The French certainly know how to Party!

At midnight, when we'd just finished the wedding banquet and the dancing had only just started, it was a relief to realise that we would have an extra hour in bed to recover as this was the weekend the clocks went back.

We'd started at the bride's house just after lunch,  to meet and greet and have our cars decorated. Bride and mother - both with waists about the size of Vivien Leigh's in Gone with the Wind - stunningly attired in chic Parisian outfits, graciously welcomed their guests. Then, in procession with much tooting of car horns, we made our way to the mayor's office and crammed into the small room to listen to a long list of laws being read out at great speed and not much ceremony about the responsibilities of marriage.  This was then followed by an interminable photo session on the steps of the Mairie, coordinated by the bride's brother: "Bride, groom, bride's parents, groom's parents. Bride, groom, bride's immediate family. Bride, groom, groom's immediate family."

By this stage my camera had packed in and I teetered across the road in my extremely uncomfortable high heels (six years of living in sandals in summer and wellingtons in winter does nothing for feet and elegance) to the local tabac to refurbish the batteries, to find on my (slow) way back that I needed to break into a fast teeter as they were calling for "bride, groom, bride's parents, bride's friends".

The next stage was the church - a full sung Eucharist lasting an hour and a half. By this stage my feet were out of the high heeled shoes and resting on the cool stone flags. Unlike many English weddings where hymns are unconvincingly mumbled by a reluctant congregation, this service was led by a splendid cantor, sounding not unlike Joe Dassin, who imperiously waved his right arm in upward swooping movements at the moments when we were all to join in.

Somewhere about the exchange of rings the bride's brother started crying, closely followed by the bride and then the groom and several members of the congregation.  There was a hasty searching for tissues that were hurriedly passed forward, the figure-hugging, tiny-waisted Parisian wedding dress not having any hiding places for such items and there not being any bridesmaid (as is typical in France) to do the necessary.

By the end of the service, all were beaming smiles and again there was much taking of photos on the steps of the church. We wondered as we stood outside whether to pop home for a sustaining cup of tea and biscuit as we knew we were still several hours away from food, but we could not face running the gauntlet of the dogs who would wish to show their gratitude at our return with large muddy paws all over our elegant attire. I deterred Tod from crossing the road to the bakers to buy a croissant as I felt his action would not go unnoticed  by the bride's parents and he would be left with croissant crumbs over his beautiful new three-piece grey suit.

So we set off in convoy for the champagne reception.  I worried about drinking on a (by this stage very) empty stomach - unnecessarily as it turned out. The nibbles were hot, tasty, lavish and very tempting.  By the time we made our way into the hall for the banquet at 9pm I really wasn't hungry any more, which was a shame as the menu was foie gras terrine; followed by scallops and mussels in a wine and cheese sauce; followed by a HUGE plateful of pink lamb; followed by cheese; followed by profiteroles; all this accompanied by a different wine at each course.

Fortunately there were pauses between courses, the highlight of the entertainment being one of the uncles (who had played the solemn role of deacon in the service) somewhat surprisingly proving to have a repertoire of bawdy Pyrenean songs, which he sang lustily to the great embarrassment of  his wife and the younger female relations and friends.

The microphone was offered to our table - perhaps we wanted to sing?  We hastily shook our heads. So as a token to the English present the neighbouring table looked up "God Save the Queen" on their i-phones and sang it with great gusto.

By midnight as the DJ started up, we were already flagging.  So we bounced around to a few sixties numbers for a few minutes and then slipped away.  We're certain that most of our compatriots will have continued 'til dawn.

Bertie and Vita, convinced that we were never coming home, had gone hunting for food, raided the utility room, dragged the biscuit bin out from under the shelving, up-ended it over the floor and gorged themselves to a standstill.  Bit like the wedding banquet really.

Well there's a Surprise!

I'd planned to write a slightly melancholic post about the changing of the seasons and the arrival of autumn, but then, between cool days of rain, it suddenly was so hot and sunny again I had to come in from gardening for ice cream, so the post didn't seem appropriate.

And I'm not the only one who's not too sure what season it is right now.  The mauve lilac up behind the house (on the bank that borders Monsieur F's now-ripe, bone-dry, rustling-in-the-wind maize) has decided to burst into bloom, to the delight of the local butterfly population.

So much for the distant sound from my childhood of my father singing: "We'll gather lilacs in the spring again",  as he accompanies himself on the upright piano in the lounge; a room only used for visitors or on special occasions such as Christmas.

I stand under the sweet smelling branches, struggling to capture clear images of the camera-shy peacock butterflies above my head as they flutter from bloom to bloom, gorging on this unexpected bounty.

I wonder whether we will be gathering this particular lilac again next spring?

Two others  who dropped by whose names I don't know ...

And  a touch of nostalgia ....

Reflections on Falling off a Ladder

One minute I was up the ladder. The next, flat on my back on the concrete terrace at the back of the cottage.  There wasn't even time for my past life to flash before my eyes.

I lay there, wondering if any bits were broken, but all seemed to be in working order, though the pot which held the blueberry bush looked a little the worse for wear. I gingerly set off up the garden to the house, reassured Tod that I was ok - not that he'd realised anything was wrong - and he departed for his normal evening of bridge.

I'm not good up ladders.  Much beyond the third step and I'm hyperventilating.  So later that same night, when my right foot had swollen (I was not quite as ok as I first thought) and the nurse at A&E asked what height I'd fallen from: "Un? Deux? Trois? Quatre? Cinq?" and I replied: "Cinq ou peut-être six", I meant steps and he meant metres. He looked a little startled.

It was a busy night at A&E and not much sign of a doctor.  I was relieved that the woman who came in with contractions was whisked away.  Not sure any of us in reception would have been up to delivering a baby. By 2am I still hadn't been seen.  So we came home, caught up on lost sleep and my foot has steadily mended ever since without medical intervention.

Friends suggest I should stop self-harming - what with the sun burn in early summer and now this.

I reckon it was hubris.  Pride and falling and all that.  I was busy; coping (I smugly thought) without asking Tod for help; rushing around getting the cottage ready, doing the garden, painting furniture; making the patio nice with curtains and shading. My second reaction lying there (after first wondering what I'd broken) was: "There's still so much to do".

And that's it. All this year there's been so much to do. In fact every year we've been here there's been so much to do.  Friends tell us they love what we've done in the cottage and the house, what we're creating in the garden.  Me, all I do is rush around, getting stressed, as I see more jobs to be done.

Maybe the Universe is trying to tell me something: "Slow down. Stop and look around.  This is a beautiful place, to be loved and appreciated for what it already is. Pause. And take joy from what you have already achieved."

Too Soon!

Summer is already slipping away.

We light the fire in the lounge against the chilly evenings and talk about moving back down to the cottage when our last guest departs in the middle of next week.

The dahlias haven't even begun to flower.  And have we really had our last swim of the year?  The pool water feels uninvitingly cool under its so-called heat-retaining cover.

The grass badly needs cutting, but it's sodden and the dogs come panting in from their morning walk with thick mud on their paws, which they trail all over the kitchen floor.

Faced with a grey steady drizzle, I decide to get my hair cut in Leclercs rather than try some soggy weeding. This is my summer haircut you understand - short and easy to care for after swimming.

The hairdresser and I share commiserations over the weather.  She's young with brilliant red spikey hair. She solemnly tells me that our wretchedly short summer is all due to the phases of the moon.

She reassures me that next year will be better.  I hope she's right.

I've been Ironing Sheets in the Cottage

As friends from previous visits can testify, this is unheard of. Especially as the lawn needs mowing, kilometres of tatty edges need strimming and the gravel driveway needs a good, down on hands and knees weeding. But it is also pouring with rain.  Has been most of the day.

Probably my fault.

Last year our friends stayed in June and spent most of the time inside playing card games and doing jigsaws because the weather was so lousy.  So when we talked about this year's visit: "Come in September" I said "It's always lovely in September."

That, and the fact that I've made a shady outside pergola for them, complete with gently wafting curtains, where they can sit in comfort, sheltered from the blistering heat of the noon-day sun, enjoying a good wine and a tasty meal. The dripping curtains, sodden piles of leaves hiding in corners around the pot plants and puddles of water in the plastic seats of the chairs look decidedly uninviting, but there's little I can do about it at the moment as the rain has set in for the rest of the day.

Hence the sheet ironing. At least I can make the inside of the cottage as welcoming as possible.

They arrive late this evening. When did Flybe make that unhelpful commercial decision?  They hasten to say that all they will want to do is sleep. "But you must have at least something for supper, you'll be hungry." I insist, at the time envisaging the table under the pergola laid with candles and an inviting warm quiche and salad to tempt them.  I think it will have to be hot soup, in the kitchen.

The rain has eased a little.  So back to the next set of pillow cases and duvet.  This is quite a novel experience. Hope they are not too tired to notice.

PS. And what do those weasel words "minimum iron" mean?  One either irons, or one doesn't.  How does one iron "minimally"?

Our First Boat Trip

Nothing to this boating lark!  I could quite enjoy this!

I think I'll be ok, so long as I stay here, nice and safe under the table in the galley.

The boat ...

... has what is euphemistically called a "holding tank". It is positioned beneath one of the two cushion-covered seats in the main cabin that, along with the table between them, converts into a double bed.

The tank is full. Hence a slight "aroma" in the cabin, which is kept at bay with liberal use of air fresheners. When we bought the boat the tank must have been full, although we didn't realise it at the time - no doubt because the previous owners also used air fresheners. It's probably been full for a long time.

If we were on the Broads back in the UK (where our elderly cruiser comes from) there would be no problem.  We would draw up to any marina, link up to the grey water pumping station, the tank would be emptied and the ambience around the boat would be much sweeter. Ah, but we're on the Lot, in France.

There are pumping stations on the Lot.  In fact we are moored right next to one on our marina.  But it doesn't work.  Has never worked. We are told none of the pumping stations on the Lot work (despite having cost a lot of money to install). Tod thought he ought to check this out when he was over on the far side of Villeneuve at a ship's chandlers, merely a stone's throw from the next marina.  He found four guys playing cards in a shed and asked about their pumping station. No, it didn't work, had never worked  He asked whether any other pumping station worked.  This required a lengthy telephone conversation.  No, none of the pumping stations on the Lot worked.  Honour satisfied (the strange Englishman having been given the necessary information) they returned to their cards.

It is unlikely that the pumping stations will ever work.  This after all is a country where men prefer to pee at the side of the road and where French boats just have a hole in the side to let everything out.  So who needs a pumping station that works except a few eccentric British people on British boats who keep everything in a tank in the salon?

So, we need a pump - but what pump?  And will it be one the marina pays for and keeps, or one we have for ourselves? The marina solution looks doubtful, so what do we need? We are sent a link to a wonderful video demonstration of a Leesan manual self pump out kit.  It looks remarkably easy and simple, but Tod baulks at the idea of paying £317 (plus VAT?) for something that (hopefully) we will rarely need.

A helpful email is sent to us saying: "It would probably be much cheaper to make your own pump out kit".

Unfortunately the sender is addressing two people who are capable of making no more that a light salad for a supper with friends.

How Frustrating!

There's a stubborn lump of grey wispy cloud that's barely moving right in the north east corner of the night sky. Right where we're supposed to be able to see the Perseids meteor shower. And tonight's supposed to be the best night for seeing them - anywhere between 60 and 100 an hour (depending on which enthusiastic newspaper article you read).

This is an especially good year - no moon to wash them out.

I've been sitting in the dark on the terrace by the "one day to be front door" and I've been lucky enough to see one - a red ball with a long tail - but mainly I think the pricks of light and the dim streaks are my eyes playing tricks.

I have seen the bats, briefly silhouetted against the grey cloud as they weave and dive for night flying insects.

I might try again in an hour if I have the stamina. Tod's yawning his way to bed. He's seen at least a couple and is content. I wonder if I should wake him later, if the stubborn cloud finally goes and the sky clears? Sixty meteors an hour - that would be something worth seeing.

Links

The Perseids

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