tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30637893357250813712024-03-14T06:41:55.947+01:00Writing Homesuejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.comBlogger533125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-18151181444745345812024-03-04T17:24:00.003+01:002024-03-04T17:24:30.225+01:00A Blissfully Happy Bertie<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjDcKWYn4bV8LUnsmkK4v_Zj8KlTFZ_1AmseWwl4qbEacZXhGj4Kui9_QGGCp9NDftcaQ7lW5NidrwiQQeBcs0AhWopJBvxwnrmTkTK235w4bAXxBsg1q54Thyphenhyphenp31aSFRU86im52x_hDpisalJtLWp14q2-UBsn5ZGqXnDZC6Ztu5WKCBGFn0vtl-1BRVj/s4000/20240302_180141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjDcKWYn4bV8LUnsmkK4v_Zj8KlTFZ_1AmseWwl4qbEacZXhGj4Kui9_QGGCp9NDftcaQ7lW5NidrwiQQeBcs0AhWopJBvxwnrmTkTK235w4bAXxBsg1q54Thyphenhyphenp31aSFRU86im52x_hDpisalJtLWp14q2-UBsn5ZGqXnDZC6Ztu5WKCBGFn0vtl-1BRVj/w480-h640/20240302_180141.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Under normal circumstances he looks something like this ...</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjruCXyx51wW-x_St9qiy8pXiruqMXLAgaJNzI3Yr5itpIp5H7-ex92UrIndifO6jvAO7-eM0UqXVMZq5FJ1-a31GzE5BwgEmqV6tvXSCZ-lC6smsMTl6JAQJ2WoFgfdWhvZFolWp1QX7WLJLfZvmNR61x2Se3XL-EpOYg_hGXpcT1cgkqI2cTZ3OmGopzB" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="640" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjruCXyx51wW-x_St9qiy8pXiruqMXLAgaJNzI3Yr5itpIp5H7-ex92UrIndifO6jvAO7-eM0UqXVMZq5FJ1-a31GzE5BwgEmqV6tvXSCZ-lC6smsMTl6JAQJ2WoFgfdWhvZFolWp1QX7WLJLfZvmNR61x2Se3XL-EpOYg_hGXpcT1cgkqI2cTZ3OmGopzB=w400-h357" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-57752433869559048732024-02-24T19:40:00.003+01:002024-02-25T08:23:28.887+01:00A sharp westerly wind ...<p> ... freezes my cheeks and my fingers protruding from my fingerless gloves as I walk Bertie along the green strip at the edge of Monsieur F's field. The ditch beside us is full of muddy gurgling water that is pouring into the stream at the bottom. My wellington boots slosh through the shallow lake that has reappeared following last night's rain. I let Bertie off his lead. He has his nose firmly pressed into a grass tussock and I leave him there, reassured that he hasn't noticed or smelt the two deer that bounded away across Phillipe's field when they saw us emerge from the house.</p><p>The morning is peaceful - the end of February is the end of the hunt season and this is the last weekend the guns can be out. It's due to rain solidly tomorrow; perhaps the hunters will stay at home. I send up a silent prayer for the deer.</p><p>Despite the cold, the wind brings a promise of spring. Later in the day, high above me, I hear the cranes calling. They are heading east and north for the summer. </p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-14984916660387132022024-02-04T14:14:00.002+01:002024-02-04T14:16:31.537+01:00Cold and dank - the only words for it ...<p>... and I'd planned to get so much done while Tod was in London. And here I am, due to pick him up this evening at Bordeaux airport and wondering which of those many tasks I can fit in this afternoon.</p><p>The garden and pool (which already is suspiciously green) will have to wait until this coming week when it's due to warm up a bit.</p><p>The tulips for the pots and the large fritillaries for the damp patch in the field can also wait. Bought after the New Year, reduced by 30% in my favourite garden centre, they always manage to come up at the right time.</p><p>I will need to give plenty of time for the journey. </p><p>Bertie, who is totally recovered from his op, will be coming with me, which means a couple of comfort breaks on the way. </p><p>The farmers' manifestations have finished, but there are likely to be mounds of old tractor tyres and bales of straw still piled up at roundabouts and junctions onto the motorway, all designed to slow us down. On Tuesday when I took Tod to Toulouse the journey there and back took 7½ hours (as opposed to the normal time of under four). We were forced off the motorway at Agen and then weaved our way in a line of traffic (nose to tail like processionary caterpillars) through small towns and villages, each with their traffic calming measures. By this stage, the last thing we were was calm!</p><p>At least going to the airport we were in our "almost-new" car - a Renault Kadjar, which I'd never heard of until I hired one at Christmas to collect K from up on the Massif Centrale beyond Rodez. The Merc finally told us it had had enough, and refused to move out of first gear and even after repair felt untrustworthy - hence the hire car and then the decision to buy one.</p><p>So, the Renault will be Bertie's and my mode of transport to Bordeaux airport this evening. Coming to this from driving two cars over twenty years old, is something of a culture shock - no ignition key and no brake handle for a start. But it has a camera at the back, which is reassuring when reversing in Leclerc's carpark. And after downloading the computer manual which runs to some140 pages (the main car manual is a further 310) and sitting in the driver's seat for two hours while I pressed buttons and swiped screens, I have managed to programme the sat nav to get us home (more than I could do on the way back from Toulouse). At least to get us home-ish. The computer informs me that we are not shown on the map, so I've put in the name of a neighbouring lieu-dit on the ridge up behind us.</p><p>A further hour in the driver's seat, with computer and mobile phone (what IS Bluetooth exactly?) and I have managed to load on my Spotify playlist - more than twenty-four hours of my kind of music. That will keep me going through any burnt tyre induced traffic jams. And for the journey home with Tod? I'm hoping my mobile and BBC Sounds will come up trumps, with soothing late night music on Radio 3.</p><p>Somewhere in the manual I came across something about setting the car seats to "massage". I think I know what I'll be doing this afternoon before Bertie and I leave for the airport. </p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p><br /></p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-82438397344349185792023-12-02T09:47:00.001+01:002023-12-02T09:47:43.646+01:00Bertie snores noisily in "his" corner ...<p>.. a small, pink triangle of tongue peeking out of his mouth.</p><p>His "corner" has expanded as he has pulled his cushion and the bath mats and towels across the kitchen floor and all four legs are outstretched into the room. </p><p>Getting at the kettle and the toaster on the counter above his head presents a challenge. Does one lean across him at an angle, hoping not to drop the two slices of bread in the process? Or does one try stepping over him without treading on a vulnerable paw, half hidden under the scrunched up bedding?</p><p>He's recovering from his early morning walk with Tod, half way round the park in town, which progresses at a leisurely pace as every giant pine tree has to be marked, several times.</p><p>The wonderful bi-lingual surgeon in Bordeaux showed us Bertie's X-rays at six weeks and warned that as he is an elderly dog, the mending and growth of new bone below his knee would be slow. The vet drew a diagram of steps going upwards, each step representing a week and showing a bit more freedom - another five minutes added to each walk, then being able to move at a trot, and finally, being able to walk upstairs and jump up. </p><p>We should have shown the diagram to Bertie! We won't talk about the afternoon he managed to open the kitchen door by standing on his hind legs, run along the veranda and down the steps at the end and out onto the drive. Or the time we took him, on the lead, round to friends and he jumped into their armchair without so much as a by-your-leave. Nor indeed that, left in the back to "guard the car", his reaction is to bark with all four feet off the floor.</p><p>The diagram takes us to Christmas Day and then, all being well, freedom and the chance to run free. </p><p>For all of us.</p><p> </p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-34203328954500439932023-11-03T11:48:00.006+01:002023-11-04T12:06:55.575+01:00Bertie is Feeling Better<p> Four weeks on and finally we've taken off his collar - with some trepidation. Because he accepted it we kept it on as long as possible. He licks - a lot - and we wanted his various wounds to heal as much as possible before he could get at them.</p><p>His shorn left back leg has fine baby down over it and, when he walks, all four legs are now on the ground. Yesterday he had an osteopathy session. He was firmly convinced he didn't need it and spent much of the time trying to get off the table. The vet reassured me there has been good progress and he is walking well.</p><p>The lack of a hood offers him greater freedom. I pop into Leclerc after the vet's session and come back to find he's squeezed past the netting that is supposed to keep him in the back of the merc, has climbed over the back seats and is sitting behind the steering wheel. The potential for him to damage his only partly healed left knee is almost infinite. </p><p>Our challenge from now onwards will be to keep this energetic "I'm feeling better and I'm bored" mutt safe and well. There is still another eight weeks to go!</p><p>In a calmer moment ...</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSDUIAH67S2ZnEegNhIVc7UkFz8GwjK9zVZYG2h_qazX-7eDQGvCtQPb3yaRhHkzdEeWuTscdprx-hh0JYGdbo-I-OFwNvjDpR5cGY8yR-lAzhtOVL9Hd0En26ErkFX4DZKlYUoyoqgeDYw9m8n2UurGTBSjoCOM1wAV4YYxlrrapCUq8IEu5_wtH_e-A0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3319" data-original-width="3567" height="595" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSDUIAH67S2ZnEegNhIVc7UkFz8GwjK9zVZYG2h_qazX-7eDQGvCtQPb3yaRhHkzdEeWuTscdprx-hh0JYGdbo-I-OFwNvjDpR5cGY8yR-lAzhtOVL9Hd0En26ErkFX4DZKlYUoyoqgeDYw9m8n2UurGTBSjoCOM1wAV4YYxlrrapCUq8IEu5_wtH_e-A0=w640-h595" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><p></p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-46039802289179183772023-10-07T12:36:00.005+02:002023-10-07T14:50:20.479+02:00Well, the deed is done ...<p> ... Bertie has had the op.</p><p>We are fortunate in where we live. A much-lauded young veterinary surgeon in Bordeaux has been operating on cruciate ligaments since 2006, when he started at UCL in London. That's the year before Noel Fitzpatrick carried out the same (experimental at the time) op on Smudge. So our "young" vet can't be that young, he just looks it. And he speaks perfect English, so communication was easy as he drew diagrams for me showing what he was going to do and Tod and Bertie took no notice, neither of them wanting to know the details.</p><p>All our lives have been turned upside down and will be so for the next two to three months. Thursday, we collected a subdued and slightly wobbly Bertie wearing a plastic cone to keep him from licking, with a back leg that looked like a plucked turkey's and a page of strict instructions: cage rest, five 5-minute walks per day on a short lead, no jumping, running, twisting, slipping. </p><p>We have an extraordinary number of large cages from our Airedale days - one huge one which Smudge had for the same op and two big ones, probably for when Vita and maybe Clara and Rosie were adolescents - Airedales don't stay small for long. So we thought we were well set up for Bertie's convalescence: the huge cage in the kitchen during the day and the big one in the lounge for night and the other big one in time to be used in the garden so he can watch us work. This, of course, assumed that he would settle - Smudge did and Vita had been known to.</p><p>All the advice is "let them cry it out" - so on our return, we let Bertie, in the huge cage in the kitchen, cry, howl, whimper and pant as we tried to carry on our normal daily lives against a barrage of unhappy noise. THREE HOURS LATER, I phoned our vet in despair - the "cry it out" strategy was not working; indeed, quite the reverse, since his distress was far from restful and healing. She suggested when there was a brief break in the noise and he stopped to draw breath (by this stage he was having a full-on barking temper tantrum) to take him out of the cage and keep him by us on a short lead. (I've tried calling it a crate to make it sound better, but Bertie, he of the rescue centre in Cahors, knows in no uncertain terms that it is a cage). </p><p>The moment he was out, all the noise stopped and, now exhausted, he slept. </p><p>But he has to be in his bedtime cage in the lounge at night in order to be safe - otherwise he would be jumping up onto the sofas. I got three hours sleep that night as he leaned against me with all of his weight in the doorway of the big cage and then protested loudly as I forced the door shut. I watched hours of rubbish TV as he grumbled and whimpered. I imagined designing elaborate enclosures with the lounge furniture and then decided the big cage was not big enough or comfortable enough for him - he banged the metal bars with the plastic cone every time he turned round. So I dragged the huge cage into the lounge (thank heavens for wide doorways) opened it up and attached it to the merely big one, to make a small run. That was an improvement as it now meant Bertie could move between the two as he whimpered and panted and refused to settle. I sat on the ground with my back to the cage reading. Suddenly it all went quiet. Great, I can now go to bed. The moment I moved away the protestations started again. </p><p>So, sofa cushions were put down as an improvised mattress. I rolled myself in a duvet alongside his cage and finally we slept. </p><p>Last night, there was progress. Much grumbling while I got myself ready for a second night on the sofa cushions. The moment I lay down - blessed silence. So tonight? The huge cage will be in the bedroom and he will go in it as I go to bed. And for the rest of the day? The kitchen is his domain, with doors closed and openings gated and he has his usual corner where he tucks himself down. The only drawback? One of us has to be with him all the time with his lead to hand. So all my plans for all the gardening I was going to do this autumn while he was (happily - huh!) caged have gone out the window.</p><p>He's snoring contently in his corner as I type this. Even in these couple of days he is getting stronger and more confident. The new knee is still kept folded and he lops along on three legs as I walk him (briefly) round the park in town with all its enticing other dog smells to keep him diverted.</p><p>We will all get through this, just fine.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJzlddP_5SYpE0RQxAUgq5_289zps1dwZ1TcuY-yO2Ld4IXNp2Fko9_Ot6-b3X3tNUQqKzfgNQPgPpxK5A1_h7hk3HAhxhbZ_j93AN42K2XL1zmY8QrImbfZmmzYPNlp9EzLNo3LyI_4_ybzYib-FXBNcEefjODViQ-H5F-rHu9sWFpLYSrsGkCzlEa3C/s750/20231006_131325small.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="548" data-original-width="750" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJzlddP_5SYpE0RQxAUgq5_289zps1dwZ1TcuY-yO2Ld4IXNp2Fko9_Ot6-b3X3tNUQqKzfgNQPgPpxK5A1_h7hk3HAhxhbZ_j93AN42K2XL1zmY8QrImbfZmmzYPNlp9EzLNo3LyI_4_ybzYib-FXBNcEefjODViQ-H5F-rHu9sWFpLYSrsGkCzlEa3C/w400-h293/20231006_131325small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-73147775742174256152023-09-18T12:00:00.003+02:002023-09-18T12:01:02.417+02:00Mary had a Little Lamb<p> Bertie follows me everywhere. If I get up from my desk where I'm typing this, although he seems asleep, he will "wake" and follow me - like Mary's little lamb.</p><p>The problem at the moment though is that he's supposed to be resting. In fact he's supposed to be in a cage, resting - except that would make him wretched. So, we leave him free to roam the house.</p><p>He's torn his left back leg cruciate ligament. I knew it was serious as he limped badly towards me last Monday, followed by one of the Jack Russells from up the road who quickly disappeared as soon as he saw me. Were they playing? Or (more likely) was it a "confrontation"? Anyway, the result is one torn ligament and strict instructions from the strict young female vet in town, who has no empathy, to keep him in a cage. </p><p>This is a dog who is never still who, when we got him from the rescue centre all those years ago, we were told had jumped out the window of the family who took him the day before and so they (fortunately) brought him back. And the photo of his mournful face looking through the bars of his cage made me decide he should come home with us and we drove all the way to Cahors to fetch him. A cage? Not likely! I look for reassurance that not putting him in a cage is ok and find a "modern view" on the internet that he needs to keep his other three legs strong while the fourth one stays up in the air, so it is better to let him roam (a bit). </p><p>He's not supposed to jump either. But that's not happening. He's up on the sofa, back down on the ground, up three steps, before we have moved. I'm hoping that the vet I'm seeing tomorrow - the one who is also an osteopath - will be pleasantly surprised at how well he's doing and not rebuke me.</p><p>We've been here before. Smudge had that same dire limp sixteen Januarys ago - the year we decided to move to France. He was operated on by the "Super vet" before he was famous and then spent three months (was it really three months?) in a cage. So one of us always had to be with him and that was why, in March, I came to France on my own and found our house.</p><p>We got Smudge a television to keep him entertained while caged. Although he was boisterous he was also resigned and tolerated his imprisonment. Bertie? We doubt he will be as phlegmatic. So there is a hard decision to be made at some point whether, given his age and disposition, we put him through the same process. And for what? Smudge never again had the same freedom of movement. What would an op do for Bertie? Mind you, the alternative isn't great - strapped in a prosthetic, taking painkillers and anti-inflammatories for the rest of his life.</p><p>And Bertie right now? He's not worried. He's happy as anything, hopping round after me, as happy as Mary's little lamb. Perhaps we should start calling him Larry. </p><p> </p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-66268168011734682412023-08-24T15:05:00.003+02:002023-08-24T15:07:21.221+02:00The forecast promises ...<p>... twenty-seven degrees Celsius tomorrow. Bliss!</p><p>We just have to get through this afternoon and tonight. At 2pm the thermometer in the shade on the veranda says one hundred degrees Fahrenheit (nearly thirty-eight degrees Celsius).</p><p>The hydrangeas on said veranda have collapsed in the heat. I head for the water butt and a watering can then back off. A cloud of wasps is around the tap, going for any dampness they can find. The long hose to the outdoor tap to the house proves a safer bet. I water the hydrangeas to the background noise of the combine harvester trundling up and down Monsieur F's neighbouring field of sunflowers that are blackened and shrivelled. This is a month early, surely?</p><p>We cover the pool to keep off the dust and detritus from the harvesting. I'll open it up again tonight and swim in the warm water in the dark, stars and the lights from distant silent planes above me, before heading for bed. We have no guests at present, for which I'm grateful. No need to clean the cottage or iron bedding in these temperatures. I have until the end of next week and its wonderful mid- twenties coolness. In Rio, when the temperature dropped that low women used to get out their fur coats. </p><p>I've bought a mesh raised dog bed for Bertie from Lidl which is supposed to keep him cool. Bertie remains to be convinced, preferring the tiled floor. He lies in my study alongside the bed (which is not small) and I pick my way across what little of the floor is left for me and get ice to put into a small cube shaped fan on my desk, designed to be personal air conditioning. For the rest of the afternoon I'll play online games, gossip on <a href="https://www.survivefrance.com/" target="_blank">Survive France</a> and read others' blogs. Only mad dogs and Englishmen are out. This English <i>woman</i> and her sensible dog are staying put indoors.</p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-84242716946222612702023-08-12T15:15:00.006+02:002023-08-14T10:43:06.115+02:00How and when ...<p>... to write about the story of these past weeks? Maybe don't write at all? Just pick up the thread as if this hiatus doesn't exist.</p><p>But then, in time, we'll forget the details and wonder: "<i>Did I really sell the car while you were in intensive care?</i>" So this is for us, in a few years time and we'll be able to say: "<i>Oh yes, that's what happened, and we got through it"</i>.</p><p>A story that began some time last autumn - a visit to the GP following a weekend of feeling unwell, cramp in a leg that didn't go away and Tod's concern that, whilst wanting to lose some weight, he was now in something of a downward spiral.</p><p>The cramp? A deep vein thrombosis, sorted with blood thinners and support stockings up until Christmas.</p><p>The losing weight? Sufficient reason for an MRI scan. The pleasant young man emerged with the results, no cause for alarm, but an interesting, somewhat unusual horseshoe kidney with a "mass" on the left-hand side that needed removing "at some point".</p><p>In a leisurely way appointments were made with a charming urologist who spoke good English and reassured us it would be very straightforward - the "mass" was external to the kidney and still on the small side. More scans were taken and blood tests, all of it to fit round the urologist's holidays and our own, intended to be a trip to Spain to see a friend in May, which we cancelled at the last minute. The Spanish desert in May with temperatures already forty degrees was not going to be a pleasure. We'll go in winter.</p><p>And finally we inched to the beginning of June - Tod's admission to hospital coinciding with the arrival of friends from the UK, staying for a week. I'd told them nothing before they arrived, fearing they would cancel, not wanting to be "in the way". In fact their being here kept me sane, someone to leave Bertie with as I set out, someone to talk to after I'd been to the hospital. They fed me, played silly card games and let me share my terrors.</p><p>The nice urologist promised to phone me after Tod's op and then left me with no news for all the afternoon, while I imagined the worst. In the end, I got in the car and drove to the hospital an hour away and found my way to Intensive Care. The friendly nurses on the desk said I could see him and I walked into something out of the worst kind of medical drama. Tubes, wires, flashing lights, beeping sounds, bottles hanging from a stand, with clear fluids dripping steadily, bottles under the bed draining urine and blood and in the middle of it all an old, old man who looked like my father in his final days. Even more painful, Tod didn't want me there. The hardest of lessons, when someone is struggling that much, the last thing they need is a visitor. So I left and came home to the safety of friendship.</p><p>Gradually, over the following days, there were signs of progress and then, over the weekend, he told me he'd collapsed after having his first shower - six people round his chair, straight to MRI for a scan, to discover he'd had a pulmonary embolism. That meant back on blood thinners and support stockings. </p><p>Except that he needed to heal from his operation and suddenly he wasn't and he was bleeding internally. By Monday, he was back in the operating theatre being "cleaned up" inside. And then back in Intensive Care again where he felt safe and I was back to driving home with my heart in my mouth and no friends to comfort me as they had gone home. I sent cautiously optimistic emails to everyone and wished I felt as confident as my words tried to convey.</p><p>And selling the Skoda? We took it in for service before Tod went into hospital and a few days later I got a call from the garage to come in and see them. I took our friends with me, he understands cars, she speaks good French. In fact the message was stark and straightforward - one of us had put petrol into the diesel engine. The clear implication was it would cost a great deal to put right, with no certainty that long-term problems wouldn't emerge. Over the week we talked of the alternatives and I asked whether they would buy it, unrepaired. In good nick, the car salesman said it would be worth 5,000 euros. Unrepaired, he offered 4,300 euros. Tod, too frail to want to be bothered with it all, agreed to let it go and the view from friends was "bite his hand off". We'd always had an uneasy relationship with the Skoda. I hope it found a good home.</p><p>Fresh guests arrived in the cottage and took care of Bertie as I continued my trips to the hospital. The urologist warned it would all take longer as Tod had had two operations and two anaesthetics in a week. Tod was weighed and he'd gained nine kilos in two weeks - this was a man who had been in intensive care for days eating nothing and then being offered not much more than potage. His feet beneath the stockings were puffy and his thighs doubled in size. Again, I feared for him. Phlebitis. But gradually the daily blood thinner injections and the support stockings did the job and he began to walk the corridors and the stairs with the aid of the kinesiologists. And he returned not just to his normal shape but someone a good bit skinnier.</p><p>They moved him into "rehabilitation" for more "kine" and he decided he'd had enough of looking at hospital walls and that he would heal better at home in his own bed, looking at beautiful countryside and being fussed over by his wife and his dog. They let him go, reluctantly, the head kinesiologist saying "he won't do his exercises" not understanding that a walk down through our field and back up again, with Bertie in tow, would give Tod more joy and more healing than any hospital staircase.</p><p>For two weeks we were visited twice a day by local community nurses, for injections of blood thinner, to check the state of his foot-long scar and to reassure he was making progress, but it would take time.</p><p>It has, and it will. It's only two months. He's had the ok from his urologist that he can "resume normal life" - which for him is getting back on the mower, keeping the pool clean and walking Bertie. Forty-five minutes, up through the woods and then back down across Alain's and Phillipe's fields. This is a man who five weeks ago was just able to walk the length of the ward corridor. He is healing.</p><p><br /></p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-30741083853317127722023-04-17T13:22:00.008+02:002023-04-17T15:17:02.027+02:00Spring Sounds<p>The wooh-wooh, wooh-wooh of a hoopoe, somewhere up behind the house.</p><p>The trills from the trees alongside the stream in the valley, as the nightingales sing their hearts out.</p><p>Bertie's outraged barking at yet another loud "thud" from the bird scarer in the adjacent field. Monsieur F. has planted sunflower seeds and is trying (without much success) to keep the pigeons off.</p><p>The thrum of the sit-on lawnmower as Tod weaves it round the flower beds in our garden, ducking to avoid stray rambling rose stems and the lower branches of the cherry tree behind the pool house. </p><p>He is out there for the first time in a month after his cataract operation. He is doing well.</p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-63047253126887607892023-03-26T13:22:00.003+02:002023-03-26T13:22:22.245+02:00The Plum Trees ...<p> ... that have self-seeded in what I laughingly call "the orchard" have never carried so much blossom.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-VkWIBCVHMZwWg8rDTa8dPOH4PlqvVTZN4zPNXsE6Se3H-Y8STaySn_g33_i62HNGRvloq3MtbwUBEDmih8VO7e1MACSrUhP9_Nays7L7AKdhRuVtJ2-sc82S_toJKhZkwfT0cdaPoB1NtfuhZOBZH6DDHsy77ZSsQTNgNRZKn_OBOuHnj-hDW2SFfg/s4000/P1100272dedited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-VkWIBCVHMZwWg8rDTa8dPOH4PlqvVTZN4zPNXsE6Se3H-Y8STaySn_g33_i62HNGRvloq3MtbwUBEDmih8VO7e1MACSrUhP9_Nays7L7AKdhRuVtJ2-sc82S_toJKhZkwfT0cdaPoB1NtfuhZOBZH6DDHsy77ZSsQTNgNRZKn_OBOuHnj-hDW2SFfg/w480-h640/P1100272dedited.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AXes_XlFqNafLupKbXTtmnHj_0ui48M7bJ-WnDW-ZIyl__8MdmvoL4AoVA6l5LaURRnmQ0O3l-NkKJu738OQHmGV313sWr9Mk6ea62waUvIaZ5AWBW20WETOzHS6gz2DKdTCp3vBITUbiF6F4AHjtkM1gXtFJ9dePwDrmDtthAp9fsTwlxMhsf5njQ/s4000/P1100271.JPGedited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AXes_XlFqNafLupKbXTtmnHj_0ui48M7bJ-WnDW-ZIyl__8MdmvoL4AoVA6l5LaURRnmQ0O3l-NkKJu738OQHmGV313sWr9Mk6ea62waUvIaZ5AWBW20WETOzHS6gz2DKdTCp3vBITUbiF6F4AHjtkM1gXtFJ9dePwDrmDtthAp9fsTwlxMhsf5njQ/w640-h480/P1100271.JPGedited.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-91029455843668711102023-02-18T10:34:00.001+01:002023-02-18T10:45:00.541+01:00Ukraine came to our small town last night ...<p>- a small, insignificant town in the middle of France Profonde.</p><p>For some strange reason the Grand Kyiv Ballet chose us on their European tour. A town that could do no more than offer them the "salle des fêtes" with its too small, noisy stage without scenery, a ropey sound system (no orchestra) and an audience on hard stacking chairs.</p><p>They danced Sleeping Beauty - the choreography and the costumes so musty and classical that it felt like we were seeing the first performance.</p><p>The girls were taller than the boys - and we think they were just boys (the male principals being otherwise occupied). Young boys, not yet with the strength or experience to lift their partners effortlessly. </p><p>At the end, following a somewhat subdued curtain call (no curtains as such of course) the young prince ran off-stage and re-emerged waving the Ukrainian blue and gold flag and the audience rose to its feet and applauded and applauded.</p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-89551287653127906812023-01-31T17:29:00.003+01:002023-01-31T17:30:57.571+01:00At Last!<p>The sun has reappeared after a fortnight of gloom and I make the most of it. Time to brutally prune the vine that runs virtually the length of the terrace.</p><p>I realise as I do it how much my father would have loved this. He was a robust pruner - much to my mother's horror, as she watched through the kitchen window yet again most of the long stems of the clematis montana disappear into the wheelbarrow before they'd had a chance to flower.</p><p>I think our French acquaintances also look with some horror on what I do with our vine. Ours is much more of a tangled mass than the neat, compact structures in the vineyards. We were told when we bought the house that the previous but one owner - Serge's aunt - had planted three vines, one for each of her sons. By the time we moved in the vine at the far end of the terrace had died and the one in the middle (a white grape) was struggling. But the vine nearest the kitchen was doing superbly and remembering the Great Vine at Hampton Court I decided to let it weave its way along the dead branches of the other two. Over the years it has almost, but not quite, reached the far end. And the white one in the middle has coyly put out new tendrils and gives us a few modest small bunches among the overly abundant red.</p><p>As I prune another memory of my father comes to mind. He loved France and things French. My mother recounted an occasion early in their relationship - both barely out of their teens. He and his (female) cousin spent the entire time speaking French to each other and ignoring my mother. I think he was hoping to impress. I think my mother showed great generosity of spirit that she forgave him his rudeness. I'm glad she did - somehow, over the years my father passed on his love of France to me. </p><p>(Mind you, I could do with his language skills!)</p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-71727081026904117922023-01-07T11:08:00.003+01:002023-01-07T11:13:47.394+01:00Twelfth NightAs we are leaving the mayor's "annual" get-together, being held for the first time in three years, I tell our neighbour Laurence I am going home to take down our Christmas decorations (as is customary in the UK) on Twelfth Night. She says: "<i>But you are in France now</i>!" and we laugh.<br /><br />In fact, little is left of the evening in which to complete the task after the mayor has introduced every single person involved in running the commune to the rest of us, in the process forgetting a few individuals, being reminded, probably saying at least four times that is all he is going to say, then thinking of something else.<br /><div><br /></div><div>For our "new" mayor (Covid having intervened) it's the first time he's had a chance to be centre stage in front of all of us and he makes the most of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>The place feels smarter under his guiding hand. An enormous new TV on the stage at the salle des fêtes has a continuous slideshow of how money is being spent in the village. The salle itself has been redecorated with better insulation and new heaters on the walls. Those of us who have come well wrapped up are too warm by the time his speech has finished and there is a slight sigh when he hands the mike to the local priest and then to the elegant blonde who is our representative from the Assemblée Nationale. She knows her audience - her first words are about protecting the local "<i>chasse</i>". <br /><br />The equally elegant man in the dark cashmere coat and black mask (one of the few in the room still concerned about Covid) from the local Commune of Communes has the wisdom merely to give us all New Year greetings when it comes to his turn to speak.<br /><br />The small, elderly retired farmer who introduced himself to us when we arrived writes down his address and elaborate details as to where to find his house. He tells me his father was a "<i>domestique</i>" to a previous family who owned our house many years ago. It sounds like things did not end well and I'm not sure I want to know more details. He is also trying to persuade us to join a country dance group he goes to - he talks about "Scottish dancing" - I am briefly excited about the thought of the Gay Gordons and Stripping the Willow - not danced for fifty years - but reality and Tod's two left feet bring me back down to earth.<br /><br />And I'm back down to earth again this morning - the dining room table is covered in decorations that need putting into boxes and up into the loft. At least I managed to get them off the tree last night before bedtime.<br /><br />And French Christmas decorations? Some will still be seen in situ at Easter. No Twelfth Night superstitions here.<br /><br /><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p><br /></p></div>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-80927119611126031812022-12-30T18:25:00.006+01:002022-12-30T21:39:08.345+01:00Where did it go?<p> Only one more day to 2022. </p><p>I meet the jolly lady who retired from the mayor's office at the last election in Leclerc, by the large open chill cabinets that are being stocked with platters of finger food for thirty. She catches me leaning over the small cakes drenched in dark chocolate, which look delicious. I regretfully turn my back on them. After all, what would we do with thirty small chocolate cakes on New Year's Eve when there will only be the two of us?</p><p>She tells me they had a family Christmas, but - like us - their New Year's Eve will be a party-free zone. We share the experience of an "other half" whose view is that this is only a day like any other. She and I, on the other hand, will be keeping an eye on the TV to count down the final minutes. I might even raise a glass to absent friends - we have a somewhat strange orange Martini that Tod bought with the intention of adding a suitably festive flavour to the carrots on Christmas Day. We both agreed next time we'll use Frank Cooper's Oxford marmalade which has a suitably tangy bite to the oranges. As usual, we over-catered - after all how big a capon did we need just for the four of us? The meat from the bones of yesterday's stock sits in the fridge looking at me reproachfully every time I open the door. Maybe a curry in a day or two?</p><p>The jolly lady and I seem to be the only shoppers in Leclerc not stocking up for tomorrow night's celebrations. Shopping trolley loads of alcohol are being wheeled through the check-outs. There is a special counter set up with an assistant just for the oysters and the seafood section has never looked so exotic. Do the French in France Profonde really buy sea urchins and if so, what on earth do they do with them?</p><p>Even though we will be having quiet nights in, we wish each other <i>"Bonnes fêtes" </i>- the traditional greeting for this time of year - and agree we will meet again shortly in 2023, at the mayor's annual shindig on January 6th, where he will give the commune his annual overview - his first for three years. No doubt it will be a very crowded and cheerful affair - whatever he has to impart.</p><p>So, whether you are happily letting 2022 quietly slip away or sending it off with an exuberant celebration, may I say "<i>Bonnes fêtes</i>" and wish that 2023 is happy and healthy and that we all find at least some small measure of sanity and hope in the year ahead. </p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-256539228322835132022-12-01T18:11:00.009+01:002022-12-01T18:22:22.989+01:00"What is a parsnip?" ...<p> ... the hairdresser asks me (in French).</p><p>I go into town early in the hope that I can have my hair cut before the Christmas rush. I am lucky - a man getting a final whisk over with the hair dryer and otherwise the place is empty.</p><p>I practise my limited French vocabulary on her and ask her what she's doing for Christmas and the New Year. Not surprisingly perhaps, given her job, she will be busy.</p><p>So, the conversation turns to what I am doing. A Christmas Day lunch with friends. Would it be a "<i>buffet espagnol</i>?" which (if I remember correctly from an club evening some years back) is where everyone brings a dish. Not quite. But they will be bringing the Christmas pud.</p><p>So, of course, it being a French conversation, we are now discussing in detail what the meal will include. Are we having turkey? No, a capon (tastier than a small, scraggy turkey). And what will we be having with the capon - green beans? This is where we get into deep water. I volunteer the word "<i>parnais</i>" which is a mistake, as the word had no "r" in it. But even saying it without the "r" elicits a blank look. So now she's confused and I'm confused about this French word and how it's spelt / pronounced, which in English is "<i>parsnip</i>".</p><p>I volunteer "<i>like a carrot, but white</i>". "<i>Ah, navet</i>". "<i>No</i>" I've seen the word, but I know it's not that (it's a turnip I discover later). I try adding, "<i>cooked in the oven with rosemary</i>", but that's just adding to the confusion. </p><p>So we decide to discuss the first course. I don't even attempt to describe what we are really having - butternut squash soup - and substitute "<i>potimarron</i>" (another kind of squash, round, bright orange and lacking in taste) which she does know. But it goes downhill again when I tell her I will be adding ginger to the soup. She is very suspicious of this culinary practice. Fortunately by now my haircut has reached a stage where, with some relief for both of us, we can return to the topic of "<i>more off the back or is it fine as it is</i>?"</p><p>And the reason for this immense confusion over "<i>panais</i>" (parsnips)? And the no-go area of butternut squash? Fifteen years ago, when we first came here, neither were to be found anywhere, except occasionally at a farmers' market where the Brits shopped. Butternut squash was unknown and not grown. Parsnips were grown, but only to be fed to animals. And why not for humans? Because during the Second World War that was the diet the French were reduced to eating. </p><p>Nowadays, much to our delight, butternut squash and parsnips are to be found everywhere. But these essential additions to a full-blown British Christmas Day lunch with friends quite elude the comprehension of a young hairdresser in France Profonde.</p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-21761720183552130242022-11-20T11:57:00.030+01:002022-11-20T15:57:47.401+01:00I Erred<p> Finally, after a mere fifteen years, I plucked up the courage to invite our farming neighbours round for "aperos".</p><p>It was during the summer and they were heading into Leclerc and I was heading out. After we'd briefly chatted and as we said our goodbyes, I (to my own surprise) said "<i>You must come round for aperos</i>" and almost immediately regretted it - after all what would we talk about? But then she turned and gave me the most beatific smile and I knew I'd done the right thing. </p><p>As they are farmers, we agreed nothing would happen 'til after the harvest, which has long gone. And finally, I realised we could not defer the evening any longer and we arranged for a Saturday two weeks ago. In fact, that evening never happened - his very elderly mother, who had been unhappily in a home, died that morning, so far from having our evening we found ourselves on the following Wednesday at a funeral in the tiny local church and we moved our get-together to last night.</p><p>For nearly three years throughout Covid we've had no visitors. And for much of that time Vita became increasingly frail. By the end, the house had become her sanctuary and kennel - mats and towels all over the place, a bucket and mop to hand for accidents, the kitchen door left open so she could head out for a comfort break whenever she needed. So, there was not much point hoovering and dusting and we lived contentedly (most of the time) with the mess. But now, we were about to have guests!</p><p>A frantic week was spent removing cobwebs, chasing down dust bunnies, washing corners where Vita cleaned her messy wet beard when she'd drunk half her water bowl and carried most of it across the kitchen floor. In contrast Bertie is such a clean drinker.</p><p>Alongside the manic house cleaning was an anxiety about what to get for food and drink? We have never done aperos. What would they be expecting? So I turned to the forum I use all the time when I am struggling with French mores and our life here and over several days the advice rolled in with some very fancy suggestions for what to make and serve. </p><p>The advice that stuck was: <i>"I’d err on the side of too much rather than too
little". </i>So I erred. </p>
<p> Crudités with four types of dip, followed by beautifully
soft, plump prunes wrapped in wafer-thin streaky bacon, bite-sized chipolatas
(herby ones from Lidls and spicy merguez) plus the “toasts” with paté she
brought, followed by my mini quiches and some tiny hot cheesy /filo things I
got from Lidls freezer cabinet, followed by home-made mince pies (and she asked
for the recipe, so I sent her home with the last four). </p><p>They stayed until gone ten and would have stayed longer but
for the fact she had a bad cold and was beginning to flag, so I packed them off
home. Tod was worried about not understanding but the conversation flowed
freely, not least because there is so much we do not know about each other and
they can tell us so much about our old house and its surroundings. We learnt
(among many other things), that he leaves a tiny part of his field
un-cultivated because the great grandparents of the family who used to own this
house are buried there in (unmarked, probably protestant) graves. </p><p>And the beatific smile from her when I invited them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has been wanting to see inside our house
for years. We are the third English family to own it in the last forty years or
so and the local community have watched it being transformed from a near ruin
to a habitable family home (it's still a work in progress of course). </p><p>She went home content - four mince pies and an evening
inside the house she wanted to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
need not have worried about our evening together.</p>
suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-74597038731995055292022-10-19T12:45:00.007+02:002022-10-20T11:51:42.220+02:00At the Sea<p>Hard to believe - yesterday's early afternoon temperature was 29°C. We decided to make the most of it and headed for the sea. This time, we introduced Bertie to the Atlantic beaches of Cap Ferret.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM9OzYLwBrj0YRpJI1HfZWzFxOhjJeRPkaXmF6UkcNBzWMhSA6RuLWR4T8nTNirVGxOv6t1uS85xZkxxjsRlZ5_PVY6s-RuaUbiGsnJK7-V9l3h3Ob8a8JKRMbHaP0PMXn0SVEpxZW_8zKLJHH9bZEfbn5pHWNhd5FU4z3TWzINT7RO85ha6aek_fu1Q/s1000/P1100215edited.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="825" data-original-width="1000" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM9OzYLwBrj0YRpJI1HfZWzFxOhjJeRPkaXmF6UkcNBzWMhSA6RuLWR4T8nTNirVGxOv6t1uS85xZkxxjsRlZ5_PVY6s-RuaUbiGsnJK7-V9l3h3Ob8a8JKRMbHaP0PMXn0SVEpxZW_8zKLJHH9bZEfbn5pHWNhd5FU4z3TWzINT7RO85ha6aek_fu1Q/w640-h528/P1100215edited.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>The sand on the towels is from his digging. His spiky fur is from the salt water, having followed me into the surf, paddling against the rollers as he tried to reach me. </p><p>He thinks being at the beach is wonderful And so do we.- especially on a glorious day in October.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWNTE5n7Dg_kJ5ZT6HMNiu85iHHa9vDoySLhL9Nj7XnD-tZbCVeq4OLLNPQEKS1soa-DLVhnzPNcVjJ1eLDk6Ep9ihQyEYAZnrPta0bbk__bYQZddoMK_3tuCnE_-7XucCeMFlhGN2X4le0hveW0rkjom7unBXFxK9C8ksUmScPlIyPE6IQiEG0Ry1g/s1000/P1100228edted.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="743" data-original-width="1000" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWNTE5n7Dg_kJ5ZT6HMNiu85iHHa9vDoySLhL9Nj7XnD-tZbCVeq4OLLNPQEKS1soa-DLVhnzPNcVjJ1eLDk6Ep9ihQyEYAZnrPta0bbk__bYQZddoMK_3tuCnE_-7XucCeMFlhGN2X4le0hveW0rkjom7unBXFxK9C8ksUmScPlIyPE6IQiEG0Ry1g/w640-h476/P1100228edted.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-83893108501709962152022-09-25T12:04:00.002+02:002022-09-25T12:07:11.806+02:00At Last!<p> A small rain has blown in, bringing with it cool weather and the smell of distant wildfires in the Gironde.</p><p>Earlier in the week, while it was still sunny and warm we headed with Bertie for <span style="font-family: inherit;">Lacanau and the beach</span></p><p>The final stage of the journey - cross country from Bordeaux - always seems to take forever. Even more so this time. Our speed was reduced from eighty kilometres an hour to fifty as we drove between the burnt black trunks of pine trees, acrid smoke still drifting across the ground. Two fire engines on guard attested to the possibility of further breakouts. We were lucky. A few days earlier and the road would have been closed.</p><p>Finally, we made it. And found a restaurant that did crispy, light, fish n'chips and a bowl of water for Bertie, who poked his head through the terrace railings and watched the world go by. </p><p>The beaches in town are supposed to be dog-free, so we turned north, parked between the trees and tramped over the dunes to the sea. At some moment in the last couple of years Bertie grew up and can now be trusted (in the right circumstances) off the lead. A beach out of town and out of season in South West France is the right circumstances and he spent a joyous afternoon haring off into the middle distance to meet and greet other dogs and then rushing back to tell us. It makes the disappearance of Vita from his life easier.</p><p>Afternoon tea, ice-cream and cannelles back in town and another bowl of water for Bertie and then we headed home. He hardly stirred the whole way - it had been a good day for all of us.</p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-67145568232053110202022-09-19T23:30:00.001+02:002022-09-20T09:00:01.050+02:00Thank You Ma'am<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0N_hC-RUY9e0BUu9Ezd3ie4F_bInz23klfYDH7zSZOMPryX4zHtR5LyOv9EX1a6K_iC4xaLTykG7A4MjiwVdM_kEe0xkjHWlrSHiFpOgjz0RXA6caKaHMR6dc6HSCwSwgpQ12sVtM548UeVbRR2xxf2aFgo3NskMPFK9p1kuwFoGfXqAMlqkRQXoj2g/s2638/P1100186edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1463" data-original-width="2638" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0N_hC-RUY9e0BUu9Ezd3ie4F_bInz23klfYDH7zSZOMPryX4zHtR5LyOv9EX1a6K_iC4xaLTykG7A4MjiwVdM_kEe0xkjHWlrSHiFpOgjz0RXA6caKaHMR6dc6HSCwSwgpQ12sVtM548UeVbRR2xxf2aFgo3NskMPFK9p1kuwFoGfXqAMlqkRQXoj2g/w640-h354/P1100186edited.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-18488817417342847752022-08-14T12:36:00.005+02:002022-08-14T12:38:28.671+02:00It Was Time<p>Friday we said goodbye to Vita. Our glorious, gentle, loving, indomitable Airedale had finally run her course. Despite all her aches and pains, and for all her ailments of the past two years, her spirit shone through and her conviction that she needed to go for walks and to be there for the next meal meant we knew she was not ready to go - until this last week.</p><p>We took her to Diana who has nursed her through all the ups and downs of the last thirteen years. We kept her in the back of the merc (which sometime ago came back into our lives) and let her slip away. She went so easily.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">And so we came home. To find we'd been left message on the phone. I dialled 3103
and there it was - a single, solitary bark. And the time of the
message? Just after Vita would have left us. We cannot explain it and
don’t need to. We believe she found a way to say goodbye and to let us know all
is well.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Some memories ...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">"Lap Dog"</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg76Gsd87gqftgqgyOGQmSftpZMrQUga-gMH5FV9tL366vNY1DRyjdQAZ0jocYLbNA9eW69C1O7ik0dACMTp7rvreh_VmnhxGjQv2jnZqBgfVQMg34AKC47qBIdpES-D7qYr-vgw9VjK7jLhG8FYcKMOnmZG81k9jrM-aa4yVirFAjMhCn2A3AFtme18g/s1000/P1020742edited.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="666" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg76Gsd87gqftgqgyOGQmSftpZMrQUga-gMH5FV9tL366vNY1DRyjdQAZ0jocYLbNA9eW69C1O7ik0dACMTp7rvreh_VmnhxGjQv2jnZqBgfVQMg34AKC47qBIdpES-D7qYr-vgw9VjK7jLhG8FYcKMOnmZG81k9jrM-aa4yVirFAjMhCn2A3AFtme18g/w266-h400/P1020742edited.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><div><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>The Joy of Snow<br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfdZ8qduE-eQQOvRstxNje-rrfl20JDrLgPAagj5kfx3u2lXv8OURbqdOjqMNWfHfegPkIdceVcuChfJ3bqo7Lm_5mAHZJrRGKDSyYwfclntl_fxGY23yKVRX1ncn03UPXr7fdRnQZElwk7PZyY0X3XUtVQYhMbdVE2luWKpayKq2qy5HXnYuC9JSQQ/s1000/IMG_4447edited.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfdZ8qduE-eQQOvRstxNje-rrfl20JDrLgPAagj5kfx3u2lXv8OURbqdOjqMNWfHfegPkIdceVcuChfJ3bqo7Lm_5mAHZJrRGKDSyYwfclntl_fxGY23yKVRX1ncn03UPXr7fdRnQZElwk7PZyY0X3XUtVQYhMbdVE2luWKpayKq2qy5HXnYuC9JSQQ/w400-h266/IMG_4447edited.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />So Well Behaved!<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8dbhrLDMutf-NV39P48dHdDzKbgAlYg7N6hKh_03dBXs08IUlILPQIaJXxEjFcgrK09nK6TqouOjY4MnIPaxSCQ_tzQb0Ec92L80zeGeROieLV9VuhpEN45Cx5w77ask4SvV3pNTxCtq52UEoWCSgi1wHQS8lnlL3xzaAI64tWKxiG_ee5AazZahKg/s1000/P1070266edited.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="847" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8dbhrLDMutf-NV39P48dHdDzKbgAlYg7N6hKh_03dBXs08IUlILPQIaJXxEjFcgrK09nK6TqouOjY4MnIPaxSCQ_tzQb0Ec92L80zeGeROieLV9VuhpEN45Cx5w77ask4SvV3pNTxCtq52UEoWCSgi1wHQS8lnlL3xzaAI64tWKxiG_ee5AazZahKg/w339-h400/P1070266edited.JPG" width="339" /></a></div><div><br /></div>"Playing" with Bertie<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSxQY0EZw1iufpN7NFpjiEldDLEXzLHP7x2ugG_uHeEmjoDLT71s7WVMOBZEydSSrKeVu3jXG0VCAeEYwWozIYXefYzKVPZBwrp1P0sqq1j30KKwPrfgiFuJdnoQ-XYxJdE4R6UzRWHLxLhzKbhGLUtHimMmBOHqMUSNyZExHNFaicFnH_5Mt8yKrSA/s1000/P1070492edited.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1000" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSxQY0EZw1iufpN7NFpjiEldDLEXzLHP7x2ugG_uHeEmjoDLT71s7WVMOBZEydSSrKeVu3jXG0VCAeEYwWozIYXefYzKVPZBwrp1P0sqq1j30KKwPrfgiFuJdnoQ-XYxJdE4R6UzRWHLxLhzKbhGLUtHimMmBOHqMUSNyZExHNFaicFnH_5Mt8yKrSA/w400-h272/P1070492edited.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span><p></p></div>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-60475131975360165792022-07-17T21:10:00.004+02:002022-07-17T21:12:01.180+02:00Busy Doing Nothing<p> When considering where to live in France all those fifteen years ago we ruled out places like Provence partly because it's expensive but also because it's too hot and dry in summer - or so we thought.</p><p>It is therefore disconcerting to learn that tomorrow Bordeaux (just "up the road" from us) is likely to be the hottest place in France, if not the whole of Europe - somewhere in the forties.</p><p>Depending which weather site I look at we are likely to be anywhere between 38°C and 43°C. Our guests, who have been braving the pool side every day this week, admit they will probably be hiding indoors, which we have been doing for most of this week. </p><p>Every few evenings I head down to the cottage to water the pots and the border alongside the lawn, the grass now brittle straw The underground water tank has only an inch or so left in the bottom, so I trail hose pipes from the outside tap up at the house. Every bowl of used washing up water now goes on the plants. Our guests offer to keep an eye on anything drooping between my visits and I gratefully accept. I'm glad that a couple of months back I abandoned any idea of a veg patch, however small.</p><p>Tod walks Bertie at seven in the morning. I strim a bit more of the gully at the side of our farm track and apart from a bit of shopping, that is it for the day.</p><p>We catch up with news on the internet, watch series on Netflix and i-player and sit it out. Tuesday now promises to be a delightfully cool thirty degrees. We look forward to a meal out on some balmy evening and our guests admit they are bored with doing nothing.</p><p>May these days be exceptional. If not, a move to a cooler part of France - Provence anyone? - begins to be appealing.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2B0Io-j4EW6DzakZnwDS_u426QJA_W7clZPy9pt9M4QOe0yjlcQPOP67vw1t4jFuVWn2Zpe4mMn7idhJjY3l94F7LHUU3zn0q1ZVeg-NO2d5P-NYkh__hW2TWOUSgA3PvyTeys3gYx_BrCQ8LltGPVaa142igPH-j7PcHnY6B16cXrdYlCvhGXuG6LA/s798/jetstream.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="638" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2B0Io-j4EW6DzakZnwDS_u426QJA_W7clZPy9pt9M4QOe0yjlcQPOP67vw1t4jFuVWn2Zpe4mMn7idhJjY3l94F7LHUU3zn0q1ZVeg-NO2d5P-NYkh__hW2TWOUSgA3PvyTeys3gYx_BrCQ8LltGPVaa142igPH-j7PcHnY6B16cXrdYlCvhGXuG6LA/w512-h640/jetstream.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-2882985215275161392022-07-12T15:48:00.002+02:002022-07-12T15:48:59.091+02:00I've Forgotten The Cornichons!<p>Tod likes them in a mild pickling liquid. I remembered the red peppers and the tinned chickpeas for the hummus, but not the cornichons.</p><p>I'll go back into town in a mo, after I've had my green tea. No hardship. I'll be in an air conditioned car going to an air conditioned supermarket. Much cooler than our old, thick walled, non-air conditioned house.</p><p>We're hiding indoors, with shutters closed and front and back doors open to try to get a through draught. Supper, these evenings, is in the kitchen. The terrace, although shaded, is too hot for comfort We chivvy Vita (who is inclined to stand on the lawn in the sun with a vacant expression) back inside, where she then flops down on the tiles - cooler than the rugs we have around for her old bones. </p><p>We worry about our guests who are on our sun loungers in full sun by the pool. Maybe we don't need to. They seem to be happy enough. I will talk to them later about whether we leave the pool cover off tonight to let the water temperature drop a bit - at its current 30°C it's no longer refreshing.</p><p>This weekend 40°C is a possibility. We assume that places like Provence are even hotter. But apparently not so, it's the western seaboard of France that is getting the brunt of this heatwave. And it's forecast to continue well into next week and beyond. </p><p> </p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-6275883015275669642022-07-04T08:40:00.002+02:002022-07-04T08:40:20.116+02:00Monsieur F Knows Better<p>The weather sites I follow - one French, one Norwegian - promise rain and maybe thunderstorms.</p><p>Our neighbouring farmer, Monsieur F, on the other hand, knows better. He either has a more accurate météo site that he follows, or he has a piece of seaweed hanging in the kitchen. Either way, he was out there last night with his tractor dragging the hose pipe down through his maize field to rig up his water canon. </p><p>The canon has been going all night and the ditch at the side of the farm track leading down to our house is sodden. I know because I've been in it, strimming to keep it tidy. We have new guests arriving Friday.</p><p>I strim to the accompaniment of distant thunder, well to the east of us. From the <a href="https://www.blitzortung.org/en/live_lightning_maps.php?map=10" target="_blank">real time lightning map</a> it looks as if those on the far side of Agen have had a noisy night.</p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3063789335725081371.post-69746755383775447312022-06-22T10:46:00.000+02:002022-06-22T10:46:02.613+02:00I leap in the car and drive off ...<p> ... as the thunder, lightning and rain roll in, leaving Vita with her nose pressed against the kitchen worktop where her half-prepared breakfast sits above, tantalisingly just out of reach.</p><p>Tod and Bertie have gone for their morning walk and although dressed for inclement weather, the rain is coming down harder and faster than they anticipated and the lightning is uncomfortably close. </p><p>I meet the drenched pair trudging up the road between Monsieur F's two fields and Tod mildly suggests it would have been nice if I had come looking for them two minutes earlier. </p><p>We cover the pool - stable door and bolting horses come to mind. Last night the water was nearly 30°C. It's dropped to 23° and the heatwave has abruptly left us overnight. We will struggle to get the water anywhere near those lovely warm-bath temperatures again for our current guests. Not that the outlook invites much lounging by and in the pool.</p><p>Still, our guests may sleep more easily at night and opening up the cottage (and the house) first thing in the morning to let in the fresh, cool air will be a real pleasure.</p><p>We're due more rain (and possible storms) through the coming days. As the rock hard clay in the rose beds begins to soften, I may finally get some long overdue weeding done.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>suejhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04072740351690646281noreply@blogger.com4