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)

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)

A buried past and a new friend

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

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

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

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

Blissful bathing in barbecues

According to Monsieur le Météo, the insufferable scorch we are currently experiencing is nothing compared to what’s in store next week. Great. It’s not enough that I have to drag the infernal “I’ll kink when I want’ hosepipe across the barren landscape at dawn or that all my terrace flora shrivelled into nothingness despite the parasol shade overhead, you feel the need to crank up the celsius to cremate? Put it this way, I’ve replaced the balcony’s burnt offerings with cacti and put away any thoughts of sleeping past sunrise.

Thank the Gods for the pool (note that I have removed the normal curse that precedes her title). In fact, anyone’s pool. The usual and not to be sniffed at invitations to pop over for a drink or lunch now have the addition of ‘and bring a cozzie’; Jude and I spent passed yesterday afternoon mostly submerged in her liquid luxury save the hand holding the bottle. Non-alcoholic I promise. As for our over-sized body of sheer bliss, it’s being well-used by yours truly and Arry of course since me and the woofers are the only ones in residence at the moment which has its advantages in that the big house is easier to take care of and I’ve gotten used to taking care of the outside toute seule over the years. I did have the company of brother Simon and wife Alba on Monday so she and I got to share a dip and a chat in the depths. They pootled off the following morning in car full of food stuffs as I rarely use the big fridge and I didn’t want to throw away its contents unnecessarily. I did suggest adding the larder contents to their load too although I was a little surprised that the upstairs loo rolls were nowhere to be seen. I am not aware such items have a sell by date. We did have a second visit by a French family that same afternoon which looked promising but alas, the mahoosive mansion turned out to be just that – too mahoosive. Don’t I know it. Mind you, there might be better luck in the months ahead as we’ve decided to drop the price a little; having a 4 instead of a 5 in front may just sway the prospective punters.

At least the evenings are still relatively bearable so one can don the glad rags (as little as you can get away with and still be decent) and do the social circuit. Mostly chez moi although Friday night down at Le Petit Bistrot was banging as the young folks would say. Festival de la Musique is an annual summer thing round these parts with villages and towns hosting local combos of varying styles. Rouffiac’s started out with a sort of pub rock group who got everyone on the dance floor shaking their parts to well-known grooves before we were treated to a traditional folk fest which in turn had the older generation singing along in fine tune. Kinda. And since spending one soirée partying with one’s people wasn’t enough, Denis and I threw together a barbecue yesterday for our usual crew. Thankfully, a sit down affair in the coolness of the courtyard – my body can only boogie so much, a fact it often reminds me about so a good old-fashioned gas over a table heaving with deliciousness and wine and if necessary, bathroom toiletries refreshed made for a comfortable chillout amongst friends. Speaking of cooking and all things fire weather, that pristinely perfect pool has my name on it…

““If summer had one defining scent, it’d definitely be the smell of barbecue.” (Katie Lee)

Summer sizzle and superwomen

I can tell you now that right after I have finished penning today’s words of wonder, I’m jumping straight in the bloody pool. Actually I shouldn’t put a swear word in front of her as a) we managed to get the little leak fixed quickly by Monsieur Martinez, he what put in the liner, and b) it’s flippin’ roasting out there and she’s a blessing. I would have been in those cool waters already but there was the small matter of Rouffiac’s annual Vide Grenier to get through this morning. I can’t say Jude and I raked in the euros and let’s not mention the ornate Moroccan birdcage on another stall that I just had to have but at least we managed to offload enough as not to bring embarrassment. No, I have no intention of adding an aviary to my zoo, I just happen to have a fondness for such objects.

We may well be under the force that is Mother Nature’s boiler right now but most of last week was unexpectedly cold. A bit of a shame as I had house guests but Heidi and her friend Simon didn’t seem to mind especially as they wanted to do the tourist thing around the Citié and the Canal du Midi – always more preferable when you aren’t sweating through sunblock. I always enjoy Heidi’s visits not only because she’s a patient listener but her own story is, for want of a better word, inspirational. To bring up three children; two of which were born with mental health issues long before such disorders were really recognised all whilst she dealt with domestic violence and single-handedly built what is now a very successful grooming empire, is well, just that. If she doesn’t write the book, I will.

Alas their stay was, as always, not long enough but we did manage to squeeze in a stroll up the road and to the right so I could point out where my next abode will be one day – it would help if potential big house buyers would stop finding stupid reasons not to add to the family coffers. Complaining about the terrain being too dry when you’re viewing property down here in June for a start or worrying about the amount of stairs (how do you expect to get to the third floor?) seems a little trite although the latter has booked a second look on Monday with her husband – perhaps he’s got strong shoulders.

Speaking of athletic ability and awesomeness, I would like to give a shout-out to my sister, known to us siblings as Bong for reasons we forget, who kept her poor brothers and I glued to the IronMan app last Sunday night. Despite getting two punctures during the cycling bit thanks to someone’s attempt to derail the race and her having to do the last kilometres with a protesting tummy, she can now call herself an IronWoman. I’ll not post her picture as she’ll kill me for that and I still think she was totally nuts to even consider entering the thing but so so proud of her for doing so. Me, no way. I’m going to take a gentle stroll across the arid lawns, walk up the three stairs to the deck before sliding indelicately into a large quantity of crystal clear, cool water…

“Teach your daughters to worry less about fitting into glass slippers and more about shattering glass ceilings.” (Melissa Marchonna)

Early mornings and irritable pools

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

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

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

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

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

Potty predictions and birthday pups

According to my snooze-inducing therapists; the tarot card reading ones I mean, I’m about to shed some skin. I know such prophecies should be taken with a bucket load of salt and I rarely get to hear the whole story before nodding off into dreamland but when two questionably qualified quacks say the same thing, the subconscious Soph sits up. Not literally, it’s practically impossible to change my sleeping position due to a large unwieldy German Shepherd whose frame fits the lower part of the bed and a slightly smaller Border terrier who has the ability to take up any remaining inches. Digression again, let’s get back to the prognosis. Something is about to shift big time and I’m not talking about eyelash extension glue. I’m not entirely sure what and I will retain my skepticism about financial gains, however there is something to be said for laying to rest mental ghosts – mine have been in situ for more years than I care to remember but it was the bit about unexpected recognition in the work department that got me all tingly.

Because oddly that’s happened. It’s my pots you see. I didn’t intentionally set out to add painting designs on terracotta to my CV but after having put a couple of posts on the ol’ social network, they’ve ended up in the shop so to speak. Honestly I’ve never thought of myself as one but I was rather chuffed on being told I was an artist – my Arts and Crafts teacher at school is probably rolling in his grave in hysterics having kicked me out of that class and Denis’ confidence in my creations is a lot louder than mine. Still, I’m a little bit proud of my paintwork even if my atelier now resembles a recycling centre due to the mountain of donations in dusty earthenware along with the idiotic acquisition that is the aquarium. It’s still bereft of life; can’t find the time to go fishing when you’re on the creative carousel.

Actually, let’s be honest, last week wasn’t that busy. Apart from another house visit (I don’t think it went well) and a visit from Ever-Reliable Roy who managed to successfully fit the new wotsit into the pool filter whilst I nattered with his ex but still friends on the pool deck, the diary was blissfully empty. Just as well really as it was so toe-scorchingly hot outside, no-one in their right mind would delight in going anywhere except under a fan or three (I spoil the woofers). Unfortunately for Arry, the pool is still under wraps until Roy can spare the time in the coming days to switch over the pumps to their summer setting just in time for the thermometer to drop along with the rain. We are desperate for the latter though, walking over to Le Jardin for a quick meeting with Abraham, what would normally be a view covered in the bright red hue of poppies looked more like a scene from a Wild West set; all that was missing was tumbleweed.

Still, here we are at the end of May and with that, another birthday – Sherman’s. It’s hard to believe it’s been 5 years since Alice did her brilliant mum thing and gave birth to her bouncing brood. Lucky for me, I defied the family and kept my gorgeous galumph who, as you all know, was born in the palm of my hand on the very same bed that he has become to spreading his sizeable self over. And whilst I doubt he pays much mind to the ramblings of online entertainers, he is an excellent listener to all mine. Doesn’t half shed though…

“If it’s the Psychic Network why do they need a phone number?” (Robin Williams)

Scheduling the unscheduled

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

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

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

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

Where the foot falls

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

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

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

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