Seasonal shifts and niggly necks

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

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

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

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

Ice diving and sore knees

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

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

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

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

Implausible perceptiveness

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

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

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

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

Spooky news and strange shoes

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

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

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

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

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)