as she has private health insurance and the doctors required said number for track and trace. Fingers crossed, we are going to drop all her documentation off tomorrow with the Social Security office and get her a number toute suite. Apparently she isn’t the only person to have this problem, the EU has made a bit of a mess of the whole thing.

Frustrations aside and with my little abode being finally finished next week, the dogs and I are settling nicely into our life down here. I now have somewhere to sit with the arrival of my lovely new bar stools and I have manoeuvred two bookcases up the stairs. I ordered a new glass cabinet as the two I brought from Knollys are too big to fit anywhere. Arry has finally figured out that he and the others don’t need me in order to run circles around each other and the garden although this does mean I’m constantly cleaning the floor – thankfully tiles are easy to wipe and go. Trying to keep Mo out of the flowerbeds is a constant chore, her wheels don’t negotiate budding plants very well and I really need to fill in the driveway potholes as several mini-lakes have appeared during last week’s wet weather. One thing I can say about this new life, you never get bored…

“How can you govern a country which has 246 varieties of cheese?” ( Charles de Gaulle)

Twice a week, I hop in the car and drive the short distance to L’Horte. Not only because I want to check on Pop’s tree and say hello but also because I always feel at peace there. There is a serenity about the place, especially now that nature has taken over. I could stand for hours just watching the river and the wildlife that now call it home. For the first time it two decades, the river froze over earlier in the week – the view was breathtaking. It is however, rarely quiet as I am always accompanied by Arry and often, Gunner too. Two German Shepherds let loose to voice their pleasure at being able to rough and tumble and in Arry’s case, have a swim. For Gunner, it’s like a kid who has been given the keys to a chocolate shop, his wobbly back legs skipping through the long grass as he chases Arry. It’s no wonder considering he has spent almost all of his 9 years walking those paths with Pop and Chrissie, I think like me, he feels happiest when he’s there.

As much as I love the wild beauty of L’Horte, the garden at Rouffiac needs structure. Some of the trees and bushes have already begun to show little buds and the flowerbeds are desperate for their Spring companions. Even though we are only in mid-January, Denis and I have to hit the garden centre soon. Having planned out every nook and cranny of la terre, I’m itching to get my gardening gloves on and get planting. I’ve had enough of stripping wallpaper and painting skirting boards, there’s only so much a girl can take. Thankfully my builders have done all the closet preparation so hopefully by the end of next week, my little home will be finished. I might even have radiators!

Mumo is off to get her vaccine on Tuesday. I doubt I will get mine until late summer at the earliest but at least something is happening. It’ll be a while before we can see family again but as a friend said, a light at the end of the tunnel, however small, is still light. Having the luxury of walking around the garden here or wandering the river path at L’Horte during the cold, damp months of winter is one thing but it’s so much better when the sun is out. I shall take a tip from Gunner and kick my heels up….

“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite of all the darkness” (Desmond Tutu)

It’s been a bitterly cold week culminating in a blanket of snow covering most of the garden this morning. I still don’t have any radiators so the electric heaters are wheezing out heat 24/7, I dread to think what the monthly bill is going to reveal, I don’t do cold well. Mind you, there is a big difference between a cold, soggy London and a bit of a chill down here. There’s a higher chance of the weather improving as we head out of winter for a start and I don’t have to get in a car to get soaked walking the dogs.

We are moving back into the main house for a few days next week whilst Alain and Michel, our builders, revamp my closets and update the ancient lighting in the bedrooms. Whilst having to uproot the dogs and myself is an annoyance, they cope much better than I do. It is at least a bit warmer in our temporary digs. With any luck, I’ll be returning to a home with radiators as well as fancy in-built wardrobes.

The garden is in dormant mode, apart from the birds who have taken delight in my ‘bed and breakfast’ Christmas tree. Perched between two tree trunks so the dogs can’t reach it, the conifer is providing not only shelter for the birds and insects, the hanging fat balls and peanut butter ‘kebabs’ give the little tweeters sustenance. I get a perfect view of all the comings and goings from my balcony which is better than any TV programme. Once the needles have dropped, the tree will moved to the woodland to decompose and provide a habitat for bugs and their buddies.

I finally got round to completing my residence application this week, it will be a while before anything happens but it’s in the system so one less thing to worry about. Once I sort out the mess of paperwork currently taking over my only table, I am determined to start ‘that’ book. I just have to find a filing cabinet first, pull out the rest of my furniture from the icy cold garage and finish painting the walls. Excuses, excuses……

“The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.” (Walt Disney)

I never make New Year’s resolutions but like everyone, I am hopeful that 2021 will be a year when the curtain lifts and our friends and family will be standing on the other side. Having said that, if one and all are going to descend on Rouffiac, there is a lot of work to be done. After a week without any builders, gardeners or plumbers, I’m itching for all to return and get cracking.

My renewed sense of optimism may well be because I don’t want to repeat any of last year’s upheavals. With this in mind and with my little house almost finished, I have continued the task of dragging my worldly belongings out of the garage. Then there are the decisions over what is suitable for my new pad, what gets put in the main house and what needs to be repacked and stored away. The first two are relatively easy but the last not so, especially when it comes to framed photographs. Macgyver’s picture was a no-brainer, already taking pride in the lounge, but then there are all those wedding photos and happy holiday memories. If I am to move into a new future then perhaps it is time to put these away for Callum and the next generation. So I carefully wrap up the past, including all of Tony’s bits and pieces and back into the garage they go. One day they will be opened again with affection and not a sense of loss.

I have begun redecorating the bedrooms although some walls need to be left until the new in-built closets are put in at the end of the month. Painting is not an enjoyable way to spend the day but for the sake of the budget, the roller and I are busy. My room is going to be mostly light grey with the exception of a vibrant purple on one wall and the spare bedroom a cream, beachy themed colour. It is a boring, testing task, not least because masking tape never sticks where you want it to and no matter how much of the floor you cover, there is always an area that gets hit with a lilac splat. None of the dogs have been re-touched yet – more luck than judgement.

With all the box sorting and interior design, I haven’t been able to spend much time in the garden. I am mindful of the fact that we will need to start digging for the pool this month and the horse manure still needs to be dumped on what will be the vegetable garden ( le potager in French). At the moment, the whole area looks a bit drab but there isn’t much I can do until Denis and company are back with gloves on. I’m looking forward to a trip to the garden centre in a couple of weeks – who knew I would get more excited by new planting than I would be with new shoes?

“Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore” (Andre Gide)

I can’t believe I’m saying this but I’m glad Christmas is over. Much as I tried to cheer myself up with a Christmas tree and decorations spread over my newly (almost) finished home, I ended up feeling bored and miserable. Without Callum (thanks to Tier 4) or the rest of the family, the day passed by Mumo and I despite our attempts to festive up a duck breast. Thank God for the internet and video calling, the only good thing to come out of this year.

2020 has been a year that most would rather leave to the history books, me included. Mind you, I’ve managed to do quite a lot between lockdowns and border blocks. Losing Dog Hollow, selling Knollys, driving 9 dogs across the Channel in the Mothership and moving into a house I hadn’t actually viewed before buying – all done in a year held captive by Covid. I’ve gone from being a stressed-out city girl to one happiest when digging up weeds and designing a garden. The alarm clock has been binned in favour of daylight streaming through the bedroom window, even the dogs snooze until Mother Nature’s calls become necessary. Instead of bouncing up and down to the monotonous sounds of a gym class, I run through vines and up hills with the most spectacular scenery to blow the cobwebs away. I think I made the right choice.

I couldn’t have done or perhaps, wouldn’t have done, any of the above without the support and encouragement of family and friends. And my woofers. When plans went pear-shaped and it seemed like we would never make it to the promised land, I could always rely on someone to pull me back up or a wet nose to remind me why we kept going. So thank you to all who have propped me up over the last 12 months especially Arry, Alice, Simi, Yogi Bear, Neo, Mo Cridhe, Coco Loco, Evee and Gizmo. 2021 will be, I hope, a calmer year for all of us.

So here’s to the end of 2020 and all its upheavals and may 2021 bring lives back together again. From me and the woofers, here’s to a happy and healthy New Year xx

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

Much as I had hoped to be back in my little house this weekend, it was not to be. I am assured that we can relocate by Tuesday even though the countertops and dishwasher won’t be installed until the fitter comes back from his hols in January. I blame it on the bathroom mirror being delivered in shards. Nevertheless, Mumo and I went out and bought a Christmas tree, we all need a bit of festive cheer.

The driveway has looked like a long-stay car park for most of the last week with all the work vans squeezing into barely there spaces – the French have this down to an art. I’ve had plenty of language practice albeit construction, heating or garden phrases which has prompted much laughter on both sides. I shall miss the banter once they are finished even if I’m itching for my home to be just that.

I don’t intend to move house again but if I should, I would make sure the removal company place the boxes in some sort of order. Having spent the last couple of days climbing over mountains of cardboard in the garage searching for kitchen items and clothes, naturally buried under all those marked ‘books’, the lack of organisation on my part is frustrating. Why are the things you want impossible to find? Most of the boxes are too heavy to be lifted so need to be emptied, taken out of the garage and then refilled. It is during this tiresome process that items you didn’t really need to bring appear; the garish lampshades I had in the hall at Knollys for example and a whole box of dust sheets (I know I asked the removal men to pack everything but really??). At least I have enough baubles and bits for the tree, most have emigrated to the garden for the village competition. I haven’t heard anything about this but my hopes are fading. The ladies in the epicerie have praised my efforts, the ‘ petit père Noël ‘ decoration getting a special mention. I don’t have any little Father Christmases in the garden unless they are referring to my polystyrene snowman.

My heart goes out to all those in the UK who have had to go into Tier 4 just as everyone was getting ready for a little holiday cheer. Since this will be my last blog before Christmas, I am sending big virtual hugs to all from the widow plus woofers gang and I hope you get to raise a glass or two even if it’s through a computer screen…

“For me a house or an apartment becomes a home when you add one set of four legs and a happy tail and that indescribable measure of love that we call a dog” (Roger Caras)

If there was ever a dog who was just born to be part of our lives, it’s Alice. The youngest of the pack at aged 3 (and a bit), this little piece of dynamite has captured the hearts of everyone. Especially Arry. She may have started her Stewart life as Daddy’s girl but has become Mum’s ‘bedhug’ and all around spreader of positivity.

Alice was never meant to be my dog. Tony had a fondness for Border Terriers ever since we had begun looking after a certain family of them. Effie, in particular, had charmed T so much he always said if we ever got another dog, he’d like a BT so after his beloved Ash passed away I got to thinking. With his birthday looming and it being our 25th wedding anniversary later that year, what better present than a little girl of his own? In July 2017, I introduced Tony to a litter of Border puppies and he chose his gal – interestingly he had already named her Alice which happened to be the same name her breeder had given her. A month later, I drove to Somerset along with Arry, my son Callum. my niece Kate and Yogi Bear to pick up the newest member of the gang and boom! Someone fell hook, line and sinker and it wasn’t me. Her heart had been stolen by a dog over ten times her bodyweight – she was the size of Arry’s muzzle – he was totally smitten. Three years later, nothing has changed – he still lets her literally walk all over him.

As I mentioned in Arry’s blog, I bought Alice for Tony and he persuaded me to keep the foster pup that was Arry. This makes the relationship between them that much more special to me. Alice was only a year old when Tony died so didn’t really know how her world was changing but her positive outlook on life has given me the support when I needed it most. I made a promise to Tony that I would have a litter out of her, Covid has stalled that thus far but here’s hoping for next year. She will make the perfect mum if her obsession with my shoes gives any indication, always taken to a safe place and never damaged. However, her dislike of getting out of bed before 9 a.m could be a hiccup.

Alice completes the pack. She loves everyone be they man or beast and is noisy with it. I’m an over-protective Mum with all my dogs but with Alice, it goes a step further probably because of her association with T. A tracker, two identity tags and bells on her collar may be a bit overkill but I’m a worrywart. Most are possibly unnecessary as Arry will round her up if she wanders off (a typical Border trait I’m told), the two are inseparable. Tony’s girl and Mummy’s boy……

It may surprise you to know that French rain is just as depressing as the English stuff. And we have had a whole week of it. The dogs have turned the back garden into a ski run and you need a 4×4 to traverse the driveway. I did manage however to get a photo off for the Christmas decorating competition which, considering the lack of sun for the solar lights, was a miracle.

I managed to get a couple of trips over to L’Horte in the week. Surprisingly Arry forewent his usual dive into the river, perhaps he does have some sense after all. I can’t say I enjoyed trekking through the overgrown landscape in the dismal weather but the ever present sight of Pop’s heron always makes the trip worthwhile. One day I’ll get a half-decent photo of this stunning bird, all attempts so far have failed.

Without my being able to do much in the garden, I have limits when it comes to wet windy weather, the dogs have been getting under my feet. Considering all the space they have to run around in, none of them seem to be able to occupy themselves without my presence. Whilst I’m freezing my soggy feet off, the woofers happily chase each other around the garden skidding through the mud and barking at full volume. The minute my body needs defrosting however, muddy paws follow me back indoors. I’m hoping the sun comes out next week and then Denis and I can start preparing the land so it can be covered in fertiliser over the winter, I think all that horse manure will keep the dogs amused.

The builders have been hard at work in my little home next door. The floor tiles have finally gone down and the kitchen delivered, albeit still in packaging at the moment. Only a few more days and fingers crossed, the woofers and I will have our space back. I can finally start moving all my boxes out of the garage which is a blessing in itself since several important documents are buried somewhere in there. My application for a resident permit needs my birth certificate, naturally that particular box is impossible to find. Thankfully all the Christmas decorations have already been retrieved and sorted, I’m all about priorities.

“Everybody talks about the weather , but nobody does anything about it” (Charles Dudley Warner)

Aragorn, commonly and affectionately known as ‘Arry’, is probably the most dangerous dog I have ever owned both to himself and those around him. Yet despite his three ‘near death’ experiences and putting his mum in hospital as a result of one of them, he has managed to become the core of the Dog Hollow pack. And he has had a lot to live up to.

Anyone who knows me will say, I’m a sucker for a German Shepherd so it comes as no surprise that Arry (then Ace) ended up on our doorstep. A 6 month old pup who had already been through two homes was in urgent need of foster care. It didn’t take much to twist my arm although, I realised soon after, it would have been better if someone did. Ace/Arry (we put names in a hat and I won as usual so he was renamed Aragorn) lacked any form of training or social etiquette. The first time he saw Evee chihuahua he jumped onto a wooden chest and refused to move until she had gone and a walk in the park resulted in a near take-down of a thankfully clueless jogger who closed a gate before the 60 mph whirlwind hit him. Arry reacted to everything around him but I had a secret weapon, Macgyver and the Dog Hollow pack. Macgyver became his tutor and pulled the young hoodlum into check and the pack made sure the pup knew his place.

Tony was the one who put forward the idea of adopting Arry. We had discussed getting another German Shepherd as Macgyver was getting older so in his words; “this one we wouldn’t have to pay for”. How naive we were. Six months later, I suddenly lost Mac to cancer and my world fell apart. My soulmate, the dog who had been by my side for almost 10 years had gone. Tony would joke later that God had decided that I had almost a decade with the perfect dog so he felt I needed a challenge – that I certainly got. Within a year, Arry had managed to survive being strangled (note to all, never have buckle collars on your dogs), heatstroke and getting a ball stuck in his throat. The latter being obviously the most terrifying and did end up with me in hospital having plastic surgery to mend the nerves in my left hand. I also have a permanently wonky big toe as a result of a rock being dropped on it.

Despite having the energy levels of a raving teen on Lucozade, Arry is also the most empathetic dog I have ever known. He has an uncanny ability to not only now how I am feeling but also how his dog family are fairing. When Evee had her seizure, he stayed with her all night and has been a shoulder to lean more times that I can think since Tony died and then Pop. He knows when he is needed most yet can still make you lose your sanity. His lack of spacial awareness is legendary, be it human or furniture, as his obsession with les cailloux, rocks to be precise. I banned balls after the near death experience. He adores any water source; whether it be the sea, a river or just in a watering can. Hoses are a particular favourite. He loves his pack and will let anyone of them eat out of his food bowl. He has the utmost respect for those dogs who stand their ground (especially Schnauzers as he learnt from the best) but still can’t resist the occasional wind-up. It is because of Arry and his missing control panel that I have taken up running, a sport he relishes no matter what the weather has in store. And he loves people, any size or shape although his enthusiastic greetings are not always reciprocated.

Arry is a ‘grab everything that life has to offer’ kinda guy. He will give you his heart, hair and everything in between for a world filled with endless energy. And a certain young lady called Alice. The day I picked up Alice (her story next week) was the day Arry fell completely over the heels in love and thankfully, vice versa, as Forrest Gump would say; “we go together like peas and carrots”. The funny thing is, I bought Alice for Tony as a 25th wedding anniversary present and he was the one who decided Arry was for me…..

In any other year, I would have had the house decked from top to toe in Christmas paraphernalia by now but of course, this hasn’t been any other year. Like many friends, we won’t be sharing the festivities with family, although I am hoping that Callum can make it over, so there isn’t the same enthusiasm to deck the halls. Luckily for my inner tinsel fairy, the village is throwing a house decorating competition (exteriors only) so I excavated all my bauble boxes from the garage and untangled the lights. With such a big garden, I decided to stick to the front of the main house which has the added advantage of a fir tree and plenty of bushes to illuminate. Once again, Denis has come to the rescue with his ladder and strung garlands across the driveway and stuck a star on the top of the tree. Just a few more tweaks and snow spray and it’s ready for the judges. I did think about bribing the committee with mulled wine and mince pies but I’ve been told they are all under 16. I’m not sure how the French would feel about me boiling up the local wine but my neighbour reassured me that anything alcoholic goes down well around here. I’m told Rouffiac is party central in any other year.

With the beginning of December has come the rain and dropping temperatures which makes getting out of bed to go for a run far less appealing than it was. I’ve discovered that our regular run route through the vines requires a set of skis and crampons as the mud slides underfoot. My decision to take an alternative route almost ended in disaster when Arry found a gap in a fence and went off to play with the horses. Thankfully their lack of enthusiasm and my swearing brought his little stint to an end. He ended up guiding me back to onto more familiar ground so all was forgiven even if it meant me slithering inelegantly through the vines to get there.

Between mud-sliding and garden decor, I have had to turn my attention to getting my resident permit sorted out. With Brexit looming at the end of December (theoretically) us expats have to have one to live in France. Naturally nothing is straightforward in the world of government form-filling and I’m trying very hard not to get frustrated by the whole thing. A trip to the local social security office tomorrow will hopefully get the process moving a little more smoothly. Even in the few months I have been here, I’ve fallen in love with France and feel at home. I’ve got a competition to win and a soggy hillside to conquer……..

“I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way (s)he handles three things: a rainy day, lost luggage and tangled Christmas tree lights” (Maya Angelou)