Happiness is a Tidy Ditch

It rains - a lot - round here at certain times of the year.  Not every year, but enough for the maintenance of ditches, drains and reservoirs to be taken seriously.  So, at least twice sometimes three times a year triangular warning signs go up along our country lanes: FAUCHAGE. And there, ahead, will be a tractor with an extended arm moving slowly along the verge, carefully cutting back and clearing the undergrowth to leave nice smooth banks.

We live half way down a small hill.  The land rises behind us and drops away in front, down to a stream in the bottom of the valley.  The land behind us is farmed and to reach our house we come down a farm track between two fields. Between Monsieur F's field and the track is a steep bank and a ditch.  Every year since we've been here "our" ditch has been fauchaged.  Until last year. 

Not much happened last year - well it was when COVID started and everything shut down for a time.  But then, this spring, we watched the tractor with the long arm trundle along the road up on the ridge behind us, making no attempt to come down our track.  After a year of not being done, the bank and the ditch were an unholy mess of brambles, vines and young saplings. So I ventured into the mayor's office and had a friendly conversation with the commune secretary, who promised to let the fauchage man know he'd missed us.  A few days later, we watched the tractor with the long arm work its way down the (already tidy) lane the far side of Monsieur F's field - something lost in translation we suspected, sighed, and let it be.

We have a new mayor.  Well, he's not that new now, having been in place since spring last year but COVID has meant there have been no mayoral gatherings and, apart from the fauchage, we have little reason to need him and so have not met him.  However, we sense he is a new (and energetic) broom.  The previous mayor was happy to meet and greet his communards, always in the office, chatty, available, by the end we were on cheek to cheek, kiss/kiss terms and I missed him when he retired.  The new mayor feels more remote. He has changed opening hours and requires an appointment to meet, has had a new commune website designed, has diverted funds to the schools and the insulation of the village sports hall roof.  All very laudable, but frustrating if it's at the expense of a good, very necessary fauchage.

Our ditch is important. It's one of the few that carries surface water down the hill away from the road along the ridge.  A couple of years or so ago, in torrential rain, we watched the ditch fill in minutes, overflow and form a whole new stream that poured across our field and down to the bottom of the valley. Also, at the moment it looks a mess as the brambles and vines reach out across the farm track and it's the first thing the guests to our cottage see as they turn off the road towards us.  Tod does the best he can with a mower and the heavy duty Stihl strimmer to keep the edges tidy, but clearing the steep bank is nigh on impossible.

There is a further complication. On the cadastral plans our track is described as a "chemin d'exploitation" as opposed to a "chemin rural". This non-fauchage thing prompts me to investigate further to find out if there is a difference which might explain it.  There is.  Google tells me a  "chemin rural" is maintained by the commune. Despite our experience of previous years,  apparently a "chemin d'exploitation" should be maintained by those properties who have access to it. So maybe from now onwards, with the new regime, we will have to pay for our own fauchage.

Armed with this unwelcome knowledge, in August, somewhat apprehensively, because these days the mayoral office feels somewhat less friendly, I decide it's time to have another word.  Expecting to find the secretary in situ, I walk in to see The Great Man himself - I recognise him from his photos in the (now printed in colour) village newsletter.  I start my prepared speech and am amazed to encounter the charm that certain Frenchmen of a certain age radiate.  We may not have met before, but he knows who I am and where we live (the benefits of a small commune).  He also tells me my timing is fortuitous - he is waiting for the councillor who is responsible for organising the fauchage, who proves on arrival to be equally charming.

We all laugh at the idea of a small, elderly English lady in her seventies wielding a large Stihl strimmer up those steep banks and they reassure me that "something will be done".  Not immediately of course because it is harvest time but trust them, it will be sorted.  I float back home bathed in French "je ne sais quoi".

And the weeks slip by and the brambles and vines continue to grow.  And only yesterday morning I was thinking, well not this year, in France these things can't be rushed, but I will go into the mayor's office early next spring and hope to make sure we are on the list for being done next year.

Oh ye of little faith!  Lunchtime is when I like to shop - Leclerc is quieter and social distancing is easier.  I get in the car, reverse it and turn to face our steep farm track when I see - a pristine, tidy, bramble-free ditch!  Amazing what things can bring joy to the heart.  

Thank you Monsieur le maire.