Oh, so anyway....

Actually, what I am supposed to be doing at the moment is excavating our belongings from out of the tarp under which they were put last January after the tempest hit us. It is not a pleasant job. Not that I mind doing mucky jobs. Oh no. It is just that, well, I seem to have spent quite a considerable chunk of my life moving me and my belongings from one place to another.

However: back to the tarp project of today. Having just spent the morning excavating the deep dark corners of the Hutto (the once upon a time pig / chick hut which is now our office) and cleaning up from the foraging of four footed little creatures, slightly bigger four footed *****bag creatures, sundry other carcasses from the rich insect life who inhabit the walls of our Hutto, etc, we are now clean and tidy in that zone. For the moment. But it will not stay as it is unless we block up the quite largish hole in the corner by the door. It is quite large and well able to give entrance to furry creatures: I am not exaggerating.

Lester is out of the Hutto at the moment. He has been summonsed by Sara of the Camels to help remove a deceased lama which is at this moment lying on the floor of her sitting room. Having become sick yesterday, and we all being caught up in a drenching of rain day, she had decided that it be better off inside. In her front room. Down on the floor went copious amounts of hay, and there the lama lay down and eventually breathed its last late evening. Bless. A bit of a struggle down at her place at the moment. The canal beside her house has been quite full, threatening to spill out into her farmyard, and Carla (see Labels for other posts about Carla, pot bellied lady pig) went on the hunt for some acorns yesterday morning which were unfortunately in the field on the other side of the canal, didn't seem to realise that the water was five feet deepish, and she got caught up in the strength of the water flow and ended up being swept away down the canal.

Fortunately her dislike for finding herself in such dire trouble was heard, and all rushed out to see Carla's snout and ears just above the water, jammed against the little bridge which crosses the canal, with airways open sufficiently wide enough for her to squeal her outrage.

In went a young friend of Sara's. Into the water he did dive. To get behind the rump of Carla and hoik her back out of the water. Carla was last seen going to bed in their chicken coop. The young man, none the worse for the dunking, was given a box of Twiglets from Sara to say 'thankyou'.

Anyway, Lester is helping with getting the lama out of the house. I am supposed to be excavating under the big tarp.

And you know when you want to do anything other than what you are supposed to be doing? Well I was struck by just such a moment a while ago. Into my head came an almighty urge to tell you what was happening down here in France, just as I ducked my head into the depths of the pile. So that's what I am doing.

Two hours twenty mins later: Slow going with the tarp project. Have just taken boxes, stuff, etc from one place and dumped it in the other place, which is the house. All in a heap. Had ten minutes slumped comotose over a bedside cabinet by the water tap, all worn out by my efforts, during which Lester made an appearance from Sara's. Lama update: it is now out of the house, but it was decided to build a funeral pyre to dispose of the body. Apparently the cost to have it removed by the authorities was prohibitive. So Project Cook The Lama is now underway.

Oh, so anyway, I did manage to achieve a more pleasant environment in which to work. And if you look at my PC very closely you can see this blog in its creation! The lama is mid-way through its cremation, and Bools and Gus have just had a fight. What was it over? Well, Gus is little. To get over this minor problem, he has taken to perching his bum up high. On the box just removed from the Hutto in this case (the topmost photo). This piddles Bools off no end. So somewhere in the time ahead he will reprimand Gussy and remind him that he is littler than him. Bools usually picks his moment to achieve full effect which is usually right in front of us, and he normally likes to look up mid-way to see if we are noticing his efforts to keep Gussy in his place. Bless.

So I leave you with this thought:

Oh, so that bit fizzled out as 'the thought to leave you with' flipped into my head and then equally as fast flipped back out again! A cup of coffee I think! And then back under that tarp I go for another session. If you never hear from me again, then you know where I can be found!

Waving cheerfully from France, I bid you 'bye for now'.

One tile, two tiles, three tiles up, & Sara's snake

You have been spared yet another photo of our roof because my new camera eats batteries like a hungry shark, so: the back roof is now having its tiles put on. And really the only feeling I have at this time is of disbelief. As if my life is galloping onwards and I am several steps behind. Catch-up time, I think, when the builders have gone, and we have got all the boxes, furniture and other assorted paraphanalia which seemed vital to our UK lifestyle but which we haven't needed at all since we arrived here sixteen months ago, from out beneath the tarpaulins and into the dry space of the house. And that will be satisfying enough. Meanwhile we will carry on living in the caravans for the winter. We've done one winter already, so are more prepared than what we were last year. And if the winter storms hit us too badly, well we can always move into our house temporarily.

Sara down the road came by yesterday with the news that her friend had been almost attacked by a hissing python of a snake. OK. A bit of exaggeration, but it was very long snake of over a metre long, and had taken up residence beneath his car. Didn't like being disturbed, so had had a hissy-fit at him. He hastily retreated, meanwhile the snake took it upon itself to climb at the nearest tree and continue its hissy-fits.

Now this is disturbing. Walking around the local woods and fields have reassured me that there is not too much wild life around that is likely to either attack or eat me. This time last year there was lots of hunting going on, with guns going off nearly every day and quite close by as well. This year there is silence. So either the local huntsmen are giving this area a rest, or there is nothing else to shoot.

But: snakes. Sara prodded the snake up the tree, her intent being to make it come down so she could somehow box it up. What she was going to do with it then she seems to be fairly vague about, but I suppose she felt she had to take some action. It stayed put. Became more hissy, so all retreated. An Internet search fetched up the info that it wasn't a poisonous snake but could make a hefty bite if it felt so inclined, and that it killed by wrapping its coils around its prey. Ooooohhhh dear!

Not to worry. We are aways up the lane, but Sara isn't. The snake is in residence at Sara's house along with the camels, the lamas, the goats, the pigs and the chickens. It is not likely to want to leave either, because she has loads of young chickens which are snack food for it, and the bare-knecked chickens lay their eggs all over the place which provide it with nibbles. I said the only thing was to make loads of noise when they were moving round the farm. Bang drums. Stomp feet. That sort of thing. Then it could either clear out of the way, or have a hissy fit so you would know where it was. Don't know what else you can do about it. Neither do I like the thought that it can climb trees. I thought only jungle snakes did that.

Naughty Gussy. Musing over whether to have him de-balled or not, I was veering toward not. I have tried running the legs off him each morning by two hour walks, thinking that would wear him out so he would feel less inclined to go trotting over to Fleur. (The lady dog across the road) Hasn't worked. Not only that, but he will not let himself be easily caught when I go and fetch him. War is now on. On lead for his walk this morning. No glorious hunts and gallops through the maize and woods today, and de-balling it is. He has pushed me into the decision himself.

I am not sure if Fleur is in season, but I don't think so because Boolie doesn't seem to be excessively interested in her. Which means that Gus is going to be one of those male dogs who will sniff the wind and then follow any scents of lady dogs wafting about. This will not do. Because he will then wait for an opportune moment and be off. And another thing: why is he howling? For some reason he has taken to sitting in the middle of the courtyard and howling, which starts Bools off too. They have been fed. Walked. Lovied up. So why the howling? Is it some sort of doggy phone-system? By his howling, is he saying 'Wait for me, oh you wonderful lady doggy, and I will come and play and do all sorts of things with you if you only but wait for me'? Is this his way of answering the doggy lady scents he has captured on the wind?

Otherwise, all is well, down here in South West France. The temperatures have dropped fast the last three nights, so into thermal vest and thermal long-johns. Not very elegant, but hey ho! Caravan homes and country living dictate the necessity for these items. And layers. This morning I have on: 1 vest, two t-shirts, 1 body warmer, 1 hand knitted cardi, 1 pair long johns, 1 pair of trousers. BUT I don't have any heating on. The reason for this is because I can't be bothered to switch the gas fire on. This not only helps my carbon footprint, but also the bill for the gas cylinder refill and my sinuses which get clogged up whenever heating of any description gets switched on. So with halo shining brightly, and hoping my rather slender reserves of patience will carry me through another day with Gussy-boy, I say cheerio for now.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Take the positives from your yesterdays and forget the rest. Today is the start of all your tomorrows. x

The dog down the road

There is a dog down the road who irritates me and Boolie mostly because he is an 'attack' from behind type of dog which means that he sneaks up to us from the rear. Oh he does a 'look at me I am a big dog' stance if he meets us from the front, but mostly he prefers to clear off so we think he has gone and then comes up from the rear.

Me and Bools think this is cowardly. If you have a grump about somebody, face them head on. That's what me and Bools think.

We walk down the lane, past Christiane's jumbly gardening house, onto the s-bend in the lane, and there dog down the road lives. Most times he is still indoors when we pass, especially of late. There are new occupants to this particular house, arriving last winter. Well it isn't a house really, not in terms of the UK interpretation of 'house'. Rather, it is a huge barn of a place, with a huge barn attached. All fally-down and rustically rural. So not posh or anything.

But I think they do parties, because a huge circular bright blue blow up swimming pool has just appeared, and they don't. What I mean is that there is no-one about when we pass now, including dog down the road.

Just a word about these pools. They are cheap in price, and very big and very tall. You clamber up a ladder then drop down into them. And look horrible! But even I have had a fleeting secondary thought about purchasing one when we are cooking furiously in the afternoon sun. But it is a thought which flickers in and out. We have the river. Last summer me and Bools spent many a happy afternoon wading up and down in it, cooling off. Not done that this year, as we tend to spend the afternoons in the coolness of the pig/chick hut, which we didn't have last year. Or I am having a siesta.

Anyway, we were walking down the lane this morning. All was peaceful. Down past Sara's place with her camels out in the field already today, doing a left turn, over a canal which I often stop and linger at. There is a house whose back walls are one wall of the little canal. It looks vaguely Venice. I enjoy this house, with its drapings of wisteria, and its sleepy, timeless, dustiness. As with many others in the area, it has elderly people in. Eventually it will be sold, and probably done up. That is the life of a house. People in, people out. Always passing traffic. I would like the house to stay as it is. But nothing does. So I enjoy it for now.

Onto another bridge, this time over the Louet river. Sara has the keys to the sluice gate here. I lean on the railings for a moment, but not for long.

On past the fields where the cows graze, and the maize fields start. To the right the Pyrenees. I can sometimes see the Pyrenees. If I don't, then the weather will be sunny and dry. If I do, then rain will be on its way during the next few days. I don't see them today.

At half right is the village of Mazeres with its odd towered church. A lot of the churches seem to be built by individual people. There doesn't seem to be overall comformity to the village churches. For some reason the church always makes me feel, again, timeless. It is at this point that any tensions I have drizzle away. It is not the most adventurous of walks, and there are prettier ones to be had in the area, but it is my morning walk with Bools and always works a magic on me.

Now down to the track between the maize fields. The overhead sprinklers are on. The farmers are watering the maize. So far they haven't been watering where I have been walking.

Ah, today they are! To my left is the escarpment of trees on which the village of Castelnau Rivière Basse stands. There is the wall of a ruined castle perched on the edge. Nothing grand or special, just a wall which now belongs to a house. But it is charming. Not done up, modernised, or tarted up for the tourists. Nothing is done for the tourists. No big signs to say 'come and pay your dollar here to see our attractions'. Nothing. Perhaps that's why people like to come here. Because it is easy and simple.

Will I do a jog this morning? I think thirty walks, thirty slow shuffle-type jogs, thirty walks are the order of the day. It is already getting warm, so best to pace myself.

We approach the watering system. These are long, tall, elegant scaffolds of steel which spray water over the maize. "Looks like we are going to get wet" I say to Bools. Wait a minute - there seems to be a moment when one could dart through. We wait. Yes! We're through! And only a bit of splash down our backs.

Onwards along the track. Nothing much to be seen now the maize is growing. Head high, it is a wall of green. By now I am doing my walking jogging pattern of movement, and my head has become calm. Perhaps it is a good thing that there is no actual view because there is nothing to distract me.

We make a left turn to come over Louet again, but this time over planks. This is a farmers bridge so has no sides, but if it is solid enough to take a tractor it is solid enough to carry my weight. Bools will often take a moment to go and have a drink, and sometimes I go down the bank with him and sit and linger. Not today. Time is pressing on.

I stand on the wide row of planks. I used to hurry across at one time because it feels like one could easily fall in. Without sides, a topple could have one in the water in no time. Today I don't. I
stand in the middle of the planks facing the downward flow of water. And imagine all my worries and concerns flowing away down the river. And I face the other way, and imagine peace and calm flooding into me. This is the first time I have done this. I think it will be something I often repeat.

Over the next little planky bridge which is the canal again, and onto the lane. And there he is. The dog down the lane. All puffed up and trying to look aggressive. Bools stops. I stop. Bools puffs himself, and starts slowly tiptoeing forward. Normally I would carry on walking as normal. Today I don't. I stay at Boolie's shoulder. We are, after all, a team. I move slowly forward as well, backing Boolie up. I raise my shoulders to puff myself up. A team.

Bools feels my comradeship and does a full on charge. Powerfully he plunges at the dog down the lane, which spins round and scarpers off, flanks now at ground level, puffiness all gone. Bools deigns not to chase too far. He has protected our corner of the world. He looks round. "Thanks, " he says. "You're welcome" I say.

On we go. Now approaching the house with the pool and the home of the dog down the lane. This is when the dog down the lane will make a rear guard action.

We approach the house. Bools is puffed up again, walking slowly. I am walking slowly at his shoulder. Today is show-down time. The dog down the lane appears, coming out of the gates to the house. And raises his lips in a menacing snarl. Boolie does a low throaty growl. I do the same. Yes I do! I do a growl as well! The dog down the lane looks at me. Looks at Bools. He sees the team effort. But we don't attack. Even though it is two against one, we don't attack. The dog down the lane does when he is making mischief with Sara's dog. The two of them came visiting a while ago, and did much bully boy behaviour against Bools. Two against one again. Lester had to go and shout them away.

Today, though, we are saying to the dog down the lane, "Do not torment us with your rear guard attacks again, because there are two of us here." This is the message we gave to the dog down the lane who wiltered away. I did a bark. Just to send him off. Bools didn't. He was above such behaviour.
"Bonjour" a voice called from behind me. Oh, the man who lives in the white bungalow which is opposite to the dog down the lane's house. He is leaning on his gate, watching. Oops.

Not to worry though, he knows that we live in the roofless house at the top of the lane and that my tomatoes haven't been staked up yet out in the front garden because the ensuing conversation told me so. I think he is 86 years old, has two sons who live with him and has a wife who is living somewhere else because she needs too much looking after. I think that is what he says, but he is speaking French but lisping heavily because he has no front teeth but instead has a wide gap through which his tongue seems to often escape. Anyway, another neighbour met and spoken to.

We carry on walking. Christiane stops in her car. She is on her way to the post office, and we have a girly laugh about getting wet under the sprinklers out in the maize fields. I think this is what I said to her. Not to worry though, because whatever I said caused her to almost collapse with laughter.

Round the corner, and there is Labartere. Ah, who is that. Bruno! Giving me a wave as he comes out of the drive on his bicycle. He is cycling round a lot now. His son just passed his test, and the day after he did so he borrowed Bruno's van, took a phone call en route and put himself and the van into a ditch, writing the vehicle off. He's OK though. But Bruno has to cycle if Maddi has their remaining car. Anyway, with shirt open and flapping like wings, off he goes presumably after having had a cup of tea with Lester.

Home. And no rear guard attack from the dog down the lane. I feel blessed by my walk. I am not sure how you will be feeling, after all you have been travelling for some distance down the page as you read my words. But thank you for coming with me and sharing the moments of my walk.

The plant that came down the river

Last year, with the river starting to rise with the start of its winter waters, I took the last walk of 2008 upon our beach. And growing within the stones was a plant which said 'Save me. Don't let me drown.' I heard its request, and transplanted it into the front garden uncertain whether it was going to survive, but at least it had a better chance than being subjected to the flood waters of our river.

I don't know where it has come from. From upriver obviously. The Pyrenees? Possibly. But from somewhere it has come. And stopped. And grown.

Springtime saw it still with us. Late Spring, and it was being eaten to pieces by caterpillars. I dispatched the caterpillars to heaven, with an apology, but with firmness. And the plant grew up and up and up, until out of the top came this flower head.

Et voila! La plante. I said I would have a go at growing its babies on, if it would be so kind enough to set seed.

I like the thought that we have saved it. I like the thought that it has travelled from somewhere else up river. I like the thought that it has made its home with us.

By the way, the field you can see in the background is our side field, getting ready to recover its energy after being host to the oil seed rape, which has now been harvested.

And the oak tree beneath which I sit on hot summer afternoons. That, too, is taking off at a good gallop now it is no longer smothered by brambles. I had to ask its permission the other day to remove some lower branches which were threatening to thwack the flower head of the plant which came down the river and decapitate it.

And swinging to the left, here are the meadow flowers which are going to be growing in profusion everywhere on Labartere. We bought a huge bag of seeds in the spring, but only managed to plant a handful.
Next year all will go in. The bees love them. So do we.

And may I present to you the photo shooter. HG no less.

New camera finally unpacked, (bought from the UK before we emigrated), batteries put in, HG takes command of its first trial run, and here he is to prove that he did just that.

The camera is a special one, which must not be carried around in one's pocket in case a photo shoot opportunity arises, but must be kept safely on one's desk for special use. These are HG's instructions.

He is right. This camera is for my work. The other is for play.

Things I have learnt today. That messing about with cameras is fun. That one should not get so involved with the funning that one forgets to watch the cake in the oven or the bread which was put to rise and is now overflowing the tin and is making a mess, which serves one right for being so inattentive. One has already learnt how to deal with cake which is singed. A reminder? Oh just scrape off the carbonised bits.
That one must really try not to get irritated when one's neighbour (actually Sara) has tomato plants with huge trusses of tomatoes on, when one's own tomato plants are still thinking about whether to grow or not. The camel poo in which they are planted might be assisting in their growth. And since there is a handy pile of camel poo now out by the veg plot, one is going to pop out back while HG is elsewhere, and resite a bucket of said poo to see if the tomato plants here might wake up and start growing. Else they will be put in the river to go live elsewhere.

Have a happy day. Au revoir.

Wafts of pleasure

Johnathen has been here for most of the week, working on the ceiling in the half barn and patching in some rather large holes in the low side wall which is going to be covered with plasterboard as well.

This is the only place in the house which will have one of its walls covered over in this way. And the reason why we decided to do this is because the ceiling is going to be boarded between the beams to cover over the insulation which is going in, and we needed to put a match for the plasterboarding somewhere else in the space. Johnathen was keen to cover over all of the walls. We said NO. One wall only. And the electrics will be hidden as well behind the boarding on that wall.

And so he sanded down the beams, two new ones and two old ones, sprayed all the wood with anti-termite stuff. And then painted all the wood with this divine mixture which has linseed in it.

I have been informed by HG that since we will have a large amount of wood in the house eventually, to expect the smell of the linseed mixture to be more or less always present. Apparently all the wood has to be washed over with the mix once or twice a year. We are going to have wooden ceilings downstairs. Much wood. Loads of linseed. Wafts of pleasure. Because the smell is absolutely gorgeous.

I keep popping into the half barn just to have a sniff. But then I also have a huge liking for the smell of creosote. I am even getting to be more comfy with the wafts which are emanating from the two dustbins in which are cooking nettles to make a fertilizer for the plants. Take it from me, that it is an unbelievable odour, oops! I mean, aroma!

So here is the half barn, with all the wood pristine and perfumed.

Tasks for next week: Electician to put the spot lights and plugs in. Builders to continue to break up the old flooring in the house, and prepare for the new flooring to go in. Johnathen has laid the foundations in the roof for the plasterboard, so will presumably continue with that once the electician has been in.

I am proud of our progress here. On some things we are not as far forward as I thought we would be, but on others we have made good progress. I thought the house would not have her roof on for two or three years, but that is happening quicker. I thought we would be further forward with our animals, but lack of time and the fact that much of the home-farm land where the animals will be kept is being used for the building work does not make this a a do-able project at the moment.

However, Sara of the Camels often brings us eggs to trade for sundry bits, such as Lester's skill at PC repair, and of late has been swapping lettuce, onions, and plants. It is a good trade.

Otherwise, we are starting to become familiar with the ongoing task of rotational crop planting in our veg plots. The fig tree has gone bonkers this year, so will have to start accumulating jam jars now ready for the fig harvest later on. Sara donated us some paper sacks to keep our potatoes in, and they are being stored in the half barn which is the coolest place for them. My fingernails seem to have a permanent portion of earth in them, and I am always in trousers now because of the gnats flying up and settling themselves on my knicker line if I wear a skirt.

But I have a liking for the waft of linseed. It smells very homely. If you would like to have a waft as well, just let me know and I will send you a sample in the post. I won't, of course, send you one of our beams, but I will send you a dab on a piece of calico.

Meanwhile, bon weekend, and signing off from here down in the South West of France.

On camels and poo

Lunch. Last mouthfuls being eaten. Car door slams shut. 'Oh who is that for Heaven's sake' we think to ourselves, seeing our after lunch half hour siesta disappear down the shute. It's Sara. But hooray! In the back of her car she has managed to jam in five black plastic rubbish bins and they are full of camel poo. NOT donkey poo, as has been already spoken about here, but nicely rotted down doings from her camels.

Wow, but wasn't Lester pleased, even though he was busy chewing the last mouthful of his lunch as he surveyed the aromatic bins. "Round the back" he said, and off they went to put their precious cargo on top of the severely depleted pile of donkey manure.

UG to the rescue. (A reminder that as helper to the Head Gardener known as HG, aka Lester, aka Hubs, I am sometimes designated with the title Under Gardener, aka UG) Into the motorhome I got, down the road I went, and an afternoon of camel poo shifting then transpired.

Thought you might like to see Sara's pad. The huge tree is a mulberry tree under which everyone sits and eats the mulberries as they fall onto the table. They are delish.

Oh now here is the white camel, busy chewing on a piece of grass. This is the one who has rickets, but is doing a whole lot better since it came to the farm.

And just to prove what a busy UG I have been today, here is the evidence of the new contribution to the poo-pile.






Things I have learnt today: That when a camel looks like it is going to charge you as you are carrying a bin full of its poo from its bed in the camel barn, across the camel paddock, under the electrically wired fence and then to the white van, that is really only trying to tease you into walking fast.

Best to walk slowly, as then the camel thinks that you are not fussed about playing with her. If you show any willingness to walk faster, then she thinks that yes, you do want to play and may then make a little charge at you.

Since camels are quite big, and we are quite small in comparison, this can make the whole experience of shifting the poo rather intimidating, especially because I had to make eleven trips across the enclosure for one van load of manure. We filled the van five times. 5 x 11 = 55. Fifty five trips through the paddock.

Not to worry though. Once you have bobbed under the electic fence then you are safe. Not that you are unsafe when you are with them but they look a tad on the big side when one is up close.

If the camel is bored it will hold herself aloof, and turn its head away. If she is willing to have a play, then she will look you straight in the eye and dare you to walk faster. She might even gang up with her mates along the fence so you have to either go round them all, or push through the middle of them, saying in a sing song voice "Coming through", meanwhile keeping a nice even rhythm to your stride. I erred on the sensible. I went round the long way.

I learnt that the electic fence doesn't actually pack too much of a wallop, but it is best to be careful especially if one is stroking the nose of a camel at the time. Only if one's elbow accidently touches the electric cable and that elbow is the same one which has the hand attached to it which is the same hand as is stroking the nose of the camel then the electrical charge will zoom up one's arm, through one's hand, and on into one's fingers. Unfortunately, when it has reached your outer limits it does not stop, but carries on. Right on into the nose of camel which one's fingers were gently caressing seconds before.

Not to worry though. The camel will only toss its head into the air with alarm, and will possibly do a couple of bucks and kicks in dislike of the transfer of the electrical shock into its body via its nose, but as long as one is one side of the fence and the camel is the other side of the fence then all will be well. The camel will soon forgive you. In time. Best to go have a glass of wine and wait a while though before going to get another load of manure from its house.

That it makes for a fun afternoon digging the poo with the camels keeping an interested eye on you just in case they can do a bit of mischief, and that the young man who was my assistant for the poo-dig was equally fun company and gave me a few hours of stimulating conversation ranging from space tourism (he was going to start saving up to buy a ticket for a trip into space) to Ibiza (he wanted to see the 'pretty ladies'), to driving with gears (they only do automatics in Canada, which is where he comes from), to 'how does it feel to have Chinese ancestry' (his parents are Chinese), to physics and the energy of life and the Open University learning I have done (wow, I could remember quite a lot of physics from my physics course sufficient to engage in quite an enjoyable discussion with him), to keeping chickens (we still don't), to keeping positive as best one can during the helter skelter ride that is one's life.

I felt I was making an difference to his outlook on life. And that, at the age of sixty plus, makes all the years I have travelled worthwhile.

A day in the life of...

Up with the lark this morning. Well, not quite. Sort of like a slow snail pace rather than a 'let's zip along into the day'. Thirty minute dig out front, one hour walk with Boolie but not jogging today - some power walking, some slowing-down walking, some 'let's stop and talk to the river, the cows, the trees, and anything else' type of walking, and one set of ten joggy-ish running steps followed by ten power-ish walking steps, after which I fell into 'amble-mode'.

Back at base camp, thirty minutes weeding of bed beyond the oak tree, then tea on, Lester roused, toast made, all is quietly on the move. But no builders. That's OK. All is peace.

Out front, armed with strimmer, do thirty minutes of grass cutting. Then thirty minutes of weeding again, apologising to the shrubs planted in early spring for my lack of care as I removed all manner of hangers on from around their feet.

Late morning, sun starting to turn up its heat, time to start lunch. Cold lamb left over from yesterday (donated by Val - thanks Val, it was a lovely bit of meat), lettuce and potatoes from garden. Other add-ons to the meal from the supermarket. Tea and cake into Lester in office, plus pat on the head to say he is being a good boy.

Johnathen calls round. Not starting work today. Will be here tomorrow. Discussion about where to put the lights in the ceiling of the half barn. J errs in favour of lighting it up like an airport runway. I think low lights, hardly visible. Discussion continuing. By the way J is putting the insulation and plasterboard on the ceiling.

Dinner. Done. Quick siesta, a few minutes longer than normal because Lester and myself both fell asleep.

Up and doing. Tea into office for Lester. Me out front, plus chair, plus tea, plus bag of crocheting, to sit under oak tree, wave to the neighbours driving past, watch the enormous range of visitors to the meadow flowers, listen to Bools gently snoring at my feet. A gorgeous summer afternoon. Meanwhile a clatter and a bang and a roar and general din signifies that the builders have turned up.

4pm. Time for coffee and cake. Sara calls in. She knows the format here. "It's 4 o'clock - time for cake" she says as she gets out of her car. In she brings two huge bowls of fruit. "You can make us some jam with these", she said. "Here's some sugar".
Swapping time: Lester offers her half of the bundle of baby leeks we bought on Saturday at the market. Unfortunately we have hit a snag - we can't get them all planted out because the rotovator has decided to die a death again. After spending hours fixing it on Saturday, which included danger of ignition of self during the welding stage of the mend, Lester had finally got it to work. Only it was getting dark, so a good project for the next morning: to get the vegplot newly made nude by the harvest of the previous day rotovated over ready to plant the leeks. But no. Said rotovator decided not to co-operate. It is a wonder he hasn't chucked it into the river out of sheer frustration. I'm sure I would have.

Sara had some bad news. She had been copped by the police this morning for not wearing a seat belt. Up at the school this was. She had been in a rush, and for only this morning had neglected to strap herself in. Screeching up to the school, she noticed loads of cars around, so had to park up aways. Leaning into her window peers the face of a policeman, to inform her that it was against the law to not wear a seat belt, and that the on-spot fine was 45 euros, but if she would like to come into the school playground she could go on a short course of road safety and avoid the fine. With thoughts of the zillion other things she ought to be getting on with, but also the thought of the fine, out she got to accompany the policeman. Loads of people in the playground, including all the children and all the children's mums and all the children's teachers.

Into a simulator of a car she had to get, hoisted up at an angle, there to be dropped backwards at 75 miles per hour to start of with, to nil, just to give her an idea of how it would feel like to be stopped suddenly. She said the feeling of whiplash didn't last for long.

She also told us of a friend of hers who drinks a lot. Got stopped by the police. Did breathalyser. Was positive. "Oh dear" said the policeman. "that can't be right, let's wait for a few minutes and try again". Which they did. She, meanwhile, is s**********ing herself with anxiety. "Have to come to the police station with me, to get another breathalyser done, they all seem to be faulty", he said as the next one also proved positive. So off to the police station she was taken, to be given yet another breathalyser, which also proved positive. "Oh dear, have a cup of coffee, perhaps that will make it work properly" the policemen said. This happened several times, and after being plied with loads of coffee, she was finally able to give a nearly clear breathalyser test and was allowed to leave, nervous and anxious because she expected to be booked at any moment. Clever policeman. Saved himself loads of paperwork, and hopefully taught her a lesson by the stress of having to give those numerous breathlysers.

Maddi arrives, Bruno's new wife. Brings with her three small tomato plants. Donations in. Girl chat. Lester gets to do two sets of cheek-kisses, bless him. I do to. It is all very friendly here in France. All leave, except me and Lester.

Out front again. Doing some re-reading on first book just back from printers. Not looking too bad. Just minor errors, no big re-writes. Am enjoying the read. Doesn't feel as if I have written it, more like I am reading someone else's writing. Strange that.

A movement catches my eye. Hurtling down the drive and disappearing round the side of the house, I momentarily catch a glimpse of a white car. Better go see what is happening. I follow the route of the car, expecting it to be parked by the truck, or the digger, or the lorry, or somewhere near the 'work-in-progress' area of the house. It wasn't. But I could just about see a man's head above the oil seed rape plants in the front field. He was on the overgrown path which is supposed to lead down to the river, but doesn't go anywhere at the moment because I have been banned from strimming down there in case of adders, (re:Lester's instructions of last weekend when he found an adder underfoot when mowing the back field)

I approach him. His car is stuck. Somehow he has managed to get it down to the end of the field where the tiles are stacked, made a sharp right and kept on going. He apparently was following my strimming trail right up to the point where I had stopped, but he didn't, he kept on going, and got tangled up in the undergrowth. Upon trying to disengage himself he had sort of slithered into the ruts at the side of the oil seed rape, and since it was only a little white Purgeot of a car, it couldn't get back out again.

The man was very dismissive of his plight. At least sixty plus, he epitomised all the characteristics of the 'elderly' here. Which is, that there is no such thing as being 'old'. He thought it quite a hoot that he had got stuck, and had apparently only wanted to see 'what was down there' when he drove his car at breakneck speed along the strimmed path. What spirit! Everywhere I go, I see people carrying a lot of years completely oblivious that they are doing so. I do not see dithery oldies anywhere.

"Lester" I call, "Can you give us a hand?". Out he comes, and with bon hommie all round, we push the little white car with the naughty spirited man inside out of the ruts, and off he goes after shaking our hands and thanking us. Bless.

Back out front for a spot of gardening, inside to catch up with stacks of washing up, finish up the lettuce left over from lunch by dipping it into the vinegar, mustard, brown sugar, salt, and olive oil mixture which I am addicted to, slice a melon up and take it out to Lester who is by now doing a spot of digging in the vegplot. Sit on some limestone blocks which are supposed to be standing on top of each other to make a gatepost but which were somehow knocked over by the builders, we eat the melon, enjoy the summer evening, and muse on our life in France. Never would we have done that in our old life.

And so, that was my day. A slow start, but a cracking good finish.

Things I have learnt today: That a day can seem double its hours in length if one keeps busy. That not to have a television gives back to one one's life.

Prayers, kisses, and Carla goes missing

So in through the gateway strolled a lady and a man. Not English. Swiss. Staying at Claudine's Chambre d'hote and visiting parents in Prechac, our nearby village. Showed them around. 'Goodbye' time. Three kisses, left cheek, right cheek, left cheek (on face, not rear end!) from her. Not from him though. "Sore mouth" he said. 'Bad teeth' I thought.

So I said a prayer for him and his sore mouth amongst other thoughts I sent out later on that day for other people.

Today: Having an after-lunch snooze. Bools barks. "Lesterrrrr" is called by someone standing near by the bedroom caravan. "Oh ***********" says Lester, putting on his trousers. All of a state of untidiness which arises from afternoon snoozes (honestly, it was only a short nap), we sort of fell out of the caravan to be met by four people all standing in a line: the Swiss lady, the Swiss man, the Swiss lady' mum, and the Swiss lady's dad. Crikey, sometimes I feel that we ought to charge an admission fee!

And so we did the usual: "Tasse de thè Anglais?" (cup of English tea) is asked by Lester, and "Would you like to have a look round" from me. It's like giving people the grand tour and providing refreshments all in.

So we all sat in a cosy group outside in the courtyard: no room in the awning. All in French, with the odd English word thrown in by the Swiss man, conversation was endeavoured. It was slow. But we did bonhommie, because that is the sort of people we are.

It started raining. Rushed to get the washing off the line. Knicker and bra wash today. Had to put these items of frippery on the inside of my rotary clothes line to hide them away from male view, then surrounding them by all the rest of the washing. Didn't want the builders to get tangled up with bra straps as they walked to and fro with their wheel barrows of cement.

Heard footstepts behind me. Swiss man was straight into the centre of the washing. Waving his hands he asked a question. I think it was about what to do about the pegs. One hand was full of my underwear, the other full of pegs. I kept on grabbing the rest of my underwear before he could. It was bit of a race. To divert his attention I ask about his mouth, "Votre bouche, c'est OK maintenant". "Yes", he said. 'I said a prayer to help with your pain', I said, but in broken English/French and with suitable gestures. I just thought it was a nice thing to say. Washing now all off line. Underwear all tucked discreetly away from view.

It stopped raining. Drat. Back to conversation. Quite interesting now. Apparently Swiss lady's parents knew our house in days gone by. They gave us our address in Prechac, with instructions to "Come and visit." So more people we know in the area.

Sara appears in the gateway. "Carla's gone missing". I get up and go to her. Carla is the Vietnamese pot belly pig who is adorable. Likes her tummy scratched and will roll over obligingly if anyone looks like they might give her a tickle on her tum. Also is rampantly in need of a male boar, and frequently tries to get buckets, brooms, even donkeys, to do her a service. Bless.

This is not good news. It starts raining harder. Everyone gets up to leave. Three kisses, left, right, left from Swiss lady, so this must be the International format so do the same with Swiss lady's parents. Hear Lester apologising profusely to Swiss man. Apparently he had done the three kisses with Swiss lady's mum and nearly been decked by Swiss lady's dad. I say goodbye to Swiss man. Sara can talk French. He says to her that he doesn't like prayers, and makes a wrenching motion with his hands. I say I do. They all leave.

Off down to Sara's with Bools, thinking that perhaps he might be able to sniff Carla out. Been an hour or so since Sara popped in. Good news. Carla back. Bad news. She is collapsed in the middle of a small paddock. Oh dear. Go over and give her a pat. She gets up and crawls underneath some low hanging conifers. I crawl in after her. Sara crawls in beside me. Carla is twitching. Feels cold. Sara reverses out and go gets a blanket. Wrap blanket round Carla. Give her a bit of a hug. Reverse out after fifteen minutes or so.

Coffee in Sara's kitchen. Girl chat. Vet arrives. Sara and Vet crawl into confer thicket. Bums in air. 'Did my bum look like that?' I think to myself. No matter. Out they come. "Measles", Carla has measles apparently. In goes the vet again. Out comes Carla. Squealing. Thermometers can apparently get one moving if one is stuck up one's rear end. Vet comes out. Goes out to car. Carla now collapsed in a heap in the middle of the paddock again. Vet comes back with syringe.

Time to go. Last I saw of Carla was that she was heading back under the confers again to get out of the way of the syringe.

Things I have learnt today: That sometimes International faux pas can inadvertently happen, but never mind, just smile and carry on dishing out bonhommie. That it is a nice to help a friend out when her much loved animal is sick and she is so worried that she needs someone else to look after the animal for a bit while she goes to call the Vet. That, with relief, Lester has ordered front gates so that they can be locked while we are having afternoon snoozes or when we are all out of bonhommie.

Meanwhile:



And the third apex to the house is prepped.











And the floor to the halfbarn is cemented.

And now I am off to have a douche in the 'shower'. Am feeling all of a muck after crawling about under the conifers. But worth it to give a bit of a luvvy to a sick little piggy who went missing but is now found.

Update for Lester

Hiya HG, just doing a quick signing in: Johnathen here yesterday with electrician. Took the decision to get three trunk cables from the kitchen door in the halfbarn to go directly across to the wall opposite rather than leaving space round the edge of the wall for the electrics. J spoke to Dani. Concrete pour probably Thursday or Friday depending on whether or not the ground is dry enough. They were going to do it before, but ground too wet for lorry. J said the cable needs to be put in before pour otherwise concrete will have to be chipped away later on, which will be more expensive than laying one across now. Three cables. One for lights, two to carry the plugs. One cable can carry 8 plugs, which would be enough if the barn was to be a recreation area but since it is likely to carry the office later on, and considering the amount of plug boards we have all over the place, I thought it more sensible to have an extra cable put it. J took measurements of roof so he can sort out a quote for the insulation. Told him we were taking one step at a time, but it didn't seem to register in his head! He is still very keen on plasterboarding over the side wall as well. Bless. Anyway, good to see him, and know that Dani is on the case with the cement pour for the floor.

Thinning corn today. Will take some over to Bruno. Planting yog pot plants. All plants looking good. Sara pulled up some of her potatoes, said they were tasty. All her lettuce donated by Bruno eaten by slugs. Our pots OK. Haven't needed to water because it has been raining. Yippee! Saved the trudge to and fro the water tap. Peach tree now died. Other still just about holding its own. I think it is trying to decide whether or not to carry on.

Did a raid on your seed box, as you said I could. Put everything back as I found it, including all the 'don't touch these seeds'. Have got some collards, swiss chard, eggplant, and cabbage. Will put those in today while ground wet.

Otherwise, Bools is looking cheesed off. Not getting any titbits, that's his trouble. Hope London is not too grim. See you soon. x

Lunch at Sara's

OK, Bools" I said sharply to my spaniel. "Walkies it is." I had planned to spend the day writing, gardening, and sorting out my camera equipment in readiness to start taking photos of products which are going into a shop on my web site. First, gardening out front, so boots on. Wrong choice of plan. Boots on means 'out for a walk' to Bools, which was not in my plan for today. Yesterday it was. Probably tomorrow it will be. But not today. Lots to do. Needing to get a move on, I begrudgingly said to him, "But I'm not going to be out for long".

Oh what folly to say those fatal words. Four hours later and we made our return. Waylaid by Sara as she walked her two horses down the lane, "Come in for lunch" she said, "Don't mind about Boolie. I'll put my dog in the shed". How could I refuse such an offer? So I didn't.

"So I sang to the camels, watched the baby potbelly pig romp around the camels before having a splash in the stream and chase a bald-necked chicken which suddenly developed a limp as if to say 'don't hassle me, I'm sick', was regaled with tales of the lady potbelly pig who was in urgent need of being seen to but meanwhile was desperately trying to get serviced by everything and everyone in sight including Sara's buckets, the donkey, and my foot, said we couldn't have the two baby goats which had got dumped at her front gate recently because we didn't have any fencing, rescued the cat which had been put in a boat (a cardboard box) for to go a-sailing down the stream by her young son, sat under the mulberry tree and drank in fresh air laced with all manner of animal perfumes, clucked goo-ily at the young yellow and brown goslings, smiled at the lamb punching away at the teet attached to a the big plastic bottle containing its milk and will feel everlastingly in sympathy with a mother sheep having to feed her lamb - they really do pack a hell of a punch when they head-butt a milk container whether it be bottled or uddered. And was fed myself. Homemade quiche made with duck eggs.

Lunch at Sara's. An experience. And reminds me that living a life is better than anything else in the world.








Things I learnt today: that one can start off with a plan for the day and be quite surprised at how bendable that plan can become when one goes walking down the lane, that duck egg quiche is delicious, and that singing to the camels is a must-do occupation if one is going to be serious about living life!

Donkey gone. Wall down. All's well!

So this 'ere donkey is, at this very minute, supposed to be partaking of the grass in our back field.

He is the donkey, who at this very minute, is supposed to be on a trek across France with the Dutch girl, who got sixty kilometres up the road before deciding that that particular adventure wasn't for her. (She was supposed to be travelling back to Holland with a white camel only the camel which got brought down from Russia was unfit for the journey because it was knock-kneed with rickets so she had to buy a donkey from round the corner at the donkey farm which provides the donkey manure with which I have so much trouble. Anyway, she got the donkey, did a couple of saunters up and down the road then headed out in the general direction of Holland but as I say sixty kilometres up the road and she decided to come back. She is staying with Sara of the Camels.)

Said donkey needs feeding. Grass out on the back field is growing, needs cutting. Donkey introduced to grass. Hey presto! Job done. Grass cut.

Ah, actually no.

You see, the only means of stopping the donkey from going AWOL was to put it inside an electric fence. Good idea. Fence up. No means of getting electricity to the fence. Not to worry. Donkey can be put inside the portable electic-tape hung on plastic posts paddock. The theory being, that it will think that the electricity is on. Again, good idea!

Donkey put inside paddock yesterday. Ah, good donkey. Munched his way through loads of stuff: all the wild flowers, some of the grass, none of the dock weeds, none of the nettles. Never mind. He's doing well. Told him so when I went to have a pat with him in the late afternoon. Inside the paddock I went. So did Boolie. "Ah, munch-time" thought Bools when he espied a pile of donkey poo.
"No, Bools" I yelled, startling the donkey who was having a fondling moment with me, particularly round his ears. Up came his head. Spinning round, he charged at Bools, who was by now yelling his delight at the whole adventure. Round and round they chased. Actually round me, they chased. Fleet of foot I sprang through a gap which opened up between them, and got myself out of the paddock, hearing chortlings from the roofers who were perched up on the half-barn roof.

A little pat to say 'Good donkey', a growl at Boolie to say 'leave that blasted donkey poo alone, you have been fed today', and in retreat I went. Later on the donkey was fetched, walking back down the lane to Sara's.

Today: along came donkey. Into paddock. Left to eat whatever was left from yesterday. Busy in pow-wow with the roofers about things, donkey not made a fuss of. Lunch comes and goes, so do the roofers. Everyone fed. Apparently not. A garbled yell, and an urgent knock on the office door calls my attention to an escapee. Yes, you've guessed it! The donkey had walked through the 'electric' fence, and was under the oak tree partaking of a lovely tall clump of juicy grass. Obviously he had gotten bored with what was on offer in his temporary paddock.

Out Bools goes as well. With joy he espies the donkey. Off he gallops towards the donkey. Off the donkey goes at a matching gallop, with Bools gaily chasing on behind. Then Bools chanced upon a delightful smell which stopped him in mid-gallop enabling the donkey to have a breather as well. Me too. I was chasing after both of them. (Fortunately the moment was captured in the handily placed camera in my skirt pocket).

The donkey was last seen heading back down the lane towards Sara's. It is unlikely that he will be allowed back to partake of our grazing, so I will have to resort to Plan A, which is strimming the whole field down myself, which is good for my waistline, and superb for my arm muscles, plus encouraging my bosoms not to give in to gravity. They are definitely more pert since I have been doing this self-sufficiency lark.

Now Boolie's turn to do watch-dog duties, as he has a look at the back field through our latest addition to the house: a hole. Of which we have plenty.

This is the back wall to the winter garden, or antrim, being broken up. Sad to see it go, but it is tipping the whole back wall of the house outwards. So that piece of wall has to go, to be replaced with a ghastly block-brick wall, which will be covered over eventually.

But this wound is deliberate, and will save that side of the house. Bless. Labartere has been having such a lot of knocking around that it's a wonder she is still standing. But she is.

And here I am listening to a cricket chirping away. At least I think it is a cricket. It is making an almighty amount of noise whatever it was. I was hoping to get a photo of it, but the little creature kept shutting up whenever I was in its neighbourhood. Never mind. Here are the buttercups in our back field, which is looking prettier than what it did last year when we arrived: it was covered over with wheat. Now it has lots of prettiness.

The donkey has now reached Sara's. The rest of the wall is coming down tomorrow. Lester has unglued himself from the PC at long last after a humungously long session over the last couple of days, and is out with his rotovator, shattering the peace and quiet of a lovely Spring evening. But at least he is doing what we came here to do. And I am doing what I came here to do which is writing.

All is well.

Pedalling along

Today Lester has spent all day working on his PC. In the UK it has been a bank holiday, but not in France. Today, Lester has worked all day at his PC. He has to. We have a roof to pay for. Today Lester has sat all day at his PC.
And this really is to say to him 'Thankyou' for carrying the dream.

Thankyou.

Today Lester has computed all the day. I did my part to keep us afloat: Underling Gardener work, Chief cook work, Head Launderess work, Animal welfare expert work, etc. We are two people pedalling the same bicycle to make the dream come true. When one of us tires the other keeps pedalling. Sometime both of us tire, then we fall off and lay spraddle-legged for a little while. Then up we get, back on the bicycle and off we go again.

Sometimes I think the Universe makes it harder for some of us. Sara of the Camels down the road needs money to finance an animal sanctuary, meanwhile her husband has to commute between here and the UK. We want to set up a self sufficiency training camp, and a get-off-your-bike-for-a-while rest and recovery centre, which we will do if the Universe sends us the finances.

So for all you erst-while dream-makers, keep pedalling and don't ever put your bike away, because there are a lot of rusting bicycles out there which are disregarded, regretted, and forlorn. Few people manage to keep pedalling. Let you be one of them.

Lester worked all day on his PC. He is pedalling. I did the running around work. I am pedalling. Together we pedal along.

And as I walked across the courtyard this morning, I looked up at the ragged and torn tarps hanging off the tall barn roof, and for which we have no money for repair, and a voice quite distinctly said, "Soon". So the Universe spoke to me, and said the roof would be going on.

It looks like the Universe is the also pedalling our bike.

Curry: Oops! Gate Post: Oops!

A bit of an 'oops' day today! Let me tell you about the curry first.

A good morning was had out in the front 'garden', bit of chatting with Sara of the camels, bit of digging (have forgone the spade and fork because they are hurting my knees, but now have become super efficient at another implement which I can throw over my shoulders similar to the action of a pick axe. Very good for the waistline and better for the back), a bit of grass clipping, a bit of stick-throw play with Boolie. All in all a good morning.

Lunch: curry today, it being the end of my shopping week. Started off OK. In went onions, end of bag carrots and potatoes, half a soft green pepper just on the turn, some old garlic bulbs which were sprouting, a few green lentils for bulk (makes it have a meaty texture), some grated ginger for a change, coconut milk, a little tin of tomato paste, chick peas,looking good. Now in 'lets throw all in' mode, in gungho fashion I grab a pot of 'curry' powder from my spices shelf.

And you know when you have a strong instinct that perhaps it is best to stop and have a pause before something dire happens? Well I had a moment like that just after unscrewing the lid off the jar and with great gusto emptying the whole lot into the curry now simmering away. I KNEW that something disastrous had occured. Yep. Mixed spice was what I had thrown in. Oh yuk! Merdre!

What to do! Didn't have the ingredients to start over. Nothing left in the cupboard really: best to try and repair the damage. So in went the curry powder, this time from the correct pot. A little sip. Yuk! Lemon Juice, a good squirt of (hopefully the couple of pips that fell into the curry will cook down and not end up breaking one of our teeth!). More water - 'lets water down the whole effect being my thinking'by now. Ah good idea - a stock cube perhaps. And inside my head a thought is saying 'no, no, don't do it'. But still I keep on going. Some salt. Some brown sugar. Another potato (don't know why I thought that would help!).

And as I was valiantly trying to save the curry, the curious thing is that I grew into an awareness that I was either making my best curry ever, or my worst!I thought about my writing, which is a bit like making that curry. Equipped with only an intent to write a book about a certain topic, like my original intent was to make a curry, how the book turns out once the ingredients have been mixed and mingled is the same as that pot of curry bubbling away on the stove.

If it is my worst curry, then fair enough, the others I make can only be better. But if it is my best - well, then it can never be repeated and all the rest will be less than this one. And I think this is the same as my writing. All the while I remain disastified and try to write better, then I can only become better. But if I regard my writing as the best I am ever likely to do, then I have peaked.

On reflection, I therefore hope the curry is edable. If not, then it will have to be cheese on toast. I also hope I never write my 'best ever book', because it would then become my last, because the subsequent ones would be second best. I hope I am able to maintain a 'let's try and do better' attitude for each book I write in the future, which means I have yards and yards of years ahead writing piles and piles of books!

And now to Gate Post: Ooops!
So I was on my way to the compost heap and "hello" I thinks to myself, "what's happened here?". For where there should have been a gate entrance there was now a pile of stone blocks obstructing my way. Being intent on the curry-project, it took a while to notice that where once there had been an old, tall, and quite imposing, gate post, now there was none. At all.

It was now undone. Dead. Mort. And lying in pieces down on the ground.

What had happened to have done this dastardly deed! What forces of nature had thrust the stones of this post apart!

But my head was full of the fumes of the curry, so I sort of 'saw' but 'didn't see' the rearrangement of the gatepost, and carried on with the day.

It transpired that one of the roofers had stood on it and knocked it over. And what a yarn-spin that was! It would have taken an elephant to have sat on that post to have got it to tip sideways. So I guess that we shall never really know how it got knocked down. Just another bit of Labartere's history dwindled away, like the sink which got cracked and my tea tray which got smashed. (my tea tray was a bit on the elderly side, the same as the sink and the post).

So, all in all, an 'Oops' day!

But we ate the curry, and the only comment which The Man made was 'interesting flavours in this one!'

The gatepost up!










The gatepost down!

Val's Duck

Back aways, after the great wind of late January, angels descended from the Vienne going by the name of Val and Ron. In tow behind them was the replacement caravan for the now-dead gazebo which had done us proud all through the winter, and in the back of their car: fodder. Val is an excellent cook, and came with provisions. PLUS, meat from her smallholding: leg of lamb, lamb chops, and pieces of stewing lamb. Plus some local pork. AND a duck. All frozen. We have no freezer. Down the road to Sara of the Camels the meat went, there to reside for a while.

And it came to the time of distribution. Along to Sara I went. On my bike. There to retrieve but only a portion of the meat, the donated pieces being bigger than I thought. A bike is not the easiest of vehicles to manage when the handle bars are festooned with plastic bags carrying chunks of frozen meat. Tends to make the bike feel unsafe as the wobble factor increases.

Met, at Sara's, a white camel who a Dutch girl had had shipped down from Russia or somewhere similar, so she could learn to ride it and then travel back to Holland via one of the pilgrim routes of which there are quite a few. However, the camel was too young, so she had bought a donkey from the Ju Beloc donkey farm which Lester and Bruno have raided for donkey manure, said manure being a subject I raise quite frequently in these blogs. Anyway, here she is, on a practice walk up by our bridge. At the time this was taken, the donkey was having a bad moment: he doesn't like dogs, and he doesn't like cars, and he doesn't like bridges. Put the three together, and on strike he goes. He is actually heading in the opposite direction to the one she wants him to go in and she is trying to pursuade him to turn around. It had already taken her ages. He is a stubborn fellow. She leaves today. I think 'all best wishes' are urgently needed for her.

So, duck and pork retrieved. Pork went into pot. Duck was donated to Claudine and Daniel over at the Chambre d'Hote to say 'thankyou' for all the help they have given us, and for the splendidly huge repast they invited us to on New Year's Eve. And it wouldn't have gone into the caravan oven anyway. It was well received.

An email arrived shortly afterwards. To dinner we were invited. Our hearts sank. They only speak French. It can be a long evening when one doesn't. We wrote back with a 'yes', there being no way we could do a tactical withdrawal.

Wednesday night: over the road we went. Starter: cochon noir pieces. Next: Cheese souffle. Followed by: Duck, quartered. With flagelout beans. Then: Hard goat's cheese, soft goat's cheese (from local goat farm - we are going to recce that out when we get the chance). Next: Cake made from Daniel's Mum's recipe. Then: prunes in almangnac. All interspersed with quantites of red wine, and white wine which is like nectar and nothing have I ever tasted which is as delicious as that wine.

So the duck was laid to rest. I was proud of the fact that it was my English friend who had provided it, - the French have a tendancy to make jokes about the English infront of us. Since we can't understand their language they think we don't know that they do. But they can never disguise the word 'Anglaise' sufficient for us to remain oblivious to their in-house jokes. Curiously, we don't mind. It is their country, after all, and the English do not always show themselves very well here. We feel as if we are good ambassadors for the England because at least we are trying to integrate with the French community, and Val's duck, that very kind donation, pushed us forward with this. Not one word of English was spoken, although there was another guest sharing the meal, who did. But he gave no quarter to us, which is another thing we are finding: that the French will not speak English until we have made the effort to speak French first. And I think this is quite right and I have much respect that they do this. As I say, this is their country after all.

We survived the evening. And felt all the stronger for doing so. We managed to hold our own with French conversation, Claudine has invited me along to the local swimming pool on Monday afternoons if I can find my swimming costume, and the Duck was great.

So thanks to Val and Ron, thanks to Claudine and Daniel, and thanks to the Universe for giving us an opportunity to partake of an evening of excellent French hospitality.

Now onto the leg of lamb.......

UPDATE ON THE DONKEY-GIRL: She is on her way, having just this minute passed by. A minor problem is that it has taken her nearly two hours to get to us from Sara's, which would normally take ten minutes walking time if without a donkey who is not enthused about embarking on this adventure.

And I think of the other people I know of, who are also embarking on 'mad-cap' ideas, who are having a go a doing something different, including us. And I think how safe the majority prefer to stay, and how few 'have a go'.

It is better to have tried and failed, than never to have tried at all. As Dianne, a fellow English woman, said yesterday: "I don't want to be one of those people who say 'Oh I wish I had done this, or I wish I had done that, but now it's too late.' " I agree with her totally. So good luck to the madness of the Donkey-Girl, however far she manages to get towards her goal of Holland. Even if she decides to pack it in at four o'clock today, at least she gave it a try. But then, she might surprise herself, and get further than what she thought, and she might learn a lot about herself along the way.

There's a roofer in our courtyard!

Actually, no, there's not! But we keep our spirits up by vizualizing them being here soon. We riseth late this morning. Our commute to the kitchen caravan being at 09.30. Then Lester dons his wellies for the commute to the office / computer room. I don wellies for laundry duties. Mmmm "Oh Lester...." I call, "there seems to be some water out on the fields". And my comment yesterday about possibly floating away down the Adour is a closer reality today as the rainwater of the last two days starts recycling itself by heading off towards the Atlantic, some of it via our fields.

Sara at the House of the Camels, is flooded but in good spirits. House OK. We are OK. God bless wellies and a sense of humour.