At Last!

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.

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.

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.

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. 

(Mind you, I could do with his language skills!)

Twelfth Night

As 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: "But you are in France now!" and we laugh.

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.

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. 

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 "chasse".

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.

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 "domestique" 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.

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.

And French Christmas decorations? Some will still be seen in situ at Easter. No Twelfth Night superstitions here.