Seasonal shifts and niggly necks

Autumn has finally arrived. Sort of. I woke up this morning to the sound of melodious rain drops – the gentle kind. That and a flooded driveway because someone had removed the stick I’d shoved down the side of the drain cover – mercifully it being Sunday, early and wet, there wasn’t any one around to have a goggle at a half-dressed English woman trying unsuccessfully to find the submerged lid before her first coffee. Nevertheless and filled with post-shower caffeine, I am a happy lass even if I’ve had to dig out a polo neck what with the temperature dropping at the same time as the pluie arrival. And I’ve left the lake outside for Denis to deal with.

I know it won’t be long until I’ll start complaining about the lack of warm rays on my back but I do love Autumn. Of course, there is that little matter of a rather big event at the end of the month but with the beginning of last week and the spectacular sight of the Harvest Moon, there is a distinct sense of change in the air. And it’s just as well as I’ve done something to my neck – hence the polo necks. Jacqui, my neighbour and former massage therapist, managed to find several areas nowhere near the actual place of ping that needed de-knotting but, alas for me, the cause of the crick is the work angle. Bending my noggin over pots and pendants is a no-no for the next week or so to give my tender tête tendons a break and give me enough down time to be ready for the Xmas (there I’ve said it again) markets. Meanwhile, my darling D has built me a computer table that is stand up height so I can hopefully get the website finished – said computer also has a new password since the afore-mentioned threw a certain piece of paper away and the lovely Lisa has lent me her shiatsu machine to ease the aches and pains at the end of the day. So plenty to do whilst the cou calms down and a great excuse not to get involved with organising certain birthday bashes. That I have left to Denis and Lisa, mostly the latter else I chuck D out of the nearest porthole.

Yet, with the season turning and white wine changed for the warmer red, the universe that is Sophi has already started to shift. The architect has finished the plans for my future domain and tomorrow hopefully, I can sign everything off for the powers that be who hold my construction permit in their palms. Actually, it’s the Mayor and he’s already said yes and I’ve sent him an invitation to the grand event. But my little plot isn’t the only pile I am about to take ownership of. L’Horte. Over the past couple of weeks and post-tornado trauma, discussions about our former homestead have been the subject of the sibling Whatsapp. This house sale as well but as big brother Simon wanted to sell his share, sis Bong living on another continent, little bro Moth on the fence and Severine and Nicola wanting to buy, we have come to an agreement. One that makes me beyond happy and our tenants ditto. I am keeping all the riverside land and they will have the middle bit; that is to say, I will be the only one of the family retaining a bit of the past. Why? Because the river was always my sanctuary and I want the land to remain the nature reserve it has become. Oh, and just in case the authorities are reading this, that little bit next to the main road too just in case you go in on your plan to widen the road; Severine said “over my dead body” by the way and they are holding onto the bigger bit. Yup, there is a definite change in the air and despite my need to walk around like a debutante with a first edition of Harry Potter on her head, I’m looking forward to what October brings. Apart from the end bit and another decade…

“Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall” (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

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)

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)

Legacies lost and a sad goodbye

It’s difficult to sum up the events of the past week but put it this way, you couldn’t make it up.

It all started (for me at least) with a phone call as I was weaving my way back home from an appointment with my therapist in Axat on Monday afternoon. I say weaving because the road does just that as it ducks and dives through cut into rock faces at the base of the Pyrénées. I digress. The phone call. Our Welsh blonde Lisa on the line for a quick chat and to see if I had any wine as the weather report was forecasting a storm and she didn’t want to go out. Since we hadn’t had a text alert, a common occurrence when things might get messy in these parts, I told her to come over in an hour. By the time I reached the last bit of the D118 route to Rouffiac, the wind was blowing a hooley, the road was strewn with bits of tree and the sky an eerie slate grey, then neighbour Jacqui was on the blower (no pun intended),

“Sophi, there’s a tornado on its way – did you see my message?!!”

“No” I replied, “but that tornado has just passed by my right hand side window view”. Because it had but it didn’t look very big

“What do I do?” she shouted, “call someone – is there a hotline?”

“Umm, close your shutters might be a good idea. I’ll be back in seconds”. And I hit the accelerator.

As I careered like a rally driver into our driveway, D rang to say he was on his way over. I legged it from my car before charging upstairs to close the top windows in the main house and retrieving a soaking Coco from the garden (goes down, can’t get back up stupid). The noise was deafening, like a jet plane about to land on top of us as the rain practically made dents in the soil below. Mercifully, the rest of the woofers seemed oblivious to Nature’s angry rant and were far more excited to see D wrestling with the pool umbrellas before tying them down before coming up to the apartment to check on me. Priorities.

The whole episode probably lasted 15 minutes. By the time our Lisa had turned up and I’d opened the necessary wine, the sky was once more blue and the wind merely a light breeze – as if nothing had happened. But it had. D got the next phone call. Pomas, a village a couple of kilometres from us had been torn apart. 300 houses reduced to rubble, families left homeless and the medieval chateau in its centre in ruins. That little tornado, which by the way was en route to hit Rouffiac but for whatever reason turned right instead, became a very large weapon of destruction. And Pomas wasn’t the only victim. The following morning I sent a text to Nicola and Severine (those who look after L’Horte with their market garden) just to ask if all was okay. I wasn’t expecting to hear Severine’s sobbing response – the old family homestead had been its next target. Everything razed to nothing. I shot over as quick as I could which wasn’t very quick as the normal route over the bridge into Pomas was closed and the cars parked up along the road slowing down the traffic due to rubberneckers. It was like something out of a disaster movie. As I took the back road into St Hilaire, all looked like its always looked but as I approached the entrance to L’Horte, well nothing could have prepared me for the post-apocalyptic viewing of the land Pop and Mumo had loved so much. The once towering firs and swaying cedars literally sliced down their middles and carved into firewood. The landscape devoid of life except that it wasn’t as hundreds of volunteers were busy with chainsaws and trucks helping Severine and Nicola clear the carnage. Weirdly or perhaps instinct, almost all the farm stock had stayed put with only a few chickens unaccounted for. And even odder still, the tornado missed the river portion of the terrain completely, including the spot where our parents and the shepherds were laid to rest. I reckon Pop had something to do with that. But L’Horte will rise again. She survived all those floods and came back fighting and she’ll do it again, I’ve assured Severine. After all, I joked at her – you’ve got a lot more space to plant the veggies now.

Sadly L’Horte wasn’t the only loss for me last Monday as I got the news that Danny Boy had passed away – bloody pancreas again. For those who haven’t known me as long or read the book (tut), Danny was a dog I’d rescued as a pup some twelve years ago but had to re-home before I moved here due to a fallout between him and Arry. I’d kept in touch with his new mum off and on and I knew my boy had found his best life with her family. He was a funny, sensitive, quick-witted and incredibly smart dog and will always have a place in my heart. Sleep well my Danny Boy xxx

“Storms make trees take deeper roots.” ( Dolly Parton)

storm clouds (photo courtesy of Jacqui neighbour)

a life remembered. Danny Boy 2014 – 2026

Rat runs and summer fun

Apart from a ‘blink and you miss me’ drive through en route to Spain by nephew Louis so he could drop another ancient keyboard at the ‘Pianos ‘R’ Us’ warehouse that some of us call a family home, the annual vet visit so the two Border terriers could have vaccinations jabbed into their derrieres, a nice pocket of euros after a pop into the shop hosting my bijoux, an almost finished top after my third sewing lesson for its production and talks of a shared business venture next year; it’s actually been a peaceful week. Let’s forget Thursday and the donning of a sweater because the temperature dropped to 26 degrees shock horror – didn’t last thankfully and we got a downpour out of it but the nights are definitely getting cooler which is a bit depressing. Flip-flops are still underfoot though.

And with the last weeks of summer slowly heading south, so did little brother Moth (not that I’ve seen many sightings of this elusive creature this season) but not before Denis and I had a chance to pop over to his property in the hills above Cenne-Monasties. Actually, it was more of a necessary trip since my younger sibling had ‘borrowed’ the chainsaw and a visit was the only way we were ever going to get it back but the promise of coffee and a tour of all the estate updates was a bonus. But, as much as Cenne-Monasties is a charming village full of French traditional architecture, it is worth noting that manoeuvring your motor through its somewhat slim streets is an art in itself. As D and I were leaving, we came upon some lost British tourists looking for the way to the lake so I offered my guidance in taking them back down to the main road and the signs to their destination. The driver was a little concerned about the state of the descending road but that might have been the least of their problems. Having made them squeeze their sedan through spaces their sedan wasn’t designed to fit through before waving goodbye, a guilty thought crossed my mind. They might just have been looking for the other lake, the one further up the track from my brother’s abode not the one I’d treacherously guided them down. I wish I could say the same however for accidental relocations when it comes to Ratatouille and Courgette. Denis is less than amused by their reappearance considering he’d taken great pains to evict them and their cozy nest from the garden storeroom below the apartment. Now, I’m not averse to rodents and these country critters are much cuter than their city cousins but even I will admit that rats are probably not a good advertisement when selling a property of such grandeur. That and in D’s words, they’ve been busy being broody. I don’t think the woofers, especially Alice professional mouse markswoman, find their parkour pastime and overt cockiness adorable either – always exasperatingly out of reach of gnashing fangs. I know they have to go but I’ve told D to do so out of my nurturing eyesight – let’s not forget that short-lived love affair with the mice under my sink.

Whilst the animal antics along and over the terrace walls does provide a bit of evening entertainment, a night out St Hilaire is a little more my kind of thing . Whilst being best-known for its Benedictine Abbey and the birth of the fizzy wine that is Blanquette (not champagne – that’s a myth); the commune, up until recently, had the less salubrious reputation of being one great retirement home complex. Not any more with the completion of a large market square, housing shops and including that what has my wares within, and a bustling bar cum bistro complete with an outdoor seating area perfectly placed for a view of the old monastery whilst you dine out with friends and listen to one of them sing. Our Ever Reliable Roy serenading us with songs of yesteryear whilst we sipped chilled Rose and lauded over the local menu. No sweaters and most definitely wearing flip-flops…

“August is the slow, gentle month that stretches out the longest across the span of a year. It yawns and lingers on with the light in its palms.” (Victoria Erickson)

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)