Parenting skills

Being a parent is not an easy job but I do think some are more in tune with the basics of bringing up kids than others. Take Mr and Mrs Pratt, the pigeon couple for example, versus Bert and Skirt Magpie. Every year, these pairs come back to build their nests and raise their families – Bert and Skirt choosing the safety of the giant cedar tree and the Pratts, well they’ve decided this year to move from the terrace overhang to the gutter above. The woofers have already had one fledgling that had fallen out of the narrow nursery and then I heard another scrabbling around in the bottom of the drainpipe. There was no way I could take the tube apart which broke my heart but I blame the parents. How the population of pigeons keeps growing, is a baffling question considering their ideas on progeny production. At least my offspring is back in touch again having disappeared into the Tasmanian wilderness for a couple of weeks. I do try not to worry but hey, I’m a Mum and what doesn’t help is when he tells me half an hour into our conversation that he’s been in hospital. All that larking about in the forest ended up with an infected foot – infected no doubt because he didn’t have access to my motherly smothering. Serves him right as he can’t go climbing up any mountains or kayaking off waterfalls until the doc says so.

Mind you, I did have to swing into nurse mode last week after Neo managed to acquire a deep gash on his left side. I’ve no idea how he managed to make such a mess of himself but since vet visits and Neo do not mix well, a bit of home TLC seems to be doing the trick. He might look sweet but he’s got a mean bite where distrust is concerned. Plus, the late great Keith Butt taught me well when it comes to open wounds on dogs – stitching it up would not be the best practice, infections are better out than in.

I’m sure the change in the weather is helping Neo’s recovery, the sun has come out and the temperature is suitably pleasant for this time of year. Denis and I have been busy getting through the long list of garden projects, he’s even started clearing his own plot – working on everyone else’s greenery hasn’t given him any time for his own. I didn’t even know he had a gate at the back of the property such was the overgrowth. Our terrain however, is beginning to look very Spring-like – I’ve finished painting Denis’ old trailer that he wanted to throw away, Bella will now carry strawberries and marigolds instead of rusting away in some corner of a dump. And we’ve started on the stone wall that will hopefully transform the flowerbed below the front of the apartment. I say we but realistically, D’s doing most of the hard graft whilst I play with the flowers.

Of course, there is still much to do. There are the daily chores; cleaning up after the woofers, tending the ‘allotment’ and battling the ever-present algae that is slowly beginning to dissipate from what water remains in the pool depths. Hopefully, having bought some dye from the piscine shop in Carcassonne where D’s son works (we get a discount yay!), we’ve found where the leak is most likely to lie. I was right, next to the pool steps. Next week, I’ll have the joy of fixing that imperceptible irritation – I just hope the wetsuit still fits. And speaking of dinky dramas, there is hope in the air. My timid tomatoes have finally decided to reach for the sky! Okay, they’ve a long way to go if they are going to catch up with Denis’ mini monsters but I’m very proud of my brood. It’s tough being a parent but watching all you have carefully nurtured grow upwards is all you could ever want. Unless you’re a pigeon…

“When your mother asks, ‘Do you want a piece of advice?’ It is a mere formality. It doesn’t matter if you answer yes or no. You’re going to do it anyway.” (Erma Bombeck)

Fruits of our labour

Spring is in the air and everything garden-wise is blossoming forth – except my tomatoes. Denis’ however, have started to pop their little green stalks upwards which makes one of us bounce up and down with glee at the prospect of winning the competition. My spinach, my lettuce, my chillies and my herbs are all reaching for the sky but zip from my reluctant entries. I told D his were hares and mine tortoises, I’m just going to have to be patient.

Patience has never been my strong point but with the must-do list getting longer, I’ve got several jobs to finish in several different locations. There’s a side table in the garage that I’m revamping for Mumo, 4 doors that need stripping in the carport, two chairs to be reupholstered in the downstairs bedroom, two outside walls to be painted and a leak to be mended in the bloody pool. And let’s not start on all the planting. I blame my toing and froing on my recent obsession with Chateau DIY, it gives me far too many ideas. Watching one of the programmes ended up with me deciding to change the flowerbed in front of the apartment by building a low wall around it – I’ve never built a wall before but it’ll be educational I’m sure. Denis and I took Jacqui and Terry next-door to the garden centre in nearby Couffoulens so that they could buy some floral additions for their plot and I came back with half a dozen colourful purchases to put in the new brickwork. There’s plenty of foliage there already but one cannot go into horticultural heaven and not come out without at least one pot.

I know I say it a lot but we really do live in the most beautiful part of the world. Now that the hunting season has finished, Arry, Alice, Sherman and I can change our running routes once more and with the sun getting out of bed when we do, I can see where we’re going. And the views up there above Rouffiac never fail to take my breath away, not that I have much in the way of puff left by the time I’ve climbed the several kilometres of continuous uphills with no down dales. But it’s worth the leg ache when you get to the top and look out over the vines and woodland towards the Pyrénées. Still covered with snow, they rise above the dark green canopy like meringues dusted with pink and orange as the sunrise hits their peaks. Never less than spectacular to see. My tomatoes should take a tip or two from them.

Mind you, if the forecast is anything to go by, that snow won’t be there for long – there’s warmth weather predicted for the week ahead although I don’t trust the météo as it has a habit of changing its mind every 5 minutes and we’ll probably get hailed on. We’ve got away with a pretty mild winter so I’m not changing my wardrobe just yet. I did however help Mumo clear hers yesterday and we filled a couple of bin bags full of clothes for the next vide grenier or car boot sale. And because I’m all about recycling, I took a few items for me – ones that should not be worn for gardening for once, Mumo bought me a new pair of jeans the other day and made me promise to keep them unsoiled for nights out. All my other pairs are tattoed with oil spots and grass stains. It’d be nice if I got a bit of tomato juice on them too…

“In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt” (Margaret Attwood)

Tractors and tomatoes

What a drizzly cold day it is today. It actually feels like February even though we are almost at the end of the month – one that has, so far, been more balmy than brrr. Denis reckons we are in for a nasty start to Spring which I really hope isn’t the case as the garden is definitely thinking about all things bright and beautiful. My little serre is busy producing tiny spinach and salad shoots and I’ve relocated the infant carrots to the makeshift nursery beside it. Graham donated one of those plastic covered clothes rail thingies which Denis ingeniously lay flat with zipper side up and dumped a few inches of fertile earth into its middle. This has also given me space to hatch my competition entries. Yes, the tournament of the tomatoes has begun. D has his contestants at his house whilst mine are tucked away in the sweaty confines of the poly tunnel. Naturally, I did as was decided and carefully poked 3 or 4 minute seeds into each hole – 30 of each type as per the rules whilst Denis just scattered his lot willy-nilly into pots. I’m taking the scientific route, he isn’t. July is the deadline for showing off our prize toms and Saba will be the judge. My fellow cheval du feu.

Working outside in mostly dry conditions has been just the ticket for blowing the cobwebs from my sleep-deprived grey cells. I finally managed to get 4 chapters off to Sally having nailed myself to the laptop every night. I do wish my writing muse had a bit of respect for my necessary 8 hours deep snoozing, she seems to have an aversion for working during the daylight ones. Still I’m over half-way, less the re-writes which my editor has a fondness for so I’m shooting for that distant last line one one exhausting evening at a time.

The past week wasn’t just about punishing my mentals, D and I finally managed to move Callum’s beloved Massey-Ferguson out of the car port and into its new home in the tractor shed. Its only taken 3 years to get it the 100 metres or so from the front to the back of the garden; one because we had to build the shed, two as we had to remove the giant fig root from its lodgings under the building’s roof and three, the little red tractor doesn’t go vroom. It hasn’t gone vroom since the day Callum pulled it out of the river after the L’Horte flood of 2018. The battered old girl needs a lot of fixing up as well as a couple of new back tyres. Anyway, we cabled her up to the back of the blue ride-on mower and with me driving and Denis guiding, heaved her surprising weightiness the short distance betwixt the two abodes. D was very impressed with my skills at getting both machines out of the mud half way down the back, I may have once been a city girl but those heady holidays spent at the former family homestead that was L’Horte gave me an education in manoeuvring motorised vehicles across mulchy meadows.

At least that was one thing ticked off the very long list of ‘must do’ chores, actually I managed to highlight another couple too. I made it through the annual vaccinations of Neo, Mo Cridhe and Coco Loco unscathed thanks to D’s help and very gentle young vet recently added to the clinic’s practice. She wasn’t the slightest put off by Mo’s eyeballing and Neo was a complete lamb, he didn’t even mind her cutting his back dew claws – something I hate doing as its like playing Russian Roulette with his ‘will I won’t I bite’ looks. And speaking of bites, I had a visit to the dentist so she could check on my new teeth. One in which she told me I wasn’t cleaning my extortionately expensive purchases properly and I needed to buy one of those dental water spray thingies. Which I dutifully did and managed to douse more of the bathroom walls than those inside my mouth. They’re quite powerful little machines you know? Mind you, if Denis thinks showing his bottom to his tomatoes will make them turn red, my soon-to- be even more dazzling dentures will give my lot sunburn…

“A tomato may be a fruit, but it is a singular fruit. A savory fruit. A fruit that has ambitions far beyond the ambitions of other fruits” (E. Lockhart)

Planting and planning

Frankly, I’ve felt better. I don’t know if it’s because last week was so busy or the fact that I have rather overdone the social swirling but I am bunged up. I’m hoping a decent night’s sleep will lay the lurgy to rest as I really don’t have time for snotty noses. The ‘to do’ list is getting longer by the day and I’ve yet to put one tick on it. And it’s already February.

Ah yes, February. The last month of winter. Except that we are bathing in warm sunshine still and the barbecues are out. The almond trees have started unveiling their pale pink blossom and the lawn is getting so thick, I can’t find the dog poo until I step on it. I’d cut it except that we haven’t had a proper frost yet or a decent downpour of late so the lush greenery underfoot needs to protect the terre. I went over to Le Jardin (Abraham’s place) mid-week to help him with the veggie planting. One seed at a time. Trays and trays of little cubes of soil into which I had to carefully put a single grain. Weirdly, I enjoyed prodding my finger along each row of squares so each aubergine-to-be could grow up big and strong although the job required total concentration – blink and you’ve forgotten where you popped the previous one. And I did it all almost single-handedly save the last line or so as Denis stopped by at the end of the day and offered to help so we could join the boss for a beer. Not much of a help really as he got a bit random with the numbers – Abraham did say one seed in each so I made Denis take out all his extra additions. I wasn’t going to have my contribution to bio-agriculture messed up.

Getting lost in legumes was a welcome break from whizzing around town so Mumo and I could get to our various appointments which for some reason all seemed to be in the same week. The one that had half of Carcassonne backed up because giant tractors were parked up all on one of the main roundabouts along with twice as many police cars. Luckily, I’d got the traffic update from our épicerie so I could plan accordingly and avoid getting stuck in the barricades. Mumo got to go and sit in a dentist’s chair and I in the hairdresser’s. You don’t need to switch on the news when you live in Rouffiac – the most up-to-date information can be found over a croissant counter.

Speaking of village press updates, our resident Scot is getting ready to leave our shores. You’d be right in thinking I’ve written this in a previous blog with his failed escape back in 2022 but sadly I think he’s going to make it out this time. But not without a few farewell parties, one of which Mumo and I attended yesterday lunchtime in nearby Cépie held by his local walking group. Other than family do’s, I don’t think I’ve sat down at a table without a French person at it let alone not know most of the guests. Thankfully, the wine flowed freely as did the conversation. It was nice to be introduced to a different crowd and hear their stories about life in France although I had somehow managed to get seated between Graham and my neighbour Terry both of whom I talk to virtually every day. Mumo and I will host a soirée on Friday for Graham along with the usual crowd, just in case he forgets us. And this little village…

“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant” (Robert Louis Stevenson)

Perspirating in poly tunnels

So here goes another break in the norm. I am writing this over coffee this morning instead of my usual after lunch ‘a la pizza’ musings. Firstly, I am going over to Denis’ Mum’s place for midday munchings in an hour or so and secondly, we ate the pizza last night. Another brave move from the routine. As we’d spent Friday night with friends down the rue emptying the contents of their fridge and wine rack, D and I decided to stay in and eat with Mumo - and inhale her delicious Italian offering. She makes the best.

It’s hard to believe it’s the end of January already, where the hell did the month go? Mind you, the current temperatures are more reminiscent of May – we are still in double digits and the thermometer hit 21 on Thursday. Of course, that would be the day I spent clearing out the largest of Abraham’s poly tunnels so that he could begin the new season’s planting. I still haven’t managed to remove all the minute hay needles from my jeans -even tweezers and a magnifying glass can’t eject the pesky pins. And boy, it’s hot in those tunnels. Sitting down over a beer later, I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the windows. Let’s just say, a scarecrow would have been terrified at the reflection. And Abraham’s wasn’t the only ‘sauna’ being taken care of. Denis managed to get my little one up and installed at the back of the garden; in his words, Ikea instructions were easier to follow but he did it. I moved all my little seedlings in and bought a few others so they wouldn’t be lonely in their sweaty surroundings. At least if Mother Nature decided to throw us a curveball and send snow our way, I know where to keep warm.

On the plus side, ambient degrees make for gorgeous morning runs over the hills. And with the mornings becoming lighter earlier, I can start the pace under the moonlight and ascend into the sunrise – quite spectacular. Work has started back up on the vines too so the sound of Arry and co’s collar bells is now inter-mingled with the hum of tractors – strangely comforting in a way as we head out of winter.

And with that, I must depart for what will be, no doubt, a stomach stretching afternoon if I know D’s family. Oh, and the podcast is now up and running on Spotify every Sunday evening. I think I’m getting to grips with it now and my Ipad is still intact. I have no idea what tonight’s will be like but I shall keep the wine to a minimum. At least I have a voice now, last weekend I was reduced to rasping Dot Cotton style…

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