The GP Asks Me if I Hunt

Well, that's a question that comes out of left field and certainly not one that our GP back in leafy Surrey fourteen or more years ago would have thought to ask.

We're talking pacemakers. Inserted just below the collar bone, right where the stock of a shotgun nestles. Apparently, depending on which side the hunter holds his firearm, the surgeon will choose the other side to operate.

That's a piece of information I would have hoped never to need to know!

Specifically, we are talking MY soon-to-be pacemaker.  To be fitted, assuming I test negative for COVID, on December 30th.  A late Christmas present, just in time for New Year celebrations.

Who would have thought that mild heart palpitations which started in October and might have been dismissed as nothing more than slight pandemic anxiety, should lead to this.

When the French health service swings into action, it doesn't hang about.

Not a Mask among Them!

We were in Bordeaux on Thursday, for an appointment at the eye clinic.

Blue eyes and strong South West France sun don't go well together and so cataracts have slowly been forming over the years.  Still some way to go before an op, but these days the very young ophthalmologist has decided he wants me to have a regular check-up.

The clinic is new, cutting edge and full of young things in white coats doing lots of tests that involve drops in the eyes and flashing lights.  All of this takes time and when we finally emerged it was gone twelve - lunchtime.  

We don't get out much these days and being in Bordeaux, it seemed a good excuse to find a local eatery. Not only is the clinic new, but the whole area is being redeveloped, including what looks like a tram bridge being built across the Garonne, so we relied on Google and Tripadvisor to find us somewhere.  The place was well-reviewed.

With the new Omicron variant on the loose France has tightened up its regulations - masks to be worn in all public places.  So suitably masked, with our health certificates on the screens of our phones ready to be zapped, we pushed open the restaurant door.  The place was heaving with masculinity.  Jam-packed full of large, sweaty workers from the surrounding building sites. All cheek by jowl and not a mask among them.  Even Le Patron was maskless.  Mind you, I defy anyone to tell that lot that Macron requires masks to be worn when out.

Normally, in the interests of social distancing, we would have fled.  But we were hungry and slightly light-headed from a morning of being managed by the French health service in all its glory.  So we entered into the spirit of the moment, trusted our booster jabs to protect us and relished our ample "menu de jour": buffet starter, choice of two main courses, cheese, dessert, coffee and a bottle of red wine left open on the table to help yourself.  Fourteen euros each.

It almost felt like the good old days. How our world has grown small, when a simple lunch in a worker's café in Bordeaux can make us, for a while, feel like we are on holiday!

The Rescued Dipladenia

 Our Indian summer has slipped away.  Toussaint has come and gone. All the plastic flowers, large pots of chrysanthemums and the detritus of Halloween have disappeared from the shops and Christmas (annoyingly early, but less early than we were used to in the UK) has arrived.  Shelf after shelf is piled high with seasonal chocolate boxes at the entrance to Leclerc's.

The misty mornings and bright afternoons of the last few weeks have enabled us to make a serious assault on the overgrown and much neglected used-to-be-cowshed down at the cottage.  It offers the potential to be a "proper" storage area and at the moment it's just a jumbled mess with encroaching brambles and saplings and a tumble-down back wall that fell over in one winter storm.  So we clear and carry and make journeys to our favourite council tip - the one where there is space to drive up and drive straight out without the challenge of reversing a recalcitrant trailer that insists on jack-knifing. 

During one of those trips to the tip in October, a council lorry pulled in behind us, piled high with flowers, all to be discarded.  On closer inspection the flowers proved to be plastic.  Toussaint is that time of year when France visits its deceased relatives, cleans graveyards and throws out last year's plastic bouquets.  Large pots of fresh chrysanthemums and new, elaborate plastic arrangements (for when the fresh flowers are gone over) are purchased to place round polished and swept tombstones.

As we were about to leave the tip, I headed past the lorry with the flowers one last time with a flattened cardboard carton destined for the skip back near the entrance.  When there it was!  A living, breathing large bright pink dipladenia among all the plastic. A word with the driver of the lorry and the dipladenia, rescued from certain death, came home with us.  

Repotted, it has pride of place on the terrace, just outside the kitchen door.  Full of blooms and buds, it is a splash of summer colour to lift the spirits on a drizzly November afternoon. 

The Little Things that Matter

 It's a small thing, but it matters.

We live on an "island", an outcrop of sandstone that is surrounded by clay farmland, which slopes down to a stream. There is a walk along the edge of the stream because French farmers have to leave a "bande enherbée" of uncultivated land between their worked fields and water.  This is supposed to reduce polluting runoff. 

During our first years here, we were fortunate that Phillipe, who farmed the land that comes to the corner of our terrain also left a "bande enherbée" along the side of his field as well as the bottom, along the stream.  He didn't have to, but he did and Tod kept it mowed using our old tractor. It meant that we could walk across our field, down the side of Phillipe's field to the stream at the bottom and then turn right along Monsieur F's field to the little bridge, cross over, walk back the other side of the stream to a grass covered culvert where we could cross again and do a nice round circuit taking about half an hour with no need to retrace our steps - something we and the dogs much prefer.

Sadly, Phillipe died and the new owner of the land lives some way away.  We do not know him, apart from a brief conversation I had with him when I first saw him ploughing three (or is it four?) years back.

Phillipe's "bande enherbée" disappeared. The new owner farms right to the edge. There are moments in the year when it is possible to get down to the stream - immediately after harvesting if you don't mind fighting with the stubble and immediately after ploughing if you don't mind struggling across muddy furrows.  Once the latest crop comes up - maize or sunflowers usually - things get trickier trying to walk on earth between the rows of young plants.  Once they are past a certain size it becomes impossible.  None of this is easy for the dogs - Bertie's pink delicate tummy gets scraped by stubble, Vita's rickety old back legs find no secure foothold in muddy furrows.  So Tod regrets the loss of one of the small reasons why it's a pleasure to live here.

Phillippe's field (we still think of it as his) abuts our other farmer neighbour's land - Monsieur F.  Gently, gently over the years we have become friends of a kind.  Not perhaps the English neighbourly way of dinner parties and shared barbeques. No, our relationship is much more reserved.  But he (with his large tractor) is there when we need help,  like getting our car out of a ditch.  

Monsieur F too farms wherever possible right to his boundaries. Yesterday, he was down in the field by the stream ploughing.  I wandered down to the edge of the cottage lawn and waited for him to come trundling back up, making yet another line of furrows. He stopped, jumped down from the cab and we stood and chatted - too close for my English social distancing but far enough apart for him.  We rarely see him or his wife so it was a chance to catch up - what sort of a year have they had?  How is their gite doing? What will he plant next year? And I asked about his boundary - yes he would be ploughing right to the edge. 

I relay this to Tod who then goes ... who knows where?

Later, the man in my life reappears.  He has done something very brave - he's been to speak with Monsieur F.  That is not easy for him. He speaks good French, but struggles to understand the reply, especially when said in the local accent.  It's not easy, but this small thing matters to him. A lot.  He's asked Monsieur F if he will leave a narrow strip at the edge of his field so that Tod and the dogs can resume their walks along the stream in comfort.

Yesterday afternoon Monsieur F does a final tour round the field with his tractor and plough.  As he leaves, there, on the far side, is a two meter wide tract of green sward - a "bande enherbée", just for us.

Tod and the dogs walk it contentedly this morning. We will be giving Monsieur F some very good wine as a thank you.

Happiness is a Tidy Ditch

It rains - a lot - round here at certain times of the year.  Not every year, but enough for the maintenance of ditches, drains and reservoirs to be taken seriously.  So, at least twice sometimes three times a year triangular warning signs go up along our country lanes: FAUCHAGE. And there, ahead, will be a tractor with an extended arm moving slowly along the verge, carefully cutting back and clearing the undergrowth to leave nice smooth banks.

We live half way down a small hill.  The land rises behind us and drops away in front, down to a stream in the bottom of the valley.  The land behind us is farmed and to reach our house we come down a farm track between two fields. Between Monsieur F's field and the track is a steep bank and a ditch.  Every year since we've been here "our" ditch has been fauchaged.  Until last year. 

Not much happened last year - well it was when COVID started and everything shut down for a time.  But then, this spring, we watched the tractor with the long arm trundle along the road up on the ridge behind us, making no attempt to come down our track.  After a year of not being done, the bank and the ditch were an unholy mess of brambles, vines and young saplings. So I ventured into the mayor's office and had a friendly conversation with the commune secretary, who promised to let the fauchage man know he'd missed us.  A few days later, we watched the tractor with the long arm work its way down the (already tidy) lane the far side of Monsieur F's field - something lost in translation we suspected, sighed, and let it be.

We have a new mayor.  Well, he's not that new now, having been in place since spring last year but COVID has meant there have been no mayoral gatherings and, apart from the fauchage, we have little reason to need him and so have not met him.  However, we sense he is a new (and energetic) broom.  The previous mayor was happy to meet and greet his communards, always in the office, chatty, available, by the end we were on cheek to cheek, kiss/kiss terms and I missed him when he retired.  The new mayor feels more remote. He has changed opening hours and requires an appointment to meet, has had a new commune website designed, has diverted funds to the schools and the insulation of the village sports hall roof.  All very laudable, but frustrating if it's at the expense of a good, very necessary fauchage.

Our ditch is important. It's one of the few that carries surface water down the hill away from the road along the ridge.  A couple of years or so ago, in torrential rain, we watched the ditch fill in minutes, overflow and form a whole new stream that poured across our field and down to the bottom of the valley. Also, at the moment it looks a mess as the brambles and vines reach out across the farm track and it's the first thing the guests to our cottage see as they turn off the road towards us.  Tod does the best he can with a mower and the heavy duty Stihl strimmer to keep the edges tidy, but clearing the steep bank is nigh on impossible.

There is a further complication. On the cadastral plans our track is described as a "chemin d'exploitation" as opposed to a "chemin rural". This non-fauchage thing prompts me to investigate further to find out if there is a difference which might explain it.  There is.  Google tells me a  "chemin rural" is maintained by the commune. Despite our experience of previous years,  apparently a "chemin d'exploitation" should be maintained by those properties who have access to it. So maybe from now onwards, with the new regime, we will have to pay for our own fauchage.

Armed with this unwelcome knowledge, in August, somewhat apprehensively, because these days the mayoral office feels somewhat less friendly, I decide it's time to have another word.  Expecting to find the secretary in situ, I walk in to see The Great Man himself - I recognise him from his photos in the (now printed in colour) village newsletter.  I start my prepared speech and am amazed to encounter the charm that certain Frenchmen of a certain age radiate.  We may not have met before, but he knows who I am and where we live (the benefits of a small commune).  He also tells me my timing is fortuitous - he is waiting for the councillor who is responsible for organising the fauchage, who proves on arrival to be equally charming.

We all laugh at the idea of a small, elderly English lady in her seventies wielding a large Stihl strimmer up those steep banks and they reassure me that "something will be done".  Not immediately of course because it is harvest time but trust them, it will be sorted.  I float back home bathed in French "je ne sais quoi".

And the weeks slip by and the brambles and vines continue to grow.  And only yesterday morning I was thinking, well not this year, in France these things can't be rushed, but I will go into the mayor's office early next spring and hope to make sure we are on the list for being done next year.

Oh ye of little faith!  Lunchtime is when I like to shop - Leclerc is quieter and social distancing is easier.  I get in the car, reverse it and turn to face our steep farm track when I see - a pristine, tidy, bramble-free ditch!  Amazing what things can bring joy to the heart.  

Thank you Monsieur le maire.

The Table on the Terrace is too Small

 Bravely, we are having friends round for a barbeque - our first meal together in more than eighteen months.

The cottage is immaculate - our latest guests have left it pristine - and seems to be the obvious place to entertain since our house is a dust and cobweb-laden mess. And it means we can enjoy the cottage surroundings for ourselves, for a change.

But the table, under the "tonnelle" (what does one call it in English?  Awning? Arbour? Pergola? Marquee?  None of these words seem quite right for the large metal frame covered in grey curtaining that affords our guests shade) feels too small.

Social distancing for me is at least two metres - not the measly one here in France and even that, barely observed.  There cannot be two metres between us on that table.  I contemplate bringing the table down from the house that is piled with Annie Sloan paints, paint brushes, old rags and knickknacks waiting to be painted and my heart sinks at the thought.  Then Tod suggests two bridge tables - result!

The terrace table becomes the buffet - divided down the middle - to the right, their salads, to the left ours.  The two bridge tables, protected with tasteful textured plastic tablecloths, sit on opposite sides of the tonnelle, well socially distanced but still within chatting range.  

Our gossip is old and familiar, the months of COVID groundhog days offer no new news, but it doesn't matter, we are together and the warm evening brings a mellow contentment.

I thought ...

 ... I was going to have to post yet another blog about the weather - since that seems to be the only topic of conversation at the moment - too cold / too hot / too windy / too dry.  Enough to say, it became too hot and is now cooler again, to the relief of our latest set of guests.

But no - this is not a post about the weather, but a post about our wildlife - one in particular - a red squirrel.

We know red squirrels are in this part of the world having seen them occasionally take their lives into their hands and scamper across the main road into town.  They are smaller, sleeker than the grey squirrels we knew in the UK.  One house we lived in had them in the loft and we kept cages up there to capture them and release them in the woodland the other side of the M25 in the hope that they wouldn't find their way back.  Clara, our then Airedale, used to be the epitome of "barking up the wrong tree" - sat there, head thrown back, nose pointed up the trunk, yelling her head off, when the grey squirrel above her would be long gone.

Until today, we have never seen squirrels in our garden - of any hue.  He (or she) has just whisked past an open French window, almost on the threshold, red tail waving in the breeze, feathery ears erect. 

The word has obviously gone round about the quality and quantity of the hazel nuts we are growing this year. The other day I googled "when are they ready to eat?"  I'm guessing the new addition to our wildlife will shortly be letting us know!

Only half in jest ...

 ... I wonder out loud about putting my thermals on.

Fifteen degrees first thing, and the temperature struggles to get any higher as the day goes on.  Our Dutch guests leave early.  At least their journey north, even if there are many hold-ups, will not be in unbearable heat.  Travelling on the Saturday 31st July with France on the move is not the easiest of things to be doing.

By the afternoon, and a little stir crazy, we decide to head out to investigate a restaurant friends have recommended.  COVID has had an impact.  Several of our favourite places that we have proposed to our guests over the years have either closed or have changed hands with less than positive results.  New owners are struggling to match previous high standards of menu and service and I'm busy revamping our information pack and website to reflect our new reality, saddened by the need to do so.

But maybe we have been in a rut. When we came here fourteen years ago, everything was new to us and over those first few months we were on a voyage of discovery.  We are so again.

The recommended restaurant proves to be a success, in a lovely setting by a lock, ample seating out under the trees and plenty of covered space if the weather is inclement.  The menu is simple, but good value and the provenance of a chef and a kitchen that we already know and trust.

We look for new places that have attractive spaces to sit outside. In these times of COVID people prefer that option and normally, with late evening temperatures in the high twenties who wouldn't?  Mind you, if this cool weather continues much longer I need to warn our next guests to bring their thermals if they want to dine al fresco (very "fresco").