Boots on, summer’s gone

Waking up this morning to the pitter patter of raindrops followed by a cracking thunderstorm was one thing but did the temperature have to drop by 10 degrees overnight? For the first time in months, I dragged out my boots such was the shock for my poor tootsies. I did shove the vacuum down their insides first, brother-in-law Steve’s tale of getting bitten by a spider when he put his arm in a long unworn jacket uppermost in my mind. But really? I mean I know we are heading into Autumn but I would’ve preferred the change in season to have come a little more gradually – I’m going to have to call the tanker man tomorrow so he can top up the oil reservoir. It’s almost time to switch on the radiators.

At least if summer was going to go out with a bang, literally, we had last week to be thankful for. Especially as I got to enjoy an albeit too brief visit from sister-in-law Frannie and the afore-mentioned Steve. I can’t say we did much except converse over a fair number of bottles followed by an evening of over-consumption of the food kind but there was the obligatory walk up the road to see my bit of Rouffiac terrain and a nip round to the épicerie to view my bijoux and top up the disappearing wine collection. And the sun stayed out for us so we could idly chit-chat up on my balcony whilst gazing down at the pristine but polar piscine. As I said, the stopover was far too short but for them, the last time they’ll pop over to the Collins’ family abode.

No, the grand old lady has not been sold yet but the latest immobilier says that October onwards is the best time for off-loading our fabulous property. I hope not too quickly as I’m still waiting for the lawyers to send me a bill for my plot. I’m told the delay is down to a newish government mandate about needing to analyse the soil – if they hit oil, I’ve already signed the papers and I should be going broke sometime in the next few days. I still can’t get my head around the fact I’m buying a third of a hectare with nothing on it or how I’m going to pay for it all but lucky for me, I have an army of friends in this little bit of France who’ve offered their expertises. Because I’m planning to do most of the interior myself much to Denis’ horror. Hah, if my Pop could build L’Horte, little brother Moth the same at Badens and I have a rising construction king in my son, something must have surely rubbed off in the genetics and I’m nothing if not stubborn.

Speaking of the man-child, it’s his birthday today. My world that is Callum has entered his 27th year which makes me feel ancient, not helped by sister-in-law Alba’s constant reminders about me turning 60 next year. I’m still 58 for another month thank you. I know both Frannie and I would agree that Tony’d be so proud of Callum and his achievements, not least of all taking himself off alone to the other side of the world and successfully finding a new life. And even though I know I’m no longer numero uno, him being happy equals ditto for this mum. I guess it’ll me soon who flies the coop and jumps into a world unknown (again) except mine is only a stroll down the main street and turn right. Good job I cleaned the boots…

“I’m steel-toed boots in a ballet-slipper world.” ( Richard Kadrey )

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)

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)

Finding creativity in chaos

It’s Mother’s Day here in France. It’s also St. Sophie’s Day. Okay, I know I’m a Sophia rather than one with an ‘e’ on the end but I that doesn’t stop me soaking up the Bonne Fêtes and kisses thrown my way. Since Callum’s back Down Under, I doubt they have the same date on the calendar so I wasn’t expecting a memed message and Saints Days are so very French. Celebrating Mums special jour is a must within Denis’ family, I’ve just returned from a delicious lunch over at Colette’s (his mum’s name which she doesn’t like but I think it’s lovely) with various kin plus their offsprings. We didn’t stay long, which I’m grateful for, as my man has to get his bags packed and I really wanted to turn my glad rags into shorts and get back to work. People, the sun is out and the thermometer is moving in the right direction.

It is said that a woman’s work is never done which, in my case, depends on what I consider the word to mean. Spending hours carrying a vacuum cleaner in one hand and a broom in the other cleaning all the rooms in the main house requires mental fortitude especially when you start removing cobwebs off the top bedroom ceiling and several centimetres of dust comes with them. Not fun. Neither is hoicking out the spider-covered sunbeds from the depths of the tractor shed, blasting the population with a hose with Arry going nuts at the sight of the water spray. That being said, it was an easier job than holding margelles in place whilst dangling over the side of a freezing cold pool so D could drill them back into place. But re-arranging furniture on the ground floor so Louis nephew and I could make space for the latest piano arrivals and making the suite below the apartment look habitable instead of resembling a warehouse is quite enjoyable. Of course, it always helps having Lou to supply the humour but the interior designer within me was quite chuffed with the results. And I sneakily put my latest craftwomanship on display so the odd guest passing through could sigh in wonder . That would be before they entered the lounge which currently holds four pianos including, yes it has arrived, The Stodart. To be honest, I know next to nothing about musical instruments but this one is stunning. The inlays alone take your breath away and that’s before you run your hands over the 18th century wood. I have been warned by my nephew to keep my polishing cloth away from his and my investment, Lou has particular products for such antiques.

Mind you, he’s not the only one with special tools. I’ve been putting my new purchases to work in the jewellery making department. Having finished all but a couple of renovations in the workshop, I’ve turned my attentions to the finer and frankly, fiddly art of re-creating bracelets and necklaces out of what, was once, someone else’s bling but no longer wanted. I’m going to try earrings next week, that is if I don’t have to visit the optician for stronger glasses. Plays havoc with the eyeballs. Amazingly, people like my designs although that hasn’t stopped D from suggesting ideas which are near impossible to achieve for an amateur like myself.

At least, he won’t be able to interfere in my attempts to bend wire into shapes suitable for prodding through ear lobes for the next week, he’s off to Morocco without me. No, we haven’t fallen out – he’s off with his daughter to visit his late wife’s family and I really didn’t think it was appropriate for me to join them and anyway, I’ve got enough to do chez moi. With summer on the horizon, the cover has to come off the pool so that I can change my running shoes for flippers. Tomorrow will likely be our last whizz up the hills for a few months; woofers and early morning warming don’t mix well. Oh, and bestie Rene is coming to stay for a whole week within which we shall go off together on a little adventure and leave D with the dogs on his return. I’d better hide my cache of bling lest he gets creative and starts painting pianos with gold leaf…

“Creativity is intelligence having fun.” (Albert Einstein)

Birds, blossoms and bye byes

I know one should be used to the oddities that come with living in a little village nestled amongst the hills and vines of South-West France but seeing a couple of peacocks on top of the remis yesterday morning was a bit of a surprise even by Rouffiac standards. Thankfully they didn’t stay long; apart from not wanting my woofers to get a mouthful of brightly coloured feathers, we have quite enough avians increasing their population on the property . Actually these two lovebirds are well known round here as they have been residing in various local back gardens over the last couple of years, including Denis’ although no-one knows where they came from. I don’t know how they got onto that roof either, I’ve never thought of them as aerobatic and judging by the ‘wife’s’ hesitation in runway procedures, I don’t think she knew any more than me. Ah well, it makes a change from the traditional Easter Bunny and I haven’t seen any eggs rolling off the tiles.

Considering it’s the holiday weekend, we are blessed today with another break from the norm – the sun is out. I say this because most of last week had us dressed in sou’westers what between the wet stuff and the wind. At least Callum made it out safely and is now back on Aussie soil recovering from less than ideal 18 hour flight nausea; not as bad as usual however he tells me. As partings go, it wasn’t too emotional on my part or his as we both realised it was time and I did get him to pose for the obligatory photo for his mother’s collection – something he dreads every time but I can’t help having such a gorgeous son.

Apart from the departure Down Under date, I’ve spent most of the last 7 days in the workshop due to the unseasonable season. Denis and I did manage to get out from under the umbrellas one afternoon and nip off to nearby Couffoulens so I could indulge in a bit of therapy – the plant kind. The potager has been looking woefully empty of late and if there is one place which knows when to put your summer salad items in, it’s the giant garden shop at the above. Unfortunately, due to the ghastly gusts, we can’t put tomatoes in yet but we did come away with two dozen lettuces and a rose. I really don’t need another rose but this one was so beautiful and anyway, D bought it for me and it fits in perfectly. And if the other fruits and florals budding across our terre right now are anything to go by, summer’s prospects are looking good. Even the bloody pool is behaving, albeit that minor glitch with the pump motor seizing up on account of a very stinky filter.

Speaking of blessed blossoms, the main house has its own at the moment with brother Simon and Alba in situ and my nephew Max – all soon to be joined by other nephew Louis tomorrow. He tells me he’s bring The Piano with him; the one I invested in and the one that will join the other three pianos currently taking up space in the living and dining rooms. The sofa suite will end up in the remis at this rate giving the peacocks the perfect place to poop and pop a few eggs. Happy Easter everyone!

““A peacock has too little in its head, too much in its tail.” (Swedish proverb)

Familiar in the unfamiliar

Weather-wise I think we can forget the past week but at least the wind has finally dropped. The Marin is not a gentle breeze to put it mildly; miraculously the serre stayed put – my neighbours’ blew away the last time it came through. Still, there’s a plus side to staying indoors – I’ve been lucky enough to have Callum to myself and had time to focus on what Denis calls ‘my micro enterprise‘. It’s a new career path but you’re never too old to change direction. The downstairs bedroom that kept Mumo comfortable has become my storage unit because there’s a leak in the garage roof and it’s too wet for Cal to get up there and fix it. Mind you, we did have a dry day yesterday which allowed me to clear the potager so we can start planting the summer salad stuff – I’ve put my foot down about spring onions though, we had so many last year the freezer still has bags of them in its depths.

Not a day goes by when I don’t miss Mumo, especially to talk to but I have my son who apart from being brutally honest at times, is an amazing listener. One such conversation last weekend brought up the subject of my drinking. Too much he told me; he remembered I’d done the same thing after his dad died and it left him traumatised. I know, a 59 year old woman taking advice from a 26 year old but then he has Tony’s sensible calm genes – albeit in our son’s words he has his mother’s crazy ones too. So apart from a humdinger of a night with friends Bruce and Suzy up the road yesterday, I’ve stuck to sobriety and feel much better for it. That is except for the broken sleep due to the amount of water consumed. My counsellor is off to London tomorrow although just for the day – a health certificate is needed for his visa back to Oz. I don’t think tuberculosis is running rife down here but hey. As much as I love him, he needs to go back to his familiar and I know he misses his friends.

Getting back to normality hasn’t been all that difficult although I have added a few other changes to my repertoire so to speak. I went over to the library in St-Hilaire on Friday before stopping by for tea with one of Mumo’s good friends. I’ve only ever visited Didier’s little book nook once but I promised him after the funeral that I would pop in. His library by the way is one of the two that will receive the donations many of you very generously made on behalf of our mum. Anyway, I came away with a couple of tomes all about French history, in French, which are now glaring at me over the kitchen island. I can’t remember the last time I was given a library card but I didn’t want to leave empty-handed and Didier waved the 5 euro subscription charge. Driving back home that afternoon, I stopped to take a photo of the Pyrenees – I must have taken a hundred snaps of the impressive mountain range over the years but the familiarity of the view was somehow settling.

And I am beginning to feel more settled. Since Mumo’s cancer diagnosis last Autumn, life has been anything but, yet experience teaches us about how we choose to deal with the afterwards. Put the bottle away for starters. I’m lucky enough to live on this beautiful property in South-West France surrounded by nature, have the chance to try my hand at something new and for now, my son next door. April is just around the corner and what the wind didn’t get, is covering the trees in colour. It’s still peeing down out there so the woofers are slouched inelegantly across sofas, considering their former residence was in London they are awfully picky about the weather and I’m writing this here blog. Familiarity is a great therapist…

“Familiarity breeds content” (Stephen Sondheim)

the calm of Callum (mine’s the cup of tea)

Order of service

And so it was that we said our goodbyes to Mumo as we laid her to rest on Tuesday afternoon. The weather forecast had predicted rain but the sun came out instead which was a blessing in itself as the crematorium was running half an hour late so we all had to stand outside. Nobody seemed to mind, keeping to schedule is not the norm in this part of the world, friends and family chatting away amongst themselves until the doors finally opened and in we went. I’d picked some flowers from the garden which I placed on her coffin – a bit of a haywire bouquet as the March winds had blown off the best blossoms.

Like most services of this kind, it was short – we’d only been given half an hour so brother Simon and cousin Robert had practised the running down to the nth minute. Robert, a vicar in Wales and Mumo’s only nephew led the proceedings, our mum was not particularly religious but Rob knew her well and is a seasoned professional at these sorts of events. The night before he’d regaled us with stories as we sat round the family dinner table – the one about gangsta rap being played as the final request sending the lot of us into uncontrollable laughter. That and his choice of footwear on the day itself. Simon’s eulogy reminded us of what an incredible life our mum had had, his son Louis standing at his side translating the words into French. I’d had the forethought to ask Louis and Katie (Simon’s daughter) to print out the français version the night before even if they did change some of the text – nuances they amused. And I managed to get through my little speech dry-eyed; that was until I sat down next to Callum, looked over at my sister Bong and the sobbing started. Mercifully for the rest of the attendees we’d made to the end before the mascara ran and as we left the starkly beige auditorium, placing a kiss on her coffin, everyone was ready for a hug. And a very large drink back at chez nous with our friends.

Funerals are like weddings in a way, you spend so much time beforehand planning such events and then, bing, it’s all over. I wrote the same sentiment after Tony’s. Most of my siblings and their sprogs left the day after; Bong and her family back to New York, Katie back to London and Simon and Alba to Narbonne. They’ll all be back in June when we will scatter Mumo’s ashes next to Pop – the sun should be properly out by then. Luckily for me, I’ve still had company – Moth left yesterday as did Louis but Callum will be here a little longer. Just as well as we’ve needed to replace the entire sink unit in the main house as it broke mid-way through the after buffet – Denis came up trumps finding an almost perfect fit in the back of his garage. Having occupied myself with bits of furniture restoration, I’ve had to move the finished pieces into the room downstairs so Cal can get on with door frames and electric updating. Then there’s the pool deck to be sanded down and re-oiled before the new liner goes in, the potager needs to be turned over for the new season veggies and my back stairs need re-painting. Life will never be quite right without her but Mumo would be the first to say: dry your eyes, put on your boots and enjoy the sunrise…

I shall leave you with my ‘Letter to Mumo’ – the English version ahem..

“Classy, elegant, fun, always with a gentle smile your friends remember. A born diplomat, confidante, never one for an argument yet fascinatingly intelligent – you could recite quotes from literature off the top of your head and rarely failed to complete a crossword. You were the ultimate hostess, always making sure glasses were filled and tummies sated. Your family motto FHB (family hold back meant guests came first). Stunningly beautiful, you may have appeared fragile on the outside but that came with a spirit forged of steel.

To us, the Collinses, you were Mumo. Or Grandmummo. The voice of reason when you needed it most. Except when we were the cause of the trouble and then we’d best be running the opposite way. I once asked you why you never said “I love you” like other parents said to their kids. You replied, I shouldn’t have to, you should know I do. And we did. Despite living on opposite ends of the world, if there was a way to get home for Christmas, we did. To your home. Aude. First the magic of L’Horte, the house that you and Pop (along with various family hands) built and then Rouffiac – a place you said gave you peace. A place for family and friends, old and new to drop by and share an hour or two over a cup of tea.

I still look through the kitchen window when I come back from my morning run, expecting to see you on that damn stool sipping your coffee, a single muffin delicately sliced as you read the news on your Ipad. But you’re no longer there. But you are. You continue to live inside all of us; Simon has your love of books and your level headedness, Bong has your elegance and love of music, Moth has your patience the love of Kenya and wildlife, and for me I hope the steadfastness of friendship and a love of German Shepherds and rose gardens. And so much more is carried on through the next generation that you were so so proud of.
I will finish with a quote from one of her favourite Oscar Wilde plays – The Importance of Being Ernest
“ I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train”

A time best shared

I made a mattress cover. Sounds daft but I was ridiculously pleased with myself, mainly because I’d managed to use the sewing machine without breaking it. Okay so I did snap the needle mid-seam when it ran over a forgotten pin but using the dreaded contraption without Mumo’s guidance was a first. If I’m honest, life without her hasn’t sunk in yet – everything seems to be carrying on as normal even if it’s anything but. For most of last week, the only residents in the house were me and brother Simon; both of us busy sorting out funeral arrangements and legal stuff. It’s not as though the family home was constantly full of Collins; most of the time it was just Mumo and me but somehow the place echoes with emptiness. The arrival of nephew Louis and niece Kate this morning along with Cal who had been visiting his other grandmother, has however, helped lift the gloom and with the rest of the clan descending tomorrow, the coming days will be easier to bear.

Mumo used to say that she preferred her grand-children because her own kids always argued but when it came to family fortitude, us lot would always stick together. As we sat on Mumo’s bed last weekend, going through her bits of bling and mercifully tidy wardrobe, sister Bong and I reminisced over the pieces. We don’t often talk so sharing memories was a nice way to reconnect especially as she remembered far more than I me. I didn’t take much as I tend to lose jewellery on a regular basis but there was one pendant, a Cowrie (Mumo loved Cowrie shells), that I recall her wearing in Kenya.

Recollecting happier times has stretched further than the family bonds. Having been tasked with sending out emails and making phone calls to Mumo’s friends, everyone has had their own special memories of our mum. Right now, in the main house, Simon, Callum and Louis are poring of photographs for the service and there’s a lot of laughter added to the process. So much nostalgia held in those album pockets. I can’t say I haven’t cried, I’ve sobbed bucket loads – weirdly mostly when I’m doing the ironing but as long as I keep busy, I’m doing okay. In fact, I’m whizzing through my furniture renovations to the point where I’m going to have to find somewhere to put all of it so I can photograph my babies and sell them. The workshop keeps me calm – my safe space unless I’m running up those hills. And I finished the tableau for the signpost under the corner wall – my version of Spring. Mumo said I’d put just about every colour of the rainbow on canvas. Thankfully, Denis has encased it between two sheets of plastic because March so far is rather windy and wet. Good for the garden though and my cauliflowers.

The next few days are going to be the tough ones as we say good-bye to Mumo on Tuesday before she is laid to rest at L’Horte. On behalf of all the Collins clan, I would like to say thank you for all the wonderful reminders of just how incredible our Mumo was. I only wish she’s told me where she kept the spare sewing machine needles…

“Say not in grief that she is no more, but say in thankfulness that she was” ( Hebrew proverb)

Pure class

At 10.45 am on Thursday 27th of February, our Mumo passed away. I wish I could say she was surrounded by her loved ones but she was in the hospital waiting for a scan when my big brother Simon was called with the news, typical, she never did like being fussed over. We knew the time was coming so it wasn’t a total shock but nevertheless, it still seems far too unreal. But, at least for the last few months, Mumo had had a constant supply of family members popping back and forth over oceans. Family was everything to our mum as were her friends, her Ipad only leaving her lap when it needed to be recharged. As so many have told me, she was the loveliest soul, adored by everybody. Stunningly beautiful on the inside and out.

She was born Janet Christina Collins (amusingly that was both maiden and married name which caused many a hiccup when dealing with officials) on April 15th 1939. In May 1964, she married Pop and the two produced us 4 kids and we gave them 7 grandkids, as Mumo was oft to say the latter were so much more interesting than her offspring. She and Pop travelled the world; first Sarawak then up through Indonesia and Hong Kong before Kenya, Thailand and New York. Her address book, she was never one for technological storage, was so full that she dreaded the yearly Christmas card list but always made sure each person was ticked off. I was looking through the stacks of photo albums yesterday for a suitable picture – there are so many memories of a life most would only dream about. Kenya was her favourite so that’s where the picture was taken kissing up to her darling Ringo.

Apart from her lyrical waxing about her unbelievably brilliant grandchildren, Mumo was a book lover, rarely seen without one in hand unless, as Simon put it, she was on her Ipad or asleep. Actually she usually dozed off with pages still open. As those who knew her would say, Mumo was a wise and patient listener even if she refused to admit to us kids that she was going deaf – apparently we just don’t enunciate properly. She was the epitome of a hostess, she loved a good party and could have conversations on any topic – something no doubt learnt from her years abroad with Pop. And she had class. Not born into it, no hers was entirely her own. She had opinions but never forced them on others, was always elegantly dressed even if it was to prune the roses at L’Horte and although if she admitted that she wasn’t fond of the task, was a pretty mean cook.

Oddly, considering she hated exercise of any kind, our mum managed to bring up two extremely active generations. I say two because for Simon’s and my ‘sprogs’, she and Pop pretty much did bring them up at L’Horte. It was Mumo who wanted a pool in the back garden here in Rouffiac- one she never got in because the very idea of swimming made her shiver. She was always cold, only taking her sweater off when the rest of us were melting in a heatwave. A hot water bottle was a must, Bong remembered that they once had to warm up a rock on a camping trip as someone had omitted to pack this necessity. She was the best wordsmith and crossword puzzle solver and got us all involved in the daily New York Times Spelling Bee. She was a pianist and loved classical music as long as it wasn’t too loud – Pop liked the stereo on max which caused many a raised eyebrow (she could raise them one at a time). She adored her pets, especially her beloved German Shepherd Chrissie who alongside Pop’s Gunner were the L’Horte dogs. She will be laid to rest at L’Horte next to her husband, our Pop, a man she once said to me had to ask her several times to marry him and she could never figure out what took her so long to say yes. Both of them surrounded by three German Shepherds (my Macgyver’s ashes are there too) in the spot above the river under the oak tree Moth planted.

For me, I’ve lost my best friend and most trusted confidante. I have been blessed to be able to share the last 4 and a bit years with Mumo ‘next door’ to me. I will miss our evening natters over the kitchen island, her sitting on her stool positioned so she’d have to reluctantly move when you wanted to open a drawer. I will miss the smile that greeted me each morning as she read the news on her Ipad on that damn stool whilst breakfasting on coffee and a muffin – a smile that was invariably followed by “what do you want for dinner tonight?”. Like everyone that knew her, there will be so much to miss – she was simply pure class. I shall leave you with one of her many many favourite quotes…

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars” (Oscar Wilde)

Jan Collins April 15th 1939 – 27th February 2025

Sizing up February

Considering it’s the shortest month of the year and we’ve only just got through the first week of it, why does February feel so interminably long? One can’t even blame the weather; the predicted snow fall this weekend never arrived and although one wakes most mornings to a covering of frost, the afternoons are in double digit degrees. Maybe the mood dump is down to the unpredictability of being not quite out of winter yet – there’s always a fear that anything you start outside may well be under several centimetres of the white stuff the next day. Still, on the plus side, the dawn runs are simply serene. I can see where I’m going for a start now that the sun gets up a little earlier and the terre has turned rock hard what with the morning chill.

It’s not like we haven’t been busy here either although there was a slight hiatus mid-week when Callum came down with a tummy bug which meant 48 hours stuck in a bathroom, Louis then changing places as soon as his cousin recovered. Luckily, I managed to avoid the queue – I’ve had enough to do sorting out tax stuff for my apartment in Montpelier. The French impôt system is, let’s just say, migraine-inducing. So in order to save the yearly search for a document I don’t remember seeing or one I did and just filed in some dusty corner of a kitchen cupboard, I’m going to sell the place.

Speaking of selling, I’ve been busy photographing all my finished bits of furniture so they can be put online – Callum has promised to sort that out and bring me in some centimes. And of course, having cleared a small part of the workshop, I found a few more sorry souls to fiddle around with. One is a really rather lovely Gothic-style chair which I’m going to keep for myself – Dracula is my favourite book. Restoring such a beautiful piece of history isn’t the only reason why I’ll be garage-side for a while, tomorrow I say goodbye to Giselle as she returns to Toyota and I get a healthy bump to my bank account. As much as I love her speed, I just don’t use her that often and I’m always nervous of getting her pranged (the gate has been behaving of late). There’s enough cars and vans in the driveway for me to use until I find something more suited to dog hair and dirt tracks.

In the meantime, there are some garden jobs that have to be done when one isn’t wielding sanding paper and washing copious amounts of dust down the shower drain- the potager has to be emptied and then turned over before the new season plantings go in. I have been reliably informed that my woeful excuse for winter veggies is not my fault, apparently everyone round here has had a problem with ‘size’. Ergo, all my new seedlings are going to stay in the serre until the month is out. Let’s hope the pleasantly smelling bay leaf and pepper deterrent keeps the ‘dormice’ (Denis also has a problem with sizing rodents) out of there til then. How long is it until Spring?…

“February is just plain malicious. It knows your defences are down.” (Katherine Paterson)