Saturday, 4 April 2015

"A place ...

... for everything and everything in its place."  One of my father's favourite aphorisms.

I've been watching with horrified fascination an American series of programmes on TV - "Tiny House Nation" - where entire families plus large dog move into a space no bigger than an average cricket pavilion and inwardly I weep.  ONE very small bathroom. FOR ALL OF THEM! Bedrooms separated by no more than a sliding cupboard!

And where does all their stuff go?  The old letters and photos.  The "just might be useful one day" bits of technology. The furniture and lighting just waiting for a make-over. The books inherited from parents still to be read. The exotically coloured reference tomes, hardly opened: Life on Earth, Wild Flowers of the World, British and European Birds.  Well of course, these families get rid of it all. But how could they? And in a few months/years time will they bitterly regret it?

We, on the other hand, have a loft which on its own is bigger than the entire cubic space these families are moving into.  We have a garage (ditto). We have a wood store.  We have a what-the-French-call-hanger. We have a one-day-to-be-front-hall (currently dumping ground).  We have a utility room.  Which means that when I want something like a spare dog lead it could be anywhere in one of six places. Well maybe not the wood store; although you'd be amazed what does creep out there.  I think we have a poltergeist with a malicious sense of humour who shifts stuff around when we're not looking.

In theory we have more than sufficient places for everything. But that's the problem.  How to decide and then remember which place is for what?  And, did the "what" get back to its place after the last time it was used?  I blame the poltergeist.

So maybe there's something to this Tiny House Nation thing after all. Although I do think we'd need a tiny house each plus another for the dogs. (I couldn't be coping with that one bathroom nonsense.)

Tiny House Nation

Wednesday, 18 March 2015

The Cat

I was not driving fast.  Nearly in town, the 50 km/h indicator had flashed at me and I was going slowly.  But still there was no time to stop. The cat dived out in front of me and then tried to double back.

I felt the soft bump as I went over its body.  I looked in the mirror expecting to see it lifeless at the roadside and, appalled, I saw it was still running.

In shock, I kept on driving.

In the days that followed, sick to my stomach, I lived and relived those agonising moments and wished desperately that I could undo what I had done.  Not the fact that I had run it down - I knew I could not have avoided the accident.  But that I had driven on, that I had not stopped, not been with it as it died (I was certain death was inevitable). Not stayed to find its owners and explain.  Left someone else to cope with a dying cat.

What if someone had done that to Bertie?  I would have been heart-broken.

What does it say about me? That I can leave a being dying at the side of the road.

So I went back. I wrote words on a card so I could put together the phrases - my shame, my inexcusable behaviour.  I walked the streets around and talked to people, tried to find someone who might know of a missing cat.  And learnt the hard way how unsentimental French people can be about cats.

I expected shock and disgust at my behaviour and met mild amusement at my "English sentimentality" and surprise that I was troubled.  I was told "a cat is not a dog" "they do not have owners" "even in town they are feral".

I learnt enough. I met a man who had seen the body in the gutter.  We talked of his beautiful roses and that his wife had inherited a grand house in Tunisia. He told me not to worry.  I found two small, scruffy blocks of flats with semi-wild cats watching me warily from under rusting cars.  I was told (with disapproval) that people in the flats feed the cats.  I watched a black one streak across the road as a car approached. I think there are no owners to whom I have to explain the inexplicable and apologise.

And so, the people who talked to me that morning gave me a kind of closure. I still believe I was wrong and I hope that if ever it happens again, next time I will stop.

The Cat - that beautiful tabby creature I saw for a fleeting moment - is still with me.  In my mind, the Cat is curled in comfort on my lap, walks with me through the garden and will continue to do so for the rest of my life.

Monday, 24 November 2014

There are times ...

... when the only card to play is that of a batty old English lady who doesn't speak much French.

Lost in the middle of Montauban at lunchtime,  as I turned left at the traffic lights, I realised immediately I was heading towards Auch and I should have gone straight on towards Agen. But not to worry, there on my right was a large lay-by in front of the gendarmerie where I could turn the car round.  As I did so, I heard the sound of shouts and whistles and hooting of horns and found I was facing a row of oncoming cars. Not perhaps the best place to choose to do a U-turn in a one-way street.

This was the moment to play the only card.

I was lectured severely by two young, tough off-duty gendarmes setting off for lunch with their large fierce dogs who obviously thought I should not be driving at all.  Vita, barking loudly in the back, gave me all the encouragement she could, .

French honour and discipline satisfied, we were sent meekly on our way.

Two hours earlier, in the calm of a small white room among farm buildings, at the end of a long grassy track, another elderly lady bent over Vita, her hands working steadily and gently up and down Vita's spine. I'd arrived with my story of Airedale skin problems, slug pellet poisoning, losing weight, an epileptic fit, but my imperfect French was barely heard.  The patient was Vita and it was her body that told its tale.

Fortunately, not all elderly ladies are batty.  Some grow old gracefully and with great wisdom.

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

Our Glorious Indian Summer has Finally Gone

After two months of warmth, with sun and blue skies most days and only one extraordinary night of rain (flooded basements in town and piles of grey hailstones, like grit, in all the gulleys) the weather has finally broken.

For the last two days the valley has resounded to the noise of tractors in all directions - harrowing, sowing winter wheat and getting in the last of the maize as the rain clouds gathered.  The co-operative shed at the corner of the road where we turn left to go down into town was open late last night, lights blazing, as the great golden pile of kernels was shoveled into shelter by a truck like a snow plough.

These weeks have given us heart and a chance to work seriously on the boat; something for a time that seemed quite beyond our capabilities.  In the certainty of dry warm weather we've been sanding down, cleaning out badly cracked and leaking woodwork, filling holes and gaps and applying wood treatment.  The boat is a long way from being water-proofed (as we will no doubt find after last night's rain) but it feels like we are making progress.

In the meantime, the garden (limp, dusty and gasping for water) is breathing a sigh of relief.  There is more rain forecast, so there's a chance we will be able to plant new young trees down in the field before St Catherine's Day (November 25th). The French believe "A la Sainte Catherine, tout bois prend racine" [up to Saint Catherine's Day all wood takes root].

To get more trees planted - that too will be progress.

autumn tints

Sunday, 26 October 2014

Last Sunday in October

The clocks went back an hour last night.

Try explaining that to two dogs as we reach what they consider to be their supper time!

Saturday, 11 October 2014

Rentré ...

... start of a new term.

Autumn, the beginning of a new school year.

And the start of our new 2014/15 programme for the photo club.

Our first competition: shadows.

A topic I enjoyed.

Tuesday, 30 September 2014

Well I Never!

In the more than seven years we have been living here, I have always assumed that the small game birds which foolishly run along the chemin rural in front of our car their legs going nineteen to the dozen (you would have thought flying, or diving into the ditch alongside would be the safer option, but no) were quail. But apparently not.

Our neighbour stood on the veranda late one evening holding an opened package mistakenly delivered to them rather than us.  We talked of the start of the hunt season and his six hounds. He stroked an astonishingly well-behaved Vita while she sat and gazed at him adoringly.  As he departed, Bertie trotted happily alongside him, so much as to say "this man is much more fun, he'd take me hunting".

It was only afterwards that I remembered. This was the neighbour whose wife said our dogs had killed their goat.  Whatever the truth, he at least no longer bears a grudge and a small feeling of relief touched my heart.

And it was afterwards that Tod and I had the conversation about the quail.  I had said "caille" and our neighbour had disagreed, cupping his hands in the shape and size of the birds we know and using another word which we didn't recognise but thought began with a "p". So not quail. But what then?

An online French dictionary and a bird sound website gave me the answer: perdrix - partridge. I had imagined they were much bigger, more like a pheasant.  It's those Christmas images of over-sized partridges perched in pear trees which confuse.

And their sound confirmed it.  That chucking noise they make while standing on top of a clod of ploughed earth, so much as to say to the hunters: "come and get me". They are the most reckless of birds! Quail, I learn, are much more sensible and stay hidden.

The postman brought us two gifts that evening with his misdirected parcel - neighbourly peace of mind and a new insight into our local fauna.

partridge call

Monday, 15 September 2014

Bertie charges down our field ...

... yelling his head off, running alongside the tractor with its harrow kicking up clouds of dust, daring the driver to bring his machine any closer.

I sympathise with Bertie's opinion.

The field, which used to be Serge's is now owned by the pig farm the other side of the valley.  Earlier in the year, I watched nervously as the new owner's tractor cut deep furrows on land alongside our boundary that Serge had left fallow and I had assumed was ours. I indignantly looked again at the plans of the land we'd purchased and had to acknowledge he was right.  His land comes to the point of the ditch at our gatepost. And he's going to take every inch of it.

The wire to our oh-so-necessary electronic fence lies in his field, not ours.

The tractor driver swings the harrow round over our boundary as it comes to the corner by the ditch. He is young, with heavy rimmed glasses - more like a medical student than a tractor driver.  Not anyone I recognise.  The pig farm owner's son maybe?  We raise a hand to each other in greeting as he turns away up the hill.

Once he's finished I discretely move the wire back onto our land.

No doubt in a day or two he will come by again with the dogs' extra-special delight - pig muck - to spread over the field.  From then on a fully functioning electronic fence will be essential, if we are to keep Vita and Bertie out of what they view as a gastronomic paradise.