Snotty noses and soulful spirits

There are many things that I’m not very good at and dealing with a stinky cold is one of them. I don’t do illness well whether its being the nurse or worse, the patient. I spent most of last week under a black cloud of doom in full sneeze mode with only the occasional respite thanks to whoever invented Vicks. Feeling and looking like someone coming off a heroin bender was one thing but being understood in your non-native language, I discovered, was frustrating to say the least – try differentiating deux, dix or douze with a stuffed up nose. Still, as more than one in the village told me, it’s better to succumb now than in the summer or on Christmas Day and I am now, finally almost back to my normal festive self.

I say almost back because at this point in December, I should be busy wrapping presents and helping organise bedrooms for incoming family the week before the big day but not this year. There’ll be no-one here but me and the woofers over the holiday period so the spirit is a little off. In an attempt to bring out my inner Santa sense and since I am playing host for some of Denis’ family on Christmas Day, I dragged my man off to the local jardinarie to buy a big fat tree to liven up the main house. I have to admit that compared to my apartment which is twinkling merrily and despite the sapin for once being tastefully decorated with no tinsel in sight, the place still looks somewhat bereft without Mumo’s presence and that of my siblings. As my sister Bong put in her recent text, it’s a strange time this year.

Having said all that, the property wasn’t totally devoid of bodies this week – we had another viewing and this time by a young couple and their kids. Having off-loaded all but one of the woofers on Denis and the camion, I left the estate agent in charge and took myself and Alice up to what will be our new plot up the road and to the right. If you are wondering why Alice wasn’t with the others then you’ve never been in a car with her – she’s very loud, painfully so. As we took in the view of the Corbières and the ambient surroundings, okay she was paying more attention to the Goldie across the road, it dawned on me how quickly this last year has passed and how much has happened within those 12 months. Walking back a little time later down the lane to the back of my current home, I saw the two children playing on our front lawn. I didn’t mean to pry, it’s just that Alice had seen a cat on our wall and was trying her best to get in a bit of extreme rock-climbing but it felt vaguely reassuring that hopefully, in the not too distant future, the place would have a family again.

And it’s not just the big house that feel a little off at the moment, the poor garden doesn’t know which season it’s supposed to be in. With the weather deciding that blue skies and high teen degrees is perfectly normal in wintertime, half the foliage is on the floor whilst the rest is in full bloom. On the positive side, this does help charge up the solar lights illuminating our reindeer display but I do worry about my plantings as I will have to move them in the next few months and they really should be asleep by now. Still, one can’t deny that a little bit of sunshine does the spirit and the snotty nose a world of good and with only so many shopping days left until Christmas, I am determined to bring a little bit of Sophi magic to the party. And now, with my new television courtesy of a priceless pal, it’s time to switch on the Disney classics, put on the dancing slippers and get out the wrapping paper don’t you think?…

“December, being the last month of the year, cannot help but make us think of what is to come.” (Fennel Hudson)

Adding the fantasie

It goes without saying that, looking back on the nearly 7 years of writing this blog, there’ve been a fair few milestones inscribed on its stone. Admittedly, most etchings tend to be somewhat depressing so I am particularly proud to add a sparkly one today. Yup, it’s official, I am now a registered jewellery designer and licensed to bling. Actually, the exact name for my trade is ‘createur de bijoux fantasie’ which, by the way, does not mean I’m plying my wares in Ann Summers so keep your heads out of the gutter. According to the very nice man in the office, the fantasie bit separates me from those who work with real gemstones and precious metals as opposed to moi who twists copper wire and whittles wood. Anyway, suffice to say that I am absolutely delighted that the almost impossible to say in French, Witch Wackle, is now a legitimate microenterprise. Dead chuffed.

And Witch Wackle wasn’t the only start-up to open its doors this week, the pizza van fired up its ovens for the rumbly tums on Friday evening. It’s not the first time I’ve invested in a local business but I do love pizza and Christophe knows how to flip ’em. Charmingly gruff and built like a boxer (he was once Marie le Pen’s bodyguard), Christophe has become a good friend and is no stranger to running food trucks so I was happy to help and he did accompany me through all the government paperwork needed to get the bijoux signature. Between Le Jardin, Pizza King and now Witch Wackle, I feel like quite the business woman, which considering I failed maths, French, cookery and art at school, is an accomplishment in itself.

So here I am, proper suited and all, except in torn jeans and scuffed boots, making my own little marker here in this little village hidden amongst the vines in deepest South-West France – a place that brought everyone together on Tuesday to mark Remembrance Day outside the church. Although it wasn’t the sort of occasion where peeps dressed up to the nines, I did pin a poppy badge to my jumper which was joined soon after by a blue paper flower. These are the French symbols of commemoration so I felt very honoured to be given one and place the two side by side. The service was, as always, poignant and respectful, especially as most of the readings were down by local schoolchildren who also ended the morning with a rousing rendition of something unfamiliar but that might have been down to all the notes sung but not necessarily in the right order.

Speaking of all things creative and community, the coming week will see me wearing yet another hat – it’s time to start designing the corner wall’s display and panneau. My artistic ability is hardly Louvre quality but me painting the seasonal scene on the signboard down the road has become a tradition, much like how much Christmas kitsch we can cram into the bit of garden over-looking it. I have promised Denis a little more taste this year and less luminosity although he did raise an eyebrow when I mentioned leaping reindeer and why not dangle Santa from the almond tree so we’ll see. After all, one should always have a bit of fantasie…

“If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities” (Maya Angelou)

Storm in a dog bowl

Just in case we’d forgotten what month we were in, what with all the autumnal sunshine of late, November reminded us this week. Three days of non-stop rain and bullet-grey skies. The old kayak we had at L’Horte would have come in useful as getting across the driveway or out of the front gate became less about jumping puddles and more about navigating the rapids. That being said, the tempest has run its course and we are back under blue skies once more which perhaps could be a metaphor for my over-worrying self this past week.

At least the deluge waited until after Thursday’s pootle; running up those trails is not exactly fun when your trainers are squelching and, as I’ve mused many times before, sunrise over the vines is a spectacular sight but not when you’re to busy trying to remove chunks of clay from your soles. We almost made it home and dry and would have if it wasn’t for Arry’s very rare change in pace – he just couldn’t keep up. Hence the worry.

I shall explain. A couple of weeks ago, I got an email from the vet clinic to make a few appointments for my ‘senior’ dogs – Arry included. I ruled out Simi, Neo, Coco and Mo – Simi has only recently been checked over and there’s no way a vet could examine Neo or Mo without full body armour. Arry on the other hand is a German Shepherd, as most of you will know, one with only two gears – full steam ahead or fast asleep, the latter only taken when the lights go out. But he is 10 years old and after a minor trip one morning, he seemed a little unsteady. Naturally, being me and having far too much experience with the breed, I whizzed my gorgeous idiot off to be scanned from head to tail. Note, what I just mentioned – two speeds which meant any chance of lying still for one second was out of the question so he needed sedating. Now, Arry and I have been through a lot over our years together and he’s had more lives than a cat but seeing him just flop into a comatose state was terrifying as was waiting for him to come out the other side. As he snoozed peacefully on the floor post-echograph, bloods and X rays, he suddenly looked old – when did this happen? Thankfully, all is okay, sort of. Arthritis in his lower back which means lots of physio but no sign of any of the other evils that tend to be associated with Shepherds. And he can still run the trails, exercise is good for him although a few less kilometres I think.

At least now with that storm in a dog bowl over and the forecast better, I can get back to work with Arry and his cohorts underfoot. I have my next appointment with the license department tomorrow morning at the slightly more reasonable hour of 9 a.m. which if the Gods are playing nice will mean I can make the Christmas markets. Let’s keep our fingers crossed for clear skies ahead, kayaks make me seasick…

““The nicest thing about the rain is that it always stops. Eventually.” (Eeyore)

Resolutions and wrinkles

Well, there you go, another week over and another year older. Yup, I’ve had my last birthday in my 50’s and, not being one to shy away from a good knees-up, I did it in style and suffered for it. My mind may think I’m still in my youth but the body does not. Still, knee joints aside, I had a cracking good night boogieing into the wee hours whilst consuming my body weight in pizza. And, aside from Denis providing my favourite nutrition, the weather stayed just about perfect so we could dine al fresco on my terrace surrounded by tripping hazards in the form of prone woofers.

I have to say I don’t feel 59 but then again I’ve never been 59 before. Whilst I’m sure the wrinkle count is doubling daily, I tend to avoid lengthy conversations with mirrors and being flat-chested, I’m lucky nothing’s sagging in that department. Callum tells me I look ‘pretty good’ for my age which is why he is the centre of my world, unlike brother Simon who pointed out I was really 60 minus 364 days yesterday – I should remind him that he is my older sibling. I suppose one should think about birthday resolutions and all that but, considering all the ups and too many downs over the past 12 months, I don’t think so. Maybe stop stressing so much and enjoy the now if my out of whack synapses will let me.

So, we’ve reached November and with it, chilly mornings and disappearing daylight. With not much to do in the garden and a workshop idling whilst I try to drum ideas for Christmas baubles, I decided to give the terrace a bit of a make-over. Admittedly, it’s probably not the season for adding what can only be described as summer lounging to the apartment’s exterior but it does give it a bit of a wow factor. Not that you can sit on any of it, the woofers have ruled out any chance of claiming a cushion and as everyone knows, my posterior doesn’t have a take a load off mode. That being said, I don’t think there is a more perfect place to let the mind wander in the peace of nature for a while. Actually, it’s not that peaceful – the garden is teeming with migrant visitors at the moment; the avian kind but the chatter is oddly welcoming as we head into Autumn’s last month. Winter may be around the corner and a new year beckoning but that’s yet to come and as the saying goes, age is just a number so me and 59 are going to be just fine. I’ll just try and keep myself away from my reflection and remember mornings after night befores…

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing.” (George Bernard Shaw)

Signs of Autumn

So, after five months of rainless skies and sweat, Autumn finally decided to make an appearance in dramatic style with a cracking great storm on Thursday. I’m sure the land was grateful for the deluge but probably not the howling gale that came with it – one that brought down several tonnes of acorns onto the pool deck that I’d just swept. I did wonder whether a retrieval of car canopies from next doors garden might be in order, velcro is no match for a violent tempest and neither is trying to bang down pegs under water. Still, a change in season is as good as a rest or at least it’s certainly blown away the cobwebs.

Yup, this girl’s been busy clearing the decks and not just the one with the sound of constant pinging. It all started with my TikTok detox. I may or may not have spent far too many evenings in the company of tarot card readers and other dubious ‘ologists worrying about where Saturn was rising to next or whether Mars and Uranus were going to have a bust up as to who was going to be in Scorpio tomorrow. So I deleted the little icon and went to work on all things outdoors instead. I braved the inside of the neglected serre, thankfully devoid of spiders and replaced the wilted summer stock with fresh seedlings and the two potagers are once more neat and tidy. Brother Simon and wife Alba came over during the week having hired a van to move stuff to their new home which meant switching furniture around so the main house didn’t look like The Louvre. They timed their visit well as I’d planned a wee apéro with friends on Friday night which ended up being a dinner – such an evening much needed after the foggy last few weeks.

Naturally, what with it being almost the end of October, I’ve been well-occupied in the workshop too. No, not because of Hallowe’en; my birthday isn’t really a thing in these parts thank the Gods as All Saint’s Day takes a priority. Whilst a few shops may adorn themselves with headless ghouls and trails of wispy cotton wool, chrysanthemums tend to be the main attraction although I must admit some of those displays can be frankly scarier. Anyway, I digress, it’s the Christmas crowds I’m planning for. I have a meeting tomorrow at the Chamber of Commerce (at the ungodly hour of 8.30 a.m) which fingers crossed will be the final step towards my licence. I have no doubt in my mind that I’ll probably forget an important document or five knowing how the French bureaucratic system works but with any luck my Nöel nuggets will festoon the local markets in the next months. In the meantime, I just have to bear the thought that I’ll be that little bit closer to not being in my fifties anymore in the far to near future – let’s just hope Venus doesn’t poke her nose in…

“Notice that autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.” ( Friedrich Nietzsche)

Fingers off the panic button

Considering how glad I was to be back under sunny skies and woofer snogs after my somewhat traumatic exit from the Motherland, you’d think I’d be raring to get on with things but no. I don’t know whether it was that phone call from the notaire to set a date for the signing over of my bank account for a piece of land or the next ping from the architect for a ‘let’s build a bungalow’ meet up that sent my mood skyrocketing south but something did. I should have been elated with the news but instead all I could think about was money. Or lack of which is stupid as I have no idea how much a house will cost yet but the brain bugs weren’t having any of it. My decision to rid the mind of such useless prattle by cleaning all the apartment windows was not a wise one either, nothing broken except my temper – the streaks are still there. Thankfully, such moue moments can never last long; between Denis’ eternal optimism about winning the lotto and a bed full of canine cuddles, a girl can’t stay glum for long. That and the afore-mentioned sunshine – October and we are in 20 plus degrees of warm.

Perhaps the funk was down to a short spell of PTSD of the getting out of England kind – I don’t cope well out of the driver’s seat, makes me nauseous. I got stuck in the airport hotel lift for 10 minutes going up and down all floors except mine which sent me into a blind panic, who knew you were supposed to touch your key card on that black spot on the wall? Between that and not knowing how the hell to find a way out of London to catch the plane, the control freak in me had a melt-down. I would however like to thank the Gods for not unleashing my belongings throughout the turbulent trip, it was only when I got on the plane that I realised my over-stuffed little suitcase was only partially closed.

It’s taken quite a lot of self talking to and more than a few face slaps but I’m back to being a busy little bee. With the prospect of getting my licence in the next couple of weeks, the bijoux workshop has me buzzing with ideas – especially the wood kind. I can work with wood for hours on end, it’s as close to meditation I can get. And of course, there are all the other chores that come with living in such a palatial property (the estate agent calls it a luxury home which is a bit of a stretch but whatever gets it sold) – the gardens need weeding and the potager looks like the apocalypse popped by for a start. On the plus side, I can forget about the pool now it’s tucked away for the winter and despite the lack of rain, the whole place is blooming. It might be October but the flowers haven’t got that memo yet. And I for one am keeping my fingers crossed that next week will be coming up roses…

““You don’t always need a plan. Sometimes you just need to breathe, trust, let go, and see what happens.” (Mandy Hale)

Making the most of the views

Is it me or did July just disappear? Mind you, it’s taken the less than desirable weather and my gloomy mood with it so I’m not the only one who’s pleased to see the back of last month. The sun is back for a start and the main house has bodies in it once again – nephews Louis and Maxime are back. Not only does this mean I don’t have to scare myself silly locking the place up every night what with all the eerie creaks and groans about but with any luck the mice who’ve been leaving their deposits in the kitchen cupboards will move out. Sappy’s back too. I can’t say ours was a joyful reunion, Mumo’s former pooch and I have what some may call, a cool relationship, but her presence should be enough to send the critters curb-side.

To be honest, meeses don’t bother me but now that we have changed estate agents (I didn’t like the last one and he did f-all), the place had to be photographed again and no-one wants to hear little pitapats let alone their scant disregard for health and hygiene. I’m still not convinced we will get any potential buyers before the end of the summer but at least with the boys here and their dad, brother Simon, popping in most weekends, we can make the most out of this place especially the pool. As much as I love being able to plunge into its cool depths every afternoon, it doesn’t half get boring when you’re doing it alone – not counting Arry’s shark impressions.

Actually, I haven’t really had that much lone time over the past week. There was a visit from Denis’ eldest daughter Deborah who’d popped down from Paris which of course led to a thoroughly enjoyable barbecue one evening and then another spent with our bosom buddies over at Bruce and Suzy’s a couple of doors away. Anyone who knows the couple will tell you that such get-togethers tend to involve more than a few bottles of wine and I ended up almost knocked out on the cobblestones after an overly-enthusiastic hug from Suz. Alas the week that was had Abraham saying goodbye as he drove back up to the big smoke but he’s promised me he will return next year and we will think about re-opening Le Jardin when he does.

Mind you, I might have a slightly longer walk to get there in the not too distant future. Having thrown a strop over the elevated price of the property, it was pointed out to me that this was because the land has a little more acreage than what was initially on the plan. So I’ve decided to make the leap. Actually it’s more of a climb as most of it is on a hill but the view is everything this girl could ask for. There’s more than enough terrain for the woofers even if, as yet, there isn’t much else. Like a house for example and maybe a pool? Well, I’ve built a pool before…

““You can have more than one home. You can carry your roots with you, and decide where they grow.” (Henning Mankell)

Pals in Provence

They say life is made for good friends and great adventures; especially one who knows when you need to take a break and gives you a kick up the wotsit to actually book a few days away. After having spent a couple of days lounging by the pool during the day and putting our worlds to right all night, bestie Rene and I hit the autoroute south-east – to Avignon we went. The woofers, by the way, were left in the charge of Denis so didn’t bat a paw as we left.

I’d chosen Avignon as it wasn’t too much of a drive away and I’d always wanted to see the Palais des Papes; gothic architecture being a passion of mine and Rene loves anything historical. Following her GPS (much safer on my nervous system), we got to our chambres d’hôtes in good time but having arrived a bit too early to unload, we parked up outside and took to the streets. And what beautiful streets they were too – statuesque buildings rising up to a blue sky whilst down below, outdoor cafes brimming with people sipping coffee and wine in the sunshine under giant parasols. Naturally we joined them, one should always try and fit in. And we needed time to get our bearings having bought a couple of days worth of ‘tourist passes’ so we wouldn’t have to pay at the doors so to speak. There’s a lot to see in Avignon. Schedule sort of sorted, we took a stroll up to the main attraction and boy, it didn’t disappoint. The Palais towers over a large square, its gargoyles peering down at the pedestrians from the building’s impressive exterior, metal studded turrets looking a bit like a dominatrix’ dream, the stone surrounds commanding the view. But that was the next day’s visit, so we popped back to unload and room sorted, popped back out to town for a very nice dinner and far too much wine. The early hour return amusingly noted by the couple sitting next to us at breakfast the following morning and with whom we chatted over coffee and home-made yummies as if old friends.

I really would recommend Avignon and its sights although, for me, the interior of the Palais des Papes was a little under-whelming compared to its facade. Much of it has been rebuilt and the tablets we were given to show us what it would have looked like kept switching off. The gardens attached to the place are stunning however, fragrant roses and herb plantings perfectly lined up so you could amble quietly through the greenery although our appreciation was dampened by a very loud German lady trying to get her tour group in one place. Rene and I did go to the famous Pont d’Avignon; well I say we but I only got as far as the beginning of the bridge before my vertigo took over. She took pictures for me. We took in the indoor food market and a couple of museums too and the touristy thing of souvenir shopping. The car still smells of lavender.

With the final evening spent dining decadently (and a little more measured with the wine) under the shadow of the Palais, we left the city to take a little detour to visit a little town with a well-known name – Chateauneuf-du-Pape and to buy a few bottles of the famed vin before heading further into the deep Provence countryside to pootle around L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. The latter was just stunning; built around the river of the same name, the clear and I mean crystal clear waters decorated with ancient waterwheels and tiny streets littered with antique shops. Sadly we couldn’t spend more than an hour there, the home journey beckoned but Rene had had the right idea – I relaxed. Well, almost. There was that little hitch with trying to find a petrol station (the autoroutes around Provence don’t seem to provide such emergency services) so we had to veer off into Nîmes during peak hour traffic – not recommended. The drivers are nuts and even the GPS had trouble finding directions to the nearest pump, my near temper meltdown only that because Rene told me to shut up. She knows me so well, she’s been there before if you remember our last adventure in the Mothership – at least this time I didn’t take any wheel arches off the car and toll gates have been left untainted.

Anyway, thanks to her, I had a wonderful break away from the norm and the woofers thoroughly enjoyed being pampered by Denis, even if he did mix up Mo and Coco’s nappies – girl nappies don’t fit boys if you get my drift. Poor chap, I didn’t find out until later that he was fighting a fever – he thinks he might have had a touch of the Covid after Morocco. Thankfully he is back to himself now and very happy to have his girl home.

So there you go, Sophi had a chance to chill out. Perfect timing. Things are changing here readers…https://www.bac-immobilier.com/vente/11-aude/766-preixan/entre-limoux-et-carcassonne/12559-maison-de-village. (You might even spot Simi)

“Sometimes all you need is a great friend and a tank of gas.” (Thelma & Louise)

Funny feelings

I woke up this morning feeling oddly unsettled. Probably last week’s fault – it didn’t start well, got better in the middle and a bit flat at the end. It didn’t help that I asked Monsieur le Max chauffagiste extraodinaire to turn off the heating as the main house lay mostly void of human life and then the weather suddenly went arctic yesterday. And let’s not get into a conversation about the bloody pool; naturally it decided to spring a leak in one of the skimmer pipes. I had warned Denis that I thought there was a problem which he insisted there wasn’t so I made him crawl under the deck and yup, a massive crack in the tubing. He was lucky not to have felt the force of my ire although I stroppily refused to go to his annual Easter Monday family lunch.

Actually, opting out of Denis’ do wasn’t such a bad decision as nephew Louis returned to join his brother Maxime here for a few days so I got thoroughly spoilt by the two of them. Fabulous meals and much hilarity over the dining table. Both left mid-week to spend a bit of time with their mum in the Savoie taking Mumo’s dog Sappy along for the ride. She’s Louis’ canine companion now and I can’t say I’ll miss her especially as she left a number of smelly deposits on the piano carpet in her wake. I shall take her owner to task when he returns mid-May.

Aah, May. Just round the corner with, according to the météo man, sunshine. It may sound sexist to refer to such a person as male but he is almost always wrong – I state my case. Mind you, Mother Nature (definitely female as she can put her mind to anything) seems to be delighted with the wacky weather; things are flowering which never flowered before. Mumo’s courtyard is overflowing with colour and the irises she planted which never did much are now blooming yellow. As much as it’s beautiful to look at, you can’t helping feeling a little melancholy that she isn’t here to enjoy the view.

As I mentioned, the main house was left empty once the boys went, save this weekend when brother Simon and wife Alba popped over. On the plus side, the woofers and I had the entire property to ourselves although they aren’t allowed in the big bit as Sherman is likely to leave a few messages up the furniture but it did mean I could leave the inside gates open and the courtyard door. The latter was a necessity as I’d noticed rat droppings in the garage so I unleashed the hunter that is Alice to do her thing. Yet, apart from running up and down the stairs with the duster and lighting the fire as it warms the apartment upstairs, I barely set foot in the family home – it doesn’t feel much like a home when there’s nobody in it. Probably another reason for the oddly unsettled feeling. And for the next couple of weeks, I’ll be toute seule once more although hopefully in shorts and flip flops which will no doubt improve the mood. It does beg the question however as to what the future holds for this place. And the widow plus woofers…

“Life’s under no obligation to give us what we expect” (Margaret Mitchell)