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)

Hoos and hums

Considering how much I had wound myself up about jumping into the fiery depths of land purchase in the previous blog, the events of last week turned out to be nothing more than a brief puff of smoke. That’s not to say nothing happened, we are talking about my life after all but between the meeting with the notaire and the following one with the architect, the gear stick is still firmly stuck in neutral. For a start, my lawyer discovered that the building permit bought back in 2012 needed to be re-applied for and the utilities turned back on again all resulting in having to write up another contract. Thankfully, none of these are my responsibility but they do take time. Having said that, the Mayor popped up to the terrain during my house planning rendez-vous and promised me he’d whizz things through the necessary channels. As we wandered around the precious plot, he told me how lucky I was to have the chance of being its proprietor – there is no better view in Rouffiac. Oddly, that made me relax and take the proverbial chill pill. Well, almost. The Hoo is back.

Yup, the pesky poltergeist decided it was time to make a re-appearance just in case I’d forgotten its existence. Getting out the automatic front gate became a race as to whether or not one could shoot through before the device decided to close and any attempt to use the sewing machine meant detangling copious amounts of thread from its underparts. As anyone knows, I am not the most patient when it comes to technology so any Zen derived from taking up running again was lost in a slew of never to be repeated expletives. Then there was that small matter of sorting out my L’identité Numérique for my work license which my dear friend Giselle had offered to sort out. By the time I had retaken numerous photos of my visage front side and back, I did feel like shouting ” I’m not a number! I am a free man!” what with the computer refusing to recognise my personage. I did eventually please the man in the machine and now I have to go to the post office to get my QR code scanned so I can be numerated.

As I said, we have once more taken to the trails although judging by the limping after the first run, Arry and I are definitely feeling our age. That and the architect’s comment about how a plein pied (single storey house) is probably the better choice for someone not far off sixty. That coming from a counsel who was off to have a knee operation the next day, mine are quite fine thank you very much, strapped to the nines but still operational. It will take a few weeks before my four-pawed cohort and I stop creaking and wheezing but hitting the pre-dawn alarm is the best way of clearing away the mental debris especially with Autumn’s paintbrush covering the landscape once more in red and gold as we hum our way through the vines. The Hoo better have a good pair of running shoes…

“Adopt the pace of nature. Her secret is patience.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Familiarity and fracas

When I said last week that this blog might have to wait until Tuesday, I meant it as a bit of humour but apparently someone up there took it seriously. I would have written yesterday but then, my musings about sleep or the lack of it were picked up too. In a nutshell, I missed my plane (not entirely my fault) and had to stay in an airport hotel overnight and buy another flight out Monday morning. I shall explain in due course but suffice to say I have no wish to visit London for the foreseeable or not foreseeable future.

Judging by the start of my trip across to the Motherland, I should have taken note – the signs were there. My casual descent into what would become the depths of hell otherwise known as The London Transport system was the first. Having made my way from Stansted to London in a leisurely fashion, I arrived at Victoria Station to catch the train down to my mother-in-law only to be greeted with an overhead display of delayed or cancelled departures and a station heaving with frustrated fellow travellers shrieking into their mobile phones. Storm Amy was apparently playing havoc with the lines which would be understandable if I hadn’t seen blue skies and sunshine outside. Four hours later I was in Jenny’s warm hug and after a bottle of wine and just what you needed pasta salad, I was passed out in all too familiar bed at the Stewart family home.

And as with most storms, there was a lull in its momentum. Spending time in a house I’d known for over 30 years, albeit with Tony, was beyond special. The memories flooded back; Callum on the swing under the giant willow tree, my father-in-law Jeremy pottering around his fruit cages and Jenny’s kitchen still smelling of delicious things to come. Nothing had changed which oddly gave me a sense of security – I don’t know why, perhaps it brought me peace knowing a part of T is forever there. Such could be said the same when, after a thankfully a stress-free train ride to Rene’s, the day ended with an almost perfect evening with the Coven (aka my girls). On a Friday night as always and being a Coven, we brought a little tempête just for fun. Far too much wine, a few topples on the dance floor and a little too much emotion in our gal pal Larrie’s home was like time had stopped and we were back in yesteryear.

I wish I could say the following day brought the same flood of days gone by but no. Okay meeting up with those I used to work for (including one who had a new Cavalier pup which I had thoughts about smuggling) and with those I worked with including my dearest friend Serena were warmly welcomed and much needed. As I said, the omens were there. Who was I to know that I had timed my little excursion to the capital on the same weekend that several thousand people decided to have a protest and the two most used tube lines; District and Circle were closed. Being herded down several escalators with enough people to start an epidemic, I headed for the exit and a bus. As did everyone else. I ended up taking a black cab as the chance of getting a cheap ride was slim to none which I wouldn’t have minded except the speed limit has been reduced to twenty miles an hour. I should have rented a bike – fast option. On the plus side, I did get the chance to pop into M&S, I hate to say it but the French can’t do affordable lingerie like what they do and I did buy a few other bits that weren’t on the budget but hey, it’s a British institution. On the minus side, my feet started to howl on account of the slightly heeled boots I’d decided to wear after porting flip-flops for the last four months and guess what, no bus. Actually not true, plenty of them, all in the opposite lane. Black cab to the rescue. Another expensive outlay and although I’m never one to talk politics, this one’s views on those of another colour were not mine. My London has changed. The city I spent more than half of my life in is not one I remember.

I might have mentioned earlier about lulls in storms and having lounged in the arms of Rene’s pug cross Pepper, eating sushi and watching Strictly, I packed up my teeny suitcase (Ryannair chaps) on Sunday morning and sauntered down for a cup of coffee with our Sophy (same name spelt differently). I was so relaxed that by the time I’d visited Rene’s parents and flopped into her local eaterie, my initial reaction to reading my departing ticket was, well let’s say, slightly hysterical. I’d got the time wrong. The ever afore-mentioned Rene aka the only person who can make me calm down, got me on a train in record time and yup, I was back at Victoria Station. On time. But no tube, no bus, no chance of getting to Stansted on time. I did try; my cab driver only got 200 metres before the traffic hit so I got out at the next tube stop but naturally, the Gods had made plans. We will close a few more tube lines; she ain’t getting outta here. So that’s why I ended up in an extremely expensive hotel room right next to the airport (I couldn’t trust the buses) and spending what I couldn’t afford to waste on another plane ticket. I don’t think I have ever been so pleased to see Denis’ face as I exited those doors on the other side and what made my return even more poignant was the customs officer telling me I didn’t need to join the ‘other passport’ queue as I had French residency. They say home is where the heart is which is why I called my architect this afternoon. Time spent with those I love the most was what I needed but also the realisation that there are some things that will stay forever in your memories but for a city you once loved, you’d rather forget..

“Please, mind the gap.” (London Underground)

That Français feeling

It’s that dreaded time of year. Not because we are at the end of August and therefore summer, worse almost – the tax man arriveth. Yes, down here we empty our bank accounts in October and are graced with a flurry of email reminders lest one forgets. I usually do. Still, if my plans for Witch Wackle are to be put in action, I’m going to have to be a little more organised in the paperwork department. That and I have to get another SIRET, basically a number that registers your business with the afore-mentioned tax man. I have one for the Montpelier property as it’s in retirement apartment complex. I was discussing this the other day with Adolphe, local Del Boy and my good friend who is banging on at me to sell my wares in Carcassonne and had bought over a rather lovely butler sink for my one day new workshop. I was a little worried as to whether or not I would be allowed to trade professionally being a Brit and all and with the Brexit boundaries but Adolphe just scoffed. “You speak French and you pay your dues, yes?”. Well, the latter definitely I replied, secretly pleased that he noted my grasp of the lingo, of which my pal decided, was enough to get my foot through the door and made me practically born here. I did further point out that I have yet to comprehend most of what I need to fill out on official forms but that was rebuffed as well. According to Adolphe, neither do French people and that’s why we have Google.

Mind you, I could be forgiven for thinking I’d missed the deadline judging by the weather last week. I know I said we needed rain desperately but that much? The garden’s started to turn green again and I had to delve into the depths of my drawers to find a sweater it was that cool. I say cool as 23 degrees is quite balmy to most but not when you’ve been in double that for the last three months. The sun has been out again this weekend thankfully but I feel the pool is unlikely to have bodies in it this year unless they are practicing for a swim across the English Channel. The bloody thing could have been usable if we had the chance to put the summer cover over but that decaying piece of plastic was what caused the problem with the pump – its deposits bunged up the filter. Since none of us want to shell out for a new bâche with this place up for sale and the season pretty much over anyway, the waters shall remain devoid of human life. Arry isn’t human and doesn’t compute cold water.

So tomorrow is the start of a new month and all too soon the heady days of summer will drift off into memory. Or maybe not quite yet. According to the local météo, that being the daily chat in the épicerie, another heatwave is bound to descend on us before Autumn rolls in. I’d dropped in to put up a new display for the season ahead and got the warning. I do hope so as I still have a lot of shell craft to peddle, not helped by a recent visit to Limoux’s recycling emporium ending up with me acquiring a sizeable chunk of cowries. I wouldn’t have bought them except that there was another lady eyeing them up and such a cheap steal wasn’t going to pass me by. That and she was English, which for some reason brought on the urge to grab them on the spot as well as several other bits and bobs under her visual. As we walked out of the shop, Denis started laughing. “Ma Chèrie, you are definitely turning French”…

““Summer should get a speeding ticket.” (Unknown)

Changing times and testy tractors

There’s a Facebook group page that I occasionally visit which is supposed to be all about gardening in France but really should be called ‘the English in France’. We talk about the weather mostly. That and share photos of our fabulous flora and fauna. I rarely participate in threads but would you believe, I had to post the miracle that passed over last week – we had rain! Having shoved Lily and her baby sister (my Peace Lilies for those who don’t know) out onto the terrace for a good soaking before I squeezed into what remaining bed space had been left due to Arry and Sherman’s horizontal yoga and snoozed off listening to Nature’s orchestra. Pure bliss.

The storm lasted two days and thankfully bought the temperature down although that, unfortunately, was just a temporary blip. However, one should make hay whilst the sun isn’t shining or move Pop’s tractor from the back garden to brother Moth’s house in Cenne- Monasties. We roped in the lovely Lionel for the cause as he has a great big trailer with a ramp on the back and is well used to shifting farm machinery. That and being corralled into doing favours for my little brother like the previous week’s shifting of all the giant floor planks he’d nicked from L’Horte and had been sitting in the garage ever since. But this little blue put-put around wasn’t going to go without a fight. First there was the slight issue of removing several generations of mice from the engine; I left that to Denis as well as the flat front tyre. Hardly stressful unlike trying to get it on the trailer – it didn’t fit. By millimetres. Luckily for poor lovely Lionel, nephew Max’s idea of cutting out the back of the trailer was over-ridden by D knowing a friend (of course) who worked at the winery down the road and had a thingamajig that could hoist the tractor onto the back of Lionel’s flat bed truck. Sorted. Almost. What the boys hadn’t thought about was how to get all down Baden’s (bro’s house) narrow driveway and unload it. They came back 3 hours later looking like roadkill but job done and Moth did donate some thoroughly delicious wines.

I’m sure over the months ahead, the lovely Lionel will be called upon again to shift the contents of the family residences to new abodes, mine included. Five years ago, I did just that except my belongings were mostly made up of woofers and one Peace Lily. And I did have our Rene to help me navigate my way through a different country to start a new life. Whilst some of those four pawed friends are no longer here and the Mothership sold, moving from the city to the middle of nowheresville has done just that. A new life. I’m a country girl now who isn’t scared of getting her hands dirty or holes in her jeans. I fell in love again with the man who helped me resurrect a garden and build a pool. A pool by the way which is the reason I am late writing this blog as it decided to spring a leak in the pump. Ever Reliable Roy came to the rescue. I helped Alice raise a litter of exceptionally exceptional Border Terrier puppies (Sherman just clocked in at a whopping 13 kilos but the vet says he’s not fat, just big), wrote two books (still waiting on the publishing date for the second, sorry!) and discovered that I could make jewellery and people buy it. Yes, there’s been a fair number of storms and downpours but I’ve learnt to roll with the seasons and take each day as it comes. But there will always be a little bit of England that stays with me – I do love talking about the weather…

“I don’t know what lies around the bend, but I’m going to believe that the best does.” (Anne of Green Gables)

Cloudless skies and hazy horizons

Aside from finally signing the ‘Compatabilité’ for what will eventually be my next home, it’s been a quiet week down here. And just as well because any attempt to take more than two steps outside leaves you drenched in sweat and searching for breath – the heat is back with a vengeance. Thankfully the wind has died down which means most of the wildfires can be contained, between the smell of smoke and a horizon hidden by a grey cloud its been a little nerve-racking to put it mildly. The devastation is only 50 or so kilometres from us so the skies have been filled with the constant thrum of helicopters ferrying massive water bags to the zone, one flew so low I did wonder if our pool was about to be drained – not a problem but I was in it at the time.

With not wanting to step foot into the garden unless absolutely necessary, essentials being drag the hose around what is still just about living or having a quick cool off in the piscine, I decided to tackle the garage and workshop instead. I’m sure we aren’t the only family who can fill a giant building with things that no longer work or ‘might come in useful one day even though they’ve sat there for 5 years’ but the time has come for a clean-up – our first potential purchasers are coming on Wednesday. Of course, we are all hoping they will be wowed by our impressive mansion and I’ve told the woofers that we will be going for a little ride in the camion that morning – they are not a good selling point. Mind you, I am going to artfully display a few of my pricier wares around the apartment – these peeps are coming from Paris you know.

Speaking of making things presentable, D and I have much to do beforehand – the petanque ground needs clearing of weeds and the back fence is covered in brambles. It is quite amazing that these evil creatures can survive when the surrounding vegetation is barely clinging to life. I had to dig up the little lilac trees this morning and put them in water before they got burnt to a frizzle which ended up with me draped over the kitchen fan for an hour. Such acts of selfishness do not please the woofers who are currently draped strategically around the apartment tiles to get the best airflow and I’m inhaling copious amounts of dog hair as a result. Still, mustn’t grumble, as Denis pointed out to me yesterday, their new home currently has no shade on it whatsoever. I’m going to have to save a few more trees here to take over there…

“Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.” (Russell Baker)

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)

Thermometer therapy

I’m not going to apologise for the lateness in writing this blog because, frankly, I’ve been busy doing sod all. I know what you’re thinking, impossible but I am on a course of relaxation and enjoying life thanks to the arrival of our Rene. And gorgeous weekend weather. Yup, skies are blue, temperatures are in the 30’s and the pool is full of water. The clear, algae kind. The only minor damper in the whole equation has been Denis’ absence – man is in Morocco having his own holiday.

Not that I don’t miss him, honestly being separated this long for the first time ever isn’t fun but them I’ve had our Sherman to cuddle up with. The boy turned 4 this week! Hard to believe Alice had the pups that long ago and of course, Sherbs the first of the lot, was born on the bed in the palm of my hand. And has never left. So happy birthday to all the chiots ; Sherman, Sabrina, Sansa, Sophia, Salome and Slim.

Like I might have mentioned, it’s fabulous down here in this little village in the South-West of France. Sun is ablazing and the cotton is high – actually the grass was cut by my bloke before he went across the Med, but you get the gist. It’s been a great weekend.

Mind you, the blissfulness of being able to actually swim in the bloody pool after 2 years of plumbing leaks hasn’t been painless – I did my back in after deftly performing what I considered a decent front crawl; body too used to running uphill not prone forward through water movement. Then there is always the danger of being sunk by the enthusiastic Arry who is naturally delighted at the prospect of being able to perform his interpretation of a feral shark; long overdue due to an accidental dive into an empty piscine last summer which gave him a bit of a wobbly for getting back in the water. A little coaxing from our Rene was the best therapy and he’s back to doin what annoys everyone the most.

Yes, our girl is back and for a whole week. My bestie and most perfect Sophi psychologist has unpacked her suitcase, and her swimsuit, to spend an entire 7 days with yours truly. And Alice as a bedmate. The weather couldn’t have timed itself better, the thermometer rising as her plane glided into Carcassonne and as we lay on the sun beds nattering about life and the challenges of widowhood, brother Simon popped in with Alba in tow to throw a little family barbecue and lunch deck-side. Timing is everything; as they left, the clouds rolled, the thunder roared and it’s now pissing down. Good job, Denis is back on home soil tomorrow – Rene and I are off on a little adventure on Tuesday, we’re going on holiday… Damn, storm..power cut, no we’re okay… nope. off again, nope back. You gotta love life down here in the sun…

“Summer is a promissory note signed in June” ( Hal Borland)