Atmospheric additions

It may amuse you to learn that yesterday, the day before daylight savings declared the end of winter, the heating finally came back on. Yup, Monsieur le Max chauffagiste extraordinaire has managed to get the bloody boiler de-clogged and boosted up once more just in time for us to turn it off again. But not just yet; it’s blowing a hooley out there at the moment and not a warm one so being able to tuck up indoors with a roasting radiator or three is bliss for the woofers and me.

Not that I would have had time to appreciate the defrosting of my digits had the heat come on any earlier in the week as its been one of those spent everywhere except indoors. A busy few days indeed including another house viewing which I think went fairly well, probably because the tramontane decided to take a break that afternoon – in other words the noise from the main road was less obvious. I must say that the gardens are beginning to look fabulous thanks to Denis’ expertise and Spring springing up everywhere. If only one could actually stand outside and enjoy it without having facial features remoulded by 45 kilometere gusts or incur tinnitus by wind chime. Apparently we should see the back of the arctic blast by next weekend which bodes well for D’s annual family get-together Easter Monday. I of course shall bring my non-alcoholic Merlot of which I’ve developed quite a taste for.

Like I said, a whizz around kind of week. Simi, bless the old lady, had a vet visit since her infernal scratching has been keeping everyone up at night which resulted in a course of antibiotics and eye-watering expensive shampoo. I wouldn’t have minded so much if I hadn’t decided to buy the woofers new tick collars at the same time what with warmer weather hopefully on its way but then again, remember cigarette savings – very handy. And speaking of furballs, I popped round to strip out Contessa Louise’s pup’s coat next door, aka Alice’s other son who goes by the inappropriate name Slim; too many biscuits in that Border terrier belly. It’d been a while for a catch-up on all the village gossip from my well-informed neighbour who had just returned from a trip to Miami and was about to hotfoot it over to Lyon – she’ll be 90 in a couple of weeks.

And Louise wasn’t the only lovely lady I got to gas with. The newest member of our little spot deep in rural South-West France, Lisa (the Welsh one) invited D and I over for an aperitif on Friday evening which ended up being held at her next-doors – a beautifully eclectic and very large house owned by her landlords who are also recent additions to the flock. The same house that our Mayor had suggested I might be able to rent if needed. Hmm, those polished oak floors, antique tables and cream sofas I don’t think so and there was the small matter of a very large hissing feline in situ. I’d had plenty of time to take in the less than woofer-worthy aesthetics as it was at least an hour before we were offered any form of sustenance, liquid or solid – something a little odd for the French but it turned out we had to wait for the butter to soften enough for man of the house to spread on his bread. I kid you not. At least last night’s dinner with pals Sara and Adolphe was a much heartier hot pot affair in their ‘still doing up’ little abode. I shall miss Sara as she is off back to Scotland until the Autumn as her meds don’t mix well with summer down here and well, it is nearly April. A month when, I hope, will finally send a gentle breeze in the right direction for yours truly…

“March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb” (Proverb)

Bottoms up, get busy

I almost ended up on A&E on Tuesday morning due to an unfortunate incident that I am going to blame, in part, on the hospital appointment I was to attend a few hours later and the guidelines that had to be adhered to ahead of time. The notes sent by email with the confirmation of my radiology were strict; no eating, drinking or peeing 4 hours before your allotted slot – mine being 8.45 a.m. I’d booked it as I thought it would be easier on my bladder which of course, was a stupid idea as I am of a certain age where the mere thought that you might not be able to go makes you want to go. It was because of this worry that I ended up flat out on the kitchen floor having forgotten that a few seconds earlier I had mopped up a wee that one of my darling woofers had left for me. Luckily, the bottom hit first before the head so I landed up with nothing more than a large bruise on my derriere and nobody was rule checking that day. At least now I know what’s being going on inside the Soph. And I am sort of relieved no pun intended. Sort of as the very nice doctor said an ovarian cyst is nothing to worry about usually even if mine is a little on the large side and going under the knife isn’t on the agenda right now. It’s not as though I need the organ anymore as I told nephew Lou but I’m reliably told that such masses can disappear on their own which would be helpful.

Mind you, if one was to believe what is written in the stars, or planets in this case, the appearance of this week’s impressive Blood Moon was all about releasing the past and all that karmic cleansing stuff so who knows but now that I can put all that aside, I’m back on full creative mode even if Monsieur le météo has decided Spring should wait a little longer so the workshop is still my kitchen island. The once-spider haven bamboo is now halfway to being wind chimes and I’ve turned out some rather quirky pendants from various wind-blown branches in the garden. All very busy bee which is just as well as I’m all by my lonesome on this here property for the next few days which doesn’t really bother me as I’m quite enjoying my own company at the moment and Denis does pop in for an apero every evening. And, I have the woofers plus one at present as Louis needs me to look after Sappy until he comes back next weekend which, considering his dog and I don’t see eye to eye, makes me a very nice aunt.

Speaking of the house and its surroundings, we’ve had a couple of viewings this week. Unfortunately, both were rainy ones and the wind once again blowing the wrong way. In the 5 and a bit years I’ve lived here, I can honestly say I’ve never heard the noise from the main road but then again, I’ve not been listening for it but the potentials have and it appears to be the only problem with this place. Friday’s visitors were a husband and wife doctor team about to re-locate to the hospital I’d just been zapped in – I didn’t mention my association with the building as these two happened to be pulmonologists although I was proud of the absence of ashtrays. Shame as they seemed great fun and she wanted to put a yoga studio in the garage. They have a dog too. Still, we have a possible second look in the coming months from that friend of Moth’s which is positive and hopefully, with the trees back in leaf, any passing lorry will be merely a muffle and the display of colour around the garden a perfect distraction. In the meantime, there is always plenty to keep the mind positive about the road ahead and I hope, the posterior off the floor…

“Embrace the glorious mess that you are” (Elizabeth Gilbert)

Cold comforts and apple sauce

Without, I hope, sounding too bah humbag, that has to have been one of my most miserable Christmases and not because I didn’t have Mumo or the rest of the family here. That in itself would be bad enough but the boiler decided to break down so I’ve had no radiators radiating warmth for a week and it rained non-stop for 6 of those days. Oddly enough, the last time the heat packed up was back in 2020 – a time when none of us could share our dinner with loved ones and Mumo and I ended up sharing a duck breast over a tiny hall table being only the two of us. On the plus side, thanks to her, we now have a lovely fireplace down in living room downstairs so I can remain partially de-frosted until Max the chauffagiste can fix the wretched reservoir.

Okay, it hasn’t been all bad. Despite our number being somewhat diminished by the usual winter arrival of the flu bug, Denis and I did get to host a decent spread on Christmas Day in the big house thanks to that lovely fireplace. And as I was playing lady of the manor, I treated my French famille to something more traditional where I come from. I’m not entirely sure everyone liked the pudding but the brandy butter was washed down well and I had several requests for my apple sauce recipe – honestly I thought we stole the idea from them but I’ll take the compliments for us Brits. Present opening with the Collins’ is always after lunch which was a little stressful for D’s grand-daughter Maria – such excitements are usually on Christmas Eve for les enfants but she lasted well and with the help of some of the woofers who I sneaked in (big brother Simon will never know )and gifts under the tree, gave a more than passable impression of a shredder on max speed.

Spending the holiday season on my own for the first time is, well, a little strange. Okay, there are my beloved woofers who have to be dislodged from from various parts of my body every morning so I can be all-Cinders like and rush down the outside staircase to clean the fireplace before attempting to set light to it. You would imagine by this time, my furry bedspread would be leaping around their palatial land but no, they don’t like the frigid wet stuff anymore than me so stay snug under the duvet. Then of course, there is Denis who appears like a scruffy angel at regular intervals to revive my pathetic offerings to the heat Gods and those friends who rallied round with various plug-in radiators having heard of my plight. Yet, and even though the sun has finally decided to make a break for it and Monsieur le météo has kindly turned off the tap, I’m still feeling selfishly lonely at times. I blame the weather, I’m still English after all even if I haven’t spoken my mother tongue for what seems like eons and my jaw aches from all the vocal yoga but there’s a New Year just around the corner and with that, let’s hope, a little home on the top of a hill just up the road and to the right. Without a boiler but definitely, most definitely a fireplace…

See you all in 2026!

““There are better things ahead than any we leave behind.” (C.S. Lewis)

It’s in the way you view it

We had another viewing this week. The estate agent told me afterwards that the gentleman in question happened to be part of a certain very well-known Domaine family in these parts – actually you can get their Blanquette pretty much anywhere but I digress. Naturally, he loved the house and all its additions but as she put it, had one major issue – the view of the pool from the apartment terrace. No privacy. Now, admittedly the bloody thing is impossible to miss but, as I pointed out to the agent, you could always hide with a few giant oleanders or maybe just move the entire ensemble into the front garden. I was joking about the latter but I could see her brain cogs working.

Personally, if it had been me showing the gent around, I would have directed his gaze a little more to the left. That’s a view I never tire of. Okay, he may not have wanted to see the humungous steel grey vats of the winery below (not his after all) but it’s impossible not to let the eyes drift up into the hills beyond. It’s not that the landscape is particularly beautiful, quite bare really but there’s something incredibly peaceful about it. And of course, being an Englishwoman, one gets the weather forecast just by looking at the sky above it each morning. Today, gloomy with drizzle but at least mildly warmer than most of last week – flippin’ freezing. I’m not built for the cold, just putting a foot outside the door brings on frostbite. Still, it was a good excuse to stay indoors and finish the tableau for the billboard which I have but you’ll have to wait until Denis puts it in for a glimpse.

Yet, whilst it may be an eyesore to some, I’m hoping the pool is going to give me a different view in the coming months with the installation of a little present I bought for myself. Although I highly doubt that my camera trap will blow me away with the same nightlife little brother Moth gets on his – cheetahs and lions don’t tend to wander this way but the bowels of the piscine’s huge deck do provide a winter shelter for those out there in our bit of French wilderness. As per normal, I had to get nephew Maxime to figure out all its bells and whistles and set it to turn on in the middle of the night – no-one wants to see what the woofers get up to down there and nocturnal nature is so much more interesting. And speaking of my four-legged co-inhabitants, I managed to get them all in one place and eyes front for the annual Christmas photo so I can start ordering cards next week. Perhaps the nice gentleman might like one with a different viewpoint…

“The landscape belongs to the person who looks at it.” ( Ralph Waldo Emerson⁠)

Storm in a dog bowl

Just in case we’d forgotten what month we were in, what with all the autumnal sunshine of late, November reminded us this week. Three days of non-stop rain and bullet-grey skies. The old kayak we had at L’Horte would have come in useful as getting across the driveway or out of the front gate became less about jumping puddles and more about navigating the rapids. That being said, the tempest has run its course and we are back under blue skies once more which perhaps could be a metaphor for my over-worrying self this past week.

At least the deluge waited until after Thursday’s pootle; running up those trails is not exactly fun when your trainers are squelching and, as I’ve mused many times before, sunrise over the vines is a spectacular sight but not when you’re to busy trying to remove chunks of clay from your soles. We almost made it home and dry and would have if it wasn’t for Arry’s very rare change in pace – he just couldn’t keep up. Hence the worry.

I shall explain. A couple of weeks ago, I got an email from the vet clinic to make a few appointments for my ‘senior’ dogs – Arry included. I ruled out Simi, Neo, Coco and Mo – Simi has only recently been checked over and there’s no way a vet could examine Neo or Mo without full body armour. Arry on the other hand is a German Shepherd, as most of you will know, one with only two gears – full steam ahead or fast asleep, the latter only taken when the lights go out. But he is 10 years old and after a minor trip one morning, he seemed a little unsteady. Naturally, being me and having far too much experience with the breed, I whizzed my gorgeous idiot off to be scanned from head to tail. Note, what I just mentioned – two speeds which meant any chance of lying still for one second was out of the question so he needed sedating. Now, Arry and I have been through a lot over our years together and he’s had more lives than a cat but seeing him just flop into a comatose state was terrifying as was waiting for him to come out the other side. As he snoozed peacefully on the floor post-echograph, bloods and X rays, he suddenly looked old – when did this happen? Thankfully, all is okay, sort of. Arthritis in his lower back which means lots of physio but no sign of any of the other evils that tend to be associated with Shepherds. And he can still run the trails, exercise is good for him although a few less kilometres I think.

At least now with that storm in a dog bowl over and the forecast better, I can get back to work with Arry and his cohorts underfoot. I have my next appointment with the license department tomorrow morning at the slightly more reasonable hour of 9 a.m. which if the Gods are playing nice will mean I can make the Christmas markets. Let’s keep our fingers crossed for clear skies ahead, kayaks make me seasick…

““The nicest thing about the rain is that it always stops. Eventually.” (Eeyore)

Resolutions and wrinkles

Well, there you go, another week over and another year older. Yup, I’ve had my last birthday in my 50’s and, not being one to shy away from a good knees-up, I did it in style and suffered for it. My mind may think I’m still in my youth but the body does not. Still, knee joints aside, I had a cracking good night boogieing into the wee hours whilst consuming my body weight in pizza. And, aside from Denis providing my favourite nutrition, the weather stayed just about perfect so we could dine al fresco on my terrace surrounded by tripping hazards in the form of prone woofers.

I have to say I don’t feel 59 but then again I’ve never been 59 before. Whilst I’m sure the wrinkle count is doubling daily, I tend to avoid lengthy conversations with mirrors and being flat-chested, I’m lucky nothing’s sagging in that department. Callum tells me I look ‘pretty good’ for my age which is why he is the centre of my world, unlike brother Simon who pointed out I was really 60 minus 364 days yesterday – I should remind him that he is my older sibling. I suppose one should think about birthday resolutions and all that but, considering all the ups and too many downs over the past 12 months, I don’t think so. Maybe stop stressing so much and enjoy the now if my out of whack synapses will let me.

So, we’ve reached November and with it, chilly mornings and disappearing daylight. With not much to do in the garden and a workshop idling whilst I try to drum ideas for Christmas baubles, I decided to give the terrace a bit of a make-over. Admittedly, it’s probably not the season for adding what can only be described as summer lounging to the apartment’s exterior but it does give it a bit of a wow factor. Not that you can sit on any of it, the woofers have ruled out any chance of claiming a cushion and as everyone knows, my posterior doesn’t have a take a load off mode. That being said, I don’t think there is a more perfect place to let the mind wander in the peace of nature for a while. Actually, it’s not that peaceful – the garden is teeming with migrant visitors at the moment; the avian kind but the chatter is oddly welcoming as we head into Autumn’s last month. Winter may be around the corner and a new year beckoning but that’s yet to come and as the saying goes, age is just a number so me and 59 are going to be just fine. I’ll just try and keep myself away from my reflection and remember mornings after night befores…

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing.” (George Bernard Shaw)

Hoos and hums

Considering how much I had wound myself up about jumping into the fiery depths of land purchase in the previous blog, the events of last week turned out to be nothing more than a brief puff of smoke. That’s not to say nothing happened, we are talking about my life after all but between the meeting with the notaire and the following one with the architect, the gear stick is still firmly stuck in neutral. For a start, my lawyer discovered that the building permit bought back in 2012 needed to be re-applied for and the utilities turned back on again all resulting in having to write up another contract. Thankfully, none of these are my responsibility but they do take time. Having said that, the Mayor popped up to the terrain during my house planning rendez-vous and promised me he’d whizz things through the necessary channels. As we wandered around the precious plot, he told me how lucky I was to have the chance of being its proprietor – there is no better view in Rouffiac. Oddly, that made me relax and take the proverbial chill pill. Well, almost. The Hoo is back.

Yup, the pesky poltergeist decided it was time to make a re-appearance just in case I’d forgotten its existence. Getting out the automatic front gate became a race as to whether or not one could shoot through before the device decided to close and any attempt to use the sewing machine meant detangling copious amounts of thread from its underparts. As anyone knows, I am not the most patient when it comes to technology so any Zen derived from taking up running again was lost in a slew of never to be repeated expletives. Then there was that small matter of sorting out my L’identité Numérique for my work license which my dear friend Giselle had offered to sort out. By the time I had retaken numerous photos of my visage front side and back, I did feel like shouting ” I’m not a number! I am a free man!” what with the computer refusing to recognise my personage. I did eventually please the man in the machine and now I have to go to the post office to get my QR code scanned so I can be numerated.

As I said, we have once more taken to the trails although judging by the limping after the first run, Arry and I are definitely feeling our age. That and the architect’s comment about how a plein pied (single storey house) is probably the better choice for someone not far off sixty. That coming from a counsel who was off to have a knee operation the next day, mine are quite fine thank you very much, strapped to the nines but still operational. It will take a few weeks before my four-pawed cohort and I stop creaking and wheezing but hitting the pre-dawn alarm is the best way of clearing away the mental debris especially with Autumn’s paintbrush covering the landscape once more in red and gold as we hum our way through the vines. The Hoo better have a good pair of running shoes…

“Adopt the pace of nature. Her secret is patience.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Beds, boot sales and beyond

Those who are regular readers of this here blog know how much I dislike getting out of bed in the morning especially if my hours of slumber total less than 10. In fact, apart from the dawn run up the hills or the sound of a woofer puking (always on either the above bed, a cushion or the sofa but never on the tiles), I can’t think of much else one needs to be awake early for. Yet, today was an exception – the annual village vide grenier. It’s not that I was expected to arrive anytime before 9 a.m as Denis (who also knows me very well) had put himself in charge of setting up our table and he annoyingly sees the day starting at 5 a.m but sorting the apartment, changing Mo and Coco’s nappies and feeding the woofers takes a good hour and that’s before I’ve had the standard three cups of coffee. Hence the alarm. The alarm which, by the way, was set to rouse me with an old-fashioned ring tone otherwise Alice would go nuts and think we’re off running and her yapping can break glass.

Actually, considering the reduced numbers of vendors due to what is either a current outbreak of flu or Covid down in these parts, it turned out to be quite and enjoyable start to a Sunday. Okay, I didn’t sell many bijoux as boot sales rarely bring the dosh for that sort of merch although I did off-load a set of reupholstered by me kitchen chairs and a few pairs of shoes but I enjoyed the banter between us punters and a poke through their bits and bobs. For once I didn’t empty my wallet, remember the budget girl, even if I did spy a lovely copper tureen but D said I’d never use it and it’d end up on our table next year.

As I mentioned, Rouffiac has not been well of late, Denis included. Since neither of us knew which malady he’d been contaminated with and he didn’t want to take a test, I wouldn’t let him come anywhere near me all week. I’m off to the motherland on Thursday and the only gifts I’ll be bringing with me are of the food kind. It’s not surprising so many have come down with something what with the weather having shifted the dial several degrees downwards. The woofers’ normal snooze under the stars has been replaced by a snuggle on my duvet – thankfully not all of them at once, it’s hard enough with Arry taking up the lower half. The man did come and fill the fuel tank but I’ve yet to call Monsieur le Max chauffagiste extraodinaire to turn the radiators on as the flippin’ forecast is predicting an upturn for the thermometer in the coming days. Typical. Not only am I not going to be here, I’ve switched the season’s wardrobe and decided to put the winter bâche over the pool. Mind you, I highly doubt a spell of scorching sunshine is going to make the depths any warmer – even the algae have fled.

So, in case you missed the brief, I’m soon to be England bound even if for only a few days. I can’t wait which may seem odd to some as I love my adopted home but I do need a break from all this buying and selling stress. And I get to spend time with my mother-in-law, catch up with my Coven girls and old collegues. I have no doubt sleep will not feature heavily in such a busy schedule and since my return flight is a disgustingly late one, next week’s blog will have to wait until the following Monday. Or maybe Tuesday…

“Morning is wonderful. Its only drawback is that it comes at such an inconvenient time of day.” (Glen Cook)

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)

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)