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.

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.

Things that happen in the rain

I get wet, that's what happens. The forecasted storms did not happen overnight, probably because we had taken the precaution of disconnecting the Live Box, which is our Internet connection, after the disaster which befell Robin in Prechac whose Live Box became blown up and therefore broken forever when a thunderbolt crashed into his hedge and exploded like the biggest of firework displays resulting in him having to get another Live Box which doesn't work properly because they never do for ages after they are purchased because this is France and the way of it here. So Live Box disconnected, storm never happened, so not much rain. "Could have done with a bit more rain" I said to Lester as I headed on out for Boolie's pee and poo trip.

Now for some reason I went the long way. Down past Sara's, turn left, then eventually left again through the maize and corn fields to come back on ourselves. At the furthest point out, and not conveniently at Sara's so I could pop in for a coffee and keep dry, the heavens decided to open the tap and down came the rain. For a while a handy oak tree gave me shelter, but then the rain paused, so I stopped pausing and me and Bools walked on. No shelter for a few yards. The pause in the rain was a tease. We were both soaked by the time we reached the next shelter, this time an ash tree which did not have the thick canopy of the oak, so it was a waste of time to linger any longer because the drips coming down through the leaves were bigger than the raindrops falling from the sky.

My shirt was soaked. I couldn't get any wetter. So I scurried on. And then I began to feel the rain upon my skin, and you know what! It was exhilerating. Rivulets of water began running under my shirt, but I was sort of doing a jog-walk so wasn't cold. Down the rain came. And as it did I had the most curious sensation of well-being.

Now why was that? Am I losing my mental marbles? I will leave the answer to that question in your hands!

And so home again. Rain now stopped. Guess what! Builders were here. With a digger and a lorry and other vehicles, and all was go, go, go!

For a couple of hours.

Then the rain came down, this time accompanied by the thunder storm which wasn't a very vigorous storm in comparison to others we have survived, but nevertheless we thought it prudent to switch off the PC's and Live Box just so we wouldn't get fried by lightning strikes and thunderbolts. Just in case. Better to be safe than sorry.

A roar of a lorry. We looked askance at each other. Now who was that, we thought. Outside we went. And parked up on our grass was a huge lorry which was not the same lorry as was parked up on the back field yesterday but which belonged to men shoring up Claudine of the Chambre d'Hote's river bank which the Adour keeps eating away at and which she is endeavouring to put a stop to because she doesn't want her donkeys, sheep, ducks and chickens floating off down the river someday soon. No, this was a different lorry.

Lester does a sort of yelp. "It's the poutres".

Crikey they look huge. Huge enough to sink the lorry they are sitting on if the rain keeps on raining. Huge and heavy enough to push it into the ground to make new ruts to join the zillions of other ruts that Lester / Head Gardener has to deal with each time he takes his lawn mower out for an outing and which I have been trying to fill with offerings of soil left over from my digging up of the front garden. Huge, heavy and montrous enough to bog down the lorry as what happened in January to one lorry which gouged such a huge hole as it was revved up to get out of the mud that it sank up to its axles and had to be pulled out by a tractor.

Things I have learnt today: That walking in the rain is a fun thing to do, very enervating for the soul. That it is not necessary to eat all of the just-picked cherries, that Angel Jim brought round this morning from his fruit trees, in one hit as the repercussions to one's digestive system will be stunning to say the least an hour or so after the gorge. That one more series of ruts doesn't really matter, because they will all get filled in eventually. That I ought to try to remember that when HG changes the gas bottle for the caravan cooker that the temperature will be fiercer and so to pay attention to the clock and not to get too involved with writing the blog, although the singed bits on top of the cake can always be scraped off or covered with icing sugar if one had any that is, well I haven't so a scrape it is.

And may I introduce you to the poutres. Nine of them. And they are the beams which go into the house to hold it all together and will give us the structure for the downstairs ceilings, and the upstairs flooring.

And here is a photo left over from yesterday, which is the half barn floor with its spaghetti loops of hose which are hopefully going to have the electrical cables threaded through them when we can afford to have the electrics done.

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!

Cuckoo's, nuts, camels and seeds.

And so this morning I was doing a potter in the dreadfully overgrown onion bed. In the beginning we were anti-weeding, taking the attitude that one put the things you wanted to grow, and eventually eat, into the ground, watered a bit now and then, and hey presto, a certain amount of time later one would wander out to the veggie plot and harvest the perfectly grown produce.

This is not so!

One has to work like VERY HARD to even get that something to grow, let alone eat it. Watering the seeds, for instance, is a must. This we found out when a row of carrots failed to even send up one sproutling after they were planted at the start of the six weeks of glorious sunshine we had in late winter, and not one drop of water was put upon the little seeds. Quite frankly, I think they were of the opinion that since we obviously weren't going to help them along, then they weren't going to bother either.

And one must WEED, because if one doesn't then one will not find one's produce because it will be buried beneath other green stuff, or if one does, that it will be shrivelled up and distorted because the much stonger weed has taken up all the nutrients from the soil.

It rained last night. Great. Weeding time. Soil soft enough. Out I went. Lovely morning. Birds singing. Ah, a cuckoo! Been around for a while. Not fussed with the bird, because of its selfish disinclination to look after its young. Pop one into another bird's nest, then off to it goes to enjoy the day, freed up from any responsilities associated with rearing babies. "Cuckoo...cu...cough cough", went the cuckoo. And again. And again. It could manage the first "cuckoo" Ok but the second one was cut short midway by a cough. As if it's voice hadn't woken up yet, as if had had a late night out on the town and really wanted to stay asleep only everyone else was up and doing things so 'I guess that I had better show willing but don't really feel up to it today'.

And so I smiled, and felt a warmth towards that little bird for at least making the effort, even if it wasn't really up to it. The warmth has carried on as it continues to fly about the neighbourhood, now in full voice and cuckooing properly even as I write this piece.

Bit of a problem has arisen. Lester over to Bruno's. Sees some baby trees. "Ah good for Labartere" he thinks. Back over to me. "Bruno's got some trees - they're chestnut trees".
"Ah great" I say, let's get them planted. Lovely to have roast chestnuts, and I could puree them and do all sorts with them" I said, in the true manner of a self-sufficiencer.

A wheel barrow appears, full of baby trees, most still attached to their nuts.
"Conkers" I said. "They are conkers".
"How many" says Lester.
"About twenty."
"We'll plant them all over", Lester says now launching into Head Gardener mode. "We need to put them in pots first. You can do that. "
"Hokay. I'll have a look on the Internet just now, see what things I can do with the nuts. I am SO excited about having them. I just love roast chestnuts."


Internet search: Ummm, uno problemo. It transpires that the eventual nut produce from the trees needs to be heavily processed before we can eat them: mincing them, washing them through at least five times. Definitely can't be roasted and eaten entire. Not only that, but the flowers may or may not be poisonous to honey bees. And also to some animals. There were differing opinions on this, but the outcome to this Internet browse, was that we have the wrong nuts! Or rather the wrong trees! We needed Sweet Chestnut trees. We have Horse chestnut trees. Sweet chestnuts are eaten. Conkers can't be, and the flowers are iffy for the bees.

And so another problem: I have already potted up seven of the baby trees. The rest are still in the wheel barrow. Somehow a solution has to be found as to why these trees are not suitable, which will not upset the endeavours of our neighbour Bruno, who dug them up for us. This remains an ongoing difficulty. I will let you know the resolution in good time. Also, what the hell are we going to do with seven trees. At the moment the favourite idea is to say "Oh what a shame, the deer ate them." But it is likely that dear Bruno might go and dig up a few more for us. Mmmmm. So thinking caps on for this one. Or I suppose we could say "thankyou very much, but we can't grow them on the farm" all the while smiling sweetly and with great sorrow. Great! Solution found! And all with your help.

Off to Sara's the other day. One of her camels has a sore foot, and she recently has had a young white camel delivered from Bulgaria. Can't fill you in with any more info on this blog otherwise it will end up yards long, but I am in love. Me and that white camel bonded. She has rickets. The camel, not Sara! Thought I would do a bit of healing for the other camel. She is big. Done little birds and things before. But camels, no. Got in the pen beside her. Crikey but she was HUGE! One kick from those gigantic feet would have had me flying through the air to join the cuckoo. Nevertheless I had a go, did my best. And then off to the white camel. She looked at me and I looked at her, and we had a 'moment'. Anyway, as I say, I will give you more info another time.

And so I have planted loads of seeds, watered them, tended them, and have a halo bright and shining above my head. As Under Gardener, I think I am doing OK. Head Gardener is going OK as well. He has done loads of mowing this weekend, and I have done loads of strimming. Labartere is looking quite pristine, if you ignore the piles of rubble (which now have their own halo's but of grass and wild flowers, or weeds if you like), piles of bricks from the builders and the hugest pile of gravel which we have to scabble through to get out the back gate, and that is for the floor in the half barn.

What I have learnt is: That even cuckoo's can have a 'bad hair' day. To be careful about what one encourages one's neighbours to dig up from their garden - have an Internet search first. That big camels are OK to snuggle up to providing that someone else is keeping them occupied. That one can have a 'bonding' element with other creatures including young white camels. That if one bothers to look after seeds and things in pots then they will bless you with showing willing to grow. And not to swear at piles of stones which make you slip and slide when you walk across them because soon they will taking up residence beneath our first solid floor.

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.