Gizmo’s story

Gizmo is the oldest of the Dog Hollow pack but you could be forgiven for thinking he is much younger than 12 due to his lack of grey hair and effervescent attitude to life. He is also Evee’s ‘husband’ and is a doting other half to his lady, reminding one of those 1970’s sitcoms. She decides and he does. Despite being only a couple of kilos and missing most of his teeth, he is still up for a good old barkfest at the gate when the Shepherds decide to show the neighbourhood who’s in charge.

Unlike most of the pack, the decision to adopt Gizmo was not mine, Tony made it clear from the day I bought him home that this little guy was going nowhere. It was a manly bond at first sight. Tony adored his little buddy and the feeling was mutual, I rarely got a look in unless it was feeding time. The hashtag, small but mighty, is often used to describe our Giz and is well-suited. He has overcome a lot to get to the feisty Miniature Yorkie we know.

Gizmo was not born on the streets or discarded in the way that see most rescue dogs, in fact when I met him he was living in a very posh flat in Chelsea. I had been called for a behaviour consultation by the wealthy grand-daughter of a very well-known perfume house to help with her new puppy’s toilet training. To cut a long story short, here was this tiny yearling in a 7th floor flat with no access to the outside world unless someone was going to take him down to the green space below yet was expected to hold his bladder whilst his owner went out for the whole day. And when she did take him out, he was stuffed into what one would call, a puppy handbag. My heart went out to this little creature who had greeted me at the door with a toy and ‘let’s play’ attitude – something he still does even now. Those who know Yorkies will champion their intelligence and I am certainly one of them, quick to learn and always enthusiastic. Yet his new owner was obsessed with his little pee problem to which I replied, “try going through your whole day without be able to use the loo”. I didn’t mention, cream carpets and puppies are never going to be symbiotic. After a week or so I got a call from the above to say she was moving to Paris and couldn’t take the puppy with her, could I find a home? In the summer of 2009, I took the little one year old wonder home. Tony had decided.

Like Evee, Gizmo has had his fair share of traumas. It wasn’t until a few months later that I discovered that Gizmo had more than likely been bought at Harrods and had been cursed with tummy problems. This on its own would have made toilet training difficult but the added ‘agoraphobia’ due to him only ever seeing the outside world through a slit in a handbag made it that much harder. Having been cursed with the name of a perfume (I sort of promised the owner I would keep it but Tony changed it thank God), the ex-Jicky, now Gizmo had to learn to conquer life outdoors because his new ‘wife’ told him what to do and where to do it. He followed her from the moment he met her and she showed him the way (At this point I shall add a hilarious question from a client some years ago in reference to her Yorkie’s dislike of the rain, “But why doesn’t he like the rain, he’s from Yorkshire!”). Gizmo’s tummy problems became a bone of contention with his then pet insurance company several years later when he got a bit of carrot stuck in his oesophagus and almost choked to death. The battle between the Royal Veterinary College plus the chief veterinary nurse at Kynance (Jenn Donaldson I owe you) versus this ridiculous so-called insurer as to who should pay the bill was finally won by us. Giardia as a pup does not make a dog choke on a carrot. To this day, I don’t insure my dogs. I took advice from the late great Keith Butt and have a credit card solely for their crisis’.

When we first adopted Gizmo, he had a very short coat clip and because he was so scared of the outdoors, I decided to grow it longer to give him a bit of security (the whole Samson thing). He kept that whole Merlin vibe going for a good decade until we moved to France. After the first day of whizzing around L’Horte, I realised that countryside and flowing locks were not going to work so I clipped him back to the puppy look again and wow! He looks like a new man.

Like all my dogs, it is simply too difficult to describe him in a few words. Gizmo is forever young. He sees the whole glass as full, even when the chips are down. He is also incredibly intelligent and loves to please everyone around him. More often than not, friends and family comment on how, despite their preference for big dogs, they would happily smuggle him home. Gizmo still greats me at the door with an old tissue or a faded bit of plant to say hello – Evee has yet to teach him about what gifts are actually considered romantic but hey I’m a sucker for the thought. And he talks. A lot. Gizmo will chatter to you for hours if you give him the soapbox, at least until Evee walks in that is. He has boundless energy when the rest of the pack are at their craziest but is also equally happy curling up with Evee on my pillow. That’s our Gizmo

Still together after all these years (and she has the pillow)

Daytime Savings

Over lunch the other day, my Mum asked me if dogs could tell the time. Now, I’m not going to go into a long-winded explanation of the dogs’ mind but it did occur to me how much of my life up until France was determined by the clock. The alarm was set for 06.45 every day except Sundays and the routine of walking the dogs, cleaning the house and going to work rarely changed. Whilst I loved my work, I can understand now why I needed to break away from everything I had become too familiar with. I still wake up at pretty much the same time every morning albeit a couple of hours later but the morning light coming through my bedroom window dictates this rather than a clock. I often forget what day it is. The only exceptions to my lazy awakenings are the days when Arry, Alice and I join my neighbour for a thigh-burning run through the local woodlands. Days drift into one another, the hours marked by the local church bells which ring every hour or vaguely near the hour. I think it depends on whether or not the bell-ringer is wearing a watch. Between bedroom painting and the garden restoration, I have never been busier and before I know it, the sun is going down and there is a welcome glass of the local red waiting for me. They say those who retire never sit still, I can believe it. For someone who thrived on routine, life without it is so much better.

Busying oneself with brush and spade however does not however mean one should put off necessary things like paperwork. I finally got a WiFi box this week although the joy of having internet access has been dimmed slightly by the need to sort out that which I have put off because of the lack of it. My passport needs renewing, this is not only obviously necessary for identifying oneself but is also needed for my residence permit application. Then there is the dreaded UK tax returns, hours upon hours of spreadsheets and numbers. Box filling is taking much longer than it ought to because the weather has been so good, digging holes and planting various shrubs purloined from L’Horte tends to take precedence.

My 54th birthday is coming up, Halloween for those who might have forgotten ahem. I don’t know what is in store as far as celebrating such an occasion – I don’t think Rouffiac goes all out for Halloween like London does but I’m looking forward to Callum coming home for a week or so. A passing thought occurred to me this morning that he has only been gone for six weeks but it seems longer. Birthdays aside, Tony hasn’t been very far from my mind. He was only 56 when he died which, when you are nearing such an age, seems far too young. I don’t know how one is supposed to feel when nearing one’s mid-fifties but I have never felt more alive than I do now. I just hope I remember what day it is then…..

“How we spend our days, is, of course, how we spend our lives”. (Annie Dillard)

Evee’s story

As promised, here is the first of the nine canine biographies. I have started with Evee as she has been with me the longest, it is easier than trying to do this sort of thing by age as four of them don’t know when they were born. So Evee the Chihuahua, this is you life thus far.

Back in early March 2009, a close friend of mine had just bred a litter of Chihuahua puppies. At the time, Mark lived in Tooting South-West London just down the road from us in Streatham. As we already had three dogs (Macgyver, Jordi and Rupert) and twas a time long before I had the urge to adopt every dog on sight, not much attention was paid to Mark’s news. Until that fateful May heatwave day that was and Mark’s car breaking down. On a sweltering Friday afternoon, I offered to help.

“I’ve got the Chihuahuas in the back of my car” he said,

“Oookay. Do you want me to take them back to mine and you can pick them up later?” said naive me,

“Amazing, thank you!” was the obvious answer

Now, I had forgotten a minor detail. It was a Friday and not just any Friday. It was my turn to host the Friday Night Tea which, in short, meant I was my turn to have a dozen 6-8 year olds at my house plus their parents. Mark assured me that the pups and Mum were happy being in their crate so I duly took the little brood home. By the time everyone had left that evening and pups were running loose around the house, we had somehow acquired a Chihuahua puppy. Since Tony and I had been manipulated by our seven year old son, we left it up to Callum to choose the name. As befits my family’s tradition, she had to be named after a character fiction or otherwise. Evee is apparently a Pokemon character but hey, it wasn’t a terrible name and a few weeks later we officially became teeny dog parents.

I grew up with big dogs. We naturally had one in Macgyver, a huge German Shepherd but because I loved Cavaliers so much we had Jordi and Rupert. Tony however had grown up with cats so the idea of having a small dog didn’t worry him in the least. And we didn’t have to. Evee slotted into family life as if she was born to rule men. From the day she strutted through the front door, she had total control of the house and this has never changed. Mark breeds well and is known for the independent and strong characters that leave his nest. As part of the deal, Evee was to have one litter which we agreed on but sadly she lost both puppies.

Evee is known as ‘Nurse Evee’ in our household as she has the ability to understand when someone isn’t well. When Jordi’s heart was failing, she slept with him every night until he died and she fussed over both Rupert and Macgyver in their final days. She cleans the dogs’ teeth on a regular basis even though she could easily be swallowed by the average German Shepherd. Unfortunately or perhaps fortunately she hasn’t been without her own ‘nine lives’. She got badly attacked by two Border Terriers as a pup, fell down the stairs and managed to end up in A&E fighting for her life after licking the chops of a Bassett Hound who had just had a dose of barbiturates. She’s one tough cookie.

In 2011, Tony and I adopted a 2 year old miniature Yorkshire Terrier whose Chelsea owner was moving abroad. He was a terrified little creature who had never known the outside world unless he was looking out of a handbag but Evee took it upon herself to woo this handsome young fella and they have remained devoted to each other ever since. And when I packed up the dogs into the Mothership and across the Channel, Gizmo stayed near her throughout the journey, knowing Evee didn’t travel well.

How does one sum up Evee? I once joked that she was from ‘Mexico via Tooting’ meaning she had all the sass of a South American woman with a bit of South London diva thrown in. She loves fiercely and protects her own (she has prevented both a Rottweiler and a German Shepherd from innocently entering the door) and has never believed size matters. Some may call her voluptuous but she prefers curvy, some may say she is short-tempered but she prefers honesty and some may she is small but she just says mighty. She hates being picked up by strangers but will never show her displeasure obviously (she might leave a deposit near a shoe later) but she loves to cuddle with those she adores – namely Callum. he might be a very tall, strapping 22 year old now but she can still make his heart melt.

So this is our Evee. Despite the recent scare with her seizure she remains as feisty as ever. She can tell the exact hour one expects to be fed by the nearest second and will vocally complain if you are late. She will hog your pillow and snore throughout the night and experience tells you never to think about moving her. She protects her own and will nurture all that need her, both in sickness and in health. The dogs love their big little sister. Her name is Evee.

Inclement weather

It’s been a week of sunshine and showers with just the occasional tsunami to upset the mood. With the weather being a bit of a gardener’s dream, I’ve spent most of the days clearing brambles and getting rid of dead trees and the landscape is already looking better for it. I’ve found fruit trees hidden within tangled fig tree branches and the crocus are popping up everywhere now that I have got rid of the infernal ivy. I’ve got so passionate about making something out of all this land, I even went a bought myself a present, Monty Don’s “The Complete Gardener”. Okay, I haven’t actually read much yet but the pictures are very inspiring and sometimes one just likes to look at Monty. The whole process is better than any form of meditation to soothe the soul even if the body is aching.

Unfortunately we had a theft over at L’Horte which angered everyone, especially my younger brother. A friend left their trailer there which got pinched along with our plough. Luckily the garage was locked but we now have to check on everything daily. It’s upsetting to think that someone(s) thinks it’s okay to steal Pop’s stuff. Removing everything before the empty property becomes common knowledge has become a bit of a race against time as Moth has to return to Kenya next week and he’s the only one that can drive the truck. On the plus side, Arry thinks a quick trip down to L’Horte means a swim in the river, less guard dog more wet dog. I do need the tractor though, the soil needs turning over before the winter sets in (Monty said so).

Evee gave me a scare mid-week. I think it’s a sort of mother’s instinct to wake up in the middle of the night and just know that something is wrong or perhaps the fact the dogs all started to move might have caused me to jump out of bed. Evee was writhing on the floor with spittle coming out of her mouth. I grabbed her just as she started to seize and caught her tongue as it slid down her throat. Now I’ve done a dog first aid course but to be honest, I probably did a lot wrong but she came to quickly. The dogs were frantic and wouldn’t leave her even when I had settled her back into my bed and as close to me as possible. A tiny little lady surrounded by her siblings was a bit of a precious moment. Thankfully the vet couldn’t find anything to be concerned about but I still keep her beside me in bed just in case.

Many of you have been asking me to give a little more insight into each of my dogs and how I ended up with so many. Therefore I am going to write an extra blog mid-week to tell each one’s story. That’s nine weeks worth….

“Everyone thinks they have the best dog. And none of them are wrong.” (W.R. Purche)

Old Roots and New Shoots

After having done my fair share of bashing down walls and inhaling copious amounts of dust in the process, I decided to leave the internal renovations to other Collinses and concentrate on the exterior challenge of the garden. I know nothing about greenery, Tony was the gardener, but the sadly neglected acreage needs help. And there’s a lot of it. Half dead trees have sown more trees, the five figs are a prime example (can one make fig wine?) and ivy has claimed much of the rear garden. Yet there is so much potential in what was obviously a once well-tendered piece of land so I’m determined to bring life into her again. Having walked around the tired beds and sprawling weeds with my brother and my Mum, we came up with some ideas which I now have to put into some sort of plan. Excitement at what could be done with all this space however is dimmed by the amount of clearing that comes first. I spent two days pulling up endless lengths of ivy and chopping down dead branches, my body isn’t thanking me, but the sight of little green shoots poking their heads up as the suffocating ivy was removed was worth it.

The other day, Arry and I took a trip up to my younger brother’s house in Cennes-Monesties, a forty minute drive up into the hills. Moth and his partner, Hilde, bought the property (naturally a derelict one as befits our family) and have spent the last six or so years rebuilding what will be much sought-after vacation spots and work is still ongoing. I hadn’t been up there since 2016 so the visit was a long time coming. Like all our family, thanks in part to Pop, Moth and Hilde are passionate about the environment and recycling so as much as possible has been done to the houses (there are three on the land) to reflect this. I was completely taken aback however by the sheer scale of what they had already achieved and how they had rebuilt a pile of concrete. Organic materials fill the walls, a staircase encased in hemp and solid reused wood capture the imagination. The bath that once sat at L’Horte now provides an incredible view into the forest beyond. Arry had a wild time investigating the surroundings although the cat food seemed to be his highlight. Having done the Badens grand tour, we took Moth back to St-Hilaire to borrow our builder’s truck, kindly lent for us to move rubble and bring more stuff back from the old house. Forgetting that this was the first time I had had a dog in the back of my new car, I took Arry over to L’Horte for a quick evening swim. I now have to clean poor Josephine.

Driving back from L’Horte that evening as the sun was going down, I suddenly felt a wave of happiness wash over me. Just like the little green shoots being able to breathe after the dead weight of the ivy was removed. I looked up at the horizon as we weaved through the French countryside and felt Tony smiling down at me through the fading rays as if to say everything’s going to be okay. The road ahead may always be winding but this is my home now and I really quite like it…

“A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except for learning how to grow in rows” (Doug Larson)

This old house

It goes without saying that us Collinses (me included as was before I became a Stewart) love a challenge and buying another old house needing a complete overhaul is no exception. I may have mentioned more than once that I bought into this new adventure sight unseen, unless you count numerous photographs and videos sent to tempt me. Whilst I have no regrets on making the big leap across the pond, the amount of work needed to restore this beautiful old lady is somewhat daunting (I’m talking about the house not me). Let me put it into context. There are two separate homes; my bit which is a very large two bedroom apartment with a sprawling verandah and the colossal mansion attached. To add to this, a few acres of ‘extremely mature’ gardens sit to the front and a beautiful remise (like a big covered outside space over two floors) at the back, all of which need more than a little TLC.

After much discussion about what work needed to be prioritised, the antiquated electric and heating systems coming top of the list, we decided that the substantial budget needed could be reduced by doing some of the work ourselves. Ourselves meaning little brother showing my Mum and I what to do. Two days in and we have managed to uncover the original stone walls in the dining room with only minor hand injuries. Having not much experience in renovating anything, I have to admit I’m enjoying the process so far. It is exhausting and physically demanding but seeing the results, although small as yet, makes it all worthwhile. It’s like watching historical saga unfold in front of you, every room telling a story and I’m only on the first chapter of a very long series.

Aside from the houses, the garden is desperate for attention. At one time it must have been beautiful but like the house, the landscaping had become a little too much for the previous owners. The dogs love it though, plenty of room for zoomies and a lot of holes have been dug without need for a shovel. Unfortunately some of the trees will have to come down, the amount of rotting fruit five fig trees can produce is not appetising and many acorns have borne many little oaks. Like the house, there is a history and uncovering the mysteries is half the fun. Perhaps there is a little bit of me that sees a similarity between myself and this home, stripping back the layers and finding out what is underneath. I’m going to have fun finding out.

“you can’t spell challenge without change. If you’re going to rise to the challenge, you have to be prepared to change” (Kylie Francis)

Back on track

As much had been said about the beauty of the surrounding countryside, I decided this week to take up my neighbour’s offer and join him for an early morning run. Whilst I’m no stranger to the need to exercise regularly, I have to admit running is not one of my favourite ways to firm the flab. However, having a couple of acres of garden to charge around is clearly not enough for Arry and since I was eager to see what Rouffiac had to offer, I gamely put on my running gear ready for the challenge ahead. Unfortunately my neighbour’s dog was taken ill so I decided to take to the road anyway along with Arry and Alice (she’s getting fat). Not far from the house I found a track which seemed to favour a good run and having got the two dogs into some sort of vague rhythm, off we went. A few minutes into our stride, I noticed a man and loose dog ahead. Not wanting to interfere with their bonding time, I decided to nip up through a nearby vineyard which appeared to have a similar track running parallel, albeit a little steeper. Note to self, never attempt to run through a vineyard when it has been rained on overnight especially uphill. By the time I got to the top, my trainers were thick with clay which I had to stop to remove, only to have to repeat the process as I was dragged by two eager woofers back onto the track below. The only blessing was that the chap with the dog must have thought I was completely nuts and had moved out of sight. Trainers now free of clay gloop, the three of us took off in the correct direction breathing in the miles of endless woodland and rippling streams. Arry and Alice were in heaven and apart from Arry almost ripping my arm out of it’s socket when he spied a desired rock, we managed about 5 miles and my legs didn’t give way once.

Completing the run was not the only achievement this week; I managed not only to put an Ikea bed together almost single-handedly and to finally get my car . Getting the bed had become a necessity as the lack of sleep being allowed by the previous one had started to make me extremely tetchy. I don’t cope well on less than 8 hours of deep slumber which had been noticed by both the woofers and my Mum so the delivery of cardboard boxes was gladly received. Those who are familiar with the construction of Ikea furniture will know that it is essential to a) count all the fiddly screws and bolts before embarking on the task ahead and b) take no notice of the picture that shows two men are needed to put the bits together. Well, I’m a woman and an impatient one at that. Six hours and many expletives later, I had made a bed with a little bit of help from my nephew and his muscles. Okay so the headboard is on back to front but I got the best night’s sleep in a long time and so did the woofers. It’s a big bed.

I finally got to go and pick up Josephine on Thursday from the Mercedes Jeep showroom in nearby Carcassonne. At the age of nearly 54, I have bought my first brand-new car and a Jeep Renegade Hybrid at that. The dashboard looks like the cockpit of stealth bomber (she is incredibly quiet being a hybrid) but I’m sure I’ll be able to translate all the manuals into Sophi speak eventually and figure out how to keep the interior clean once Arry sets a paw in it. She is beautiful though, named after Josephine Baker (an amazingly tough and very beautiful woman) and Napoleon’s Josephine (because she’s a French car), I can’t wait to take her on many an expedition through the French countryside. Avoiding vineyards though…..

“Nothing is impossible, the word itself says I’m possible” (Audrey Hepburn)

Just dancin’ in the rain

One of my most vivid childhood memories was the beginning of the monsoon in Thailand. I remember the almost unbearable humidity before the thunder echoed and flashes of lightning lit the overcast sky. Then, boom! The rains came, a massive waterfall cascading from the heavens above. We would run around the gardens, dancing in the torrents of water around us, oblivious to any sort of danger that the lightning might bring. I loved these thunderstorms and still do, the feeling of being cleansed, the power of Mother Nature washing away the oppressive heat in the most theatrical fashion. Last night bought it all back, we had a doozy of a show. I stood out under the balcony roof and watched the whole thing as it slowly moved south on its journey, leaving behind the sound of trees soaking up the much needed deluge and a deep sense of calm. Admittedly there was no dancing through the raindrops, I have a better sense of self-preservation as an adult but the cathartic feeling was still there. The dogs naturally went to bed, unimpressed by Mum’s need to watch such events.

Aside from sudden downpours, the dogs and I are settling more and more each day. We put a fence up halfway across the gardens in an attempt to keep the woofers out of trouble at the gate. Shrieking at dogs passing by is one of the highlights of their day so in an attempt to prevent any anxiety amongst the local chiens, we barricaded them in the bottom half of the grounds. Naturally it only took a few minutes for Gizmo, being small but mighty, to squeeze through the posts and show them all what they were missing. Then Arry and Gunner discovered a gap at the far end which defeated the whole purpose of the shield. I sometimes think it would be easier having chickens.

My car is finally due to arrive tomorrow which means I can finally go out and start updating my little home. After a couple of weeks of insomnia, I woke the other morning and ordered a new bed online. Thanks be to the Gods that Ikea has tentacles everywhere. I’ve started priming the bedroom walls so next stop is finding the right colour for each room and hopefully it won’t be too long before the builder puts the new floor tiles down. With a new bank account, car insurance and hopefully better internet by the end of next week, life is starting to get more organised. One of my neighbours has also offered to run with me and Arry once the Autumn temperatures settle in, a relief as I really didn’t want to let my poor sense of direction guide us.

There is a quote by Vivian Greene, “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain”. For me, it sums up so much of what I have gone through over the last couple of years and I’ve learnt just about every dance. Moving to France was a huge leap of faith but with each day I’m starting to feel a little bit more at peace. Sometimes you just have to put on your tap shoes….

“Anyone who says sunshine brings happiness has never danced in the rain” (Unknown)

The Art of Patience

With Callum going back to the UK and college at the beginning of the week and me almost forgetting what would have been Tony and my 28th wedding anniversary yesterday, it’s no wonder I’ve felt a little out of flux of late. Luckily, the house and garden have kept me busy. I finally got the last of the eye-watering wallpaper off and I think I have the upper hand in the war against the wisteria (no spiders were hurt in the process). Still, there are times when I miss having Tony beside me even if he would probably be telling me I’m doing it all wrong. He would have loved the garden although the heat and insect bites would have had him muttering curses.

Wallpaper and wisteria aside, life is pretty quiet. The dogs are gradually taking over the garden and scaring the life out of any canine passing the gate. I’ve given up trying to keep them quiet as I’m sure the whole village knows them by now. Arry has made sure all his half-eaten footballs and a once waterproof bucket are scattered around the acres. I had hoped his pool would be delivered in the week but I stupidly put the L’Horte address down and no-one was there for the Amazon man so it’s stuck at the post office. Naturally, our post office isn’t open on the weekends so we are pool-less until next week, the one thing I miss about the UK (okay there’s a few things but this is definitely one of them) is the ability to get anything you want or want done almost immediately. I’m still waiting for a reply from my Jeep guy as to when I’ll get my wheels which is a little frustrating but apparently quite normal. However the final estimate from the builder arrived which was surprisingly within budget, hopefully he will be able to start the grand conversion in a couple of months. Meanwhile the colour for the shower tiles and the paint for the bedrooms will be the next shopping trip. It still feels a little strange to be designing and picking everything myself without having to compromise but I’m pretty sure Tony would have approved.

On the plus side, Mumo and I introduced ourselves to the Mairie (Mayor’s office) and got my Attestation or Certificate of Residence. This means that I can now open a bank account here. The French Government have been rather decent in allowing any UK peeps living here to apply for residency from October which of course I will do. Despite my occasional impatience with the lack of urgency given to getting things done, I’m rather loving the pace of life here. One of the best parts of the day is sitting on the balcony as the night draws in, talking to friends back in ol’ Blighty. Before Covid, Zooming or Housepartying would never have crossed my mind so thank you to the tech gods for such inventions. Thankfully, our internet has improved somewhat too so I can sit out under the stars with a glass of wine and great conversation.

I once wrote on this here blog that we should all take a tip from our dogs on life. My woofers don’t think about the past or make future plans (except Yogi, food is always planned), they live life to the full purely in the here and now. It’s taking time but I think I’m getting there a little more every day. I’d still like to know when my car is coming though….

“In order to really enjoy a dog, one doesn’t merely try to train him to be semi human. The point of it is to open oneself to the possibility of becoming partly a dog.” (Edward Hoagland)

Cultural learnings

As we sat down with an aperitif or two last night, my mum noticed a small bug in her glass. As said bug was carefully removed with her fingertip, she told me how you dealt with such incidences in the tropics said a lot about how ‘native’ you had become. Most newcomers would naturally throw the contents of the glass out and refill it whereas those who had been in the country a while would simply remove the insect. Then there were those fully immersed in the culture who would drink the lot regardless. I aspire to be one of the latter eventually here in the little village of Rouffiac.

I finally moved from L’Horte to the new house in Rouffiac on Wednesday. Once I had put everything necessary in it’s place, the woofers and I decided to explore the rather palatial garden which is a lot bigger than I had originally thought. Within an hour I had met two neighbours, one English and one French and two more passing by the gate. I ought to mention here that they all had dogs which as we all know, is a conversation starter but I was immediately struck by the welcome. In all the 24 years I had at chez Knollys, I don’t think I new more than half a dozen neighbours and for some of those, just a fleeting hello. Yet here, everyone says “Bonjour” and gives a smile. I even braved going down to the local epicerie ( a sort of French corner shop that sells fresh croissants as well as washing up liquid) to get some breakfast, I was told later that she was impressed with my French but I was astounded that she understood any of it. The first day ended with an invitation to have drinks with the previous owners and our French neighbour, how could one refuse?

My nephew Max tells me that the easiest way to learn a language is to immerse yourself in the culture. Since he is a multi-linguist, including various Arab dialects, I am taking his advice. The sort of drink the whole glass including the bug type. However being able to be understood by those around you is not the only lesson needed to be learnt by this ex-Londoner. Life here goes at a completely different pace. Shops close at lunchtime, on Sundays and pretty much nothing happens on Mondays. You can’t just open a bank account online, you have to get an appointment with the local branch. Before I get one of these, I need to go down to the Mayor’s office and get a certificate of domicile ( an official ‘she lives here’ document) but there are only certain days and times that they are open. I am assured however that one doesn’t need an appointment as they never seem to have anything to do. Life here means slow down and stop stressing about the small stuff. Quite an education.

So as I sit here in the garden tapping away at the keyboard, I can feel myself starting to relax. I can’t say I’m not a little frustrated at the lack of internet ( a problem to deal with next week ) but if writing this surrounded by snoozing woofers shading under trees, life can’t be too bad. Even if I have to swallow a few bugs…..

“Sometimes we can only find our true direction when we let the wind of change carry us” (Mimi Novic)

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