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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s been an exceptionally busy week which, considering the freezing temperature and generally foul weather, was just as well. Between ferrying woofers to the vet, sorting out Mumo’s new car and evening soirees, I’ve barely had time to do anything Book Two-wise. Unfortunately the next few days aren’t looking that much different except that it’s my new car being collected and hopefully less nights out. I need some sleep. Having eight dogs means once a year, they all have to take their turns at being checked over and vaccinated and since I can’t take them all at once, they are booked in pairs. Mo Cridhe and Coco Loco had theirs on Friday – Coco, of course, was a gem unlike Mo who spent the whole time eye-balling the poor vet although I did keep her tooth end in my direction. And you learn something new every day. Coco had chewed one of his back legs, he can’t feel anything beyond his lower back but the vet told me that they can have phantom pains just like humans. Who knew? Anyway, she gave him a bit of laser therapy over the wound and wrapped an ‘impossible to get off’ bandage around it. I give him less than a week to get it off.

As I mentioned, Mumo got her new car. It was supposed to be on Tuesday but there was a mix-up in communication, I was told that the dealer would drop it chez nous, something they denied saying so I waited in all afternoon for nothing. Suffice to say, Simon and Mumo picked it up the next morning without any problems – I’m taking Denis with me to get mine tomorrow just in case they blame my fluency on any hiccups. Naturally, Mumo has already had her own hiccup with her swish new Yaris. After having spent Friday afternoon with friends and lots of tea and cake, she managed to lock herself out of her car by pressing the wrong button on the door. Not being used to all the whizz bang technology now installed in new motors, she accidentally pressed the lock, rather than unlock one. Eventually she found the key in the bottom of her handbag (why do keys always disappear down to the furthest reaches of one’s bag when you need them?) and managed to open the door. Then she couldn’t start it owing to the computerised dashboard’s insistence that she had done something heinous to her expensive purchase so she called Simon (and his new but not new car) out to help. By this time it was pitch dark and knowing we were about to have guests over for aperos and I was beginning to panic. Of course, by the time my big brother got to her aide, she’d figured out how to start the damn thing and both returned a short time later more than slightly frazzled. Thank the Gods for great friends and wine, the latter of which we plied Mumo with.

With all the party excess on the agenda, I managed to get in a trip to the hairdresser on Thursday. I love going to the salon, not only because Severine knows exactly what I want but also because of the atmosphere. I love the chatter of the ladies whilst their barnets are being updo’ed especially now as I can join in with all the banter en français. Severine’s head massages are pretty wicked too, I’d go in just for those. The week finished off last night with a Burns bash at the gorgeous Graham’s house (he is the only Scot in the village), again surrounded by the best of amis, far too much wine and several bottles of the finest whisky. No I don’t drink whisky but judging by the amount of empties, everyone else did. The night also happened to be Sabah’s birthday, my new-found cohort in wild knees-ups so Cremant was added to the liquid mix. We don’t drink champagne much down this way, we have the best bubbles in Cremant and Blanquette. Sabah and I are both Fire Horses under the Chinese Zodiac, not a sign to be trifled with, so we get on literally like a house or horses on fire. Denis was a bit upset when I told him he was a Pig, I assured him that they were the most compassionate and sharp-minded of creatures. Love him to bits. And thank you for all your thumbs-up messages, yes he does make me very happy and yes, we both deserve it.

Hopefully, if one can trust the météo, we are due some blue skies and double-digit degrees. I’m itching to get back into the garden without stuffing myself into wellies and I’m not the only one. Denis hates being stuck indoors owing to having to recuperate after his op and the woofers aren’t happy with my lack of enthusiasm when it comes to amusing them outdoors. I still can’t let them roam unattended in the back bit owing to Sherb’s penchant for seeking new horizons and the neighbour’s cat. The lovely Lionel has promised me he will come and sort out the terrier-razed fence as soon as the sun comes out. It is not advisable to use power tools when it’s bucketing down he tells me. And I have to lay little Gizmo to rest and he hated the cold. I picked up his tiny tin of ashes on Friday, I’ve had to put them somewhere out of reach in case someone mistakes them for a pepper pot…

“Life was meant for good friends and great adventures” (Unknown)

Despite the sudden fall in temperature and the unwelcome arrival of the winter winds and snow flurries, my social diary has been packed with dinner invitations. Having got used to being the odd one out at the table, the single one, it’s wonderful to be part of a couple again. And since I live in a tiny rural village in South-West France and my beau happens to be a local, invariably such get-togethers with friends means conversing in French. According to mes amis my ‘Southern’ accent is praiseworthy and I am beginning to get all the words out in the right order. Most of the time. As the English language is a sort of descended mix of French and German, there are a lot of words that are the same but just spoken slightly differently by adding an accent on the end. Then there are those which mean something entirely different in the mother tongue but somehow sound charming in translation. Take for example, “manifestation”. Translated into English, it means a protest or demonstration which never fails to pop images of ghostly creatures complaining into my head. Then there is the phrase, ” je voudrais vous présenter ma famille” which means “I would like to introduce you to my family” but brings to mind a sort of Downton-esq idea of being presented at court whilst wearing a glittering ball gown and tiara. Of course, this can sometimes lead to hilarity when you try and explain a word in English that just doesn’t sound right when you say the French equivalent. Lionel was in fits of giggles when I told him to ‘duck’ as Denis wielded a wooden plank above his head. “Canard!” he replied and everyone looked up.

Over dinner the other evening chez Denis, that is to say at his house, I was ‘presented’ to his daughter’s boyfriend’s parents and sister (read it slowly and hope it makes sense). I had already been told by Marina, Denis’ daughter, that the family spoke a little English and once the greetings were over (“enchanté’s all round – it’s nice that people are enchanted to meet you), I was asked which language I preferred to have a conversation in. I chose French as these sorts of occasions are great learning environments and the chat flowed. It was at some point just after we sat down that the boyfriend’s sister mentioned that she had had English lessons at school and decided to continue whatever topic we had been discussing in sentences mixed between the two tongues. Felice spoke passionately about politics, the Meghan and Harry saga and anything else that she had a point about, with the F-word dropped in for good measure. “Good Lord” I thought, “where in the world did her English teacher come from?”

Putting the world to rights with friends is one thing but once again I have had to give Sherman a good talking to. The boy got out again, this time right in front of me as I was trying to shore up the remaining gaps under the fence. I retrieved him from the same bit of road a few minutes later, delighted with himself for finding a very nice lady dog who had a very nice smelling derrière. Lionel, Denis and I have come up with a solution but until Lionel is next here, Denis is still on rest, the dogs have to have me as a minder – that is to say they can’t just whizz around outside unattended. Luckily none of them, including the escapee, particularly like the freezing cold so want to come back in after half an hour or so. I don’t relish the thought of being out there any longer than necessary at the moment.

Simon and Alba, brother and his wife, arrived on Friday to spend a week down here whilst their apartment in Narbonne is being renovated. It’s a relief to have a few extra hands around so that we can start clearing the other top bedroom which is currently being used as a storeroom. Nick and Roy have constructed built in floor to ceiling cupboards so that all the bed linen, duvets, spare coats and all that stuff can be put away. And tomorrow Nick and I will begin transforming the old utility room into another living space with, yes you guessed right, more storage cupboards. I know L’Horte was a huge house but it’s mind-boggling to try and figure out how we’ve ended up with so many bed sheets and spare electric bulbs. I’m looking forward to the challenge as not only will I be learning new skills, it’s an inside job. I shall endeavour to be the best apprentice for you Nick darling and keep my language clean. Perhaps we should put up the boxing bag first?…

“The most intimate temper of a people, its deepest soul, is above all in its language” (Jules Michelet)

Never believe the hype that states that living with woofers reduces your blood pressure and increases your general wellness. If the past week is anything to go by, I’m due in the loony bin any day now. The woofers have been wandering – well one of them has. The once impenetrable perimeter fence has been scaled, or dug under, not once but twice by Sherman. Naturally he planned his first bid for freedom under the cover of darkness, I’d heard him, Arry and Neo doing their usual screech at one of the local dogs having its nightly walk along the road below and then a little squeak. I called the dogs in but only two returned. Muttering obscenities about the idiocy of owning 8 woofers (I know its still hard to say 8 and not 9) and why do torch batteries only run out when you need to use such a utility, I grabbed my phone (has torch) and went down to the bottom of the garden. No Sherman. Now as any experienced dog owner knows, you must not fly off the handle and start screaming your pup’s name when they are missing – it will only scare them but this is very difficult when you can’t see a flipping thing and your Border terrier is brown. I called Arry down and asked him where his little buddy had gone. My faithful (unless there’s a rabbit or a cat or the possibility of either) German Shepherd ran straight to the same bit of fencing I’d searched and stood there, pointing his face towards the lower road. Panicking, I ran out of the front gate and onto said track – nothing. I came back and asked Arry again, who was still standing there looking at me and then back at the same spot. And there was Sherbs, pottering up and down below us, not looking the slightest bit perturbed at what had happened. I ran back out again and called him. He ran towards me like one of those scenes in a Disney movie, tail wagging and smiling face, and then swung a right into a neighbour’s garden chasing a cat. Having found him, again, I carried him back to his waiting bestie where they joyously reunited no doubt with excited conversations about his escapade whilst I poured a very large glass of red.

The following morning I went out and checked the boundary line. I found the first hole right where Arry had pointed it out, a minute gap but Sherman is a terrier after all. And then I found another and another – the mischievous mite had carved out more tunnels than The Great Escape. He made another bid for freedom the next day but this time I knew exactly where he’d gone and once retrieved from the field opposite, I shut him in the apartment garden whilst I shored up the defences with logs, heavy ones. Until Denis is back and fit for work, I’m hoping and praying that my temporary measures will curtail another attempt on my sanity. I can’t really blame Sherman, it’s in his genetics – his mum Alice chased a cat through the old drain between the back garden and the courtyard this morning, something I thought she wouldn’t do again since she nearly got stuck the last time but she’s been on a diet. And speaking of diets, Coco Loco needs to go on one as, owing to his belly just about touching the floor, his wraps keep sliding off. I spend half my day following him with a mop.

Denis had his hernia operation on Tuesday and I went to the dentist. Apparently I have too many teeth on my bottom jaw which considering I don’t have enough on the top one, seems a little unbalanced. Annie, my dentist, has booked me in for a little dental reconstruction at the end of February, something she delighted told me would involve an injection or two. Dentists have a weird sense of humour. Denis had to stay in hospital overnight and owing to the fact that his phone battery died, couldn’t call me. His sister, Nathalie, thankfully did but not before I’d taken out my frustrations on the concrete ‘shelving’ in the utility room with a sledgehammer. I impressed the hell out of Nick our ‘everything that needs doing I can’ guy although he did give me a wide berth for the rest of the day. D did pop in the next morning, chauffeured by his brother Thierry, first to see Mumo of course before I steered him back to the car and told him in no uncertain terms to go to bed or I’d sic him on Dr Lefevre.

Aside from trying to prevent breakouts and keep my gardener from ripping out stitches, I’ve been busy getting the plants ready for the week ahead. The weather is turning with possible snow showers by Thursday. The roses have been cut back and the palm tree wrapped up, the latter being a bit of botched job as I’d used any remaining plastic fencing to stop you-know-who from doing you-know-what. We need to stock up on fat balls for the birds too, looking out from my terrace the other day reminded one of a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” – thousands of oiseaux perched on the bare trees staring down at me expectantly. Mind you, it’s a bit of a Russian Roulette scenario as a trio of mercenary buzzards have decided our garden is easy pickings – pigeon feathers everywhere.

On a final note, I just wanted to say thank you for all the condolences for the passing of Gizmo. He is much missed especially as he was always curled up at the top of my bed every night, wanting a tummy tickle before lights out. The sweetest of natures and always the gentleman dog, he never gave me a day of trouble. Unlike some…

“Terriers are problem solvers. They’ll do what you tell them, but only if it happens to be in line with what they wanted to do anyway.” (Garth Stein)

He was the last of the original ‘Dog Hollow’ pack. Yesterday afternoon, Gizmo slipped peacefully away to join Macgyver, Rupert, Jordi and his beloved Evee. Back in 2010, I took on a 2 year old, tiny whirlwind of Yorkshire Terrier after his owner decided she didn’t want him and with a change of name, Gizmo became Evee’s ‘other half’ and Tony’s little buddy. It took a while to find the feisty, intelligent, fun-loving terrier inside. Up until he joined us, Gizmo had been either left in a seventh floor apartment with no access to a garden or stuffed in a doggy handbag to be paraded around ladies’ luncheons. He was terrified of the outside world but Evee took him under her wing and taught him the delights of barking at birds, chasing tennis balls and sunbathing on the back terrace in South London. Bought at Harrods, he wasn’t the healthiest of specimens and suffered most of his life with a sensitive tum but that never stopped him from living life to the full – even when he got a piece of carrot stuck in his oesophagus and ended up at The Royal Veterinary Hospital inches from choking to death. After Evee died in 2021, he lost some of that spark but still took to lying out in the sun whenever the opportunity arose but age crept up on him quickly. His sight deteriorated and then dementia started to kick in but ultimately it was a likely cerebral stroke that made the decision to say goodbye inevitable. Denis and I stayed with him until he closed his eyes for the last time. He was almost 15 years old.

I hate to say it but the rest of the Woofers don’t appear to have noticed that one of their members is no longer with us. Mind you, they have been somewhat spoilt this past week as everyone came back to work after the Christmas break -much barking and tail- wagging has ensued. Poor Nick (a dab hand at pretty much everything and considering he once bit him, Neo’s best friend) had to contend with having his face licked off and tools repositioned down the garden whilst he tiled the lower part of my kitchen island. Max the chauffagiste returned from his skiing trip, thankfully in one piece, much to the delight of Arry who finds Max’s eternally ebullient personality right up his street. Unfortunately Max still can’t get the thermostats to work as the walls in the boiler room are too thick for an internet connection, something that I have commented on several times but on deaf ears it seems. At least the weather is still thinking its September so we haven’t needed the radiators on full blast but that in itself is causing a worry. If we don’t get some decent frosty weather soon, the garden is going to get very confused and starting budding everywhere instead of hibernating until Spring.

Speaking of coming out of hibernation, we finally moved the old, and in desperate need of repair, red tractor into the carport so it can be restored to its former glory. Apart from the fact that it had become a bit of an eyesore rusting away under the sapin, I wanted it put away so that Denis would have something to keep him busy whilst he recovers from his hernia op this coming Tuesday. Although in her heyday, she could do the work of ten men or more, shifting the mangled mass of machinery that Callum had retrieved from the river at L’Horte after the last big flood in 2018, wasn’t an easy task. The first few attempts at trying to tow this broken one with our working tractor didn’t even shift a wheel and neither Lionel or Denis could figure out how to get the handbrake off so the bloody thing refused to budge an inch. Eventually my guy had a light bulb moment and sped (can you ‘sped’ in a tractor?) around the back of the small but once mighty Massey Ferguson circa 1970 and with the help of Lionel and Nick, pushed her into the carport. The whole debacle provided much amusement for me as I attempted to untangle the lights I’d removed from the exterior Christmas decor (no doubt the fairies will make sure they are once again tangled in about 11 months time) – boys and their toy tractors. Eventually both tractors will reside in the almost completed new home in the former chicken coop at the end of the property.

With the last of the big jobs done in the garden, at least until the Spring, I’m feeling a little flat. There is loads to do inside the house, we have a few more rooms to create for a start but I miss not being busy outside. There is always of course, The Book Part 2 to get my tap tapping into but I’m not feeling very motivated. The Book Part 1 is waiting for the photos to be organised and the cover design finished so it makes sense to concentrate on its sequel. I think Callum was right when he said, as we chatted over the phone earlier today, the first is a rollercoaster of a journey but the second is more of a gentle meander. And I’m not very good at meandering. Still, as someone I’m sure once quoted, it won’t write itself so I must go and power up the old keyboard and flex those fingers…

“To call him a dog hardly seems to do him justice, though inasmuch as he had four legs, a tail, and barked, I admit he was, to all outward appearances. But to those who knew him well, he was a perfect gentleman.” (Hermione Gingold, actress).

And just like that, 2022 has vanished into the history books. The Christmas tree is beginning to look a little wan without presents under it and Papa Noël is sagging on top of the wall. I’m itching to take down all the decorations – I don’t do the whole 12th night thing, once the festivities are over that’s it for the baubles. And with the last week of the year being filled with family and friends, I’m looking forward to getting back into a calmer routine and back to my computer.

I managed to get through the festive season without too much over-indulgence (alcohol probably being the exception) and kept my temper in check (almost). I blame the first set of brackets on friends and an apero evening that turned into an all-nighter and the second set on family – I love them dearly but three days of being pretty much ignored at the dining table does start to grate on one. But then you miss them when they’ve gone, the exception being my big brother Simon and his wife, Alba, who have finally made the move down here permanent by buying an apartment in Narbonne. They’ll be spending most weekends here chez nous, gladly welcomed by Mumo and I. Mind you, my sister Bong and her family nearly didn’t make it out and back to the US as their hire car decided to pack up the day before their departure. Being the season of ‘sorry everyone’s on holiday’, the rental firm had their only spare wheels in Toulouse, an hour away, and nobody available to drive them there. It was a good job I’d made sure the Josey Jeep had got a full tank of petrol before Christmas and being a person with an occasionally quick-thinking head, I lent them my precious car so that they could go and pick up the replacement vehicle. Why do things always break down on Sundays or holidays?

As much as I’ve taught myself to focus on the present and not on the past over these 4+ years (yes, I’ve been writing this blog since January 2019!), I did take a trip back up memory lane on Christmas Eve, or should I say, back to L’Horte. Although I don’t pop in to say hello to Pop’s tree and the three Shepherds laid to rest beside him as often as I used to, there are certain times of year when I just like to go and spend some quiet time with them all. L’Horte, like these years gone by, is fading with the houses are marked for demolition and the ivy taking over the roof of the main one but not all of our former homestead is suffering the same fate. As I turned down the driveway, for once I wasn’t greeted with silence and sadness – the terre is alive with new inhabitants. And very noisy ones too. Our tenants, Nicolas and Severine have brought in pygmy goats, donkeys, a couple of very large pigs and best of all, a whirl of woof in the shape of Pastis who greeted me with dog kisses and waggy tail. Pop may not have been that fond of goats but seeing Pastis run up and down the river bank, that he would have loved.

So off we go into another year brimming with excitement about what may lay ahead. My phone messages have already burnt up with news of ‘Surprise, we’re getting married!’ and ‘we’re having a baby in 2023’ – the first not associated with the second by the way because that would be very weird for the couple who announced the former. Here at Rouffiac, the next phase of building will begin in a couple of weeks and the calendar is filling up nicely with friends wanting to come and stay. Our new ‘neighbours’ (well 2 minute walk down the road), Saba and Roy will be moving into their newly-renovated house in the next month or so which, if it were possible in this buzzing little village, will breathe even more fun into the year ahead. I’ve got a whole bottle of Ricard to share having won the grand prize in the epicerie’s tombola so they better hurry up and move in. What with L’Horte looking like a petting zoo (I don’t trust those pigs though) and new amis about to add to Rouffiac, 2023 looks like a promising year. And better still, this girl gets to start the whole shebang with her Woofers and a new love in her life…

Happy New Year all!

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