There’s a big grey cloud hanging over Rouffiac at the moment and if the météo is right, it isn’t going to move anytime soon. According to Louise next-door, it’s going to rain for the next two weeks but darling Denis thinks otherwise. According to him, one just looks out of the window every morning and then makes a judgement call because the weather can change in an instant around here. He’s right, of course. I drove back from Carcassonne yesterday and the rain was bucketing down but as soon as I turned the last corner for home, the skies cleared. Unfortunately it didn’t last although lovely Lionel and Denis did manage to get most of the margelles, otherwise known as the pool edging, into place before the heavens opened again. I’ve given up worrying about when the bloody thing will be finished and the fences and the landscaping. The ever-optimistic Lionel has a list and assures me all will be completed within the next few weeks. I’ve heard that before.

He’s not the only one to give me a boost of confidence over the past few days. I had an appointment with the doc on Thursday as I had a painful lump in my armpit. I told Denis who promptly declared that it was a ganglion, he knew because he had one in the same place so I shouldn’t get wound up about it. I didn’t think I was that wound up until Dr Lefevre suggested I get the bizarre (his words) bump checked out at the local hospital’s radiology department. I got an appointment the next day, it was a little concerning that I managed to get one so quickly but off I went. Trying to keep a sense of humour about being prodded about, I pointed out to the specialist that the last time someone used one of those ultrasound things was when I was pregnant with Callum so I was pleased it was under my arm this time. “It’s a ganglion” he said much to my relief, apparently if they are painful, they are almost always not serious. “But I would feel better if we did another couple of mammograms just to be sure”. So I was popped into the room next door to be scanned all over again. My positive vibes were starting to wane as the nurse and doctor discussed my underarm whilst I sat half naked pondering all sorts of outcomes but my wonderful specialist confirmed his first diagnosis, phew! On his advice, I’m going to have the troublesome ganglion removed next week just to be on the safe side.

I hadn’t realised how much the whole experience had affected me until later that evening. I had picked up my friend Pip’s son from the train station as she was away and after having deposited him at hers, I drove home with a headful of God-knows-what because as I turned into the driveway I took the wheel arch of my beloved Josephine Jeep off on the gate post. What is with me and wheel arches? I could have cried but honestly a) I was exhausted and b) two angels appeared by my side before the tears could flow. Denis and Lionel. I got hugged and fussed over whilst they attempted to get it back on but failed. A trip to the garage next week I think, maybe they can iron out the other ding I put in my poor car, at least it’s on the same side. Both heroes sent me messages the following morning to check on my mental state, I do love them.

I bought some sunflower seeds earlier in the week, my little bit to support Ukraine. I’ve never had much luck with growing things from seed but put them on my kitchen windowsill anyway in the vain hope they might sprout. And they have! I’m such a proud plant mum and will find a suitable spot in the garden when they are old enough to leave the tub. Of course, they’ll have to wait until the sun comes out but I love their optimism for clearer skies ahead. For us all…..

“Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see a shadow” (Helen Keller)

If March doesn’t start behaving itself, we are going to have a falling out very soon. I know the month has just started but its not very nice to throw glorious sunshine at us on the first day, then decide we ought to be miserable and wet for the rest of the week. Just as Lionel and Denis were making great strides in laying the pool terrace down, everything stopped because of the weather. It’s all incredibly frustrating but power tools and pissing skies don’t mix and I am rather fond of my guys. The only plus side is that I have gone on a bit of a plant shopping binge and the terre is much easier to dig holes in when soggy. Arry and Sherman take particular delight in anything that involves mounds of earth they can bury bones and rocks in whilst you are trying to make space for a rose or three. Mum turning over compost is even more fun especially when she’s trying not to wake up spiders. According to Yogi Bear, its a bit like going to a department store and trying all the different perfume testers. Less Chanel, more champignon I would suggest. Rain for them apparently, does not stop play.

Luckily the temperature hasn’t matched the skies, staying in the double digits as I forgot to check the oil reservoir so the heating went off. Bless Max the chauffagiste who answered my call of desperation and booked a delivery which arrived a couple of days later. Mind you, his ‘c’est pas grave’ meaning ‘it’s not serious’ was obviously not directed at Mumo. Anything under 25 degrees means freezing to her and the rising cost of oil (yes, we are hit like everyone else) made my cheque book faint. Roll on Spring and Max putting the solar panels on. I did have a visit from the diminutive force of nature that is Pauline, she who created the beautiful walls on the ground floor of the main house, I’d asked her to look at my space ‘upstairs’ as a renovation project. Pauline oohed and ‘oui’d’ at my grand plans and booked me into her diary. Next year. As much as I would have liked construction to start earlier, there is far too much to complete garden-wise, let alone the bloody pool. That and I have learnt that everything that needs to be ordered takes months to be delivered so better to stockpile than twiddle thumbs waiting.

I finally managed to get the first three chapters of The Book emailed to darling Carmen, after all it was her idea that I should put the last few years on paper. I have to admit they were very difficult to write, bringing up all those memories so I’m hoping the rest will flow a little easier. No doubt my first attempts will come back littered with red ink but I’m starting to enjoy being a ‘writer’. Penning the blog is so much easier, it’s short and you don’t have page numbers – who knew computers could do that automatically? Once I had put numbers at the bottom of each page, I discovered how little I’d actually written despite hours of tap tapping away. However, having changed my hours so to speak – no more falling asleep mid-sentence at midnight, I have a renewed sense of optimism that I shall finish before the next millennium , especially if the weather Gods have anything to do with it – that or it’ll make less smelly compost….

“When life throws you a rainy day, play in the puddles.” (Winnie the Pooh)

I once read a quote which went something along the lines of “write the chapter you want to read because you are going to have to read it 100 times”. No wonder I seem to spend as much time deleting paragraphs as I do writing them. The trouble is I feel most ‘author-ish’ at night which paradoxically is when I really want to go to sleep, hence the following morning spent with a digit on the delete button. But The Book is starting to flow in the right direction albeit more like a trickle most days but I’m still tap tapping away. A friend of mine whose book has just been published asked me when she’d get a copy of mine – I suggested she might want to look at getting a zimmer frame first, it’s going to take me a while. I am enjoying the challenge though and it does get easier to write as the years go down ‘on paper’ so to speak.

Of course, finding time to think of great paragraph structure isn’t easy when Spring is beckoning and the garden needs to get in shape. Denis and I make a great team, I have the ideas and he designs something vaguely along the same lines. We never argue because, let’s be honest, he knows better than me when it comes to planting and what suits the soil. The little waterfall fountain in my soon-to-be Zen garden is coming along nicely although my “let’s put lotus flowers in there” was met with a definite “non” as apparently their roots would clog up the filtration system. Faux flowers it is then. Not all my creative inspirations have been met with derision though, white gravel pathways resembling tree branches is definitely a “oui ” from our Denis. And having spent the whole of Friday morning picking out fence posts with Lionel (who knew there was so much more to just a wooden pole?), I can’t wait to see the back of all the wire netting next week. I would say I’m looking forward to the pool terrace being finished as well but experience has taught me to keep schtum on that subject. I have however veto’ed Denis’ plan to build a nuclear bunker under the stairs, I don’t think Rouffiac is really on Putin’s radar even if the covered piscine looks like a giant helipad at the moment.

With the evenings getting longer and the promise of clearer skies as we head, hopefully, into warmer months, I decided that it was high time Pop’s telescope got repaired. There is some argument avec la famille as to what is actually wrong with it but in short, you can’t see the stars when you peer down the tube. My first thought was to email the company who made it and get a manual, only to find out they went bankrupt last year so I Googled possible repair shops instead. I found one in Toulouse which, thinking about it, I should have known would have such experts as it has the largest space centre in Europe so they should be able to fix Pop’s star-gazer.

I spent most of last week chez veto. Between Arry’s laser treatments (only he could pull tendons in both shoulders) and Gunner’s Imoove therapy – a computerised sort of wobble platform that stimulates his back muscles, I think I should have a VIP card and parking bay. Both boys are very popular though with all the staff and thoroughly enjoy the attention and the knowledge that I’ll drive them back home via L’Horte which is the equivalent of a funfair for the two. If I had written a book about the inner workings of Arry’s mind, I would have finished it the same day…..

“If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it” ( Elmore Leonard)

It may be mid-February but there are definite signs of Spring down here in our little corner of the world. The cherry blossom has started to sprinkle its colour and the iris are poking their heads out of the soil. Although we have had quite a wet week (much needed), when the sun has been out, the temperatures have pulled off the winter clothes – even the citrus trees have had their protective covers removed. And with the stress of getting Salome to her new home in Long Island and Callum eventually getting over his jet-lag Down Under dissipating, I’m settling back into the daily routine. Denis and I have been planting and planning which needless to say ends up with Denis shaking his head and redesigning my unrealistic ambitions.

With season’s change just around the corner, Mumo and I decided to attack the yet to be unpacked boxes of linen, curtains and suchlike. We found all sorts of random ‘Collins’ artifacts from beautiful Thai silk cushion covers (I have purloined a few) to her mother’s wedding pillowcases, now frayed with age. Sheets, curtains and duvet covers were reorganised into labelled containers and a lot ‘recycled’ (i.e. put in the garage because something will need protecting) or just thrown away. So much of family history lay in those boxes but sometimes we need to get rid of the past to allow new ones to be filled. As my precious Pip said when she came over for a natter this morning. “You’ll never wear 5 inch heels again, Sophi so you might as well sell them”, ” the 1980’s and ’90’s are vintage now” as I showed her my groaning shoe collection; “they’re just taking up wardrobe space which you could use for something else”. Like new shoes perhaps. She’s right of course, even if I could still balance in them, Rouffiac isn’t exactly nightlife central although some of those heels would be great for planting seedlings in the garden.

Throwing away the old can be a cathartic experience even if you have to bring it all out into the open first. As I finish one chapter and start the next tap tap tapping away all things The Book, I feel almost liberated. Running the other day, I was watching a stream flow alongside the path wondering where it was going when I noticed part of it had been blocked by a log. On one side of the log the water was covered in scum and old branches whilst the other side was clear and trickling along. As I moved the log (I’m a curious sort), the channel began to clear immediately and join the rest of the stream. That’s karma I thought to myself as Arry dived in and bounced along with the flotsam and jetsam now floating happily in the transparent waters. There’ll still be quite a few obstacles to move as we go forward with the seasons but the water is getting clearer…..

“I was still water, held by my surroundings. I am now a river, carving my own path.” (Scott Stabile)

It’s been a week of mixed emotions and time travel. Callum took off for one end of the world and Salome to the other, at least it felt like it. Naturally, like all mothers, I stalked my son for almost his entire flight on one of those radar apps and bombarded him with messages once he had landed “are you okay?”, “where are you?”, “please text me?!” . Poor thing was exhausted and just wanted to sleep without his mother’s continual tirade of panic. He is of course, fine but the 10 hour time difference will take a while for his body to adjust to. Talking with him this morning, the world felt that little bit smaller – he’s just a phone call away.

Another mum (our Alice) said good-bye to her child this week, Salome left our little nest for her new life with Corey and John in Long Island. Having left Denis in charge of the woofers, I headed off for Paris 700 kms North with Neo and a mildly perplexed puppy. After a small diversion in the big city (what’s a city without roadworks?), we arrived at the designated meeting point or at least what I thought was the place having diligently followed my Sat Nav and settled down in the car for the night. Unfortunately for me, I had been so focused on making sure Sal had all her necessary documents and bedding, I had forgotten to pack anything for me to sleep on or in save a thin dog blanket. It was freezing and my little car is no match for the wonders of the Mothership with all its creature comforts, I think I was lucky to get about 3 hours kip. As dawn arose, desperate for a pee and the surrounding gardens looking private enough, I nipped behind a bush unseen. Then it was the dogs turn and knowing that Sal had to empty herself (no breakfast), I took them out onto the nearest bit of grass – jobs done. Except we were at the wrong building. Ours was further down the road and as I backed out of our parking place I noticed that the pristine lawn of a tech company had been graced with a very large poo. I didn’t look back and having whizzed over to the ‘pet service’, said my tearful farewell to my little girl. She was, apparently, an absolute trooper especially as her flight landed three hours late (although six hours behind us – very confusing) and is now settling into her new life happily.

The last time I drove back South was 18 months ago and my body rebelled the entire journey. My legs cramped up and a sharp pain in my shoulder made the drive complete agony. But it was worth it as I whizzed down the last few kilometres to Rouffiac and saw the Pyrenees welcoming me in the distance, I was home. The woofers were pleased to see me although Alice did sit on the verandah for half the night slightly confused and Sherman kept giving me woeful eyes. Running up into the hills the next morning to see the sunrise and despite my legs still aching from the day before, I was happy to be back where I belong. And with Salome in her new home and Callum starting out on his own journey, maybe it’s not such a big world after all….

“Travel far enough, you meet yourself.”( David Mitchell)

I know it’s only February but I decided it was time for a bit of a clear out this week. Perhaps it was because I dropped Callum off at the airport Monday night that I had a hankering to go through all the boxes of photos he’d dumped in my loft space. Two huge binbags were filled up with out of focus or double prints, why on earth we kept them who knows but I now have a new-found appreciation for mobile phone cameras – you can download and delete. Hundreds of photos of people I don’t remember or of dogs I boarded names are long forgotten were tossed in the trash but then there were those that captured a moment at a wedding or on holiday that instantly take you back to that time. Somehow scrolling through your mobile phone just isn’t the same as looking through an album of slightly faded memories.

Aside from dusting off decades of historical memorabilia, I am slowly tapping the last few years onto the laptop. How do people find the time to get their books finished? As much as I have tried to schedule time for this masterpiece of literature, there always seems to be something else that needs my immediate attention or, I have to be honest, I’m just not in the mind-set to write. As much as looking through old photos can bring a sense of whimsy, recalling those early days as a widow is hard work. It’s not just that the memory side of one’s brain can be a little selective, it’s also because I sometimes feel I’m telling someone else’s story.

Thankfully, the weather has kept everything moving poolside. Denis and I went out and bought an array of bushes, trees and the odd rose to start landscaping. The lovely Lionel has done all the prep work for the terrace and once the concrete is dry, the beautiful wood planks will be laid. I can’t help but think the whole thing looks a bit like a gigantic tombstone at the moment which is not exactly what one wants to look at over coffee on the verandah. I know it’ll all look fabulous once finished and fenced in but it’s hard to picture when it looks like a mausoleum.

Next week I’m back off on the airport run again, only this time I’m driving 7 hours up North to Paris. After 8 months of French life, Salome is about to embark (no pun intended) for New York and her new life. Since her flight is early in the morning (why can’t I ever be at an airport at a halfway decent hour?) and I will have to kip up there overnight, Mumo suggested I take security with me. A girl alone and all that. Although a 36 kilo German Shepherd would be a useful deterrent, Arry isn’t exactly a calm passenger so I’m taking Neo instead who is quite partial to taking a bite or two out of an unsuspecting threat. Darling Denis is staying to look after the rest of the woofers which should keep them excited and him exhausted whilst Mum’s away. I just hope Sherman doesn’t get too upset over his sister’s departure but at least he will be happy I’ve left Arry behind and so will the rest of the drivers….

“What I like about photographs is that they capture a moment that’s gone forever, impossible to reproduce.” (Karl Lagerfeld)

There are certain rules about what can be discussed over the family dinner table; dogs are a definite no-no as are the latest Covid statistics. Both are usually very boring especially for those who don’t hang around with the woofers. But we do love a debate so more often than not, my Mum will be the first to pose a question about one of life’s great mysteries. And so it was that we got on a conversation about how much of our personality do we inherit from our parents. Despite my belief that we are all born into our own individuality, having watched the puppies enter the world and grow, I can still see a lot of Tony in Callum. According to the man-child, we see what we want to see of ourselves or another in that person because we want the traits of the one we loved, continued. Thankfully the family ‘worry gene’ has eluded him so it’ll just be his Mum twisting her hanky as she waves goodbye and bon voyage tomorrow. The child becomes a man but a mum is always a mum.

The bar table is back. Yes, Callum took my pathetic effort at carpentry and redesigned it so it actually looks like a bar table and doesn’t wobble. With all this glorious sunshine January is bestowing on us, there’s nothing better to sit at with a post-run coffee over looking the budding garden. Actually I’m a little worried about the ‘budding’ bit as it’s far too early for any plantling to think about such things (that gene again) but darling Denis assures me all will be fine come the Spring. On this thought, he and I are going shopping tomorrow so we can start landscaping the pool area. Finally. There’s only so much one can do indoors before mind-numbing boredom sets in although I did make a quick trip to the Troc (second hand emporium) to get a desk stand but came out with a charming little cabinet instead. My newly-purchased meuble is now tucked beautifully against a corner wall and since it faces East, a Buddha sits serenely on top. Perhaps his calm aura might flow into the woofers and stop them ambushing anyone who dare walk past the gate.

Speaking of woofers, they have been a little agitated over the last few nights – something is creeping around below the garden staircase. A couple of evenings ago, I was having my usual chat with Tony and Pop up there in the stars before locking up when I heard ‘it’. ‘It’ was trying to open the little gate. I grabbed my torch and pointed it at the intruder but whatever ‘it’ was, was gone. Luckily none of the woofers had been alerted to my mild hysteria at being broken into, that is until sometime during the wee hours and all wee hours since, becoming the time to suddenly jump out of bed and bark. But ‘it’ isn’t anywhere to be seen and frankly, I’m getting a little cranky over all this nocturnal activity. Perhaps the hedgehogs have got as confused about the weather as the plants have? Mind you, ‘it’ must have been a flippin’ strong hedgehog to push that gate.

I know what tonight’s dinner debate is going to be…..

“A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other” ( Charles Dickens)

The problem with January is that there isn’t much one can do garden-wise, for a start the sun may be shining but it’s bitterly cold which drains your enthusiasm somewhat. Having spent this time last year clearing the undergrowth from the long-neglected terrain and re-planting, it’s a question of waiting to see what comes up in the Spring. The lovely Lionel and darling Denis have prepped the pool area for the terrace construction so that area is out of bounds for me and the woofers, meaning the landscaping will have to wait. Of course, me being me, decided to keep boredom at bay by moving half a ton of firewood logs from the far end of the garden into the remis to keep them dry. My Herculian effort ended with a strained muscle somewhere around my elbow and half an hour trying to catch a displaced salamander in the kitchen. Thankfully with a bit of ingenuity and a lot of help from Callum, we managed to get the highly poisonous little reptile back where it belonged with a log to keep it warm over winter. That being said, I think I must have also disturbed the resident rodents of the woodpile as Alice is now obsessed with sticking her twitching nose in there instead of my kitchen cupboard (mouse still in house).

Having put myself out of action in the physical labour department, I’ve spent most of the last week trying to find things to occupy the mind instead of the muscles. I took up knitting which I was actually enjoying until my elbow started to protest (is there such a thing as ‘knitters elbow”?) and the subsequent attempt at doing a book of crossword puzzles was short-lived after I discovered that particular ability that runs through my family’s DNA, has not reached mine. And then there’s THE BOOK. Well, it’s being written albeit a little slower than I would like mainly because I like to walk around whilst I’m thought-processing and the woofers assume any movement means playtime. I need to buy one of those thingumajigs that allow you to stand up and tap away at the keyboard – that way I can fool Arry and co. Some parts of this crazy journey of ours are very hard to write, especially how it all started. The mind goes into some sort of protective amnesia about those early days and I didn’t start writing the blog until several months after T died. Yet, pulling the bandages off barely-healed wounds however painful, is also strangely cathartic – as though the scars need air to rejuvenate. I think T approves.

Speaking of T, our boy is leaving soon and has been busy getting the workshop shipshape so that us clueless people will be able to find necessary bits and bobs in there. I have been banned from touching anything remotely fascinating as, in his words, “Mum, you’ll just make a mess of it”. He has however been giving me a basic tutorial in how to plaster and has grudgingly allowed me to practice on a little bit of crumbling wall in the garage. I just hope it’s only the brickwork I have to mend and not my poor heart when it comes to taking him to the airport…….

“It’s not forgetting that heals. It’s remembering.” (Amy Greene)

One of our village ‘voisins’ stopped by the other day to tell us that he was selling up and moving back across the Channel. Graham shall be missed, not only because he’s a fellow Brit (actually he’s Scottish and I hope I haven’t offended him) but he is also well-loved and respected in this little village. Graham has lived here for over 15 years so it wasn’t a surprise that his announcement was the main topic in the local epicerie the next day and darling Denis was practically in tears. Naturally I assured him that I wasn’t intending to go anywhere, much to his relief but it did get me thinking. Would I still be happy living here in twenty or so years time? Is this where I’m supposed to end up in the grand scheme of things? I certainly can’t see myself ever wanting to live in a city again but hey, it’s a big world out there and who knows what the future holds? Thankfully it was but a fleeting thought especially for Denis (he’s never lived anywhere else) and as I drove back through the shadow of the Pyrenees the other day, I knew I was home.

I went for a mammogram last week. As much as I hate hospitals and anything to do with scans terrifies me, it’s one of those necessities when one is over fifty. As I handed over my Carte Vitale, I realised I had forgotten to change my health insurance from the private one to the mutuel. Once you are a resident in France, you can apply for a Carte which basically pays for your medical stuff but you need to have a little extra insurance policy to help cover the bills – a mutuel . The nurse politely asked me if I was okay to pay for the mammogram now and get the reimbursement later – 20 Euros. Considering the care and attention given and the doctor doing an extra echograph as I had had the previous one in England and the NHS have lost all my records, it seemed a rather paltry amount of money. I’m told I’m good for a couple more years and to expect my scans in the post next week. Does one have a special file for those?

Aside from the visit to the Radiography unit and more trips to the vet with Coco who, having got better is now worse again, life at Rouffiac has started to get back to normal post-holiday season. The rain has gone and we are blessed with blue skies albeit flipping cold temperatures. I finally got round to hanging curtains over the big balcony glass doors which has made the lounge look much more homely and the lovely Lionel and I met at the wood warehouse in Carcassonne so I could spend a small fortune on planks for the poolside decking so he could finally finish the bloody thing. Amusingly, he insisted on sending me texts whilst I was standing next to him in the shop so I could translate what was being said – I didn’t have the heart to tell him my French lessons have been well-worth the money. Denis, of course, is the complete opposite and assumes I understand everything he says until I get a blank look on my face and even then he just says the same thing but slower.

My newly-found and becoming a great friend, Pip popped round at the end of the week with a packet of Twiglets for me. Such a delicacy was very much appreciated because although there are “English’ sections in the supermarkets, everything is very expensive and pretty boring. Poor Pip had been expecting a delivery of Christmas treats from the island which got stuck at Customs because it contained prohibited milk products. Thanks Brexit. I love catching up with Pip, rants and all, as we can both talk about anything and everything for hours and not just about our dogs (we both have to many according to our kids). Perhaps there is a Podcast in the making…..

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

Needless to say, the beginning of 2022 hasn’t been without its hiccups. For a start, we have an uninvited guest move in behind the kitchen cupboards – a souris. You’d think having a house with 5 terriers would be a deterrent for a mouse but apparently mine are more ‘live and let live’ than ‘killer instinct’ types. The only one that gave any indication of being interested was Alice except that it was her maternal instinct that was triggered. I have no idea what it’s doing under the sink as there’s no food there but the little varmint seems to have a penchant for chewing away at bits of plastic especially at night – noisily. I was a little concerned that I would suddenly wake up to a power cut but it turned out that this morning’s electrical failure in the kitchen was down to a fuse, not our little nocturnal visitor.

Having had a few weeks with lovely warm radiators and hot showers, it should come as no surprise to those that eagerly follow our chauffage story that the old boiler decided to pack up and the new oil tank needs a refill. I’m sure there is somewhere in a boiler’s contract that states it can only die when the weather is dismal and flipping cold. And only on weekends. Thankfully Max the chauffagiste was already here to fit the bathroom towel heaters and managed to get the hot water back but the heating will have to wait for the arrival of oil replenishment on Monday. Thankfully darling Denis was ready with wings and hot-footed over with electric radiators first thing this morning. And it’s only the first week of January.

Despite the house hiccups, life is slowly beginning to return to normal post family arrivals and departures. All the decorations have been taken down and the sapins lie dejected on the front lawn. We decided to dry out Papa Nöel by hanging him over the gate but after a harsh look from the Mayor as he drove past, we thought it was better to shove him back in the garage lest the police get a phone call. After such shenanigans, Denis and I began clearing some of the outside buildings which probably haven’t been touched for years. One of these will be the garden ‘shed’ so I got to work bravely removing hundreds of old plastic pots and broken tiles – remember the spider incident. The driveway looked like a car boot sale by the time we had finished and it took Denis several trips to the tip centre before we could see the gravel again. I have to say the outside buildings are already looking much better aside from the miles of electrical tubing that no-one seems to want to take responsibility for. I think it’s Pierre the electrician but the chances of seeing him before the apocalypse is pretty slim.

Speaking of arrivals and departures, the man-child is off at the end of the month. Yup, my boy is heading Down Under via the UK to see friends and family before he leaps into the unknown. I’m excited for him which I know sounds a little strange considering my initial reaction when he told me last year but a mum is allowed to change her mind. And he’s not the only one preparing to fly across an ocean, Salome will be leaving the ‘woof nest’ in the coming weeks to head off to her new life with Corey in the U.S. via the U.K too. Unlike Callum’s flight paperwork i.e. get ticket and full vaccination certificates, Salome’s entry into the old mud island is far more complicated. It would be easier to send her direct to NYC than pop her over the Channel what with all the post-Brexit form filling let alone finding a pet service that can actually enter Heathrow with all the Boris vs. Macron restrictions. And there are no airlines from here to there that will allow a 6 kg pup in the cabins although this luxury can be provided on her onward journey to her new home. I shall be sad to see Salome go, she is such a refreshing little character but she was always meant for Corey and I know, like Callum, she will thrive in her new world when the time comes to leave this little homestead. I wonder if I can smuggle a rodent onto the next plane out?…..

“A mouse never entrusts his life to only one hole.” (Plautus)