Criminal damage and co-conspirators

If the police had come knocking this morning, I’d have opened the door and put my hands up – yup, Sarge it was me. Reports of abuse should never been taken lightly even when the accuser is your own body and I’ve really made mine suffer over the last three nights. It’s not that I’m a stranger to excess but what my internals could stand once upon a time no longer apply when you are a certain nearly 60 year old blonde – I just can’t party like it’s 1999 anymore. One look in the dreaded bathroom mirror at an irrationally early hour for a Sunday was enough to make me swear off anything except salad and seriously large quantities of water if I want to be in any sort of fit state for a birthday boogie.

I would however point out to the court that there were aiders and abettors in this criminal escapade – namely Xavier, Lisa and of course, Denis. Xavier started it, Lisa encouraged it and D didn’t do anything to stop it. You see the whole caboodle began earlier in the week with a visit from the first co-conspirator to discuss catering for the big event. Then, as is the norm in such situations, me and the other two would-be assassins were invited to taste what could be on the menu over at Xavier’s emporium. A place that just happened to be hosting a guinguette on Thursday night – basically an outdoor knees up with lashings of grub and the grape. So we went and after a few minutes of catching up with old friends, a heaving dish of heartiness was set in front of me which naturally, I politely ate. The whole lot. Delicious. Half an hour later, my empty plate was removed only to be replaced by another. Then another plus a bottle of very nice and far too easy to swallow white wine. By the time we left, I could have been mistaken for a hippo who’d had one too many at the local watering hole.

Now, I love food but you’d think I’d be planning soup for supper the next day but no. Seeing how it was a Friday and with a yen to be social, I invited a few friends over for dinner. Lisa and Denis included. Last minute decisions mean having to make a meal out of whatever is left in the freezer and come up with a chicken and leek pot pie – a very large and very tasty one. I must have still been under the influence of the night before because otherwise I would not have accepted Lisa’s request about opening that bottle of Baileys. There is a reason why such lethal liquids are kept in the back of dark cupboards with seal intact. I got to bed at 2 a.m.

As I said, I love food but having inhaled the equivalent amount of calories needed to last me through next year, I turned down D’s offer of my usual go to pizza last night in favour of me cooking the two of us a light repas instead. Which I did and whilst my stomach was thankful for the favour, the rest of the body wasn’t. Reliving one’s youth through decades of music was probably not the best way of loosening neck knots, nor was leaping about the lounge until well after midnight. Especially when I had to get up at that irrationally early hour this morning and join a disgustingly bright and bouncy Lisa so I could give my opinion on a house she might be renting.

So you there have it Your Honour and learned jury. The accused did not act alone and as you can read from my testimony, she is a very easily influenced idiot but I shall take my punishment, guilty as I am and serve out my sentence of salad, soda and sleep. And keep well clear of my less than angelic accomplices…

“I complain that the years fly past, but then I look in a mirror and see that very few of them actually got past.” (Robert Brault)

Ice diving and sore knees

I went in the pool yesterday. It may sound a little odd to start my blog with that statement but peeps, it’s the end of September, Strictly Come Dancing is back on the telly and I’m still in shorts. Admittedly, it was more like a plunge into an ice bath with a face lift thrown in but the fact that the weather still gives you the desire to dive into those depths when most of us in the Northern Hemisphere should be thinking about pumpkin soup is, well, a bit disconcerting. Looking out over the garden this morning, I saw dark clouds – just not above us. Monsieur le Météo unreliably tells me there is wet stuff on the way and cooler days ahead – not low enough for me to have to drag the winter wardrobe out from under the bed just yet however. Let’s be grateful for small mercies.

On the plus side and considering I spent half of it not being able to go anywhere, being able to potter around outside last week under blue skies and sunshine was no bad thing. We had a surveyor surveying for three days. No, I didn’t think our property was so big that it required such a lengthy visit either but since we aren’t the ones paying for his time, I won’t grumble. Mr Morris was very nice though and didn’t mind the woofers following him everywhere or my chattering – the latter probably accounting for the time spent here. To be honest, I didn’t have an awful lot else to do. Anything Witch Wackle is sort of on hiatus at the moment since I haven’t had a chance to go over to St Hilaire to get my wares out of the shop so I can start organising for the Christmas market (there, I’ve said the dreaded word) and I can’t do anything in regards to the website until I find a suitable perch for the computer Denis’ has let me borrow as this one is still waiting for a new battery. Yes, my man has a computer – hard to believe I know since he has yet to master his new phone as he’s even more technically challenged than I am but it was a gift from his son-in-law. Never having actually used the contraption, he arrived with the bulky machine underarm with it missing most of the necessities, like a keyboard and a mouse. Lucky for me, living in this little village means everyone has something you might need and better still, someone who knows how to attach all the bits together. For now, the completed set is parked up in my guest room until I can find a more suitable surface and a spare plug socket.

I’m sure that I’d already be tap tapping away on that keyboard if my man-child were here but instead I had to wait for a suitable hour last Monday to wish him happy birthday over in Oz land. He doesn’t seem old enough to be 28 but then again, he did say I looked old enough to be almost 60. Callum hadn’t had the best of celebrations after a game of frisbee left him with what has turned out to be a torn ACL in his left knee. Poor lad will have to have surgery and be on crutches for a while, shame he isn’t here to take an ice bath really. Still, I’m told that ducking oneself under freezing waters is good for body and soul – something to consider as September slides away and October is upon us. And another birthday…

“I notice that Autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature’ (Friedrich Nietzsche)

Implausible perceptiveness

Despite the tongue in cheek rumours currently circuiting the village, the black eye I awoke with on Saturday morning was not the result of Welsh girl Lisa and my Rocky Horror dance routines the night before. Admittedly, maybe one too many home-made pina coladas might have been imbibed but it was an overly enthusiastic bedtime kiss that led to the facial disfigurement. Our eyes met, we lent towards each other and then Arry reared his head up and whacked his boney skull on my cheek. Now, for those that know my idiotic specimen of a German Shepherd, and many of you do, such acts of violence are not unusual but, judging by the jocular hypotheses in the épicerie the following day, there are still skeptics among us.

Mind you, when it comes to disbelieving what is perfectly plausible, you can’t beat the water company. The whole ridiculous debacle began when we (the family) received an extortionately high bill for our eau consumption. And I mean high. According to Suez, we’d used enough water in a 6 month period to fill our pool 7 times over which unnaturally led to the conclusion that we had a major leak somewhere on the property. I mean, I’m no expert but wouldn’t you think there would be signs of flooding? A beautiful green lawn perhaps and not the current Sahara resembling one? Or a river running down the main street causing havoc for passing pedestrians and their pooches? Or maybe, a very large house sailing south? Wouldn’t you have thought it wise to send an engineer to stop the torrential flow? Needless to say, it took Monsieur le Max chauffagiste extraordinaire less than a minute to find that the new computerised thingy that Suez had, unbeknown to us, decided to attach to the old counter was up the swanny or gone down the drain depending on which pun suits. The finally sent boffin didn’t need to do much than open the hatch to come to that conclusion. Relief all round, at least this end of the phone line, especially for me – the bloody pool and I have been on excellent terms throughout the summer, mainly due to my pernickety eye-balling of its vast interior. An interior that isn’t particularly welcoming at the moment due to the nights turning much cooler even if the daylight hours are still serving up summer degrees. As inviting as the crystal clear depths look, one dipped toe can lead to hypothermia let me tell you.

Alas indeed, the shadows are beginning to creep across the landscape that little bit earlier and the sun rises just that little bit later. That being said, the only other signs of what should be the start of Autumn are the re-appearances of the duvet and a sweater or two -the feet are still stuck to flip-flops and bikini top on show by midday. As I spy with my one not aching eye across the landscape beyond, there’s barely a glimpse of a change in season – other than the lack of tractors over the vines now that the vendange is over and the sight of hunters attempting to camouflage themselves (looking like you’ve just stepped off a Rambo set isn’t going to bring the wildlife out of hiding). I’m not complaining, it just makes me a little off-balance but that could me down to a lack of perception thanks to a misplaced mutt brain and the world always looks like summertime when you’re wearing sunglasses…

“The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.” ( Henri Bergson)

Spooky news and strange shoes

Well, that was a week full of surprises. As diary entries go, I hadn’t planned on having a conversation with my siblings on Friday afternoon to decide on the future of our fine maison. To get to the point, we’ve had an offer which has resulted in four yeses. Needless to say, it will be a while before any money is exchanged (we are in France for those not familiar with buying and selling property here) but finally, a bit of positive news. That and the Mayor telling me that he has signed off on my land meaning in a week or so, I can finally hand over the unfortunately necessary moolah for the purchase of my very own piece of Rouffiac. Fingers crossed, in the not too distant future, this place will have another English family in situ and I’ll be up to my knees in plaster and paint up the road.

I know I’m not a particularly spiritual person in the religious sense but I can’t help thinking that our good fortune might have something to do with Thursday’s chakra cleansing session with Michel. With my usual Monday therapy appointment cancelled due to wildfires closing the road near Axat and what with this girl a little stuck in her head, I was lucky enough to find a spare slot in Michel’s busy schedule so off I popped to be purged. That done and me re-energised, Michel asked if he could do a house detox for me, no charge as he sensed all was not well with our residence. Okay, it sounds a bit cuckoo but honestly, I’ve always felt uncomfortable in the main building – I’m the only one in the family that has never slept in it,; there’s something off in there. Not of the ghostly variety, just heavy and sad which was the same sense that Michel got. So he did, the purifying I mean and the next day, well there you go. My conclusion ended up being the subject of much debate and gaffawing over at D’s abode last night as we feasted over my first ever encounter with the French classic, cuisses de grenouille. All I can say is meh. Frogs’ legs taste and look like boney chicken that’s been freeze-dried for a year. Sorry my beloved France but the local amphibians can keep their skinny appendages.

So there you go and here we are, already in the second week of September but, although the summer soirée-fests might be over, the weather hasn’t got the memo. That being said, the temperature dial has now decided to plummet several degrees when the scorching sun goes down – I mean, I’ve even had to exchange my flip-flops for covered footwear should I wish to venture out after dark. On the plus side, the cooler nights maketh for a pool that’s actually refreshing to swim in with the daytime hours still touching the 30 celsius mark but it’s a bit depressing to have to rummage around in a drawer for a pair of socks. I am dreading the day when when I’ll have to drag that suitcase from under the bed and bring out the sweaters but let’s look on the bright side – winter wellies are much more useful on a building site…

“It was September, and there was a crackly feeling to the air.” (Carolyn Parkhurst)

Tired, wired but still inspired

Considering the events of the one before, this week has been quite the opposite. Seven days without any major dramas would have had any sane person putting their feet up and snoozing under a pool umbrella but naturally we are talking about me and probably the reason why I’m in therapy. The very idea of relaxing seems to skip my synapses even if the rest of this body just wants to sleep for a month – here I am bone-deep tired and my brain still wants to bounce around like a teenager on acid. Waking up to it being the start of September and therefore, the end of what the Northern Hemisphere would call summer doesn’t help either. Mind you, you wouldn’t know it when you put a pinkie toe out the door and it burns to a crisp before your very eyes such is the current weather situation.

I’m not going to complain; the very idea of donning any clothing that covers more than the essentials makes me come out in a cold sweat – I prefer the pool for cooling down thank you. Amusingly, I have finally finished my first ever attempt at making a summer vest (the irony) – only taken three sewing lessons to create such a simple item out of an old sheet but my teacher, Delphine, was bursting with pride. Thankfully, we have now moved onto making bags and they don’t require following a pattern so might get done before the Christmas market. Alas, they won’t see the inside of the shop in St Hilaire as without Severine and Nicola’s veggie stall in there, we can’t afford to pay the rent on my bijoux alone. Speaking of L’Horte’s guardians, I popped over mid-week to reserve several wood piles now that the remains of the tornado’d trees have been felled. There’s not much in the way of firewood but I’d like to use some of Pop’s plantings to decorate my new place.

And if there is one thing that helps calm the cranium, it’s thinking about that little project. In a week with not a lot going on, I’ve had a meeting with my bank manager (an extraordinarily nice young man which in my experience one does not associate with such institutions) to keep my funds safe and another with my equally affable architect (a genial older gentleman who speaks very slowly just in case I miss something – obviously knows how my brain works) so I could approve the building plans thus far. Mmhmm, a little twinge of excitement, I cannot deny. Admittedly, we still have to draw in minor additions like the roof before submitting the finished design to the permit peeps and wait for, shudder, autumn temperatures to dig the foundations but the prospect of building my own home is keeping me out of the sanatorium. The summer may be over but up the road and to the right, there’s a perfect view of the sunrise…

“The end-of-summer winds make people restless.” (Sebastian Faulks)

sewing success (trust me looks better from the back)

New horizons and birthday celebrations

Well, there you go. On the 10th of August 2026 at precisely, sort of, 4.30 p.m and having signed my initials on several hundred sheets of document, I walked out of the notaire’s office as a landowner in my own right. Just up the road and turn right. For the first time in my nearly 60 years of plaguing this here planet, I have a piece of it that is mine and not shared with anyone else. Okay, it hasn’t got a house on it yet, let alone a fence (someone has nicked the boundary posts) and the architect has to file for the building permit – not a problem I’m told by our lovely Mayor but it’s a relief to finally have it all official.

I wish I could say I was overcome with excitement but actually a bit the opposite. I did have a wee little celebration on Wednesday evening up there squinting through blackout glasses at the sun disappearing behind the moon along with most of my one day neighbours and then got the most awe-striking view of the meteor shower from the apartment upon re-entry. One plus about getting older and needing the loo in the early hours. But as soon as the ink was dry and the sun back out again, said architect was round to draw up the necessary plan for my future residence – luckily he is a friend of Denis’ (who isn’t?) and the afore-mentioned Mayor so not only did he give me a knock-down price for the work but also assured me all would be sorted very quickly. Then the lovely Lionel who will be constructing the teeny cube was on the phone checking start dates and all that stuff whilst D was compiling lists of people for various jobs. I cannot put into words how incredible this little village in the South-West of France is; between my adopted family that is the Maybons and the friends I’ve made here, I’ve got experts for everything and anything. But, I haven’t had a chance to breathe. Until this place is sold, I’m the sole carer which is a full time occupation in itself let alone trying to keep up with a fledgling business and its demands. Mind you, we did have a visit from a very nice English couple and their kids yesterday – Alice charmed the pants off the two young boys as did the swing which no-one here has ever used. For those who know me well, as most of you do, I’m not one to crack easily but the whole caboodle got a bit too much and I ended up in bed.

Not for long. How could I when a certain hairy beast wakes you up by rolling his ridiculously angular in all the wrong places body into your space before shoving those oversize paws in your face? But I cannot imagine a world without my Arry aka Aragorn (yet to earn that name) who turns 11 years old today. How he has got this far in life is a miracle in itself but his idiocy and endless quest for all things unpredictable never fails to lift the spirits of those who around him including the other woofers. He might be ageing disgracefully and a bit wobbly these days due to arthritis but give him a pool, his Border terriers and a caillou and he’s all set for mayhem and destruction. So here’s to the future, one I know is highly unlikely to be without potholes but with my crazy Shepherd by my side, it’s one I’m looking forward to stepping into…

“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me, and I’m feeling good.” (Nina Simone)

A modern day education

There is big news in the village – Denis has a new phone. That and Cyrelle who runs the epicerie has only gone and closed up the shop for a week so she can take a holiday. Such blatant disregard for human suffering would be considered enough of a shock but D joining the 21st century? Smelling salts wafting everywhere. Just in case there are those reading this and wondering why the purchase of a mobile device should cause eyebrows to raise; there was a time when phones were the size of a Mars bar, writing a text gave you finger cramp and Whatsapp meant how are you. I give you Denis’ relic of yesteryear. The only positive words one could say about said antique was that it couldn’t be traced which is probably why the government decided to ban them much to D’s chagrin and our delight. The downside of discovering new technology however, has meant I’ve lost my man to Youtube and endless fishing videos.

Mind you, considering the current ‘step outside and stop breathing’ weather of late, staying in and losing yourself to the joys of the internet seems a sensible way to while away the afternoon. I shouldn’t complain since a) summer passes all too quickly and b) we have had a bit of rain unlike the Motherland. Unfortunately a little late for the vineyards who are having to bring the vendange (the grape harvest) forward by three weeks so we shall be woken up by the clatter of mahoosive machinery rumbling through the village shortly. Even Domaine Sophi hasn’t been able to escape – all my efforts to keep my little vine happy were in vain with nothing left except shrivelled remnants of what might been a bottle. 600 grapes maketh a bottle, Google told me and I counted every one. Still, as said, we’ve had the occasional down pour which is not only a blessing for the terrain but for my temper too – the hose has stayed coiled.

As for me and despite the hilarities of trying to explain to my chap how to take a snapshot of the subject you’re trying to capture instead of the ground below it, it’s actually been a relatively quiet week. I took our Lisa over to Prexian and Xavier’s place to meet our neighbouring villagers and put in a good word as she’s trying to find a new house; naturally she charmed the pants off all the men, probably pissed off their wives, got a couple of contacts for rentals and several glasses of free wine. D tried out his new snapping skills even he managed to make his girlfriend look like a wardrobe next her glamorous gal pal. It’s a good job that girl doesn’t indulge like she used to as I spent the following evening over at D’d daughter Marina’s house having dinner with the fam – including Mama Maybon. I do like her. Anyway, as we were discussing D’s various mishaps with modern day gadgets, Hugo (Marina’s other half) was opening a box he’d retrieved from his post box. At first glance those little packets looked a bit iffy to me, especially when the person holding them is applying to join the police force but I was assured they were just CBD and completely legit. “Helps me wind down and sleep” he said, “you should try some”. Hmm..I won’t even take the sleeping pills the doc gave me. Later that night, after dropping me back to see to the woofers, D returned for his usual night cap. With a suspicious looking cigarette in hand. “From Hugo” he whispered and passed it over. Well, didn’t I feel grown-up with a dodgy looking roll-up between my fingers even if most of it had turned to ash by the time I took a puff. I did sleep well but not before I saw stars. I mean, in the sky. Thousands and thousands of little orbs twinkling across the cosmos above the terrace. At least I hope that’s what I was looking at. I’ll have another chance to verify the view on Wednesday and from a different angle. Just down the road and turn right – the perfect place to take a phot just up on that hill…

“The trouble with having an open mind is that people will insist on coming along and trying to put things in it.” (Terry Pratchett)

Bopping, bidding and battered bods

If one was to summarise the events of the past week and indeed, finding ourselves halfway through 2026 already, late nights and wake up calls come to mind. But then again, this is a blog so no need for the synopsis to start in the first paragraph. I am however, reasonably pleased to see the back of July – for a start, the diary is looking much less frenetic and boy, do I need a few weeks of nothing going on particularly. Well, there is that one thing but lips are still zipped for the time being. Mind you, two concerts in the space of 7 days was the perfect way to end such a busy month; the simply fantastic Franz Ferdinand and the somewhat slightly disappointing Kool and the Gang. The first I went to with our Welsh lass Lisa and hopped and bopped my way to blisters; the second I attended along with brother Simon, his wife Alba and friends Gavin and Ann-Marie – less boogie and more bland in my opinion but that didn’t mean I wasn’t limping out the exit. They all stayed up drinking afterwards – I found my bedcovers more appealing. I’d put that down to old age except my sibling and his childhood friend are years above me and they didn’t have to wrestle with the hosepipe as the sun came up.

That being said, keeping the fading flora alive in between all those groovy moves is hopefully worth the struggle as we had another house visit. This time a couple of very nice English ladies who were looking for two houses on a decent bit of land – 7 dogs between them you see (hmm, familiar). Naturally, they were completely charmed by the spectacular dwellings, the pooch paradise that is our acreage and my enthusing of the vast walking terrain that surrounds our little village deep in South-West France – I mean what woofer wouldn’t want somewhere to wake everyone up at the crack of dawn with a barrage of barking at anything passing the gate. I would like to point out that by 9 a.m the only place you’d see a flicker of movement is under the nearest fan which must be a blessing for the neighbours. Suffice to say, they liked the place so we will wait and see but they better hurry up as we have had an offer – way too low but the immobilière thinks its just an opening bid. And I’m not going to yes to the possible purchaser’s request to include my garden pots, the tractor roof or the tractor itself which, I’d like to add if they’d actually taken the whole tarpaulin off, is more of a shell of what it once was than a piece of working machinery. Heritage my nephew Louis says.

Ah yes, back to that wake-up call. My blood tests results came back with one simple (or perhaps not) answer – girl, you’ve hit the red stress zone. According to those in the know, ten years of not dealing with what I should have dealt with instead of shoving everything under the proverbial carpet has ended up with a body not thanking me for it. Hence the need for a quiet introspective August. Gavin (who has been in my brother’s life since I was barely out of nappies) called it trauma – that sounds a little too not me but then again he also added that I’d always been ‘highly-strung’, that’s more like it. But, in all seriousness and as my gal pal and confidante put it – Soph, it’s time you started to prioritise you. Well, easier said than done especially when you really don’t want to unearth a decade of deeply buried drama but with the help of the experts and more importantly those I trust, I’m going to try. There is a new chapter just up the road and to the right just waiting for my pen and I fully intend to write it. Soon…

“These mountains that you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb.” (Najwa Zebian)

Admin overload and positive outlooks

I finally got the chance to pop into St Hilaire this morning to see how the Witch Wackle wares were doing. I’d been promising Nicola and Severine (them who have a bio shop and are kind enough to give me a corner of) for weeks but somehow something always managed to crop up. To be honest I’d never been into the newly-built commercial hub of the village our family once called home so it was a nice surprise to find their fruit and veg emporium slap bang in the middle of the main square. Okay, perhaps commercial hub is a bit of an exaggeration; St Hilaire isn’t exactly an over-crowded populous but thanks to its famous Abbeye, it does get a fair bit of the tourist trade in the summer which is a plus for local vendors. And me. I still can’t really get my head around the fact that stuff I make actually sells and today I got my first commission – someone liked one of my bowls so much they’ve asked me to create a similar design on another. And I will, when I have the time – I’ve spent most of the last week cataloguing and photographing individual pieces so that I can finish the website. Creating is one thing but all that admin – ugh.

It’s not that I’ve had a particularly full diary and therefore been unable to spare the time for a visit – I’m just easily distracted. That being said, I did have to go to the prefecture for a ridiculously early Monday morning appointment – the renewal of my Carte de Sejour, otherwise known as a residence permit. Luckily, the interview went well, I hope, even if I did manage to upturn my entire file of papers all over the clerk’s desk, giggle loudly at my passport photos and almost break the photocopy machine (me and technology). I swear I saw the poor bloke heading for the espresso machine on my way out and it was only 9 am. But apart from that, another house visit and another crack of dawn date with the nurse for a blood test (thankfully Nathalie comes to the house as no-one in their right mind would be able to focus at such an hour let alone drive a car), it’s all been rather quiet chez moi. Almost. Mid-week did have my stress levels and my temper getting the better of me – dealing with accountants and lawyers over the telephone in any language tends to befuddle the brain especially when trying to follow instructions on negotiating your way through a maze of yes/no press button to go to next step websites. Suffice to say, I plan on ensuring the Witch Wackle one will not require a degree in software engineering. Thank the Gods for Denis who religiously sets me a large glass out on the coffee bar every evening and knows nothing about computers.

Yet, despite the aggravation of all that administrative angst and the daily cross-fit that comes with keeping this place looking perfect for potentials, something in the universe of Soph is shifting. I’m not going to say what as I’m of the superstitious sort but fingers are crossed. I wish I could say rain alas that would be a wish too far although we did have a few hours of precipitation perfection last Sunday night and the forecast, well let’s not get depressed. Let’s just put it this way and keep nice with the Gods (I’ve been very polite of late); it’s about time…

“Never underestimate the power you have to take your life in a new direction.” (Germany Kent)

Helicopters and hairy rides

It’s not often that I get a chance to have a ‘day off’ from keeping this place tip top and trying to find time for Witch Wackle business so an invitation to pop over to Andorra for a morning’s shopping wasn’t going to be turned down. Not just for the duty-free cigarettes and alcohol; bulk buying laundry detergent and other sundry items at knock-down prices are a must when popping over the border and let’s not forget (Denis’ words) that petrol is cheaper too. Yes, but you have to fill the tank to get there darling. Anyway, with Welsh Lisa being kind enough to look after the woofers, we took off at the crack of dawn in my car (the only one with air-conditioning) – Marina and her boyfriend Hugo joining us as, according to the latter, he knew a much quicker route. It wasn’t but that’s me being pernickety. Now, anyone who has ever driven from here up into the Pyrénées will wax lyrical about the vast beauty of the mountain range but not if you suffer from vertigo as I do. Luckily Denis opted to take the wheel otherwise we’d have ended up stuck at the bottom; put it this way, it is very long and very winding road perched precariously on the edge of what can only be described as an abyss below which I left my stomach. If that wasn’t enough, upon arriving in El Pas de la Casa that is to say the commercial centre (think Oxford Street in the 1980’s on steroids), Marina decided we should stop at the petrol station before letting our debit cards go wild. A petrol station that was another 2 kms up a cliff. Is it me or is driving further than necessary to get a few centimes off half a tank of fuel a little odd? Ah well, at least I won’t need to buy any washing powder for the next couple of years.

Still, having survived the throngs of tourists and hustlers and with Bluebottle’s (my car for those who don’t know) back end loaded with booze and bags of bargains, we descended back onto the more favourable flatness of the French side. And a tornado. Okay, we weren’t in its direct path – just shrieking along beside it whilst trying not to be bombarded by flying signposts and tree debris. Yet, my little Renault Clio took to the task like a military veteran as did Denis – I’m glad one of us found the experience adrenal -inducing. Thankfully, that evening was spent at the opening night of our pal Xavier’s new emporium in nearby Prexain in the company of familiar faces listening to an amazing band and downing lashings of the local grape. And for me, a little bit of networking. It’s funny how sometimes you meet people in the weirdest ways and become friends; Xavier was the one whose 90 kilo Mastiff escaped, tried to kill Arry and instead got beaten into submission by a 6.5 kilo Border terrier that is our Alice.

You’d think after all that excitement, one would finish the week with their feet up on a Friday night looking up at the stars with a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc but no. Earlier that afternoon and pootling back from Arry’s physio appointment, D and I took the exit onto Rouffiac’s top road and found ourselves instead being diverted onto the bottom one. A fire. Not a big one but enough for the presence of a fire engine and the village’s volunteer vigilantes – brooms and rakes in hand. Peeps, don’t throw lit fags out of car windows. Anyway and with that haze of smoke gotten under control quickly, D and I decided a quiet evening was in order as was one of Christophe’s pizzas. Then the phone started ringing and before long, the whirr of helicopters. Having raced the two minute walk over to the pizza locale in the camion; Denis’ idea of safety, to catch up with the hungry crowd and check in on family, we stood watching the sky. Another fire then another then another – 4 in total and no doubt set deliberately. Those helicopter pilots are simply incredible, zooming back and forth with expert precision and speed. Mercifully no-one was hurt and nothing damaged other than a few acres of terrain; mine not included and our swimming pool left untouched. I know that sounds a little selfish and by law the pompiers can use whatever water source is available but we had another house visit booked for the following morning. One in which I had to show the potentials around as the agent wasn’t available. I can’t say it’s a future career for me even if it does involve a lot of talking, my field of expertise but luckily for my siblings, I won’t be leading tomorrow’s maybes around – I’m off to the prefecture to refresh my resident’s permit. I mean, where else would a widow and her woofers want to live?…

“Never doubt the courage of the French. They were the ones who discovered that snails are edible.” (Doug Larson)