Order of service

And so it was that we said our goodbyes to Mumo as we laid her to rest on Tuesday afternoon. The weather forecast had predicted rain but the sun came out instead which was a blessing in itself as the crematorium was running half an hour late so we all had to stand outside. Nobody seemed to mind, keeping to schedule is not the norm in this part of the world, friends and family chatting away amongst themselves until the doors finally opened and in we went. I’d picked some flowers from the garden which I placed on her coffin – a bit of a haywire bouquet as the March winds had blown off the best blossoms.

Like most services of this kind, it was short – we’d only been given half an hour so brother Simon and cousin Robert had practised the running down to the nth minute. Robert, a vicar in Wales and Mumo’s only nephew led the proceedings, our mum was not particularly religious but Rob knew her well and is a seasoned professional at these sorts of events. The night before he’d regaled us with stories as we sat round the family dinner table – the one about gangsta rap being played as the final request sending the lot of us into uncontrollable laughter. That and his choice of footwear on the day itself. Simon’s eulogy reminded us of what an incredible life our mum had had, his son Louis standing at his side translating the words into French. I’d had the forethought to ask Louis and Katie (Simon’s daughter) to print out the français version the night before even if they did change some of the text – nuances they amused. And I managed to get through my little speech dry-eyed; that was until I sat down next to Callum, looked over at my sister Bong and the sobbing started. Mercifully for the rest of the attendees we’d made to the end before the mascara ran and as we left the starkly beige auditorium, placing a kiss on her coffin, everyone was ready for a hug. And a very large drink back at chez nous with our friends.

Funerals are like weddings in a way, you spend so much time beforehand planning such events and then, bing, it’s all over. I wrote the same sentiment after Tony’s. Most of my siblings and their sprogs left the day after; Bong and her family back to New York, Katie back to London and Simon and Alba to Narbonne. They’ll all be back in June when we will scatter Mumo’s ashes next to Pop – the sun should be properly out by then. Luckily for me, I’ve still had company – Moth left yesterday as did Louis but Callum will be here a little longer. Just as well as we’ve needed to replace the entire sink unit in the main house as it broke mid-way through the after buffet – Denis came up trumps finding an almost perfect fit in the back of his garage. Having occupied myself with bits of furniture restoration, I’ve had to move the finished pieces into the room downstairs so Cal can get on with door frames and electric updating. Then there’s the pool deck to be sanded down and re-oiled before the new liner goes in, the potager needs to be turned over for the new season veggies and my back stairs need re-painting. Life will never be quite right without her but Mumo would be the first to say: dry your eyes, put on your boots and enjoy the sunrise…

I shall leave you with my ‘Letter to Mumo’ – the English version ahem..

“Classy, elegant, fun, always with a gentle smile your friends remember. A born diplomat, confidante, never one for an argument yet fascinatingly intelligent – you could recite quotes from literature off the top of your head and rarely failed to complete a crossword. You were the ultimate hostess, always making sure glasses were filled and tummies sated. Your family motto FHB (family hold back meant guests came first). Stunningly beautiful, you may have appeared fragile on the outside but that came with a spirit forged of steel.

To us, the Collinses, you were Mumo. Or Grandmummo. The voice of reason when you needed it most. Except when we were the cause of the trouble and then we’d best be running the opposite way. I once asked you why you never said “I love you” like other parents said to their kids. You replied, I shouldn’t have to, you should know I do. And we did. Despite living on opposite ends of the world, if there was a way to get home for Christmas, we did. To your home. Aude. First the magic of L’Horte, the house that you and Pop (along with various family hands) built and then Rouffiac – a place you said gave you peace. A place for family and friends, old and new to drop by and share an hour or two over a cup of tea.

I still look through the kitchen window when I come back from my morning run, expecting to see you on that damn stool sipping your coffee, a single muffin delicately sliced as you read the news on your Ipad. But you’re no longer there. But you are. You continue to live inside all of us; Simon has your love of books and your level headedness, Bong has your elegance and love of music, Moth has your patience the love of Kenya and wildlife, and for me I hope the steadfastness of friendship and a love of German Shepherds and rose gardens. And so much more is carried on through the next generation that you were so so proud of.
I will finish with a quote from one of her favourite Oscar Wilde plays – The Importance of Being Ernest
“ I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train”

A time best shared

I made a mattress cover. Sounds daft but I was ridiculously pleased with myself, mainly because I’d managed to use the sewing machine without breaking it. Okay so I did snap the needle mid-seam when it ran over a forgotten pin but using the dreaded contraption without Mumo’s guidance was a first. If I’m honest, life without her hasn’t sunk in yet – everything seems to be carrying on as normal even if it’s anything but. For most of last week, the only residents in the house were me and brother Simon; both of us busy sorting out funeral arrangements and legal stuff. It’s not as though the family home was constantly full of Collins; most of the time it was just Mumo and me but somehow the place echoes with emptiness. The arrival of nephew Louis and niece Kate this morning along with Cal who had been visiting his other grandmother, has however, helped lift the gloom and with the rest of the clan descending tomorrow, the coming days will be easier to bear.

Mumo used to say that she preferred her grand-children because her own kids always argued but when it came to family fortitude, us lot would always stick together. As we sat on Mumo’s bed last weekend, going through her bits of bling and mercifully tidy wardrobe, sister Bong and I reminisced over the pieces. We don’t often talk so sharing memories was a nice way to reconnect especially as she remembered far more than I me. I didn’t take much as I tend to lose jewellery on a regular basis but there was one pendant, a Cowrie (Mumo loved Cowrie shells), that I recall her wearing in Kenya.

Recollecting happier times has stretched further than the family bonds. Having been tasked with sending out emails and making phone calls to Mumo’s friends, everyone has had their own special memories of our mum. Right now, in the main house, Simon, Callum and Louis are poring of photographs for the service and there’s a lot of laughter added to the process. So much nostalgia held in those album pockets. I can’t say I haven’t cried, I’ve sobbed bucket loads – weirdly mostly when I’m doing the ironing but as long as I keep busy, I’m doing okay. In fact, I’m whizzing through my furniture renovations to the point where I’m going to have to find somewhere to put all of it so I can photograph my babies and sell them. The workshop keeps me calm – my safe space unless I’m running up those hills. And I finished the tableau for the signpost under the corner wall – my version of Spring. Mumo said I’d put just about every colour of the rainbow on canvas. Thankfully, Denis has encased it between two sheets of plastic because March so far is rather windy and wet. Good for the garden though and my cauliflowers.

The next few days are going to be the tough ones as we say good-bye to Mumo on Tuesday before she is laid to rest at L’Horte. On behalf of all the Collins clan, I would like to say thank you for all the wonderful reminders of just how incredible our Mumo was. I only wish she’s told me where she kept the spare sewing machine needles…

“Say not in grief that she is no more, but say in thankfulness that she was” ( Hebrew proverb)

Pure class

At 10.45 am on Thursday 27th of February, our Mumo passed away. I wish I could say she was surrounded by her loved ones but she was in the hospital waiting for a scan when my big brother Simon was called with the news, typical, she never did like being fussed over. We knew the time was coming so it wasn’t a total shock but nevertheless, it still seems far too unreal. But, at least for the last few months, Mumo had had a constant supply of family members popping back and forth over oceans. Family was everything to our mum as were her friends, her Ipad only leaving her lap when it needed to be recharged. As so many have told me, she was the loveliest soul, adored by everybody. Stunningly beautiful on the inside and out.

She was born Janet Christina Collins (amusingly that was both maiden and married name which caused many a hiccup when dealing with officials) on April 15th 1939. In May 1964, she married Pop and the two produced us 4 kids and we gave them 7 grandkids, as Mumo was oft to say the latter were so much more interesting than her offspring. She and Pop travelled the world; first Sarawak then up through Indonesia and Hong Kong before Kenya, Thailand and New York. Her address book, she was never one for technological storage, was so full that she dreaded the yearly Christmas card list but always made sure each person was ticked off. I was looking through the stacks of photo albums yesterday for a suitable picture – there are so many memories of a life most would only dream about. Kenya was her favourite so that’s where the picture was taken kissing up to her darling Ringo.

Apart from her lyrical waxing about her unbelievably brilliant grandchildren, Mumo was a book lover, rarely seen without one in hand unless, as Simon put it, she was on her Ipad or asleep. Actually she usually dozed off with pages still open. As those who knew her would say, Mumo was a wise and patient listener even if she refused to admit to us kids that she was going deaf – apparently we just don’t enunciate properly. She was the epitome of a hostess, she loved a good party and could have conversations on any topic – something no doubt learnt from her years abroad with Pop. And she had class. Not born into it, no hers was entirely her own. She had opinions but never forced them on others, was always elegantly dressed even if it was to prune the roses at L’Horte and although if she admitted that she wasn’t fond of the task, was a pretty mean cook.

Oddly, considering she hated exercise of any kind, our mum managed to bring up two extremely active generations. I say two because for Simon’s and my ‘sprogs’, she and Pop pretty much did bring them up at L’Horte. It was Mumo who wanted a pool in the back garden here in Rouffiac- one she never got in because the very idea of swimming made her shiver. She was always cold, only taking her sweater off when the rest of us were melting in a heatwave. A hot water bottle was a must, Bong remembered that they once had to warm up a rock on a camping trip as someone had omitted to pack this necessity. She was the best wordsmith and crossword puzzle solver and got us all involved in the daily New York Times Spelling Bee. She was a pianist and loved classical music as long as it wasn’t too loud – Pop liked the stereo on max which caused many a raised eyebrow (she could raise them one at a time). She adored her pets, especially her beloved German Shepherd Chrissie who alongside Pop’s Gunner were the L’Horte dogs. She will be laid to rest at L’Horte next to her husband, our Pop, a man she once said to me had to ask her several times to marry him and she could never figure out what took her so long to say yes. Both of them surrounded by three German Shepherds (my Macgyver’s ashes are there too) in the spot above the river under the oak tree Moth planted.

For me, I’ve lost my best friend and most trusted confidante. I have been blessed to be able to share the last 4 and a bit years with Mumo ‘next door’ to me. I will miss our evening natters over the kitchen island, her sitting on her stool positioned so she’d have to reluctantly move when you wanted to open a drawer. I will miss the smile that greeted me each morning as she read the news on her Ipad on that damn stool whilst breakfasting on coffee and a muffin – a smile that was invariably followed by “what do you want for dinner tonight?”. Like everyone that knew her, there will be so much to miss – she was simply pure class. I shall leave you with one of her many many favourite quotes…

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars” (Oscar Wilde)

Jan Collins April 15th 1939 – 27th February 2025

Furry moonbeams and ruffled feathers

“Can you see the moon?” my sister Bong asked me as we drove back from Toulouse airport on Monday evening. I did remind her that I was in control of a moving vehicle in rush hour so best keep my eyes straight ahead but I did take the occasional glance. I did get a much better view up on my terrace after dinner – the Wolf Moon in all its glorious orbness. And, being of the superstitious sort, I Googled. Apparently such lunes signify ‘renewal, emotional depth and balance inviting us to reconnect with our inner strength, reflect on our past and set intentions for the future’. Considering I spent the first half of the week doing a passable impression of an ostrich – head in the ground and kicking out at everyone and the second half, as Denis put it, resembling a hyperactive magpie (the comment directed more at my white shirt tails under a black jumper), I haven’t done very well in the spiritual growth department.

I suppose part of the reason for my waxing and wanings is having family here. Don’t get me wrong, I adore them but when you’re used to only seeing your sibs during occasional holiday visits and you’ve gotten used to it just being you and your mum, it’s difficult to well, share. Selfish I know so I’ve had to slap myself a few times. Suddenly there is someone else doing the grocery shop, something I’ve always done and the daily task of organising the washing is no longer mine. I am no longer in charge of the cooking however, a merciful blessing as is being able to get on with my list of things yet unfinished without having to worry about who’s looking in on our Mumo. Ergo, the change from big bird in a hole to a busy oiseau.

On the subject of avians, the cold snap we were promised was just that so their garden feeders have been well-stocked. Mind you, the icy temperatures have disappeared as quickly as they plunged and my towels are currently drying out in the abnormally warm winter sun. Naturally, being that it is still January, most of the garden is in shadow by mid-afternoon but that hasn’t stopped big brother Simon from trawling his bench across the acreage to catch whatever rays are still available.

And speaking of rays, Arry was back having laser treatment again at the vet on Tuesday. My idiot Shepherd reignited the injury in his front right leg, no doubt as a result of hurtling himself across the frozen ground chasing deer on our morning runs. The dog doc suggested we try hydrotherapy in his next session to which I informed her that I have had a lot of experience with Arry and aquatics so she might want to wear ear protection. He may be short in the brain cell department and missing any gear between Park and 5th but when you need a few moonbeams, he and the other woofers are right there. Usually hogging the bed but always there. And family. All the inner strength you need. Right here in Rouffiac…

“In time of test, family is best.” (Burmese Proverb)

Stand upright and look forward

I did something this week which made me rather proud of myself. The last kilometre or so of our morning run means taking to the tarmac from Prexian to Rouffiac which rises above the fast D118 main road. For no reason whatsoever and even though there is a protective railing stopping anyone careering off onto the traffic below, there’s one tiny stretch which terrifies the hell out of me. To the point where I want to throw up so I have to close my eyes and drag my canine posse past it Usain Bolt speed but not on Thursday. I strolled past that tiny gap and gave it two fingers, ha! One small step and all that but I gave myself and the woofers a high five.

I know it sounds silly to take pride in overcoming such a little phobia but if this year has taught me anything, it has been to just looking ahead even when the proverbial hits the fan. What with the bloody pool, the promise of a drill pipe that never happened, Mumo’s diagnosis and the death of my beloved Yogi Bear, it would have been so easy to just stop the engine but I’ve kept that foot on the pedal. And now, with the family beginning to arrive for the festivities, I can relax a little bit – 3 days off in 2 months takes it toll. Naturally, the Gods aren’t letting me off that easily – that’d be a miracle. Having a couple of hours to go and do some shopping yesterday, I got in my car only to find the battery flat and big brother Simon had Mumo’s wheels. I’d have jumped into Denis’ camionette only her battery went out the night before and I couldn’t use the van as it isn’t legally fit for the road yet. I called Toyota only to be answered by French robot who didn’t understand my attempt at the local lingo, which would normally leave me shrieking down the phone but amazingly I stayed Zen and somehow managed to wangle her into providing a man with a tow truck to pop by. Luckily for me, he didn’t need it – just his cables. And an instruction to drive half an hour non-stop to juice up the battery, basically do like the locals then.

It hasn’t been all go go go though, I have found time to finish the picture for the signboard which Denis put in place and all the decorations are up. Well, sort of – the current windy wet weather is doing its best to knock down what I put up but I did get my way and extra fairy lights are now installed so you can actually see Papa Nöel and his reindeer. Over a meeting held in the main house dining room the other day (I couldn’t get out so work came to me), there was much guffawing about a certain reindeers tinselled scarf – I’m all about inclusivity I replied. And if there wasn’t yet another challenge to face in the year ahead, it is that of Le Jardin and a farewell, if just for a little while, to Abraham. Our host with the most is off to pastures new for a while. Le Jardin will be undergoing a few changes in the meantime and I’ve been left to hold the fort in my bestest buddy’s absence. Still, I’m never one who likes sitting still…

Merry Christmas everyone and I hope you all over-indulge!

“Still I rise.” (Maya Angelou)

Storms, sprouts and a little soirée

There’s not a lot in common between France and my former homeland that is the U.K, except the current weather situation. By now, I would have artfully (my words) decorated the front corner wall with lashings of Christmas paraphernalia but the incessant rain and woe some wind has stopped play. Driving back from the hospital yesterday (yes, Mumo’s managed to put herself back in there with an infection), I had to keep a firm grip on the steering wheel lest I got blown into the oncoming traffic and narrowly escaped a broken window as a branch decided to give way and hit the side of my car. Even the usual crack-pot antics of Arry and Sherman across the gardens has been curbed and both are snuggled up on the sofa.

Up until Friday, we had a fairly decent week – cold but gloriously sunny. My sister Bong, flew in for a few days to help look after our Mumo and with little brother Moth in situ as well, I managed to get quite a few chores ticked off the list. The second draft of the Second Book is ready to be sent off to Sally editor and I made a start on the traditional tableau for the village signboard. I also managed to make the Christmas pudding, wishes stirred in by siblings – these might be secret but I think I know what everyone hoped for. And it wasn’t just the inside jobs that kept me busy, Denis and I took an afternoon off to head over to Mirepoix to see a man about a drill-pipe. Actually the same man as we’ve been trying to get a date out of since May but as he doesn’t seem to realise he has a phone, we decided to save him the trouble of finding it and Moth said Mirepoix was a lovely place to visit anyway. Well, I’m sure it is but the only bits I saw were the one-way minute cul-de-sacs my GPS insisted I risked my car’s paintwork in. With my temper at full tantrum and expletives exploding, D made me pull into a supermarket car park so I could calm down whilst he asked for directions. A very nice man in a van then kindly told us to follow him as he showed us the way, ignoring the ‘no entry’ signs and near pings with other motorists which didn’t do any favours for my stress levels or Denis’ anxiety for my health. I did explain to him later that I’d spent 22 years in London traffic swearing like a trooper and Callum reckons his first word started with the ‘F’ thanks to the school run. Oh, and the bloke what bores holes wasn’t there but I left a polite note with his wife with my phone number and email should he prefer an alternative method of communication. Jury’s out on that one.

Still, it’s not as though we need water at the moment. Or a filled pool. And the wet stuff has been doing wonders for our potager – I have 2 Brussel Sprouts! Okay, not enough for a dinner party but where’s there’s two there will be more. And speaking of soirées , I finally got back to hosting one last night. With all the worry over Mumo, being with close friends and having a chance to let my hair down was just what I needed. Naturally, far too much of the grape was imbibed but the laughs and cat-scaring karaoke was worth the over-indulgence. Thankfully our guests live within a few minutes of chez nous so any weaving across the road is par for the course which is very well-lit due to the bright neon blue Joyeux Nöel panels now blinding the entire village. It needs more though, like a few reindeers, Santa Claus, elves, fake snow, fairy lights…

“Don’t knock the weather, nine-tenths of the people couldn’t start a conversation if it didn’t change once in a while” (Kin Hubbard)

That lived-in feeling

Well folks, it’s the first of December and after a week of weirdly warm weather, the trees are finally starting to shed their plumage – colder days are looming. The morning runs are darker for longer now and I’ve found both a left and a right hand glove to keep the freezies away from my fingertips. I have discovered alas that my well-worn trainers are no longer waterproof so the same doesn’t go for my tootsies so I’ll have splurge soon. But at least now that we have a decent stack of wood under the remis for the winter months, the fuel reservoir isn’t being drained at warp speed – keeps the wallet happy.

The balmy temperatures couldn’t have timed themselves better as I spent most of the past 7 days juggling two houses and an extra dog. As much as I love the grand old lady that is the family maison , she felt a little sad without any residents. I would have moved down there but my woofers aren’t allowed inside the hallowed walls lest they create chaos or in Sherman’s case, lift a leg. This meant having Mumo’s canine companion up at mine which wasn’t ideal – Sappy isn’t a fan of my rambunctious rovers, that is except for Sherman. Thankfully, dogs can’t tell what day it is or how long they have to put up with pests as Friday heralded the return of our Mum. Yup, she’s back with her feet up on the sofa and the blazing fireplace – happy house and happy Sappy once more. And Mumo has had her first ‘super power’ treatment which all in all seems to have gone better than expected, the only side effect is extreme tiredness but sleep is good and she can have as much as she wants.

Strictly speaking, my woofers aren’t permitted to pootle in the courtyard either but seeing as I had the whole property to myself and to look after, I decided to leave the connecting door between the back garden and the inner sanctum open. Naturally, it didn’t take long for my three youngest; Arry, Alice and Sherman to join me in my creative space that is the garage attached and for Alice to discover that log piles contain more than just logs. Whilst Arry and Sherman took delight in destroying whatever kid’s toy had been thoughtfully left par terre for their enjoyment, our girl took to extreme sports to sate her appetite for hunting vermin. I have to say she’s yet to catch anything but her persistence has been ok’d by the family as it will hopefully keep the rodent population at bay – mind you, she’s going to need me to fit a tracking device if she keeps disappearing into or under ancient crevices. Still, she’s a fascinating diversion from all the stress the past month has given us all but the matriarch is back where she belongs. Hooray.

And our Mum isn’t the only one, younger brother Moth has returned and sister Bong will be flying in tomorrow for a few days. It’s just as well as Denis and I need to start our Christmas display for the top corner of the acreage. We’re going simple and sustainable style this year – I get the sustainable bit but D’s ideas of minimal aren’t quite what I have in mind. One set of lights he said, hah. There’s enough solar-powered strings of festive foliage in those store room boxes to blind the average passer-by – I might need a little help from Alice first though, I dread to think what’s sleeping in all that sparkle…

“Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.” (Paul Theroux)

Pickled fruit and perfect distractions

Running across the frost-covered trails the other day, a random thought flickered through my barely-awake brain. Whilst such things are regular occurrences, half the point of dragging myself out of bed at the crack of dawn is to clear away the cobwebs from my cranium but food is not what one usually brings to mind. More specifically, Christmas cake. Or lack of. Under normal circumstances, this would have been made by Mumo sometime around the beginning of November and left to pickle in alcohol in some dark corner of a cupboard until the big day but she’s still incarcerated in the hospital so it’s up to me to try and make something vaguely similar. Well, the fruit is drowning in the remains of a Cognac bottle I found in the kitchen – hopefully I’ll remember to add the rest of the ingredients tomorrow.

I would have started the great cake bake earlier in the week but having my eldest nephew, Louis, here provided the best of distractions. Not only is he a wonderfully optimistic and enthusiastic soul but easy company too. When we weren’t off pootling around the old homestead that is L’Horte, we were dining with friends or laughing hysterically at bygone sitcoms over one of Louis’ bizarre supper creations. Tarte au citron brûlé being one of them – he put his lemon meringue pie under the grill. Alas, I deposited Louis at Toulouse airport yesterday complete with a hangover (both of us) gifted by a raucous night before chez mes amis. I miss him already as does probably the entire village but he’ll be back in a few weeks to no doubt sample my attempt at traditional Yuletide fare.

The other plus about having Simon’s first born around was being able to spend a few hours in the workshop whilst he visited Mumo. Oh and having an extra hand to help Denis and his brother finally get the railing that once resided in the smaller of the L’Horte houses up onto the remis’ upper floor. The old horse feeding station was hauled up onto what will eventually be a summer apero area by an ancient pulley and a lot of muscle. And since it wasn’t quite big enough to span the deck, my exceptionally talented pal Jonathon (he what made my lamps if you remember) knocked up an almost identical second section. Not only have the photos of the new addition made Mumo happy, the removal of the cumbersome piece means there’s one less artefact from the old life cluttering the garage. Mind you, I’m doing a great job of adding to it what with all my bits and bobs of half-finished furniture.

With the weather getting colder and the heating systems kicking in, it’s just as well that the gardens haven’t needed much of me or D. Apart from the occasional peek at my growing veggies and picking up the last of the almonds and walnuts – the latter, you may be surprised to learn, made the wood stain for the railing. One of Denis’ findings, you soak them in water and then add linseed oil after draining off the nuts which is not only free but good for the environment too. Anyway, I digress. There isn’t much else to do outside except watch the grass grow even longer under the chill of clear skies. As much as I’d love it cut, the vegetation is probably housing all sorts of little beings and I’m not one to disturb nature. Still, there is much to be done in the cosy confines of the big house – little brother Moth arrives mid-week and I have a date with a cake and I have to make my annual Christmas cards which means trying to get all the woofers to face the camera in the same direction and at the same time. I wish I hadn’t poured all that Cognac into the fruit…

“In November, the earth is growing quiet. It is making its bed, a winter bed for flowers and small creatures” (Cynthia Rylant)

Sweet Dreams my little Bear

I know I’m a little late in writing what was supposed to be written on Sunday but a little after midday yesterday, Yogi Bear slipped away peacefully in my arms. He waited until I came home from holiday to say his farewell. To say I’m heartbroken is too simple a phrase – I’m just numb.

He wasn’t just any dog. In fact, according to Yogi Bear, he wasn’t a dog at all – he was a Norfolk Bear. Yes, he might have looked like a terrier but only a petit ours could have the depth of thought and empathy (I once wrote that in his bio) that he had. His capacity to just love without expectation or reward was his gift – he didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Actually he had very few teeth either and spent most of his last years with his tongue permanently hanging out of the left side of his mouth. If you saw him strutting around the garden from the back, you’d be forgiven for the assumption that a wild animal was passing through but when he turned around, that lop-sided grin would melt the iciest of souls.

From the day I went off to ‘look’ at a litter of Norfolk Terriers and consequently emptied my wallet, I was sunk. Tony too and Callum. I named him Yogi Bear on sight, he had a spectacularly rounded tum and inhaled treats like a Labrador who’d been on a diet. But it was ability to just love that captured our hearts – he wore his on his paw. In the last days of Tony’s illness, Yogi rarely left his Master’s bedside, choosing to lie on the floor at the end of the bed with a look that no Disney film could re-create. After Tony died in my arms, my initial reaction was to find my little Bear – he’d been placed in the other bedroom when the emergency crew arrived. I remember just hauling him into my arms when I found him, I needed him as much as he needed me. The experience gave Yogi a canine version of PTSD – he was terrified that another one of his humans would leave and when Callum left, he moped for days. Still managed to eat though – a Bear needs sustenance. He never cried or howled, just sat by the door with a woeful look on his face.

Yet, out of trauma and a move to a new country came a new love in Denis. You see, the Bear loved gardening or at least, watching his favourite people tending to plants so Denis became his new and bestest friend. He’d sit between D’s legs and silently manage the digging and pulling – a Bear would never criticise out loud. And despite his pot-bellied form, he was transformed in the water – swimming with the grace of an otter in the river at L’Horte, his tail thwacking back and forth like a rudder. Some of his best times were spent helping the kids grow up at L’Horte.

As for me, it is hard to explain just how much one little brown Bear meant. He was my cuddle bug wrapping himself around my chest like a teddy, he was my confidante listening to me rant on about all the unfairness whilst regarding me in a sagely fatherly sort of way. He taught me patience when he ambled up the stairs like a Sunday afternoon stroll when I was trying to make a deadline and no matter how hard your day was, a ‘woo woo’ greeting on opening the door left your troubles on the doormat. But above all, he taught me and all those who knew him, how to just love. No conditions attached…

Yogi Bear (Nordalset Gotta Be) May 5th 2010 – October 28th 2024. May you sleep once more at your Master’s feet. Je t’aimerais toujours.

I will leave you with a quote that says it all:

If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.” (Winnie the Pooh)

Night skies and naughty nephews

As we head into the last whiffs of August, an odd sense of calm has descended over here chez nous. Even the woofers have retreated under trees or curled themselves up in freshly-dug flowerbed holes, rising only to scream up and down the front fence line at a passing village hound. With the last couple of months being filled with visitations from family and friends, the absence of bodies around the place is taking a little time to get used to especially now that my two eldest nephews have left – I’d gotten used to waking up to the sound of Louis tinkling on the piano downstairs and being serenaded by Maxime’s guitar at the end of the day. And I will forgive them for my near-fainting experience when I looked out of my bedroom window one morning and saw a hand poking out of one of the ginormous pine’s branches. For a second, I thought a body might have fallen out of a passing plane, I know but I used to read an awful lot of Reader’s Digest as a child, only to find on closer inspection that they’d thrown a stuffed gorilla up there. I did remove the potential hazard to any passing motorists but not before the boys had relocated it and hung it off the front door lantern giving half the local residents whiplash no doubt.

With the pool’s water level now reduced to tadpole swimming depth, at least we have the petanque area to enjoy especially when Denis adds in his barbecue brilliance. Before Maxime and Louis departed, we did just that and dined by the light of the impressive Blue Moon that was red seen from down here on account of the wildfire smoke drifting over from the U.S. Even after almost 4 years of living here in Rouffiac, being able to look up at the night sky without any light pollution save our ‘landing strip’ around the pool still takes my breath away. I’d turn them off except we need their luminosity to avoid breaking a toe over Denis’ miniature golf course – Arry and Sherman have chewed up the flagpoles.

It won’t be long before the nights draw in either, I mean it’ll be September this time next week. This year seems to have jumped every other month including August. Oh, it’s still hot most days but not the ‘I can’t take it anymore’ heat that we have become used to and there is a definite Autumnal feel in the early morning breeze. And we’ve even had a few decent down-pourings over the summer although yesterday evening’s predicted thunderstorm ended up being more of a polite pluie but the good kind – steady soaks into the soil rather than leave lakes to be burned up by the sun. As is the norm, Denis and I had pootled over to Le Jardin for another of Abraham’s excellent soirees and a chance to catch up with all the friends we’d seen the night before at Le Bistrot. As we drank far too much wine and laughed ourselves into a near-coma (the overindulgence of food may have helped us get to that state), the constant pitter-patter of rain drops made music over the roof above us as it gently drenched the surrounding vegetable gardens. It’s been a funny old summer…

“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.” (Sylvia Plath)