Black cats and bad mojo

Over dinner last night with brother Simon and my sis-in law, Alba, the subject of superstition came up. Being one who would blame her choice of belly button rings on a bad day, it was interesting to find out that many beliefs are the same in France. Saluting or saying good morning to magpies for example and hoping you see a pair, frantically searching for a piece of wood to touch when you say something you hope will come true, Friday the 13th doom and walking under ladders. It has to be said, my list of taboos made for much raising of eyebrows and guffawing – I find nothing odd in holding your collar when I see an ambulance and not letting go until a white car appears, at least I don’t blame the sight of a black cat on my car breaking down like Denis. Mind you, perhaps I should pay a bit more attention to that chat noir who lives a few doors down if last week was anything to go by.

For a start, the planned pipeline didn’t happen because the bloke didn’t show up so yet again, D and I wasted a whole day waiting for him. To be honest, I’ve got to the point where I’m just going to fill the bloody pool anyway and hope the man what drills holes in the ground appears sometime in the near future. In brief, we have a water seam several metres below the front garden and permission from the Mayor to put in a well and use the free stuff for everything outside but not for drinking. Considering how much water we need for the foliage and to top up the piscine, it’s going to be money well spent. If he ever turns up. Even though, we have had a couple of decent downpours in the last few days, the hot weather and equally dry wind have soaked up most of what came down. Still, after another little temper tantrum, I changed my belly ring again and left no wood untouched so I’m sure all will be tickety boo very soon.

It probably doesn’t help that the woofers have decided that when the sun rises so must I. Yogi is always the first, the gentle pitter patter of bear paws waking me somewhere around 6 a.m so I can let him and the others downstairs to do what needs to be done and have a good shout at the neighbourhood dogs who have also dragged their owners out of bed for a little walkies. Luckily my lot have enough land to exercise even if the front gate is the best place to let off steam. If being stirred from my slumber isn’t bad enough, Mo Cridhe is suffering with very loose bowels at the moment which, if anyone has ever had a disabled dog would know, is not a pleasant experience first thing in the morning.

It hasn’t all been stress and strife though. Denis and I were invited to our friends Pacs on Friday evening, what we call in English a civil partnership. The setting was stunning, a wedding venue place about 10 minutes or so away although my GPS decided to take the scenic route so added an extra 15 on. Since I was driving, I stayed teetotal which was just as well as the drinks weren’t served until about an hour after everyone’s arrival and we left before the meal as it was getting close to 10 p.m. I’m not sure what caused the delay in service but I’ve got my money on the tent’s fairy lights – they weren’t set out on straight lines you see. Taboo.

At least we now have the petanque area to distract ourselves from the bad mojo sneaking around. Denis gave me my first lesson the other day which went pretty well. Of course I lost but at least this time, the ball stayed in the ring so to speak and Denis came out unscathed. And surprisingly so did Alice and Sherman who did their best to disrupt play, namely lying down in the middle of the ground or staring vacantly into space as close as possible to the cochon (the small ball that you’re trying to get your metal sphere next to. Not that we minded. After all, my two lively Border terriers are very good at keeping black cats well away and have no idea what the date is today or any other day…

“A black cat passing by the crossroad can stop hundreds of people, what a red light on traffic signal has failed to do for a long time.” (Nitya Prakash)

Ducking curveballs

Over a conversation with friends the other night, the subject of planning or not planning the future came up. Saba and Roy were on the ‘always good to plan ahead’ side whereas Denis and I were on the ‘live for today’ one. Apart from deciding what needs to be done garden-wise, we rarely make plans although I do keep a diary for things like medical appointments, weddings and such-like. Other people’s weddings, don’t get excited – we like our life just how it is.

And even if you could predict the future, life has a habit of throwing curveballs when you least expect them and forget to duck. Take last week’s weather for example – one day scorching hot and in the 30’s, the next thunderstorms and near flood conditions with temperatures 10 degrees lower. I had to dig out a winter jumper last night. And then there was what was supposed to be the grand pool refill but D got the wrong Saturday (it’s this coming one) so we wasted a whole day waiting for the man to show up which put me in a very grumpy mood but actually, even that worked out for the best. There’s still a small leak somewhere and I need to vacuum up all the sand the rain has dumped on the pool bed which is easier when it’s half empty. Such hiccups also gave me time to finish the petanque tent accessories although we are missing one cushion as the sewing machine decided to pack up.

My attempts at fixing the above contraption left me in a worse temper than that which comes as standard with the bloody pool so much so that I really didn’t want to go out last night to the annual fête in neighbouring Preixan – something I’d been looking forward to for months. However, not wanting to let Denis or our friends down, I reluctantly put on a happy face and my dancing shoes before popping over to my man’s place for a pre-boogie dinner. Well, it was bucketing down and as we sat on his terrace watching the black clouds sit overhead, the phone rang. Did we want to go over to Le Jardin instead? Apparently the crowds in Preixan had made parking near impossible and there had been a bit of trouble, fisticuff style the night before. So we did and what a fabulous night it turned out to be. Sometimes, what you don’t think you want turns out to be just what you needed.

And what do you know? It’s turned out nice again today. Bikini and shorts are back on and the woofers spread out under the trees instead of my feet. Time to do my best Esther Williams impression and find the pesky hole in the liner. I could leave it until tomorrow and have the help of D but tomorrow is another day and another curve ball to watch out for. Where’s my baseball mitt?…

“Forever is composed of nows.” (Emily Dickinson)

Pining for a ping

Considering I grew up in a time before mobile phones were invented, spending almost a week without mine nearly sent me to the la la farm. You see, not only did one of the woofers eat through my charging cable but on having gone to the shop for a replacement, I discovered that the device itself wasn’t working. I really didn’t want to have to buy another one, not just because of the heart-stopping price but even if I did, I wouldn’t have a clue how to set it up without Callum’s help. So, I left it with the experts to hopefully sort out the problem. Surely a few days without it wouldn’t be an issue? Ha. As if. I spent most of last week in a foul mood save the couple of days spent with my dear friend Heidi who had stopped by on her way back from Spain to the UK – the best kind of therapy for a miserable mobile-missing gal.

It wasn’t that I used the thing very often other than to play music, WhatsApp Callum or message Denis at the beginning and the end of the day – the latter was the hardest as I know Callum is working ‘out of contact’ at the moment. It’s stupid, D only lives around the corner but one gets used to these little things and doesn’t realise how much until you can’t do it. Luckily, with the potager’s onions needing harvesting and the soil turned over again, there was enough work to keep us both occupied sans technology. And boy, were there a lot of onions. Our freezer is now packed to the gills with bags of the freshly picked and sliced veggie and so are several of those of our neighbours – I have suggested to D that we buy a few less next time.

Finding things to do to distract myself from the absence of contact wasn’t difficult. There are chairs to be stripped and painted for the new petanque pavilion and a half-filled pool to keep clean but with the weather changing every two seconds, I decided to crack on with drawing the village map that I had promised the Mayor. To be honest, I thought it would be easier than it was, after all there are only two main roads in Rouffiac but the number of wiggly tiny streets that lead off them is very confusing especially when the photocopied map in front of you doesn’t show them all. Still, after spending several hours painstakingly filling everything in, I went to bed feeling quite proud of myself. Until I woke up in the morning with the realisation I had drawn the whole thing the wrong way round – that is to say the left was on the right and the right on the left if you get the gist. So, I’ve had to erase all and start again, this time with a mirror over the copy – D’s bright idea.

As I mentioned earlier, Heidi and her dog, Tiffany dropped in on their way back to the mud island (no offence England but I gather its been a bit wet up there) so I could put the cock-up to one side and spend time just chatting and chilling on the terrace with an old friend. The woofers graciously allowed Tiffany to join us although their presence can be quite over-whelming for a single and rather beautiful Standard Poodle – Sherman was particularly taken but his amorous advances were put down with a paw, literally. Mind you, it was just my love-struck Border Terrier that fainted at Tiffany’s feet, a visit to our local vet to have her passport stamped for re-entry caused quite a stir. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dog being checked so thoroughly. Apparently, according to my vet, they only have one Standard Poodle on their books and not nearly as well-turned out as Tiff. As we walked out, I swear I saw the young Mastiff in the waiting room faint.

So, I’m off now to a birthday bash for D’s son, Yoan, complete with mobile phone in hand once more. I really really missed not checking the weather app every morning. It’s going to be hot hot hot next week…

“We are stuck with technology when what we really want is just stuff that works” (Douglas Adams)

Chews and Hues

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, anyone who thinks sharing your life with 8 dogs is a blissful existence doesn’t know my woofers. One of them has munched through my phone charger cable. I can rule out Simi, she only gets out of bed for food and since Yogi Bear only has three teeth, I doubt he’s capable of chewing through anything. Coco Loco wouldn’t either, far too dangerous for his sensitive soul and as for Arry, he’d have eaten the whole thing including the plug it was attached to. That leaves four although Mo rarely goes into my bedroom and Neo prefers human legs to electrical outlets so the most likely culprit is either Alice or Sherman. But since I don’t have a handy DNA kit lying about, I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to buy another charger – Denis did his best to find one I could borrow to no avail, gone are the days when one cable fitted all, modern times hmm. Naturally, the only person I know with the same make and model of my phone is Callum and of course, I can’t call him obviously and even if someone could, he’s off line working on a farm somewhere in South Australia.

At least whoever did the crime waited until the best of the weekend was over, it’s been quite a social whirl over the last few days. Friday marked the start of Le Petit Bistrot season, Rouffiac’s weekly village get-together. And since it was the first night so to speak, there was a whole lot of cheek-kissing and “ça va” ‘s as friends re-acquainted themselves after their winter hibernation before sitting down to catch up over a few glasses and partake in a less than light repas of sausage stew. Good for lining the stomach I suppose. The evening would have been almost perfect if it wasn’t for any attempt at conversation being drowned out by an over-excitable and very loud big band musical performance and the absence of our Graham who could probably hear the trumpet player in Scotland. You are missed darling.

With the start of summer just around the corner and the weather finally starting to remember as such, it’s time to hang up the running shoes until the Autumn. As much as I love wheezing up the hills surrounding us, the mornings are now too hot for Alice, Arry and Sherman and my body needs its annual repose but it would be nice if I could use the pool. The less said about that bloody chamber the better although with any luck, it will be fit for purpose in a couple of weeks. I shall keep schtum about that until it happens. Needless to say however, I’m not one for idle pursuits, most of last week has been spent finishing off the top room in the big house – carrying pots of paint and ladders up and down that staircase should be an Olympic activity. The once dingy pink wallpapered bedroom is now a calm, cream brush and roller job – several different shades as I wanted to use up all the nearly-empty tins left in the garage but no-one seems to have notice the subtle changes in hues.

And it’s not just the room at the top looking bright and cheerful, the gardens are looking pretty spectacular at the moment – we can thank miserable wet May for that. Denis and I have also given my terrace a bit of a make-over including repotting my citrus trees and a spot of geranium buying. Mind you, I should have taken more care over my colour choices as the pink that was once up there is now everywhere down here. At least the potager is gorgeously green and full of summer salad additions. It’s just as well I don’t like beetroot. And now that the trees are all in full leaf, the woofers can lounge about in shady nooks to recharge their batteries – a couple are looking a little too lively this morning however…

“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole. Unless they eat your shoes, then your life is a little less whole.” (Unknown)

Fruitful labour

With the start of June and temperatures rocketing into the 30s, last week was all about getting out and about. The soiree season has begun. Denis and I had back to back invites which of course we weren’t going to turn down, he fared better than me – by the third night in a row the thought of taking one sip of wine was enough to make my stomach roll and I was exhausted. Partly, I feel down to all those late nights getting the first draft of the Second Book finished but also having to deal with the bloody pool and the top bedroom’s wallpaper. The latter is just about cleared so I can start painting. Still, I thoroughly enjoyed catching up with those friends who have come out of hibernation for the summer and I can never turn down a Saturday night down at Le Jardin.

Speaking of gardens, ours is looking very fruitful. All that rain we had over the last couple of months has done it the world of good. The plum trees are sagging under the weight of yumminess and the ‘grenade‘ (pomegranates) is covered in bloom – a good omen. Then there’s the apricots, apples and figs, I have no idea what to do with all of it since its mostly just Mumo and I here, I’d set up a stall outside the front gate except the woofers’ over-excitement at the prospect of visitors would keep sales at bay. The potager is packed with veggies and salad and my carrots are ready for digging up. I am ridiculously proud of my carrots, it’s the first time I’ve grown them and they actually look like what they are supposed to look like. And as for “Domaine Stewart”, otherwise known as my grapevine, that’s groaning with tiny grapes. Apparently I need about 800 or so to make a bottle of wine – I haven’t counted mine but I doubt there’s enough to fill one of those mini bottles in a hotel fridge.

The week ahead is set to be a few degrees cooler, its currently raining which is no bad thing, so I can get on with all the other projects I’ve ignored so I could write the last paragraphs. For a former London lass who organised her life down to the finest detail, I seem to have an awful lot of jobs half-done lying around the various workspaces. I think the ‘à demain‘ attitude to life down here is finally starting to get under my skin although that isn’t to say I don’t still lose my rag when people don’t show up or ring back when they’re supposed to. Or when my mobile phone decides to turn its screen black for no reason whatsoever – thank Gods for twenty-somethings at soirees to which technology is easier than ABC’s. And boyfriends who hate seeing their other halves in a strop and know whose strings to pull to get things done so I can happily potter around our vast plot of abundance without losing mine. I shall refrain from singing “Summertime” as my voice tends to set the woofers off, they don’t like cats…

“Gardeners, I think, dream bigger dreams than emperors.” (Mary Cantwell)

Close the book and step outside

We had a little celebration at Le Jardin last night – I finally finished the first draft of the Second Book! Obviously there’s a lot of tweaking to do before it is fit to be sent off to the possible publishers but I sent the last four chapters off to Sally editor last night with a note saying ‘take your time, I need a break’ only to write back this morning and ask her not to touch the last one as I decided to change the final paragraph. I was still scrawling ideas after midnight but I think I’ve got it so to speak. And then I can read a book, someone else’s – I can’t when I’m writing, it messes with my head.

It’s been that sort of week, virtually every day having a little ‘hip hip hooray’ . The pool appears to have stopped leaking although with the strong wind of late and occasional blasts of sunshine, there’s always going to be evaporation. I’m not filling it back up yet as no-one gets in until mid-June and it gives the remaining half of its contents a chance to warm up. Then, there’s our bumper crop of spinach in the potager – deliciously crisp greens and in a few days time, carrots. We won’t talk about my tomatoes versus Denis’, they are too pathetic to mention. Speaking of mellow fruitfulness and I don’t mean the burgeoning apricot, apple and plum trees, Sherman the Tank turned 3 years old on Thursday. The not so tiny bundle of puppy fur that Alice delivered in the palm of my hand has grown up into a gorgeously handsome, lovable and bloody big Border Terrier. He’s easily double the size of his mum although that’s never stopped her from giving him a good talking too when he and Arry get too rambunctious. The latter was back at the vets yesterday, the summer scratching has started but this visit came up with a possible cause for his itchies. It’s not enough to be allergic to over 450 different flora, fauna and foods; apparently he can add fungi as well. So we are starting a new treatment which apart from anything else, is much cheaper than the Cytopoint which doesn’t work. Saving a few pennies is enough to say ‘cheers’ to.

I don’t know where May went but hello summer and, if the météo is to be believed, the heat is returning. About flippin’ time. The winter wardrobe has been packed up and shoved under my bed and D and I have been slaving over the garden and courtyard for all to enjoy. We still have the petanque area to complete – up til now it has been too windy to get Graham’s donated marquee up and put gravel underneath it. But the courtyard is all neat and tidy, ready for those apéro evenings to come. TI’ve started undercoating the top bedroom walls in the main house, it’s taken me two weeks to get the several layers of wallpaper off them – whoever invented it was a sadist. I’ll be glad to finish the room, not just because of the endless up and down the hundred and one steps staircase – it’s horribly stuffy in there too. Still, if the fine weather promised is to come, I’d better get on with it – lazy days in the garden beckon.

So roll on summer and a chance to sit back with a book that isn’t mine and not a laptop in sight. Well, I’m sure it will get pulled out of its chamber – there’s always forgotten incidences suddenly scribbled on bits of paper in the middle of the night but with Le Bistrot about to open its doors for the season in a couple of weeks and the usual Saturday chill-out sessions with friends at Le Jardin (the bongo drum set last night had everyone swinging their toes and drumming tables), I’m ready to put the opus to bed for a while and slap on the sunscreen. Hello June…

“In early June the world of leaf and blade and flowers explodes, and every sunset is different.” (John Steinbeck)

Gypsy for the day

Seeing as how I can’t really remember what happened at the start of last week, I shall devote today’s blog to the latter part of it. Working title: Sophi goes to the beach. Yup, for the first time since I landed in this part of France, I got to spend a couple of days away from it. I can’t thank my wonderful friend, Giselle, enough for looking after the woofers for me – all of whom apparently behaved impeccably. A rarity for which I shall thank them too.

Having packed up my car, Denis and I headed South-East on a sunny Thursday afternoon – destination, D’s niece’s house deep in the Camargue some 3 hours or so away. I still can’t get my head around how big France is although the hitch-hikers at the petrol station en route who were trying to get a ride to Berlin must have been even less familiar with the country. A compass might be handy I feel. Mind you, even with my GPS, we took a number of wrong turns although vaguely in the right direction before we got to the little town of Istres. As scenery goes, the Camargue is incredibly flat, filled with rice paddies and marshlands and on the horizon, the oddly-pink coloured beaches lining the Mediterranean Sea.

Anyway, have spent a lively, if not extremely alcoholic, evening with D’s relatives, we headed off to what we’d come to see. Le Pèlerinage aux Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer or the annual get together of Gitans from all over the world to celebrate their patron saint – Sainte Marie de la Mer. The Gitan people descend from travellers or Romany gypsies so unsurprisingly the town of St. Marie de la Mer was heaving with camping cars and caravans and traditional ‘Vardos’ – vibrantly painted, horse-drawn wooden wagons. The streets were packed to the hilt with people dressed up to the nines and guitars strumming on corners and in the middle of the town, a huge market. I have to admit, I wasn’t feeling all that well, probably down to the night before’s wine consumption but the crowds didn’t help either. My brain seemed to have forgotten all those years spent in London as I found it difficult to breathe.

That being said, The main event was quite a spectacle. As the impressive cathedral’s bells rang out, a procession of beautiful, white Camargue horses came down the main street, their riders easily manoeuvring their charges through the throngs gathering to see their patron saint. After the first team of equine gentleness moved past, along came the lady herself, covered in what looked like silks and carried on a litter, six men holding the poles on either side as they were inundated with hands reaching up to touch their cargo. Denis told me that this was to make wishes for loved ones, I’m not of the religious persuasion but I did mentally throw a few her way – one might have been about the bloody pool which is by no means a loved one which is probably why it didn’t work. Followed by her congregation, Sainte Marie was then led down to the sea, the horses going in with her to make a circle as she is dipped into the waters (from whence she came I was told) before being transported back to the safe confines of the cathedral. The whole ceremony took about two hours, thankfully under a clear blue sky so it was just as well that D’s niece had booked a restaurant in the town square. And there, with the accompaniment of a Spanish guitar- playing quartet, the festival goers sang and danced the night away. All very rowdy and loud but not once was there any trouble despite an undeserved reputation placed on Gitans. I might not be one who wants a life on the road but being amongst those effervescent and happy souls did make me think we should all be a little bit more gypsy

After all the hustle and bustle of the day before, it felt good to come home to the quietness of Rouffiac. Naturally the woofers were thrilled to see me, hah! when I returned chez moi. Obviously Giselle must have treated them like Gods considering the lukewarm greetings I received. That is apart from Yogi Bear who snuggled into my arms. I should worry about leaving them less often. And I won’t be, leaving them that is, for a while now – June is just around the corner and there is much to do before the summer guests arrive. Like trying to find out how to keep water in the bloody pool…

“Walk like a Queen, Love like a Hippie, Speak like a Sailor, Travel like a Gypsy, Garden like a Witch and Work like a Warrior” (Unknown)

Soap and sentiments

I can’t say I make it a habit of eating macarons in the shower but in my defence, I had originally thought that the tasty morsel was a fancy soap. My girl, Giselle, having just returned from Paris, had bought me a little gift box of what I assumed were edible concoctions until Denis mentioned something about soap. Considering we were hosting a dinner party at the time, I only had one ear to the conversation between him and Giselle;

“It’s a present for you, not Denis” Giselle said kissing me as usual on both cheeks,

“It must be soap then” Denis pouted

So I took the classy cadeau into the bathroom and left it on the vanity – it did smell deliciously perfumed.

It was only when I went to shower the following morning and thought it odd that the ‘soap’ didn’t have much froth and the scrubby underside was crumbling, that it dawned on me. I’d almost cleansed myself with a French cookie.

I blame my boob on lack of sleep. Between the bloody pool (let’s not go any further) and late nights tap tapping away at the final chapters for The Second Book, my usual eight hours slumber has been more like six. I don’t do well on six. I don’t do well either when the weather can’t make up its mind and the thermometer is like watching a carnival ride – up in the 20’s one minute and down in the teens the next. Then add spectacular storms from dusk til dawn. On the plus side, my veggie patch is bursting with carrots, onions, spinach and beans – even my tomato plants have started to show signs of actually growing (Denis are doing far better but July is still far away mister). On the downside, the pelouse now resembles a jungle but with the amount of rain we’ve had, it’s too wet to cut. So it was back to work indoors, namely pulling several layers of wallpaper off the walls of the only bedroom yet to be renovated. I’m sure it’s good for one’s thigh muscles hoofing up and down all those flights of stairs but I doubt all the dust my efforts are uncovering is. I need a holiday.

And next weekend, I hope to do be doing just that. Having a little break with Denis, thanks to Giselle who for some reason, likes the woofers and so offered to stay with them so D and I can have a getaway. Aside from my yearly visits to L’Horte, which was a home from home really, I haven’t had a vacation for almost ten years. 8 woofers tends to be a hindrance to such idealism.

Hence the dinner party on Friday evening. I wanted Giselle to meet Mumo so that there wouldn’t be a stranger living next door so to speak and invited a few others too – Giselle’s husband Jamel, her son Hugo and his girlfriend Marina, who happens to be Denis’ daughter. Having D’s family around as well as my mum wasn’t just about introductions and woofer cuddles, there are certain times of year that are easier to bear when you have friends and family with you. And whilst I have been incredibly lucky to have found a ‘second life’ and a ‘second love of my life’ here, there isn’t a day that goes past when I don’t still talk to Tony. 6 years seems like a long time but then again, not at all. As we raised a toast to my beautiful T, Denis whispered to me how proud he thought T would be of me. I think he would be but I bet he is still laughing in the aisles over my mushy macaron mistake…

“What soap is to the body, laughter is to the soul “(Yiddish Proverb)

Indoor days and birthdays

So far, May has been a complete washout. I know I bang on about how much we need the stuff but a whole week of non-stop pluie? The driveway resembled a lake and my shower drain backed up because the excess had nowhere to go. Even the woofers retreated indoors, their pleading eyes asking me to turn the tap off up there and Sherman was not his usual happy self sloshing through muddy puddles on our morning run. Still, at least we’ve had a sunny, dry weekend as the forecast for next week isn’t encouraging unless you’re a plant.

On the plus side, Denis and I have spent most of our time fiddling about in the garage with the ancient motobécane that brother Simon had found in a dump a decade ago. The L’Horte Four (our kids) had had great fun bouncing over the old homestead’s terrain on her back but after becoming another victim of the 2018 flood, she was put to one side to be fixed but soon forgotten. That was until we decided that the old lady should be bought back to life again. So far, it’s been mostly about de-clogging 6 years of debris in her motor parts, a piston needs replacing and the paintwork needs, well, work but I’m having fun learning about motor machines. Abraham told me that there used to be a ‘moto’ club in Rouffiac years ago and we should start it up again. I don’t have a parka but Tony’s Barbour will do and I have a hankering for one of those old-fashioned helmets – you know the ones that look like you’ve stuck a mixing bowl on your head.

I wish I could say that being forced to stay indoors unless you have a penchant for scuba diving would have resulted in a finished Second Book but no. I’ve only got three chapters to go and I can’t seem to find the motivation to pen them. It’s not as though I don’t want to put the opus to bed, 3 plus years of tap tapping away on the two tales of life after Tony is quite enough but with the end in sight, my muse has gone into hibernation. But with my self-imposed, get it done before the summer, deadline, me and my laptop will be as one. I mean, its not like the sun is going to make a re-appearance anytime soon and the bloody pool is tucked up under the covers for the next month or so. We aren’t as yet, back on talking terms.

But though the weather is a bit doom and gloom, there are little moments to be celebrated. Like Bear birthdays. My slightly-tubbier round the middle, mostly deaf unless you open a biscuit tin, constant cuddle companion, Yogi Bear is 14 years old today. Like most of the pack and their occasionally obeyed mistress, he’s been through a lot over the last almost 6 years. Having lain faithfully by His Master’s bed in those last days, Yogi grieved over Tony’s death until we moved here to Rouffiac and the Bear found a new best buddy in Denis. Now in his senior years, Yogi likes nothing more than to be either snoozing the day away on his favourite cushion or lying under Denis’ feet whilst his beloved human tries to do some gardening. Unless there’s food. Food is always the best thing in life. So Happy Birthday to Yogi Bear, Norfolk Terrier Extraordinaire. May your life always be filled with cuddles and picnics…

“Life’s too short to skip a picnic” (Yogi Bear)

Where the wind doth blow

For those who might be thinking life down here is all sunshine and roses, there is one weather phenomenon that an immobilier’s blurb would leave out. Aude is one of the, if not the most, windy departments in France. And when it doth blow, it bloweth hard and makes everyone feel miserable – the sound of its haunting wail as it rages across the land is known to affect one’s sanity. At this time of year, the Tramontane that pushes its way through the gap between the Pyrénées and the Massif Central at speed of around 60 kms and hour and we got the full force of it last week. Luckily, none of the trees fell down although I have had to spend most of this morning clearing the aftermath of flora and fauna from the pool. I shall not mention the bloody pool again, we are not on friendly terms.

Since working outside was inadvisable unless you wanted a natural face-lift, the week was spent finishing off all the renovation bits and bobs I’ve scattered between the two houses and the garage. Of course, this hasn’t stopped me from adding more to the pile – Denis and I went off for a little forage down by the river to find any remnants left over from a large palm tree clearing operation. Bits of tree trunks are now about to enter a new life as corner tables in what will be a tented seating area next to the new petanque ground. Mercifully, we haven’t put the marque up yet as it would probably be in Spain by now. Working with wood always lifts the happy hormones even when you’re stupid enough to use the sander when there’s a helluva hooley swirling around.

Braving the elements over the past few days hasn’t been the only test of courage – Arry, Alice, Sherman and I faced our demon together on our regular Tuesday running route. There he was, the great big fluffball behind the fence once more allowing us safe passage although Arry couldn’t resist a couple of face-to face barks across the divide. As much as I knew the owner had taken care of the hole in the enclosure, it was still a ‘shall I shan’t I’ decision to run that way again. I really should try and be more like my half-brained German Shepherd, his mind empties two seconds after an event. That being said, the view from the top of our run makes any fleeting thoughts of staying under the bed covers worth the brief lip-biting hesitations.

With any luck, the end of April will take the blustery thermals with it and May will bring sunshine and occasional showers. Yes, rain. Not that I like getting soaked but the garden does and with the cost of refilling the pool uppermost in one’s mind, a bit of free water wouldn’t go amiss. My veggie patch is suffering and I hate dragging the hose around especially as Arry views any spray of water as an amusement park offering and one of us ends up wetter than the other. At least if the Gods are feeling benevolent, they’ll add a bit of summer warmth to the mix – such activity can be tolerated in shorts and a bikini. And they can take their tramontane and blow it somewhere else, we like being a happy little village down here…

“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.” (William Arthur Ward)