So we have been playing Jenga with a giant woodpile that was once an American Walnut, Juglans Nigra, 27 years old according to its rings, very tall lumps dropped from it into the lane, it filled the barn's gutters with leaves and rats collected its, to us, inaccessible nuts to hide under our camping equipment in the barn and make nests and eat them. So it had to go.
Michel the Bat Man came last February to fell it and we spent a fine weekend clearing, dragging, sorting and stacking. Now the beautiful pink, salmon and cream wood exposed inside the warty bark has weathered to a silvery slatey blue that would be at home on a Fired Earth paint chart.
I filled the wheelbarrow to take to Paul inside the repaired barn for him to stack. He becomes obsessive, turning logs to find the 'right' one, discarding awkwardly chunky ones and 'can't I bring him more of the long ones at 750 mm?'
I roll my eyes, tell him to follow the stonemason's advice to handle a stone only once; pick it up, find a place for it, don't be so precious about it.
The older pile in the woodshed that we are still using, hence needing to stack newer wood elsewhere, was built, by me, following that principle and has, after all, only suffered 2 small avalanches. But no, I have to go on risking shin and foot and play Jenga with a 5 foot pile.
Admittedly his pile is now a thing of beauty, but I think of the adage about wood warming you 3 times as you cut it, stack it and then burn it.
How about cutting - barrowing - stacking - moving stack again - arguing about it (very warming,) - lugging it indoors in a log basket - burning it...
I make that at least 7.
The other calorie-burner we've been experiencing is the tandem he's just bought.
Oh dear.
Terrifying.
Particularly going downhill when I feel my lack of control most acutely.
Until the saddle got the better of Paul, we did manage half an hour on it the day before yesterday and Christophe the carpenter shot past us in his pickup with a great deal of horn-blaring and waving and swerving.
Terrifying.
We were going to get on it again this afternoon, Sundays being as quiet as the Marie Celeste, but it is raining. So I'm going to light the woodburner instead.
And who is Michel the Bat Man you ask? I'm glad you did, it gives me a cliff-hanger for next time....
Sunday, 6 November 2011
Saturday, 8 October 2011
Le Clos
Hey, it's vendage time again, and the last chance for barbeques, but, do you know what, although I do want to invite pals round for a last go at incinerating Toulouse sossiges and sinking too much local wine, we have discovered a new joy - shutting our gate.
We had new gates (and a new fence and a new drive and a new barn after the 2009 tempête blew it down,) in early 2010, but what with all the to-ing and fro-ing to hospitals etc, we rarely bothered to close the things. But all through the summer we've had unwonted visitors, especially when I am wearing my disgraceful gardening shorts, have just started cooking, while P is either up a ladder or sinking his first pint.
We live just down the lane from a Chambres d'hôtes. To reach it, intrepid Parisian tourists have to brave the neighbour's large greenhouse growing bionic aubergines, no, biological peppers, er, tomatoes bio, ah, got it, - organic veg, then a long chicken run, before finding their pretty but little house. That's if they don't just miss it completely, carry on , run out of road and end up in the woods with their 64 varieties of edible fungus. Neighbour Francis assures me they are there, he's counted, picked and eaten them. I'll take it as given.
So the Parisians tend to drive back down and turn into our place looking somewhat relieved.
And I have to say it is looking much better now Paul has renovated the big barn doors that are the first things you see, with the hollyhocks around them having a second flush. But their faces fall as they spot the shorts, and the wearer directs them back up the lane to the chickens.
The last straw was a woman who actually argued with me (come on, Madam, I would know if I was running a B and B,) then almost demolished one new barn door and was a squeak from hitting my car, as she turned round and drove off.
So since we got back from Corsica in mid-September we have been sporting our oak. For one spell, after Rupert-from-Siddalls came to lunch, we saw no-one for 5 days. It's a nice, safe, closed-in, private, nested feeling. We got loads done; P fixed the 40+ feet of guttering that has been bothering him for ages, I've sadolined some exterior woodwork, gardening has gone on, bread has been made, we had two barbeques just for us and P bought a tandem online.
He clearly feels we're ready for new adventures.
We had new gates (and a new fence and a new drive and a new barn after the 2009 tempête blew it down,) in early 2010, but what with all the to-ing and fro-ing to hospitals etc, we rarely bothered to close the things. But all through the summer we've had unwonted visitors, especially when I am wearing my disgraceful gardening shorts, have just started cooking, while P is either up a ladder or sinking his first pint.
We live just down the lane from a Chambres d'hôtes. To reach it, intrepid Parisian tourists have to brave the neighbour's large greenhouse growing bionic aubergines, no, biological peppers, er, tomatoes bio, ah, got it, - organic veg, then a long chicken run, before finding their pretty but little house. That's if they don't just miss it completely, carry on , run out of road and end up in the woods with their 64 varieties of edible fungus. Neighbour Francis assures me they are there, he's counted, picked and eaten them. I'll take it as given.
So the Parisians tend to drive back down and turn into our place looking somewhat relieved.
And I have to say it is looking much better now Paul has renovated the big barn doors that are the first things you see, with the hollyhocks around them having a second flush. But their faces fall as they spot the shorts, and the wearer directs them back up the lane to the chickens.
The last straw was a woman who actually argued with me (come on, Madam, I would know if I was running a B and B,) then almost demolished one new barn door and was a squeak from hitting my car, as she turned round and drove off.
So since we got back from Corsica in mid-September we have been sporting our oak. For one spell, after Rupert-from-Siddalls came to lunch, we saw no-one for 5 days. It's a nice, safe, closed-in, private, nested feeling. We got loads done; P fixed the 40+ feet of guttering that has been bothering him for ages, I've sadolined some exterior woodwork, gardening has gone on, bread has been made, we had two barbeques just for us and P bought a tandem online.
He clearly feels we're ready for new adventures.
Thursday, 25 August 2011
Fine one I am, as a resolution-keeper. (And I'm back on the cheese and butter too. DoH)
But as most of you know, my Father-in-Law died in May, and preceding months were even more bound up with appointments and hospitals.
Since this is blog not diary, and aims to give a flavour of HOW life is for a British person in France, I shan't go into detail. But what made the whole thing harder was not, as you might expect, language problems, leading to misunderstandings, the fear of errors, but a cultural difference which we have only realised after talking to French people since May.
Doctors in France will tell you only what they think you should? want to? hear. We assumed that as in Britain, that if you ask a question it will be honestly answered. Then one can proceed, have the conversations one needs to have, make the arrangements necessary. I have no idea whether it is a lasting paternalistic attitude, or whether it's a sort of Japanese thing of fearing that causing distress is rude, but we were as good as lied to on several occasions, which of course, caused us far more distress both before and since his death.
Discovering from an Insurance agent and a Bricolage employee (odd who we have conversations with!) that this is the French way has been a relief and release.
Through it all, we have had the most fantastic weather! A beautiful Spring from mid-March, although a worrying drought through June, then, just as all the holidaymakers came in July, blessed downpours! Saved our runner beans but I felt so sorry for campers.
And now, phew, following a storm, the temperature has dropped infinitesimally below 20ºC, our Max/Min thermometer now has a 25º difference from the 47ºC it showed one day (mind you it was in full sun and Paul says that doesn't count,) and the 20ºC it is now. At night it was 35º but for the first time in over a week, sleeping is possible again. No more 2.00 am viewings of The Wire or the Beiderbecke Trilogy, although we are still kept up til midnight, irresistibly transfixed for the second time by Forbrydelsen, even though we know whodunit!
Fortunately it has only been that week that was so unbearably hot and humid, with hornets putting our fig trees out of bounds and the house filling with drosophila. (Which always make us think of Mary F and her strange previous employment; sexing fruit flies. < waves to Mary > ) The little critters are drawn into the dark cool of the shut house by a big dish full of melons and pears from the garden.
The previous wealth of peaches and nectarines and blackberries are filling the freezer, fattened by July rains, but Tuesday's storm will have had the local vignerons quaking; their harvest, the vendage, is so close, earlier than usual because of the months of fine weather. The last thing they and their crop need is rain. Sappy, swollen grapes, split and breeding botrytis overnight, will not make good wine. (Only the local Monbazaillac grape is harvested late, often after the first frosts, shrunken and slightly mouldy.) A neighbour - anyone within a 3km radius is un voisin - Jackie Chater, is crossing her fingers, legs and toes at Domaine Chater, and so are we; we love their wines and admire their efforts which are successfully transforming a Vin du Pays vineyard into a world-class organic medal-winner.
That end-of-summer feel.
Still quiet - school has not started yet so no school bus rumbles past the bottom of the drive at 8.05.
Still August, so many artisans are still at Arcachon or Argeles, their busy buzzy white vans parked in their yards.
The last Soumensac picnic market is on Sunday.
In the garden, an empty swing sways to and fro in the breeze stirring the chestnut tree. Straw beach mats flap from the loungers higgledy-piggledy on the lawn, next to a little tipped-over red chair. The large ring left on the lawn by the paddling pool is greening over, and we are left with the ghosts of visitors' lively presences. Footprints dent rapidly across the lawn, calls ring through the house, giggles wreath through the trees and bring back all the other people who have arrived and departed from here. A red squirrel pounces across the grass, another blue morning flower opens.
But as most of you know, my Father-in-Law died in May, and preceding months were even more bound up with appointments and hospitals.
Since this is blog not diary, and aims to give a flavour of HOW life is for a British person in France, I shan't go into detail. But what made the whole thing harder was not, as you might expect, language problems, leading to misunderstandings, the fear of errors, but a cultural difference which we have only realised after talking to French people since May.
Doctors in France will tell you only what they think you should? want to? hear. We assumed that as in Britain, that if you ask a question it will be honestly answered. Then one can proceed, have the conversations one needs to have, make the arrangements necessary. I have no idea whether it is a lasting paternalistic attitude, or whether it's a sort of Japanese thing of fearing that causing distress is rude, but we were as good as lied to on several occasions, which of course, caused us far more distress both before and since his death.
Discovering from an Insurance agent and a Bricolage employee (odd who we have conversations with!) that this is the French way has been a relief and release.
Through it all, we have had the most fantastic weather! A beautiful Spring from mid-March, although a worrying drought through June, then, just as all the holidaymakers came in July, blessed downpours! Saved our runner beans but I felt so sorry for campers.
And now, phew, following a storm, the temperature has dropped infinitesimally below 20ºC, our Max/Min thermometer now has a 25º difference from the 47ºC it showed one day (mind you it was in full sun and Paul says that doesn't count,) and the 20ºC it is now. At night it was 35º but for the first time in over a week, sleeping is possible again. No more 2.00 am viewings of The Wire or the Beiderbecke Trilogy, although we are still kept up til midnight, irresistibly transfixed for the second time by Forbrydelsen, even though we know whodunit!
Fortunately it has only been that week that was so unbearably hot and humid, with hornets putting our fig trees out of bounds and the house filling with drosophila. (Which always make us think of Mary F and her strange previous employment; sexing fruit flies. < waves to Mary > ) The little critters are drawn into the dark cool of the shut house by a big dish full of melons and pears from the garden.
The previous wealth of peaches and nectarines and blackberries are filling the freezer, fattened by July rains, but Tuesday's storm will have had the local vignerons quaking; their harvest, the vendage, is so close, earlier than usual because of the months of fine weather. The last thing they and their crop need is rain. Sappy, swollen grapes, split and breeding botrytis overnight, will not make good wine. (Only the local Monbazaillac grape is harvested late, often after the first frosts, shrunken and slightly mouldy.) A neighbour - anyone within a 3km radius is un voisin - Jackie Chater, is crossing her fingers, legs and toes at Domaine Chater, and so are we; we love their wines and admire their efforts which are successfully transforming a Vin du Pays vineyard into a world-class organic medal-winner.
That end-of-summer feel.
Still quiet - school has not started yet so no school bus rumbles past the bottom of the drive at 8.05.
Still August, so many artisans are still at Arcachon or Argeles, their busy buzzy white vans parked in their yards.
The last Soumensac picnic market is on Sunday.
In the garden, an empty swing sways to and fro in the breeze stirring the chestnut tree. Straw beach mats flap from the loungers higgledy-piggledy on the lawn, next to a little tipped-over red chair. The large ring left on the lawn by the paddling pool is greening over, and we are left with the ghosts of visitors' lively presences. Footprints dent rapidly across the lawn, calls ring through the house, giggles wreath through the trees and bring back all the other people who have arrived and departed from here. A red squirrel pounces across the grass, another blue morning flower opens.
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