At Last!

 A small rain has blown in, bringing with it cool weather and the smell of distant wildfires in the Gironde.

Earlier in the week, while it was still sunny and warm we headed with Bertie for Lacanau and the beach

The final stage of the journey - cross country from Bordeaux - always seems to take forever.  Even more so this time. Our speed was reduced from eighty kilometres an hour to fifty as we drove between the burnt black trunks of pine trees, acrid smoke still drifting across the ground.  Two fire engines on guard attested to the possibility of  further breakouts.  We were lucky.  A few days earlier and the road would have been closed.

Finally, we made it. And found a restaurant that did crispy, light, fish n'chips and a bowl of water for Bertie, who poked his head through the terrace railings and watched the world go by.  

The beaches in town are supposed to be dog-free, so we turned north, parked between the trees and tramped over the dunes to the sea.  At some moment in the last couple of years Bertie grew up and can now be trusted (in the right circumstances) off the lead. A beach out of town and out of season in South West France is the right circumstances and he spent a joyous afternoon haring off into the middle distance to meet and greet other dogs and then rushing back to tell us.  It makes the disappearance of Vita from his life easier.

Afternoon tea, ice-cream and cannelles back in town and another bowl of water for Bertie and then we headed home.  He hardly stirred the whole way - it had been a good day for all of us.

Thank You Ma'am

 

It Was Time

Friday we said goodbye to Vita. Our glorious, gentle, loving, indomitable Airedale had finally run her course. Despite all her aches and pains, and for all her ailments of the past two years, her spirit shone through and her conviction that she needed to go for walks and to be there for the next meal meant we knew she was not ready to go - until this last week.

We took her to Diana who has nursed her through all the ups and downs of the last thirteen years. We kept her in the back of the merc (which sometime ago came back into our lives) and let her slip away. She went so easily.

And so we came home.  To find we'd been left message on the phone. I dialled 3103 and there it was - a single, solitary bark.  And the time of the message? Just after Vita would have left us.  We cannot explain it and don’t need to.  We believe she found a way to say goodbye and to let us know all is well.

Some memories ...

"Lap Dog"

The Joy of Snow

So Well Behaved!

"Playing" with Bertie

Busy Doing Nothing

 When considering where to live in France all those fifteen years ago we ruled out places like Provence partly because it's expensive but also because it's too hot and dry in summer - or so we thought.

It is therefore disconcerting to learn that tomorrow Bordeaux (just "up the road" from us) is likely to be the hottest place in France, if not the whole of Europe - somewhere in the forties.

Depending which weather site I look at we are likely to be anywhere between 38°C and 43°C. Our guests, who have been braving the pool side every day this week, admit they will probably be hiding indoors, which we have been doing for most of this week. 

Every few evenings I head down to the cottage to water the pots and the border alongside the lawn, the grass now brittle straw  The underground water tank has only an inch or so left in the bottom, so I trail hose pipes from the outside tap up at the house. Every bowl of used washing up water now goes on the plants. Our guests offer to keep an eye on anything drooping between my visits and I gratefully accept. I'm glad that a couple of months back I abandoned any idea of a veg patch, however small.

Tod walks Bertie at seven in the morning.  I strim a bit more of the gully at the side of our farm track and apart from a bit of shopping, that is it for the day.

We catch up with news on the internet, watch series on Netflix and i-player and sit it out. Tuesday now promises to be a delightfully cool thirty degrees. We look forward to a meal out on some balmy evening and our guests admit they are bored with doing nothing.

May these days be exceptional. If not, a move to a cooler part of France - Provence anyone? - begins to be appealing.

I've Forgotten The Cornichons!

Tod likes them in a mild pickling liquid. I remembered the red peppers and the tinned chickpeas for the hummus, but not the cornichons.

I'll go back into town in a mo, after I've had my green tea.  No hardship. I'll be in an air conditioned car going to an air conditioned supermarket.  Much cooler than our old, thick walled, non-air conditioned house.

We're hiding indoors, with shutters closed and front and back doors open to try to get a through draught. Supper, these evenings, is in the kitchen. The terrace, although shaded, is too hot for comfort  We chivvy Vita (who is inclined to stand on the lawn in the sun with a vacant expression) back inside, where she then flops down on the tiles - cooler than the rugs we have around for her old bones. 

We worry about our guests who are on our sun loungers in full sun by the pool. Maybe we don't need to. They seem to be happy enough. I will talk to them later about whether we leave the pool cover off tonight to let the water temperature drop a bit - at its current 30°C it's no longer refreshing.

This weekend 40°C is a possibility.  We assume that places like Provence are even hotter.  But apparently not so, it's the western seaboard of France that is getting the brunt of this heatwave.  And it's forecast to continue well into next week and beyond. 

 

Monsieur F Knows Better

The weather sites I follow - one French, one Norwegian - promise rain and maybe thunderstorms.

Our neighbouring farmer, Monsieur F, on the other hand, knows better. He either has a more accurate météo site that he follows, or he has a piece of seaweed hanging in the kitchen.  Either way, he was out there last night with his tractor dragging the hose pipe down through his maize field to rig up his water canon.  

The canon has been going all night and the ditch at the side of the farm track leading down to our house is sodden. I know because I've been in it, strimming to keep it tidy. We have new guests arriving Friday.

I strim to the accompaniment of distant thunder, well to the east of us.  From the real time lightning map it looks as if those on the far side of Agen have had a noisy night.

I leap in the car and drive off ...

 ... as the thunder, lightning and rain roll in, leaving Vita with her nose pressed against the kitchen worktop where her half-prepared breakfast sits above, tantalisingly just out of reach.

Tod and Bertie have gone for their morning walk and although dressed for inclement weather, the rain is coming down harder and faster than they anticipated and the lightning is uncomfortably close. 

I meet the drenched pair trudging up the road between Monsieur F's two fields and Tod mildly suggests it would have been nice if I had come looking for them two minutes earlier. 

We cover the pool - stable door and bolting horses come to mind.  Last night the water was nearly 30°C. It's dropped to 23° and the heatwave has abruptly left us overnight. We will struggle to get the water anywhere near those lovely warm-bath temperatures again for our current guests. Not that the outlook invites much lounging by and in the pool.

Still, our guests may sleep more easily at night and opening up the cottage (and the house) first thing in the morning to let in the fresh, cool air will be a real pleasure.

We're due more rain (and possible storms) through the coming days. As the rock hard clay in the rose beds begins to soften, I may finally get some long overdue weeding done.

Triumph of Hope over Expectation

 We have had a very elderly red tractor for over twelve years.  Tod bought it second hand and for a time it trundled backwards and forwards across our field with a large (modern) grass cutter attached to the back.

For a while, all was well because a near neighbour knew all there was to know about the innards of old machines and he kept it going for us.  Sadly, he went back to the UK and we, and several farmers around, were very sorry to see him go.

From then on, the tractor has gently gone into decline and Tod hardly uses it these days. He thinks he knows what's wrong but doesn't have the skill or tools to do the necessary repairs and those who might are too busy servicing John Deere mowers.

So the tractor has been sitting in a corner by our entrance, looking more and more sad.

Wednesday, I was strimming the gulley that runs down from the road alongside our farm track.  We have guests arriving Friday and we need the place to look tidy.

A van comes down our track - a young man offering gardening services.  I fob him off and suggest he continues down the track and turns in our driveway in order to get away easily.  As he comes back up, he stops his van.  "Is the tractor for sale?"  I get Tod. A deal is struck and a second visit - with his mechanic (who turns out to be his Dad) - is arranged for Thursday morning.

I am in the cottage ironing when I hear the noise of a car? van? outside.  Not sure what's going on, I wander out to find a small, scruffy, white lorry and two men unloading ramps.

"They'll never manage it"  I think.  "That lorry is much too small." And I return to my ironing.

Through the open bedroom window I hear the rumble of the tractor and much yelling. "Stop! Arrêtes!"  I imagine someone under an over-turned tractor.  More yelling, more rumbling.  The dogs join me in the cottage to escape from the drama outside.

Then it goes suspiciously quiet. Tod calls up to me through the open window. "They've gone, and taken the mower with them - never thought they've get it up the ramp and on the lorry."

Goodbye red tractor.  I'm sure you are going to a better life.  And we've got a bit of cash towards a "proper" John Deere mower for the field. A mower that the young lad in town will be only too happy to service.