That Français feeling

It’s that dreaded time of year. Not because we are at the end of August and therefore summer, worse almost – the tax man arriveth. Yes, down here we empty our bank accounts in October and are graced with a flurry of email reminders lest one forgets. I usually do. Still, if my plans for Witch Wackle are to be put in action, I’m going to have to be a little more organised in the paperwork department. That and I have to get another SIRET, basically a number that registers your business with the afore-mentioned tax man. I have one for the Montpelier property as it’s in retirement apartment complex. I was discussing this the other day with Adolphe, local Del Boy and my good friend who is banging on at me to sell my wares in Carcassonne and had bought over a rather lovely butler sink for my one day new workshop. I was a little worried as to whether or not I would be allowed to trade professionally being a Brit and all and with the Brexit boundaries but Adolphe just scoffed. “You speak French and you pay your dues, yes?”. Well, the latter definitely I replied, secretly pleased that he noted my grasp of the lingo, of which my pal decided, was enough to get my foot through the door and made me practically born here. I did further point out that I have yet to comprehend most of what I need to fill out on official forms but that was rebuffed as well. According to Adolphe, neither do French people and that’s why we have Google.

Mind you, I could be forgiven for thinking I’d missed the deadline judging by the weather last week. I know I said we needed rain desperately but that much? The garden’s started to turn green again and I had to delve into the depths of my drawers to find a sweater it was that cool. I say cool as 23 degrees is quite balmy to most but not when you’ve been in double that for the last three months. The sun has been out again this weekend thankfully but I feel the pool is unlikely to have bodies in it this year unless they are practicing for a swim across the English Channel. The bloody thing could have been usable if we had the chance to put the summer cover over but that decaying piece of plastic was what caused the problem with the pump – its deposits bunged up the filter. Since none of us want to shell out for a new bâche with this place up for sale and the season pretty much over anyway, the waters shall remain devoid of human life. Arry isn’t human and doesn’t compute cold water.

So tomorrow is the start of a new month and all too soon the heady days of summer will drift off into memory. Or maybe not quite yet. According to the local météo, that being the daily chat in the épicerie, another heatwave is bound to descend on us before Autumn rolls in. I’d dropped in to put up a new display for the season ahead and got the warning. I do hope so as I still have a lot of shell craft to peddle, not helped by a recent visit to Limoux’s recycling emporium ending up with me acquiring a sizeable chunk of cowries. I wouldn’t have bought them except that there was another lady eyeing them up and such a cheap steal wasn’t going to pass me by. That and she was English, which for some reason brought on the urge to grab them on the spot as well as several other bits and bobs under her visual. As we walked out of the shop, Denis started laughing. “Ma Chèrie, you are definitely turning French”…

““Summer should get a speeding ticket.” (Unknown)

Mothering nature

I know one shouldn’t have favourites but I do have a special fondness for certain plantings in the gardens. Take my cacti for example; in particular the giant Agaves which were given to me some years ago by a bloke in the village who’d had a bit of an over-breeding problem. It’s not that they are especially attractive to look at, spiny fingers and all, or because you don’t have to water them – I like their maternal attitude towards their young. Okay, there’s probably a botanist out there who thinks I’ve been out in the sun too long but I notice things. The Mama (of course, female) Agaves keep their babes shaded under giant wing-like arms, of which they have many due to the number produced. At least, I like to think so.

We have an instinctive need to protect, us mums. Callum maybe on the other side of the world but it doesn’t stop me worrying about him. That and having a bit of a problem moving files off my phone which required his expertise and every ounce of his patience to deal with my ineptitude. However, I have loosened the cord a little now that he has Reilly in his life and judging by the latest bunch of photos, makes my son very happy. I could fret over the woofers instead although they seem blissfully unaware of my nurturing tendencies. Arry turned 10 years old yesterday and judging by the picture D took of us, he is faring much better than me. Yes, he has touches of grey around his muzzle but his eternally positive outlook on life obviously works; I’ve got more creases than an accordion.

Speaking of wrinkles or perhaps the lack of them, I spent most of the beginning of last week getting the house and grounds ready for our first viewing. With the petanque ground having not a weed in sight and the pool deck artfully decorated with beach towels and cushions, I loaded the woofers into the camion and putt putted off to find a parking spot far enough away so the visitors wouldn’t be able to hear their singing. Naturally, I looked for a shady nook; it was early in the morning but the current weather ignores such hours and having succeeded, turned off the engine and opened my Spelling Bee app. I suppose one should take it as a big plus that the couple spent an hour pottering about our fabulous property but the sun does move in the sky. One of us was sweltering and it didn’t have four paws. They were all fine as the back of the van has no windows and it stays cool but me, no. By the time I drove back the short distance to home, my wrinkles had rivulets and Denis had to put the blasted thing back in the driveway lest my hands slipped off the wheel. And that’s why I love my Mama Agaves. They sit out in 40 degree heat, keeping their little ones under cover without a single complaint. Mind you, I can’t help but feel a pinch of envy when I stroke their smooth, un-furrowed foliage…

“People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.” (James Joyce)

Cloudless skies and hazy horizons

Aside from finally signing the ‘Compatabilité’ for what will eventually be my next home, it’s been a quiet week down here. And just as well because any attempt to take more than two steps outside leaves you drenched in sweat and searching for breath – the heat is back with a vengeance. Thankfully the wind has died down which means most of the wildfires can be contained, between the smell of smoke and a horizon hidden by a grey cloud its been a little nerve-racking to put it mildly. The devastation is only 50 or so kilometres from us so the skies have been filled with the constant thrum of helicopters ferrying massive water bags to the zone, one flew so low I did wonder if our pool was about to be drained – not a problem but I was in it at the time.

With not wanting to step foot into the garden unless absolutely necessary, essentials being drag the hose around what is still just about living or having a quick cool off in the piscine, I decided to tackle the garage and workshop instead. I’m sure we aren’t the only family who can fill a giant building with things that no longer work or ‘might come in useful one day even though they’ve sat there for 5 years’ but the time has come for a clean-up – our first potential purchasers are coming on Wednesday. Of course, we are all hoping they will be wowed by our impressive mansion and I’ve told the woofers that we will be going for a little ride in the camion that morning – they are not a good selling point. Mind you, I am going to artfully display a few of my pricier wares around the apartment – these peeps are coming from Paris you know.

Speaking of making things presentable, D and I have much to do beforehand – the petanque ground needs clearing of weeds and the back fence is covered in brambles. It is quite amazing that these evil creatures can survive when the surrounding vegetation is barely clinging to life. I had to dig up the little lilac trees this morning and put them in water before they got burnt to a frizzle which ended up with me draped over the kitchen fan for an hour. Such acts of selfishness do not please the woofers who are currently draped strategically around the apartment tiles to get the best airflow and I’m inhaling copious amounts of dog hair as a result. Still, mustn’t grumble, as Denis pointed out to me yesterday, their new home currently has no shade on it whatsoever. I’m going to have to save a few more trees here to take over there…

“Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.” (Russell Baker)

Traditions and tardiness

Ever since they made their home here in South-West France, at L’Horte to be precise, Mumo and Pop had had a rule; summer was for family. There were the occasional visits by old friends and relatives but July and August were, more often than not, reserved for us four siblings and our fledglings. Now, with both our parents no longer with us, this house on the market and, for Simon and I, grown up kids living their own lives, such a wish might become more difficult to fulfil. But we managed it last week, even if for only a few days, so that we could lay our mother to rest next to our father yesterday(and the three family German Shepherds) over at the old homestead. L’Horte.

In typical Collins’ fashion, things never go entirely to plan. The weather forecast decided that Saturday was a great day to spring a storm on us – you will be happy to hear that after writing my blog last Sunday, that night we had a decent rain shower by the way. With thunder rolling in the background and the humidity rising, us four plus Denis, my niece Katie, nephew Louis and with Callum joining us by phone, drove the short hop from here to there to say our final goodbyes. Naturally we had to wait for brother Moth, punctuality is not a word he has ever recognised but eventually, an hour later than planned, his van appeared and we got underway. For some reason, I ended up being the one to open the cardboard container and going first with the sprinkling. Moth pointed out that I should stand downwind to which I replied that previous experience (those who read the book will tell you) has taught me well. Suffice to say, we all took our turns and several photos of us together before wandering back over the well-worn paths of another time.

As said, plans and Collins’ rarely mix well. By the time we got back to Rouffiac, the sky had turned black and the heavens opened. With the original idea of having a barbecue by the pool nixed in favour of staying dry, Denis did his thing with the hot coals under the remise whilst we all caught up on everyone’s news over bottles of our parents’ favourite wine. Well, I say everyone but Moth was late again having gone back to his house to pick up his partner, Hilde. How a 40 minute round trip turned into 2 hours is something only my little brother could tell you and I’m not sure even he knows. Still, it ended up being a really special night with my sibs if all too short. Bong flew back to New York this morning and Louis and Katie will be off in the next day or so. Moth’s back at Badens (his home in Cenne-Monastiés) but at least he will be staying around until August even if sightings will be rare. Simon and Alba will no doubt spend as much time between here and Narbonne. And then there’s me. Well, I’ll be staying put in this little village, Gods willing, although I still can’t spill the beans yet. My new pad isn’t going to big enough to host the family but with three of us owning a little bit of South-West France, my sister already has plans for next year’s reunion. She’d best have a word with Moth now…

“Your siblings are the only people in the world who know what it’s like to have been brought up the way you were.” ( Betsy Cohen)

Scorched earth and spider ouchies

Denis got bitten by a spider last Wednesday. It managed to get in his shoe and left a couple of teeth marks for good measure. Naturally, him being him, he refused to go to the doctor and went off fishing instead and came back with his foot looking like it had swallowed a watermelon. Luckily his niece knows a thing or two about medical care because I’m a useless nurse and dosed him up proper; the extremity almost back to normal size the next day. Although I highly doubt it was the same arachnid that chomped my hand a couple of years ago, we’re probably both super-powered now.

You couldn’t really blame the critter for crawling into his sock and wanting a bit of sustenance – it’s dry as the Gobi desert out there and the forecast isn’t looking hopeful for the poor garden and its inhabitants. Even the woofers have turned into sloths, barely moving until it’s time for my afternoon swim which for no reason whatsoever gets them all hyped up. I now have three ‘oases’ dotted around the shadier terrain for the wildlife which, by the morning, are empty. The whole area is weirdly quiet, save the chirping cicadas and the distant rumble of Canadairs fighting the inevitable wildfires. There was a pathetic attempt to release a few rain drops from above yesterday afternoon, barely enough to soak an ant let alone a flower or two. Yet, amazingly, some flora and fauna are surviving; the oleanders and roses are still in bloom although the latter do get a bit of hosing by their long-suffering carer. I’ve had to cover the pipes to keep the water temperature down. Mercifully, the thermometer has dropped below 30 degrees today and is due to stay a little cooler for tomorrow too. But no pluie on the horizon alas.

Still, one mustn’t complain too much especially as the warm weather means getting together with friends and doing the fête rounds; something my body keeps telling me I’m too old to be doing. Last night was the annual trip to the village next door for a bit of boogieing Preixan-style. To be honest, I almost bailed out due to the previous evening spent working on Witch Wackle stuff with Spider-Man until the wee hours and then yesterday’s birthday celebration lunch for his mum but I dragged out my dancing flip-flops nevertheless and got home at two this morning. Probably not the wisest move as we’d left the woofers to snooze under the starry sky so woke up the neighbourhood on re-entry. Should have used the front door like normal people…

“I drifted into a summer-nap under the hot shade of July, serenaded by a cicada lullaby, to drowsy-warm dreams of distant thunder” (Terri Guillemets)

Hot metal and hairy hounds

You know that annoying feeling when you put off a thing that needs doing until it’s too late to do it? Like deciding to leave the repainting of the metal staircase leading down from the terrace for a prospective new owner and now you can’t walk on it without searing your tootsies. Not that you’d want to step outside mind you, what with the thermometer set to boil mode as soon as the sun rises. Watering what is still just about surviving in the garden has to wait until dusk to allow some chance of liquid actually going into the soil and not disappearing as soon as you point the hose at it. Denis has taken responsibility for the potager plantings, apparently I don’t drench them like he does. I’m more than happy to let him, the very idea of having to make my way to the bottom of the terrain to do so is a health hazard.

At least the pool hasn’t evaporated, amazingly with it having no shade whatsoever and Arry’s need to throw himself in every 5 minutes. At least for him, he can cool down, the other woofers aren’t keen on swimming although Alice and Sherman have been subjected to a quick dip by yours truly. I had to give the latter and his brother next door a thorough hand-stripping earlier in the week – their extra coat coming off in record seconds and on to me. Sweat and dog hair do not mix well especially when you add fans on full blast, my necessary after shower meant declogging the drain. I’d have jumped in said pool except removing German Shepherd fur from the skimmers is bad enough, let’s not add to that.

It might be hotter than hell out there but it’s good for the bijoux business. With the vacation season just about to kick off, I decided to change the shop display to something more appropriate for the summer spenders. Having found an old ladder in the workshop, I roped Louis into creating a stand for my wares which I have to say looks rather wow even if my ‘background paintings’ are reminiscent of a toddler’s first art class. Still, my new presentation appears to be a success especially the copper collection – D’s idea initially although once I got the hang of all that wire twisting, both of us have become somewhat addicted to the process. At the rate we’re going, the local Brico shops are going to run out of cable but the medical service will be grateful for the reduction in numbers of arthritic patients. Maybe that’s the reason why I don’t have aching ankles any more, endless hours spent weaving and bashing the metal the panacea to my painful posterior. Mind you, with no rain forecasted for the foreseeable future, I’m not sure cures for creaky joints are going to continue to fly off the shelves. Perhaps a new career in fire-proof footwear?…

“What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps one in a continual state of inelegance.” (Jane Austen)

Hot beats and sore seats

I spent most of yesterday evening, last night and early this morning doing a passable imitation of a cat on a hot tin roof. Forget trapped nerves, this one was doing a runner; one minute in my back and the next whizzing around my ankles. Louis thinks it’s because my body isn’t used to being in ‘Zen’ mode – my synapses have gotten bored with the lack of sparkiness or maybe the change from running to swimming has my muscles confused, who knows but it’s painful. Mind you, dancing on top of chairs on Friday night might have tweaked something; I avoided the table as that really wasn’t safe. Suffice to say, I have given in and taken a painkiller much as I hate downing pills but needs must if I’m to stay sane.

I blame the weather. With the thermometer hitting 40 degrees in the shade, it’s not surprising one wants to stay indoors. Even the poor birds are panting. I dug out a large plant pot reservoir and filled it up with eau so they can at least paddle a bit. The swallows have the advantage of speed when it comes to filling their tanks, swooping across the pool surface for milliseconds but not all are so lucky – I found a dead magpie in the skimmers the other day. Horrible. As for the woofers, they’ve dug holes in the flowerbeds to stay cool – either that or flopped on the tiled apartment floor. That is except for Arry who is spending as much time in the piscine as out of it. I won’t mention my battle with the hosepipe other than to say I get wetter than the flora.

Still, there is an upside to holing up chez moi; the jewellery side of Witch Wackle is keeping me plenty busy. Now that my bits and bobs are on display in the épicerie, I have to keep an eye on what gets sold whilst creating new collections. Now that summer has officially begun, it seems that all things beach-vibey are in – Denis’ gift of a load of little shells from his recent fishing expedition and me creating bracelets out of an old coral necklace going down very well. The only problem is that the cabinet I need to finish so that I can move my stuff off the kitchen island is languishing in the garage – sanding and sweat do not mix well. I did try using the heat gun to remove the layers of old paint but you can guess why that mission was aborted.

Speaking of perspiration, we had a right good knees up at Le P’tit Bistrot on Friday night even if my choice of clothing had rivulets running down my back. Jeans and jumping about on a sweltering summer night probably not the best choice of party wear, I could have nipped home and changed into shorts but the music was too good to miss out on. This weekend has been all about ‘La Fête de la Musique’ across our area of France; villages and towns hosting various events and Rouffiac was no different. That’s how I ended up wiggling precariously on a plastic garden chair to the sounds of an incredible drum band and a rather brilliant singer who played tunes on request – friend Sara and I helping him out with ‘pom pom pom’ chorus of Sweet Caroline. ah well, Mumo always did say my hedonistic lifestyle would catch up with me one day, I just wish it would stay away from my heinie…

““It’s a sure sign of summer if the chair gets up when you do” (Walter Winchell)

Zen and the art of stickiness

Something strange has been going on with my psyche ever since Avignon and a week spent with my bestie, Rene. My normal flitting around like a bee on an acid trip has been taken over by a weird sense of calm – just as well really as peeps, it’s hot out there. Actually not today, we’ve had a rainstorm (yay, no battling with the hose reel) and the temperature has dropped to a mere 22 degrees. Heavenly if only for now, the météo forecast is showing red zone in the coming week. Just as well Louis came up with a great plan to keep the cars cool; a couple of marquees that had been gathering spiders in storage put to good use.

Mind you, my new Zen-like persona hasn’t stopped me from the busy. Denis and I went shopping for salad stuff to fill up the potagers although finding he didn’t have any coffee in his house and the garden emporium only having the smaller varieties of tomato left was not a good start for my man. Well, it was Friday the 13th. And naturally, there are always the regular chores to get through; now the house is on the market, the place has to stay tidy both inside and out. The garden doesn’t require quite as much slaving now with the hot weather reducing the lawns to dust and the flowerbeds, having been given a decent mulching by Denis, are blooming lovely. Even the Pink Easter-lily cactus has blossomed. A rare sight as the flowers don’t last more than a couple of days and their scent is heavenly as dusk falls. It sits right by the pool deck, the pool that needs constant cleaning with the new liner being much paler than it’s leak-ridden predecessor and as for the skimmers, a job I loathe – washing out dead insects and dog hair ugh. Yes, Arry has once more joined us humans in the daily dip. Luckily for me, he tends to leave me to my laps but anyone else is fair game for shark impressions. Speaking of aquatic things; brother Moth is back in situ after spending a week in Nice at the UN Ocean Conference speaking to the bigwigs. It’s bliss having him here not least because he is much better at cleaning than Louis – the dining table has half a piano on it and the sideboard looks like a curiosity shop; specialist goo and teeny tools.

Speaking of gluey stuff, you’d be hard pressed to find anything messier than mica and resin except maybe Superglue. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t been rushing around; can’t when you’ve got sticky black fingers although how it gets under gloves is a mystery as is trying to get it off. I would like to point out to the author of the manual, white spirit or acetone does not eradicate said gunk from digits – only skin removal scrubbing. Still, I am thoroughly enjoying the jewellery side of Witch Wackle and even better, my little collection is going to be displayed in a shop! Okay, so the epicerie but one has to start somewhere and the village signpost on the road up from Limoux does point towards the ‘Centre Commercial’. That is the epicerie. I even went as far to do a little light advertising at the opening night of the Bistro, rocking up with bracelets jangling and necklaces dangling. Yup, the summer season has officially started with the village weekly hoedown back in session. With all out of hibernation and much cheek kissing, a rowdy evening was passed under the stars amongst friends. No doubt needing those sunglasses to shield their eyes from my blinding bling, either that or the spots of neon blue mica powder still attached to my fingernails…

” Creative minds are rarely tidy” (Carl Jung)

Pals in Provence

They say life is made for good friends and great adventures; especially one who knows when you need to take a break and gives you a kick up the wotsit to actually book a few days away. After having spent a couple of days lounging by the pool during the day and putting our worlds to right all night, bestie Rene and I hit the autoroute south-east – to Avignon we went. The woofers, by the way, were left in the charge of Denis so didn’t bat a paw as we left.

I’d chosen Avignon as it wasn’t too much of a drive away and I’d always wanted to see the Palais des Papes; gothic architecture being a passion of mine and Rene loves anything historical. Following her GPS (much safer on my nervous system), we got to our chambres d’hôtes in good time but having arrived a bit too early to unload, we parked up outside and took to the streets. And what beautiful streets they were too – statuesque buildings rising up to a blue sky whilst down below, outdoor cafes brimming with people sipping coffee and wine in the sunshine under giant parasols. Naturally we joined them, one should always try and fit in. And we needed time to get our bearings having bought a couple of days worth of ‘tourist passes’ so we wouldn’t have to pay at the doors so to speak. There’s a lot to see in Avignon. Schedule sort of sorted, we took a stroll up to the main attraction and boy, it didn’t disappoint. The Palais towers over a large square, its gargoyles peering down at the pedestrians from the building’s impressive exterior, metal studded turrets looking a bit like a dominatrix’ dream, the stone surrounds commanding the view. But that was the next day’s visit, so we popped back to unload and room sorted, popped back out to town for a very nice dinner and far too much wine. The early hour return amusingly noted by the couple sitting next to us at breakfast the following morning and with whom we chatted over coffee and home-made yummies as if old friends.

I really would recommend Avignon and its sights although, for me, the interior of the Palais des Papes was a little under-whelming compared to its facade. Much of it has been rebuilt and the tablets we were given to show us what it would have looked like kept switching off. The gardens attached to the place are stunning however, fragrant roses and herb plantings perfectly lined up so you could amble quietly through the greenery although our appreciation was dampened by a very loud German lady trying to get her tour group in one place. Rene and I did go to the famous Pont d’Avignon; well I say we but I only got as far as the beginning of the bridge before my vertigo took over. She took pictures for me. We took in the indoor food market and a couple of museums too and the touristy thing of souvenir shopping. The car still smells of lavender.

With the final evening spent dining decadently (and a little more measured with the wine) under the shadow of the Palais, we left the city to take a little detour to visit a little town with a well-known name – Chateauneuf-du-Pape and to buy a few bottles of the famed vin before heading further into the deep Provence countryside to pootle around L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. The latter was just stunning; built around the river of the same name, the clear and I mean crystal clear waters decorated with ancient waterwheels and tiny streets littered with antique shops. Sadly we couldn’t spend more than an hour there, the home journey beckoned but Rene had had the right idea – I relaxed. Well, almost. There was that little hitch with trying to find a petrol station (the autoroutes around Provence don’t seem to provide such emergency services) so we had to veer off into Nîmes during peak hour traffic – not recommended. The drivers are nuts and even the GPS had trouble finding directions to the nearest pump, my near temper meltdown only that because Rene told me to shut up. She knows me so well, she’s been there before if you remember our last adventure in the Mothership – at least this time I didn’t take any wheel arches off the car and toll gates have been left untainted.

Anyway, thanks to her, I had a wonderful break away from the norm and the woofers thoroughly enjoyed being pampered by Denis, even if he did mix up Mo and Coco’s nappies – girl nappies don’t fit boys if you get my drift. Poor chap, I didn’t find out until later that he was fighting a fever – he thinks he might have had a touch of the Covid after Morocco. Thankfully he is back to himself now and very happy to have his girl home.

So there you go, Sophi had a chance to chill out. Perfect timing. Things are changing here readers…https://www.bac-immobilier.com/vente/11-aude/766-preixan/entre-limoux-et-carcassonne/12559-maison-de-village. (You might even spot Simi)

“Sometimes all you need is a great friend and a tank of gas.” (Thelma & Louise)

Thermometer therapy

I’m not going to apologise for the lateness in writing this blog because, frankly, I’ve been busy doing sod all. I know what you’re thinking, impossible but I am on a course of relaxation and enjoying life thanks to the arrival of our Rene. And gorgeous weekend weather. Yup, skies are blue, temperatures are in the 30’s and the pool is full of water. The clear, algae kind. The only minor damper in the whole equation has been Denis’ absence – man is in Morocco having his own holiday.

Not that I don’t miss him, honestly being separated this long for the first time ever isn’t fun but them I’ve had our Sherman to cuddle up with. The boy turned 4 this week! Hard to believe Alice had the pups that long ago and of course, Sherbs the first of the lot, was born on the bed in the palm of my hand. And has never left. So happy birthday to all the chiots ; Sherman, Sabrina, Sansa, Sophia, Salome and Slim.

Like I might have mentioned, it’s fabulous down here in this little village in the South-West of France. Sun is ablazing and the cotton is high – actually the grass was cut by my bloke before he went across the Med, but you get the gist. It’s been a great weekend.

Mind you, the blissfulness of being able to actually swim in the bloody pool after 2 years of plumbing leaks hasn’t been painless – I did my back in after deftly performing what I considered a decent front crawl; body too used to running uphill not prone forward through water movement. Then there is always the danger of being sunk by the enthusiastic Arry who is naturally delighted at the prospect of being able to perform his interpretation of a feral shark; long overdue due to an accidental dive into an empty piscine last summer which gave him a bit of a wobbly for getting back in the water. A little coaxing from our Rene was the best therapy and he’s back to doin what annoys everyone the most.

Yes, our girl is back and for a whole week. My bestie and most perfect Sophi psychologist has unpacked her suitcase, and her swimsuit, to spend an entire 7 days with yours truly. And Alice as a bedmate. The weather couldn’t have timed itself better, the thermometer rising as her plane glided into Carcassonne and as we lay on the sun beds nattering about life and the challenges of widowhood, brother Simon popped in with Alba in tow to throw a little family barbecue and lunch deck-side. Timing is everything; as they left, the clouds rolled, the thunder roared and it’s now pissing down. Good job, Denis is back on home soil tomorrow – Rene and I are off on a little adventure on Tuesday, we’re going on holiday… Damn, storm..power cut, no we’re okay… nope. off again, nope back. You gotta love life down here in the sun…

“Summer is a promissory note signed in June” ( Hal Borland)