Land and deliver

Well, what a wacky week that was and for once I am not talking about the weather even if that can’t seem to make up its mind as to which hemisphere we live in. Monday we were in the Arctic and by Friday, Australia. I’m not going to complain – waking up to sunshine especially when you’ve still got a crooked neck is not only good for the aches but the mood as well. And I’ve got my Mac Book back. Not only has Florian managed to find it a new battery so I can actually work without the screen going black but he’s updated it as well. The only problem is that I can’t figure out how to make the font larger than an ant’s eye view so specs are mandatory. For that and for signing the papers for the sale of this house on the same day you send the payment for your little bit of Rouffiac d’Aude. Oh and the day before that, have a meeting over at L’Horte with the powers that be i.e. big brother, Nicola and Severine plus a chap from the agricultural board to agree on the division of the land. I don’t think I’ve ever spent as much time talking about legal stuff let alone in another language and, as I pointed out to bro, ever owned three properties at the same time. Still, one will hopefully be in someone else’s hands by the New Year – the one that actually has a house on it.

My reasons for wanting to keep a bit of the homestead are admittedly, mostly sentimental – L’Horte has always been a sort of sanctuary. The flood of 2018 and then the tornado a few months ago may have taken what was familiar but not its beauty. Yet, whilst I have no intention to doing anything to my ‘bits’ other than give it back to Nature and maybe build another jetty so we can swim in the river again, the land has already done me a service and saved me a large pile of euros. Wood and I don’t mean the jewellery kind. You see, once upon a time the terrain held several ginormous oak trees along the riverside which unfortunately got hammered by the storm. So I sent in Denis and his son Yoan to grab whatever they could before the authorities came in to clear the waters of the aftermath’s dangerous debris. Put it this way, I have enough firewood to last a few years and saved myself a tidy sum. Naturally, I persuaded my man to haul out some larger pieces of trunk for future design ideas but since my new abode’s only source of heat will be a poêle , I’ll be warm and toasty and in pocket for once.

Speaking of plot purchasing, I went to a funeral mid-week. No, I didn’t if that’s what you’re thinking but apparently such future decisions are commonplace down here. Madame Cous died at the age of 104 and after a life spent within this little village, was to be laid to rest in its cemetery. I’ll be honest, I don’t do these sorts of occasions well as you may recall from the Book but D said we should pay our respects and didn’t actually need to do the church bit. I’ve never walked through Rouffiac’s cemetery gates, the last time I was in a place something vaguely similar was to say goodbye to Tony but our local gave me quite a surprise. We arrived a little early for the enterrement so D took me on a little tour of the place; I recognised a lot of the names carved into stone but what got me was just how well-kept the ‘tombs’ were. Some were centuries old but others resplendent in polished marble and fresh flowers. It was during our sightseeing that I noticed that there some unmarked but definitely recently made; reserved D informed me. A short time later, as the cortege joined us for the somber walk to Madame Cous’ final resting place my arm was taken by another local legend that is Ninette (Miss Marple in French form) who then pointed to her right – ” that one’s mine”. I didn’t really know how to answer that nor what to say when we reached Madame Cous’ destination. Let’s just say, looking inside a burial chamber at a coffin laid next to another dustier one was perhaps, a little Halloween’ish’? I shall leave it there as I have a big birthday coming up and any reference to it being on that particular day is strictly prohibited. I’m still only 59…

“The best investment on earth is earth” (Louis Glickman)

Shape shifting

I think this is the first time I’ve ever written this blog without my beloved MacBook . Don’t worry, the laptop should be back next week; it’s just having a cleanup and getting a new battery so I’m tap tapping away on my equally ancient IPad today. I’d use the desktop Denis lent me but I can’t remember how to start it up – modern technology pushes all my wrong buttons. So, hopefully just this once, it’s me and a tiny screen; one I can finally see properly thanks to my new glasses. Yup, it’s only taken me about 7 years to update my eyeballs which, according to the British government, is the length of time before I become a pensioner. Thanks for the letter powers-that-be, it’s so nice to be reminded of that fact. I have to admit that I had gotten used to looking at a world slightly blurry so it’s taking my beleaguered brain a bit of time to adjust to life in focus, not helped by the rest of me fighting an infection at present. Inevitable really, we are in autumn after all.

Ah, Autumn. The nights are drawing in and the pjs have come out. The Virginia creeper is starting to lose its summer greenness and go all out vibrant red for the new season whilst the rest of the garden is doing the opposite. Gone is the sight of tired tumbleweeds in favour of lush grass and no hose in sight. Tomorrow’s plan of the day has us dragging the winter bâche out of its lair so the pool can go into hibernation – far too cold to swim in and keeping the depths clean is a daily slog I could do without. It’s funny to think that that job will fall to someone else next year although I’m taking the robot vacuum with me for my much smaller swimming hole near my new soon to be built building. Fingers crossed we will be breaking ground before frostbite.

In the meantime, I’ve been busy in my atelier putting what remains of the summer stock in storage and redesigning the space for the upcoming festive season. There’s nothing like a downward shift on the thermometer to make one think of Christmas (I know, scary) and in my case, selling it. The room is nowhere near ready mainly because I keep getting distracted by other necessary chores. Like getting a solar tank through a small gap in the ceiling. The house’s incoming owners insisted it be removed from the attic above the apartment – how the previous (before us) purchasers managed to install it up there in the first place is a scientific mystery. But, thanks to a little bit of wiggling and weightlifting by a few fellas, namely my nephews Louis and Max and a Frenchman I’m quite fond of, the dalek made its descent and is now in the carport along with my freebie furnishings for the future pad. You see, what they don’t know is that the thing has never been used and therefore, very useful. I haven’t seen a manual anywhere mind you and it does seem to have a lot of buttons but at least I can see what they say …

“ I’m getting to an age when I can only enjoy the last sport left. It is called hunting for your spectacles” (Edward Grey)

Criminal damage and co-conspirators

If the police had come knocking this morning, I’d have opened the door and put my hands up – yup, Sarge it was me. Reports of abuse should never been taken lightly even when the accuser is your own body and I’ve really made mine suffer over the last three nights. It’s not that I’m a stranger to excess but what my internals could stand once upon a time no longer apply when you are a certain nearly 60 year old blonde – I just can’t party like it’s 1999 anymore. One look in the dreaded bathroom mirror at an irrationally early hour for a Sunday was enough to make me swear off anything except salad and seriously large quantities of water if I want to be in any sort of fit state for a birthday boogie.

I would however point out to the court that there were aiders and abettors in this criminal escapade – namely Xavier, Lisa and of course, Denis. Xavier started it, Lisa encouraged it and D didn’t do anything to stop it. You see the whole caboodle began earlier in the week with a visit from the first co-conspirator to discuss catering for the big event. Then, as is the norm in such situations, me and the other two would-be assassins were invited to taste what could be on the menu over at Xavier’s emporium. A place that just happened to be hosting a guinguette on Thursday night – basically an outdoor knees up with lashings of grub and the grape. So we went and after a few minutes of catching up with old friends, a heaving dish of heartiness was set in front of me which naturally, I politely ate. The whole lot. Delicious. Half an hour later, my empty plate was removed only to be replaced by another. Then another plus a bottle of very nice and far too easy to swallow white wine. By the time we left, I could have been mistaken for a hippo who’d had one too many at the local watering hole.

Now, I love food but you’d think I’d be planning soup for supper the next day but no. Seeing how it was a Friday and with a yen to be social, I invited a few friends over for dinner. Lisa and Denis included. Last minute decisions mean having to make a meal out of whatever is left in the freezer and come up with a chicken and leek pot pie – a very large and very tasty one. I must have still been under the influence of the night before because otherwise I would not have accepted Lisa’s request about opening that bottle of Baileys. There is a reason why such lethal liquids are kept in the back of dark cupboards with seal intact. I got to bed at 2 a.m.

As I said, I love food but having inhaled the equivalent amount of calories needed to last me through next year, I turned down D’s offer of my usual go to pizza last night in favour of me cooking the two of us a light repas instead. Which I did and whilst my stomach was thankful for the favour, the rest of the body wasn’t. Reliving one’s youth through decades of music was probably not the best way of loosening neck knots, nor was leaping about the lounge until well after midnight. Especially when I had to get up at that irrationally early hour this morning and join a disgustingly bright and bouncy Lisa so I could give my opinion on a house she might be renting.

So you there have it Your Honour and learned jury. The accused did not act alone and as you can read from my testimony, she is a very easily influenced idiot but I shall take my punishment, guilty as I am and serve out my sentence of salad, soda and sleep. And keep well clear of my less than angelic accomplices…

“I complain that the years fly past, but then I look in a mirror and see that very few of them actually got past.” (Robert Brault)

Seasonal shifts and niggly necks

Autumn has finally arrived. Sort of. I woke up this morning to the sound of melodious rain drops – the gentle kind. That and a flooded driveway because someone had removed the stick I’d shoved down the side of the drain cover – mercifully it being Sunday, early and wet, there wasn’t any one around to have a goggle at a half-dressed English woman trying unsuccessfully to find the submerged lid before her first coffee. Nevertheless and filled with post-shower caffeine, I am a happy lass even if I’ve had to dig out a polo neck what with the temperature dropping at the same time as the pluie arrival. And I’ve left the lake outside for Denis to deal with.

I know it won’t be long until I’ll start complaining about the lack of warm rays on my back but I do love Autumn. Of course, there is that little matter of a rather big event at the end of the month but with the beginning of last week and the spectacular sight of the Harvest Moon, there is a distinct sense of change in the air. And it’s just as well as I’ve done something to my neck – hence the polo necks. Jacqui, my neighbour and former massage therapist, managed to find several areas nowhere near the actual place of ping that needed de-knotting but, alas for me, the cause of the crick is the work angle. Bending my noggin over pots and pendants is a no-no for the next week or so to give my tender tête tendons a break and give me enough down time to be ready for the Xmas (there I’ve said it again) markets. Meanwhile, my darling D has built me a computer table that is stand up height so I can hopefully get the website finished – said computer also has a new password since the afore-mentioned threw a certain piece of paper away and the lovely Lisa has lent me her shiatsu machine to ease the aches and pains at the end of the day. So plenty to do whilst the cou calms down and a great excuse not to get involved with organising certain birthday bashes. That I have left to Denis and Lisa, mostly the latter else I chuck D out of the nearest porthole.

Yet, with the season turning and white wine changed for the warmer red, the universe that is Sophi has already started to shift. The architect has finished the plans for my future domain and tomorrow hopefully, I can sign everything off for the powers that be who hold my construction permit in their palms. Actually, it’s the Mayor and he’s already said yes and I’ve sent him an invitation to the grand event. But my little plot isn’t the only pile I am about to take ownership of. L’Horte. Over the past couple of weeks and post-tornado trauma, discussions about our former homestead have been the subject of the sibling Whatsapp. This house sale as well but as big brother Simon wanted to sell his share, sis Bong living on another continent, little bro Moth on the fence and Severine and Nicola wanting to buy, we have come to an agreement. One that makes me beyond happy and our tenants ditto. I am keeping all the riverside land and they will have the middle bit; that is to say, I will be the only one of the family retaining a bit of the past. Why? Because the river was always my sanctuary and I want the land to remain the nature reserve it has become. Oh, and just in case the authorities are reading this, that little bit next to the main road too just in case you go in on your plan to widen the road; Severine said “over my dead body” by the way and they are holding onto the bigger bit. Yup, there is a definite change in the air and despite my need to walk around like a debutante with a first edition of Harry Potter on her head, I’m looking forward to what October brings. Apart from the end bit and another decade…

“Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall” (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

Ice diving and sore knees

I went in the pool yesterday. It may sound a little odd to start my blog with that statement but peeps, it’s the end of September, Strictly Come Dancing is back on the telly and I’m still in shorts. Admittedly, it was more like a plunge into an ice bath with a face lift thrown in but the fact that the weather still gives you the desire to dive into those depths when most of us in the Northern Hemisphere should be thinking about pumpkin soup is, well, a bit disconcerting. Looking out over the garden this morning, I saw dark clouds – just not above us. Monsieur le Météo unreliably tells me there is wet stuff on the way and cooler days ahead – not low enough for me to have to drag the winter wardrobe out from under the bed just yet however. Let’s be grateful for small mercies.

On the plus side and considering I spent half of it not being able to go anywhere, being able to potter around outside last week under blue skies and sunshine was no bad thing. We had a surveyor surveying for three days. No, I didn’t think our property was so big that it required such a lengthy visit either but since we aren’t the ones paying for his time, I won’t grumble. Mr Morris was very nice though and didn’t mind the woofers following him everywhere or my chattering – the latter probably accounting for the time spent here. To be honest, I didn’t have an awful lot else to do. Anything Witch Wackle is sort of on hiatus at the moment since I haven’t had a chance to go over to St Hilaire to get my wares out of the shop so I can start organising for the Christmas market (there, I’ve said the dreaded word) and I can’t do anything in regards to the website until I find a suitable perch for the computer Denis’ has let me borrow as this one is still waiting for a new battery. Yes, my man has a computer – hard to believe I know since he has yet to master his new phone as he’s even more technically challenged than I am but it was a gift from his son-in-law. Never having actually used the contraption, he arrived with the bulky machine underarm with it missing most of the necessities, like a keyboard and a mouse. Lucky for me, living in this little village means everyone has something you might need and better still, someone who knows how to attach all the bits together. For now, the completed set is parked up in my guest room until I can find a more suitable surface and a spare plug socket.

I’m sure that I’d already be tap tapping away on that keyboard if my man-child were here but instead I had to wait for a suitable hour last Monday to wish him happy birthday over in Oz land. He doesn’t seem old enough to be 28 but then again, he did say I looked old enough to be almost 60. Callum hadn’t had the best of celebrations after a game of frisbee left him with what has turned out to be a torn ACL in his left knee. Poor lad will have to have surgery and be on crutches for a while, shame he isn’t here to take an ice bath really. Still, I’m told that ducking oneself under freezing waters is good for body and soul – something to consider as September slides away and October is upon us. And another birthday…

“I notice that Autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature’ (Friedrich Nietzsche)

Implausible perceptiveness

Despite the tongue in cheek rumours currently circuiting the village, the black eye I awoke with on Saturday morning was not the result of Welsh girl Lisa and my Rocky Horror dance routines the night before. Admittedly, maybe one too many home-made pina coladas might have been imbibed but it was an overly enthusiastic bedtime kiss that led to the facial disfigurement. Our eyes met, we lent towards each other and then Arry reared his head up and whacked his boney skull on my cheek. Now, for those that know my idiotic specimen of a German Shepherd, and many of you do, such acts of violence are not unusual but, judging by the jocular hypotheses in the épicerie the following day, there are still skeptics among us.

Mind you, when it comes to disbelieving what is perfectly plausible, you can’t beat the water company. The whole ridiculous debacle began when we (the family) received an extortionately high bill for our eau consumption. And I mean high. According to Suez, we’d used enough water in a 6 month period to fill our pool 7 times over which unnaturally led to the conclusion that we had a major leak somewhere on the property. I mean, I’m no expert but wouldn’t you think there would be signs of flooding? A beautiful green lawn perhaps and not the current Sahara resembling one? Or a river running down the main street causing havoc for passing pedestrians and their pooches? Or maybe, a very large house sailing south? Wouldn’t you have thought it wise to send an engineer to stop the torrential flow? Needless to say, it took Monsieur le Max chauffagiste extraordinaire less than a minute to find that the new computerised thingy that Suez had, unbeknown to us, decided to attach to the old counter was up the swanny or gone down the drain depending on which pun suits. The finally sent boffin didn’t need to do much than open the hatch to come to that conclusion. Relief all round, at least this end of the phone line, especially for me – the bloody pool and I have been on excellent terms throughout the summer, mainly due to my pernickety eye-balling of its vast interior. An interior that isn’t particularly welcoming at the moment due to the nights turning much cooler even if the daylight hours are still serving up summer degrees. As inviting as the crystal clear depths look, one dipped toe can lead to hypothermia let me tell you.

Alas indeed, the shadows are beginning to creep across the landscape that little bit earlier and the sun rises just that little bit later. That being said, the only other signs of what should be the start of Autumn are the re-appearances of the duvet and a sweater or two -the feet are still stuck to flip-flops and bikini top on show by midday. As I spy with my one not aching eye across the landscape beyond, there’s barely a glimpse of a change in season – other than the lack of tractors over the vines now that the vendange is over and the sight of hunters attempting to camouflage themselves (looking like you’ve just stepped off a Rambo set isn’t going to bring the wildlife out of hiding). I’m not complaining, it just makes me a little off-balance but that could me down to a lack of perception thanks to a misplaced mutt brain and the world always looks like summertime when you’re wearing sunglasses…

“The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.” ( Henri Bergson)

Spooky news and strange shoes

Well, that was a week full of surprises. As diary entries go, I hadn’t planned on having a conversation with my siblings on Friday afternoon to decide on the future of our fine maison. To get to the point, we’ve had an offer which has resulted in four yeses. Needless to say, it will be a while before any money is exchanged (we are in France for those not familiar with buying and selling property here) but finally, a bit of positive news. That and the Mayor telling me that he has signed off on my land meaning in a week or so, I can finally hand over the unfortunately necessary moolah for the purchase of my very own piece of Rouffiac. Fingers crossed, in the not too distant future, this place will have another English family in situ and I’ll be up to my knees in plaster and paint up the road.

I know I’m not a particularly spiritual person in the religious sense but I can’t help thinking that our good fortune might have something to do with Thursday’s chakra cleansing session with Michel. With my usual Monday therapy appointment cancelled due to wildfires closing the road near Axat and what with this girl a little stuck in her head, I was lucky enough to find a spare slot in Michel’s busy schedule so off I popped to be purged. That done and me re-energised, Michel asked if he could do a house detox for me, no charge as he sensed all was not well with our residence. Okay, it sounds a bit cuckoo but honestly, I’ve always felt uncomfortable in the main building – I’m the only one in the family that has never slept in it,; there’s something off in there. Not of the ghostly variety, just heavy and sad which was the same sense that Michel got. So he did, the purifying I mean and the next day, well there you go. My conclusion ended up being the subject of much debate and gaffawing over at D’s abode last night as we feasted over my first ever encounter with the French classic, cuisses de grenouille. All I can say is meh. Frogs’ legs taste and look like boney chicken that’s been freeze-dried for a year. Sorry my beloved France but the local amphibians can keep their skinny appendages.

So there you go and here we are, already in the second week of September but, although the summer soirée-fests might be over, the weather hasn’t got the memo. That being said, the temperature dial has now decided to plummet several degrees when the scorching sun goes down – I mean, I’ve even had to exchange my flip-flops for covered footwear should I wish to venture out after dark. On the plus side, the cooler nights maketh for a pool that’s actually refreshing to swim in with the daytime hours still touching the 30 celsius mark but it’s a bit depressing to have to rummage around in a drawer for a pair of socks. I am dreading the day when when I’ll have to drag that suitcase from under the bed and bring out the sweaters but let’s look on the bright side – winter wellies are much more useful on a building site…

“It was September, and there was a crackly feeling to the air.” (Carolyn Parkhurst)

Tired, wired but still inspired

Considering the events of the one before, this week has been quite the opposite. Seven days without any major dramas would have had any sane person putting their feet up and snoozing under a pool umbrella but naturally we are talking about me and probably the reason why I’m in therapy. The very idea of relaxing seems to skip my synapses even if the rest of this body just wants to sleep for a month – here I am bone-deep tired and my brain still wants to bounce around like a teenager on acid. Waking up to it being the start of September and therefore, the end of what the Northern Hemisphere would call summer doesn’t help either. Mind you, you wouldn’t know it when you put a pinkie toe out the door and it burns to a crisp before your very eyes such is the current weather situation.

I’m not going to complain; the very idea of donning any clothing that covers more than the essentials makes me come out in a cold sweat – I prefer the pool for cooling down thank you. Amusingly, I have finally finished my first ever attempt at making a summer vest (the irony) – only taken three sewing lessons to create such a simple item out of an old sheet but my teacher, Delphine, was bursting with pride. Thankfully, we have now moved onto making bags and they don’t require following a pattern so might get done before the Christmas market. Alas, they won’t see the inside of the shop in St Hilaire as without Severine and Nicola’s veggie stall in there, we can’t afford to pay the rent on my bijoux alone. Speaking of L’Horte’s guardians, I popped over mid-week to reserve several wood piles now that the remains of the tornado’d trees have been felled. There’s not much in the way of firewood but I’d like to use some of Pop’s plantings to decorate my new place.

And if there is one thing that helps calm the cranium, it’s thinking about that little project. In a week with not a lot going on, I’ve had a meeting with my bank manager (an extraordinarily nice young man which in my experience one does not associate with such institutions) to keep my funds safe and another with my equally affable architect (a genial older gentleman who speaks very slowly just in case I miss something – obviously knows how my brain works) so I could approve the building plans thus far. Mmhmm, a little twinge of excitement, I cannot deny. Admittedly, we still have to draw in minor additions like the roof before submitting the finished design to the permit peeps and wait for, shudder, autumn temperatures to dig the foundations but the prospect of building my own home is keeping me out of the sanatorium. The summer may be over but up the road and to the right, there’s a perfect view of the sunrise…

“The end-of-summer winds make people restless.” (Sebastian Faulks)

sewing success (trust me looks better from the back)

Legacies lost and a sad goodbye

It’s difficult to sum up the events of the past week but put it this way, you couldn’t make it up.

It all started (for me at least) with a phone call as I was weaving my way back home from an appointment with my therapist in Axat on Monday afternoon. I say weaving because the road does just that as it ducks and dives through cut into rock faces at the base of the Pyrénées. I digress. The phone call. Our Welsh blonde Lisa on the line for a quick chat and to see if I had any wine as the weather report was forecasting a storm and she didn’t want to go out. Since we hadn’t had a text alert, a common occurrence when things might get messy in these parts, I told her to come over in an hour. By the time I reached the last bit of the D118 route to Rouffiac, the wind was blowing a hooley, the road was strewn with bits of tree and the sky an eerie slate grey, then neighbour Jacqui was on the blower (no pun intended),

“Sophi, there’s a tornado on its way – did you see my message?!!”

“No” I replied, “but that tornado has just passed by my right hand side window view”. Because it had but it didn’t look very big

“What do I do?” she shouted, “call someone – is there a hotline?”

“Umm, close your shutters might be a good idea. I’ll be back in seconds”. And I hit the accelerator.

As I careered like a rally driver into our driveway, D rang to say he was on his way over. I legged it from my car before charging upstairs to close the top windows in the main house and retrieving a soaking Coco from the garden (goes down, can’t get back up stupid). The noise was deafening, like a jet plane about to land on top of us as the rain practically made dents in the soil below. Mercifully, the rest of the woofers seemed oblivious to Nature’s angry rant and were far more excited to see D wrestling with the pool umbrellas before tying them down before coming up to the apartment to check on me. Priorities.

The whole episode probably lasted 15 minutes. By the time our Lisa had turned up and I’d opened the necessary wine, the sky was once more blue and the wind merely a light breeze – as if nothing had happened. But it had. D got the next phone call. Pomas, a village a couple of kilometres from us had been torn apart. 300 houses reduced to rubble, families left homeless and the medieval chateau in its centre in ruins. That little tornado, which by the way was en route to hit Rouffiac but for whatever reason turned right instead, became a very large weapon of destruction. And Pomas wasn’t the only victim. The following morning I sent a text to Nicola and Severine (those who look after L’Horte with their market garden) just to ask if all was okay. I wasn’t expecting to hear Severine’s sobbing response – the old family homestead had been its next target. Everything razed to nothing. I shot over as quick as I could which wasn’t very quick as the normal route over the bridge into Pomas was closed and the cars parked up along the road slowing down the traffic due to rubberneckers. It was like something out of a disaster movie. As I took the back road into St Hilaire, all looked like its always looked but as I approached the entrance to L’Horte, well nothing could have prepared me for the post-apocalyptic viewing of the land Pop and Mumo had loved so much. The once towering firs and swaying cedars literally sliced down their middles and carved into firewood. The landscape devoid of life except that it wasn’t as hundreds of volunteers were busy with chainsaws and trucks helping Severine and Nicola clear the carnage. Weirdly or perhaps instinct, almost all the farm stock had stayed put with only a few chickens unaccounted for. And even odder still, the tornado missed the river portion of the terrain completely, including the spot where our parents and the shepherds were laid to rest. I reckon Pop had something to do with that. But L’Horte will rise again. She survived all those floods and came back fighting and she’ll do it again, I’ve assured Severine. After all, I joked at her – you’ve got a lot more space to plant the veggies now.

Sadly L’Horte wasn’t the only loss for me last Monday as I got the news that Danny Boy had passed away – bloody pancreas again. For those who haven’t known me as long or read the book (tut), Danny was a dog I’d rescued as a pup some twelve years ago but had to re-home before I moved here due to a fallout between him and Arry. I’d kept in touch with his new mum off and on and I knew my boy had found his best life with her family. He was a funny, sensitive, quick-witted and incredibly smart dog and will always have a place in my heart. Sleep well my Danny Boy xxx

“Storms make trees take deeper roots.” ( Dolly Parton)

storm clouds (photo courtesy of Jacqui neighbour)

a life remembered. Danny Boy 2014 – 2026

Rat runs and summer fun

Apart from a ‘blink and you miss me’ drive through en route to Spain by nephew Louis so he could drop another ancient keyboard at the ‘Pianos ‘R’ Us’ warehouse that some of us call a family home, the annual vet visit so the two Border terriers could have vaccinations jabbed into their derrieres, a nice pocket of euros after a pop into the shop hosting my bijoux, an almost finished top after my third sewing lesson for its production and talks of a shared business venture next year; it’s actually been a peaceful week. Let’s forget Thursday and the donning of a sweater because the temperature dropped to 26 degrees shock horror – didn’t last thankfully and we got a downpour out of it but the nights are definitely getting cooler which is a bit depressing. Flip-flops are still underfoot though.

And with the last weeks of summer slowly heading south, so did little brother Moth (not that I’ve seen many sightings of this elusive creature this season) but not before Denis and I had a chance to pop over to his property in the hills above Cenne-Monasties. Actually, it was more of a necessary trip since my younger sibling had ‘borrowed’ the chainsaw and a visit was the only way we were ever going to get it back but the promise of coffee and a tour of all the estate updates was a bonus. But, as much as Cenne-Monasties is a charming village full of French traditional architecture, it is worth noting that manoeuvring your motor through its somewhat slim streets is an art in itself. As D and I were leaving, we came upon some lost British tourists looking for the way to the lake so I offered my guidance in taking them back down to the main road and the signs to their destination. The driver was a little concerned about the state of the descending road but that might have been the least of their problems. Having made them squeeze their sedan through spaces their sedan wasn’t designed to fit through before waving goodbye, a guilty thought crossed my mind. They might just have been looking for the other lake, the one further up the track from my brother’s abode not the one I’d treacherously guided them down. I wish I could say the same however for accidental relocations when it comes to Ratatouille and Courgette. Denis is less than amused by their reappearance considering he’d taken great pains to evict them and their cozy nest from the garden storeroom below the apartment. Now, I’m not averse to rodents and these country critters are much cuter than their city cousins but even I will admit that rats are probably not a good advertisement when selling a property of such grandeur. That and in D’s words, they’ve been busy being broody. I don’t think the woofers, especially Alice professional mouse markswoman, find their parkour pastime and overt cockiness adorable either – always exasperatingly out of reach of gnashing fangs. I know they have to go but I’ve told D to do so out of my nurturing eyesight – let’s not forget that short-lived love affair with the mice under my sink.

Whilst the animal antics along and over the terrace walls does provide a bit of evening entertainment, a night out St Hilaire is a little more my kind of thing . Whilst being best-known for its Benedictine Abbey and the birth of the fizzy wine that is Blanquette (not champagne – that’s a myth); the commune, up until recently, had the less salubrious reputation of being one great retirement home complex. Not any more with the completion of a large market square, housing shops and including that what has my wares within, and a bustling bar cum bistro complete with an outdoor seating area perfectly placed for a view of the old monastery whilst you dine out with friends and listen to one of them sing. Our Ever Reliable Roy serenading us with songs of yesteryear whilst we sipped chilled Rose and lauded over the local menu. No sweaters and most definitely wearing flip-flops…

“August is the slow, gentle month that stretches out the longest across the span of a year. It yawns and lingers on with the light in its palms.” (Victoria Erickson)