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)

That Français feeling

It’s that dreaded time of year. Not because we are at the end of August and therefore summer, worse almost – the tax man arriveth. Yes, down here we empty our bank accounts in October and are graced with a flurry of email reminders lest one forgets. I usually do. Still, if my plans for Witch Wackle are to be put in action, I’m going to have to be a little more organised in the paperwork department. That and I have to get another SIRET, basically a number that registers your business with the afore-mentioned tax man. I have one for the Montpelier property as it’s in retirement apartment complex. I was discussing this the other day with Adolphe, local Del Boy and my good friend who is banging on at me to sell my wares in Carcassonne and had bought over a rather lovely butler sink for my one day new workshop. I was a little worried as to whether or not I would be allowed to trade professionally being a Brit and all and with the Brexit boundaries but Adolphe just scoffed. “You speak French and you pay your dues, yes?”. Well, the latter definitely I replied, secretly pleased that he noted my grasp of the lingo, of which my pal decided, was enough to get my foot through the door and made me practically born here. I did further point out that I have yet to comprehend most of what I need to fill out on official forms but that was rebuffed as well. According to Adolphe, neither do French people and that’s why we have Google.

Mind you, I could be forgiven for thinking I’d missed the deadline judging by the weather last week. I know I said we needed rain desperately but that much? The garden’s started to turn green again and I had to delve into the depths of my drawers to find a sweater it was that cool. I say cool as 23 degrees is quite balmy to most but not when you’ve been in double that for the last three months. The sun has been out again this weekend thankfully but I feel the pool is unlikely to have bodies in it this year unless they are practicing for a swim across the English Channel. The bloody thing could have been usable if we had the chance to put the summer cover over but that decaying piece of plastic was what caused the problem with the pump – its deposits bunged up the filter. Since none of us want to shell out for a new bâche with this place up for sale and the season pretty much over anyway, the waters shall remain devoid of human life. Arry isn’t human and doesn’t compute cold water.

So tomorrow is the start of a new month and all too soon the heady days of summer will drift off into memory. Or maybe not quite yet. According to the local météo, that being the daily chat in the épicerie, another heatwave is bound to descend on us before Autumn rolls in. I’d dropped in to put up a new display for the season ahead and got the warning. I do hope so as I still have a lot of shell craft to peddle, not helped by a recent visit to Limoux’s recycling emporium ending up with me acquiring a sizeable chunk of cowries. I wouldn’t have bought them except that there was another lady eyeing them up and such a cheap steal wasn’t going to pass me by. That and she was English, which for some reason brought on the urge to grab them on the spot as well as several other bits and bobs under her visual. As we walked out of the shop, Denis started laughing. “Ma Chèrie, you are definitely turning French”…

““Summer should get a speeding ticket.” (Unknown)

Changing times and testy tractors

There’s a Facebook group page that I occasionally visit which is supposed to be all about gardening in France but really should be called ‘the English in France’. We talk about the weather mostly. That and share photos of our fabulous flora and fauna. I rarely participate in threads but would you believe, I had to post the miracle that passed over last week – we had rain! Having shoved Lily and her baby sister (my Peace Lilies for those who don’t know) out onto the terrace for a good soaking before I squeezed into what remaining bed space had been left due to Arry and Sherman’s horizontal yoga and snoozed off listening to Nature’s orchestra. Pure bliss.

The storm lasted two days and thankfully bought the temperature down although that, unfortunately, was just a temporary blip. However, one should make hay whilst the sun isn’t shining or move Pop’s tractor from the back garden to brother Moth’s house in Cenne- Monasties. We roped in the lovely Lionel for the cause as he has a great big trailer with a ramp on the back and is well used to shifting farm machinery. That and being corralled into doing favours for my little brother like the previous week’s shifting of all the giant floor planks he’d nicked from L’Horte and had been sitting in the garage ever since. But this little blue put-put around wasn’t going to go without a fight. First there was the slight issue of removing several generations of mice from the engine; I left that to Denis as well as the flat front tyre. Hardly stressful unlike trying to get it on the trailer – it didn’t fit. By millimetres. Luckily for poor lovely Lionel, nephew Max’s idea of cutting out the back of the trailer was over-ridden by D knowing a friend (of course) who worked at the winery down the road and had a thingamajig that could hoist the tractor onto the back of Lionel’s flat bed truck. Sorted. Almost. What the boys hadn’t thought about was how to get all down Baden’s (bro’s house) narrow driveway and unload it. They came back 3 hours later looking like roadkill but job done and Moth did donate some thoroughly delicious wines.

I’m sure over the months ahead, the lovely Lionel will be called upon again to shift the contents of the family residences to new abodes, mine included. Five years ago, I did just that except my belongings were mostly made up of woofers and one Peace Lily. And I did have our Rene to help me navigate my way through a different country to start a new life. Whilst some of those four pawed friends are no longer here and the Mothership sold, moving from the city to the middle of nowheresville has done just that. A new life. I’m a country girl now who isn’t scared of getting her hands dirty or holes in her jeans. I fell in love again with the man who helped me resurrect a garden and build a pool. A pool by the way which is the reason I am late writing this blog as it decided to spring a leak in the pump. Ever Reliable Roy came to the rescue. I helped Alice raise a litter of exceptionally exceptional Border Terrier puppies (Sherman just clocked in at a whopping 13 kilos but the vet says he’s not fat, just big), wrote two books (still waiting on the publishing date for the second, sorry!) and discovered that I could make jewellery and people buy it. Yes, there’s been a fair number of storms and downpours but I’ve learnt to roll with the seasons and take each day as it comes. But there will always be a little bit of England that stays with me – I do love talking about the weather…

“I don’t know what lies around the bend, but I’m going to believe that the best does.” (Anne of Green Gables)

Mothering nature

I know one shouldn’t have favourites but I do have a special fondness for certain plantings in the gardens. Take my cacti for example; in particular the giant Agaves which were given to me some years ago by a bloke in the village who’d had a bit of an over-breeding problem. It’s not that they are especially attractive to look at, spiny fingers and all, or because you don’t have to water them – I like their maternal attitude towards their young. Okay, there’s probably a botanist out there who thinks I’ve been out in the sun too long but I notice things. The Mama (of course, female) Agaves keep their babes shaded under giant wing-like arms, of which they have many due to the number produced. At least, I like to think so.

We have an instinctive need to protect, us mums. Callum maybe on the other side of the world but it doesn’t stop me worrying about him. That and having a bit of a problem moving files off my phone which required his expertise and every ounce of his patience to deal with my ineptitude. However, I have loosened the cord a little now that he has Reilly in his life and judging by the latest bunch of photos, makes my son very happy. I could fret over the woofers instead although they seem blissfully unaware of my nurturing tendencies. Arry turned 10 years old yesterday and judging by the picture D took of us, he is faring much better than me. Yes, he has touches of grey around his muzzle but his eternally positive outlook on life obviously works; I’ve got more creases than an accordion.

Speaking of wrinkles or perhaps the lack of them, I spent most of the beginning of last week getting the house and grounds ready for our first viewing. With the petanque ground having not a weed in sight and the pool deck artfully decorated with beach towels and cushions, I loaded the woofers into the camion and putt putted off to find a parking spot far enough away so the visitors wouldn’t be able to hear their singing. Naturally, I looked for a shady nook; it was early in the morning but the current weather ignores such hours and having succeeded, turned off the engine and opened my Spelling Bee app. I suppose one should take it as a big plus that the couple spent an hour pottering about our fabulous property but the sun does move in the sky. One of us was sweltering and it didn’t have four paws. They were all fine as the back of the van has no windows and it stays cool but me, no. By the time I drove back the short distance to home, my wrinkles had rivulets and Denis had to put the blasted thing back in the driveway lest my hands slipped off the wheel. And that’s why I love my Mama Agaves. They sit out in 40 degree heat, keeping their little ones under cover without a single complaint. Mind you, I can’t help but feel a pinch of envy when I stroke their smooth, un-furrowed foliage…

“People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.” (James Joyce)

Cloudless skies and hazy horizons

Aside from finally signing the ‘Compatabilité’ for what will eventually be my next home, it’s been a quiet week down here. And just as well because any attempt to take more than two steps outside leaves you drenched in sweat and searching for breath – the heat is back with a vengeance. Thankfully the wind has died down which means most of the wildfires can be contained, between the smell of smoke and a horizon hidden by a grey cloud its been a little nerve-racking to put it mildly. The devastation is only 50 or so kilometres from us so the skies have been filled with the constant thrum of helicopters ferrying massive water bags to the zone, one flew so low I did wonder if our pool was about to be drained – not a problem but I was in it at the time.

With not wanting to step foot into the garden unless absolutely necessary, essentials being drag the hose around what is still just about living or having a quick cool off in the piscine, I decided to tackle the garage and workshop instead. I’m sure we aren’t the only family who can fill a giant building with things that no longer work or ‘might come in useful one day even though they’ve sat there for 5 years’ but the time has come for a clean-up – our first potential purchasers are coming on Wednesday. Of course, we are all hoping they will be wowed by our impressive mansion and I’ve told the woofers that we will be going for a little ride in the camion that morning – they are not a good selling point. Mind you, I am going to artfully display a few of my pricier wares around the apartment – these peeps are coming from Paris you know.

Speaking of making things presentable, D and I have much to do beforehand – the petanque ground needs clearing of weeds and the back fence is covered in brambles. It is quite amazing that these evil creatures can survive when the surrounding vegetation is barely clinging to life. I had to dig up the little lilac trees this morning and put them in water before they got burnt to a frizzle which ended up with me draped over the kitchen fan for an hour. Such acts of selfishness do not please the woofers who are currently draped strategically around the apartment tiles to get the best airflow and I’m inhaling copious amounts of dog hair as a result. Still, mustn’t grumble, as Denis pointed out to me yesterday, their new home currently has no shade on it whatsoever. I’m going to have to save a few more trees here to take over there…

“Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.” (Russell Baker)

Making the most of the views

Is it me or did July just disappear? Mind you, it’s taken the less than desirable weather and my gloomy mood with it so I’m not the only one who’s pleased to see the back of last month. The sun is back for a start and the main house has bodies in it once again – nephews Louis and Maxime are back. Not only does this mean I don’t have to scare myself silly locking the place up every night what with all the eerie creaks and groans about but with any luck the mice who’ve been leaving their deposits in the kitchen cupboards will move out. Sappy’s back too. I can’t say ours was a joyful reunion, Mumo’s former pooch and I have what some may call, a cool relationship, but her presence should be enough to send the critters curb-side.

To be honest, meeses don’t bother me but now that we have changed estate agents (I didn’t like the last one and he did f-all), the place had to be photographed again and no-one wants to hear little pitapats let alone their scant disregard for health and hygiene. I’m still not convinced we will get any potential buyers before the end of the summer but at least with the boys here and their dad, brother Simon, popping in most weekends, we can make the most out of this place especially the pool. As much as I love being able to plunge into its cool depths every afternoon, it doesn’t half get boring when you’re doing it alone – not counting Arry’s shark impressions.

Actually, I haven’t really had that much lone time over the past week. There was a visit from Denis’ eldest daughter Deborah who’d popped down from Paris which of course led to a thoroughly enjoyable barbecue one evening and then another spent with our bosom buddies over at Bruce and Suzy’s a couple of doors away. Anyone who knows the couple will tell you that such get-togethers tend to involve more than a few bottles of wine and I ended up almost knocked out on the cobblestones after an overly-enthusiastic hug from Suz. Alas the week that was had Abraham saying goodbye as he drove back up to the big smoke but he’s promised me he will return next year and we will think about re-opening Le Jardin when he does.

Mind you, I might have a slightly longer walk to get there in the not too distant future. Having thrown a strop over the elevated price of the property, it was pointed out to me that this was because the land has a little more acreage than what was initially on the plan. So I’ve decided to make the leap. Actually it’s more of a climb as most of it is on a hill but the view is everything this girl could ask for. There’s more than enough terrain for the woofers even if, as yet, there isn’t much else. Like a house for example and maybe a pool? Well, I’ve built a pool before…

““You can have more than one home. You can carry your roots with you, and decide where they grow.” (Henning Mankell)

Loopy legalese

If one felt like making an addition to the syllabus for ‘Widow 101’ DipEd. BSc. PHD, it should read ‘When it comes to anything administrative especially legal matters, please make this more difficult than it needs to be. Oh, and make sure she has to do it all in French’. Considering what the past week has thrown at me, I should have dents in my forehead from all the wall bashing except that the woofers are very sensitive to their carer’s moods so they’ve had to bear excessive hugging instead. I’m not going to thank the Gods that I have so much fur to bury my screams in, they’re being far too mischievous right now.

It all started with what I assumed was a simple matter, insuring the van, but no. For reasons I know not, the French Government love changing rules. Often. And they make sure you don’t have the necessary paperwork to hand that they’ve just decided you need. So now I need to go to Limoux tomorrow to get one itsy bitsy document for my car so that the big white wagon can be legally driven – bonkers. To be honest, I never drive the damn thing but brother Tim needs it to shift some stuff and I’m a very nice sister. However, that’s been the least of my headaches. Just as I thought my dream of finally having my own home was about to become a reality, on opening the email from the lawyers, I discovered that the seller had upped the asking price. Poor Denis who had to listen to my ‘why me’s’ all over again, assured me that prices are always negotiable and he knows the landowner of course. So now I need to write a couple of very polite emails when I really want to pen something else. I’ll not mention that I’m short of £60k because I’m still waiting for the Montpelier apartment to be sold and I don’t have any rich relatives to beg a loan off but Denis, always the optimistic, has reminded me how long the legals take to complete such matters so I’m not going to hit the panic button just yet.

I blame the weather. I’m an Englishwoman after all. Cloudy skies and sudden downpours do not maketh for happy smiles especially when one has planned a dinner party which ended up with everyone squeezed round a table in my less than spacious my living room. Still, it gave me a chance to off-load my frustrations with my very amiable amis who are always up for a lively discussion about such things. At least with the skies outside being somewhat gloomy and the pool out of action unless you’re planning on an ice bath, there is always my bijoux to boost the spirit. My mini enterprise is doing rather well thank you and I’ve even been asked to sell my trinkets in Carcassonne – go me. Mind you, that would mean going to the Chamber of Commerce to get the required permit to do so and that entails paperwork, French style…

“Paperwork wouldn’t be so bad even it weren’t for all the paper. And the work.” (Darynda Jones)

Hairy situations

I got a message from Callum the other day. He wanted to know if I had any photos of Tony back when he had a lot of hair; our son was in his words, ‘rediscovering his curls and wanted to replicate his dad’s’. Since I really couldn’t be bothered to trawl through the mountains of albums up in the loft space, I dug out what I had to hand and sent them off. It wasn’t until Callum commented on the fact that Tony’s hairline was already receding by the time I met him that I took a closer look and saw the man-child’s reflection smiling back at me. Even though most of those pictures were taken 30 plus years ago, his lad is now a similar age to when they were done and the resemblance between the two is uncanny. Mind you, Callum wasn’t too happy about his barnet going backwards so young despite me saying he shares my genes too and I’ve got plenty up top.

And I’m not the only one. Having had my brothers and sister back home the week before, this one saw the return of our favourite Rasta – Abraham’s back even if it’s just for the holidays. Naturally, as soon as our dread-locked darling arrived, a little get-together was in store so Denis and I took up the invitation to dine at Joel’s place deep in the woods above Rouffiac. Joel, fondly known as Tonton to Abs because he’s always been there for him, lives, well let’s just say, a little more than off the grid. It was the first time I’d seen his home and I did fall more than a little in love. Over good wine and a fabulous barbecue, I mused to myself as to whether this lifestyle might be right up my tree what with the open plan living area he had created to take in the best view of the surrounding landscape and all the recycled and refreshed furnishings but the dream wilted fast. Put it this way, I kept my bladder in check when I noted where the toilet was and it wasn’t inside.

Catching up with old friends is one thing but an unwelcome visitor was almost nabbed by the woofers on Friday. As is the norm, when I’m the only one in residence, the woofers get free rein over the grounds. I say this because brother Simon can’t stand their noisy banter with the village pooches passing in front of the gate. Anyway, I was busy picking up after my not so adorable pets when I noticed a large tabby cat sunning itself in the top corner. Knowing what my lot are capable of when it comes to felling felines, I tried to shoo the bloody thing over the nearby wall but it took off in the other direction and straight into the firing line. Arry may not be as agile as he used to be but the terriers move like bullets. How it got over the fence with Alice and Sherman literally on its tail, who knows but it’s most certainly one life down. The two spent the rest of the morning hiding in the shadows ready to ambush the intruder should it return. I only hope the cat’s carer didn’t noticed the bald patches…

“A hair in the head is worth two in the brush” (William Hazlitt)

Traditions and tardiness

Ever since they made their home here in South-West France, at L’Horte to be precise, Mumo and Pop had had a rule; summer was for family. There were the occasional visits by old friends and relatives but July and August were, more often than not, reserved for us four siblings and our fledglings. Now, with both our parents no longer with us, this house on the market and, for Simon and I, grown up kids living their own lives, such a wish might become more difficult to fulfil. But we managed it last week, even if for only a few days, so that we could lay our mother to rest next to our father yesterday(and the three family German Shepherds) over at the old homestead. L’Horte.

In typical Collins’ fashion, things never go entirely to plan. The weather forecast decided that Saturday was a great day to spring a storm on us – you will be happy to hear that after writing my blog last Sunday, that night we had a decent rain shower by the way. With thunder rolling in the background and the humidity rising, us four plus Denis, my niece Katie, nephew Louis and with Callum joining us by phone, drove the short hop from here to there to say our final goodbyes. Naturally we had to wait for brother Moth, punctuality is not a word he has ever recognised but eventually, an hour later than planned, his van appeared and we got underway. For some reason, I ended up being the one to open the cardboard container and going first with the sprinkling. Moth pointed out that I should stand downwind to which I replied that previous experience (those who read the book will tell you) has taught me well. Suffice to say, we all took our turns and several photos of us together before wandering back over the well-worn paths of another time.

As said, plans and Collins’ rarely mix well. By the time we got back to Rouffiac, the sky had turned black and the heavens opened. With the original idea of having a barbecue by the pool nixed in favour of staying dry, Denis did his thing with the hot coals under the remise whilst we all caught up on everyone’s news over bottles of our parents’ favourite wine. Well, I say everyone but Moth was late again having gone back to his house to pick up his partner, Hilde. How a 40 minute round trip turned into 2 hours is something only my little brother could tell you and I’m not sure even he knows. Still, it ended up being a really special night with my sibs if all too short. Bong flew back to New York this morning and Louis and Katie will be off in the next day or so. Moth’s back at Badens (his home in Cenne-Monastiés) but at least he will be staying around until August even if sightings will be rare. Simon and Alba will no doubt spend as much time between here and Narbonne. And then there’s me. Well, I’ll be staying put in this little village, Gods willing, although I still can’t spill the beans yet. My new pad isn’t going to big enough to host the family but with three of us owning a little bit of South-West France, my sister already has plans for next year’s reunion. She’d best have a word with Moth now…

“Your siblings are the only people in the world who know what it’s like to have been brought up the way you were.” ( Betsy Cohen)

Scorched earth and spider ouchies

Denis got bitten by a spider last Wednesday. It managed to get in his shoe and left a couple of teeth marks for good measure. Naturally, him being him, he refused to go to the doctor and went off fishing instead and came back with his foot looking like it had swallowed a watermelon. Luckily his niece knows a thing or two about medical care because I’m a useless nurse and dosed him up proper; the extremity almost back to normal size the next day. Although I highly doubt it was the same arachnid that chomped my hand a couple of years ago, we’re probably both super-powered now.

You couldn’t really blame the critter for crawling into his sock and wanting a bit of sustenance – it’s dry as the Gobi desert out there and the forecast isn’t looking hopeful for the poor garden and its inhabitants. Even the woofers have turned into sloths, barely moving until it’s time for my afternoon swim which for no reason whatsoever gets them all hyped up. I now have three ‘oases’ dotted around the shadier terrain for the wildlife which, by the morning, are empty. The whole area is weirdly quiet, save the chirping cicadas and the distant rumble of Canadairs fighting the inevitable wildfires. There was a pathetic attempt to release a few rain drops from above yesterday afternoon, barely enough to soak an ant let alone a flower or two. Yet, amazingly, some flora and fauna are surviving; the oleanders and roses are still in bloom although the latter do get a bit of hosing by their long-suffering carer. I’ve had to cover the pipes to keep the water temperature down. Mercifully, the thermometer has dropped below 30 degrees today and is due to stay a little cooler for tomorrow too. But no pluie on the horizon alas.

Still, one mustn’t complain too much especially as the warm weather means getting together with friends and doing the fête rounds; something my body keeps telling me I’m too old to be doing. Last night was the annual trip to the village next door for a bit of boogieing Preixan-style. To be honest, I almost bailed out due to the previous evening spent working on Witch Wackle stuff with Spider-Man until the wee hours and then yesterday’s birthday celebration lunch for his mum but I dragged out my dancing flip-flops nevertheless and got home at two this morning. Probably not the wisest move as we’d left the woofers to snooze under the starry sky so woke up the neighbourhood on re-entry. Should have used the front door like normal people…

“I drifted into a summer-nap under the hot shade of July, serenaded by a cicada lullaby, to drowsy-warm dreams of distant thunder” (Terri Guillemets)