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)

Zero moods to hero dudes

It pains me to say it but, unless the Gods have a radical change of heart, I shall be glad to see the back of this summer. Not only have I had to admit defeat (a rarity for me) in regards to finding the minuscule hole in the pool’s liner and let the blood thing slowly drain itself into the road, I’ve had the worry of Mumo’s weird internal goings-on (she is getting better slowly we all hope), both of which have left me with a zero va va voom to do anything constructive. And I hate the feeling. On top of it all, the barometer has been go up and down like a Yo-Yo on acid – the beginning of the week sitting in the high 30’s before sinking down to barely 20 degrees by Wednesday. I had to drag out a jumper from the winter stash under my bed and put shoes on, the latter was an odd experience and it took me a while to remember how to walk in something other than flip-flops. At least we’ve had a few decent drizzles to replenish the thirsty ground, something virtually non-existent down here in August in normal years.

Okay, it’s not been a complete blah of a week. My second eldest nephew, Maxime, touched down chez nous on Tuesday and between him and his brother Louis, they’ve really helped lift the general mood around this place and boosted Mumo’s spirits too. Sadly, Louis’ gal Linnea (I now know how to spell it) had to fly off back to Norway and work but not before I got a chance to go into Carcassonne with her and enjoy a bit of retail therapy – the vintage clothing kind. Since I’m quite a tightwad when it comes to buying new threads, most of my time is spent in patched up jeans or shorts stained with Godknowswhat fell on them, I had a ball going through the racks of retro bits and pieces with someone who likes to forage in these kinds of shops as much as me. Poor Louis was dragged along his insistent amour somewhat unwillingly, he has much to learn when it comes to the art of pleasing your other half. I left mine putting up the lights in the outdoor kitchen such is my knowledge of what floats Denis’ boat even if he did almost electrify himself a couple of times and almost blackout the entire village. Amusingly, when I first met D, I asked a friend if he would recommend my new handy man. “Definitely” replied Graham, “anything except electrics, that would be a disaster.”. Thankfully we now have light down in the lower kitchen with only a few scald marks on the floor and D is extremely proud of himself.

Speaking of near blowouts, it was a good job I’ve lost so much weight over the last couple of months as Denis and I went over to my dear friend Giselle’s place for her son’s birthday celebration. Paella style. I have to admit that the last and only time I ate such a dish was in a London restaurant and frankly, it was horrible. Obviously, I needed to try the local recipe – here it’s all about fresh fruits de la mer and not large lumps of over-cooked chicken and stodgy rice and boy, is Giselle’s good. I must have chowed down enough calories to keep me bouncing for a year it was that delicious and if I add on Louis’ incredible culinary masterpieces, always seasoned with raucous family laughter around the table, I’m going to need to get back running up those hills soon otherwise I’ll never get to wear those new purchases.

And Hugo’s (Giselle’s son and Denis’ daughter’s boyfriend) birthday wasn’t the only one to be celebrated this week. Our Arry aka Aragorn turned 9 on Thursday. How my crazy nutcase of a German Shepherd has managed to reach an age and now sport a few grey whiskers is totally beyond me but it is without a doubt a miracle (remember the ball-choking incident, the collar incident, the heatstroke incident, I could go on) but I’m thankful to have him spread out under my feet every day. For all myself and the other woofers have been through over the last eight and a half years that he has been with us, Arry’s zest for life and refusal to be anything but young at heart can’t help but chase the dark clouds away and bring on a smile. And swearing. Lots of swearing. Gotta love that dog…

“Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times if only someone remembers to turn on the light.” (J.K. Rowling)

Heat and healing

It’s hot out there folks. The woofers have retreated under cover or in Mo’s case, under the pool deck and I’m spending far too much time rescuing bees from the water above – Titanic style. Poor things are desperate to have a drink but I do wish they would use the bowls available in the garden and not try and kill themselves with chlorine. Mind you, with the outside temperatures nearing 40 degrees, any idea of cooling off with a nice swim can be forgotten, it’s like warm soup in there. And even if you did want to lounge under the parasols on the deck, you’d have to take breathing apparatus with you – the blisteringly dry air burns down your throat. Denis and I are desperately trying to keep the young plantings hydrated which would be so much easier if the man with the drill pipe had been and gone, unfortunately he’s broken his compressor bit so we have to wait until it’s fixed. To make matters worse, my hopeful harvest of the grapevine has been dashed as all the grapes have reduced to black bullets. According to a local vigneron pal, I’m not the only one suffering the loss – there’s a new fungus about that loves destroying the white variety which could be devastating for next year’s wine.

Tending to nature has been the least of my stress over the last week, my sanity only saved by having the most accommodating guests in Phil and Rosie. Sadly they left on Wednesday but not before having the chance to dine out under the stars chez Abraham and join in on a bongo drum session the night before they departed. As much as I wanted the two of them to experience a little bit of what I’ve come to love down here, chilling out with a few of my close amis, after the day I’d had the evening couldn’t have been better prescribed. Mumo really wasn’t well so thanks to our next-door neighbour, Louise aka La Contessa, we got an ‘in’ with the gastroenterology department at Clinique Montréal in Carcassonne which resulted in an 8 hour stay in the hospital’s emergency. There’s not a whole lot to do whilst plugged into a drip in a room bereft of interest but I did my best to keep her amused. To respect Mumo’s privacy, I’ll not say what the problem was but I will say she is feeling much better especially since the diagnosis turned out not to be serious and she was released the same day.

Laughter may be said to be the best medicine but for Mumo (and myself), the arrival of her eldest grandson and his new girlfriend probably tops that. Louis and Lenaya (spelling of which I do not yet know) have been brilliant company for her and the fact that his cherie is as as passionate about the environment as I am and can talk as long as I can is the best anti-stress tonic. And she understands the need to use the basins in the sink rather than letting the water run straight down the plughole unlike most of my family so the remains of the washing up can soak a bit of flora and fauna. And Lenaya is the only new face to my family either. Yesterday I finally got to meet and hold Denis’ latest grand-daughter Ana who really is quite a star, never crying once as she was handed around like pass the parcel. For all the ups and downs and aggravation this summer has so far thrown at me, there’s nothing like meeting the future to bring a breath of fresh air into your life…

“We need old friends to help us grow old and new friends to help us stay young.” (Letty Cottin Pogrebin)

Welling up in all the wrong places

As week’s go, the past one has been pants. Those of you who are familiar with my weekly musings will no that I never, okay very very rarely, cry but by yesterday morning I was reduced to a blubbering wreck drenching Denis’ shoulder. Mentally, physically and emotionally, I had reached my limit hence the meltdown. The Gods had been out in full force and I was the target.

It all started on Sunday night when I heard Sherman barking on the pool deck. Now the last time he did this was when the pool sprung its first leak so having spent Lord-knows how long fixing all the other flipping fuites, you can understand why I pelted down the balcony staircase in a panic. Only this time it wasn’t what was coming out, it was what had got in – one of the magpies was frantically trying to get itself up and away but was too soaked to do so. I grabbed the net pole and managed to whisk the poor bird out and onto the grass before running inside to grab a blanket to dry it off. I say it as I have no idea how to sex a bird but Bert or maybe Skirt was still too wet to spread their wings so I waited until it waddled off exhaustedly to recover under some bushes. My hopes were raised the following morning when I couldn’t see any sign of feathers or bird but dashed a few minutes later when I found it dead in the pool with a broken neck. Why it got back in there I will never know. The more worrying thing was that the magpie couple built a nest in one of my neighbour’s trees and I could hear the chicks. A couple of days later I saw its other half searching the garden before flying away in the opposite direction from the babies and I haven’t heard or seen the magpie since. I buried the partner by the wall under the tree. I shouldn’t get so emotional about a wild bird but I did – losing a loved one is something I know too well.

After that, well the ball carried on rolling downhill. Having decided to separate myself from the visiting family so that they could have Mumo to themselves, I ended up basically living in isolation upstairs. What I thought would be quite fun and a chance to finish upholstering a long overdue chair job and sketch the village map that I’d promised the Mayor I’d do but hadn’t got round to doing ended up being a thoroughly miserable experience not least because I missed Mumo dreadfully and she’s a little under the weather at the moment. Having told Denis not to worry about me eating alone as he had a house-sitting to take care of and a chance to catch up with some very old but not seen for ages friends, my appetite went out the balcony doors along with my stomach. To put it another way, me and my loo got very intimate. And to add to my self-pitying, all the family splashing around the pool led to one of the patches splitting so I was back scuba side sticking mountains of glue in the watery depths and trying to avoid turning my unnaturally blonde hair emerald green. There so much sticky stuff down there now, the corner looks like someone’s being trying to create an ice sculpture – less Rodin and more Rodney.

The last sentence wouldn’t have tipped me over the edge if it wasn’t for the non-arrival of the man what was supposed to drill the water pipe. Once again. At least this time he did have the decency to ring me albeit several hours after the confirmed 8 a.m rendezvous. One of his drill bits had broken the day before and he was very very sorry and promised that he would do what he need to do this coming week. ASAP. Luckily for him, I’d already put snot and sobs all over D’s T-shirt so he didn’t have to experience a woman wailing down the phone.

Thankfully, I woke up this morning in a more positive frame of mind having spent last night chilling out as usual down at Le Jardin with mes amies. The pipe will be done this week and better still, Phil is coming to stay. I haven’t seen him since I left the UK all those years ago so can’t wait for an old friend’s hugs. If you don’t know who Phil is, you haven’t read my book have you? I have warned him about the heat, we are moving towards a chaleur with August beckoning and to bring long trousers for the evenings unless you want to keep the mosquito population rising. I might suggest sturdy shoes as well as the ground is rock-hard with the lack of rain, the break your ankle kind but with any luck and positive vibes and two fingers up the the Gods, we will be able to keep the flora and fauna blooming once the water bubbles up from the depths of the front lawn. And I will actually be able to have an actual swim in the pool instead of plugging its bottom corners. Who knows, maybe one day soon I’ll write a blog that doesn’t have a single mention of the bloody thing? That’d be enough to wipe the tears and put a smile on any girl’s face…

“When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.” (Franklin D. Roosevelt)

It’s the little things in life

You could be forgiven for thinking that spending every afternoon for the past week in the bloody pool whilst the sun turned your back into mahogany brown was peachy perfect – it wasn’t. But fingers crossed, I think I have finally found and plugged the teeny weeny hole in the liner. At the bottom of the pool. After God-knows how many tubes of glue bought and smeared around every seam along the walls and floor, the flippin’ fissure ended up being in one of the corners. Trust me, there is nothing fun about shoving mountains of goo underwater and for some reason unknown to man or woman, standing still in water whilst holding down a patch makes you need the loo every five minutes.

As mentioned above, the sun has come out for mid-July in full force with the thermometer barely dropping below 30 even at night. With the poor woofers flopped out in any available shade, I’ve taken to leaving the balcony doors open after sundown so they can sleep out on the terrace which of course they don’t do and instead choose to pant incessantly in the heat of my bedroom. And before anyone gets any funny ideas about a woman sleeping alone with her terrace vitres wide open, Neo may be getting older but he still has his full set of well-used teeth and Arry likes to spread himself out over the right hand side of my sheets.

At least now I can actually get on with finishing all the other half-done projects. Denis and I have begun putting the fixtures and fittings into the outdoor kitchen below my balcony although we still need to buy a fridge. We did try to find a second-hand one but a) they were all too big and b) all extremely expensive. Might as well buy a new one at that price and a guarantee to go with it. I did however purchase the perfect top for the piece of palm we found down by the river, a bargain at 15 euros. All that’s need is more gluing and it’ll be ready for morning coffee. Or relaxing by with a nice ice-cold beer at the end of a sweaty day.

Speaking of chilling out with a glass on a warm summer evening, the last couple of nights have been spent raising them in a toast to Denis who became a grandfather for the second time. Baby Ana was born in the wee hours of Thursday morning, healthily weighing in at 3.3 kilos. I haven’t had a chance to go and see her yet but parents Yoan and Inaya have been sending daily photos of their second daughter who I’m told looks much like her mother but Denis says looks like a newborn at the moment. I’m sure she’s absolutely gorgeous and will stay that way if I avoid holding her – babies tend to start screaming as soon as I pick them up. Must be the witch in me.

With all the pool plugging and baby gushing, I’m hoping next week will be a quiet one although with my sister and her girls arriving on Tuesday, I expect not. Mind you, I adore my nieces and so do the woofers so a little disturbance of my Zen would not be unwelcome. After the last couple of months of swearing and sighing over all things water-related, the sound of swimming and splashing around will be just what the doctor ordered and speaking of orders, the man with the drill pipe is coming on Saturday. I mean he did say he was coming at the beginning of the month which was two weeks ago but better late than never. Now, with luck and fingers permanently crossed, summer can finally begin…

“Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability.” (Sam Keen)

Pongy plums and precious pieces

Is it just me or has June been a ‘blink and you miss it’ kind of month? One minute we’re wearing woolies and the next, we’re already past the summer equinox. And if last week was anything to go by, it’s getting hot around here. Mind you we did have a cracking thunderstorm yesterday and I mean, cracking. The lightning was so loud even I jumped out of my chair and most of the woofers shot indoors as if someone had fired at them. I say most as Sherman pootled in after the rush wondering what all the fuss was about – probably too busy searching for hedgehog paw prints, he’s obsessed by the spiny species. and has the battle scars to prove it. There are an unusually high number of them around at the moment, I think a combination of May’s wet weather and the abundance of stinking, rooten plums lying waste under their trees might have something to do with it. Over the last couple of weeks, I must have picked over 10 kilos of the little red fruit and that’s just from one tree and only about a quarter cleared so far. Denis wants to make plum wine which judging by the freezer collection should keep us going until Doomsday and the garden has already got the fermenting process underway.

I for one, will not be indulging as I’m taking a break from alcoholic fruits for a bit. Between all the parties and dinner dates, I have been indulging a little too much so apart from the odd ‘lite’ beer which brother Simon refers to as ‘flaky’, I’m being a good girl. And now that we have finished the petanque area, a nice sit-down after work in the shade of the mini-pavilion with a cold brew is just the ticket. I started making the cushion covers for the seating yesterday, something that required a lesson from Mumo as to how the sewing machine worked – I haven’t used one since I was a teenager and that got me thrown out of Home Economics (yes kids, we really did learn things like that back in the day). Still, my first attempt wasn’t that bad although the finished product does have the circumference of a badly fried egg instead of a donut. At least my finished armchair looks better than how it started out and as usual, just as with the woofers, I have become a failed fosterer again. I just can’t bring myself to sell it so now it has joined the rest of my mis-matched furniture up in the apartment. I’ve begun re-upholstering another abandoned acquisition downstairs which of course will no doubt end up upstairs.

It’s just as well that this particular parlour piece will be the last for a while as I really have to start clearing up a bit before the family onslaught next month. The workshop still has a bits of wrought iron bench de-rusting in one corner and a dismantled mobylette in the other – the latter waiting for some very hard to find motor bits. Then there is the half-finished outdoor kitchen to complete and a bit of radiator painting in the newly-painted room at the top of the main house. With any luck, brother Moth will get out of Kenya safely tonight after the recent uprising there and arrive for his birthday on Thursday. I might have some special news to share with him by then but still staying schtum for now.

Speaking of birthdays, I just want to say a quick thank-you to those who messaged me on Thursday. Whilst I don’t see the 27th as his birthday anymore, to me Tony will always be a far too young 56, it’s heartwarming to know you all think of him too. I’m not sure he’d be thrilled about Liverpool being below Arsenal in the standings at present but he’d be happy his friends remember him each year. I really wish he was down here instead of up there, he really really liked plums…

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

Gypsy for the day

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

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

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

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

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

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

Night life and nifty wheels

Standing out on my terrace the other morning, averting my gaze from the bloody pool, the thought struck me as to how much my life has changed in such a relatively short time. It’s not something I make a habit of, looking backwards but where I am now compared to then does seem a little surreal from time to time. Perhaps my reminiscence was risen knowing I have only two and half chapters to finish for the first draft of The Second Book or perhaps because next weekend will mark 6 years since Tony passed away. And whilst I have been incredibly lucky to find a new love with Denis and a wonderful home in this little French village, never an evening goes by when I don’t have my nightly chat with him on same said terrace before bed.

Considering the monsoon that stayed with us for the most of last week, I’m amazed I was able to stand out there at all without needing a wetsuit. Thankfully the Gods were gracious enough to turn the tap off and let us have a dilapidated’ glorious weekend. Especially as Saturday was the big re-opening of Le Jardin. Abraham got us into the summer vibe in grand style with DJ’s spinning the decks with a romping reggae night. And what was once a somewhat charming but chaotic mess of a club now had a proper bar and seating area along with an updated stage for all those music makers. Having been a part of the great renovation, I was a little bit nervous about how the event would turn out but Abraham did himself proud. Even if I still have to give him a few lessons in getting the food out before midnight.

Speaking of food, Denis and I stumbled on a little treasure Friday night. We’d decided to go out to the local pizza place for dinner only it was closed due to the owner wanting to take a holiday so we ended up popping over to Pomas, another village ‘next door’ and found that their once tired table-top bar had been taken over and transformed into a restaurant. Fabulous food and a really enjoyable atmosphere. Between Le Jardin, the Diner, the pizza parlour and Abis tros denas (took me a while to get round that name), we’re becoming spoilt for choice down here tucked away in rural South-West France.

It’s just as well that Mumo finally bought another car, what with all the choice eateries. Yup, she is now back behind the wheel of a bright blue Renault Clio. The two of us zipped over in Giselle (my speed loving Toyota Rav 4) to the showroom in Limoux and after having signed three gazillion documents and given a tour of all the car’s internal bells and whistles, Mumo followed me home at a pace even the snails would see in their back-mirrors. I thought my accelerator foot was going to cramp up. Still, she’s done it and is back in the driving seat again after last year’s hillside hiccup in the Yaris. And I know, if like me, Mumo has her nightly natters with Pop in her patio garden, he’d say how proud he was of her. Of course, he’d probably remind her that there is a second gear…

“The direction you choose to face determines whether you’re standing at the end or the beginning of a road.” (Richelle E. Goodrich)

The strength within

It’s been an eventful week, to coin one of my son’s ‘scare Mum’ phrases, and not just because of the number of soirées attended. Once again I managed to injure myself running, only this time it wasn’t down to clumsiness – I got bitten by a dog saving one of my own.

So there I was, huffing and puffing along our usual Tuesday morning route preparing to take on the first of many inclines when suddenly the humungous hairy hound appeared and launched its 90 plus kilo body at Arry pinning him to the ground by the throat. So I pulled him off. Easy yes? Nope but us Mums have inner power when it comes to saving our precious ones. I wrapped my hand into the choke chain around the attacker and hauled him across to the opposite fence. It did cross my mind to hook the chain loop around said fence but I didn’t want to hurt the dog – weird I know but I didn’t. Thankfully, for once in his idiotic life, Arry obeyed me and backed off to a safe distance but Alice and Sherman, terriers they are, weren’t going to let the beast get away lightly. As Sherbs glued his fangs to one hind leg, Alice went into full tigress mode, snapping at every available limb and its sizeable neck. If I had had time to admire her ferocity at this dog’s brazen attack on her beau, I would have but in the process of swinging for one of the diminutive devils, the dog bit me in the leg. The whole episode was over in a matter of minutes – the exhausted assailant giving up and plonked his large behind on the road, long enough for me to grab the two tenacious terriers and make for the hills. Now, before you think I was being foolhardy and putting myself in danger, I wasn’t. I know this dog although he is normally behind an electrified fence protecting his owner’s flock of sheep and said owner has been in touch with profound apologies and offers to pay any vet bills (no woofers were hurt mercifully) and an invitation to go and meet his animals, including the fluff monster. Having spent more than 20 years as a behaviour consultant and trainer, I know enough that it wasn’t the target and frankly Arry does look a bit like Wile E Coyote. I do wish I’d stopping scarring my knees though, I’ll need a GPS to find them soon.

Anyway, I’ve been ‘tetanused’ and loaded with antibiotics, thankfully those that don’t require you to abstain from alcohol (I don’t think such medication exists in these parts) which was just as well as the rest of the week was all about dining and wining. Mumo, having celebrated her xx birthday on Monday, held a little party for close friends on Friday. Denis and I bought her one of those outdoor braziers as she doesn’t do cold very well – the little fire pit blasted out lava-like temperatures the whole evening keeping everyone warm and toasty if not a little smoke-scented. My sister-in-law Alba, made a fancy spread of finger foods and I kept the flow of wine going. And I managed to behave myself and keep the dancing under wraps.

Hip-shaking however, was mandatory last night – my man on the barbecue and his brother, Thierry, on the decks as I was treated to a night of traditional Catalan cuisine and music at his Mum’s house. She hasn’t been well of late so the brothers decided to cheer her up with their presence. D’s other brother, Bruno, is her main carer so having a bit of riotous company was for him too. Yet another thoroughly enjoyable evening even if my body said differently when I woke up this morning. I relish Sunday mornings when I can stay in bed and cuddle the woofers but alas, I had another engagement – an early one. My first French baptism held at the church here in Rouffiac, mercifully a two minute walk round the corner as neither Denis or I would have had the stomach to drive anywhere. To be honest, I’d only met the parents once and my tired self would have rather forgone the invitation but in a small village like ours, well you can imagine what the neighbours would say. It was the first time I’d been in the church too and after the previous two nights, I was grateful for the quiet sanctuary within its walls. The service was beautiful and blessedly short with the most genial baby who never cried once and no hymns were involved so no-one needed to hear me ruin a momentous family occasion. Luckily, D and I also managed to escape the after-party after a small glass to wet the baby’s head and return to our own abodes for a bit of down time after the week’s events – I haven’t mentioned that D fell off a wooden plank whilst trying to put shelving together and bruised ribs and shoulder. At least next week with any luck will be slightly less dramatic I hope but I have started to fill the bloody pool…

“Your responses to the events of life are more important than the events themselves” (Virginia Satir)