Busy Doing Nothing

 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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

May these days be exceptional. If not, a move to a cooler part of France - Provence anyone? - begins to be appealing.

I've Forgotten The Cornichons!

Tod likes them in a mild pickling liquid. I remembered the red peppers and the tinned chickpeas for the hummus, but not the cornichons.

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.

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. 

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.

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. 

 

Monsieur F Knows Better

The weather sites I follow - one French, one Norwegian - promise rain and maybe thunderstorms.

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.  

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.

I strim to the accompaniment of distant thunder, well to the east of us.  From the real time lightning map it looks as if those on the far side of Agen have had a noisy night.