Heat and healing

It’s hot out there folks. The woofers have retreated under cover or in Mo’s case, under the pool deck and I’m spending far too much time rescuing bees from the water above – Titanic style. Poor things are desperate to have a drink but I do wish they would use the bowls available in the garden and not try and kill themselves with chlorine. Mind you, with the outside temperatures nearing 40 degrees, any idea of cooling off with a nice swim can be forgotten, it’s like warm soup in there. And even if you did want to lounge under the parasols on the deck, you’d have to take breathing apparatus with you – the blisteringly dry air burns down your throat. Denis and I are desperately trying to keep the young plantings hydrated which would be so much easier if the man with the drill pipe had been and gone, unfortunately he’s broken his compressor bit so we have to wait until it’s fixed. To make matters worse, my hopeful harvest of the grapevine has been dashed as all the grapes have reduced to black bullets. According to a local vigneron pal, I’m not the only one suffering the loss – there’s a new fungus about that loves destroying the white variety which could be devastating for next year’s wine.

Tending to nature has been the least of my stress over the last week, my sanity only saved by having the most accommodating guests in Phil and Rosie. Sadly they left on Wednesday but not before having the chance to dine out under the stars chez Abraham and join in on a bongo drum session the night before they departed. As much as I wanted the two of them to experience a little bit of what I’ve come to love down here, chilling out with a few of my close amis, after the day I’d had the evening couldn’t have been better prescribed. Mumo really wasn’t well so thanks to our next-door neighbour, Louise aka La Contessa, we got an ‘in’ with the gastroenterology department at Clinique Montréal in Carcassonne which resulted in an 8 hour stay in the hospital’s emergency. There’s not a whole lot to do whilst plugged into a drip in a room bereft of interest but I did my best to keep her amused. To respect Mumo’s privacy, I’ll not say what the problem was but I will say she is feeling much better especially since the diagnosis turned out not to be serious and she was released the same day.

Laughter may be said to be the best medicine but for Mumo (and myself), the arrival of her eldest grandson and his new girlfriend probably tops that. Louis and Lenaya (spelling of which I do not yet know) have been brilliant company for her and the fact that his cherie is as as passionate about the environment as I am and can talk as long as I can is the best anti-stress tonic. And she understands the need to use the basins in the sink rather than letting the water run straight down the plughole unlike most of my family so the remains of the washing up can soak a bit of flora and fauna. And Lenaya is the only new face to my family either. Yesterday I finally got to meet and hold Denis’ latest grand-daughter Ana who really is quite a star, never crying once as she was handed around like pass the parcel. For all the ups and downs and aggravation this summer has so far thrown at me, there’s nothing like meeting the future to bring a breath of fresh air into your life…

“We need old friends to help us grow old and new friends to help us stay young.” (Letty Cottin Pogrebin)

New life, old friends

If there was ever a week needed to lift the mood, it’s been the past one. There’s nothing better than being amongst friends to clear the blues and lift the soul. Any traces of self-pity were washed away with the arrival of my old friend Phil and his gal pal Rosie who’ve popped over from the U.K to spend a week sight-seeing and Sophi-seeing. I admit the late nights and buckets of wine did catch up with me last night but all the hugging and catching up was worth the bleary eyes.

And it’s not just me who is profiting from the company – Mumo who is still recovering from a bout of something unknown, has brightened up considerably having these two around and Alice Border Terrier has turned into Rosie’s stalker. Whilst this was the first time of meeting Rosie, Phil has been part of my life for 30 years or even though I haven’t seen him in almost 4 of them. I wasn’t sure if the woofers remembered him but Arry certainly did, screeching at top volume and delightedly placing his favourite rocks at his old buddy’s feet. Actually that’s normal behaviour for my over-sized delinquent of a German Shepherd but the reunion was quite tear-jerking. And since their arrival, the two have been out exploring the wonders of our little part of France under the glorious August sunshine before relaxing over a bottle or two with myself, Denis and Mumo in the evening. And I even threw in a little tour of my own, taking Rosie and Phil up to our local vineyard for a tasting and a guide around the workings of Laetitia’s small but exclusive enterprise. I got Phil a bit tiddly too.

I say glorious August sunshine because unlike the usual last month of the summer, the temperature has stayed mostly in the lower thirties making getting out and about a pleasure rather than the normal 40 degrees burn the back of your throat that we have come to expect. The pool, although having the need to be topped up every once in a while, is perfectly swimmable – it would be nicer if the man with the drill pipe would turn up so we could refill for free but as I’m enjoying this feeling of serenity, I’ll leave that problem until my guests have departed. If there was anything that could put the icing on the cake so to speak, it would be a nice rainstorm to soak the poor garden – we almost got one on the one night I didn’t want one but thankfully it passed through.

For that Denis and I were very grateful as Friday night was all about barbecues and petanque and a chance for me to introduce Phil and Rosie to mes amis, those who have become an integral part of my new life here in Rouffiac. And if you’re wondering, Phil highly approves of Denis. And Denis likes him too. Special coming from Tony’s best friend and one of the very few of my T’s inner circle that has stayed in touch. Anyway, back to the petanque party. Well, everyone had a blast with the locals teaching the newbies how to play their favourite game before the night drew in and energies turned to a right good boogie into the wee hours. Phil told me the other morning how relaxed I was, no longer the stressed out city girl that once was. No wonder, being around friends both old and new – there’s nothing more soothing for the soul. Even if, apparently and according to my dear friend, I still can’t stop talking. Or moving…

“There are friends, there is family, and then there are friends that become family.” ( Unknown)

Welling up in all the wrong places

As week’s go, the past one has been pants. Those of you who are familiar with my weekly musings will no that I never, okay very very rarely, cry but by yesterday morning I was reduced to a blubbering wreck drenching Denis’ shoulder. Mentally, physically and emotionally, I had reached my limit hence the meltdown. The Gods had been out in full force and I was the target.

It all started on Sunday night when I heard Sherman barking on the pool deck. Now the last time he did this was when the pool sprung its first leak so having spent Lord-knows how long fixing all the other flipping fuites, you can understand why I pelted down the balcony staircase in a panic. Only this time it wasn’t what was coming out, it was what had got in – one of the magpies was frantically trying to get itself up and away but was too soaked to do so. I grabbed the net pole and managed to whisk the poor bird out and onto the grass before running inside to grab a blanket to dry it off. I say it as I have no idea how to sex a bird but Bert or maybe Skirt was still too wet to spread their wings so I waited until it waddled off exhaustedly to recover under some bushes. My hopes were raised the following morning when I couldn’t see any sign of feathers or bird but dashed a few minutes later when I found it dead in the pool with a broken neck. Why it got back in there I will never know. The more worrying thing was that the magpie couple built a nest in one of my neighbour’s trees and I could hear the chicks. A couple of days later I saw its other half searching the garden before flying away in the opposite direction from the babies and I haven’t heard or seen the magpie since. I buried the partner by the wall under the tree. I shouldn’t get so emotional about a wild bird but I did – losing a loved one is something I know too well.

After that, well the ball carried on rolling downhill. Having decided to separate myself from the visiting family so that they could have Mumo to themselves, I ended up basically living in isolation upstairs. What I thought would be quite fun and a chance to finish upholstering a long overdue chair job and sketch the village map that I’d promised the Mayor I’d do but hadn’t got round to doing ended up being a thoroughly miserable experience not least because I missed Mumo dreadfully and she’s a little under the weather at the moment. Having told Denis not to worry about me eating alone as he had a house-sitting to take care of and a chance to catch up with some very old but not seen for ages friends, my appetite went out the balcony doors along with my stomach. To put it another way, me and my loo got very intimate. And to add to my self-pitying, all the family splashing around the pool led to one of the patches splitting so I was back scuba side sticking mountains of glue in the watery depths and trying to avoid turning my unnaturally blonde hair emerald green. There so much sticky stuff down there now, the corner looks like someone’s being trying to create an ice sculpture – less Rodin and more Rodney.

The last sentence wouldn’t have tipped me over the edge if it wasn’t for the non-arrival of the man what was supposed to drill the water pipe. Once again. At least this time he did have the decency to ring me albeit several hours after the confirmed 8 a.m rendezvous. One of his drill bits had broken the day before and he was very very sorry and promised that he would do what he need to do this coming week. ASAP. Luckily for him, I’d already put snot and sobs all over D’s T-shirt so he didn’t have to experience a woman wailing down the phone.

Thankfully, I woke up this morning in a more positive frame of mind having spent last night chilling out as usual down at Le Jardin with mes amies. The pipe will be done this week and better still, Phil is coming to stay. I haven’t seen him since I left the UK all those years ago so can’t wait for an old friend’s hugs. If you don’t know who Phil is, you haven’t read my book have you? I have warned him about the heat, we are moving towards a chaleur with August beckoning and to bring long trousers for the evenings unless you want to keep the mosquito population rising. I might suggest sturdy shoes as well as the ground is rock-hard with the lack of rain, the break your ankle kind but with any luck and positive vibes and two fingers up the the Gods, we will be able to keep the flora and fauna blooming once the water bubbles up from the depths of the front lawn. And I will actually be able to have an actual swim in the pool instead of plugging its bottom corners. Who knows, maybe one day soon I’ll write a blog that doesn’t have a single mention of the bloody thing? That’d be enough to wipe the tears and put a smile on any girl’s face…

“When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.” (Franklin D. Roosevelt)

It’s the little things in life

You could be forgiven for thinking that spending every afternoon for the past week in the bloody pool whilst the sun turned your back into mahogany brown was peachy perfect – it wasn’t. But fingers crossed, I think I have finally found and plugged the teeny weeny hole in the liner. At the bottom of the pool. After God-knows how many tubes of glue bought and smeared around every seam along the walls and floor, the flippin’ fissure ended up being in one of the corners. Trust me, there is nothing fun about shoving mountains of goo underwater and for some reason unknown to man or woman, standing still in water whilst holding down a patch makes you need the loo every five minutes.

As mentioned above, the sun has come out for mid-July in full force with the thermometer barely dropping below 30 even at night. With the poor woofers flopped out in any available shade, I’ve taken to leaving the balcony doors open after sundown so they can sleep out on the terrace which of course they don’t do and instead choose to pant incessantly in the heat of my bedroom. And before anyone gets any funny ideas about a woman sleeping alone with her terrace vitres wide open, Neo may be getting older but he still has his full set of well-used teeth and Arry likes to spread himself out over the right hand side of my sheets.

At least now I can actually get on with finishing all the other half-done projects. Denis and I have begun putting the fixtures and fittings into the outdoor kitchen below my balcony although we still need to buy a fridge. We did try to find a second-hand one but a) they were all too big and b) all extremely expensive. Might as well buy a new one at that price and a guarantee to go with it. I did however purchase the perfect top for the piece of palm we found down by the river, a bargain at 15 euros. All that’s need is more gluing and it’ll be ready for morning coffee. Or relaxing by with a nice ice-cold beer at the end of a sweaty day.

Speaking of chilling out with a glass on a warm summer evening, the last couple of nights have been spent raising them in a toast to Denis who became a grandfather for the second time. Baby Ana was born in the wee hours of Thursday morning, healthily weighing in at 3.3 kilos. I haven’t had a chance to go and see her yet but parents Yoan and Inaya have been sending daily photos of their second daughter who I’m told looks much like her mother but Denis says looks like a newborn at the moment. I’m sure she’s absolutely gorgeous and will stay that way if I avoid holding her – babies tend to start screaming as soon as I pick them up. Must be the witch in me.

With all the pool plugging and baby gushing, I’m hoping next week will be a quiet one although with my sister and her girls arriving on Tuesday, I expect not. Mind you, I adore my nieces and so do the woofers so a little disturbance of my Zen would not be unwelcome. After the last couple of months of swearing and sighing over all things water-related, the sound of swimming and splashing around will be just what the doctor ordered and speaking of orders, the man with the drill pipe is coming on Saturday. I mean he did say he was coming at the beginning of the month which was two weeks ago but better late than never. Now, with luck and fingers permanently crossed, summer can finally begin…

“Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability.” (Sam Keen)

Black cats and bad mojo

Over dinner last night with brother Simon and my sis-in law, Alba, the subject of superstition came up. Being one who would blame her choice of belly button rings on a bad day, it was interesting to find out that many beliefs are the same in France. Saluting or saying good morning to magpies for example and hoping you see a pair, frantically searching for a piece of wood to touch when you say something you hope will come true, Friday the 13th doom and walking under ladders. It has to be said, my list of taboos made for much raising of eyebrows and guffawing – I find nothing odd in holding your collar when I see an ambulance and not letting go until a white car appears, at least I don’t blame the sight of a black cat on my car breaking down like Denis. Mind you, perhaps I should pay a bit more attention to that chat noir who lives a few doors down if last week was anything to go by.

For a start, the planned pipeline didn’t happen because the bloke didn’t show up so yet again, D and I wasted a whole day waiting for him. To be honest, I’ve got to the point where I’m just going to fill the bloody pool anyway and hope the man what drills holes in the ground appears sometime in the near future. In brief, we have a water seam several metres below the front garden and permission from the Mayor to put in a well and use the free stuff for everything outside but not for drinking. Considering how much water we need for the foliage and to top up the piscine, it’s going to be money well spent. If he ever turns up. Even though, we have had a couple of decent downpours in the last few days, the hot weather and equally dry wind have soaked up most of what came down. Still, after another little temper tantrum, I changed my belly ring again and left no wood untouched so I’m sure all will be tickety boo very soon.

It probably doesn’t help that the woofers have decided that when the sun rises so must I. Yogi is always the first, the gentle pitter patter of bear paws waking me somewhere around 6 a.m so I can let him and the others downstairs to do what needs to be done and have a good shout at the neighbourhood dogs who have also dragged their owners out of bed for a little walkies. Luckily my lot have enough land to exercise even if the front gate is the best place to let off steam. If being stirred from my slumber isn’t bad enough, Mo Cridhe is suffering with very loose bowels at the moment which, if anyone has ever had a disabled dog would know, is not a pleasant experience first thing in the morning.

It hasn’t all been stress and strife though. Denis and I were invited to our friends Pacs on Friday evening, what we call in English a civil partnership. The setting was stunning, a wedding venue place about 10 minutes or so away although my GPS decided to take the scenic route so added an extra 15 on. Since I was driving, I stayed teetotal which was just as well as the drinks weren’t served until about an hour after everyone’s arrival and we left before the meal as it was getting close to 10 p.m. I’m not sure what caused the delay in service but I’ve got my money on the tent’s fairy lights – they weren’t set out on straight lines you see. Taboo.

At least we now have the petanque area to distract ourselves from the bad mojo sneaking around. Denis gave me my first lesson the other day which went pretty well. Of course I lost but at least this time, the ball stayed in the ring so to speak and Denis came out unscathed. And surprisingly so did Alice and Sherman who did their best to disrupt play, namely lying down in the middle of the ground or staring vacantly into space as close as possible to the cochon (the small ball that you’re trying to get your metal sphere next to. Not that we minded. After all, my two lively Border terriers are very good at keeping black cats well away and have no idea what the date is today or any other day…

“A black cat passing by the crossroad can stop hundreds of people, what a red light on traffic signal has failed to do for a long time.” (Nitya Prakash)

Ducking curveballs

Over a conversation with friends the other night, the subject of planning or not planning the future came up. Saba and Roy were on the ‘always good to plan ahead’ side whereas Denis and I were on the ‘live for today’ one. Apart from deciding what needs to be done garden-wise, we rarely make plans although I do keep a diary for things like medical appointments, weddings and such-like. Other people’s weddings, don’t get excited – we like our life just how it is.

And even if you could predict the future, life has a habit of throwing curveballs when you least expect them and forget to duck. Take last week’s weather for example – one day scorching hot and in the 30’s, the next thunderstorms and near flood conditions with temperatures 10 degrees lower. I had to dig out a winter jumper last night. And then there was what was supposed to be the grand pool refill but D got the wrong Saturday (it’s this coming one) so we wasted a whole day waiting for the man to show up which put me in a very grumpy mood but actually, even that worked out for the best. There’s still a small leak somewhere and I need to vacuum up all the sand the rain has dumped on the pool bed which is easier when it’s half empty. Such hiccups also gave me time to finish the petanque tent accessories although we are missing one cushion as the sewing machine decided to pack up.

My attempts at fixing the above contraption left me in a worse temper than that which comes as standard with the bloody pool so much so that I really didn’t want to go out last night to the annual fête in neighbouring Preixan – something I’d been looking forward to for months. However, not wanting to let Denis or our friends down, I reluctantly put on a happy face and my dancing shoes before popping over to my man’s place for a pre-boogie dinner. Well, it was bucketing down and as we sat on his terrace watching the black clouds sit overhead, the phone rang. Did we want to go over to Le Jardin instead? Apparently the crowds in Preixan had made parking near impossible and there had been a bit of trouble, fisticuff style the night before. So we did and what a fabulous night it turned out to be. Sometimes, what you don’t think you want turns out to be just what you needed.

And what do you know? It’s turned out nice again today. Bikini and shorts are back on and the woofers spread out under the trees instead of my feet. Time to do my best Esther Williams impression and find the pesky hole in the liner. I could leave it until tomorrow and have the help of D but tomorrow is another day and another curve ball to watch out for. Where’s my baseball mitt?…

“Forever is composed of nows.” (Emily Dickinson)

Pongy plums and precious pieces

Is it just me or has June been a ‘blink and you miss it’ kind of month? One minute we’re wearing woolies and the next, we’re already past the summer equinox. And if last week was anything to go by, it’s getting hot around here. Mind you we did have a cracking thunderstorm yesterday and I mean, cracking. The lightning was so loud even I jumped out of my chair and most of the woofers shot indoors as if someone had fired at them. I say most as Sherman pootled in after the rush wondering what all the fuss was about – probably too busy searching for hedgehog paw prints, he’s obsessed by the spiny species. and has the battle scars to prove it. There are an unusually high number of them around at the moment, I think a combination of May’s wet weather and the abundance of stinking, rooten plums lying waste under their trees might have something to do with it. Over the last couple of weeks, I must have picked over 10 kilos of the little red fruit and that’s just from one tree and only about a quarter cleared so far. Denis wants to make plum wine which judging by the freezer collection should keep us going until Doomsday and the garden has already got the fermenting process underway.

I for one, will not be indulging as I’m taking a break from alcoholic fruits for a bit. Between all the parties and dinner dates, I have been indulging a little too much so apart from the odd ‘lite’ beer which brother Simon refers to as ‘flaky’, I’m being a good girl. And now that we have finished the petanque area, a nice sit-down after work in the shade of the mini-pavilion with a cold brew is just the ticket. I started making the cushion covers for the seating yesterday, something that required a lesson from Mumo as to how the sewing machine worked – I haven’t used one since I was a teenager and that got me thrown out of Home Economics (yes kids, we really did learn things like that back in the day). Still, my first attempt wasn’t that bad although the finished product does have the circumference of a badly fried egg instead of a donut. At least my finished armchair looks better than how it started out and as usual, just as with the woofers, I have become a failed fosterer again. I just can’t bring myself to sell it so now it has joined the rest of my mis-matched furniture up in the apartment. I’ve begun re-upholstering another abandoned acquisition downstairs which of course will no doubt end up upstairs.

It’s just as well that this particular parlour piece will be the last for a while as I really have to start clearing up a bit before the family onslaught next month. The workshop still has a bits of wrought iron bench de-rusting in one corner and a dismantled mobylette in the other – the latter waiting for some very hard to find motor bits. Then there is the half-finished outdoor kitchen to complete and a bit of radiator painting in the newly-painted room at the top of the main house. With any luck, brother Moth will get out of Kenya safely tonight after the recent uprising there and arrive for his birthday on Thursday. I might have some special news to share with him by then but still staying schtum for now.

Speaking of birthdays, I just want to say a quick thank-you to those who messaged me on Thursday. Whilst I don’t see the 27th as his birthday anymore, to me Tony will always be a far too young 56, it’s heartwarming to know you all think of him too. I’m not sure he’d be thrilled about Liverpool being below Arsenal in the standings at present but he’d be happy his friends remember him each year. I really wish he was down here instead of up there, he really really liked plums…

“Gardeners, I think, dream bigger dreams than emperors.” (Mary Cantwell)

Pining for a ping

Considering I grew up in a time before mobile phones were invented, spending almost a week without mine nearly sent me to the la la farm. You see, not only did one of the woofers eat through my charging cable but on having gone to the shop for a replacement, I discovered that the device itself wasn’t working. I really didn’t want to have to buy another one, not just because of the heart-stopping price but even if I did, I wouldn’t have a clue how to set it up without Callum’s help. So, I left it with the experts to hopefully sort out the problem. Surely a few days without it wouldn’t be an issue? Ha. As if. I spent most of last week in a foul mood save the couple of days spent with my dear friend Heidi who had stopped by on her way back from Spain to the UK – the best kind of therapy for a miserable mobile-missing gal.

It wasn’t that I used the thing very often other than to play music, WhatsApp Callum or message Denis at the beginning and the end of the day – the latter was the hardest as I know Callum is working ‘out of contact’ at the moment. It’s stupid, D only lives around the corner but one gets used to these little things and doesn’t realise how much until you can’t do it. Luckily, with the potager’s onions needing harvesting and the soil turned over again, there was enough work to keep us both occupied sans technology. And boy, were there a lot of onions. Our freezer is now packed to the gills with bags of the freshly picked and sliced veggie and so are several of those of our neighbours – I have suggested to D that we buy a few less next time.

Finding things to do to distract myself from the absence of contact wasn’t difficult. There are chairs to be stripped and painted for the new petanque pavilion and a half-filled pool to keep clean but with the weather changing every two seconds, I decided to crack on with drawing the village map that I had promised the Mayor. To be honest, I thought it would be easier than it was, after all there are only two main roads in Rouffiac but the number of wiggly tiny streets that lead off them is very confusing especially when the photocopied map in front of you doesn’t show them all. Still, after spending several hours painstakingly filling everything in, I went to bed feeling quite proud of myself. Until I woke up in the morning with the realisation I had drawn the whole thing the wrong way round – that is to say the left was on the right and the right on the left if you get the gist. So, I’ve had to erase all and start again, this time with a mirror over the copy – D’s bright idea.

As I mentioned earlier, Heidi and her dog, Tiffany dropped in on their way back to the mud island (no offence England but I gather its been a bit wet up there) so I could put the cock-up to one side and spend time just chatting and chilling on the terrace with an old friend. The woofers graciously allowed Tiffany to join us although their presence can be quite over-whelming for a single and rather beautiful Standard Poodle – Sherman was particularly taken but his amorous advances were put down with a paw, literally. Mind you, it was just my love-struck Border Terrier that fainted at Tiffany’s feet, a visit to our local vet to have her passport stamped for re-entry caused quite a stir. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dog being checked so thoroughly. Apparently, according to my vet, they only have one Standard Poodle on their books and not nearly as well-turned out as Tiff. As we walked out, I swear I saw the young Mastiff in the waiting room faint.

So, I’m off now to a birthday bash for D’s son, Yoan, complete with mobile phone in hand once more. I really really missed not checking the weather app every morning. It’s going to be hot hot hot next week…

“We are stuck with technology when what we really want is just stuff that works” (Douglas Adams)

Chews and Hues

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, anyone who thinks sharing your life with 8 dogs is a blissful existence doesn’t know my woofers. One of them has munched through my phone charger cable. I can rule out Simi, she only gets out of bed for food and since Yogi Bear only has three teeth, I doubt he’s capable of chewing through anything. Coco Loco wouldn’t either, far too dangerous for his sensitive soul and as for Arry, he’d have eaten the whole thing including the plug it was attached to. That leaves four although Mo rarely goes into my bedroom and Neo prefers human legs to electrical outlets so the most likely culprit is either Alice or Sherman. But since I don’t have a handy DNA kit lying about, I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to buy another charger – Denis did his best to find one I could borrow to no avail, gone are the days when one cable fitted all, modern times hmm. Naturally, the only person I know with the same make and model of my phone is Callum and of course, I can’t call him obviously and even if someone could, he’s off line working on a farm somewhere in South Australia.

At least whoever did the crime waited until the best of the weekend was over, it’s been quite a social whirl over the last few days. Friday marked the start of Le Petit Bistrot season, Rouffiac’s weekly village get-together. And since it was the first night so to speak, there was a whole lot of cheek-kissing and “ça va” ‘s as friends re-acquainted themselves after their winter hibernation before sitting down to catch up over a few glasses and partake in a less than light repas of sausage stew. Good for lining the stomach I suppose. The evening would have been almost perfect if it wasn’t for any attempt at conversation being drowned out by an over-excitable and very loud big band musical performance and the absence of our Graham who could probably hear the trumpet player in Scotland. You are missed darling.

With the start of summer just around the corner and the weather finally starting to remember as such, it’s time to hang up the running shoes until the Autumn. As much as I love wheezing up the hills surrounding us, the mornings are now too hot for Alice, Arry and Sherman and my body needs its annual repose but it would be nice if I could use the pool. The less said about that bloody chamber the better although with any luck, it will be fit for purpose in a couple of weeks. I shall keep schtum about that until it happens. Needless to say however, I’m not one for idle pursuits, most of last week has been spent finishing off the top room in the big house – carrying pots of paint and ladders up and down that staircase should be an Olympic activity. The once dingy pink wallpapered bedroom is now a calm, cream brush and roller job – several different shades as I wanted to use up all the nearly-empty tins left in the garage but no-one seems to have notice the subtle changes in hues.

And it’s not just the room at the top looking bright and cheerful, the gardens are looking pretty spectacular at the moment – we can thank miserable wet May for that. Denis and I have also given my terrace a bit of a make-over including repotting my citrus trees and a spot of geranium buying. Mind you, I should have taken more care over my colour choices as the pink that was once up there is now everywhere down here. At least the potager is gorgeously green and full of summer salad additions. It’s just as well I don’t like beetroot. And now that the trees are all in full leaf, the woofers can lounge about in shady nooks to recharge their batteries – a couple are looking a little too lively this morning however…

“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole. Unless they eat your shoes, then your life is a little less whole.” (Unknown)

Fruitful labour

With the start of June and temperatures rocketing into the 30s, last week was all about getting out and about. The soiree season has begun. Denis and I had back to back invites which of course we weren’t going to turn down, he fared better than me – by the third night in a row the thought of taking one sip of wine was enough to make my stomach roll and I was exhausted. Partly, I feel down to all those late nights getting the first draft of the Second Book finished but also having to deal with the bloody pool and the top bedroom’s wallpaper. The latter is just about cleared so I can start painting. Still, I thoroughly enjoyed catching up with those friends who have come out of hibernation for the summer and I can never turn down a Saturday night down at Le Jardin.

Speaking of gardens, ours is looking very fruitful. All that rain we had over the last couple of months has done it the world of good. The plum trees are sagging under the weight of yumminess and the ‘grenade‘ (pomegranates) is covered in bloom – a good omen. Then there’s the apricots, apples and figs, I have no idea what to do with all of it since its mostly just Mumo and I here, I’d set up a stall outside the front gate except the woofers’ over-excitement at the prospect of visitors would keep sales at bay. The potager is packed with veggies and salad and my carrots are ready for digging up. I am ridiculously proud of my carrots, it’s the first time I’ve grown them and they actually look like what they are supposed to look like. And as for “Domaine Stewart”, otherwise known as my grapevine, that’s groaning with tiny grapes. Apparently I need about 800 or so to make a bottle of wine – I haven’t counted mine but I doubt there’s enough to fill one of those mini bottles in a hotel fridge.

The week ahead is set to be a few degrees cooler, its currently raining which is no bad thing, so I can get on with all the other projects I’ve ignored so I could write the last paragraphs. For a former London lass who organised her life down to the finest detail, I seem to have an awful lot of jobs half-done lying around the various workspaces. I think the ‘à demain‘ attitude to life down here is finally starting to get under my skin although that isn’t to say I don’t still lose my rag when people don’t show up or ring back when they’re supposed to. Or when my mobile phone decides to turn its screen black for no reason whatsoever – thank Gods for twenty-somethings at soirees to which technology is easier than ABC’s. And boyfriends who hate seeing their other halves in a strop and know whose strings to pull to get things done so I can happily potter around our vast plot of abundance without losing mine. I shall refrain from singing “Summertime” as my voice tends to set the woofers off, they don’t like cats…

“Gardeners, I think, dream bigger dreams than emperors.” (Mary Cantwell)