Adding the fantasie

It goes without saying that, looking back on the nearly 7 years of writing this blog, there’ve been a fair few milestones inscribed on its stone. Admittedly, most etchings tend to be somewhat depressing so I am particularly proud to add a sparkly one today. Yup, it’s official, I am now a registered jewellery designer and licensed to bling. Actually, the exact name for my trade is ‘createur de bijoux fantasie’ which, by the way, does not mean I’m plying my wares in Ann Summers so keep your heads out of the gutter. According to the very nice man in the office, the fantasie bit separates me from those who work with real gemstones and precious metals as opposed to moi who twists copper wire and whittles wood. Anyway, suffice to say that I am absolutely delighted that the almost impossible to say in French, Witch Wackle, is now a legitimate microenterprise. Dead chuffed.

And Witch Wackle wasn’t the only start-up to open its doors this week, the pizza van fired up its ovens for the rumbly tums on Friday evening. It’s not the first time I’ve invested in a local business but I do love pizza and Christophe knows how to flip ’em. Charmingly gruff and built like a boxer (he was once Marie le Pen’s bodyguard), Christophe has become a good friend and is no stranger to running food trucks so I was happy to help and he did accompany me through all the government paperwork needed to get the bijoux signature. Between Le Jardin, Pizza King and now Witch Wackle, I feel like quite the business woman, which considering I failed maths, French, cookery and art at school, is an accomplishment in itself.

So here I am, proper suited and all, except in torn jeans and scuffed boots, making my own little marker here in this little village hidden amongst the vines in deepest South-West France – a place that brought everyone together on Tuesday to mark Remembrance Day outside the church. Although it wasn’t the sort of occasion where peeps dressed up to the nines, I did pin a poppy badge to my jumper which was joined soon after by a blue paper flower. These are the French symbols of commemoration so I felt very honoured to be given one and place the two side by side. The service was, as always, poignant and respectful, especially as most of the readings were down by local schoolchildren who also ended the morning with a rousing rendition of something unfamiliar but that might have been down to all the notes sung but not necessarily in the right order.

Speaking of all things creative and community, the coming week will see me wearing yet another hat – it’s time to start designing the corner wall’s display and panneau. My artistic ability is hardly Louvre quality but me painting the seasonal scene on the signboard down the road has become a tradition, much like how much Christmas kitsch we can cram into the bit of garden over-looking it. I have promised Denis a little more taste this year and less luminosity although he did raise an eyebrow when I mentioned leaping reindeer and why not dangle Santa from the almond tree so we’ll see. After all, one should always have a bit of fantasie…

“If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities” (Maya Angelou)

Familiar faces, fiddly bits and fresh pools

Considering I spend most weeks covered in dust and remnants of varnish, the events of the past 7 days were a refreshing change – and in clean jeans too. I’ve been quite the girl around town; tea with the ladies on Tuesday, a lesson in jewellery making on Wednesday, lunch out with Saba on Thursday, picked up my bestie Rene from the airport on Friday and then put together a little soirée with friends last night before taking said bestie back to the airport an hour ago. Oh, then there was that extra little something that finally took shape – the bloody pool now has a nice brightly coloured liner.

Okay, so the sight of me holding a teapot instead of a wine bottle might appear a little odd but Mumo and her friends used to have a weekly get-together over fine china and nibbly biscuits so I’m taking her place. I have to admit the accompanying cookie collection was a little thin as Callum had got to the packets before me but it was a very nice afternoon nevertheless spent catching up on the ‘who’s doing what’ news. Very grown-up. And as they always say, you’re never too old to learn something so I took up the offer for a tutorial in the finer art of twisting metal and bead-threading with another one of Mumo’s gal pals. I would like to point out that such a craft is much more difficult than it looks even with your specs on. Still, Jan gave me a few tools and bits and pieces to practise on and I’ve dug out my magnifying glass. Over lunch with Saba the following day, I mentioned that further lessons would include soldering which would be great as I have yet to use mine – she suggested a health and safety course first.

Luckily, for me, and her, popping over the Channel for a weekend is relatively cheap this time of year so I had our Rene for a wonderful 48 hours. Knowing me as well as she does and because she couldn’t come to Mumo’s funeral, she had booked herself a little ‘Sophi’ time as soon as she could. I just wish the weather hadn’t decided to change its sunny mind at the end of the week but at least the rain stayed away until this morning. Good job really as I’d carefully planned the party out in the courtyard and no-one likes a soggy seat. It goes without saying that the night was thoroughly enjoyable – platters of lemon chicken (Mumo’s recipe), D’s barbecued sausages and my speciality that is a French Tomato tart getting the thumbs up as I rushed around with the more familiar accessory – wine bottles. No doubt, I shall host another when Rene comes back in June but in a different location, like by the pool. The one that is currently filling up with water and keeping its precious liquid within for once in its life. Roll on summer and friends and fiddly tea cups…

“A good friend is a connection to life — a tie to the past, a road to the future, the key to sanity in a totally insane world.” ( Lois Wyse)

Sun, squeaks and a touch of sin

The road between Carcassonne and home is fairly busy and somewhat dull most of the working week as it snakes its way out of the populous and heads towards the calm of the countryside. But just before you hit Prexian (our neighbouring village), the snake-like single lane traffic gets a chance to hit the accelerator as the D118 opens up onto a short inclined dual carriageway. I love this bit of the tarmac, mainly for the view that greets you as you whizz upwards . And its best on a Sunday when you’re the only one looking at it. I never get tired of seeing the Pyrénées on the horizon, slightly dusted with snow now – a warning that winter is beckoning although the hills and woodland in their shadow are still lusciously green. Of course, it goes without saying that I’d rather not be driving back from the hospital still but at least today’s spectacular scenery was coated with sunshine and not half bad temperatures for almost the end of November.

Mind you, last week’s weather wasn’t exactly endorphin inspiring. When we weren’t under constant drizzle, I was digging through the back of cupboards trying to find the other glove – why do gloves always reappear with two right hands and never the left one? The finger-chilling conditions, however, did have their advantages. Me and The Second Book became friends again and I got to spend a fair number of hours getting re-acquainted my furniture in the workshop. It’s oddly refreshing to dive back into the opus after so many months away from my desk although I have come to realise how much of my story I omitted to add. Thankfully, Sally is a very patient editor and has just moved house so doesn’t mind having an empty mailbox at present.

I also managed to get the annual Christmas card photo done, the woofers all in one place ‘click’ shot. This was a miracle in itself as not only do most of them hide when a lens is facing them but the final frame also included Alice and Sherman. I say this because ever since the ‘mouse’ incident at beginning of the week, she and her son have turned into vermin vanquishers down in the tractor shed. It all started when I went to check on the serre seedlings only to come face to face with a hairy rodent. Denis said it was a Lerot but he didn’t see it and I can tell you that was no sweet looking dormouse. Anyway, I called Alice in but the thing disappeared before she could use her inner terrier but as I removed the box out of which it had made its escape, a second one made a bid for freedom squeaking right over Sherman’s head. Now, up until this point and unlike his mama, Sherman has never shown any interest in such pursuits except when it comes to hedgehogs and then he always comes off worse for it but something about a near-miss with a giant mouse has turned him rogue. They’ve yet to catch anything but days spent tail to nose twitching down the bottom of the garden keeps them happy and I hope, less likelihood of the strawberry-chomping so and so’s reappearing.

Speaking of reappearances, little brother Moth flew in from Kenya for 48 hours before taking off again to the same continent, different country. With the Collins’ family dotted about the globe, any chance of a quick visit to see Mumo is taken up, no matter how short the trip. And since I’m here alone most of the time, it’s a plus for me too. Moth naturally arrived laden with gifts for our matriarch as well as his sister. One might think books or chocolate but no, childhood memories in the shape of Kenyan bananas, paw paw (you probably call it papaya) and mangoes. Oh, and a dozen or so bags of macadamia nuts to fatten up the patient. D thought I was joking when I told him where the colourful collection came from, ” how did he get all this through the douane?” Knowing Moth like I do, he probably hid the illegal offerings in between whale-tagging equipment or up a camera lens in his usual array of over-weight luggage. But what with the sun shining as we drift towards winter, like those pilfering little pests, the fruitful feast will be long gone before the authorities can grab them…

“Time flies like an arrow – but fruit flies like a banana.” (Terry Wogan)

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)

A belly full

Having taken him up to the hospital to say his ‘ta ta for now’ to Mumo, I drove little brother Moth to Toulouse on Friday evening. Since his flight back to Kenya via Paris was at the crack of dawn, he had a room booked at a hotel close to the airport courtesy of big brother Simon. Goodbyes and hugs done, Denis and I made our way back to what I thought was the road heading towards home. Only it wasn’t – we were heading in the opposite direction with no sign of a roundabout and in whizzing traffic. With my GPS getting totally confused and me hitting the stress barrier, we weaved across lanes and dodged hooting cars until, thanks to Denis, we found the right road out and I hit the accelerator. It was only having finally got back chez nous via a dive of a pizza parlour for take-out that Denis told me it was the first time he’d seen me so rattled. Considering I spent 20 plus years in much the same mood working in London, it took me a few minutes and a glass of much-needed red wine to realise how much the last few months have put a dent in the tranquility of my life here.

The change in my normally fairly cheerful demeanour hasn’t gone unnoticed by the woofers either, their usual shrieking at the any dog that passes within an inch of the fence line muted – instead choosing to lie underfoot or at least within petting distance. The only exception being Mo who has discovered, as I have, that my serre has been raided by ‘les loirs gris‘ otherwise known as European edible dormice. As cute as they are, they’ve munched their way through my parsnip seedlings and helped themselves to all the strawberries. Denis tells me they are fattening up for hibernation which, having spied one or two, has been successful. At least someone has an appetite. With mine all but disappearing over the last week, Denis decided a night out at our local diner was in store – apart from their indulgent portion sizes, Diner 118 is a great place to catch up with friends and soak up the easy-going ambience. The perfect pick-me-up.

Speaking of putting on the pounds, Mumo is now on an all you can eat dietary schedule which is all well and good except the hospital menu isn’t exactly drool-worthy so Simon and I have started sneaking in home-cooked goodies to help with her waistline. I know that once she’s home (hopefully in the next day or so) she’ll be much happier curled up on the sofa with biscuits and ice-cream at hand. With this in mind, Denis and I have been busy doing all the little jobs that have been forgotten about whilst the more important ones have taken priority. One in particular was putting her Tiffany glass up in the selected alcove in the living room. A very delicate under-taking but the sweaty palms were worth the final result.

And as results go, you will be relieved to know that Yogi’s recent vet visit concluded that his heart and other vital organs are A-okay. There is a mass close to his coeur that will need draining to help him snooze better but other than that, the Bear is doing well for his age. And judging by the scales, he too can afford to put a little something extra in his belly – thankfully he prefers protein to parsnips…

“The belly rules the mind.” (Spanish Proverb)

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)