Summer’s last stand

Marie-Claude, resident of Rouffiac, has Covid and at the time of writing this; the internet is down. Thankfully, we don’t need the internet to find out the former’s malady – that’s what the épicerie is for but according to Orange, there’s been a rupture in the line and we might have to wait until tomorrow for a connection with the outside world. A rupture does sound pretty dire. At least the news of poor Marie-Claude waited until after Friday as that would have been disastrous for Le P’tit Bristrot and its team with it being the final knees up of the season. Almost everyone in the village turned up complete with silly hats and wonky wigs (odd Rouffiac tradition) to share the evening with friends and boogie to an impressive set by Nothing Concrete. No, I haven’t heard of them either but according to my gal Suzy, they just got back from playing a gig in Devon so they had to be pretty good. Less could be said for the dining fare although Suzy’s husband Bruce became even more popular than usual having brought Tabasco to liven up his chilli – queues forming at our table for a drop or two and to munch down on the pizza I always make just in case. The same as Mumo always did.

Mercifully, I’ve had enough time to recover for this morning’s visit by the latest estate agent else my head would have been still buried under Sherman. Photos were the order of today which for me meant hurrying around to get the apartment looking less like a factory and the pool looking vaguely clean before corralling the woofers out of sight lest they moon to the camera. Brother Simon told me such brave feats are unnecessary these days what with AI and fancy apps but 7 furry beasts could be stretch for any computer boffin. I did leave my latest creations on display though including the freshly-pimped up flower pots I found in the old chicken shed. That and the artfully displayed bijoux in the room downstairs. Well, they are after all, an international agency so you never know.

The above mentioned pool is still open by the way. We had considered closing it after the pictures were papped but Monsieur le Météo has decided that we aren’t quite ready for Autumn just yet and is sending a little heat our way in the coming week. You could be forgiven for thinking it’s Spring in September looking out at the garden foliage. And my pasteque is growing bigger by the day. Denis says I should use it as a Halloween decoration instead of the traditional pumpkin but at this rate it might end up in a Christmas pudding. Still, I am not going to complain about the daily chores deck-side; sister-in-law Frannie and her hubby Steve are popping through on Thursday so the barbecue will be pulled out once more and not too long after that, I’m flying off to the Motherland for a few days. A catch-up with my mother-in-law Jenny is much needed and of course, the mandatory lunches and dinners with friends. It will be as always, a short trip as leaving Denis with the dogs and their dietary requirements is never a comfortable thought and there’s the little thing called a plot of land that would look much nicer with a house on it. And fancy plant pots…

“September days have the warmth of summer in their briefer hours, but in their lengthening evenings a prophetic breath of autumn.” (Rowland E. Robinson)

Summer’s swan song

I held a dinner party last night. Not unusual I know but there is one that only happens once a year – the annual ‘Sophi arrived in Rouffiac’ knees up. Actually, I didn’t start hosting the do until 3 years ago which co-incidentally was when Denis and I fessed up to our feelings so why not combine two anniversaries over barbecues and booze with best friends. With the long table (borrowed from the mairie) over-flowing with food and multiple conversations in two languages bouncing across bottles, the evening went fabulously even if I almost knocked myself out tripping over a Sherman-sized hole in the garden resulting in a nicely swollen big toe this morning. Mind you, I could blame that on my rather effervescent dance moves or on the wind. The weather stayed warm but blowy, so much so that paper plates had to remain loaded lest they ended up on next doors pool.

I suppose one could say the evening’s entertainment also marked the end of summer. That and the distant sound of gunfire. Yes, the chasse is back. And a reminder that it won’t be long before it is time to dig out the trainers once more and take to the hills. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the pre-dawn alarm; I’ve got a bit lazy when it comes to getting out of bed but the canine crew and I need the exertion now that our pool is a little too cool. I did go swimming yesterday but I have a feeling that may well be the last time I get the goggles out. Unless I find the wetsuit. It’s funny to think that might well have been the final frolic with this place for sale, I won’t miss the constant cleaning though or the ‘what’s wrong with you know’ stress. Walking around the vast wooden deck with my mate Christophe last night, he asked if I was going to build another one in the new place. Yes but smaller, I replied, much smaller just like my yet to be house.

Ahh, the dream home. I’m still waiting for the notaire to finish the paperwork on that subject so I can finally fork out the euros and bring in the diggers. A little frustrating but that’s legals for you. On the plus side, the longer the wait the better it is for all the plantings I’m planning to repatriate. Most have to be in dormant mode to be shifted a couple of minutes up the road and I need to plan a bit of landscaping on the plots before that happens. Creating this garden took 5 years so I’d like to be ahead of the game for my next adventure. I’m not taking the potager however, I haven’t been very successful in that horticultural department not counting the slew of spring onions last year. I might just throw a few seeds around and let Nature take its course. Which I did with the seeds Abraham gave me much to D’s horror and now I have a tiny pastèque growing its little heart out. Naturally, I had to show the prized fruit to my guests last night which needless to say led to much amusement on their parts. Yes, it is a tad late in the season for such delicious delights so it’s probably not going to get any bigger but I’m still dreadfully proud of myself. Who knows, maybe next year we’ll be having watermelon for dessert in a different setting surrounded by friends and familiar flora…

“The end-of-summer winds make people restless.” (Sebastian Faulks)

Zen and the art of stickiness

Something strange has been going on with my psyche ever since Avignon and a week spent with my bestie, Rene. My normal flitting around like a bee on an acid trip has been taken over by a weird sense of calm – just as well really as peeps, it’s hot out there. Actually not today, we’ve had a rainstorm (yay, no battling with the hose reel) and the temperature has dropped to a mere 22 degrees. Heavenly if only for now, the météo forecast is showing red zone in the coming week. Just as well Louis came up with a great plan to keep the cars cool; a couple of marquees that had been gathering spiders in storage put to good use.

Mind you, my new Zen-like persona hasn’t stopped me from the busy. Denis and I went shopping for salad stuff to fill up the potagers although finding he didn’t have any coffee in his house and the garden emporium only having the smaller varieties of tomato left was not a good start for my man. Well, it was Friday the 13th. And naturally, there are always the regular chores to get through; now the house is on the market, the place has to stay tidy both inside and out. The garden doesn’t require quite as much slaving now with the hot weather reducing the lawns to dust and the flowerbeds, having been given a decent mulching by Denis, are blooming lovely. Even the Pink Easter-lily cactus has blossomed. A rare sight as the flowers don’t last more than a couple of days and their scent is heavenly as dusk falls. It sits right by the pool deck, the pool that needs constant cleaning with the new liner being much paler than it’s leak-ridden predecessor and as for the skimmers, a job I loathe – washing out dead insects and dog hair ugh. Yes, Arry has once more joined us humans in the daily dip. Luckily for me, he tends to leave me to my laps but anyone else is fair game for shark impressions. Speaking of aquatic things; brother Moth is back in situ after spending a week in Nice at the UN Ocean Conference speaking to the bigwigs. It’s bliss having him here not least because he is much better at cleaning than Louis – the dining table has half a piano on it and the sideboard looks like a curiosity shop; specialist goo and teeny tools.

Speaking of gluey stuff, you’d be hard pressed to find anything messier than mica and resin except maybe Superglue. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t been rushing around; can’t when you’ve got sticky black fingers although how it gets under gloves is a mystery as is trying to get it off. I would like to point out to the author of the manual, white spirit or acetone does not eradicate said gunk from digits – only skin removal scrubbing. Still, I am thoroughly enjoying the jewellery side of Witch Wackle and even better, my little collection is going to be displayed in a shop! Okay, so the epicerie but one has to start somewhere and the village signpost on the road up from Limoux does point towards the ‘Centre Commercial’. That is the epicerie. I even went as far to do a little light advertising at the opening night of the Bistro, rocking up with bracelets jangling and necklaces dangling. Yup, the summer season has officially started with the village weekly hoedown back in session. With all out of hibernation and much cheek kissing, a rowdy evening was passed under the stars amongst friends. No doubt needing those sunglasses to shield their eyes from my blinding bling, either that or the spots of neon blue mica powder still attached to my fingernails…

” Creative minds are rarely tidy” (Carl Jung)

The girl can’t help it

Yup, it’s still February but there is nothing like flowers, friends and fair skies to put a spring in one’s step. And I’ve been blessed with all three this past few days. Admittedly, the beginning of last week had me to doing a passable impression of a moody teenager – one too many comments about yours truly’s character but all was thrown off as soon as the sun came out. That and Denis’ perfectly timed trip to the garden centre after I dropped my Giselle off at the Toyota emporium for the last time. I was a little sad to say goodbye to my speedy set of wheels, Mumo’s Renault hasn’t got the same vroom and is much lower to the ground which means any bump in the road slams your butt.

My Rav 4 hasn’t been the only one leaving the nest, brother Moth and nephew Louis have gone back to their respective dwellings although Louis will be back in a week or so – kid needed to catch up on his actual job, that being fixing pianos and church organs, instead of building staircases and sanding down floorboards. Callum thankfully is still in residence, putting in electrics and a vent in my bathroom. I’ve been busy painting the latter although my expertise in ceiling decor has resulted in a splatter effect on the tiles – I did cover everything but the blasted paint is very sneaky. I’d much rather be planting roses and finishing off the new flower ‘beds’ D and I created thanks to Abraham’s gift of a few bits of dried tree trunks from Le Jardin. Speaking of makeovers, we finally got a visit from the pool poseur so the bloody thing could be measured up for a new liner hopefully next month. He tells me it can only be installed if the weather gauge gets to 20 degrees which judging by the forecast isn’t going to be a problem.

At least the woofers don’t mind my apparently irksome inability to keep still for five seconds and I think, quite like my ‘over enthusiastic’ optimism as do most closest to me, including friends. So, I had a few over last night to dine Greek style. Even Mumo sampled a little of my cuisine – brave lady. We might have eaten too much, drunk our way through several vineyards and murdered a few Demis Roussos tunes but in the best company. Flowers, friends and fair skies – maybe February’s not that bad at all…

“Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” (Marcel Proust)

Sizing up February

Considering it’s the shortest month of the year and we’ve only just got through the first week of it, why does February feel so interminably long? One can’t even blame the weather; the predicted snow fall this weekend never arrived and although one wakes most mornings to a covering of frost, the afternoons are in double digit degrees. Maybe the mood dump is down to the unpredictability of being not quite out of winter yet – there’s always a fear that anything you start outside may well be under several centimetres of the white stuff the next day. Still, on the plus side, the dawn runs are simply serene. I can see where I’m going for a start now that the sun gets up a little earlier and the terre has turned rock hard what with the morning chill.

It’s not like we haven’t been busy here either although there was a slight hiatus mid-week when Callum came down with a tummy bug which meant 48 hours stuck in a bathroom, Louis then changing places as soon as his cousin recovered. Luckily, I managed to avoid the queue – I’ve had enough to do sorting out tax stuff for my apartment in Montpelier. The French impôt system is, let’s just say, migraine-inducing. So in order to save the yearly search for a document I don’t remember seeing or one I did and just filed in some dusty corner of a kitchen cupboard, I’m going to sell the place.

Speaking of selling, I’ve been busy photographing all my finished bits of furniture so they can be put online – Callum has promised to sort that out and bring me in some centimes. And of course, having cleared a small part of the workshop, I found a few more sorry souls to fiddle around with. One is a really rather lovely Gothic-style chair which I’m going to keep for myself – Dracula is my favourite book. Restoring such a beautiful piece of history isn’t the only reason why I’ll be garage-side for a while, tomorrow I say goodbye to Giselle as she returns to Toyota and I get a healthy bump to my bank account. As much as I love her speed, I just don’t use her that often and I’m always nervous of getting her pranged (the gate has been behaving of late). There’s enough cars and vans in the driveway for me to use until I find something more suited to dog hair and dirt tracks.

In the meantime, there are some garden jobs that have to be done when one isn’t wielding sanding paper and washing copious amounts of dust down the shower drain- the potager has to be emptied and then turned over before the new season plantings go in. I have been reliably informed that my woeful excuse for winter veggies is not my fault, apparently everyone round here has had a problem with ‘size’. Ergo, all my new seedlings are going to stay in the serre until the month is out. Let’s hope the pleasantly smelling bay leaf and pepper deterrent keeps the ‘dormice’ (Denis also has a problem with sizing rodents) out of there til then. How long is it until Spring?…

“February is just plain malicious. It knows your defences are down.” (Katherine Paterson)

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)

Ailments and artistry

Ah well, considering the odds even if we live in a tiny village deep in South West of France, one of us was going to get it. Yup, my tough ‘nothing can get me” outdoorsman has been got – Covid-style. I came downstairs with coffee as usual on Friday morning, expecting the normal kiss and “dort bien?” hello only to be greeted by a grey face with an outstretched arm stopping my approach. In the four years I’ve known Denis, the only time he’s not been full of bounce was when he had his hernia hiccup (actually three in all) so I suggested we both went over to the local pharmacie to get tested. Apart from the fact that we spend most of our days together, I also have a not so well Mumo at the moment so neither of us wanted to add to her woes. On the positive side, I tested negative but warned to keep my mother at a healthy distance for a few days just in case. And steer clear of D too which has meant a miserable weekend and a pity party with a bottle of wine and an ominous moon to keep me company.

And the week was going so well. Sort of. I mean there was that little incident on Tuesday morning but that wasn’t my fault. Kind of. You see, me and the younger woofers are back to rising with the dawn and running up hills again so I had bought a pocket-sized ‘deterrent’ spray not wanting a repetition of the last dog attack. All was peace and serenity, the giant mastiff I had been assured was safely tucked behind bars and there was nothing to disturb us other than the hum of tractors harvesting the vines. That was until we hit the main road a kilometre or so from home and got rear-ended by a loose Pyrenean Mountain Dog trailing its extendable lead behind as it launched its huge self at Arry. Alice of course went into full terrier mode, teeth chomping and chattering as Sherman sunk his into a furry hind leg whilst I tried to keep leads from tangling -I wasn’t about to let them loose on a busy thoroughfare. And that’s when I remembered the bombe and pointed it at the white beast. Honestly, I didn’t know the spray was red. The owner did eventually arrive and get her charge under control, dye not blood explanations from me. I saw the same dog a couple of days later, apparently the colour doesn’t wash out easily.

At least, the Covid decided to bring down my man after we’d made a decent dent in our ‘to-do’ list -Denis and I were noses to the grindstone ticking off items. The newly extended potager now has its Autumn plantings in, the walnut trees have been lopped, the other bat box fixed onto the remis wall and between us we sorted out the blockage in Mumo’s kitchen sink which turned out to be congealed fat (blame big brother for that). And since our camion needs a little TLC before it can pass its contrôle technique, D has plonked it over here as it’s easier to get to a power source. Yet unnamed and a bit banged up in parts, I am looking forward to getting behind the wheel of the big white van. I might need to add my newly acquired artistic touch first…

“ The colours live a remarkable life of their own after they have been applied to the canvas” (Edvard Munch)

Lists and little treasures

If I’ve learnt anything from the past week its not to do all your to-do list at the same time because if you do, you’ll reach a point where you don’t have anything to do. What is even more frustrating than boredom is the fact that most of the projects aren’t actually finished as I am either waiting for a piece of something or other or somebody else to add whatever. And to top off the mind-numbing state, the wind is back – the one that gives you a headache and turns your brain to mush.

Well, at least that’s over – last week I mean. The grey clouds and frankly, November like temperatures of the past few days, have given way to blue skies and sunshine once more and the forecast is looking upbeat. Now that the kids have gone back to school and the vendange or grape harvest is just about over, there is a sense of peacefulness within our little village nestled down here in the French countryside. Alas for the poor residents, it’s not going to last very long as me and the younger woofers are about to take to the hills again – my running shoes are ready even if my body probably isn’t. Still, I can’t think of a better way of getting rid of all my excess energy (and Arry’s) and for clearing away the cobwebs from my cranium. Okay, there’s the new plantings to go into the newly-extended potager too but Denis does all the dirty work, I just tell him where to stick the seedlings we purchased during a recent spree at our favourite gardening emporium.

Considering once upon a time there was a city girl who swooned at the sight of a pair of sky-high heels in a swanky shop window, it’s hard to believe that that same dame would now be doing the same ogling over a line of Brussel Sprout plants or whilst sifting through rails of clothing in a second-hand store. Knowing that I was going a little loopy indoors, Denis decided we should take a drive to nearby Alet-les-Bains (famous for their supposedly cure-all waters) to visit a brocante recommended by a friend. Disappointingly, we were in and out of those doors in minutes – the place was over-priced and far too neat, I prefer those that have bits and bobs strewn everywhere which was where we ended up. A piled to the brim chaos of a veritable treasure chest flea market. The additions to my wardrobe came to a total of 6 Euros.

I might have said in the beginning that I was a bit lost for things to do but next week’s list should keep me buzzing around quite nicely. Apart from the veggie plot, the old liner needs to be taken out of the bloody pool so that the concrete bottom can be re-screed before a new one is fitted. I’ve got a number of dining chairs in the attic to ‘chic up’ but they’ll have to stay up there for the moment as I don’t have any room what with all the almost-finished stuff and then there’s the small matter of the hole in the stairway wall – a result of my attempt at drilling through concrete only to find that I couldn’t go more than 2 centimetres, wrong drill I’m told. Then there’s the Second Book needing my attention, Sherman to hand strip as he looks more like a Yeti than a Border Terrier right now, the village map is without the business additions and the walnut trees have to cut back before the solar panels end up in darkness. And all shall be done one at a time and in well-worn discount denim…

““A bee is never as busy as it seems; it’s just that it can’t buzz any slower.” (Kin Hubbard)

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)