Gypsy for the day

Seeing as how I can’t really remember what happened at the start of last week, I shall devote today’s blog to the latter part of it. Working title: Sophi goes to the beach. Yup, for the first time since I landed in this part of France, I got to spend a couple of days away from it. I can’t thank my wonderful friend, Giselle, enough for looking after the woofers for me – all of whom apparently behaved impeccably. A rarity for which I shall thank them too.

Having packed up my car, Denis and I headed South-East on a sunny Thursday afternoon – destination, D’s niece’s house deep in the Camargue some 3 hours or so away. I still can’t get my head around how big France is although the hitch-hikers at the petrol station en route who were trying to get a ride to Berlin must have been even less familiar with the country. A compass might be handy I feel. Mind you, even with my GPS, we took a number of wrong turns although vaguely in the right direction before we got to the little town of Istres. As scenery goes, the Camargue is incredibly flat, filled with rice paddies and marshlands and on the horizon, the oddly-pink coloured beaches lining the Mediterranean Sea.

Anyway, have spent a lively, if not extremely alcoholic, evening with D’s relatives, we headed off to what we’d come to see. Le Pèlerinage aux Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer or the annual get together of Gitans from all over the world to celebrate their patron saint – Sainte Marie de la Mer. The Gitan people descend from travellers or Romany gypsies so unsurprisingly the town of St. Marie de la Mer was heaving with camping cars and caravans and traditional ‘Vardos’ – vibrantly painted, horse-drawn wooden wagons. The streets were packed to the hilt with people dressed up to the nines and guitars strumming on corners and in the middle of the town, a huge market. I have to admit, I wasn’t feeling all that well, probably down to the night before’s wine consumption but the crowds didn’t help either. My brain seemed to have forgotten all those years spent in London as I found it difficult to breathe.

That being said, The main event was quite a spectacle. As the impressive cathedral’s bells rang out, a procession of beautiful, white Camargue horses came down the main street, their riders easily manoeuvring their charges through the throngs gathering to see their patron saint. After the first team of equine gentleness moved past, along came the lady herself, covered in what looked like silks and carried on a litter, six men holding the poles on either side as they were inundated with hands reaching up to touch their cargo. Denis told me that this was to make wishes for loved ones, I’m not of the religious persuasion but I did mentally throw a few her way – one might have been about the bloody pool which is by no means a loved one which is probably why it didn’t work. Followed by her congregation, Sainte Marie was then led down to the sea, the horses going in with her to make a circle as she is dipped into the waters (from whence she came I was told) before being transported back to the safe confines of the cathedral. The whole ceremony took about two hours, thankfully under a clear blue sky so it was just as well that D’s niece had booked a restaurant in the town square. And there, with the accompaniment of a Spanish guitar- playing quartet, the festival goers sang and danced the night away. All very rowdy and loud but not once was there any trouble despite an undeserved reputation placed on Gitans. I might not be one who wants a life on the road but being amongst those effervescent and happy souls did make me think we should all be a little bit more gypsy

After all the hustle and bustle of the day before, it felt good to come home to the quietness of Rouffiac. Naturally the woofers were thrilled to see me, hah! when I returned chez moi. Obviously Giselle must have treated them like Gods considering the lukewarm greetings I received. That is apart from Yogi Bear who snuggled into my arms. I should worry about leaving them less often. And I won’t be, leaving them that is, for a while now – June is just around the corner and there is much to do before the summer guests arrive. Like trying to find out how to keep water in the bloody pool…

“Walk like a Queen, Love like a Hippie, Speak like a Sailor, Travel like a Gypsy, Garden like a Witch and Work like a Warrior” (Unknown)

Night life and nifty wheels

Standing out on my terrace the other morning, averting my gaze from the bloody pool, the thought struck me as to how much my life has changed in such a relatively short time. It’s not something I make a habit of, looking backwards but where I am now compared to then does seem a little surreal from time to time. Perhaps my reminiscence was risen knowing I have only two and half chapters to finish for the first draft of The Second Book or perhaps because next weekend will mark 6 years since Tony passed away. And whilst I have been incredibly lucky to find a new love with Denis and a wonderful home in this little French village, never an evening goes by when I don’t have my nightly chat with him on same said terrace before bed.

Considering the monsoon that stayed with us for the most of last week, I’m amazed I was able to stand out there at all without needing a wetsuit. Thankfully the Gods were gracious enough to turn the tap off and let us have a dilapidated’ glorious weekend. Especially as Saturday was the big re-opening of Le Jardin. Abraham got us into the summer vibe in grand style with DJ’s spinning the decks with a romping reggae night. And what was once a somewhat charming but chaotic mess of a club now had a proper bar and seating area along with an updated stage for all those music makers. Having been a part of the great renovation, I was a little bit nervous about how the event would turn out but Abraham did himself proud. Even if I still have to give him a few lessons in getting the food out before midnight.

Speaking of food, Denis and I stumbled on a little treasure Friday night. We’d decided to go out to the local pizza place for dinner only it was closed due to the owner wanting to take a holiday so we ended up popping over to Pomas, another village ‘next door’ and found that their once tired table-top bar had been taken over and transformed into a restaurant. Fabulous food and a really enjoyable atmosphere. Between Le Jardin, the Diner, the pizza parlour and Abis tros denas (took me a while to get round that name), we’re becoming spoilt for choice down here tucked away in rural South-West France.

It’s just as well that Mumo finally bought another car, what with all the choice eateries. Yup, she is now back behind the wheel of a bright blue Renault Clio. The two of us zipped over in Giselle (my speed loving Toyota Rav 4) to the showroom in Limoux and after having signed three gazillion documents and given a tour of all the car’s internal bells and whistles, Mumo followed me home at a pace even the snails would see in their back-mirrors. I thought my accelerator foot was going to cramp up. Still, she’s done it and is back in the driving seat again after last year’s hillside hiccup in the Yaris. And I know, if like me, Mumo has her nightly natters with Pop in her patio garden, he’d say how proud he was of her. Of course, he’d probably remind her that there is a second gear…

“The direction you choose to face determines whether you’re standing at the end or the beginning of a road.” (Richelle E. Goodrich)

Where the wind doth blow

For those who might be thinking life down here is all sunshine and roses, there is one weather phenomenon that an immobilier’s blurb would leave out. Aude is one of the, if not the most, windy departments in France. And when it doth blow, it bloweth hard and makes everyone feel miserable – the sound of its haunting wail as it rages across the land is known to affect one’s sanity. At this time of year, the Tramontane that pushes its way through the gap between the Pyrénées and the Massif Central at speed of around 60 kms and hour and we got the full force of it last week. Luckily, none of the trees fell down although I have had to spend most of this morning clearing the aftermath of flora and fauna from the pool. I shall not mention the bloody pool again, we are not on friendly terms.

Since working outside was inadvisable unless you wanted a natural face-lift, the week was spent finishing off all the renovation bits and bobs I’ve scattered between the two houses and the garage. Of course, this hasn’t stopped me from adding more to the pile – Denis and I went off for a little forage down by the river to find any remnants left over from a large palm tree clearing operation. Bits of tree trunks are now about to enter a new life as corner tables in what will be a tented seating area next to the new petanque ground. Mercifully, we haven’t put the marque up yet as it would probably be in Spain by now. Working with wood always lifts the happy hormones even when you’re stupid enough to use the sander when there’s a helluva hooley swirling around.

Braving the elements over the past few days hasn’t been the only test of courage – Arry, Alice, Sherman and I faced our demon together on our regular Tuesday running route. There he was, the great big fluffball behind the fence once more allowing us safe passage although Arry couldn’t resist a couple of face-to face barks across the divide. As much as I knew the owner had taken care of the hole in the enclosure, it was still a ‘shall I shan’t I’ decision to run that way again. I really should try and be more like my half-brained German Shepherd, his mind empties two seconds after an event. That being said, the view from the top of our run makes any fleeting thoughts of staying under the bed covers worth the brief lip-biting hesitations.

With any luck, the end of April will take the blustery thermals with it and May will bring sunshine and occasional showers. Yes, rain. Not that I like getting soaked but the garden does and with the cost of refilling the pool uppermost in one’s mind, a bit of free water wouldn’t go amiss. My veggie patch is suffering and I hate dragging the hose around especially as Arry views any spray of water as an amusement park offering and one of us ends up wetter than the other. At least if the Gods are feeling benevolent, they’ll add a bit of summer warmth to the mix – such activity can be tolerated in shorts and a bikini. And they can take their tramontane and blow it somewhere else, we like being a happy little village down here…

“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.” (William Arthur Ward)

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)