What once was

I suppose it was inevitable but it was still hard to see the last house at L’Horte pulled down last week. What once stood proudly for centuries, over-looking the land that started out as the market garden for the Abbey in St-Hilaire, is now left with nothing more than its foundations. All that is left is there for the archeologists to poke around in, everything Pop had renovated – gone in a matter of days. Still, sad as it is, at least now that the digger and excavator crews have left, the place is peaceful once again and doing what it’s supposed to do. Be a market garden with Nicolas and Severine taking care of it all. Nicolas has promised me he’ll try and save Mumo’s peace rose that used to climb up the terrace, my brother Moth asked me if I could grab a few of the building’s cornerstones. I might be fit but I’m not a weightlifter thank you very much.

The old homestead at L’Horte hasn’t been the only receptacle to be drained of life these past few days. Despite Roy and I fixing the probable cause of the bloody pool’s leak, the algae has refused to budge. Running the pumps for several hours at a time and adding diluted chlorine hasn’t fazed the diabolical sludge so I’ve given up trying and the water plus its contents are now draining over the garden. I dread to think what’s living in those murky depths and it’ll be me getting in and cleaning the damn thing. Then Roy and I will fill the vast space with nicely spiced chlorine concentrated eau and put the cover back on until the summer. Another job ticked off the list.

Said list is getting shorter by the day. Denis and I have been toiling all hours of the day to get through it. The carport is cleared and brother Simon has got his car in it without hitting the sides, the tractor shed wall is now painted, I cleared all the weeds from the outside verge and the pool deck now has a fresh coat of preserve. Annoyingly, I only noticed the bit I missed after I’d cleaned the brushes but since the spot is on the margelle otherwise known as the under edge of the deck, I’m not going to say anything. And it wasn’t just the two of us making a difference, Paula, also known as the ‘Oven Queen’ came over for her yearly visit to sparkle up our stoves and catch up on news. Not only is Paula a genius but great fun to be around too and she doesn’t mind the woofers underfoot either.

Just as well as the apartment is getting more crowded by the minute. I’ve brought up one of my armchairs so I can finish the upholstering and I’ve got two saddles waiting to be returned to Le Jardin. I spied them lying dejected and dried out on one of the tables in what will soon be the refurbished bar and restaurant. With a lot of elbow grease and saddle soap, they are now ready to ride. Or as I have decided, become bar stools. I’ll be back down at Le Jardin in the coming week to help Abraham split and replant the seedlings I carefully poked into little pots of earth last month. He’s got enough to do and I weirdly like the work – it’s peaceful and doesn’t require stressing out the brain cells. Not that my life is that stressful except the evening tap tapping away at The Second Book. I’m so close to the end and my muse keeps going to sleep. It doesn’t help that this opus has a lot more factual information than the last one and trawling through pages of research isn’t my idea of fun. And with Spring arriving as the clocks have gone forward, I’d rather be outside talking to my tomatoes than banging my fingers on a keyboard. They are sprouting nicely in case you were worried, better than Denis’ – he’s managed to burn half of his because he put them too close to his barbecue. The same barbecue that will be the star of attention at tomorrow’s Maybon family get-together (D’s family that is) on the petanque ground down the road. The same one, if you remember last year’s, that the giant omelette is traditionally made for. The one laced with sugar and rum. Thankfully D had come to terms with my feelings about this curdled cultural congelation and I won’t have to eat it. The thing looks like a paler version of what I’m emptying the pool. I’m no fool…

“April prepares her green traffic light, and the world thinks: Go (Christopher Morley)

Parenting skills

Being a parent is not an easy job but I do think some are more in tune with the basics of bringing up kids than others. Take Mr and Mrs Pratt, the pigeon couple for example, versus Bert and Skirt Magpie. Every year, these pairs come back to build their nests and raise their families – Bert and Skirt choosing the safety of the giant cedar tree and the Pratts, well they’ve decided this year to move from the terrace overhang to the gutter above. The woofers have already had one fledgling that had fallen out of the narrow nursery and then I heard another scrabbling around in the bottom of the drainpipe. There was no way I could take the tube apart which broke my heart but I blame the parents. How the population of pigeons keeps growing, is a baffling question considering their ideas on progeny production. At least my offspring is back in touch again having disappeared into the Tasmanian wilderness for a couple of weeks. I do try not to worry but hey, I’m a Mum and what doesn’t help is when he tells me half an hour into our conversation that he’s been in hospital. All that larking about in the forest ended up with an infected foot – infected no doubt because he didn’t have access to my motherly smothering. Serves him right as he can’t go climbing up any mountains or kayaking off waterfalls until the doc says so.

Mind you, I did have to swing into nurse mode last week after Neo managed to acquire a deep gash on his left side. I’ve no idea how he managed to make such a mess of himself but since vet visits and Neo do not mix well, a bit of home TLC seems to be doing the trick. He might look sweet but he’s got a mean bite where distrust is concerned. Plus, the late great Keith Butt taught me well when it comes to open wounds on dogs – stitching it up would not be the best practice, infections are better out than in.

I’m sure the change in the weather is helping Neo’s recovery, the sun has come out and the temperature is suitably pleasant for this time of year. Denis and I have been busy getting through the long list of garden projects, he’s even started clearing his own plot – working on everyone else’s greenery hasn’t given him any time for his own. I didn’t even know he had a gate at the back of the property such was the overgrowth. Our terrain however, is beginning to look very Spring-like – I’ve finished painting Denis’ old trailer that he wanted to throw away, Bella will now carry strawberries and marigolds instead of rusting away in some corner of a dump. And we’ve started on the stone wall that will hopefully transform the flowerbed below the front of the apartment. I say we but realistically, D’s doing most of the hard graft whilst I play with the flowers.

Of course, there is still much to do. There are the daily chores; cleaning up after the woofers, tending the ‘allotment’ and battling the ever-present algae that is slowly beginning to dissipate from what water remains in the pool depths. Hopefully, having bought some dye from the piscine shop in Carcassonne where D’s son works (we get a discount yay!), we’ve found where the leak is most likely to lie. I was right, next to the pool steps. Next week, I’ll have the joy of fixing that imperceptible irritation – I just hope the wetsuit still fits. And speaking of dinky dramas, there is hope in the air. My timid tomatoes have finally decided to reach for the sky! Okay, they’ve a long way to go if they are going to catch up with Denis’ mini monsters but I’m very proud of my brood. It’s tough being a parent but watching all you have carefully nurtured grow upwards is all you could ever want. Unless you’re a pigeon…

“When your mother asks, ‘Do you want a piece of advice?’ It is a mere formality. It doesn’t matter if you answer yes or no. You’re going to do it anyway.” (Erma Bombeck)

Pen the past and plant the future

I’ve pulled a fair few late-nighters over the past week and not because I’ve been frolicking into the wee hours. Nope, I glued myself to the laptop and worked my fingers to the bone tap tapping away at The Second Book. Deciding to focus for once on getting the opus finished before the summer is a great idea in principle but this means penning 3 chapters a month and that’s flipping hard work. Bringing up the past takes a toll on one’s emotions even if this time around, it’s about a new life in a country that I adore. I seem to have forgotten how difficult those early years here were, starting again without Tony by my side. But determination is my middle name and frankly, there are so many other projects to get done – ones I’ll actually enjoy doing.

Like pottering around my little serre for example or getting the huge party-dome down at Le Jardin redone so it’ll be ready for its grand opening in April. Abraham and I actually took some time out from our plots and went over to L’Horte to have a gander at what Nicolas and Severine have been up to. For those who aren’t regular blog readers, the two look after the land with their market garden enterprise as well as raise mini-goats and chickens. Anyway, I wanted to introduce Abraham as they are all in pretty much the same business which I did. I left Nicolas and Abraham to chat about all things green and good for you whilst I took my usual path down to the river to say hello to Pop and then poke around what remains of the surviving house. As you know, L’Horte has always been and always will be, one of the few places where I feel totally relaxed even if, like me what she once was and what she is now are strangers to each other. As I looked across the terrain and up towards the hills behind the property, a thought passed through my zoned-out brain. 4 years ago I was living in London, a city that wears stress like a second skin and now my home is surrounded by vines and beautiful views of the countryside. And even though I don’t have Tony to enjoy it with me, I’m lucky to have found Denis – my man who knows his onions when it comes to anything about his little piece of France.

And no he didn’t hand me over a bunch on Valentine’s day. Instead he bought me some heart-shaped goat’s cheese and a single rose – I’m easy to please when it comes to cheese. And he knows me well enough not to flatter me with a dozen red flowers, I prefer my flora to be in the ground not in a vase. Cut blossoms always remind me of chez Knollys being full of them after Tony died. And they die too, far too quickly. As romantic get-aways go, hiking though the forest looking for mushrooms that afternoon might not be too everyone’s taste but foraging for fungi is me to a tee. Except that we didn’t find any, not even the bad ones. The ground was dry and the moss practically non-existent – Denis blamed the local gangs for ripping the place apart but my money’s on the weather. Not nearly enough rain despite a couple of non-stop drip days during the last week and the thermometer is still doing see-saws – that afternoon it was over 20 degrees and blazing sunshine.

Despite the météo still making its mind up as to which month we are currently in, Denis and I made the brave decision to remove the winter wrap from my Mimosa tree. She’s flowering you see and needs to spread her limbs. She’s not the only one, most of the rest of the garden is too – far too early for most but D reckons they’re strong enough to survive a frost or three. I have kept Mimosa’s roots covered though as she isn’t old enough to brave a blizzard. Or anything else the tempestuous temperatures want throw at us before the summer and until that season arrives, I shall keep bouncing the balls of my fingers across the keyboard and try to remember where I am right now…

” It is not easy to walk alone in the country without musing upon something” (Charles Dickens)

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