... recovering from an exhausting few days.
He's curled in a corner of the small slightly lurid green dralon sofa that I bought from John Lewis some time in the early eighties. It was the smallest sofa I could find for getting up the narrow winding stairs to the top floor flat I'd just bought in Battersea and after more than thirty years it's still going strong - shame about the fabric.
Like a feral cat, uncertain whether the next meal will be provided, Bertie periodically hunts opportunistically, no table or worktop surface too remote for him to reach. I forget, as sometimes months pass between episodes.
The pyrex bowl of home-made mincemeat covered in foil, ready for another batch of mince pies, had been sitting on the worktop for a couple of days, untouched, seemingly undetected. Christmas Day we left, to visit friends for lunch, reassuring the dogs we would be back in time for their supper. But Bertie didn't believe us. Some time during the afternoon he found and demolished half the mincemeat, much to my disgust. It was only later, when he asked to go out at one in the morning, I jerked awake, remembering: raisins - grapes - poisonous to dogs - kidney failure. And he hadn't eaten one or two, but half a bowl full! I didn't sleep much that night, not indeed the next two nights, while we waited to see.
Bertie, oblivious to all of this, blissfully continued to eat, poo, sleep in ruddy good health,
Vita, in the meantime, feeling that she was getting less than her due share of our attention decided to have night-time anxiety attacks - pacing, pawing and whining at doors to be let out, climbing onto the sofa and onto our laps (difficult for a 25 kilo Airedale), nose pointed skywards, tail between her legs. The start of her behaviour seemed to coincide with our Christmas treat to ourselves, the arrival of a new Smart TV and I googled LED screens and dog anxiety, bought pheromone plug-in sprays and tried Rescue Remedy.
We removed the TV, struggled down from the house with the old big one we'd bought when we first came here that needs two people to carry it. To no avail. She still asked to go out, came back in immediately, wanted to go out again and climbed as high as she could on the sofa.
Then finally light dawned. We were watching Christmas University Challenge every evening! Jeremy Paxman: "Fingers on buzzers, your starter for 10". Not buzzers in fact, but the noise of "front door bells" on the TV every few minutes. And we were taking no notice! No wonder she was going frantic, she was trying to tell us there was someone at the door and then someone else at the door and then yet another person at the door. We watched St Hilda's win and then breathed a sigh of relief as peace was restored the following evening. The large, heavy TV was returned to the house and the Smart TV reinstated to no ill-effect.
Yesterday, Bertie, feeling life was too tranquil, decided to liven things up and went on a foraging trip. Tod heard the crunch as he went through a tiny wrapped parcel that sat on the bookcase in the hall, one of several grouped around a small seated Father Christmas. I'd wrapped whatever it was probably twelve years ago and each year put it back in the Christmas decorations box, ready for next year. I'd no idea what was inside (a wafer coated cheese ball maybe?) but Bertie - briefly - thought it was edible. Until he threw up on the hall floor. And then did the same about half an hour later outside the kitchen French windows. After that, of course, he was hungry and demanded a full supper, though I feared the worse and gave him short rations.
It was about this stage that I announced to Tod in the kitchen I was never, ever going to have another dog.
We settled down to late night New Year's Eve rubbish on our new Smart TV. The rubbish looks so much better! And all was quiet until the fireworks started at midnight. So two dogs were let out to go hurtling off into the dark, yelling at the tops of their voices.
Vita quickly returned, content to go to bed. Bertie finally re-appeared just before three am. By this time I would have happily given him away to the first passing stranger.
He is sleeping in. I, on the other hand, am very short of sleep and very short of temper. Let's hope 2017 improves.
Indeed, whatever is in store, may this be a year of tranquillity and happiness for all of us.
Sunday, 1 January 2017
Saturday, 29 October 2016
Autumn Colours
This time of the year is beautiful. When the morning mist burns off and the sun breaks through our autumn colours are glorious.
Monday, 10 October 2016
Autumn Tasks
We saw the first of the cranes heading south last week and sure enough, almost immediately, the nip in the air turned to a real chill and it was time (at least for me) to find the thermals.
There was frost on the grass in the corner of Monsieur F's field this morning when I walked Vita and Bertie. It's the corner where the sun never penetrates, by the ditch where we turn right towards the small bridge and where Bertie lingers to sniff every inviting smell from the hunt dogs who passed by at the weekend.
Suddenly the jobs that seemed like elephant tasks all throughout the hot summer have become eminently do-able, like digging over the compost heap and barrowing what's rotted down to the vegetable beds.
Tod is off sightseeing for a couple of days - Bilbao, Pamplona and Saragossa - so Vita and Bertie know their task is to keep an eye on me. They supervise from the top of the bank behind the sour cherry tree. They lounge in the sun, on the edge of the long grass, facing in opposite directions like two book ends.
I might even get round to tidying the wood store before this winter's supply is delivered.
There was frost on the grass in the corner of Monsieur F's field this morning when I walked Vita and Bertie. It's the corner where the sun never penetrates, by the ditch where we turn right towards the small bridge and where Bertie lingers to sniff every inviting smell from the hunt dogs who passed by at the weekend.
Suddenly the jobs that seemed like elephant tasks all throughout the hot summer have become eminently do-able, like digging over the compost heap and barrowing what's rotted down to the vegetable beds.
Tod is off sightseeing for a couple of days - Bilbao, Pamplona and Saragossa - so Vita and Bertie know their task is to keep an eye on me. They supervise from the top of the bank behind the sour cherry tree. They lounge in the sun, on the edge of the long grass, facing in opposite directions like two book ends.
I might even get round to tidying the wood store before this winter's supply is delivered.
Sunday, 18 September 2016
Gardening Needs a Sweater and Long Trousers.
There's definitely a nip in the air. Tod lit the fire in the lounge last night (this hot summer has made us soft).
Was it really only last Monday I lingered in Lacanau, reluctant to leave the beach in the late afternoon sun? And drove home through the dark with the car thermometer reading thirty-four degrees.
I zigzag across the lawn extracting long bleached maize leaves that are huddling in small groups between the bushes.
My prayers for rain were granted as storms during the week drove through the Bay of Biscay, travelling on the coat-tails of a small tornado that flung Monsieur F's field across our garden, lifted the morning glory-draped trellises from the poolside off their posts and hurled the swimming pool cover into the pool.
The mess is worth it. The water butts are full for the first time in two months. I cheerfully pull up barrow-loads of dead weeds that have succumbed to the heat - their roots slipping easily from the damp earth.
The last of our paying guests have departed, so I trot backwards and forwards to the cottage, linen and towels in my arms and breath in the sweet damp smells of autumn.
Was it really only last Monday I lingered in Lacanau, reluctant to leave the beach in the late afternoon sun? And drove home through the dark with the car thermometer reading thirty-four degrees.
I zigzag across the lawn extracting long bleached maize leaves that are huddling in small groups between the bushes.
My prayers for rain were granted as storms during the week drove through the Bay of Biscay, travelling on the coat-tails of a small tornado that flung Monsieur F's field across our garden, lifted the morning glory-draped trellises from the poolside off their posts and hurled the swimming pool cover into the pool.
The mess is worth it. The water butts are full for the first time in two months. I cheerfully pull up barrow-loads of dead weeds that have succumbed to the heat - their roots slipping easily from the damp earth.
The last of our paying guests have departed, so I trot backwards and forwards to the cottage, linen and towels in my arms and breath in the sweet damp smells of autumn.
Tuesday, 6 September 2016
The French Summer Holidays are Over!
Lacanau-Océan 23rd August 2016
Le Grand Crohot 5th September 2016
Le Grand Crohot 5th September 2016
Friday, 2 September 2016
I'm bored ...
... with this endless hot, dry summer.
I email our next gîte guests and sign off, saying I hope the good weather will continue for them.
It's not true. I long for lower temperatures, a cool breeze and rain. Days of rain, not the occasional ten minutes-worth of droplets every two weeks or so.
I husband water. The pots round the cottage are done daily. New bushes, foolishly planted early summer, just as the rain ceased, are fussed over and I fret when I see their new leaves droop. The veg patch is done every night and still the stems of the cucumbers and tomatoes turn brittle and crack. Everything else - trees, bushes, roses, perennials - have to manage as best they can.
A large viburnum by the gate to the swimming pool, tough as old boots, suddenly starts shedding yellowing leaves. The canna lilies stubbornly refuse to bloom, curling their leaves into long thin pointed tubes.
Plants that are supposed to thrive in heat - lavender, majoram, grey furry-leaved sage - are dull and dusty. The occasional rose struggles to flower, petals pale and brown edged almost as soon as they open.
I try weeding, but the ground is baked rock hard and stems snap as I pull them.
I itch to get out there and dig, mulch, move plants that are struggling, redesign the cottage border so it's easier to care for. Instead, I lurk indoors, glad of the shade and the draught through the pulled-to shutters.
I look at the meteo long-range forecast and it shows nothing but sunshine. Our next guests will be delighted as they lie by our pool, which has been at a pleasant twenty-eight degrees centigrade for weeks now.
I, on the other hand, will be silently praying for rain.
I email our next gîte guests and sign off, saying I hope the good weather will continue for them.
It's not true. I long for lower temperatures, a cool breeze and rain. Days of rain, not the occasional ten minutes-worth of droplets every two weeks or so.
I husband water. The pots round the cottage are done daily. New bushes, foolishly planted early summer, just as the rain ceased, are fussed over and I fret when I see their new leaves droop. The veg patch is done every night and still the stems of the cucumbers and tomatoes turn brittle and crack. Everything else - trees, bushes, roses, perennials - have to manage as best they can.
A large viburnum by the gate to the swimming pool, tough as old boots, suddenly starts shedding yellowing leaves. The canna lilies stubbornly refuse to bloom, curling their leaves into long thin pointed tubes.
Plants that are supposed to thrive in heat - lavender, majoram, grey furry-leaved sage - are dull and dusty. The occasional rose struggles to flower, petals pale and brown edged almost as soon as they open.
I try weeding, but the ground is baked rock hard and stems snap as I pull them.
I itch to get out there and dig, mulch, move plants that are struggling, redesign the cottage border so it's easier to care for. Instead, I lurk indoors, glad of the shade and the draught through the pulled-to shutters.
I look at the meteo long-range forecast and it shows nothing but sunshine. Our next guests will be delighted as they lie by our pool, which has been at a pleasant twenty-eight degrees centigrade for weeks now.
I, on the other hand, will be silently praying for rain.
Wednesday, 10 August 2016
Words Escape Me
I say "Victoria" and mean "Veronica". Maybe it's the other way round.
The place "Laparade" in my head becomes quite another, "Lagruère", on my lips.
I used to think it was Tod not listening properly. Now I know better. Words I once confidently controlled - on the page, through my speech - in recent years have taken on a life of their own. I can only watch helplessly as they dance round me, or totally vanish over the horizon, sometimes to be replaced by quite another, not to be trusted, which might or might not (usually not) be right.
The word for the white powder that thickens sauce but isn't cornflour vanished days ago. Others my brain offers as an alternative - aspartame, asafoetida - I know are not right. It's true I could just open the cupboard door and read what's on the small tub, but that would be a defeat. I would like the word to come back of its own accord.
I laugh. And try to suppress the small bubble of fear about what the years ahead may hold.
The place "Laparade" in my head becomes quite another, "Lagruère", on my lips.
I used to think it was Tod not listening properly. Now I know better. Words I once confidently controlled - on the page, through my speech - in recent years have taken on a life of their own. I can only watch helplessly as they dance round me, or totally vanish over the horizon, sometimes to be replaced by quite another, not to be trusted, which might or might not (usually not) be right.
The word for the white powder that thickens sauce but isn't cornflour vanished days ago. Others my brain offers as an alternative - aspartame, asafoetida - I know are not right. It's true I could just open the cupboard door and read what's on the small tub, but that would be a defeat. I would like the word to come back of its own accord.
I laugh. And try to suppress the small bubble of fear about what the years ahead may hold.
Monday, 27 June 2016
Bertie whines ...
... from the top of the stairs that lead up to the loft. I ignore him until the whines turn into sharp, demanding barks - "get me down now!"
The treads are open and he goes up in search of small furry things to chase but then doesn't have the courage to come back down.
He peers down at me anxiously through the balustrade as I make my way up with his blue slip-on collar and lead in one hand. I know this is a futile exercise. As soon as I reach the top he darts to the far side of the loft, disappearing round behind the chimney in a manic game of hide and seek - wanting to be rescued but not wanting to be caught.
So I retreat, muttering about leaving him there 'til he starves. And the whines and barks start again.
This time I come armed.
A friends staying last week talked about training her young Labrador to come on command with a squeaky toy. Bertie has no interest in coming for food, but perhaps he'll come for something that sounds like prey. I'd bought a small green rubber cow (I think) that has such a loud squeak it briefly silenced Leclerc's when I tried it in the supermarket. Maybe this would work.
I stand at the top of the stairs, optimistically squeaking. Bertie appears briefly, but is not to be fooled. He darts past me and stands among some mattresses and cushions he's been rummaging through in his hunt. I know if I move towards him he will disappear again. In frustration, I roar at him to "S I T", accompanied by several expletives. Meekly, he does.
Slipping the collar over his head, I squeak the green rubber cow again a few more times, just for reinforcement, and then realise my squeaks are being accompanied by loud "feed me" cheeps above my head. One of our redstarts has managed to get back into the house, despite my creating (as I thought) an impenetrable barrier of green plastic netting under the eaves. There, tucked between two rafters in the gloom above me is a messy, occupied, noisy nest.
Normally when we are around redstart chicks stay deathly quiet, only setting up their enthusiastic cheeping when they hear the reassuring "chirrup" of their mother or father returning with food.
Bertie may not be fooled by the cow. Disconcerting to discover that redstart chicks can't tell the difference between a raucous Leclerc-silencing squeal of a plastic toy and the sound their parents make.
The treads are open and he goes up in search of small furry things to chase but then doesn't have the courage to come back down.
He peers down at me anxiously through the balustrade as I make my way up with his blue slip-on collar and lead in one hand. I know this is a futile exercise. As soon as I reach the top he darts to the far side of the loft, disappearing round behind the chimney in a manic game of hide and seek - wanting to be rescued but not wanting to be caught.
So I retreat, muttering about leaving him there 'til he starves. And the whines and barks start again.
This time I come armed.
A friends staying last week talked about training her young Labrador to come on command with a squeaky toy. Bertie has no interest in coming for food, but perhaps he'll come for something that sounds like prey. I'd bought a small green rubber cow (I think) that has such a loud squeak it briefly silenced Leclerc's when I tried it in the supermarket. Maybe this would work.
I stand at the top of the stairs, optimistically squeaking. Bertie appears briefly, but is not to be fooled. He darts past me and stands among some mattresses and cushions he's been rummaging through in his hunt. I know if I move towards him he will disappear again. In frustration, I roar at him to "S I T", accompanied by several expletives. Meekly, he does.
Slipping the collar over his head, I squeak the green rubber cow again a few more times, just for reinforcement, and then realise my squeaks are being accompanied by loud "feed me" cheeps above my head. One of our redstarts has managed to get back into the house, despite my creating (as I thought) an impenetrable barrier of green plastic netting under the eaves. There, tucked between two rafters in the gloom above me is a messy, occupied, noisy nest.
Normally when we are around redstart chicks stay deathly quiet, only setting up their enthusiastic cheeping when they hear the reassuring "chirrup" of their mother or father returning with food.
Bertie may not be fooled by the cow. Disconcerting to discover that redstart chicks can't tell the difference between a raucous Leclerc-silencing squeal of a plastic toy and the sound their parents make.
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