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)

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)

Hot metal and hairy hounds

You know that annoying feeling when you put off a thing that needs doing until it’s too late to do it? Like deciding to leave the repainting of the metal staircase leading down from the terrace for a prospective new owner and now you can’t walk on it without searing your tootsies. Not that you’d want to step outside mind you, what with the thermometer set to boil mode as soon as the sun rises. Watering what is still just about surviving in the garden has to wait until dusk to allow some chance of liquid actually going into the soil and not disappearing as soon as you point the hose at it. Denis has taken responsibility for the potager plantings, apparently I don’t drench them like he does. I’m more than happy to let him, the very idea of having to make my way to the bottom of the terrain to do so is a health hazard.

At least the pool hasn’t evaporated, amazingly with it having no shade whatsoever and Arry’s need to throw himself in every 5 minutes. At least for him, he can cool down, the other woofers aren’t keen on swimming although Alice and Sherman have been subjected to a quick dip by yours truly. I had to give the latter and his brother next door a thorough hand-stripping earlier in the week – their extra coat coming off in record seconds and on to me. Sweat and dog hair do not mix well especially when you add fans on full blast, my necessary after shower meant declogging the drain. I’d have jumped in said pool except removing German Shepherd fur from the skimmers is bad enough, let’s not add to that.

It might be hotter than hell out there but it’s good for the bijoux business. With the vacation season just about to kick off, I decided to change the shop display to something more appropriate for the summer spenders. Having found an old ladder in the workshop, I roped Louis into creating a stand for my wares which I have to say looks rather wow even if my ‘background paintings’ are reminiscent of a toddler’s first art class. Still, my new presentation appears to be a success especially the copper collection – D’s idea initially although once I got the hang of all that wire twisting, both of us have become somewhat addicted to the process. At the rate we’re going, the local Brico shops are going to run out of cable but the medical service will be grateful for the reduction in numbers of arthritic patients. Maybe that’s the reason why I don’t have aching ankles any more, endless hours spent weaving and bashing the metal the panacea to my painful posterior. Mind you, with no rain forecasted for the foreseeable future, I’m not sure cures for creaky joints are going to continue to fly off the shelves. Perhaps a new career in fire-proof footwear?…

“What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps one in a continual state of inelegance.” (Jane Austen)

Hot beats and sore seats

I spent most of yesterday evening, last night and early this morning doing a passable imitation of a cat on a hot tin roof. Forget trapped nerves, this one was doing a runner; one minute in my back and the next whizzing around my ankles. Louis thinks it’s because my body isn’t used to being in ‘Zen’ mode – my synapses have gotten bored with the lack of sparkiness or maybe the change from running to swimming has my muscles confused, who knows but it’s painful. Mind you, dancing on top of chairs on Friday night might have tweaked something; I avoided the table as that really wasn’t safe. Suffice to say, I have given in and taken a painkiller much as I hate downing pills but needs must if I’m to stay sane.

I blame the weather. With the thermometer hitting 40 degrees in the shade, it’s not surprising one wants to stay indoors. Even the poor birds are panting. I dug out a large plant pot reservoir and filled it up with eau so they can at least paddle a bit. The swallows have the advantage of speed when it comes to filling their tanks, swooping across the pool surface for milliseconds but not all are so lucky – I found a dead magpie in the skimmers the other day. Horrible. As for the woofers, they’ve dug holes in the flowerbeds to stay cool – either that or flopped on the tiled apartment floor. That is except for Arry who is spending as much time in the piscine as out of it. I won’t mention my battle with the hosepipe other than to say I get wetter than the flora.

Still, there is an upside to holing up chez moi; the jewellery side of Witch Wackle is keeping me plenty busy. Now that my bits and bobs are on display in the épicerie, I have to keep an eye on what gets sold whilst creating new collections. Now that summer has officially begun, it seems that all things beach-vibey are in – Denis’ gift of a load of little shells from his recent fishing expedition and me creating bracelets out of an old coral necklace going down very well. The only problem is that the cabinet I need to finish so that I can move my stuff off the kitchen island is languishing in the garage – sanding and sweat do not mix well. I did try using the heat gun to remove the layers of old paint but you can guess why that mission was aborted.

Speaking of perspiration, we had a right good knees up at Le P’tit Bistrot on Friday night even if my choice of clothing had rivulets running down my back. Jeans and jumping about on a sweltering summer night probably not the best choice of party wear, I could have nipped home and changed into shorts but the music was too good to miss out on. This weekend has been all about ‘La Fête de la Musique’ across our area of France; villages and towns hosting various events and Rouffiac was no different. That’s how I ended up wiggling precariously on a plastic garden chair to the sounds of an incredible drum band and a rather brilliant singer who played tunes on request – friend Sara and I helping him out with ‘pom pom pom’ chorus of Sweet Caroline. ah well, Mumo always did say my hedonistic lifestyle would catch up with me one day, I just wish it would stay away from my heinie…

““It’s a sure sign of summer if the chair gets up when you do” (Walter Winchell)

Zen and the art of stickiness

Something strange has been going on with my psyche ever since Avignon and a week spent with my bestie, Rene. My normal flitting around like a bee on an acid trip has been taken over by a weird sense of calm – just as well really as peeps, it’s hot out there. Actually not today, we’ve had a rainstorm (yay, no battling with the hose reel) and the temperature has dropped to a mere 22 degrees. Heavenly if only for now, the météo forecast is showing red zone in the coming week. Just as well Louis came up with a great plan to keep the cars cool; a couple of marquees that had been gathering spiders in storage put to good use.

Mind you, my new Zen-like persona hasn’t stopped me from the busy. Denis and I went shopping for salad stuff to fill up the potagers although finding he didn’t have any coffee in his house and the garden emporium only having the smaller varieties of tomato left was not a good start for my man. Well, it was Friday the 13th. And naturally, there are always the regular chores to get through; now the house is on the market, the place has to stay tidy both inside and out. The garden doesn’t require quite as much slaving now with the hot weather reducing the lawns to dust and the flowerbeds, having been given a decent mulching by Denis, are blooming lovely. Even the Pink Easter-lily cactus has blossomed. A rare sight as the flowers don’t last more than a couple of days and their scent is heavenly as dusk falls. It sits right by the pool deck, the pool that needs constant cleaning with the new liner being much paler than it’s leak-ridden predecessor and as for the skimmers, a job I loathe – washing out dead insects and dog hair ugh. Yes, Arry has once more joined us humans in the daily dip. Luckily for me, he tends to leave me to my laps but anyone else is fair game for shark impressions. Speaking of aquatic things; brother Moth is back in situ after spending a week in Nice at the UN Ocean Conference speaking to the bigwigs. It’s bliss having him here not least because he is much better at cleaning than Louis – the dining table has half a piano on it and the sideboard looks like a curiosity shop; specialist goo and teeny tools.

Speaking of gluey stuff, you’d be hard pressed to find anything messier than mica and resin except maybe Superglue. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t been rushing around; can’t when you’ve got sticky black fingers although how it gets under gloves is a mystery as is trying to get it off. I would like to point out to the author of the manual, white spirit or acetone does not eradicate said gunk from digits – only skin removal scrubbing. Still, I am thoroughly enjoying the jewellery side of Witch Wackle and even better, my little collection is going to be displayed in a shop! Okay, so the epicerie but one has to start somewhere and the village signpost on the road up from Limoux does point towards the ‘Centre Commercial’. That is the epicerie. I even went as far to do a little light advertising at the opening night of the Bistro, rocking up with bracelets jangling and necklaces dangling. Yup, the summer season has officially started with the village weekly hoedown back in session. With all out of hibernation and much cheek kissing, a rowdy evening was passed under the stars amongst friends. No doubt needing those sunglasses to shield their eyes from my blinding bling, either that or the spots of neon blue mica powder still attached to my fingernails…

” Creative minds are rarely tidy” (Carl Jung)