A buried past and a new friend

For reasons that will come to pass, I found myself up in the attic this morning leafing my way through a ridiculous number of long-buried in the past photos. I say ridiculous because at least half of the box’s contents were of views unrecognisable, out of focus and still lying in their various ‘pockets’ up there instead of the bin down here. A job for another day; nobody in their right lobe would want to spend more than two minutes in a chamber more suited to a sauna than a storage space. And on that subject, I would like to point out to the Beeb’s weatherman that we, that is to say those of us living south of Paris (France is a big country, Mister) are not going through a third summer heatwave – we haven’t come out of one since May. As happens around this time every year, the sound of Canadairs and helicopters overhead has become the new norm as wildfires rip through areas where the word rain is a distant memory aided by the treacherous tramontane winds.

Anyway, I digress. Again. Over a conversation last weekend at the Prexain festival, I somehow ended up offering my services to a friend of Denis’ daughter, Marina. Anais had been feeling a little self-conscious about her size (gorgeously curvy in my opinion) and Marina, knowing that I have a penchant for exercise suggested I might be able to help. Of course. After all, long before I dabbled in dog dilemmas, I was a successful personal trainer even if I say so myself. Hence the photo fish around – I didn’t always used to be a beanpole you see. Naturally, no-one especially D believed me so evidence of a previous me was needed. However, in my quest for the truth I also happened to stumble upon a bunch of modelling shots which D has now purloined; a threat of slow death issued if they get a public viewing. It was a very short career by the way as I couldn’t maintain a size zero and let’s face it, I don’t have a face for fashion. Here’s funny thing and I’m not talking about 1980’s suits, not only had that brief episode of my life been totally forgotten about, the years in the fitness game had been too. But, all that being said, it’ll be fun to step back in time to help a friend feel better about herself even if it means proving there once was a larger me once upon a time.

Thankfully none of the dated data made its way over to Le Petit Bistrot on Friday evening and neither did my boots. On purpose. As much as I enjoy a good hip-shaking, toeing the line is not my groove. It’s not that I can’t do a decent impression of a do see doh, I just like to add in a few whoops and yeehaws whilst doing so – it was all a bit too serious although that didn’t stop me and my new gal pal Miriam from adding our own vocal additions including a bit of Jolene even if it wasn’t on the playlist. I absolutely adore Miriam. Aside from her Irish wit and natural ebullience, she is a woman of incredible insight and never fails to catch me off-side. I’ve told her I’d marry her several times if it wasn’t for the fact she’s been with her wife for 27 years and she’s not a man. Alas, France is their second home so they will be going back to the Emerald Isle in the coming months, post-Brexit rules and all that but at least there was time to come over chez moi yesterday along with a few other ladies I’d invited for lunch in the courtyard. Just us girls chatting about everything and nothing for a couple of hours over scrumptious salads, all home made and not by me although I did make mint lemonade as most didn’t drink – very civilised indeed. Sadly, I didn’t remember to catch the day on camera although the same couldn’t be said for the sorry sepias D ‘accidentally on purpose’ left behind which led to a discussion about how much I resembled a young Meryl Streep in the film ‘Sophie’s Choice’. I think not and this Sophi would rather choose to bury that part of the past back in a box in a stiflingly humid attic and hope the rats are hungry. Some chapters of one’s biography are better left buried where they came from…

“Old photographs are very deceiving, they give us the illusion that we are alive in them, and it’s not true, the person we are looking at no longer exists” (José Saramago)

Stormy spirits and shaky chakras

Driving the easily walkable distance over to the pizza van to grab a few for a pre-festival apéro at Denis’ daughter’s house, a few metres further up the same road, the thought struck me as to how far removed my life is now from the one I had with Tony. I know it’s not the first time my mind has wandered off into such contemplations but something happened to me on Friday or should I say someone did something to me which wasn’t what I expected and has left me feeling a little off-balance. Hence the introspectiveness.

Actually, most of the past week has been, for want of a better phrase, eye-opening. For once, Monsieur le météo was bang on when he mentioned a storm coming last Sunday – D and I sat under the parasol watching the the skies light up and the blessed rain come down. It’s funny the way such things can affect your mood; I find such summer spectacles weirdly relaxing considering how scary they can look. I’m not sure Neo is of the same opinion, the poor thing gets stressed by any loud bangs although most of the other woofers remain blissfully unbothered. Alas the downpour only lasted a couple of hours and it doesn’t look like we will see another one anytime in the near future. In fact, D and his brother Thierry had to spend a couple of days chopping down trees killed by last year’s chaleur which would have made me weep but instead has resulted in even more space in the garden and I’ve never used elderberry wood before. And speaking of whittling while you work, some of my pendant, pots and whatnots are now in Severine and Nicola’s shop in St-Hilaire and better yet, have been spotted by my friend Jude, at the town’s Thursday night market. I’ve yet to discover how things are going on the selling front, nerves perhaps but I have said I’ll pop over in the next few days. I still find it hard to get my head around the idea that I actually dabble in design instead of dog brains. Makes the mind boggle.

And that’s why I ended up having my chakras stabilised on Friday – unintentionally. You see, I’ve been having a little problem with my right hand cramping up every now and again which I can only assume is down to repetitive strain injury so I got myself an appointment with Michel Bougis. Now Michel is what you might call an ‘alternative’ practitioner who knows a thing or two about how the body works so I strolled down the same bit of road that D insists needs to be taken in four-wheeled style so he could maybe do a bit of manipulation on my malfunctioning main. Er no. I wouldn’t say I’m a sceptic by any means, people have the right to believe in what they believe as long as it doesn’t involve abuse but honestly, I’ve never really thought about my interior energy points getting blocked. But don’t knock it til you’ve tried it is a motto worth living by. Having watched his pendulum hover over a drawing with seven circles around a body, alarmingly wavering all over the place when it came to the torso area (deals with emotional baggage he informed me), Michel sat me on a chair with my bare feet on what looked like a mouse pad (the computer sort). I was told to imagine a light coming from above me and a vacuum going into the ground below; oddly quite de-stressing except for the fleeting sensation of not being able to move my legs when I opened my eyes. Then I got to lie on a table whilst Michel explained to me where and why I had shaky chakras, thankfully only two out of seven before he proceeded to realign them. I’m not great at being in one position for very long but being unwound left me almost comatose even if the glow of my ‘third eye’ did make me wonder if I was about to leave this mortal world for a second or two. But, excuse the pun, I’m not making light of my session with Michel. He knew things about the workings innermost psyche that no-one, apart from my bestie Rene and my Callum, know and as I walked back down the very short road home, I felt weirdly weightless and empty-headed (no blonde jokes please). Normally, as those of you who know me know, my mind is like a ping-pong tournament on speed play and I can’t say having all that suddenly stop has made for a particularly comfortable state to be in but I do feel calmer and it’s noticeable I’ve been told. How long this mellow me will last, who knows but as a good friend said recently: “Soph, you drive an automatic, you wouldn’t know where first gear was”. Maybe but my car’s stick shift has Park written on it…

“For fast acting relief, try slowing down.” ( Lily Tomlin)

Early mornings and irritable pools

I’m often asked why I don’t peddle my wares around the numerous artisan markets in Aude. My response to the pleading populous that I can’t leave the woofers all day isn’t quite true; after all Denis is always here to help but I’m not about to admit that I am not one for leaping out of bed to greet the dawn. Be that as it may, me and the sun woke up together this morning so I could go and help my gal Jude make a few centimes – the Vide Grenier season has begun. Such village traditions are a great excuse to clear out the cupboards or in my case, try and get rid of the junk you couldn’t get rid of at last year’s boot sale although Jude’s pile was rather posh compared to my old tat – I ended up taking two of her very nice buffet platters home with me. Still, along with her Archie Cavalier and my Sherman who were very useful at bringing in the bucks what with their wagging tails, we made a decent pile of dosh between us and what we didn’t flog will end up here next Sunday for Rouffiac’s turn at the tables. I’ve promise to bring a large parasol to that event – it was so hot in Maigre today that you could have used our selection of pots and pans to make an oven-free four course meal.

Bargaining with the locals wasn’t the only addition to the weekly diary; June being the start of all things summer brought the opening of Le Petit Bistrot on Friday night and the cover off our thankfully not green piscine finally. The first was not just to gather the masses for a right old knees up over a rather spirited punchbowl but also a chance for the event team to unveil their newest acquisition. Let’s be honest, the bandstand was a little smaller than most expected and due to it’s shape, made the noise coming from the accordion artists painful on the eardrums but everyone had fun. Including me, a bit too much of it thanks to a fair too many punches mixed with a body no longer used to large quantities of liquor. As headaches go, that one was a whopper and not just because of the booze. Nope, the bloody pool’s been at it again – this time a minute leak in one of the outlet pipes, naturally located under the deck so only a mouse can access it. Actually, Denis, being of a smaller stature than yours truly, did but we have to call in the man who fitted the liner to put it right apparently. Point to note, we have a second viewing of the property on Wednesday so please cross your fingers so I don’t have to deal with large basins of water anymore.

That being said the past few days have been somewhat brighter of late even if there was another rude awakening at the beginning of the week. Monday saw me and my man at the prefecture in Carcassonne queueing at 8 a.m so that I could sort out the renewal of my residency card. I had hoped the Mayor could do it for me but due to the idiocy that is French bureaucracy which stated one needed to make an appointment online only one couldn’t as the site took us round in several circles before saying you couldn’t do it online and needed to phone only you couldn’t as the telephonist said you had to do it – online. At least the office chap was very amenable to my issue and I’m now back in the system. And on a more serene note, I had my appointment with the gynaecology specialist who told me all is stable down there and Olive the cyst is quite comfortable so not to worry. I’m not going to especially as the following medical must-have; the mammogram showed zilch which is always a relief. Probably a relief for the poor clinician too who, being on the shorter height scale, found trying to squash my less than bountiful boobs into the machine a little strenuous whilst ticking me off for slathering on post-shower body oil. They slide around you see. Still, I’m feeling much more positive after all that prodding and pressing and ready to face a new dawn. Anyone want to buy an alarm clock?…

“Morning is wonderful. Its only drawback is that it comes at such an inconvenient time of day.” (Glen Cook)

sellers at sunrise (ours is the heaving one next to the white car)

Scheduling the unscheduled

As has become for a Saturday afternoon, Sherman and I spent yesterday’s over at our friend Jude’s house chatting over ice cold brews by her unfortunately very green pool. Sherbs comes along to discuss important matters with his mate Archie the Cavalier although most of that was done under chairs due to the current temperature setting. I’d passed the morning lying face up on a table having my eyelashes extended by D’s daughter Marina; a gift from her and one I couldn’t say no to and despite my reluctance to have spidery things attached to my peepers, actually look rather nice. Bit stingy at first but since sunglasses are obligatory at the present moment, the Dracula effect was thankfully short. Anyway, during our natter about inconsequential matters (unlike our panting pooches), I posed a question at my gal pal and fellow widow: “Have you found the transition from being in a couple to life toute seule difficult?” It goes without saying that anyone who loses their partner is going to find it hard and Jude is no exception but as she put it, being able to do what you want and get up when you want can be therapeutic.

I asked because there are times, even after 8 years, I struggle with the adjustment. It’s not that I haven’t gotten used to make my own decisions but throwing caution to the wind isn’t one of them (unless you count buying a huge motorhome and moving countries during Covid one). Admittedly, having 7 woofers, 5 of which are in their senior years, means one can’t just lounge in bed all day (although they’d probably enjoy that) but I do wish I could throw that infernal urge to schedule everything out the nearest fênetre and just go with the flow. Walking the short distant from Marina’s to home, I once more found myself looking down an empty road (well, it was lunchtime and no sane French person would opt out of a siesta in this heat). As calm and beautiful the view was, all I could think about was what needs to be done – like take a chill pill but the brain cell decided instead that I should panic about Monday being a holiday and therefore no trip to the supermarket. I don’t even know why I always insist on doing that the same day every week except that it’s generally less crowded on Mondays even with the current influx of English tourists who embarrassingly can’t seem to talk in whispers and have the entire contents of the wine aisle in their trolleys.

All that being said, I did manage to sneak one or two impromptu items past my temporal timetable on Wednesday. Having dropped some dusty old novels off at the monthly book exchange in Cailhau, the event run by the same charity that held the Midsomer Murders replica that was the garden fair a few weeks ago, I got an invitation to pop over and have a peek at the house my new friend Barbara from the Yak and Yarn group had bought. Now, Barbara and her husband own a very successful vineyard so have a bob or three but wow, talk about stately – the place was huge. Naturally, like almost all mansions in these parts, a bit of a doer-upper inside but some of the original features were in very good nick including the cast-iron windows that framed the idyllic green landscape outside. Apparently, it was a surprise purchase, them having been gazumped on a previous property; an wilful act which no doubt gave me the incentive to go out and buy an aquarium. I do not need nor have room for a fish tank but then again I don’t deal in domaines nor am I blessed with an eye-watering budget. However, sticking one’s fingers up to the dairy dieties has meant having to add in an unplanned pit stop to my planner at the pet shop so I can fill its interior with marine life ( I did think about an octopus having watched the must-see Remarkably Bright Creatures on Netflix but there’s only so much caution to the wind one should throw). I wonder if I’ve got space to schedule a lie-down…

“If you obey all the rules you miss all the fun” (Katherine Hepburn)

Where the foot falls

It may surprise you to learn that, despite a childhood living all over the globe and my decision to move my entire life here, I’m not much of a traveller and have yet to see much of much of my adopted homeland. France is big country for a start and then there’s the not so small issue of having 7 woofers to take care of so any chance of someone minding them so you can have a short getaway is one not to be sniffed at. And as it was Denis’ birthday on Thursday, an invitation to spend a couple of days with Denis’ sister Patricia and her other half at his place wasn’t going to be turned down so off we went. Actually, we didn’t have to go that far – Olivier’s house only being 45 minutes or so down the autoroute towards Toulouse but you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise such was the change in landscape – nothing but fields around and lush green woodland to breathe in and enjoy. Apart from the wind, a lot of it and very gusty.

That being said, much of the horizon was familiar. Down here we are blessed with the views of the Pyrénées, the Corbières and the Montagne Noire mountain ranges although you don’t often get to see them all in the same panorama. But it wasn’t just about the scenery, being able to spend time as a couple with another couple and not extra family additions so to speak was a first for us and our hosts made sure we got the best out of it. Having plonked our stuff bedroom -side and stuffed ourselves silly over a delicious tagine (Denis’ speciality), we drove over to a nearby lake to stroll around and work off a few calories in the process. The reservoir that is Lac de la Thésauque is huge and surrounded by a stunning nature walk some 6 kilometres in total – perfect for for pootling around although it is advisable not to decide to wear the new boots you bought at a steal in the local recycling shop the day before unless you have a penchant for rubbed raw heels. Thankfully, after a night of talking into the wee hours over several bottles of wine (mine a very nice alcohol free Sauvignon Blanc you will be pleased to hear), the weather was warm enough the following morning for me to don my favourite footwear in the name of flip-flops for a more comfortable outing to a local market and a bit of sight-seeing in ancient chateaux style. Alas, as always happens, the visit passed all too quickly and goodbye hugs and kisses done, we were back in Rouffiac. Home.

It’s a funny thing, going away. As much as it does the soul good to have a change in scenery, there is a part of me that is relieved to be back in the familiar and with my woofers. They drive me crazy at times but I’d not be without them and their delirious homecoming greeting. Mind you, I can’t blame them for their frenetic fussing as I thought leaving them with nephew Louis for one night wouldn’t hurt – hah. I came back to what can only be described as a hovel. Despite my what I thought was a simple to do list, Mo’s nappy hadn’t been changed and their water bowls empty. Let’s not get started with the state of the outdoor terrace but it goes without saying, me and the mop bucket passed an hour or so together before I’d had a chance to unpack and the dog washing machine was on the hot cycle in a blink. Still, all that being done and beds changed, an evening spent chilling out under the stars with very happy hounds couldn’t have made for a better ending to a very nice mini stay-away, not least because it was our girl Alice’s 9th birthday yesterday. And whilst being a dog and therefore not one to count the years, I can’t help wondering what the little Border terrier that I bought for Tony as a 25th wedding anniversary present and one who became the most dutiful mother to 6 gorgeous pups including our Sherman, would think about the adventures she’s been on. Yes, it’s nice to get away and enjoy a different perspective every once in a while but these feet like having fur under them…

“Home, the spot of earth supremely blest, a dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.”( Robert Montgomery)

Tractors and tomatoes

What a drizzly cold day it is today. It actually feels like February even though we are almost at the end of the month – one that has, so far, been more balmy than brrr. Denis reckons we are in for a nasty start to Spring which I really hope isn’t the case as the garden is definitely thinking about all things bright and beautiful. My little serre is busy producing tiny spinach and salad shoots and I’ve relocated the infant carrots to the makeshift nursery beside it. Graham donated one of those plastic covered clothes rail thingies which Denis ingeniously lay flat with zipper side up and dumped a few inches of fertile earth into its middle. This has also given me space to hatch my competition entries. Yes, the tournament of the tomatoes has begun. D has his contestants at his house whilst mine are tucked away in the sweaty confines of the poly tunnel. Naturally, I did as was decided and carefully poked 3 or 4 minute seeds into each hole – 30 of each type as per the rules whilst Denis just scattered his lot willy-nilly into pots. I’m taking the scientific route, he isn’t. July is the deadline for showing off our prize toms and Saba will be the judge. My fellow cheval du feu.

Working outside in mostly dry conditions has been just the ticket for blowing the cobwebs from my sleep-deprived grey cells. I finally managed to get 4 chapters off to Sally having nailed myself to the laptop every night. I do wish my writing muse had a bit of respect for my necessary 8 hours deep snoozing, she seems to have an aversion for working during the daylight ones. Still I’m over half-way, less the re-writes which my editor has a fondness for so I’m shooting for that distant last line one one exhausting evening at a time.

The past week wasn’t just about punishing my mentals, D and I finally managed to move Callum’s beloved Massey-Ferguson out of the car port and into its new home in the tractor shed. Its only taken 3 years to get it the 100 metres or so from the front to the back of the garden; one because we had to build the shed, two as we had to remove the giant fig root from its lodgings under the building’s roof and three, the little red tractor doesn’t go vroom. It hasn’t gone vroom since the day Callum pulled it out of the river after the L’Horte flood of 2018. The battered old girl needs a lot of fixing up as well as a couple of new back tyres. Anyway, we cabled her up to the back of the blue ride-on mower and with me driving and Denis guiding, heaved her surprising weightiness the short distance betwixt the two abodes. D was very impressed with my skills at getting both machines out of the mud half way down the back, I may have once been a city girl but those heady holidays spent at the former family homestead that was L’Horte gave me an education in manoeuvring motorised vehicles across mulchy meadows.

At least that was one thing ticked off the very long list of ‘must do’ chores, actually I managed to highlight another couple too. I made it through the annual vaccinations of Neo, Mo Cridhe and Coco Loco unscathed thanks to D’s help and very gentle young vet recently added to the clinic’s practice. She wasn’t the slightest put off by Mo’s eyeballing and Neo was a complete lamb, he didn’t even mind her cutting his back dew claws – something I hate doing as its like playing Russian Roulette with his ‘will I won’t I bite’ looks. And speaking of bites, I had a visit to the dentist so she could check on my new teeth. One in which she told me I wasn’t cleaning my extortionately expensive purchases properly and I needed to buy one of those dental water spray thingies. Which I dutifully did and managed to douse more of the bathroom walls than those inside my mouth. They’re quite powerful little machines you know? Mind you, if Denis thinks showing his bottom to his tomatoes will make them turn red, my soon-to- be even more dazzling dentures will give my lot sunburn…

“A tomato may be a fruit, but it is a singular fruit. A savory fruit. A fruit that has ambitions far beyond the ambitions of other fruits” (E. Lockhart)