Pickled fruit and perfect distractions

Running across the frost-covered trails the other day, a random thought flickered through my barely-awake brain. Whilst such things are regular occurrences, half the point of dragging myself out of bed at the crack of dawn is to clear away the cobwebs from my cranium but food is not what one usually brings to mind. More specifically, Christmas cake. Or lack of. Under normal circumstances, this would have been made by Mumo sometime around the beginning of November and left to pickle in alcohol in some dark corner of a cupboard until the big day but she’s still incarcerated in the hospital so it’s up to me to try and make something vaguely similar. Well, the fruit is drowning in the remains of a Cognac bottle I found in the kitchen – hopefully I’ll remember to add the rest of the ingredients tomorrow.

I would have started the great cake bake earlier in the week but having my eldest nephew, Louis, here provided the best of distractions. Not only is he a wonderfully optimistic and enthusiastic soul but easy company too. When we weren’t off pootling around the old homestead that is L’Horte, we were dining with friends or laughing hysterically at bygone sitcoms over one of Louis’ bizarre supper creations. Tarte au citron brûlé being one of them – he put his lemon meringue pie under the grill. Alas, I deposited Louis at Toulouse airport yesterday complete with a hangover (both of us) gifted by a raucous night before chez mes amis. I miss him already as does probably the entire village but he’ll be back in a few weeks to no doubt sample my attempt at traditional Yuletide fare.

The other plus about having Simon’s first born around was being able to spend a few hours in the workshop whilst he visited Mumo. Oh and having an extra hand to help Denis and his brother finally get the railing that once resided in the smaller of the L’Horte houses up onto the remis’ upper floor. The old horse feeding station was hauled up onto what will eventually be a summer apero area by an ancient pulley and a lot of muscle. And since it wasn’t quite big enough to span the deck, my exceptionally talented pal Jonathon (he what made my lamps if you remember) knocked up an almost identical second section. Not only have the photos of the new addition made Mumo happy, the removal of the cumbersome piece means there’s one less artefact from the old life cluttering the garage. Mind you, I’m doing a great job of adding to it what with all my bits and bobs of half-finished furniture.

With the weather getting colder and the heating systems kicking in, it’s just as well that the gardens haven’t needed much of me or D. Apart from the occasional peek at my growing veggies and picking up the last of the almonds and walnuts – the latter, you may be surprised to learn, made the wood stain for the railing. One of Denis’ findings, you soak them in water and then add linseed oil after draining off the nuts which is not only free but good for the environment too. Anyway, I digress. There isn’t much else to do outside except watch the grass grow even longer under the chill of clear skies. As much as I’d love it cut, the vegetation is probably housing all sorts of little beings and I’m not one to disturb nature. Still, there is much to be done in the cosy confines of the big house – little brother Moth arrives mid-week and I have a date with a cake and I have to make my annual Christmas cards which means trying to get all the woofers to face the camera in the same direction and at the same time. I wish I hadn’t poured all that Cognac into the fruit…

“In November, the earth is growing quiet. It is making its bed, a winter bed for flowers and small creatures” (Cynthia Rylant)

Finding the normal in the abnormal

As I drove back from the hospital earlier today, I caught a glimpse of my friends Giselle and Jamel closing up after another, no doubt successful, vide grenier. Whilst I never have time to stop and say hello, seeing the two of them managing the car boot sale every Sunday adds a sense of normality to one’s weekly to-ing and fro-ing. Like Autumn leaves now squishing underfoot as I try not to use my arse as a sled running up the slippery trails through the vines or worse, pick my way across the over-grown lawn vaguely searching for the woofers’ little brown gifts – daily life is, well almost, back in it’s old routine. I say almost because hospital visits shouldn’t be included but Mumo decided to add a pulmonary embolism to her problems so is back in her suite with airport views.

Despite not having much time to devote to my fledgling new business or The Second Book, I did manage to squeeze in a few hours in the workshop yesterday and play with all my presents. Actually, one is still in its kit bag as I’ve never used a soldering iron before and Denis says I have to read the whole manual back to front if I’m to keep the garage intact. Considering he gave me a blowtorch for my birthday, he’ll be lucky if he still has a beard by the end of this week. Still, sanding down a couple of chairs with Callum’s Spotify playlist on full blast was the perfect medicine for this girl’s body and mind. It’s become a running joke in the village as to where to find Sophi – just follow the noise. You’ll be pleased to know that the dentist had a free half hour to put my tooth implant back in so I haven’t read the manual yet.

And since I haven’t had the chance to catch up with friends since the Great British Break, a couple of evenings spent chatting over dinner tables and little blues jam session down at Abraham’s has continued the sense of life’s steady rhythm down here. That and starting my French lessons with my gal pal, Saba. You see, as soon as I got back from my old stomping ground that was London, my language skills went out the plane window. My français was more franglais and my tongue refused to even attempt a sentence. Thank the Gods for giving me a neighbour who just happens to be a brilliant teacher and before you could say grignoter, the words started to flow once more. And speaking of little nibbles, the bio pet-safe slug pellets have been nicely munched by said gastropods who are now putting holes in all my lettuce. The edible dormouse has also raided the line of leeks, oddly random in its choice but D says if it hasn’t gone into hibernation yet he’ll help it on its way.

So normalcy is back in Rouffiac. Sort of. We’re all hoping Mumo gets her release papers on Tuesday so us serfs can cater to her every demand whilst she wiggles her toes in front of the living room fire. I’ve whacked up the heating too – Mumo cannot thrive in any environment other than a sauna even when she’s not fighting the cancer bitch. I wish I could say it was as warm in the apartment but there’s an empty bed in the corner. The woofers aren’t keen on curling up in it either but I just can’t bring myself to move it. The Bear that once lay there is now down by the potager with the plaque that Denis made marking his place of rest. There’s a blog I wrote way back in May 2019 called “Steering in circles” in which I describe widowhood as like being in a boat, chained to a dock and not having the key. Recent events have brought back that feeling of helplessness and frustration but at least this time, I’m better armed. Now where’s that manual?…

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.” (Robert Frost)

Sweet Dreams my little Bear

I know I’m a little late in writing what was supposed to be written on Sunday but a little after midday yesterday, Yogi Bear slipped away peacefully in my arms. He waited until I came home from holiday to say his farewell. To say I’m heartbroken is too simple a phrase – I’m just numb.

He wasn’t just any dog. In fact, according to Yogi Bear, he wasn’t a dog at all – he was a Norfolk Bear. Yes, he might have looked like a terrier but only a petit ours could have the depth of thought and empathy (I once wrote that in his bio) that he had. His capacity to just love without expectation or reward was his gift – he didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Actually he had very few teeth either and spent most of his last years with his tongue permanently hanging out of the left side of his mouth. If you saw him strutting around the garden from the back, you’d be forgiven for the assumption that a wild animal was passing through but when he turned around, that lop-sided grin would melt the iciest of souls.

From the day I went off to ‘look’ at a litter of Norfolk Terriers and consequently emptied my wallet, I was sunk. Tony too and Callum. I named him Yogi Bear on sight, he had a spectacularly rounded tum and inhaled treats like a Labrador who’d been on a diet. But it was ability to just love that captured our hearts – he wore his on his paw. In the last days of Tony’s illness, Yogi rarely left his Master’s bedside, choosing to lie on the floor at the end of the bed with a look that no Disney film could re-create. After Tony died in my arms, my initial reaction was to find my little Bear – he’d been placed in the other bedroom when the emergency crew arrived. I remember just hauling him into my arms when I found him, I needed him as much as he needed me. The experience gave Yogi a canine version of PTSD – he was terrified that another one of his humans would leave and when Callum left, he moped for days. Still managed to eat though – a Bear needs sustenance. He never cried or howled, just sat by the door with a woeful look on his face.

Yet, out of trauma and a move to a new country came a new love in Denis. You see, the Bear loved gardening or at least, watching his favourite people tending to plants so Denis became his new and bestest friend. He’d sit between D’s legs and silently manage the digging and pulling – a Bear would never criticise out loud. And despite his pot-bellied form, he was transformed in the water – swimming with the grace of an otter in the river at L’Horte, his tail thwacking back and forth like a rudder. Some of his best times were spent helping the kids grow up at L’Horte.

As for me, it is hard to explain just how much one little brown Bear meant. He was my cuddle bug wrapping himself around my chest like a teddy, he was my confidante listening to me rant on about all the unfairness whilst regarding me in a sagely fatherly sort of way. He taught me patience when he ambled up the stairs like a Sunday afternoon stroll when I was trying to make a deadline and no matter how hard your day was, a ‘woo woo’ greeting on opening the door left your troubles on the doormat. But above all, he taught me and all those who knew him, how to just love. No conditions attached…

Yogi Bear (Nordalset Gotta Be) May 5th 2010 – October 28th 2024. May you sleep once more at your Master’s feet. Je t’aimerais toujours.

I will leave you with a quote that says it all:

If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.” (Winnie the Pooh)

If you’d like to hold the line

I’ll make this short and sweet. After a two and a half hour delay sitting on a very crowded plane on London Stansted’s tarmac, I am finally back chez moi. If you don’t mind, I’m going to curl up with a very nice (and decently priced -more of that later) glass of wine and my much missed woofers tonight. Therefore, the usual Sunday blog will be for once, on a Monday – tomorrow. I’m just too tired to think.

But we did have a luvverly time in Old London Town…

She’s back, we’re off

The matriarch has been released and safely deposited chez nous. And she’s been lounging about and giving orders ever since. I jest of course, she’s not supposed to do anything but put her feet up and consume as many calories as her slight stature can take in – not easy when you were a war child she tells me. Mind you, no-one can ever turn down Denis’ cooking. Not only is he a former chef, he’s a man who loves Moroccan and Catalan cuisine so everything he makes is packed with flavour and Mumo is feasting restaurant style whilst I tend to the wood burner, fetch her slippers, let her dog out – all that sort of thing. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Mum’s home and that’s just fine. To put a cherry on the top of her rest and recuperation, D’s sister Patricia came over and did Mumo’s hair which upped the spirits no end. Having an ex-coiffeuse and a chef in the family does come in very handy.

And speaking of family, my sister Bong (her name is actually Kendra but we’ve always called her by her nickname) is flying in tomorrow to look after our mother whilst Denis and I take a plane across the English Channel to visit the old homeland. I have looked at the weather forecast and surprisingly it looks rather fine, cold but not wet. There’s nothing worse than seeing the London sights in perpetual October drizzle. Mind you, this past week has been a soggy one down here. The Météo warned us of a major storm and subsequent flooding descending on us on Thursday which, judging by the ominous sky the night before, was going to be a doozy. Unlike many other areas down in SW France however, we got away lightly or so we thought – 24 hours later, the thunder rolled in and the heavens opened. So much so that the bloody pool that we’ve just emptied has half a metre of water sitting in its depths . Great for my Brussel Sprout crops but not for trying to get out of the front gate without a canoe. Unfortunately for me and D, we spent most of the day watching the deluge from inside the vet’s office. Yogi Bear was back in after having a bit of a fainting spell which made him all wobbly. The diagnosis isn’t great as the mass has moved and now sporadically puts pressure on his heart and his kidneys are under a bit of strain too. At his age, operating wouldn’t be advisable but on the plus side, his new meds seem to have perked him up no end. On the minus side, I am glued to the mop – his pill-popping makes him pee. A lot.

As I mentioned, me and my French bloke are jet-setting off to the country of my birth and the city that had me spending more time in traffic than working. But in the coming days, I’ll get a chance to see a different side of London with Denis and catch up with old friends and family. As we partied last night away with Abraham and the usual crew down at Le Jardin, there was much hilarity about how D was going to cope with the language barrier let alone his first trip on an aeroplane. I don’t know why anyone should be worried about him, it’s been more than 4 years since I stepped a foot on London’s cobbles and I’m terrified of flying. The only thing that’s worrying Denis is trying to find a new pair of trousers and whether or not he’ll get deported for lighting up a cigarette. It’s going to be an interesting week…

The sun doesn’t live in England; it comes here on holiday when we’re all at work” – (Benny Bellamacina)

A belly full

Having taken him up to the hospital to say his ‘ta ta for now’ to Mumo, I drove little brother Moth to Toulouse on Friday evening. Since his flight back to Kenya via Paris was at the crack of dawn, he had a room booked at a hotel close to the airport courtesy of big brother Simon. Goodbyes and hugs done, Denis and I made our way back to what I thought was the road heading towards home. Only it wasn’t – we were heading in the opposite direction with no sign of a roundabout and in whizzing traffic. With my GPS getting totally confused and me hitting the stress barrier, we weaved across lanes and dodged hooting cars until, thanks to Denis, we found the right road out and I hit the accelerator. It was only having finally got back chez nous via a dive of a pizza parlour for take-out that Denis told me it was the first time he’d seen me so rattled. Considering I spent 20 plus years in much the same mood working in London, it took me a few minutes and a glass of much-needed red wine to realise how much the last few months have put a dent in the tranquility of my life here.

The change in my normally fairly cheerful demeanour hasn’t gone unnoticed by the woofers either, their usual shrieking at the any dog that passes within an inch of the fence line muted – instead choosing to lie underfoot or at least within petting distance. The only exception being Mo who has discovered, as I have, that my serre has been raided by ‘les loirs gris‘ otherwise known as European edible dormice. As cute as they are, they’ve munched their way through my parsnip seedlings and helped themselves to all the strawberries. Denis tells me they are fattening up for hibernation which, having spied one or two, has been successful. At least someone has an appetite. With mine all but disappearing over the last week, Denis decided a night out at our local diner was in store – apart from their indulgent portion sizes, Diner 118 is a great place to catch up with friends and soak up the easy-going ambience. The perfect pick-me-up.

Speaking of putting on the pounds, Mumo is now on an all you can eat dietary schedule which is all well and good except the hospital menu isn’t exactly drool-worthy so Simon and I have started sneaking in home-cooked goodies to help with her waistline. I know that once she’s home (hopefully in the next day or so) she’ll be much happier curled up on the sofa with biscuits and ice-cream at hand. With this in mind, Denis and I have been busy doing all the little jobs that have been forgotten about whilst the more important ones have taken priority. One in particular was putting her Tiffany glass up in the selected alcove in the living room. A very delicate under-taking but the sweaty palms were worth the final result.

And as results go, you will be relieved to know that Yogi’s recent vet visit concluded that his heart and other vital organs are A-okay. There is a mass close to his coeur that will need draining to help him snooze better but other than that, the Bear is doing well for his age. And judging by the scales, he too can afford to put a little something extra in his belly – thankfully he prefers protein to parsnips…

“The belly rules the mind.” (Spanish Proverb)

Ailments and artistry

Ah well, considering the odds even if we live in a tiny village deep in South West of France, one of us was going to get it. Yup, my tough ‘nothing can get me” outdoorsman has been got – Covid-style. I came downstairs with coffee as usual on Friday morning, expecting the normal kiss and “dort bien?” hello only to be greeted by a grey face with an outstretched arm stopping my approach. In the four years I’ve known Denis, the only time he’s not been full of bounce was when he had his hernia hiccup (actually three in all) so I suggested we both went over to the local pharmacie to get tested. Apart from the fact that we spend most of our days together, I also have a not so well Mumo at the moment so neither of us wanted to add to her woes. On the positive side, I tested negative but warned to keep my mother at a healthy distance for a few days just in case. And steer clear of D too which has meant a miserable weekend and a pity party with a bottle of wine and an ominous moon to keep me company.

And the week was going so well. Sort of. I mean there was that little incident on Tuesday morning but that wasn’t my fault. Kind of. You see, me and the younger woofers are back to rising with the dawn and running up hills again so I had bought a pocket-sized ‘deterrent’ spray not wanting a repetition of the last dog attack. All was peace and serenity, the giant mastiff I had been assured was safely tucked behind bars and there was nothing to disturb us other than the hum of tractors harvesting the vines. That was until we hit the main road a kilometre or so from home and got rear-ended by a loose Pyrenean Mountain Dog trailing its extendable lead behind as it launched its huge self at Arry. Alice of course went into full terrier mode, teeth chomping and chattering as Sherman sunk his into a furry hind leg whilst I tried to keep leads from tangling -I wasn’t about to let them loose on a busy thoroughfare. And that’s when I remembered the bombe and pointed it at the white beast. Honestly, I didn’t know the spray was red. The owner did eventually arrive and get her charge under control, dye not blood explanations from me. I saw the same dog a couple of days later, apparently the colour doesn’t wash out easily.

At least, the Covid decided to bring down my man after we’d made a decent dent in our ‘to-do’ list -Denis and I were noses to the grindstone ticking off items. The newly extended potager now has its Autumn plantings in, the walnut trees have been lopped, the other bat box fixed onto the remis wall and between us we sorted out the blockage in Mumo’s kitchen sink which turned out to be congealed fat (blame big brother for that). And since our camion needs a little TLC before it can pass its contrôle technique, D has plonked it over here as it’s easier to get to a power source. Yet unnamed and a bit banged up in parts, I am looking forward to getting behind the wheel of the big white van. I might need to add my newly acquired artistic touch first…

“ The colours live a remarkable life of their own after they have been applied to the canvas” (Edvard Munch)

September supplements

There’s nothing quite like a decent drenching to welcome in a new month so hello September. Okay, I know it’s not technically the end of summer and experience has taught me that we are more than likely to have another heatwave or two before the winter but I am looking forward to seeing the back of this season gone. A statement I shall no doubt regret when the woolies get dragged out from under my bed and muddy paw prints embed themselves over the tiled floors once more. As I write this, Denis is stuck between here and the South Coast having spent the weekend celebrating his great-niece’s baptism, he’s somewhere in the lanes of traffic trying to get home after the long school holiday – I was invited to the celebration but with no-one to mind the dogs or D’s animals, I got out of it. Mercifully judging by the pictures of stagnant autoroutes.

Speaking of D’s brood, there’s been an addition to his non-human family. Gaya the dog, Dolly the cat, Caesar the canary and Gypsy the semi-feral hedgehog have been joined by a tortoise. Denis found him wandering around the front garden and with no-one posting reward posters for the safe return of their roaming reptile, decided to adopt the little creature. The male tortue is as yet still without a name although I have suggested Captain Hilts due to the number of escape attempts. Who knew an animal fabled for its slowness could scale his fenced enclosure so fast? I have to admit I have grown rather fond of Denis’ new companion although having one of my own is out of the question – Arry’s obsession with rocks for starters and Sherman’s penchant for getting into mischief when it comes to anything not canine related for seconds. I accidentally stood on the remains of a hedgehog skin the other day and boy, do those prickles hurt. However it must be said that this one was not a victim of my youngest woofer, these adorable looking spiny mammals regularly murder each other I’m reliably informed.

It’s not that Sherman is a natural born killer, unlike his mum who can rid several hectares of rats in seconds but he is a big lad. A recent trip to the vets with both for their annual jabs had him tipping the scales at a whopping 12 kilos, 4 kilos heavier than Mama Alice. Mind you, as the vet pointed out, my gorgeous lump of a Border terrier is pure muscle – hardly surprising considering he’s best mates with my idiotic German Shepherd.

With Denis being away, I’ve had to do a bit of bicep-flexing myself to hoist the re-conditioned petanque bench into its new home court side. The once tired looking wooden seat is now stripped and varnished and the iron work painted green, typical for the style. It’s a shame all the family have left now that the holidays are over so there’s no-one to enjoy its luxury but I’m sure we’ll have a few more fêtes with friends before the winter comes. And now that almost all the summer jobs have been completed, I can look forward to a new list of ‘to-dos’ – there’s the new extended potager to plant out, the saga of my life needs a second drafting, the outside staircase needs re-painting, the walnuts and almond trees to be harvested, the village map to finish mapping and the old pool liner to replace. Summer’s over kids…

“The end-of-summer winds make people restless.” (Sebastian Faulks)

Night skies and naughty nephews

As we head into the last whiffs of August, an odd sense of calm has descended over here chez nous. Even the woofers have retreated under trees or curled themselves up in freshly-dug flowerbed holes, rising only to scream up and down the front fence line at a passing village hound. With the last couple of months being filled with visitations from family and friends, the absence of bodies around the place is taking a little time to get used to especially now that my two eldest nephews have left – I’d gotten used to waking up to the sound of Louis tinkling on the piano downstairs and being serenaded by Maxime’s guitar at the end of the day. And I will forgive them for my near-fainting experience when I looked out of my bedroom window one morning and saw a hand poking out of one of the ginormous pine’s branches. For a second, I thought a body might have fallen out of a passing plane, I know but I used to read an awful lot of Reader’s Digest as a child, only to find on closer inspection that they’d thrown a stuffed gorilla up there. I did remove the potential hazard to any passing motorists but not before the boys had relocated it and hung it off the front door lantern giving half the local residents whiplash no doubt.

With the pool’s water level now reduced to tadpole swimming depth, at least we have the petanque area to enjoy especially when Denis adds in his barbecue brilliance. Before Maxime and Louis departed, we did just that and dined by the light of the impressive Blue Moon that was red seen from down here on account of the wildfire smoke drifting over from the U.S. Even after almost 4 years of living here in Rouffiac, being able to look up at the night sky without any light pollution save our ‘landing strip’ around the pool still takes my breath away. I’d turn them off except we need their luminosity to avoid breaking a toe over Denis’ miniature golf course – Arry and Sherman have chewed up the flagpoles.

It won’t be long before the nights draw in either, I mean it’ll be September this time next week. This year seems to have jumped every other month including August. Oh, it’s still hot most days but not the ‘I can’t take it anymore’ heat that we have become used to and there is a definite Autumnal feel in the early morning breeze. And we’ve even had a few decent down-pourings over the summer although yesterday evening’s predicted thunderstorm ended up being more of a polite pluie but the good kind – steady soaks into the soil rather than leave lakes to be burned up by the sun. As is the norm, Denis and I had pootled over to Le Jardin for another of Abraham’s excellent soirees and a chance to catch up with all the friends we’d seen the night before at Le Bistrot. As we drank far too much wine and laughed ourselves into a near-coma (the overindulgence of food may have helped us get to that state), the constant pitter-patter of rain drops made music over the roof above us as it gently drenched the surrounding vegetable gardens. It’s been a funny old summer…

“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.” (Sylvia Plath)

Zero moods to hero dudes

It pains me to say it but, unless the Gods have a radical change of heart, I shall be glad to see the back of this summer. Not only have I had to admit defeat (a rarity for me) in regards to finding the minuscule hole in the pool’s liner and let the blood thing slowly drain itself into the road, I’ve had the worry of Mumo’s weird internal goings-on (she is getting better slowly we all hope), both of which have left me with a zero va va voom to do anything constructive. And I hate the feeling. On top of it all, the barometer has been go up and down like a Yo-Yo on acid – the beginning of the week sitting in the high 30’s before sinking down to barely 20 degrees by Wednesday. I had to drag out a jumper from the winter stash under my bed and put shoes on, the latter was an odd experience and it took me a while to remember how to walk in something other than flip-flops. At least we’ve had a few decent drizzles to replenish the thirsty ground, something virtually non-existent down here in August in normal years.

Okay, it’s not been a complete blah of a week. My second eldest nephew, Maxime, touched down chez nous on Tuesday and between him and his brother Louis, they’ve really helped lift the general mood around this place and boosted Mumo’s spirits too. Sadly, Louis’ gal Linnea (I now know how to spell it) had to fly off back to Norway and work but not before I got a chance to go into Carcassonne with her and enjoy a bit of retail therapy – the vintage clothing kind. Since I’m quite a tightwad when it comes to buying new threads, most of my time is spent in patched up jeans or shorts stained with Godknowswhat fell on them, I had a ball going through the racks of retro bits and pieces with someone who likes to forage in these kinds of shops as much as me. Poor Louis was dragged along his insistent amour somewhat unwillingly, he has much to learn when it comes to the art of pleasing your other half. I left mine putting up the lights in the outdoor kitchen such is my knowledge of what floats Denis’ boat even if he did almost electrify himself a couple of times and almost blackout the entire village. Amusingly, when I first met D, I asked a friend if he would recommend my new handy man. “Definitely” replied Graham, “anything except electrics, that would be a disaster.”. Thankfully we now have light down in the lower kitchen with only a few scald marks on the floor and D is extremely proud of himself.

Speaking of near blowouts, it was a good job I’ve lost so much weight over the last couple of months as Denis and I went over to my dear friend Giselle’s place for her son’s birthday celebration. Paella style. I have to admit that the last and only time I ate such a dish was in a London restaurant and frankly, it was horrible. Obviously, I needed to try the local recipe – here it’s all about fresh fruits de la mer and not large lumps of over-cooked chicken and stodgy rice and boy, is Giselle’s good. I must have chowed down enough calories to keep me bouncing for a year it was that delicious and if I add on Louis’ incredible culinary masterpieces, always seasoned with raucous family laughter around the table, I’m going to need to get back running up those hills soon otherwise I’ll never get to wear those new purchases.

And Hugo’s (Giselle’s son and Denis’ daughter’s boyfriend) birthday wasn’t the only one to be celebrated this week. Our Arry aka Aragorn turned 9 on Thursday. How my crazy nutcase of a German Shepherd has managed to reach an age and now sport a few grey whiskers is totally beyond me but it is without a doubt a miracle (remember the ball-choking incident, the collar incident, the heatstroke incident, I could go on) but I’m thankful to have him spread out under my feet every day. For all myself and the other woofers have been through over the last eight and a half years that he has been with us, Arry’s zest for life and refusal to be anything but young at heart can’t help but chase the dark clouds away and bring on a smile. And swearing. Lots of swearing. Gotta love that dog…

“Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times if only someone remembers to turn on the light.” (J.K. Rowling)