Up she goes!

And this is Bools racing over our brand new step into and out of the half barn, so instead of a huge 'step up/ step down' which is good for the thighs but difficult when one is carrying a tray of tea and biscuits for the builders, I can now manage this task with a degree of dignity! Bools would have stopped and said 'hello' to you but he was in a rush. I'll see if he will spare the time for a photo-shoot next time.

And today the builders knocked down the bits of wall which were inconvenient to them and covered the exposed nudity of the top of the wall by a layer of concrete.

And continuing your tour of our house, we are now in the lounge and you are looking up at the bedroom wall with the doorway into the second room whose use is as yet undefined. They built this today. Instead of biscuits this morning, I gave them some homemade cake. Actually I had to use the figs up and made a fig-tart thingy. Perhaps it was the figs that got them moving today. I believe that they are good for the food transit system of our bods, and perhaps added extra zest to the lads endeavours.

And now we are in the food storage room, or 'cave' as in 'carv'. Bedroom door to the left, top roof beam at the top, planks of wood nothing to do with the roof so are only in situ while the builders need them to be, chimney pot in the middle, and hey presto! We are heading up to the sky!

More divi's (quotes) on the way: for tall barn roof, for fosse (for the loo), and tiling the floor of the half barn. We haven't got an endless pot of money, but we seem to have done very well on what we have got.

Things I have learnt today: that no matter how busy one is, one should make time for 'time-out'. Being head down with PC work, and veg-gardening, and domestic duties, while enjoyable and good for keeping the halo bright and shiny, it is ultimately tiring for my soul. This is what I learnt today after half an hour of fun-play with Bools down by the river.

And wishing my Mum well in her recovery from her hip operation, and my daughter well in her move from her old life into her new one. Blessings to them both, and to you too.

Continuing on with the Chicken Saga

......so Lester was in charge of house, builders (if they turned up which they didn't but they might have) and sorting out the chicken. Which he did. Admirably. Out came its innards, off came other bits, into the pot with some veg and on with the cook.

For hours this donated chicken was cooked, apparently. During one of the hottest days here so far. The kitchen caravan must have been hot beyond belief, what with the sun baking down on it, and the gas ring sending forth its own heat.

Off in the Pyrenees were the rest of us. Great day. Ski-lifting (which I have already blogged about), fun and laughter. Back early evening. Chicken cooked. But too hot to eat. So we had baguettes and other stuff. Easier to handle than a pot of bones. Because that is how the chicken had fetched up. All in bits.

And this is how the French traditionally eat their chickens. In pots. With a minimal amount of veg (although Lester had put loads in our pot), cooked for ages on top of the wood burner, or gas ring. It is surprising how quickly one's appetite disappears when reviewing such a hotch potch of food. Well mine did anyway. Not to mention my daughter and grandsons, who were already seriously put off even taking a nibble of the chicken having seen it in its raw state earlier on in the day.

The next morning: Up early. Into kitchen caravan to sort pot out. Crikey, it had been switched off for at least twelve hours but the temperature in the caravan was still sufficiently high enough for the pot not to have cooled down hardly at all.

Nevertheless, with stirling fortitude I tackled the pot. I sieved out the entire contents. Oh dear. All the bits of bones and bits of flesh and bits of veg and bits of whatever all jumbled up in a heap.

But this bird had been gifted to us, so I stoically plodded on with sorting out the pile. And as I did so, my respect grew for the bird who was an old bird and done her egg-laying duty and was now being recycled. And I promised myself that I would partake of the bird later on. I owed it to her. And gently I separated out the white meat from everything else, rescued a goodly portion of the veg, and managed to make a new pot of chicken stew which looked actually quite edable.

By now Lester was up, and Karen appeared. The day had started. "Put the pot into the office will you?" I asked Lester, this being the coolest place on site. Already the sun was romping through the sky. Already it was hot.

So off to the swimming pool, a laze in the sun, more fun, more laughter.

Late afternoon: time to eat. Determined to partake of the chicken stew, I asked Lester to fetch it from the office. My daughter went with him. I heard her say "Should there be bubbles in the pot?" Looking through the glass lid she had espied movement.

And so the contents of the pot, and the remains of the chicken therein, were recyled. Only not through our digestive systems, but through the digestive systems of the various menagerie of animals and birds which have come to regard our compost heap as their local food supply. Apparently the contents of the pot were actually cooking even though the pot was not on a lit gas ring, but on my desk in the office. Such was the heat here on that day!

So another baguette and salad meal! Not to worry, though. The chicken wasn't wasted, because although we didn't get to eat it others did, and Lester got back in touch with certain skills which had lain dormant for years, gained from his time when his father had a farm in South Africa. And my self sufficiency learning was taken a step further.

So God bless the spirit of the chicken, and may it cluck happily wherever it now is, and God bless the lady who donated it to us in the spirit of neighbourlyness. And God bless my daughter who has now made her return to the UK and is shortly to move into a new house and a new relationship, and God bless my grandsons who are on the brink of manhood.

All in all, it has been a great few days! Plus the floors of the house, except one, have been cemented and the gates on the gatehouse have been started at long last. The sun is slightly less fierce, but it has been a good, long, sunny summer.

Sending you blessings from Labartere.......

The Chicken Saga: A Donation. Part One

Our Chicken Project is not moving forward at the moment. Although it is under frequent discussion, and we reach points whereby we almost launch ourselves into chicken ownership, there is always a valid reason as to why it is not an option at this time. Mostly this is to with animal welfare: not having suitable accommodation. Now we could have squeezed the girls and boy into a small pen but decided against this, the reason being that the girls are going to working hard for us and so deserve the best of housing we can possibly manage. Which basically means free range: that they must be able to be out and about during the day so they have their adventures and live life to the full. Presumably the cock will be busy looking after his girls and doing the honours of servicing them when they require such a service, so he will be busy as well. Having no fences means this is not do-able at the moment, so we must wait.

However: a donation came our way. Which was one chicken.

Now it is obvious that this chicken is without feathers so therefore can be presumed deceased. And you are right. It is deceased.

And here is the provider of said chicken:

Now this lady is 81 years old would you believe! I am 62. And she is a stirling example of the older people here. There is no 'old age' as such, only people who carry their years well. Anyway, I digress!

What happened was this: this lady, whose name is Marie-Rose, is the owner of the gite in which Karen (my daughter) stayed recently. Upon booking the gite, Marie-Rose asked if I would like a chicken. "Yes" I said, thinking that to refuse would seem churlish of me.

Karen and the boys arrived. Marie-Rose engaged me in a conversation which was populated with various hand signals, all about the chicken. She kept pointing to her neck, and amongst a stream of French words I heard the word 'stick' as she did so. Eventually it pilfered into my head that she was asking me if I was going to kill the chicken or should her husband do it.

Mmmmmm. So this was not going to a donation of a still-alive chicken. Ooooopppss! So now in a right quandry, all I could do was ask that her husband do the honours, whereupon she said "Ce soir". (This evening)

"Ce soir" came and went and no chicken. 'Phew' I thought to myself, 'She must have forgotten'. But no. She hadn't.

Arriving at the gite the next morning to pick up Karen and the boys for a jaunt into the Pyrenees, and there she was. Summoning me to follow, she took me round to her barn and there was her husband divesting the chicken of the last of its feathers, trimming its toes, giving it the once over. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Tom, who was standing beside me, looked at me questioningly. Mmmmmmmmm. A splutter of French came at me from Marie-Rose's husband. I think he was asking me if my husband was going to finish it off. I said "Oui", aware of the time ticking by and the need to get on the road if we were going to have plenty of time in the Pyrenees.

Marie-Rose beckoned me into her kitchen. Asked if I had a pot in which to cook the chicken, which I didn't, so lent me a pot and gave me some veg. Mmmmmmmm. Oh crikey, this was taking ages! And all the while the thought which was running upermost in my mind was "How am I going to explain this to Lester" who up until now was aware that there was a chicken on the way, but didn't know exactly the state in which the chicken would be in. This was overlaying the other thought which was "We have got to get on the road otherwise the day will be over and done with before we have set foot in the mountains".

We made our exit gracefully, with Tom doing the honours and carrying the potted chicken out to the car, which he did with much courage!

...although I did hold the pot for a photo-shoot moment with Marie-Rose, hence the photo up top.

So..... quick dash round to Labartere, to give Lester the potted chicken:

As you can see he was more than somewhat bemused......

.....had a "What the **** am I supposed to do with this?" moment, before squaring his shoulders, grabbing a knife, actually a bread knife which was all we had, and got on with his task of getting the innards out. First he cut the head off, at which we all departed quite quickly. He had already got the feet off as can be seen on the table beside him.

So off we went for the day. Lester had to work, hence the passing on of the responsibility of what to do with the chicken.

I will let you know what happened subsequently in part two of this blog.

On poddling in the river

Up early. Plane to meet. Daughter and grandsons coming for a visit. Fixed up some dinner for later. Into car. Then out again as back seat of said car was seen to be a, quite frankly, a mess. (Bools had spent a sweaty half hour in it a few weeks ago and apparently gone into a major fur moult at the same time)

Car cleaned. Off we go, with Hubs in the driving seat.

Pau airport. Ooops, plane has already arrived. People coming through the doors with luggage. Not to worry, though, no sign of family.

I stand and watch the comings and goings. Of people being met ecstatically by others. Of others being met by no-one and looking somehow abandoned.

I have stood on the same spot for several family fly-ins now. Those moments come into my mind. I feel a lump in my heart. Tears drift into my eyes. But this won't do! We don't do tearful dramas in my family! So I turn round and do a little circular walk to rid me of the this odd little missing-you-all pain. Hubs is off in the loo.

Someone is waving frantically at me. A pretty woman. Hubs comes up beside me. "Seen them yet" he says. "No" I say. "Are you blind" he says, "there she is".

It is the pretty woman. Fleetingly I am astonished at how I managed to give birth to such a vital energy of a person. That was slightly over forty years ago. Time seems to have flown by as if shot from the barrel of a gun. Zoooooom! Gone!

A tall well built figure is heading towards me, grinning from ear to ear. Ah, Tom. Again hardly recognisable. Being in his mid-teens, hormones are busily chasing through his body creating the man to come. But not for the moment. The man is there, but the boy is still very much present.

Another figure follows him. Ah, Jack.

Off home we go. Tea and cake, a look round, down to the river.

Jack wants to paddle. In he goes. Boolie too.

We all follow. And continue up the river, splashing and slipping on the wet river bed stones. "Why have you got two stripes down the front of your legs?" I say to Tom. "An experiment" he says. Apparently he had decided to have a go at seeing what look he could achieve if he shaved his legs. Not wanting to strip all of his leg hair off, he had decided to do a strip a couple of inches wide. "At least your two legs match" I say.

Jack is in the river now. Not totally immersed, just with backside in and legs up in the air. "I'm coming to rescue you" I yell, as I splash in granny-style towards him. "I've got cramp" he says. "Never mind, I'll sort it out for you". I do. One of his shoes gets carried away by the flow of the river. I nearly collapse with laughter at my attempts to keep up with it as it flows away. And the near-rescue of a dragonfly. Caught up in a web made by a spider whose home is in an upturned root of a huge drowned tree, it's end time is near. Jack is worried. It needs to be rescued. Unravelling it from the web, it is inadvertently knocked into the river. It's end time has arrived anyway as it is carried away in the flow of the river. "What is meant to be is meant to be" Karen says. Precious moments. Filed away for later on.

We go up to the Louet Bay, and back again.

Poddling about in the river was fun. But I couldn't quite shift out of my head the way in which the river flowed late last winter. Full of water, with a job to do of evacuating that water away from the land, it carried a fierce energy.

Perhaps that is indicative of life. That one flows along with one's river of life, collecting an assortment of treasured memories, enjoying the poddling along times, and respectful of those times when the river of one's life becomes fierce and one feels bowled along by circumstances beyond one's control.

Going along with the flow of one's life, that is what I learnt today.

By the way 'poddling' is not 'paddling' which involves one's feet and ankles and some of one's shins but not the knees. Poddling is in between paddling and the total immersement of swimming. Poddling involves some splash and wetness, but not much. Generally one remains dry. Unless one slips. But if one wears old shoes then one is less likely to slip. Poddling is fun because it has an element of wetness attached. One might, or might not, get soaked. Poddling is better than paddling. Paddling is a 'stay safe' occupation. Poddling isn't. Plus one's knees are likely to have some immersement, which they will enjoy especially on a hot and sunny day.

And sending blessings to my daughter, who also enjoys poddling and whose river of life is very active and full of movement.

Ooo-err!

Oh so have a look at this humungous insect which fell off the wall in front of my computer today. It is lying flat on its back, waving its legs in the air, and I have put a one pound coin beside it so you can see how big it is. Or was. It is now in Insect Heaven.

Gosh but it gave me the heebie-jeebies.

It was the third.

An hour or so previously, Lester called my attention to a two inch long thingummyjig with hundreds of legs each side of it, similar to a millipede, but oh so much huger, that was walking up the wall infront of his computer.That is in Insect Heaven as well.

And then last night: going into the kitchen caravan later on in the evening, and there was this huge moth-like creature bashing about the place. That was the biggest of these three. But it sort of gave itself a headache from crashing into everything and ended up prone in my saucepan. Handy for getting back outside. I don't know whether that is in Insect Heaven or not. It might be being recycled via Boolie's tummy, or it might have flown off. It was dark so I couldn't see.

Now I am not particularly squeamish about insects, but these are BIG. And I think they must be waking up from their winter sleep. I think that our pig/chick hut has been their dormitory for the colder months, and now it is getting warmer, well.... time to wake up and get going with doing things.

However, all has changed. No longer is their previous abode as it was. It has been re-done. No cobwebs, no pig-poo, no chicken leavings. Clean walls. People. Dog. It must seem like a living hell when they wake up, have a stretch and then head on out for their new season. Perhaps it is just as well they are dispatched. They can't like it very much now that we have reclaimed their previous abode as our office.

Builders in today. Stones down on the floor in the half barn. Looking good. HG was up at 6.3o this morning, getting up the same time as me, his UG. He has been in shock with his early arising all day, but enjoyed the early morning dig. Blowing up a bit outside, so a storm is on its way. Great! Won't have to water the garden. But must rush off to retrieve the washing from the line before it disappears off down to the Pyrenees.

A couple of hours later: Hi. Just had chat with Bruv in UK, done some potato-earthing-up with HG, rescued washing, no rain but hopefully some will arrive soon, stick-play with Bools, uploaded this photo of our new 'lawn' mowed by stirling-trooper-HG, now off to do the washing up as have no clean cups, cutlery, saucepans or plates. Well, it has been hot, like a sauna, in the kitchen caravan today. Too hot to mess about at the sink. Well, that's my excuse so I am sticking to it!

What I learnt today was that having a Bruv is great, that when one feels like one is going to melt like a pat of warmed-up butter it is best to leave any heavy exercise, like washing-up, until later when it is less hot, that if one is an Under Gardener then one must expect to have finger nails and hands which are no longer in pristine condition, and that laughter lines on one's face are better than frown lines.

Families!!!

Oh, so, in early January a family visit was arranged for April. Gazebo was up. Plenty of space. No probs. Gite and chambre d'hote booked for family members, and looking good.

Late January, and the great wind killed the gazebo. Oh dear. What to do. No dry space anywhere except the original caravan. Would be a bit of a squeeze getting all of us in there. Visit would have to be cancelled. But it was booked. Didn't want to let the family down, so buried head in sand and hoped a solution would magic itself up. It did. Another caravan came onsite, together with an awning. Great! Could squeeze us all in there. Just about.

The family pow-wow. Missing some members, and me looking like Mrs Indiana Jones. I'm the one in white and wearing the hat.




This was on the one dry day. After that it was back-to-back days of rain. But our family rallied together, put their wellies on, and smiled their way through.

Not one word of complaint, not one word of moan. Soaked for a lot of the time, but stoical throughout.

And Labartere gathered to herself another little helper, by way of grandson Joshua, who absolutely loved the weather, preferring the wet to the sun I think.


More puddles, you see. More fun. The mud was an added bonus.

And a frazzled me, proud of the more stoical elements of the family, and glad that we all survived.

Everyone is back in their lives, and we are back in ours. But our visitors have left a bit of themselves here, and feel no distance at all away from us because of that.

Good memories are to be treasured. Not so good memories need to be evaporated away in the mists of time.