We live surrounded by farmland. We follow the seasons of ploughing, harrowing, planting, watering, harvesting. We talk to Monsieur F about what crop he's growing this coming year and learn how French agriculture slowly, slowly is changing, adapting, expanding. What used to be the monotony of maize, rape and winter wheat now also embraces sunflowers, beetroot (for the seeds) and new this winter "trèfle" which we suspect is a type of clover. He tells us the field will be a mass of purple flowers in June, and (we hope) a mass of contented bees.
His land envelopes us and stretches across two fields to a boundary with what used to be the terrain of a chateau, sadly dismantled to make way for a cluster of sheds and buildings holding pigs.
Between the two fields is a narrow country lane that ascends steeply from the bridge over the stream at the bottom of the valley to the road along the brow of the hill up behind us. Rarely used, we did not even know the lane was there until after we had bought our house. Standing in the garden and looking across what we thought was a continuous field of maize we were somewhat startled to see the roof of a car heading up through the middle.
This lane is even quieter these days, used only by the most hardy. The potholes are deep and frequent and require skilful manoeuvring up onto the verges. But for us it is a useful shortcut on the way to Agen.
It also is part of our morning walk with Bertie: down through our field to the stream, along the bottom of Monsieur F's field, said stream beside us, today bubbling and gurgling from all of Sunday morning's rain, to the small bridge, missing part of one side (never repaired) which the pig farmer's young daughter managed to clip with the huge tractor she was driving during Covid, then turn back up the steep country lane to the road at the top, along the road to the bungalow with all the dogs, who greet us enthusiastically and with not a little envy as they are never let out. With the dogs behind us, who quickly lose interest, we head back down "our" farm track to our house below. With all the changing contours it makes a good morning workout for all of us.
Sometime towards the end of last year I suddenly found I could not walk up the steep pot-holed country lane without stopping to get my breath back. I thought it was my pacemaker malfunctioning, or maybe just needing retuning, so made an appointment with my cardiologist (there's a phrase I never expected to have in my life). Appointments take time and so for several weeks I continued to puff my way up the hill, sometimes having to stop twice to recover.
In preparation for the cardiologist's appointment I take a blood test and all is revealed - not my pacemaker after all, but severe anaemia. The GP's surgery swings into action and, with much tutting and fussing, I have a blood transfusion within a couple of days. I feel better, but continue to puff going up the hill. Another blood test (the French are thorough) reveals the anaemia is better but not by much. So an "iron infusion" is arranged. The authoritarian office manager looks across the office and gives me a reassuring smile (a rare occurrence) telling me I will feel "much better" after it. Google tells me it will take two weeks.
This morning, it's ten days since I had the iron and for the first time in many weeks I walk up the hill without stopping. It is a small and very satisfying triumph.
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