Indoor days and birthdays

So far, May has been a complete washout. I know I bang on about how much we need the stuff but a whole week of non-stop pluie? The driveway resembled a lake and my shower drain backed up because the excess had nowhere to go. Even the woofers retreated indoors, their pleading eyes asking me to turn the tap off up there and Sherman was not his usual happy self sloshing through muddy puddles on our morning run. Still, at least we’ve had a sunny, dry weekend as the forecast for next week isn’t encouraging unless you’re a plant.

On the plus side, Denis and I have spent most of our time fiddling about in the garage with the ancient motobécane that brother Simon had found in a dump a decade ago. The L’Horte Four (our kids) had had great fun bouncing over the old homestead’s terrain on her back but after becoming another victim of the 2018 flood, she was put to one side to be fixed but soon forgotten. That was until we decided that the old lady should be bought back to life again. So far, it’s been mostly about de-clogging 6 years of debris in her motor parts, a piston needs replacing and the paintwork needs, well, work but I’m having fun learning about motor machines. Abraham told me that there used to be a ‘moto’ club in Rouffiac years ago and we should start it up again. I don’t have a parka but Tony’s Barbour will do and I have a hankering for one of those old-fashioned helmets – you know the ones that look like you’ve stuck a mixing bowl on your head.

I wish I could say that being forced to stay indoors unless you have a penchant for scuba diving would have resulted in a finished Second Book but no. I’ve only got three chapters to go and I can’t seem to find the motivation to pen them. It’s not as though I don’t want to put the opus to bed, 3 plus years of tap tapping away on the two tales of life after Tony is quite enough but with the end in sight, my muse has gone into hibernation. But with my self-imposed, get it done before the summer, deadline, me and my laptop will be as one. I mean, its not like the sun is going to make a re-appearance anytime soon and the bloody pool is tucked up under the covers for the next month or so. We aren’t as yet, back on talking terms.

But though the weather is a bit doom and gloom, there are little moments to be celebrated. Like Bear birthdays. My slightly-tubbier round the middle, mostly deaf unless you open a biscuit tin, constant cuddle companion, Yogi Bear is 14 years old today. Like most of the pack and their occasionally obeyed mistress, he’s been through a lot over the last almost 6 years. Having lain faithfully by His Master’s bed in those last days, Yogi grieved over Tony’s death until we moved here to Rouffiac and the Bear found a new best buddy in Denis. Now in his senior years, Yogi likes nothing more than to be either snoozing the day away on his favourite cushion or lying under Denis’ feet whilst his beloved human tries to do some gardening. Unless there’s food. Food is always the best thing in life. So Happy Birthday to Yogi Bear, Norfolk Terrier Extraordinaire. May your life always be filled with cuddles and picnics…

“Life’s too short to skip a picnic” (Yogi Bear)

The strength within

It’s been an eventful week, to coin one of my son’s ‘scare Mum’ phrases, and not just because of the number of soirées attended. Once again I managed to injure myself running, only this time it wasn’t down to clumsiness – I got bitten by a dog saving one of my own.

So there I was, huffing and puffing along our usual Tuesday morning route preparing to take on the first of many inclines when suddenly the humungous hairy hound appeared and launched its 90 plus kilo body at Arry pinning him to the ground by the throat. So I pulled him off. Easy yes? Nope but us Mums have inner power when it comes to saving our precious ones. I wrapped my hand into the choke chain around the attacker and hauled him across to the opposite fence. It did cross my mind to hook the chain loop around said fence but I didn’t want to hurt the dog – weird I know but I didn’t. Thankfully, for once in his idiotic life, Arry obeyed me and backed off to a safe distance but Alice and Sherman, terriers they are, weren’t going to let the beast get away lightly. As Sherbs glued his fangs to one hind leg, Alice went into full tigress mode, snapping at every available limb and its sizeable neck. If I had had time to admire her ferocity at this dog’s brazen attack on her beau, I would have but in the process of swinging for one of the diminutive devils, the dog bit me in the leg. The whole episode was over in a matter of minutes – the exhausted assailant giving up and plonked his large behind on the road, long enough for me to grab the two tenacious terriers and make for the hills. Now, before you think I was being foolhardy and putting myself in danger, I wasn’t. I know this dog although he is normally behind an electrified fence protecting his owner’s flock of sheep and said owner has been in touch with profound apologies and offers to pay any vet bills (no woofers were hurt mercifully) and an invitation to go and meet his animals, including the fluff monster. Having spent more than 20 years as a behaviour consultant and trainer, I know enough that it wasn’t the target and frankly Arry does look a bit like Wile E Coyote. I do wish I’d stopping scarring my knees though, I’ll need a GPS to find them soon.

Anyway, I’ve been ‘tetanused’ and loaded with antibiotics, thankfully those that don’t require you to abstain from alcohol (I don’t think such medication exists in these parts) which was just as well as the rest of the week was all about dining and wining. Mumo, having celebrated her xx birthday on Monday, held a little party for close friends on Friday. Denis and I bought her one of those outdoor braziers as she doesn’t do cold very well – the little fire pit blasted out lava-like temperatures the whole evening keeping everyone warm and toasty if not a little smoke-scented. My sister-in-law Alba, made a fancy spread of finger foods and I kept the flow of wine going. And I managed to behave myself and keep the dancing under wraps.

Hip-shaking however, was mandatory last night – my man on the barbecue and his brother, Thierry, on the decks as I was treated to a night of traditional Catalan cuisine and music at his Mum’s house. She hasn’t been well of late so the brothers decided to cheer her up with their presence. D’s other brother, Bruno, is her main carer so having a bit of riotous company was for him too. Yet another thoroughly enjoyable evening even if my body said differently when I woke up this morning. I relish Sunday mornings when I can stay in bed and cuddle the woofers but alas, I had another engagement – an early one. My first French baptism held at the church here in Rouffiac, mercifully a two minute walk round the corner as neither Denis or I would have had the stomach to drive anywhere. To be honest, I’d only met the parents once and my tired self would have rather forgone the invitation but in a small village like ours, well you can imagine what the neighbours would say. It was the first time I’d been in the church too and after the previous two nights, I was grateful for the quiet sanctuary within its walls. The service was beautiful and blessedly short with the most genial baby who never cried once and no hymns were involved so no-one needed to hear me ruin a momentous family occasion. Luckily, D and I also managed to escape the after-party after a small glass to wet the baby’s head and return to our own abodes for a bit of down time after the week’s events – I haven’t mentioned that D fell off a wooden plank whilst trying to put shelving together and bruised ribs and shoulder. At least next week with any luck will be slightly less dramatic I hope but I have started to fill the bloody pool…

“Your responses to the events of life are more important than the events themselves” (Virginia Satir)

Witchy work

I feel I should title this blog “40 days and 40 nights” judging by the amount of rain we had for the first 4 days and 4 nights last week. And just as I was getting on top of all the water under the pool liner. Still, I would like to thank Sophy and Sean for their lovely gift on leaving our little part of France on Wednesday – blue skies and 30 degrees ensued. I’m back in my bikini once more and the woofers flopped out on the cool apartment tiles. The bloody pool is almost empty so with any luck and a few more days without pluie, Denis and I can finish the last bit of reparation around it’s drain and start refilling the vast abyss.

Having one hole to empty of water is one thing, finding a possible two or three in the front garden that may well hold the precious liquid is another altogether. We had a visit from the long-awaited water diviner this morning. Since finding out that quite a few of the neighbouring houses have ‘natural’ wells, I was pretty sure we must too since the underground source comes directly from the River Aude at the bottom of the village. Rashid (him who is partnered with D’s niece Stephanie) knew an old man in Preixan who is just that – a water diviner or sourcier. Along with his son, the Monsieur found not one but 5 locations in the garden, all pretty much where I thought they’d be. It’s fascinating to watch as the rods move about and then cross over each other when water is below and before you think it’s all hooplah, I had a go and got the same result. It is a really weird feeling when you get close to the ‘x’, a sort of mild buzz goes through your hands up up your arms. Well, for me anyway, Mumo didn’t feel a thing when she tried – must be the witch in me. Now all we have to do is get clearance from the Mayor and then a massive drill will make a great big hole 15 metres down. I’m leaving the buttering up to Denis, he and the afore-mentioned are great friends. Always helps.

What with all the spinach and carrots I’ve just planted out in the potager, I’m going to need a ‘free’ flow of eau. Yesterday evening I put all my little shoots in to their new home, not quite in a straight line as I had been instructed to do by you know who but I don’t suppose the veggies mind. In fact, the weird weather of late might give them a boost as it has for all the fruit trees – plums, apricots, the dreaded figs of course and grapes. Yes, for the first time since I put it in the ground three years ago, my grapevine is bursting with little bundles. Hardly enough to make a bottle of wine but hey, who knows? Domain Stewart may be the next chapter in my new life. Or maybe I’ll be the next great graffiti artist – I finally finished the tractor shed wall and hung up my beautiful wrought iron frames over my brush work. I was rather pleased with my efforts until Stephanie remarked that the paintings looked better with the frames than without.

Speaking of chapters, Sally editor has sent back the last lot and a note to say how good they were – high praise indeed as she usually covers most of my writings in red ink. A pat on the back is enough to drive me forward and finish the last four before the summer. Then, as opuses (or is opii?) go – I’ll leave both books to the hands of the experts and keep my fingers crossed. By that time, we might just have a well for me to make a wish…

“In time and with water everything changes.” ( Leonardo da Vinci)

Buckets and blow-outs

Last week started with a storm, followed by glorious sunny weather and ended with a power cut. And for most of that time, I’ve been ankle deep in water in what should be an empty swimming pool. I can’t even blame the rain because we’ve barely had a drop, nope this is down to water being under the liner rather than on top of it. I shall explain. Having sorted the most likely source of the leak i.e. in the pool staircase thanks to the ever-reliable Roy’s expertise, I pumped out the remaining third of green, slimy liquid out into the garden and set about cleaning the liner so we could refill the bloody thing. It was at this point I felt the ground move under my feet so to speak or rather, wave underneath me. The mystery of where the leak had put the water was now clear, under the liner. So I’ve had to loosen the drain cover to make a gap for the stuff to come out of, wait for the small area to fill up and then go in with a bucket – and I’m still schlepping the thing two days later. I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t have mountains of other work to do and that the weather has suddenly turned very cool and my toes are in permanent prune mode. I’m really really hoping I’ll finish this tedious travail by tomorrow so we can put the water back on the right side of the liner before putting the summer cover on and forgetting about the bloody thing until the end of next month.

Mind you, both Denis and I have had time between my buckets to cross a few more things off the diminishing ‘to-do’ list. He’s started on the pétanque ground – a sort of bowls game that’s very popular in these parts. And yes, D has made sure the sporting venue is placed well away from next-doors windows – he knows my technique well. It’s not an easy thing to create, the lack of decent rainfall has made the terrain rock-hard despite me emptying the algae-contents over Denis’ meticulously marked-out plot. As for me, I’m still finishing the tractor shed wall’s ‘art’ – you’ll see it when I’ve finished. Oh and I’ve completed Chapter Sixteen of the second opus which I’ll pop off to Sally editor tonight and then, if she doesn’t send everything back covered in red ink, I only have four more chapters to go. Well, for the first edit anyway.

As I mentioned at the beginning of today’s blog, we started and ended last week with what could have been party poopers. Easter Monday saw the annual Maybon (D’s family) gathering, the sun was out and the barbecue sizzled whilst the little ones played with snails on D’s front lawn. Poor molluscs couldn’t get away slow enough. That was until the skies above turned slate grey and the distant rumble of thunder brought everyone under cover. Thankfully, the impressive display of lightning and sheets of rain waited until the day was almost over – so French. One must get the meal over first. That being said, yesterday’s power cut almost put a stop to anyone having a bite to eat. I had just put the evening’s dinner in the oven, Saba and Roy were joining us and I had another little surprise for both them and Denis, when everything suddenly went pfft. That was at 2pm. Rouffiac didn’t see electricity again until 9 pm. But we are resourceful and were not about to let a tiny little thing like power stifle our soirée. Or my surprise from arriving. My wonderful friend Sophy (the one with a ‘y’ not an ‘i’) and her husband Sean joined us, having popped over to visit Carcassonne for a few days, bringing buckets of wine and cheese to fill the meagre table which wasn’t so meagre after the local pizza joint got its wattage working. The whole night spent in semi-darkness was such a riot that when the lights came back on, we turned them off. Life is never dull when you live in this little village tucked away somewhere in South-West France…

“Happiness is not the absence of problems, but the willingness to deal with them joyfully” (Jonathan Lockwood Huie)

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)

The wheel of life

It’s been a week of catching up with old friends and sadly, the loss of a little one too. Willy, my tiny Roborovski hamster passed away quietly on Wednesday night. I can’t say we had a very tactile relationship in the almost 3 years we spent together but he knew my voice and I had gotten used to the monotonous sound of his exercise wheel squeaking throughout the sleepy hours. Denis and I buried him in the new flowerbed under the apartment frontage – his little house marking his grave. I didn’t add the wheel, his spirit might wake the neighbours.

Speaking of neighbours or should I say, the neighbourhood, everyone’s been out in their gardens over the past few days to soak up the glorious early Spring warmth. Mowers humming and beer caps popping as shorts were pulled out of drawer depths – they’ll be returned to their winter lodgings tomorrow however as we are set for a wet and windy week ahead. Just in time for the Easter Weekend. I have to keep reminding myself that March winds and April showers are to be expected and we still really need the rain but I do prefer flip flops to work boots. The short burst of sunshine however has given my tomatoes a boost – they may be tortoises but slow and steady they rise. And I managed to make a start on painting the tractor house wall, luckily I’m taller than D so he’s only got the top of the wall to do – unless I sneak out the ladder whilst he’s not looking. We’ve shot through our to-do list mind you, ambient temperatures and blue sky abundance tend to get the work done – I just wish I’d decided to the pool leak last Thursday instead of the one coming. Ah well, wetsuit it is.

And with the nights more on the cool than chilly side, I hosted a dinner party out on the terrace on Friday evening. Denis cooked a traditional chicken and olive stew and I provided the vegetarian tatin de tomates. Sixteen were very well-fed and equally, well drunk and all had a thoroughly good evening. I only wish that I could have had everyone over last night instead as my good friend and once grooming mentor arrived yesterday for a stopover on her way to her holiday home near Málaga in Spain. It’s been wonderful to see Heidi again after almost 9 years and to meet her stunning Standard Poodle Tiffany and travel gal pal Lindy. Naturally they’ve had a guided tour of Rouffiac d’Aude, which takes all of 15 minutes and a drive around Carcassonne to see La Cité and St-Hilaire to see the Abbaye de St-Hilaire. We didn’t do any actually walking around as Tiffany is a little on the shy side but the views seem to impress her human counterparts. I do love having visitors and being able to show off this little corner of France (subtle hint to all those who keep promising to pop in, ahem).

As mentioned, Easter is almost upon us and then it’ll be April and hopefully, Spring. This year seems to be whizzing by or perhaps I’m just getting old. I still have another 5 chapters to finish which I’d like to get done before the summer so I can put the wretched thing in the hands of the experts to refine so to speak. It’s not that I don’t like writing it, it’s just that I have itchy feet and want to get on with other projects – ones that don’t require so many brain cells. On the subject of itchy feet, Callum’s is much better he tells me so he’s off being touristy for a couple of weeks around Taz before getting back into the work mode. Life’s all about getting the right balance and getting off the hamster wheel…

““Friendship’s the wine of life.” ( Edward Young)

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)

Tractors and tomatoes

What a drizzly cold day it is today. It actually feels like February even though we are almost at the end of the month – one that has, so far, been more balmy than brrr. Denis reckons we are in for a nasty start to Spring which I really hope isn’t the case as the garden is definitely thinking about all things bright and beautiful. My little serre is busy producing tiny spinach and salad shoots and I’ve relocated the infant carrots to the makeshift nursery beside it. Graham donated one of those plastic covered clothes rail thingies which Denis ingeniously lay flat with zipper side up and dumped a few inches of fertile earth into its middle. This has also given me space to hatch my competition entries. Yes, the tournament of the tomatoes has begun. D has his contestants at his house whilst mine are tucked away in the sweaty confines of the poly tunnel. Naturally, I did as was decided and carefully poked 3 or 4 minute seeds into each hole – 30 of each type as per the rules whilst Denis just scattered his lot willy-nilly into pots. I’m taking the scientific route, he isn’t. July is the deadline for showing off our prize toms and Saba will be the judge. My fellow cheval du feu.

Working outside in mostly dry conditions has been just the ticket for blowing the cobwebs from my sleep-deprived grey cells. I finally managed to get 4 chapters off to Sally having nailed myself to the laptop every night. I do wish my writing muse had a bit of respect for my necessary 8 hours deep snoozing, she seems to have an aversion for working during the daylight ones. Still I’m over half-way, less the re-writes which my editor has a fondness for so I’m shooting for that distant last line one one exhausting evening at a time.

The past week wasn’t just about punishing my mentals, D and I finally managed to move Callum’s beloved Massey-Ferguson out of the car port and into its new home in the tractor shed. Its only taken 3 years to get it the 100 metres or so from the front to the back of the garden; one because we had to build the shed, two as we had to remove the giant fig root from its lodgings under the building’s roof and three, the little red tractor doesn’t go vroom. It hasn’t gone vroom since the day Callum pulled it out of the river after the L’Horte flood of 2018. The battered old girl needs a lot of fixing up as well as a couple of new back tyres. Anyway, we cabled her up to the back of the blue ride-on mower and with me driving and Denis guiding, heaved her surprising weightiness the short distance betwixt the two abodes. D was very impressed with my skills at getting both machines out of the mud half way down the back, I may have once been a city girl but those heady holidays spent at the former family homestead that was L’Horte gave me an education in manoeuvring motorised vehicles across mulchy meadows.

At least that was one thing ticked off the very long list of ‘must do’ chores, actually I managed to highlight another couple too. I made it through the annual vaccinations of Neo, Mo Cridhe and Coco Loco unscathed thanks to D’s help and very gentle young vet recently added to the clinic’s practice. She wasn’t the slightest put off by Mo’s eyeballing and Neo was a complete lamb, he didn’t even mind her cutting his back dew claws – something I hate doing as its like playing Russian Roulette with his ‘will I won’t I bite’ looks. And speaking of bites, I had a visit to the dentist so she could check on my new teeth. One in which she told me I wasn’t cleaning my extortionately expensive purchases properly and I needed to buy one of those dental water spray thingies. Which I dutifully did and managed to douse more of the bathroom walls than those inside my mouth. They’re quite powerful little machines you know? Mind you, if Denis thinks showing his bottom to his tomatoes will make them turn red, my soon-to- be even more dazzling dentures will give my lot sunburn…

“A tomato may be a fruit, but it is a singular fruit. A savory fruit. A fruit that has ambitions far beyond the ambitions of other fruits” (E. Lockhart)

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)

Perspirating in poly tunnels

So here goes another break in the norm. I am writing this over coffee this morning instead of my usual after lunch ‘a la pizza’ musings. Firstly, I am going over to Denis’ Mum’s place for midday munchings in an hour or so and secondly, we ate the pizza last night. Another brave move from the routine. As we’d spent Friday night with friends down the rue emptying the contents of their fridge and wine rack, D and I decided to stay in and eat with Mumo - and inhale her delicious Italian offering. She makes the best.

It’s hard to believe it’s the end of January already, where the hell did the month go? Mind you, the current temperatures are more reminiscent of May – we are still in double digits and the thermometer hit 21 on Thursday. Of course, that would be the day I spent clearing out the largest of Abraham’s poly tunnels so that he could begin the new season’s planting. I still haven’t managed to remove all the minute hay needles from my jeans -even tweezers and a magnifying glass can’t eject the pesky pins. And boy, it’s hot in those tunnels. Sitting down over a beer later, I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the windows. Let’s just say, a scarecrow would have been terrified at the reflection. And Abraham’s wasn’t the only ‘sauna’ being taken care of. Denis managed to get my little one up and installed at the back of the garden; in his words, Ikea instructions were easier to follow but he did it. I moved all my little seedlings in and bought a few others so they wouldn’t be lonely in their sweaty surroundings. At least if Mother Nature decided to throw us a curveball and send snow our way, I know where to keep warm.

On the plus side, ambient degrees make for gorgeous morning runs over the hills. And with the mornings becoming lighter earlier, I can start the pace under the moonlight and ascend into the sunrise – quite spectacular. Work has started back up on the vines too so the sound of Arry and co’s collar bells is now inter-mingled with the hum of tractors – strangely comforting in a way as we head out of winter.

And with that, I must depart for what will be, no doubt, a stomach stretching afternoon if I know D’s family. Oh, and the podcast is now up and running on Spotify every Sunday evening. I think I’m getting to grips with it now and my Ipad is still intact. I have no idea what tonight’s will be like but I shall keep the wine to a minimum. At least I have a voice now, last weekend I was reduced to rasping Dot Cotton style…

“Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.” (Paul Theroux)