A bit of a bonfire

Most of my kitchen equipment is put away in boxes. Before the hurricane hit us in late January I knew where everything was. Since then I don't. But I have managed.

One of most used pieces of equipment are these cheapo plastic bowls, bought from Wilkinsons for £2.25 each before we left the UK. These I have managed to keep to hand, although often get in the way because of their size.

I have six. Or rather, had six. One was used as a drinking bowl for Boolie, and was left outside during the winter. It didn't like the cold, and died, breaking into several pieces as it did so. So, one down.

The rest have been so very, very useful. They can be dropped and won't break, are big enough to mix bread and cakes in, can be used as a washing-up bowl, can be used to soak one's feet in, can be used as a store from donated under-ripe fruit from Sara, can be used as a mini-compost bin for veg peelings en route to the proper compost heap, or can be 'borrowed' by Hubs for various unrelated kitchen tasks. Oh so many uses, and most times they are being used or waiting to be washed up after being used. They are very busy bowels.

So, in the kitchen this morning. Kettle on for tea, Hubs just getting up. Kitchen caravan a bit overloaded with washing up, it being a difficult environment to stay in for any lenght of time because of the heat. Normally do the tidy up in the morning when it is cooler. Stack washing up to minimalize untidyness. Bread made, one bowl. Cake made, another bowl. Veg peelings from yesterday just been put out onto compost, that makes three bowls to wash up in total. The other one is somewhere else I don't know where, and one is being used as the washing up bowl.

Fleur barks. Boolie chases out to see what she's making a fuss about. Ah, the overnight converted jallopy campervan conversion made out of an old horsebox which arrived at two this morning, and parked out on our front. It's arrival had woken Lester up, who swore and cussed his way into his trousers before going out to have a look at who had arrived in the middle of the night, him being worried in case Toto got loaded up and carried away to somewhere else.

Bools and Fleur messing about in the river.

Now in daylight, I go out to meet and greet them. Fifteen minutes later, after having a chat with the young dreadlocked (or is is it 'deadlocked'- you know when they put extensions into the hair which makes the hair have furry ringlets) female owner of the van, whose partner was still in situ inside the van with their three huskies and one collie, all of who were off to the coast for the summer, I made a return to kitchen-tidy-up duties and making Lester's tea.

Toast. Need to cut the bread. So need to have a bit of a clear surface. Oh I know what I will do: On top of the stove I stack the saucepans, then the bowls on top of them. Big items. Out of the way. Bread cut. Grill on. Toast under grill.

Lester calls. "Can you help me move Toto?"
Toast removed from under the grill. Kettle switches itself off, it having been boiled twice already for tea.

Me and Toto

Out I goes, to receive a nuzzle from Toto. Fleur and Toto belong to Bruno and Maddi who are on holiday up in La Rochelle. Fleur isn't supposed to be staying with us, just Toto, but she decided otherwise when she say Bruno and Maddi drive off without her. She is supposed to be at her own home, staying with the remaining family of one son. It would seem that she also has decided to go on hol as well.

We shift Toto. Then heft his large water bowl to his new grazing place. The flies are already bothering him, so we stay a while and keep brushing them away, before our tummies do a rumble and "Tea and toast" I call out to Lester as I mooch off back to the caravan.

The smoke wasn't too bad. Obviously whatever was making the smoke was not in too dire a way.

Through the haze I can make out quite a perky flame. Mmm, well actually, several perky flames, all emanating from the grill. But not to worry, the toast is out from under the grill so it is probably some bits of food splash from yesterday which are now being grilled.

But I turn the grill off anyway.

The little flames seem to do a bit of a higher surge.

Mmmmmm. Hubs to the rescue. Manfully he thrusts me out of the way, taking charge. Grabbing the pots and stuff he takes them outside. Then he returns. Deadens the flames. Growels at me. Goes outside. "Do you want your cup of tea now?" I call after him. "And your toast?"
"I'll just have bread today, not toast" he flings back at me over his shoulder as he extinguishes the last of the flames. "....And my tea. I would like my tea."

But not to worry though. The saucepans, although blackened, have scrubbed up OK, and while they are never going to be the same again, they are usable. They still have life.

The cupboard, plates, cups, and other bits and bobs, all washed up fine. The ceiling is not too bad, but waits for another day for its wash over.

However:

Three bowls down, two to go!

Things I have learnt: That plastic bowls behave like melting butter when they get hot.
That plastic bowls behaving like melting butter can put up quite a little bonfire.
That plastic bowls behaving like melting butter are likely to be forever unusable mostly because of the wapping big hole they will get in them after the melt.

Not to worry though. Since the kitchen was out of bounds until the smoke cleared, and I thought it best to give Hubs, who was now in the office, time to cool down as well, I gathered Toto, Bools and Fleur and we all had a nice walk down to the Louet and back passing Christiane and Pierre just back from their holidays who gave me a donation of a huge flagon of fifteen percent sweet white wine bought from a wine cave in Spain. Yummy.

And the good news is: that the bowl which was missing turned up, and that one together with the washing up bowl makes two remaining bowls. Raising my glass and saying "Salut" I gently weave my way to my bed.

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.

Acorns, Froggies and Three Pronged Implement

I thought I would show you the front field / garden. Not much really, but at least it is tidier than when we arrived this time last year and there are loads of flowers waiting to spring into bloom when they decide to stop being lazy.



A wet start to the day. No matter. Rain is good. Can dig later on when it has stopped. Into office, then. Me to write, and Head Gardener to do things. Like open his seed box and have a sift through his copious amount of seed packets to see what else we can get planted. Bless.

And then a search on the Internet, and instructions sent over to me about gathering acorns, shelling acorns, preparing acorns, and cooking acorns. "A project for the autumn" he said with a smile.

I kept on writing. Acorns are hard work. They have to be washed a hell of a lot to get the bitterness out of them before you can eat them. Methinks I will conveniently 'forget' that 'let's do' project from HG until we are in the house and sorted out, memories of jam making last year and the megga stickiness that ensued still being fresh in my mind.

Rain has left the soil damp. Not wet. Just damp. But enough to get some digging done. So. Two dig-plots out front. Which one to do. Ah. Do both. Right. So: if I do one hundred whacks with the three pronged implement which is used in a similar way to a pickaxe in that it is a swing-over-the-shoulder action but is not so hefty as the pickaxe which I have trouble lifting off the ground let alone heft over my shoulder. No, this implement I can do a nice arcing swing with which is very good for the bosoms and upper arms. As I was saying, if I do one hundred whacks into the soil on each of the two dig-plots then that will loosen the soil and roots interred therein. Then later on I can go over the soil with the fork and spade. Good plan.

Plot one. One hundred whacks. A bit puffed out, but carry on. Over to plot two. One whack. Two whack. ........fifteen, and ....what was that that just flew through the air! Boolies races to investigate.

Intent on the effort of getting to the next hundred before I could stop for tea and cake, I had only inadvertantly sent heavenwards a froggie-type being. Literally. Up into the sky it sailed as I plunged my implement into the clods of grass. I must have somehow hooked the prongs underneath its little body and flicked it upwards.

All effort stopped. Bool's sniffed expectantly, hoping I would toss it into the air again for him to go chase. Like a ball. Was frogs dead? No, it gave a gasp of air. I picked it up. After a minute it gave a squirm. There was no blood.

So I took in over to the hedge which is not likely to be disturbed for ages, if ever, and gently put it down with a blessing. I don't suppose it was much fussed with being made to take a trip through the air, so I hope its day improves and the worst that can happen is over with at least for today.

Things I have learnt today: That it is fun investigating new avenues of food production and that acorns are worth a try if not in 2009, then perhaps 2020, which is something to look forward to. That perhaps it is wiser to listen to one's back when one is intent on breaking one's record, of one hundred whacks by trying to achieve two hundred whacks, with the three pronged implement. That Hubs and a tube of muscle rub can work miracles. That Sundays are meant to be full of thinking about the week ahead and not full of trying to get loads of things done right at this minute. That I am sorry for trying turn a little froggie into a flying machine.

I've got the itchies...

And it was all the fault of the cornfield.

Today it came into my mind to have a go at taking cuttings from certain shrubs and trees in the neighbourhood which could contribute to Labartere's nudeness as far a greenery goes. She has native trees, plenty of land coverage by way of grass and wildflowers, but she lacks flowering shrubs and trees of which there is an abundance in the surrounding locality. I have never seen so many tall flowering trees in my life and these, I have decided, would contribute to the food-larder for our bees. We haven't got bees yet but we will have, and I want to make sure they have plenty to eat, or rather, plenty of flowers to harvest from.

Heading out early this morning, before anyone was awake because I didn't want to inspire the local people to add to their list of 'daft things those English people on the corner are doing', with secateurs in hand and Bools giving assistance when needed, off we went down the lane: a snip here, a snip there, and soon my plastic bag was full. It was fun. Soon the sun woke up, its job today being to get the place dried out after the rain.

Chancing past a corn field, another thought came into my head: 'to go take some green fig cuttings from a house over there, the one which has been sold but is still empty for the moment, the one which has the fig tree overhanging the field next door.' So Bools and me plunged through an oh-so-glorious-meadow of grass and wild flowers, dry now because the sun had been doing its work. Wriggling through a narrow hedge. Doing a lady-like leap over a tiny ditch.

And now the corn field. Voices were cheerfully chattering away. Coming from another house. There, by the edge of the cornfield. I could see people. Children. Mmmmmmm. I was already several yards into the field. The corn was mid-thigh high. It was wet. It had avoided the sun for the moment. I had a skirt on. It was getting wet too. I bunched it up infront of me. White thighs were exposed. But no knickery-things. My rear end remained suitably covered.

So what to do. Impassioned with the mission of hunting out those fig cuttings, I carried on. Bools thought it great fun, bouncing about through the cornfield like a kangaroo. I meanwhile was trying to make it look as if I was walking along a tractor-path, and not walking gung-ho over the corn itself. I felt self-conscious. What if the people rang the farmer up to say that a woman was walking with her skirts all bunched up, in company with a dog cavorting madly, over his precious corn. Would I get shot? I tried to look even more as if I was out for a Sunday morning stroll in the park. Not easy when the corn was starting to soak my legs, my skirt when it could get to it, my boots were already sodden, oh and now I was getting scratched to pieces as well. Red streaks were appearing on my pristine-white skin.

Nevertheless, I was getting over the field with some dignity. Then the rows of corn went at right angles to me, which meant I had to step over each single row to get to the next, planting my feet sideways as I did. By now I was near the house, and I wanted to make it appear as if I was being Very Careful of the corn plants. I had to lift my legs quite high, in gigantic steps. I must have looked very silly. One would not walk like that in the park on a Sunday. Nor any other day! But I tried to make it look as if I was Really Being Very Careful, when in actual fact I was not. Neither was Bools.

Onto the railway line. Striding quickly in case a train came and mowed us down. Not likely on a Saturday, but one never knows. It is a maize-train, carrying corn up and down the country. It is not a passenger train. That would go too fast and really knock me off my feet. The maize train sort of chugs along a respectable speed but one could get out of the way if one had to.

Ah, et voila! The house. Over a little ditch. Oops, didn't see the water in it, but never mind, feet are wet already. Through the grass. Better to let skirt drop now as near the main road. Still looking super efficient and as if I know what I am doing, being of the opinion that if I look hesitant then someone driving along the road might think I am up to mischief. Which I am not. I am recycling plants, that is what I am doing. Reaching up, I 'borrow' some cherries, thanking the tree for its donation to the cause. Onto the fig tree. Cutting taken. And here is the proof:

PS. I am standing on my shadow so it doesn't escape. Of late it has not been in attendance, possibly because the sun has been elsewhere, but just in case, I am keeping my foot firmly planted on it today!

Off home. Quick search on the Internet to see how one deals with fig cuttings. Everything is a learning curve at the moment, including taking cuttings. All cuttings now in pots. A bit late for them really, but have promised to do my best for them.

Head Gardener enthused about the fig cuttings, ate his share of the cherries, and is saving the pips for yet another growing project.


Things I have learnt today: That scratches on thighs, from 'strolling' through a cornfield, can get itchy if one has to cook lunch in a caravan whose internal temperatures are soaring skyward due to the sun deciding to get it dried out. That eating fruit straight off the tree is a glorious experience - no chemical sprays, only a bit of dust, maybe a bit of bird-peck, sun-warmed, and au naturelle. That I like doing things with cuttings and seeds and am developing a passion, which I didn't know I had, for collecting greenery for Labartere. That I seem to have discovered a gardener in me. That I like fiddling about with bits of plants and making my hands and fingernails all of a muck.

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.