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)

An album in mind

For some reason yesterday, as I was stretching purple velour over the base of a chair whilst trying not to get stabbed by a disagreeable pin frantic for freedom, I’d set the living room speakers to play 1990’s Britpop at volume. As I sang along to Oasis, Blur and the rest, snapshots of times spent partying with friends in London and dancing round the kitchen with Tony screened through my mind- it’s funny how music does that. I didn’t upset me or make me hanker for the old days, I rarely reminisce about such things unless I’m writing The Second Book and that, just like the first opus, is like writing about someone else. Perhaps getting the little chest that I kept a few souvenirs of his father’s in down from the attic for Callum to go through had triggered my music choice, who knows but I still know all the words to Wonderwall.

Maybe jumping into a new year had something to do with my brief slip into days gone by although it wasn’t so much as a leap as a crawl. There’s been a bug going round town and most of the remaining family were starting to suffer with it by New Years Eve. With the main house filled with the sound of noses being parped and throats hacking, Denis and I left the sad party to see in 2024 upstairs. I barely made to the Bonne Année bit before dropping off, the exhaustion of the last couple of weeks catching up with me. And with my niece Katie and her brother Louis flying off last Thursday, the L’Horte Four (if you haven’t read the book, I’m not elaborating) are down to 2. Two that will be leaving us next week, one for Chad and the other for Australia. I’m trying not to think about that one. It wasn’t so long ago that each of them would have been going back to school, now they all have jobs requiring their return. Katie’s gone back to her lab, Louis to his square pianos and will be followed by Max off for his wildlife and Callum to his growing number of trades in the building industry. Denis outshone himself with a deliciously decadent tagine last night especially for Max and Callum which I’m sure won’t be forgotten for a while – it has certainly been a holiday for the photo albums.

Speaking of albums, today marks the 5th anniversary of this here blog. Half a decade of Sunday writings to which I have all of you to thank. Of course, I’ll keep up the weekly posts but I’m going to attempt to add a podcast too. Knowing my ineptitude towards anything vaguely technological, I’ve no idea whether it’ll work but I’m willing to have a crack at it. I’ll put a link on the Facebook site when I figure it all out.

So now as the decorations are back in the garage and the fairy lights carefully wrapped so they can tangle themselves all over again, life is slowly getting back to normal. The balmy temperatures of Christmas have been replaced with near-zeros and between the bitterly cold wind whipping across my terrace and the pelting rain, even the hardiest of woofers, Sherman, wants to stay indoors and curl up on my bed. Apparently we might have snow arriving over the next few days. Whoopee. Ah well, it’s only 4 months until Spring…

“The shortest day has passed, and whatever nastiness of weather we may look forward to in January and February, at least we notice that the days are getting longer.” (Vita Sackville-West)

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