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.

Onions and storms

This 'ere is an onion. Well you would know this of course! Only I wanted to show this one because it is just about ready to be pulled up.

Or is it. Because Head Gardener Lester is dithering about doing so. For months these onions have been growing. Planted last November, they have been watched over, inspected every day, and worried about. Only most of them decided to sprout flower heads which they aren't supposed to do because it reduces their helpfulness towards providing us with food-table fodder.

The flower stem uses up all the onion bulb, or in other words, the onion puts all its effort into putting up a flower head which leaves the bulb small and virtually unusable.

Of course the plant is only doing its best for its future productivity. It is supposed to be carrying itself forward to the next generation and it is not going to be able to do that if it makes a nice fat bulb which is going to be eaten to make our food taste nice. So, the onions choice is: make a flower and provide a future generation, or make a fat, juicy bulb for the food table.

If I was an onion, I know what option I would choose!

And HG, bless him, in our veg plot, reviewing the situation.

Any day now he will march out to the plot and do the deed. But not quite for the moment. It is still nice to review a well filled veg plot. Soon it will become all emptied out as the onions and potatoes are harvested. Then we will have to start all over again with another set of crops, and off we go again. Note my red floor-mop bucket to the left of HG, which is proof that he raids my kitchen for various types of utensils when needs must. Bless.

Wow, but there was a hell of a storm last night up in the sky. The curious thing was that at ground level it was quiet, with hardly a breath of air movement. Yet up in the sky there was hellish things going on.

If I had tried to paint this sky it would have looked unreal.










Things I have learnt today: That nature is a powerful animal. That living the caravan life gives opportunities to stand outside on the blackest of nights and photoshoot the sky. That it is best not to disregard the flashes of lightning in the distance because it gives warning that I shouldn't be partaking of such an activity, but fortunately Hubs took charge and cancelled the photoshoot by hauling me inside and off to bed. That onions have a life of their own and that really we are only borrowing them for our own pleasure. That one must not get mad at onions if they decide they do not want to comply with what we demand of them.

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.